Desert Kings Boxed Set: The Complete Series Books 1-6

by Jennifer Lewis

Rustling from somewhere else in the large tent reminded her she wasn’t alone and that she’d better get up if she didn’t want to be surprised in bed by the man who’d made a nightmare of her real life.

  The first rays of dawn brightened the blue canopy of the tent and bathed the space in an eerie light. Sam splashed leftover water on her face and put on the fresh underwear she always carried in her capacious purse while traveling. She couldn’t find yesterday’s clothes, though. She was sure she’d left them at the foot of the cushions that served as her bed, but there was nothing there but a folded pile of cloth.

  When she unfolded the neat stack she discovered it was actually a dress made of emerald green fabric shot through with gold thread. It was heavy enough to be made with real gold. Elaborate gold stitching circled around the neck and hem and crisscrossed up the sleeves.

  She frowned. Had Osman slipped this in here while she was asleep and removed her clothes so she’d have to wear it? There was also a shimmery, lightweight gold scarf and she wasn’t sure if it was supposed to cover her hair or wrap around her waist. Lacking a choice—which annoyed her—she donned the ensemble.

  She excited her curtained room and found the main part of the tent empty. She dreaded seeing Allan so much that she decided to get it out of the way first, but when she peeked into his curtained partition, it was empty, and she couldn’t even tell if he’d slept there. Guilt mingled with a nagging twinge of fear. What if he’d gone into Nabattur and become lost there? Or if something worse had happened? Already she felt responsible. She should have gone with him, then she wouldn’t have fallen so readily into another man’s arms.

  A foray outside found Osman sitting with his men around the extinguished remains of their fire, laughing about something.

  Probably her. She couldn’t believe one of his men had seen them kissing last night. Thank goodness there were only two more days left of this accursed festival, then she could leave and never see any of them again.

  She attempted a polite nod of acknowledgement.

  “Samantha, have some coffee!” Osman lifted a glass cup inside a silver holder. She could smell the fragrant brew from where she picked her way along the trail.

  She avoided his dangerous green gaze. It got her into enough trouble yesterday. “Where’s Allan?”

  Osman gestured with his chin toward a rock outcropping.

  Sam wound her way around it and found Allan zipping up his fly. “Not much privacy around here, is there?”

  “I’m sorry, I was worried about you. How was your foray into Nabattur last night?”

  “It was interesting, actually, even though none of the women would let me film them without their faces covered so I didn’t get very compelling footage. Their stories weren’t so different from the girls I’ve interviewed back home.”

  Sam smiled, grateful that he’d found at least something to engage him in this trip. “I’m glad you were able to connect with them.”

  He shoved a hand into his tangled hair while surveying her ensemble. “Look at you dressed up like a harem concubine. Were you quite comfortable in the sultan’s lair?”

  “I slept pretty well, actually.” She tried to ignore the gnawing guilt.

  “Of course you did. You seem to be making yourself right at home here. I can’t believe you talked me into coming here”

  “You wanted to make this documentary.”

  “No I didn’t. I did it to humor you because you kept going on and on about it.”

  That hurt. “You’d rather be filming backstage in a New Jersey strip club.”

  “I would.” He stared at her, his mouth unsmiling. “Here, I have no idea what’s going on at all half the time. How I am supposed to capture surprising moments of intimacy when I can’t even understand what people are saying.”

  “We can get a translator to make a transcript of all the footage when we get back.”

  “You can do that. I’ll turn the whole thing over to my editor and wash my hands of it.”

  Sam stared open mouthed. Part of the reason she’d crafted this project with such love and care was so she and Allan could work on something together from start to finish. She’d had visions of them sitting at the editing station deciding exactly which snippets of conversation to use, and where to bring up the volume on the music for impact.

  Instead, this project was tearing them apart.

  I don’t want to marry you.

  The words hovered on the tip of her tongue. He’d lashed out to hurt her, and she wanted to strike back. She managed to restrain herself. Other people’s money was at stake here, and she took her profession seriously. She’d tell him as soon as she could.

