She heard his breath catch, his movement stop, his grip on her wrists tighten for a moment before he let go. Then he pulled her up off the table, and she gasped as he lifted her up into his arms like she was a feather. She felt herself being whisked across the room like she was riding on a cloud, and then she felt sunlight on her face, warm air against her bare legs, the smell of fresh palm leaves and the sound of flowing water.
“Make no mistake,” he said, his face close to her hair as she leaned against his chest. She could hear his powerful heart beat, and it soothed her. “I will take you when I want, how I want, as often as I want. But first I want to show you something. Come now. Open your eyes.”
“No,” she whispered, clamping her eyelids down even tighter as she listened to his heart, smelled the desert palms, felt the warm breeze against her ankles and calves. The gurgling of the water was familiar, and it made her stomach lurch as she was taken back to a moment that felt clean, pure, without pain . . . so much so that she didn’t want to go back there, didn’t want to know that such a place existed within her. Because what if she couldn’t stay in that place? She hadn’t been able to stay there before, had she?
“Maddy,” came his voice, smooth but commanding. “Open your eyes or I will throw you in.”
She smiled without meaning to, opening her eyes and blinking in the sunlight filtered through the umbrella-like leaves of desert palms. Then she gasped when she saw it: A desert spring, natural and pure, bubbling up out of the ground like a miracle. It ended in a pool, serene and perfectly round, surrounded by palm trees with healthy brown trunks and expansive green leaves.
“Even the cruel desert has its moments of softness and beauty,” the Sheikh whispered against her hair, kissing her forehead as he held her in his arms like a doll. “The sand may appear dead, but within it there is life and hope, Maddy. Life and hope.”
The way he said it, the way he kissed her forehead, the way he held her . . . it all seemed so right that Maddy almost forgot how twisted it really was. She clenched her fists as she held on to his strong neck and back, knowing she had a chance to take a shot at him again, crash her forehead into his nose, push her thumbs into his goddamn eyeballs until he screamed in agony, to pin him down with her powerful legs as he fell, to strangle him, maybe drown him, like she’d fantasized about doing to his father at other times, so many times, when she was too small to stop him from taking what he wanted, when he wanted.
But he’s different, isn’t he? He says he’s going to take what he wants, when he wants, but he hasn’t yet, has he? He’s come close. So fucking close. But he’s always stopped, like he’s waiting . . . waiting for something. Waiting for me? Waiting for me to pull up alongside him, to get there with him? Like we’re in this together? Like we’ve always been in this together?
“Was it you? It was, wasn’t it?” she suddenly said, not knowing why it had suddenly become so clear. Perhaps it was the calmness she saw in his handsome brown face when she finally looked up at him as he kissed her matted hair. Perhaps it was something in the steady rhythm of his heart as she leaned against his rock-hard chest. Or perhaps she was hoping it would be true. “You organized the kidnapping. The first kidnapping. You set it up so my dad would have no choice but to come to you for the money—so much money that there’d be no one else he could turn to.”
The Sheikh blinked, and then he shook his head as a chill came over Maddy. Was he lying? She couldn’t tell. For the first time, she couldn’t read a man. Every man she’d ever met she’d been able to read from the get-go—perhaps because they all wanted the same thing. But this man . . .
“Then who?” she said. “Who would do that? Who could do that? Two of my men taken out from a distance, which meant they were professionals. Well trained, and—more importantly—well-paid. Then they take me, throw me in a hole for three days.” She paused, shaking her head, still in his arms, the gurgling of the desert spring sounding like thunder as her mind turned with suspicion, swirled with doubt. “And then you show up, Imraan. It had to be you! Why are you lying to me?”
“I would not have had your two men killed just to set this up,” the Sheikh said quietly, and instantly she believed him. He would not. She knew it. She wasn’t sure how, because at some level she knew he was capable of violence the same way she was, but she knew he was telling her the truth. Still, there was something in his green eyes that made her frown.
