He spooned soup into a mug and handed it to her.
“You’re quite the renaissance man, Zakir,” she said, taking the mug with both hands.
He glanced up. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you climb mountains, rescue women in distress, bandage them up, rule countries and corporate empires, ride camels, pitch tents.” She sipped from her mug. “And you make very good soup.”
He laughed. Yet the hint of respect in her eyes affected him. And with surprise Zakir realized he liked praise from Nikki. She was not one to waste words on triviality or flattery with ulterior motive. Not like the women he’d been wasting time with for the past decade of his life.
“You’re not too shabby yourself, Nikki. We could make a good team.”
The implications hung, silent, suddenly slightly uncomfortable.
“Tell me,” he said, sipping his soup. “Why did you come to Africa? What made you pack it all up in America?”
She stiffened. “I came…because I needed to.”
It was all she said. Curiosity rustled deeper in Zakir. “Did you leave family behind? A relationship?”
Her mouth tightened. She glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “No,” she said. “I didn’t leave a relationship. I… We’d separated before I came to Africa.”
“An amicable separation?”
“What business is it of yours?” she snapped.
“Everything in Al Na’Jar is my business, Nikki.”
“You mean an excuse to pry into personal lives.”
“I wasn’t prying. I’m interested.”
She caught his gaze, and he saw a flash of pain. Then it was gone.
“I’m going to guess it wasn’t a happy ending. Was it a marriage?”
She was silent for several long beats. “Yes, it was.”
“But no children?”
She paused. “I’ve never had children.”
She stood suddenly, holding the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She looked pale, drained. Firelight caught her hair, dancing gold on the curls. Even with matted sand and blood in her hair, she looked beautiful to him.
“I need to sleep.”
He nodded. “Go ahead,” he said gently. “I’ll keep watch out here.”
Zakir felt wide-awake, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He’d been energized by this day—and by Nikki’s company. It was a long time since he’d felt this good, this vital.
As the flames crackled and shot orange sparks into the night sky, he wondered what kind of man would let a woman like Nikki go. And as he wondered what had happened to her relationship, Zakir realized that if she was hiding anything from him it was personal, and it had to do with her past. He felt it was unlikely she’d come to his country with intent to harm or spy on him.
Perhaps she was unable to have her own children. This could explain her obsession with her orphans.
Then again, he had yet to lay eyes on those orphans. Until he did, he couldn’t fully trust her. And it was one of the reasons he wouldn’t sleep tonight.
Instead, he sat by the fire, just sensing the desert, as he had as a boy.
He looked up at the stars. How much longer would he be able to see them? How many nights did he have until he went fully blind? Zakir was suddenly glad Nikki had arrived at his palace gates, because it had brought him here. She’d given him this one night, all alone under the Sahara sky. Just one more time.
The desert wind grew soft, and he heard an owl. He thought of his father, and how they’d all camped and hunted out in the Sahara—him, Tariq, Omair, Da’ud. Hot emotion filled his eyes. He missed them. He missed his mother. And as he looked up at the stars, Zakir vowed that their deaths would be avenged, that his enemies would take no more from him.
And nothing more from this land.
He got up, checked on Nikki, watching her sleep. Her hair shimmered around her face in the moonlight. He was glad, too, to be able to see her beauty. It was things like this that he would remember when darkness was complete. She stirred suddenly, her blanket slipping. Zakir could see the outline of her breast, rising and falling with each gentle breath. His groin stirred. He smiled ruefully and ducked back out of the tent.
Positioning himself on his stool, he threw another log on the fire.
This was not the time for romantic engagement. His duty was to his country, to fulfilling his father’s will.
To making a marriage contract that would protect his power.
Chapter 8
Nikki awoke stiff and sore. Gingerly, she fingered the wound on her temple. The skin felt swollen, but not infected. She thought of how close she’d come to dying and was grateful again that Zakir had managed to save her life.