  She bit her lip, feeling like a big fake. At least he didn’t want to kiss her or hug her. His lack of affection had hurt her yesterday, but today it was a relief.

  “Come have breakfast.” Osman’s voice called from the other side of the rock pile. His men didn’t seem to speak English at all. Which was probably merciful since Allan couldn’t overhear them talking about last night’s indiscretion.

  “I’m hungry.” She tried to muster some enthusiasm.

  “I’ve never craved breakfast at Sal’s Diner more in my life.” Allan tucked his wrinkled shirt into his equally wrinkled khakis. Sam thought fondly and sadly back on the breakfasts they’d shared at Sal’s: scrambled eggs with toast and bacon and hash browns, with endless refills of coffee and Sal’s homemade rye toast.

  “Me, too.” She tried to smile. They did have a good life together back in Brooklyn. Maybe this trip was just a bump in the road. Maybe she’d recover from the dangerous fever that Osman had infected her with and she and Allan would emerge from this experience stronger and closer.

  They rounded the rock together and helped themselves to bread with honey and sliced fresh fruit that the men must have bought yesterday at the market. It irked her that Osman had planned this whole sleepover without their consent. He really was an arrogant and commanding ass.

  Of course he looked perfect this morning. Not a hair out of place on his close-cropped head, his fresh robe smooth as his untroubled brow and his skin further tanned by yesterday’s outdoor activities. “I trust you slept well, Samantha. You look radiant.”

  She snuck a glance at Allan, who scowled.

  “I slept okay, I guess. I don’t think I’m cut out for living in a tent.” In truth, she’d slept like the dead, despite the intersection of dreams—or nightmares—and reality.

  “I always feel safer when I’m ready to move at a moment’s notice. It must be my nomadic roots. My mother’s people still travel through the most remote desert. My father saw her there when he went to buy a string of rare horses, and he returned with the horses and a bride.”

  “Did he treat them all the same?” muttered Allan, slurping on some coffee.

  “Allan!”

  Osman smiled. “My father always did treat his horses with the kind of reverence usually reserved for gods.”

  “Did the marriage last?” The question was rather personal, but she was genuinely curious.

  “Until my mother’s death, yes.” A cloud crossed Osman’s brow but cleared quickly. “They shared a love of the outdoors and spent many happy hours galloping across the desert together.”

  “How did she die?” Sam spoke softly.

  “It was a brief illness.” Osman swept to his feet and disappeared back into the tent. She had an uncomfortable feeling of having asked too personal a question.

  “I guess I should gather my stuff together.” Honey made her fingers sticky. “Do we have fresh camera batteries?” She’d brought about a million with them, expecting to lack electricity for charging.

  “We’re okay for now.” He was rooting through one of the outer pockets of his bag. “Convenient that you’re already dressed in the ceremonial robes you’ll need to wear for your betrothal to Sheikh Osman.”

  “Allan! Don’t talk so loud. He’ll hear you.”

  “He did claim you in the ceremony yesterday.”r />
  “He was just trying to show you how it’s done.”

  He looked up and pinned her with a pale blue gaze. “He did that alright.”

  Guilt and recrimination stabbed her in the gut. “He’s probably practiced throwing that thing. I’m sure you’d have managed just fine if you’d had some experience.”

  “I doubt it.” He zipped the pocket on his bag. “But that hardly matters now, does it?” He rose and walked back to the car, leaving her staring after him. Did he somehow know it was all over between them? Part of her wanted to run after him and caress him and try to soothe his insecurities.

  But the rest of her knew his fears were well founded.

  Osman was one of those people who seemed to effortlessly get what they want. Probably rivers parted when he needed to cross them. Or at least his footmen would stand in the water so he could use their turbaned heads as stepping-stones. He had no idea how arrogant and obnoxious he came across, because he was used to being in command of every situation.

