The Sheik’s Command

by Loreth Anne White

  Chapter 3

  Nikki stalked through the massive guest chambers, flung open the gilt French doors and stepped onto a small balcony. A blast of desert heat slammed into her and her heart sank as she took in the dense, orange fog obscuring distant minarets. Dusk was also crawling in over the ancient Moorish city, and with it came a suffocating sense of oppression.

  She peered over the balustrade. Far below lay a square of fragrant garden enclosed by high walls topped with ornate turrets. She’d have to be a ninja to scale those, if she could even find a way down there. Nikki swore softly to herself.

  She’d come so very far on a journey of epic proportions. She’d shepherded those poor kids for months over the desert, protecting them, feeding them, caring for them. She had become their mother, their father, their friend and guardian. And she’d been forced to endure the pain of burying two already. Saving those orphans had become Nikki’s sole reason for being.

  Yet now she was being thwarted, held captive in some egotistical sheik’s castle? No way in hell.

  She had to get out. But how?

  His words growled through her mind. Meanwhile, I shall have your story and credentials verified…

  Nikki shut her eyes, gripping her fingers tightly around the balustrade as a sudden wave of nausea engulfed her, panic clouding her brain like a stifling hood.

  Would her identity hold?

  It had taken her seven long, tortuous years and a trip halfway around the world to finally lose herself in the North African desert, to find a measure of freedom from the ghosts that haunted her. The last thing on this earth she needed now was for some arrogant sheik to steal that away from her by digging into her past.

  If Zakir’s probing alerted her husband to the fact she was alive, Senator Sam Etherington would stop at nothing to drag her back to the States. He’d see that she was arrested for assuming a false identity, traveling on a forged passport, working with fraudulent nursing papers, not appearing in court to face the massive civil suit he’d smacked her with. Sam would do it all—and more—just to punish her for having gotten away.

  And for having their children in her car on the night he’d tried to have her run off the road.

  She began to shake at the thought, the memories. And the taste of hatred—and fear—filled her mouth.

  The newspaper coverage, the public torment, the humiliation, her downward spiral into alcohol and drugs…it would all start again. And this time she wasn’t sure she could survive.

  Nikki didn’t care about the dying part. The person she once was had “died” already. But those orphans were her sole purpose, her reason to keep fighting. Where she hadn’t been able to save her own toddler twins, she could still save these kids.

  If Zakir would agree to help them.

  Spinning around, Nikki stormed back into the room. She grabbed a jug from a dark wood table, sloshed water into a glass and drank deeply. Blocks of ice bumped against her lip, and she could taste mint. But as she thought of her children the cool water turned bitter, and she set the glass down sharply. How could she in good conscience quench her thirst, bathe and dress herself in the ridiculously lavish robes provided for her in the cupboards of this room when her orphans were out there suffering?

  She marched to the door, began thumping it with the base of her fist.

  A guard swung the door open, abruptly bringing Nikki face to blade with a long gleaming knife. Breath snared in her throat. She raised both hands, backing off slowly. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. No harm.”

  The guard shut the door, locked it.

  She ran her trembling hands over her dust-thickened hair. Fine. She’d do it the king’s way. She’d bathe, dress in the idiotic finery that had been laid out for her, write out her list of supplies and then she’d wait for his royal damn highness to summon her to his great hall for dinner.

  She’d play by his rules—it was her only choice.

  Zakir caught his breath as his guards ushered Nikki into the dining hall, but outwardly he controlled himself, motioning silently for his dogs to remain seated where he stood in front of a massive portrait done in dark, sweeping oils.

  He was learning to communicate with his hounds using only hand signals. The dogs themselves had been trained by a female K-9 operative from a private military organization based off the west coast of Africa. Zakir’s brother Omair had quietly arranged this because no one could know why Zakir needed the dogs. The traitor on his own King’s Council would potentially use this knowledge to challenge Zakir’s right to the throne and destroy him.

