by Milly Taiden
“Who ordered your kidnappings and did Ahsan have anything to do with it?”
“I don't know who ordered it, lady, I just know we ended up in an old house, locked into rooms until someone came to tell us what we had to do. We were promised that things would 'go easier' if we complied. I got the sense the men we dealt with were underlings, if that makes sense,” the redhead said.
That was no help. Sessily nibbled the inside of her lip, frustrated she couldn't get the answers she sought. What did she expect, though? To just walk in here and have all her problems solved?
“Yes, I understand all too well. Listen, I can't linger long.” Any second, Ahsan might hunt her down or one of his staff might stumble upon them. “It's possible I can get you out of here. But you have to trust me, and you have to wait for my word. Do you understand?”
“How do we know you're not baiting us? How do we know you won't run and tell someone if we agree to work with you?” the woman with the pretty dark skin asked.
“Because they have my sister, too.” Sessily grimaced; she felt it a priority to confide in the women so they would trust her. Whatever happened, she wanted to get these women out of here. Just as she hoped someone would attempt to help her sister if they could. “Can I trust you?”
The women glanced between them, sharing whispers. Finally, the redhead spoke up. “We only want to gain our freedom. We will work with you—but be warned, lady. If we suspect you're using us for your own gain, we will make sure you pay.”
Sessily knew the women had few bargaining chips, but blackmail was one of them. She'd tipped her hand, at least as far as they knew, and now they could use that information against her.
“Don't worry. What are your names?” she asked.
The two Arabic women were Mirah and Imani, she learned. The redhead was Ellie. Lydia and Lyla were the twins, Vanya the African-Indian, and Saige the brown haired, silent one.
“I'm Sessily. As soon as I figure out the best way to gain your freedom, I'll be back.” She departed the room, striding out of the spa into the hallway as if nothing was amiss. Shouldering the responsibility of the harem women would make everything more dangerous, but she couldn't turn her back on them. With a clear goal in mind, she navigated the hallways for the dining room.
***
Chapter Six
Ahsan attempted to scrub the scent and memory of Sessily from his mind with three straight shots of whiskey. The woman was a curious mix of poise, candor and somber intensity. Even laid out with a headache, she'd been a sight to see. Long limbed, graceful in repose, vulnerable. Then there was the Sessily that bantered with him, unafraid to say exactly what she wanted. She'd been overjoyed at the kittens and indignant over the intrusion into her background. That little sound she'd made when he was rubbing her back smacked of desire. He'd found it difficult to stay on task, a surprising twist considering his exceptional control.
He had another drink. Four should douse the smoldering passion that lingered in his system. Hissing on the tail end, he upended the glass and left it on the sidebar. Pushing off, he smeared the ends of his mouth with two fingers and was about to depart his office when his phone rang.
Fishing it out of his pocket without looking at the caller identification, he answered with a usual, “Yeah?”
“It's me,” Leander said. “Hey listen, I'm in a bad spot. Do you want this ring dismantled, or should we wait until you get here?”
Whenever any of the Elite members were 'in a bad spot', it was code to let the listener know the caller wasn't in a position where he could talk freely or openly for any length of time. Leander was asking whether to bust the ring now, or wait until Ahsan could get there to help.
If he asked Leander to wait, the ring might disperse or the Elite members might be discovered. It was possible one of the others—Mattias or Chayton—had worked their way inside the ring, which meant any delay might cost their lives. The men could be spying, pretending to be flesh traders, or something entirely different. Giving the go ahead for a bust was always dangerous in itself, typically involving gunfights and hand to hand combat. He hated not being present, but he didn't know where they were currently located, and he couldn't ask given Leander's code.
“Go ahead and break the party up. Let me know the details when you can—and good luck.”
“Will do.”
*
“Down the hall, second door on the right.”
Sessily, waylaid by a member of the kitchen staff, headed away from the main dining area. She couldn't fathom why dinner had been put off, or what awaited in the new location. Mind busy with other things, she didn't think too hard about it until she rounded the threshold to step inside. Pausing just inside the open door, she sucked in a surprised breath.
Where the main dining hall was an enormous space with high ceilings and inlaid carvings, this room was much smaller. A squat round table sat in the middle of the room, draped with crimson satin. It was no taller than a coffee table, designed for guests to sit on colorful pillows tossed about on the floor. Brocade and sheer patterned silk hung on the walls, arching from the corners toward the center chandelier that sparkled over the table. Luxurious seating rimmed the room, from couches to divans to a broad chaise lounge before an unlit fireplace. More pillows added accent to the cushions, some with tassels, some with bead fringe, others lined with gold rope. The overall affect was a throwback to what it might have been like to dine in the Ottoman era, inside a Sultan's tent.
The most striking thing in the whole room was Ahsan. He lounged on the pillows, reclining as casually as any king. He'd changed into a loose silvery-gray button down, the throat buttons typically undone, and black pants with his favored boots. The rugged Sheikh was the most appealing man she'd ever seen. To think he'd been straddling her thighs, hands massaging her back not an hour ago made her light headed.