  Today she’d let him know that Samantha Bechtel did not take kindly to being commanded. She might not want to spend the rest of her life with Allan, but she didn’t want to be an arrogant sheikh’s plaything either.

  She returned to the tent to retrieve her bags, only to find them already being carried out on one of the men’s heads, along with the emptied water bowls, the cushions and the folded curtains that had formed the walls of her room. “Thanks,” she murmured. She had no idea what they’d done with her clothes and didn’t think they spoke enough English for her to even ask. Right now she had no choice but to go with the flow, elaborate costume and all.

  Assured by his security forces that the road was clear, Osman drove them back to Nabattur while his men stayed and packed up the campsite. Sam wanted to ask where they’d be staying tonight but decided that an answer was unlikely to be definitive and was certain to annoy Allan unless it involved them driving their own rented Land Rover to a real hotel.

  And she was fairly sure that wasn’t going to happen.

  Crowds of people milled around the city gates, arriving once again from the surrounding area with their donkeys and camels and luxury vehicles.

  Sam peered eagerly out the window at the young couples in their engagement finery. The girls wore dresses decorated with coins and gold embroidery that signified their family’s wealth. The young men looked handsome and dashing in their tight turbans, with daggers gleaming at their waists.

  “Today they’ll sing to each other and dance, and the families will discuss any property to exchange hands on the marriage.”

  “It sounds very practical.”

  “Eminently.” Osman drove slowly behind a string of donkeys carrying enormous packs. “According to local legend, the festival was founded by a king who couldn’t stand how much time his subjects wasted on courting and wooing and dowry negotiations when they could be busy warring with his enemies, so he ritualized the entire proceedings to save time for battles.”

  Sam laughed. “Sounds like a charming man. One of your ancestors, I presume?”

  “Of course.”

  When they drew near the city Osman pulled off the road and drove around the outside of the walls again, stopping at the same entrance, with its wood door behind a heavy iron gate. The burned hulk of the car was still there, a menacing omen. There was no yellow tape or other signs that the wreckage was being investigated as a crime scene.

  “Isn’t it dangerous to park here after what happened yesterday?” She climbed out gingerly. Broken glass and twisted bits of metal still lay on the ground. The impact had even scarred the ancient stone wall nearby.

  “Less dangerous today because this time we are prepared.” He gestured across the plain toward the mountains, and she saw his men arriving in two large silver SUVs.

  They ascended to the balcony and looked down on the crowd. She sighed with relief to see Allan shooting footage as if nothing was amiss. Which, as far as he knew, it wasn’t. “Maybe we should go down and move amongst the crowds,” she suggested in a whisper.

  “I’ll go alone,” said Allan, loud enough to be caught on camera. “That way I can focus.”

  If his comment was intended as a smackdown, it worked. She stood mutely while he gathered his camera bag and headed down the stone stairs toward the throng. Officially she’d done her job by bringing him here with functioning equipment to record the events, and as long as that was happening she could relax. Allan was a professional, and she knew he’d capture good footage.

  She snuck a quick glance at Osman and found him staring at her.

  “What?”

  A tiny smile played about his lips. “We find ourselves alone again.” His men had stayed down by the cars, no doubt with guns drawn.

  She cursed the flash of heat that always accompanied eye contact with Osman. It was totally inappropriate of him to flirt with her like this. “I don’t want what happened last night to give you the wrong impression.”

  “Don’t worry, it hasn’t.” His long robe reached right to the ground, but didn’t touch it. It must be tailored to his exact height. The pale-gold color of the fabric enhanced his naturally regal appearance. Osman would look kingly dressed in jeans on a Brooklyn street corner, but there next to the trickling fountain, with a dark turban wrapped tightly around his head and a dagger gleaming at his waist, he looked like something from an ancient legend.

  “Good.” She didn’t feel at all reassured. She had a feeling they might be talking at cross-purposes.

  “Last night only confirmed what I already knew.”

  She wanted to ask if it confirmed that she was destined to be his bride, but that didn’t seem funny. What if he said yes? He’d only be blowing smoke to get into her panties.