It had bought her another day to get her kids to safety. And excitement began to trill through her. If all went well, she’d see them today. She smoothed her hair, tied it back with a cord and put on a scarf. She rubbed her face, then bent to step out of the tent.
The dawn light was beautiful. The wind was still and temperatures had not yet started to climb. She saw Zakir near the path, already busy loading the camels. His dogs gamboled at his feet, frisky in the crisp air.
“Good morning,” she called.
He stilled, staring at her as she neared. “Ready to leave?”
She nodded, suddenly uneasy. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much of herself last night. Secrets were heavy, stressful things, and a part of Nikki craved the release of confiding in someone. But she couldn’t.
Not if she wanted to keep her new life.
After taking the tent down and packing it onto the camels, they once again began to climb higher into the stark mountains.
As they crested a ridge, the sun burst over the peaks, rippling reds and yellows and golds into the dry hills. A hare bounded through scrub, and a vulture wheeled up high.
The warmth against Nikki’s skin was instant, and she felt her camel’s energy surge. So did hers when—as they rounded the next bend—the crumbling ruins of an ancient Crusades castle came into view. She relaxed. She was definitely on the right path.
But she gripped her camel rope suddenly, halting the animal when the first Rahm sentry stepped out into the track, brandishing an AK-47, his black robe and kaffiyeh flapping in the wind. Leather bandoliers crisscrossed his chest. His beard was long, ragged; his body wiry; and his skin darkly sun-browned.
Nikki carefully raised her arm high.
“I come in peace!” she called out in Arabic, her voice being snatched by wind and tossed through the scoured sandstone cliffs. “I return with a guide and medicine for my children. And with gifts of food and cloth from Sheik Zakir Al Arif!”
Silently, the sentinel motioned for her to dismount. She coaxed her camel into a couch. Zakir did the same, remaining behind her.
Dark shapes began materializing against the dun colored hills, black robes snapping in the wind.
More armed Berbers.
All wore the trademark leather cartridge belts crossed over their chests. In her peripheral vision, Nikki saw more movement in rocks behind them. They were surrounded.
Nerves skittered. Her mouth turned dry.
Zakir drew up closer behind Nikki. He could feel her tension, and his hand shifted, ready to grasp the hilt of the scimitar hidden under his cloak.
The sentry motioned for Nikki to approach.
“Go,” whispered Zakir. “I’m following right behind you. Tell them who I am right away, or they’ll feel deceived.” He noted the positions of the men in the hills as he and Nikki began to move slowly forward. They’d chosen a good place for an ambush. These mountain men were skilled guerrilla strategists who knew this harsh terrain like the backs of their hands. They were the kind of warriors Zakir could use on his side.
Not against him.
Which was why this meeting would be so important.
The sentinel lowered his weapon, eyes narrowing. Then suddenly his face crumpled into a craggy smile, teeth startling white against his dark features. “We have been waiting
for your return, malaak er-ruhmuh!”
An angel, or messenger of mercy. These tribespeople regarded doctors and nurses as conduits of their God’s mercy and healing power. They saw Nikki as a healer, thought Zakir.
“We are deeply pleasured to see that you have returned.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you.”
The men began to move closer, circling in behind them. Zakir’s dogs began to bark.
He issued a curt order, and they stopped. But the men tensed, regarding him with fresh suspicion.
“Tell them,” he whispered. “Now.”
“I…I have much news,” Nikki said quickly. “But first…” Her voice caught. “How are my children?”
“They wait for you, malaak er-ruhmuh.”
Her body sagged, and her eyes filled with moisture. “All…of them?”
“All of them.” Another smile, bright against his complexion. “Young Solomon told us you would return, that you would never desert them. He said you are their mother and guardian. Their angel.”
A dry sob racked through Nikki’s body. Zakir felt emotion swell in his own throat as he watched her. Her orphans were alive. They really did exist.
“Come!” The Berber held out his hand. “Welcome back to our home. What is this news you bring?”