“What?” she said, still holding onto him as he stood there beside the spring, beneath the swaying desert palms, under the clear blue sky of day. “What is it?”
“I did not know your two men were killed at long range. How many shots?”
Maddy hesitated. “One shot for each man.”
“How close together were the shots?”
“Almost simultaneous,” said Maddy, her frown deepening. “Shit, that means there were two shooters. And they coordinated the shots.”
Imraan shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “That is military-level discipline. And if the shots were taken at long-range, it is almost certain they were military-trained snipers.” He shook his head again. “Ya Allah, that is troubling. Despite what you see in the movies, taking a long-distance shot in the dark and hitting your target the first time takes years of dedicated practice. These were professionally trained snipers who took out your men, Maddy—not some thugs who practice shooting cans in the woods. And professional snipers are not that easy to find. Either they work as highly-paid hitmen—and by highly paid I mean six figures per hit, which seems a bit extreme for taking out two no-name henchmen, no disrespect to your men. Or—”
“That’s absurd! My dad doesn’t play at that level! We’re small-time Atlanta thugs! There’s no one in our circles who have those kind of connections, that kind of financing.”
“Let me finish,” said the Sheikh, almost smiling, though Maddy could tell he was serious as hell. “Or else they work for the government.”
Maddy blinked, snorting once and then bursting into laughter against his chest. “OK, now that’s absurd. How . . . I mean why . . . OK, put me down. I can’t have this conversation. It’s too surreal.”
The Sheikh slowly lowered her to the ground, and Maddy straightened her gown and glanced up at him. She felt a warmth flow through her as she looked up into his eyes, saw his furrowed brow, knew he was puzzling over what was happening just like she was. It was strange, but she felt like they were on the same side now, even though she was technically his captive. Did that make sense? Did any of it make sense?
“Listen,” said the Sheikh, looking fiercely at her, not in anger but with an urgency that sent a chill through her body. “Think, Maddy. Did you and your father have any dealings with—”
“With the government? Are you insane? We have a tax accountant and a shell business set up just so we can pay enough to the IRS every year that no one bothers us! Hell, we pay tens of thousands in taxes! As for our clients . . . no. There’s no way. We’re bookies and loan-sharks, Imraan! I knock on people’s doors or show up outside their office buildings with my guys to collect the money they lost betting on Braves and Falcons games! Even the mafia offshoots who run book in Atlanta don’t give two shits about us! The government? Military snipers? Are you kidding me?”
The Sheikh nodded. “Then there is someone else in this game. Another player. Perhaps more than one.”
“Who? And why?”
Imraan snorted. “The why is simple: money. I paid thirty-seven million dollars for you, dear stepsister. That is quite a good reason why.” He took a breath. “As for the who . . . now that is more complicated. It has to be someone who knows . . . knows our history. Knows our story. Perhaps knows even more than we do.”
Maddy blinked and shook her head. “My father? He’s the only one . . . the only one still alive. But—”
“It is beyond your father’s imagination. Besides, as you said, he has neither the connections nor the sp
ending habits to pay military snipers to kill his own damn henchmen to fake a kidnapping! No, it is someone else. Another player, Maddy.”
Maddy blinked and gritted her teeth. “Yeah, you said that already, Imraan. But who’s left? Our mothers are dead, your father is dead, my father is now broke and powerless. Who the fuck is even left in this story? The story of our fucked-up lives? Who else is even left?”
11
“Take a left here,” screeched Begum Khalifa as the little Peugeot hatchback turned down a narrow Paris street, tires screeching as the wide-eyed Begum Gaurina grinned like a madwoman behind the wheel, the gold tooth she’d been sporting for the last five years shining like a headlamp. “Slow down before turning! You will kill us both, you wild bitch!”
“We are already dead, remember?” said Gaurina, making the turn at the last minute, the change of direction making both women slide across their seats and hold on for dear life as the car finally skidded to a halt outside the gates of their destination.