  Until Zakir had taken the official oath and been officially sworn in as King of Al Na’Jar, he could display absolutely no sign of weakness. Besides, traditional Arabic hunting dogs were a fitting accompaniment for a desert monarch. Salukis were said to be the earliest breed of domestic dog to have diverged from wolves, and historically they had traveled with nomadic tribes over an area stretching from the Sahara Desert across the Middle East all the way to the Caspian Sea. Ghorab, Khaya and Tala would not pique unwanted curiosity.

  And once Zakir was fully sworn in, he could move quickly to unilaterally change the constitution and protect his power. And thus the country.

  Under a new constitution, his dark secret would no longer matter.

  The only reason Zakir had not already taken the oath was because the current constitution stated that before a new king could be officially crowned, he had to have a queen. The archaic laws had been written this way as a means of ensuring heirs. This would all change once his power was officially enshrined.

  Finding a wife, however, was the very least of Zakir’s problems right now. His priority was to stabilize the volatile political situation and root out the traitors before he met the same end as his father, mother and older brother.

  And once he learned who the traitors were, and who had assassinated his parents and older brother, Zakir would need to show boldness—ruthlessness—in his punishment.

  Nothing less than a public beheading of the criminals would be expected.

  These would be the first and last public executions of Zakir’s reign. He had no stomach for this ancient form of justice. It was yet another law he would abolish once he seized full control of his council and country. But he would need a wife, soon. An emissary in Paris had already started a low-profile search for a candidate. Once the list of potential women had been narrowed, Zakir would interview them himself. His top choice would be offered a carefully drafted contract to serve as queen.

  He did not think this would be a problem. He’d never had a shortage of stunning females willing to appear on the arm of a dashing tycoon sheik. And at this stage of his life he did not have the luxury of thinking he might marry for love. Zakir had only ever truly loved once. He doubted it would happen again. That one experience—and the ensuing betrayal—had almost cost him and his family everything.

  But as Nikki walked slowly up to him, a vision in a white robe, Zakir felt a small pang of regret. Along with it came a whisper of yearning, a sense of aloneness.

  He shook it off. This was how it must be now.

  Yet his thoughts drifted again as the hundreds of candles in the room transformed Nikki’s hair into a halo of spun gold.

  Zakir hated the candles. They threw too many quivering shadows, blurred colors, and made halos in his vision as they were doing with her hair now. But dinner by candlelight was a palace tradition Zakir would have to change slowly. Again, he wanted no reason to alert anyone to his weakness. He needed to telegraph absolute strength.

  His heart beat faster as Nikki approached and Zakir found himself straightening his spine. As she came closer, he saw that her robe was shot through with bold threads of gold. She’d piled her freshly washed hair up on her head in a careless fashion, loose tendrils escaping a clasp to fall softly about her face.

  Her allure, Zakir realized—angling his head slightly to the side so he could use his peripheral vision to see her better—was in the way she managed to c
ome across as radiantly natural yet sensually elegant at the same time. A mesmerizing cocktail that made him want to know her deeper, to find out who she really was inside.

  Up close he saw that she wore no makeup even though Zakir’s guest quarters provided for everything a woman might want. He could detect no fragrance, either, apart from a soft hint of coconut oil that she’d obviously used to soften her desert-dry skin after she’d bathed. A little spurt of heat quivered inside Zakir as she came almost within touching distance. He had to tamp down a sudden urge to reach out for her.

  She stopped directly in front of him, her turquoise eyes tunneling pointedly into his. Zakir felt himself falling, drowning into the intensity of her gaze. She thrust a piece of paper at him. “Here is my list of supplies.” There was no smile, no warmth in her voice.

  Zakir took the note from her, a frisson of electricity arcing up his arm and crackling into his chest as his skin connected with hers. He swallowed, shocked, and set the note on a table beneath a massive oil portrait of his father. “You’ll have what you need by daybreak if your papers check out.”

  “You’re not going to read it?”

  He couldn’t, not in this light.