Her gaze flicked around the sentinels. Zakir could see she was afraid. “I…I would like to introduce you to my guide. He, too, comes in peace.” Her voice was thick and she spoke in careful Arabic. The men stilled, sensing something.
Zakir stepped forward, arms held slightly out to his sides so the warriors could see he had no weapon. He bowed slightly.
“I have come to meet your sheik,” he said. “I have a great deal to learn from him and to share with him.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Sheik Zakir Al Arif. I am your new king.”
Tension rippled like some invisible crackling current among the men. Weapons turned on him and the silence grew dangerous.
Zakir couldn’t help feeling admiration for these rebel warriors standing with unwavering stature, AK-47s aimed at his heart. There was a wildness about them, something primitive that spoke of desert history—that reminded Zakir of his ancestors in the paintings at his palace. It awakened something wild and abandoned in his own blood. He felt a whispering of heritage, a strange stirring of kinship.
“I come in peace,” he reiterated, using the rough guttural dialect of the mountains. “I have no soldiers, no guards with me. Will you take me to your sheik?”
The sentinel assessed him in silence.
“First you will give us the knives under your cloak.”
Telegraphing each movement, Zakir slowly removed his scimitar belt, then his jambiya. He set them on the ground and then stepped back. One of the Berbers moved in to retrieve them while the others kept rifles trained on the Dark King.
“Bring the camels,” said the sentinel with a jerk of his chin.
Zakir lowered his head, then led the camels forward, his dogs silent shadows at his heels.
Relief surged through Nikki. Zakir’s humility had surprised her. Once again, his actions stirred her respect and admiration.
The convoy—tribesmen, camels, dogs, Zakir and Nikki—walked in silence through twisting sandstone cliffs and spires.
As they neared the hidden Berber village—many dwellings carved right into a massive cliff face, making the interiors cavelike and cool in the searing heat of summer, yet easily warmed by fire on freezing winter nights—a lone little figure bulleted down the path toward the procession on skinny little brown legs, one foot tripping over the other in his excitement. “Miss Nikki! Miss Nikki!”
“Solomon!” she cried.
“I told them you would come! Miss Nikki, I told them, and you are here!”
Choking on emotion, Nikki dropped down to her knees as Solomon—all of seven years old—barreled into her chest, skinny little arms wrapping like a limpet around her neck.
She hugged him tight, tears of relief streaming down her face as the Berber tribesmen and Zakir looked on. Then she held him out at arm’s length so she could see his face, his glistening dark brown eyes, his bright white smile. “You were right, Solomon. How are the others? Did you take good care of everyone?”
He nodded again, pride squaring his skinny little shoulders and burning savagely into his dark eyes—wise, capable beyond his years. “I did my best, Miss Nikki, but they are very sick,” he said in French. “Samira?”
“She cannot walk, Miss Nikki. She is bleeding. The baby, it wants to come. Samira says so.” Solomon’s little hand sought hers, slipping into hers, fingers curling tight, and he tugged. “Come, come bring the medicine. Fix her.”
Nikki felt Zakir’s hand on her shoulder. She glanced up.
His black eyes had turned liquid, mysterious. “Go. I will talk with the Berber sheik.”
She got to her feet, hesitated, recalling the words of Tenzing Gelu.
I want to know everything he says, who he meets with, each name.
Solomon tugged on her hand. The children were her priority. She was going to do whatever was necessary to keep them alive. “Help me with the medicine box, Solomon,” she said, starting toward the camel with supplies.
“Nikki—” Zakir called after her suddenly.
She paused, heart skittering.
He came close, spoke low near her ear, in English. “I am pleased to see there are actual children. That your story is true.”
She swallowed. He was finally beginning to trust her.
And now she would have to betray him.
Chapter 9
The afternoon light was low, the sun beginning to drop behind the hills. As Nikki bathed Samira’s forehead she wondered what Zakir was doing, how his talks were going.
