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

by Jennifer Lewis

  “He did.” Amahd was beginning to wonder how much Darud actually cared about the oil fields.

  “And he’s lucky to have bold and intelligent sons to bring Ubar into the twenty-first century.”

  Amahd wanted to mutter something about Tabriq not having made it into the nineteenth century yet, but managed to restrain himself. The country was peaceful and prosperous enough. “We look forward to increasing the trade in both goods and friendship between our countries, if that pleases you.”

  “It pleases me very much.” Darud’s eyes twinkled. “I welcome your expertise as well as your friendship. I’m an old man with much to learn and perhaps I’ve spent too much time sequestered behind our beautiful mountains.”

  Amahd had a hard time believing this kindly older man was behind the death and destruction they’d experienced over the last few months. “I’d be happy to share any information or assistance you would like.”

  They launched into their meals and a warm conversation about foreign markets for some of their nations’ more esoteric products that further convinced Amahd that Darud was not their enemy.

  But if not him, then who?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Amahd stretched as Osman strode across his office later that night. “Have the hidden microphones revealed anything?” Gibran, Zadir and Amahd were gathered there, while the women patrolled the palace under the guise of wishing everyone a friendly good night, with fresh rose petals for their bed sheets and cup of soothing chamomile tea. And keen eyes, of course.

  Gibran lifted a brow. “Sheikh Hamed mostly talks about his gout, and I very much doubt he’s our man. The other two are a more interesting. Enbrit, the young guy, is rather mysterious. There was a man in his room last night.”

  “You mean like a boyfriend?” Zadir’s eyebrows shot up.

  Gibran nodded. “I felt guilty for the intrusion. And I’ve tapped a lot of rooms over the years.”

  “That would explain why he’s still not married,” said Osman.

  “Indeed.”

  “But hardly makes him suspicious,” said Amahd. “Let’s stay focused. Did he say anything incriminating?”

  “Unfortunately no,” admitted Gibran.

  “What about Darud?” asked Osman. “He seems to still be our main suspect, mostly because none of the others fit the bill.”

  Amahd shook his head. “I don’t buy it. He doesn’t seem like the type to hold a secret grudge. He’s open and forthright about wanting to trade and profit. He seems like a promising ally, not a dangerous enemy.”

  “Which sucks,” said Zadir.

  “Why?” Osman frowned.

  “Because we have no idea who’s behind the violence.” Zadir cracked his knuckles. “I think we should focus on Sheikh Enbrit. Coins from Satya were found in the house near the border where Gibran was assaulted—suggesting a payment.”

  Amahd blew out. “And the man who set the plane alight had a fake Satya license.”

  Gibran shook his head. “All these pointing fingers tell me that Satya is not the right place. Too easy. The person behind this is a master of deception. And brilliant at hiring people who won’t reveal their masters. They’re obviously promising them something big, so they must be coming from the top.”

  Osman tilted his chin back. “So you think we have to be suspicious of everyone?”

  “Until we know what’s going on.” Gibran nodded. “Yeah. Don’t let your guard down. Listen closely to everything you hear. And keep your eyes open during the excitement of the contest tomorrow. The smallest gesture or comment could reveal everything.”

  Mac was at the palace bright and early, dressed in the borrowed traditional costume. Strangely she felt less self-conscious today, maybe because the whole palace was abuzz over the contest and there was too much going on for her to waste time thinking about herself.

  Banners waved, horses snorted, staff rushed about carrying everything from pots of coffee to riding crops, as they readied themselves for the first event of the day.

  Mac strode around checking on everything. She couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the regular mechanic. No one had mentioned foul play, so maybe the pressure of the contest had been too much for him and he took off before it started. On the other hand, maybe he was part of the conspiracy and had set things up a certain way—booby-trapped them, even—before disappearing.

  One could get paranoid with this many people milling about.

  A trumpet announced preparations for the first event and she—along with everyone else—hurried toward the contest ground that she and Amahd had tested out the day before.

  Her gaze darted about, looking for Amahd. She hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward when she inevitably ran into him. She wasn’t sure if it was a secret that he’d visited her house, but decided to assume it was. Likewise their romantic interlude in the desert.

  She resolved to act polite and professional, as if nothing intimate had ever happened between them. Which would require considerable effort.

  Horsemen from all four teams gathered on the playing field, energetic horses prancing and robes tossing in the breeze.