“What's all this?” she asked, as if she didn't know.
“Dinner, whenever you're ready for it. Have a seat,” he said with a gesture at all the pillows on the floor. “How's your headache?”
Sessily hesitated. Although the door was open, this space seemed almost too intimate. A place where seduction took place. The way Ahsan reclined like a lazy lion was both informal and comfortable, yet seemed something he'd done a thousand times. Perhaps he invited all his guests here to give them a unique dining experience.
“The pillows don't bite,” he said, watching her.
What he should have said, she decided, was I don't bite. Moving forward, she seated herself cross-legged on a fat pillow straight across the table from him. The overhead chandelier sent soft light down over the table and most of the pillows, not too harsh and not too dim.
“Do you?” she asked. The question slipped out, mind to mouth without any thought for caution.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Put on the spot, Sessily shifted on the pillow and looked around the room rather than straight at him. “No. I don't see you as the biting type.”
“What type do you see me as?”
Sessily met his gaze across the table. She wanted to be more direct, to take the conversation places it probably shouldn't go. “A rich playboy who doesn't like commitment.”
He arched a dark brow. “And here I thought we were talking about biting and things of that nature, instead of insights to the soul.”
“You asked.”
“Yes, I did. Should I return the favor of insight?”
Sessily, suddenly wary, wasn't sure she wanted him to. What would he say about her after such a short acquaintance? She'd used Bashir's information as well as personal observation to guide her retort, but all Ahsan had to go on was the hours they'd spent together.
“Tit for tat, right?” she said. “Go ahead.”
“If you'd like to start talking about ti--”
“Mister Ahsan.” Sessily widened her eyes at him, adding to her admonishment.
Grinning like the devil, he said, “You pretend to be more chaste than yo
u really are. There is a siren lurking under there somewhere, begging to be released. You're picky, independent, and have secrets that you don't want anyone to know.”
Sessily twitched in surprise. He thought she was a siren? And knew she had secrets? Her eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. Anyone could say that about anyone else, and probably hit on some truth. Everyone had secrets, did they not? Was he waiting to see if she had a big reaction, which might prove that yes, she indeed had secrets?
All she could think to say for the moment was, “I'm not that picky.”
“You can be.”
“How do you know such a thing?”
“By the way you examined every seat on the plane before picking the 'perfect' one, just like you did with the pillows right now, and the nits you picked over the stables, which were tiny complaints rather than serious critiques. When we danced, you positioned your hands just so, and I swear I could hear you counting footsteps in your head so you didn't make one mistake.” His gaze never wavered.
Sessily laughed—and blushed. Had the man been paying that close attention to her? “I don't count my dance steps! You had too much to drink last evening. That, or the harem event skewed your perceptions.”
“I know what I know.”
“I don't count dance steps.”
“Really? Then get up and do the chicken dance and prove me wrong. It's impossible to count all that.” He used a hand to flippantly gesture to a part of the floor without pillows.
Sessily belly laughed. “Not for a thousand dollars would I do the chicken dance. How absurd to even compare that to the dancing we did last night.”
“You just proved my point very well,” he said with a lazier grin.
“How is that?” The man was maddening.
“You won't dance unless you can count the steps. Picky.”
“You're just trying to get me to do the chicken dance,” she said, openly accusing.
“I'll pay you two thousand to do it,” he countered with a sly look.
Sessily stared, incredulous at the offer. Two thousand dollars? That was more money than she saw in six months. Her job in Romania, before Bashir barged into her life, paid little and the hours were slim. In truth, had anyone else offered her a thousand dollars, she would have done ten chicken dances. Two thousand sounded appealing in the extreme. The things she could do with that kind of money!
But this was Sheikh Ahsan, Prince of Afshar. It wasn't the kind of image she wanted him to remember her by. A little voice inside reminded her that it might help free the other women as well, and perhaps she might use some to bribe Bashir's men so she and her sister could escape.
“You drive a hard bargain, Sir, but I will not be performing the chicken dance for you this evening.” Sessily played it off with amused nonchalance. There was no way she could force herself to do the dance.
“Five thousand.”
Did she stand up too fast from the table? A tassel flipped up in her wake and a pillow overturned as she made her way to the bare spot on the floor. To the tune of his abrupt laughter, she concentrated on the far wall. Humming the melody in her head, she made the finger motions. One, two, three, four... She caught herself. She did count her steps. Or her movements, at least.
Ahsan's guffaws weren't helping. Like he could read her mind and knew exactly what she was doing.
Exhaling a gust of exasperation, she flapped her elbows, wiggled her backside, and clapped her hands. She made it through three rotations, concentrating for all she was worth, then retreated to her pillow and sat down. She must have been as red as a tomato.
Ahsan, with a hand planted in the middle of his chest like it hurt to breathe, sat up far enough to applaud. “That was worth every single penny.”
She rolled her eyes. Folding her legs beneath her again, she said, “I should have made you do it with me.”
“Not for a million.”