  “My assistant will take care of everything.” He held his hand out, diverting her attention toward the table. “Please, do take a seat. My chefs will be bringing in the main course shortly. In the meantime, some wine.”

  Instead of complying, Nikki’s attention shifted to the bold oil study of Zakir’s father on the wall behind him. She stepped closer to it, peering up at the burning, coal-black eyes, dark brows, aristocratic nose and sharp cheekbones of His Highness Sheik Ahmed Al Arif.

  “Is that him? The previous king?”

  “My father, yes.”

  “You have his features,” she said quietly, absorbed by the painting. She turned suddenly and looked directly into his eyes. Zakir’s stomach tensed. There was something so visceral and intelligent about this woman that she made his blood tingle. But she was making him edgy, too, as if she could see right into his secret vulnerability. He didn’t like this. Very little in life made Zakir truly nervous. He reached down to touch the head of Ghorab, drawing reassurance from the dog. Her gaze followed his hand, and again Zakir felt she could detect something.

  She turned and began to walk slowly along the wall, studying each of the oils that lined the length of the great dining hall as she went. The paintings depicted his family tree, ranging back to antique portraits of legendary Al Arif warrior sheiks posed on prized stallions with hooded falcons on their arms, all the way to an image of Zakir and his family that had been painted when he was younger.

  Zakir watched Nikki move, the slight sway of her hips. She carried herself with unconscious ease. Yet he could sense her calculating, scheming.

  Nikki paused in front of the large family painting with Zakir in it. “Are those your siblings?” she said, gazing up at the massive work of art.

  He came up behind her, closer than was necessary, and her body braced in his proximity. But she didn’t move away. It fed something deep and primal inside Zakir, and he inhaled her scent, felt her warmth. “That’s my younger sister, Dalilah.” Zakir pointed over Nikki’s shoulder, bringing himself closer yet, almost touching her. “And those are my two younger brothers, Tariq and Omair. Standing behind them is my older brother, Da’ud.” Zakir hesitated, feeling a sharp stab of grief. “Da’ud was killed two months ago,” he said softly.

  She turned to face him and their eyes met. Electricity zinged, palpable, as if there was a crackling force around her. “Killed? How?”

  “Assassinated in his bed on his private yacht off Barcelona. A band of men came in the night, sliced his throat down with a ceremonial Al Na’Jar jambiya.”

  “How do you know it was a local ceremonial knife?”

  He crooked his brow up. “It was the opinion of the coroner that the murder weapon was a ceremonial dagger. It has a very specific curve. This opinion was confirmed by a private medical practitioner, of course.”

  “You mean his killers were making some kind of political statement?”

  “By using that knife? Yes, along with the fact that Da’ud was slain on the very same night that my father and my mother were killed right here in this palace, as they slept.” Zakir watched carefully for her reaction. He wanted to get a read on her. If she was involved with his enemies, she might betray herself.

  She stared at him, scrutinizing in return. “So that’s how you became king? Someone wanted you to lead, as opposed to Da’ud?”

  “My enemies don’t want me as king, Nikki. They tried to kill me, too.”

  “You mean…the suicide bomb the other day?”

  “No. Even before the bomb there was a break-in at my home in Paris, on the very same night that Da’ud and my parents were assassinated. A ceremonial dagger was left on my pillow. I suspect that if I’d been home that night, I’d be dead, too.”

  “But you weren’t home?”

  “I was…in the bed of a female companion.” He smiled bleakly. “It appears that in this case sleeping around was good for my health.”

  Nikki felt her cheeks flush as she tamped down a sudden mental picture of Zakir naked in bed. But it was too late—the image was lodged firm, and she felt her blood heat.

  She could see in Zakir’s face that he knew it, too. He was toying with her sexually, finding her reaction amusing. But the glint in his eyes faded slowly along with his smile. “I never expected to lead this country, Nikki.”

  And in those words Nikki sensed real reluctance, sorrow even. Empathy touched her. Compassion was not an emotion she could fight. Nikki lived to heal. It was part of her nature, part of what had steered her into medicine.