“Someday I will teach you the difference between a metaphor and a goddamn car-crash,” Khalifa muttered, pulling the top of her dark-blue hijab over her hair and checking herself in the rearview mirror. She scowled at what age had done to her face, glancing over at the younger and slightly less wrinkled Gaurina in the driver’s seat. The two of them didn’t drive themselves around Paris much. They had a Mercedes Benz limousine and a driver. But tonight’s meeting was private—too private for their talkative West African driver, who served the two “dead” Sheikhas in professional as well as personal capacities and could not be trusted to keep his mouth shut about anything.
Gaurina laughed, but then went silent as she straightened her own head covering and fought for mirror space with Khalifa. Finally they were ready, and the two old Sheikhas clambered out of their Peugeot hatchback and entered the gates of the nondescript house in the Western Suburbs of Paris.
They were searched by two armed men at the door, and finally they entered the living room. Then they waited. He always made them wait. They did not mind. After all, he was their husband. And he was a king.
He arrived slowly, walking down the wooden staircase in his bare feet, his long, well-groomed beard looking strikingly white against his black silk tunic, his eyes green and shining, alert and alive as always. He was old, but he still cast an imposing shadow as his two queens bowed their heads and waited for him to speak.
“Laeanaha allh,” he said, glancing at Khalifa and then Gaurina before shaking his head and looking past them, his expression cold and dead, eyes like green stone. “Never again will I trust two women to do a man’s job.”
Khalifa shifted on her feet, stealing a glance at Gaurina. The younger Sheikha barely moved, her eyes focused on the floor. Khalifa swallowed hard and then raised her head.
“We spared no expense. The men we hired came highly recommended. An ex-military group that specializes in kidnapping. How were we to know they would demand a ransom from Morris instead of simply delivering the girl to you as agreed?” Khalifa said, her voice trembling as she spoke, even though her anger was mostly directed at Gaurina for not speaking up when it was she who’d done most of the planning.
“Ya Allah! Professional kidnappers demanding a ransom! What a surprise! Who would have expected such a thing!” the old Sheikh said, his face twisting into a sneer as he finally deigned to look at his two cowering queens. He took a breath and waved his hand. “I should have known better. I should have done it myself. Perhaps then we would not be—”
“Professionals do not double-cross their employers,” said Gaurina suddenly, looking up and pulling her veil and head-covering off, shaking her long black hair open and glaring at the old Sheikh. “There is something else going on here, I swear it. The men we hired asked for a ransom of almost fifty million dollars from Morris! Why would they have done that? They could not possibly have expected he would be able to pay it!”
“But he did pay it. By turning to my son of all people! Ya Allah, I should have you two whipped!” the old Sheikh roared, stretching to full height as his voice thundered across the open space of the old Paris house that was now his palace.
“They knew he would have to turn to your son! Somehow they knew!” Gaurina shot back, her dark brown eyes meeting the Sheikh’s as Khalifa looked on, pleased that the hot-blooded younger queen was stepping up.
“How? Who knows of our connections besides Morris himself?”
Gaurina went silent, and Khalifa took a breath and spoke. “So perhaps there was no ransom demand at all. Perhaps Morris simply offered to pay them off with a sum so large they could not refuse.”
The old Sheikh blinked long and hard. “No,” he said. “My instructions were to have the girl taken and brought directly to me. There should have been no contact between the men you hired and Morris. There should have been no way for Morris to even make them an offer.”
“So then there is another player,” Gaurina said, her eyes flashing, her lips twisting into a smile. “And you know who it is. There is only one person it can be. Only one other person who knows about what happened twenty years ago. Who knows about us.”
The old Sheikh took a long breath and nodded once. “Benson. John Benson. That double-crossing son of a dog. We should have killed him when we had the chance.”
