“Tariq is in the United States—”
The niggle of cold discomfort burrowed deeper into Nikki. Somehow she knew that.
“Dalilah is also in America,” said Zakir. “Perhaps my enemies had a problem coordinating an attempt on their lives halfway around the world, in a country that aggressively watches its borders. Or possibly we thwarted them before they could act, because mere hours after the assassinations we retained the services of a top global security company to protect both Dalilah and Tariq. I also brought some of the company’s close protection personnel here with me to Al Na’Jar—bodyguards initially trained as Gurkha militia in Nepal.”
“You brought mercenaries with you?”
“It’s preferable to using the Sheik’s Army for my immediate security. My father and mother were killed with help from the inside, Nikki, while the Sheik’s Army was allegedly guarding them. I am not safe until I have learned who betrayed them.”
“So your personal guards are the ones in the red turbans, with the different knives?”
“Kukri knives. In times past it was said that once a Gurkha drew a kukri in battle, it had to taste blood, or its owner had to cut himself before returning the blade to its sheath.”
His warning was implicit—don’t mess with my guards.
“And…these men are not worried about you being in here with me, alone?”
His voice lowered, dangerous. Sensual. “Should they be?”
The walls of the great hall suddenly felt too close. Her breathing quickened. “What…what about Omair?” she said, her voice thick. “Why not protect him?”
Zakir smiled again—not the arrogant flash that had lit his eyes and twisted her hormones into a hot soup earlier, but a warm smile that sneaked the softness of affection into his dark eyes. “Omair is the black sheep prince of our family. He’s disappeared somewhere into the South American jungles. I’ve been unable to make contact with him. I doubt our enemies will find him, either. Not unless he chooses to be found. And then I’d worry—not for him, but the enemy.”
Nikki detected genuine fondness, and frustration—a sense of family. She could relate. Family was everything to Nikki. It was everything that had been taken from her that Christmas Eve. “What does Omair do for a living that he’s in the jungle?” She paused. “Presuming he actually needs to make a living.”
Zakir grinned and shrugged. “No one really knows.”
Nikki sensed Zakir knew exactly what Omair did. Intrigue curled into her. She returned her attention to the portrait, her gaze sliding down to a more recent photograph of Tariq on the table beneath it. She bent forward suddenly, gripped by raw reflex as it hit her. She knew him!
Her eyes shot up to the painting, then back to the photograph. Blood began to pound in her ears.
She’d met Tariq. In her past life, at a medical convention in D.C. nine years ago, where she’d been a guest speaker, where he’d asked her questions about a very rare genetic ocular disorder. Irrational panic whipped through Nikki as thoughts of Sam crowded in on her.
Her mouth went dry, and she didn’t dare turn around for fear of what her face might reveal to Zakir.
He came closer. Behind her. Sensing something. She could feel his height, his warmth. Her skin began to tingle. Fear. She couldn’t breathe.
“That photo of Tariq was taken in Washington, D.C., about eight or nine years ago. Tariq is now a well-known neurosurgeon and geneticist. My father was very proud of him.”
Nikki started to shake inside.
She couldn’t look at Zakir. Something, she had to say something. “Very…interesting.” But she choked on the words.
He touched her gently on her shoulder and she jumped. “Nikki, are you all right?”
Her hand shot to her chest. “I…I just need air. I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.” She started to move toward the door.
But he slid his hand down her arm, grasped her wrist. Gentle but firm, brooking no argument. “You are not going anywhere, Nikki. Please understand this. You are not free to leave. Now sit, have something to eat, have some wine.”
“I already told you, I don’t drink. Now please, let go of me!”
Little did he know she’d kill for a mind-numbing shot of vodka right now. But alcohol had almost killed her after the twins’ deaths. At times she’d wished it had.
The only thing that had saved Nikki from taking her own life seven years ago had been finding Mercy Missions and a purpose in Africa. Where she could save other people’s lost children after failing her own.