  There was Amahd. Tall and proud atop a sleek gray mare, his hair hidden beneath a tightly wound cobalt blue turban like the other members of the team. Her heart beat faster just watching him. He moved with such grace and power, whether on a horse or off it.

  Then she tugged her eyes away from him and turned her attention to all the equipment she’d checked earlier. Many of the events were timed and the horses galloped between two sensors that started the timer at the beginning of a course, then between two more at the end that marked their finish. They were quite delicate and easily knocked over, especially by a crowd of macho men on unfamiliar horses.

  It was traditional for the host to provide horses for all the guests. Mac thought this required a lot of trust on the part of the guests. Trust that might well not be justified. Amahd had explained that it would reflect poorly on the host if they provided unsuitable horses. Apparently, high spirits were considered suitable, as the horses seemed even more excited than the humans.

  The first four riders, the team from Akar, lined up before the row of targets. A shrill whistle spurred them into action and they galloped forward. Their riders stabbed the targets on the ground with long lances as they shot toward the final timers. Their whoops and cries of glee suggested that they’d done well.

  Mac glanced around while joining in the applause. Her competitive spirit was already ramping up and she wanted the Ubar team to win. It was probably unsporting or bad karma but she couldn’t help hoping that the team from Satya—up next in green embroidered turbans—wouldn’t perform quite so impressively.

  Amahd and his horse stood on the sidelines, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, and she tried to keep her eyes off him and on the second set of riders. One of them had his mount on such a tight rein that his head was cranked up in the air and the horse was getting more and more agitated. When the whistle sounded, the horse threw a huge buck and the rider went flying.

  The other three horses did their job but only one of the riders hit the target. Mac was torn between being glad the competition wasn’t too stiff, and worrying that the guests would be angry. From the murmurs around her, she could tell the crowd blamed the rider, a nervous young man now dusting himself off with embarrassment, not the horse, so she heaved a sigh of relief.

  Next up was Ubar, and Mac found her heart hammering with anticipation as she watched Amahd and his team—Osman, Gibran and Zadir—steer their mounts to the starting line. It was a relief to be able to watch them along with everyone else and not have to try to distract herself. The four brothers had to be the most handsome men on earth. All of them had bold, aristocratic features, but each with a different stamp of individuality: Osman glowed with arrogant confidence suited to a firstborn royal, Zadir always had an air of mischief and humor, Gibran—who had been roped into the contest against his will and proved to be very talented—shimmered with
an intensity that would pique anyone’s interest, and Amahd…well, he was somehow the most intriguing and mysterious of all.

  The four brothers lined up and when the whistle blew they shot forward past the timers like a practiced drill team. They kept abreast, riding like the wind, as they speared their targets. Even as they burst through the finish gates their horses seemed calm and carried themselves with poise.

  The crowd exploded in applause and she could hear the gathered guests commenting on their unusual and effective horsemanship. Mac beamed with pride. And why shouldn’t she? She lived in Ubar now, and one of these men was her employer—never mind that she had a rather odd and confusing relationship of some sort happening with him.

  Better not to think about that right now. Luckily she could focus on her loyalty as an employee as she hurried forward to right a timer that the next team—Tabriq—had knocked slightly out of position.

  The final four riders—in yellow turbans with gold embroidery—rode well but not as well as Ubar. Mac clapped and grinned. The brothers must be happy. She knew they wanted a fair contest, not a flattering but unearned win for their guests.

  The next three events flew by, and Mac watched the team from Satya pull themselves together and score the most bulls-eyes in the target contest. When they all broke for lunch she busied herself checking the equipment and calling other staff members to make sure everything was working. All the better to keep her attention, and her gaze, from wandering toward Amahd, who had now dismounted and was shaking the hands of his competitors as grooms led their horses off to be bathed and rested.

  The atmosphere was jubilant. The palace cooks were roasting something whole on a spit—goat maybe?—out in the open air and women milled through the triumphant men offering them drinks and congratulating them. “It’s a shame there are no women riders,” said Ronnie, who’d come up next to her. “Normally I’d volunteer but not while I’m pregnant. Sam and Aliyah don’t ride. Maybe you should step in for one of our guys?”

  “Uh…” Mac blinked. “I really don’t have any experience with this sort of thing.”