“Kill a CIA officer? We would either be dead or kneeling on prayer mats in Guantanamo Bay right now instead of living in Parisian luxury,” Khalifa said, her left eyebrow raised, half-smile matching it.
“Luxury? I am a king!” roared the old Sheikh, and Khalifa could see the madness in his eyes that had once blazed a fiery green but were now like gray moss on an old rock.
“Our son is king and supreme Sheikh,” Khalifa said politely, knowing her calmness would drive her husband’s rage even further. She’d always been the steady one of the three, but she also knew how to twist the other two, drive them further than where their own madness might take them, where their own darkness might lead them. “That was the agreement with Benson, and we are bound to it.”
The Sheikh closed his eyes and took a long breath. “The girl,” he said finally, and when he opened his eyes Khalifa knew she’d won. She’d saved her son by offering Gaurina’s daughter as a sacrifice. Give the old man one last taste of power, a throwback to when he owned and possessed everything and everyone, including his own stepdaughter.
The old Sheikh had never touched alcohol, never puffed an opium pipe, never taken so much as an aspirin. Sex and violence—those were his drugs of choice, his paths to pleasure. And all three of them had played those games, were still playing that game.
Sex and violence, Khalifa thought as she looked at her two twisted partners in life. I hope my son has developed different interests, different hobbies, different indulgences.
12
“I never indulge. And I do not keep any in the Royal Palace. But some of the international hotels in Wahaad are allowed to serve alcohol, so I can—”
“All I said is I could use a beer,” Maddy said, smiling as she dipped her bare feet in the warm water of the bubbling desert spring. Her white robe was pulled up over her knees, and the Sheikh glanced down at her thighs, feeling himself stiffen again from the sight of his stepsister’s smooth skin. “It was just an expression. I don’t really want to get drunk, Imraan.”
The Sheikh took a breath. It had occurred to him more than once that all of this was indeed an elaborate plan for Maddy and her father to extract money from him. Part of him still believed it was beyond old man Morris’s capabilities—and courage—to risk something like this; but it was by no means a closed case. He racked his brain, trying to think back to who else was on the scene twenty years ago, who else could be involved, who else could know secrets that even the two of them did not completely remember.
An image of a man flashed through Imraan’s mind. An American, young and confident but also calm, quiet, almost
secretive. Imraan had seen him visit the old Sheikh once or twice. He’d thought nothing of it at the time—after all, the Sheikh had hundreds of foreign visitors every year: business dealings, investment opportunities, political negotiations—so why was the memory popping up as if it was an answer to his question?
Do not get carried away, Imraan told himself as he watched Maddy dangle her toes in the clean water coming out of the burning sand. You cannot trust your memories. You cannot trust Morris. And you most certainly cannot trust this woman. What you can trust is reason and logic, and logic dictates that you have to start with what is available to you.
He looked at Maddy again, her long dark hair, light brown neck, strong hips, that beautiful mix of round cheeks and a sharp nose that she’d inherited from her mother.
And then suddenly the Sheikh felt that switch flip inside him once more, and he saw Gaurina again in his mind, calling to him, reminding him that he was a twisted creature just like she was, just like they all were.
Start with what is available to you, came the thought again. And Maddy is what is available to you. If you are not sure if you can trust her or her father, then first make sure you eliminate that possibility before moving on to the next.
And so just as Maddy turned her head up and smiled, her lips parting as if she was about to say something that reflected the hesitant happiness he could see in her big brown eyes, the Sheikh let that switch flip all the way inside him, that switch that brought on the darkness, turned out the light, took him to that place where anything was possible, the darker the better.
13
She screamed as he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her from where she sat dangling her toes in the warm fresh water. She’d just started allowing herself to relax, to think that perhaps they were going to figure this out together. But then she saw the look on her stepbrother’s face, the way his green eyes had lost the hint of warmth and gone stone cold, like a wall had come down between his emotions and his actions.
Ransomed for the Sheikh_A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel Page 6