Zakir released her arm slowly, his gaze shifting inquiringly between Nikki and the photograph that had apparently spooked her. His features turned hard, suspicious. “Do you know Tariq, Nikki? You’re originally from D.C., and you work in the medical profession. Perhaps you have met him?”
She felt her face grow hotter. “No, I have not. I…I was just born there. And I’m just a pediatric nurse. I never worked with the surgeons.”
Silently, she cursed the irony that the deceased person whose identity she’d bought had also been born in D.C. That fraudulent passport was supposed to be her ticket to freedom. A way to hide from Sam and her own past. Now it could be her ticket to prison.
Her nursing papers and accreditation were fake, too.
And if Zakir found out she was a fraud, she could face extradition, lose her orphans. She had to get to them before he learned the truth of who she was.
He hooked his knuckle under her jaw, tilting her chin up, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Nikki, if I find out that you are lying to me, about anything—”
“I’m not.”
“I sincerely hope so, because if I learn that you are here under false pretenses, or that you have come to harm my family or my country, I will spare you no mercy. Because, Nikki,” he said very quietly, his mouth coming closer to hers, his breath feathering her lips, “treachery in Al Na’Jar must be punished by execution. It is the law.”
Chapter 4
Dawn had broken, but already the heat was blistering as Zakir waited in the palace courtyard for Nikki to appear. Soldiers lined the ancient turreted walls, black figures silhouetted against a harsh sky. The flag of Al Na’Jar snapped in the hot desert wind, but the direction of the wind had shifted and it was no longer thick with the red-gold sands of the Sahara. Today the sky above was eggshell-blue, clear as glass. It would grow whiter, almost colorless, during the next hours as the sun climbed to a fiery zenith. Desert temperatures would soar further.
Dogs moving like shadows at his side, Zakir paced in the shade under the arches, the bejeweled scimitar sheathed at his hip bumping gently against his thigh as he moved, the clip of his riding boots ringing out loud on stone. His armed Gurkhas stood with watchful black eyes, their features obscured by the cloth of their red turbans. Their galabiyas—or long white tunics—were cinched at the waist with leather belts from which their sheathed kukri knives hung. The men were also armed with semiautomatic weapons, and they remained strategically and subtly positioned between Zakir and the Sheik’s Army soldiers at all times, watching for signs of treachery among the soldiers.
No one trusted anyone, and shadows lurked within shadows even under the starkly bright skies of the Sahara morning.
In the middle of the courtyard a convoy of black Humvees gleamed in the heat, drivers waiting inside as supplies were carried by palace staff over the flagstones toward them.
Impatient, Zakir checked his watch, then suddenly he spotted Nikki being escorted by guards down the sweeping black marble stairs. They were led by Alar, his mother’s maid-in-waiting, who had been attending to the prisoner.
Zakir’s heart quickened.
He stopped pacing and stood to face her, squaring his shoulders and hooking his hands behind his back. He inhaled deeply, lifting his chin as he watched her approach.
With approval he noted she was suitably dressed for her trip in a long dark skirt and white blouse with long sleeves. A midnight-blue scarf covered her hair and a translucen
t veil adorned with small crystal beads covered her nose and mouth. Similar pieces of crystal were sewn along the tops of the slippers she wore and the stones winked in the sunlight as she walked tall and confident toward him.
Her eyes were fixed exclusively on his, and as she came closer a thrill chased up Zakir’s spine.
But while he enjoyed watching her, Zakir warned himself that the eyes of a deeply traditional people were also watching him. As were the eyes of his hidden enemies. When it came to courtship and the relations between a man and a woman, Al Na’Jar was a complex country, one where traditionalists still killed lovers over transgressions of protocol.
Even perceived missteps could result in death.
He needed to be seen to be observing these rules, at least until he was officially crowned.
He smiled. “Good morning, Nikki.”
Averting her gaze, she bowed her head slightly, as Alar had no doubt told her would be a respectable form of greeting the king in public. But up close he saw that her face was frighteningly pale under her sunburn. Dark circles also rimmed her eyes. A pang of sympathy stabbed through Zakir.