  “What were you doing before this?” she asked quietly. “Apart from sleeping around, I mean.”

  His lips curved again, slowly. “You have a sense of humor.”

  “What I have, your highness, is a really desperate need to get out of here.”

  There was no smile this time. He walked over to an ornate credenza, touched a bottle of wine lightly with his fingertips and tilted his head in question. “White wine or red? Or something stronger, perhaps?”

  “I don’t drink.” She said it too quickly, and she felt her cheeks heat.

  A frown twitched over his brow as he poured himself a glass of red. “It’s a pity. This is a fine merlot from my estate in the south of Spain. Can I perhaps get you something else?”

  “You could get me my passport, medicines and safe passage to Tenerife,” she said, swiftly changing the subject.

  He snorted softly, swirling his glass. “In time, Nikki. If your papers and story check out, you will be free to go by morning.” He sipped his wine, watching her over the rim.

  “My children don’t have the luxury of time, Zakir.”

  “Nor does my country. And that is where my duty lies.” He came up to her, the bulb of his wineglass resting easily in the crook of his fingers, and she noted his hands were beautiful—long, strong, tapered fingers. Dusky skin. She swallowed, again trying to erase the disturbing image of Zakir’s naked body against crisp white sheets.

  “I might have lived in Europe, Nikki, but I was raised here in Al Na’Jar.” He turned his gaze toward his family portrait. “From a young age I was taught by my father to accept that this land, this desert, was my heritage and that it would be my foremost duty if I was ever called upon. So even though I was only second in the line of succession I was still taught the skills required of a desert monarch—the arts of horsemanship, falconry, hunting Arabic-style with salukis. I learned the dialects of the region and I studied the local cultures, the conflicts between Sahara tribes. My father made sure I also knew how to live as a nomad in the desert, and I did my time in military training. But after the military, while Da’ud remained here in Al Na’Jar to be groomed for the throne, I was sent overseas to study economics at the Sorbonne in Paris. After which I took the helm of the Al Arif Corporation, which deals primari
ly in commodities—oil, uranium, diamonds, along with a very extensive network of global real estate holdings, including summer and winter resorts around the world.”

  He sipped his wine slowly, and Nikki’s gaze was lured to his lips. “Those were my riches, Nikki,” he said quietly. “The economy was my kingdom. I was not a desert raider as my ancestors were, but rather a corporate warrior. And now I find myself here, in a land trapped somewhere back in the middle ages. My duty is now to follow my father’s lead and build a bridge to the twenty-first century.” He inhaled deeply. “But as you have seen I have enemies. And I believe those enemies will not stop until they have wiped out the entire Al Arif bloodline. They are bold, and they are highly creative. And then you show up—a mysterious lone woman just appearing at my palace. This is the reason you must remain under my guard until I can verify your story.”

  Nikki moistened her lips, disturbed by the heat pooling low in her belly as Zakir’s smoldering eyes pierced hers, as his rich accent rippled warm over her skin. “For all I know, Zakir,” she said, her voice going husky, “you are behind the coup yourself, because you wanted the throne. It would be conceivable, for example, for you to have staged the so-called attempt on your life in Paris in order to look innocent.”

  Surprise glimmered momentarily in his features. Then his eyes narrowed sharply and Nikki felt a cool whisper of fear rising in her. She’d overstepped her bounds. But he smiled suddenly, a bright slash of white against dark skin, and his black eyes glittered. Fear rippled deeper, his aggressive smile sparking something disturbingly primal in Nikki. He really was arrogant—and too damn beautiful for his own good. She quickly returned her attention to the family portrait in an effort to hide the unwelcome sexual interest she had no doubt was showing in her own eyes.

  But as she studied the massive family painting, a disturbing familiarity in the features of his brother Tariq began to niggle at her. “If someone truly wanted to wipe out the entire Al Arif bloodline—” she frowned up at Tariq’s image, trying to place where she might possibly have seen his distinctive, aggressive features “—then why were your younger brothers not attacked as well, or your sister?”