Didn't that figure. He was so filthy rich that no amount of money would entice him to do something so frivolous. Before she could reply, a staff member entered, bearing a large silver tray. Setting it down, the employee unloaded covered platters and set out dishes, glass and utensils for them both. Sessily, not used to being served, contemplated the haves and have-nots. She was definitely of the have-not club, and wasn't sure she could ever get used to being served like this. Ahsan appeared oblivious to the employee's presence, though he did mutter something in his native tongue before the server departed.
“I didn't know what you wanted, so I had them bring a little of everything,” he said.
She recognized roasted chicken, broiled fish, a platter of select seafood and side dishes both usual and unusual. The stuffed grape leaves smelled heavenly.
“I'll have you know that I'll eat anything on this table, which spoils your 'picky' theory entirely.” She scooped slices of meat and a bit of seafood onto her plate, then added small spoonfuls of the side dishes.
“All it means is that I chose well,” he countered with a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.
“Are you always this contrary?”
“Yes.”
She laughed before taking a bite of chicken. As she suspected, everything was cooked to perfection. “I believe you. Do you entertain many people in this room?”
“Sometimes. It depends who it is and why they're visiting. Also how many.” He dove into his meal, speaking between bites.
Sessily thought he probably only brought women here, women he meant to either impress or take to bed. Although luxuriously decorated, the atmosphere wasn't overdone with suggestiveness; it was simply a comfortable, appealing and different place to take a meal. There were no candles lit, which might imply a certain romantic element. Ahsan himself didn't try to charm her with cheesy come-ons, so perhaps he'd just wanted a less 'cool' environment to take his dinner. The great dining hall was meant for huge gatherings, not a two person meal.
“You're quiet,” he said.
“I'm enjoying the food.” It wasn't a lie. Her mind had wandered at the same time. She discovered the silence between them was companionable and not at all awkward.
“Good.”
It was times like these that Sessily's doubts over Ahsan were greatest. When he was amiable and relaxed, laughing and grinning, so...casual in her company, she had a hard time believing he was guilty of trafficking. In repose, he didn't lose that air of power though, which only served to make him more attractive.
“For someone who's enjoying the fare, you're doing more pushing around than eating, though. If you'd like something else, all you have to do is ask.”
She looked down at her plate and realized he was right. She'd had a few bites opposed to his half demolished plate. In thought, she'd become too distracted to eat.
“No, no. This is excellent, I promise.”
“Then what's got you sidetracked?”
“This and that.”
“Name something.”
“Whether or not I'm going to win the race.” She grasped for the first thing she could think of.
“Listen, Sessily. If you don't want to lose the steed, we can choose something else for the bet.”
She glanced up. The dead serious look on his face told her better than words that he meant what he said. Again, her heart fluttered. He was willing to sacrifice his own enjoyment for the race on her behalf, letting her out of the bet if she had second thoughts and reservations. How many men would do that to a person they'd only just met? Did a man with that much compassion stoop to kidnapping and selling human beings?
“I appreciate the offer, but the bet stands.” She lifted her chin, smiled, and dove into her dinner.
Ahsan Afshar was not making her mission any easier.
***
Chapter Seven
Dusk brought a five degree decline in the heat, which was better than no decline at all as far as Sessily was concerned. The arid air felt good for a change, and she embraced the sprawling desert as she and Ahsan paced away from the stables. Astride a sorrel mare, Sess
ily adjusted to the saddle and her surroundings with increasing familiarity. In her younger years, she'd been paid by a neighbor to exercise his horses, leaving her with enough skill to remain up right even in an all-out run. Racing would be another matter altogether, and she was thankful to have this precursor that allowed her to get a feel for the sand, her mare's gait and the path they were to race on.
Ahsan rode with the effortless ease of someone practically born in the saddle. His big body moved gracefully, one hand on the reins. The jeans he'd changed into fit him well, the shirt of loose muslin open at the throat.
He seemed to wear all his clothes that way, like he had an aversion to anything too snug around his neck.
She'd changed as well, having borrowed a pair of jeans and a tee shirt of pale blue. To keep her hair from her eyes, she'd twisted it up into a knot atop her head and secured it with pins.
“So tomorrow, we'll start the race from right up here.” Ahsan pointed ahead as they rode away from the pastures toward a sloping but small dune roughly thirty yards from the stables. A natural pathway ran parallel to the dune, passing through the sand away from the palace.
“Oh, so not too far, then.”
“No. We do this a lot, so we didn't want to exhaust the horses by traveling a great distance just to get started.” He flashed a deviant grin sidelong, and brought his stallion to a stop at a specific point that matched up to the end of the dune.
“You challenge all your guests, do you?” she asked with a low laugh.
“Only the ones I deem worthy.”
“Have I passed the test?” She glanced aside for his reaction.
“You passed the test the night I met you.”
Something about his tone and the gleam in his eyes sent a tingle up her spine and along her arms. “Excellent. I'm pleased to hear it. Is that the steed I'll be winning tomorrow?”