“I trust you found everything in your chambers to your satisfaction during the night?”
She nodded slightly, mouth tight. And as she lifted her eyes to his, Zakir saw that they were an even more startling turquoise under the bright sunlight. In them he read a flicker of fear.
“You did not sleep, Nikki,” he said gently. “You are worried?”
“For my children,” she said crisply. “Am I free to leave now? Did my passport and papers check out?”
Zakir frowned. She appeared anxious about her credentials. But her passport had looked legitimate. And the Mercy Missions base on the Canary Islands had also verified that a nurse named Nikki Hunt had been stationed at their outpost in Mauritania. The staff said they’d lost contact with the camp after a rebel attack. So far her story had held.
Beyond this, Zakir had decided not to alert any U.S. authority—and by default, possibly the U.S. media—to the presence of an American in his land. It would make Nikki an attractive target to the insurgents, and thus a danger to Zakir and his country.
That, in turn, could jeopardize sensitive diplomatic talks down the road.
His goal now was to have her expeditiously escorted into the Rahm Hills, where she could minister to her children under the watch of a special Gurkha cadre. As soon as her orphans had been stabilized, his men would transport Nikki and her children to the coast and put them on a ship to Tenerife. End of problem.
Spy or not, she’d be out of his hair.
Yet a part of Zakir was suddenly reluctant to see her leave. He was marching such a solitary road in Al Na’Jar, where he could confide in no one. He was still grieving over the sudden and brutal loss of his parents and older brother, still struggling to come to terms with his unexpected role as king. And deep down he was afraid of the lonely darkness that lay ahead in his life because of his secret disability.
Nikki was a familiar connection with the ways of the West—and a tempting diversion.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “Your papers appear to be in order, Nikki.”
Her body sagged with such visible relief that Zakir’s frown deepened. “You did not expect this?”
“No. Yes. I mean—” She cleared her throat quickly. “I’m just glad to be able to be going back to my children.”
He handed her a clipboard with her list of supplies affixed to it, then gestured with a broad sweep of his arm to the waiting convoy of black Humvees. “Your supplies are being loaded as we speak. I have included gifts of food and cloth for the Berber clan on my behalf, and I have arranged for a cadre of my personal guards to escort you to the south end of the Red Valley at the base of the Rahm Hills. A small desert camp will be waiting there, along with camels, which are presently en route from a Sheik’s Army base in the area. You will go into the hills on camel—obviously the area is unsuitable for vehicles. Once there you may do what you need to care for your children. My men will then transport all of you to the Port of Al Na’Jar, where a ship will be waiting to take you to Tenerife. We have contacted the Mercy Missions base and told them to expect you. You may make further contact with the mission from the port.”
Her turquoise eyes widened, and under the translucent veil her lips formed a soft “oh” of disbelief. A smile tentatively dimpled her cheeks as it dawned on her that she really was free to go to her children, that Zakir had actually helped her and delivered on his promise. Her hand went to her chest. “Sheik Zakir,” she whispered. “Thank you!”
A soft warmth spurted through Zakir’s chest at the sight of her unguarded pleasure. For the first time in his life it wasn’t jewels or a sports car that he’d used to buy a woman’s smile. It was something so simple, so pure—it satisfied him beyond words to make her happy. He realized then that he’d lost touch with some core elements in his life, and her delight was shifting something profound inside him.
It made him want to know this woman better. It made him wonder why she’d had so little faith that he’d actually keep his word. And it made him wish—just for a moment—that she wasn’t leaving.
“Come,” he said gently, holding his hand out toward the Humvee convoy. “You can double-check the supplies against your list as they’re being loaded.”
Nikki quickly hooked back a strand of gold hair that had escaped her scarf, and she got to work checking the Arabic labels on the boxes. Her movements were swift, efficient, focused on her task. As her long skirt swished about her legs and the sun danced off the crystal beads on her veil, Zakir couldn’t help but watch her with increasing fascination. This job of saving orphans seemed to define Nikki—threaten her children and she became fearless. Offer to help them and she glowed.