  “I’m not normally given to kissing men I’ve only known twenty-four hours.”

  “Me either,” he said with a grin.

  “You like to know men longer than that first?” Humor would break the tension gathering in the air like electricity before a storm.

  He laughed. “Can you picture me kissing a man?”

  “Yes. In that getup you could easily be a flamboyant participant in the New York City Halloween Parade.”

  He looked hurt. Or pretended to. “You find our traditional dress foolish?”

  She felt bad. “I’m sure it’s practical to protect yourself from the hot sun.” She didn’t mention how glad she was that it also hid the impressive physique she’d felt underneath it. She wasn’t sure she could even manage to have a conversation with him if he wore scantier attire.

  “It’s awkward after so many years in Western clothes. You have to walk a certain way so the hem doesn’t wrap around your ankles.”

  “Probably no one would be too surprised if you dressed in modern clothing.”

  “No, but they’d be disappointed.”

  “And you care what they think?”

  “Of course. They’re my people.” The way he said it with pride tugged at something inside her.

  “I suspect they’ll be lucky to have you as their king. When do you intend to ascend the throne?” Really, she was asking when he planned to get married, since that was a pre-condition.

  “As soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sam struggled to keep up with Osman now the crowd pressed around them down at ground level. “So you need to get married as soon as possible?”

  “He does.” A rich male voice behind her, made Sam spin around. She recognized Osman’s brother Zadir, dressed in a long, sashed gray robe.

  “And so do we.” Amahd, the youngest brother wore a cinnamon-colored robe. “So we’re here to make sure Osman doesn’t get distracted.”

  Sam looked from Amahd to Zadir. Was she the distraction? Perhaps they saw Osman’s interest in her as an impediment to the more serious duty of choosing a royal bride, and they’d come here to put a stop to it.

  Indignation stirred in her heart. Who were they to tell Osman whom he could pursue? Of course
she wasn’t suitable material for an Ubarite queen—not that she’d want to be one—but it rankled to be told that to her face.

  “Who is he supposed to marry?” It felt odd asking the question when her lips had locked with his in a passionate kiss only a few hours earlier.

  The brothers glanced at each other, and she saw Osman glare hard at them. “I will marry the woman my heart chooses.”

  “Very sensible,” murmured Sam. “Though I’d imagine you’re under some pressure to marry a strategically positioned noble’s daughter or perhaps the daughter of an ancient enemy you seek to pacify.”

  Osman regarded her steadily. “You see marriage as a game of chess, in which each move is carefully planned for maximum effect?”

  “Not for myself. Allan and I…” She stopped and swallowed. Allan and I was a relic of the past. It was hard to believe that a relationship she’d nurtured for two years could crumble so fast. Apparently her brain hadn’t quite caught up with reality yet. “I intend to marry for love and companionship.”

  Osman’s brow darkened. “You will not marry Allan.” He spoke the name with distaste.

  Her hackles rose. “I hardly see that it’s any of your business.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Zadir and Amahd nudge each other. What were they up to?

  A blast of trumpets tore through the air and made her jump. “The ritual dancing is about to begin.” Zadir glanced from Osman to her. “This should be fun to watch.”

  Sam peered at the crowds, wondering where Allan had gone. Hopefully, he captured good audio of the trumpets, because that would be hard to re-create.

  “This way.” Osman gestured toward the north end of the marketplace, where red-and-yellow banners waved in the wind. Sam shifted her purse on her shoulder and started to walk with the throng, when she felt Osman’s hand at the base of her back, resting and guiding.

  Heat melted from his palm to her core. She wanted to tear herself away and end the inappropriate and unsettling sensation, but was afraid to draw attention to herself. What did he mean by touching her in public? Possibly it was to defy his brothers, who wanted him to focus on choosing a proper bride, not waste his time with an American who’d soon be gone. She felt an answering flash of defiance. Who were they to tell her to stay away from Osman?