The image of Gelu’s cold eyes snaked back into her mind, and she shivered slightly. How was she going to get out of this?
A shadow darkened the entrance of the small adobe hut. Nikki stilled, her hand resting on Samira’s hot forehead. She sensed it was Zakir. Guilt reared up inside her, and her pulse began to race.
Slowly she glanced up.
He filled the doorway, a dark silhouette in a black tunic and riding boots, scimitar at his hip, the bejeweled hilt of the jambiya sheathed at his waist catching the fading light.
Her heart began to thud.
“It’s okay,” she whispered softly to Samira. “It’s the king. He’s here to help us.”
Nikki bought a few moments to compose herself by carefully squeezing out the cloth, saving the precious water droplets in a clay bowl. She stood, wiped her hands on her skirts and approached him. His stillness was unsettling.
He’d resumed his regal stance. Gone was the man she’d glimpsed alone in the mountains.
Zakir stepped back and out the door as Nikki came near, and she followed him into the sunlight. She looked up at his face and was startled by the intensity in his gaze. And again, studying him closely, she saw that the pupil in his left eye was not reacting to the rays of the sun setting behind the peaks.
“I wanted to thank you for being my envoy, Nikki. I misread you. The Berber shepherd has told me how you saved him and brought him back to the village.”
Nikki heard admiration in his voice. Emotion punched so powerfully through her that she had to tighten her jaw, her fists, to hold it all in. “Thank you, Zakir,” she whispered.
For respecting me. For admiring me.
She’d felt like a pariah for so long, been so filled with self-loathing over the way she’d handled her grief, that to earn this man’s respect was almost overwhelming.
“You didn’t expect this?”
She shook her head, laughed—an exhalation of relief. Then she inhaled shakily, pressing her hand against her sternum. “You keep surprising me. I guess I misjudged you, too.”
“Is that young girl in the hut the one who is pregnant?”
Nikki nodded. “Samira.”
“How is she?”
&nb
sp; “Not good, I’m afraid. The baby is not due for another eight weeks, but Samira’s been having contractions, bleeding. She’s very dehydrated, and she has a fever. The baby is also in transverse lie—”
“Which means?”
“The fetus is lying sideways in the uterus. Sometimes you can get it to change position before labor starts by doing what is called an external version where you manually try and shift the baby.”
“And if you can’t?”
Nikki wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Then it could become stuck during labor, and without surgical intervention the mother will die. If I can’t turn the baby soon, Zakir, Samira will need to be in a hospital before she enters labor. And I’m worried about the contractions she is having now. Premature labor could be induced by a long journey to Tenerife. She really shouldn’t travel.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what to do.”
Apart from performing an emergency C-section in primitive medical conditions. Nikki prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Zakir’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, and something shifted in his dark, rugged features. Nikki thought again about how she’d felt under his body with his mouth a breath away from hers, the way she had stirred to life deep inside.
She flushed, swallowed. “I…I should get back to her.”
He gave a curt nod, as if irritated with himself. Then he wavered, as if not wanting to let her go yet. “How are the other children?” he said, voice crisp.
“Much better. The hydrolytes helped with dehydration and the antibiotics with the stomach infections. They’ll get strong again with…” Tears overwhelmed her as she spoke, and she angrily swiped them away with the base of her thumb. “Sorry. I’m tired, Zakir. I’m just so relieved to be with them again, to have brought them this far.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Such a calming strength transferring from his touch through her body. It was a gesture as potent as it was subtle, a message of affection, kinship, a sign that she should not feel so alone.
“And your wound—it’s okay?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Go,” he said softly, rich, low. Authoritative. “Tend to your children. I will be meeting with the clan sheik and his tribal council later tonight. Other chiefs are coming from villages in the surrounding mountains. This has been made possible through your diplomacy, Nikki. I thank you for this. I will come and see the other children later—tonight.” Almost reflexively, he gently, very briefly cupped the side of her face.
The Sheik’s Command Page 8