Yet he’d glimpsed fear in her eyes.
As he watched her skirt sway about her legs, he felt a sudden surge of desire. He shook himself. This was absurd, wrong. Yet there was something so seductively mysterious about this intriguing woman covered with veils, the promise inherent in the swirl of her skirt. He was finding it incredibly—and disturbingly—sexy.
She checked the last of the supplies off her list and glanced up, eyes now alive with turquoise fire, her skin luminous in the steadily climbing temperatures. “It’s all here.”
A Humvee door opened as she spoke, and the driver’s-side mirror caught a flash of sunlight, bouncing it sharply across his face. Zakir blinked, momentarily blinded by the sudden glare. But while vision quickly returned to his right eye, a dark blurry circle lingered in the middle of his left.
His heart stalled.
Nikki came up to him and held out the clipboard. “Can I have my passport and papers back now?”
He reached for the clipboard, trying to pull focus back into his left eye, but the circle of darkness seemed to be expanding. Perspiration prickled over his skin as he struggled to maintain control. “My men will hold your papers until you reach the port,” he said, turning his head sideways so that she fell at the periphery of his vision where he could see her better. “Why?”
He heard the uneasiness in her voice. “In case you don’t cooperate.”
“So I’m still a prisoner?”
“A guest, under my protection. Be grateful, not angered, by my generosity, Ms. Hunt.” He spun round to leave, desperate to get back into the palace where he could be alone, lie down and close his eyes to see if the vision returned. But the driver closed his door and again the mirror flashed a sharp burst of light into his eyes. Suddenly Zakir couldn’t see a damn thing at all.
Panic slammed through him.
He stepped back quickly, reaching out to brace his palm against the vehicle, metal searing hot under his skin. Staring fiercely, sightlessly ahead, he groped with his free hand alongside his thigh for Ghorab, but while talking to Nikki he’d moved around the Humvee without calling his tallest hound to his side. Tension squeezed his chest as he realized that Ghorab was not there the first time he really ne
eded him.
Zakir clicked his fingers softly, and then suddenly he felt the damp nose of his saluki nudging into his palm.
Relief flooded through him as the connection with his dog steadied him slightly. But a new wave of anxiety overcame him. Could his men see what was happening to him? If they could—if the King’s Council got wind of Zakir’s problem before he was sworn in—his throne would be challenged and his kingdom would fall. Hundreds of years of Al Arif rule would be over because of him. Because of a weakness he could not control.
Suddenly, he felt Nikki’s hand, cool and soft on his forearm. There was something reassuring about her touch, and as he breathed in deeply and his heartbeat calmed he found his vision slowly returning to his right eye.
But his left remained sightless.
Zakir realized he was wet with perspiration under his tunic. He glanced around the courtyard with his barely functional eye. Everything appeared to be moving normally—palace staff loading a case of clothes, his soldiers patrolling the turrets…the complete darkness must have lasted a mere nanosecond, but to Zakir it felt like an eternity.
Feigning anger, he quickly grasped Nikki’s arm and pulled her around the side of the vehicle.
Nikki stiffened in confusion. “What are you doing—”
“Quiet,” he growled, waving his bodyguards away as they tried to reposition between him and the Sheik’s Army soldiers. There was a chance the only person who had witnessed him falter was Nikki Hunt. And he had to control the damage.
Blood thudded in his ears as he tried to focus on her with his right eye, but his central vision in that one was still extremely blurry. And she was scrutinizing his eyes intently, looking into the very heart of his secret. Zakir blinked as another shaft of reflected sunlight glanced off a sword as his guards retreated.
Her hand touched his forearm again, and she came very close to him. “Are you all right, Zakir?” she whispered, out of earshot of his men.
“I’m fine.” He glowered at her hand. A female touching him like this in public was inappropriate, a very wrong message to send to his staff, his people.
Under Command Page 4