  “Nonsense,” said Amahd. His deep voice right behind her made her jump. “She helped me test the course yesterday.”

  She tried to act cool. “I’m sure you have much more talented riders than me.”

  “I doubt it.” His gaze rested on her—deadly serious as always—for a split second. Just long enough to make her breath drop to the bottom of her lungs.

  “It does look like fun,” she admitted.

  “It’s exciting.” His dark eyes flashed.

  My life is already too exciting. She couldn’t take much more of this. Why had Amahd come right over to talk to her? Wasn’t he worried that people would suspect something between them? The palace was awash with beautiful women who were probably exactly the type of regal and traditional girl he’d like to marry.

  “Amahd!” A woman’s voice rang out to the side.

  “It’s Zahaina,” whispered Ronnie. “I’ve managed to avoid her until now.”

  “Oh, come on. She’s good entertainment value,” whispered Sam, who’d eased up beside them.

  Mac turned to look at the approaching woman, who was tall, dark and sheathed in a floor length dress that seemed a more stylish, body-conscious approximation of the local attire.

  “Good afternoon, Zahaina.” Amahd took her hand and shook it.

  “Oh, you’re too much!” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a plum colored lipstick mark below his cheekbone. “Always so serious. I love that about you.”

  Mac saw Ronnie and Sam shoot amused glances at each other. “Lovely to see you again, Zahaina,” said Sam, with a reasonably straight face. “Can you believe that Amahd is now the only one of the four brothers who isn’t married?”

  “Four? Oh, you’re counting Gibran. I hadn’t realized he was now officially considered one of them.” She arched a neat brow.

  “Why not? All the brothers share the same father and have different mothers.”

  Mac knew that Gibran was the only one who hadn’t been given a share of the kingdom, since he was the illegitimate child of a servant and never acknowledged while his father was alive. Osman, Zadir and Amahd had worked hard to draw him back into the family after years in exile.

  “Either way, you’re the last man standing.” Zahaina smiled at Amahd, and Mac saw her stroke his hand.

  Jealousy shot through her like a white-hot flame. She cursed herself for caring. He wasn’t hers to have, despite the kisses they’d shared.

  She bet Zahaina had never kissed him.

  Now would probably be a good time to make a speedy exit on the pretext of work to do. She didn’t imagine Amahd would introduce her and it would all be awkward.

  She turned to Sam and Ronnie. “Do excuse me, I need to check a few things.”

  “Of course. Sure. See you later,” they murmured. Amahd didn’t say anything and she managed not to look at him. He probably couldn’t take his eyes off Zahaina. She did have the kind of looks that could turn a man’s head.

  Which was fine. Since it would be easier to forget all about Amahd if he was involved with someone else. Right? She could feel her skin burning, which annoyed her. Was it still jealousy? This was ridiculous. There was no possible future for her and Amahd, just the possibility of scandal and heartbreak.

  She lifted her chin as she headed to check in with the security staff to make sure all their systems were up and running. She hadn’t heard a peep from Mosir all morning and she’d assumed that no news was good news. If anything this event was all going a little too smoothly, and that always made her nervous.

  She checked her phone, and her heart almost stopped when she saw there was a series of texts she hadn’t noticed. A quick test of the volume showed that it was turned off. She cursed herself for not looking earlier. What was going on?

  Mac, pls chk coolant levels in equipment AC

  Mac, AC malfunction in equipment closet. Pls look ASAP

  Security equipment down. Come to my office ASAP.

  Where are you?

  Her heart pounded as she dialed his number and waited for him to pick up. He must be furious. The first message was from nearly half an hour ago. She started to run. The third message was from nearly twenty minutes ago. Was the security equipment still down?

  Mosir didn’t pick up. Had she dialed it wrong? She glanced back at the crowd as she ducked into a shaded colonnade. They could fire her for this. What was she thinking? She’d been acting like a guest, milling around and enjoying the party, when she should have been pacing the halls making sure everything was up and running. She wasn’t here to have fun—or even to entertain Amahd—she was here to make sure stuff didn’t break, and if it did, to fix it before all hell broke loose.

  He still wasn’t picking up. She didn’t leave a message, but headed straight for the nerve center where millions of dollars’ worth of security equipment sat in air-cooled, bunker like storage at the heart of the palace.

  The halls were strangely quiet. Where was everyone? Usually there were at least a few young maids giggling as they carried linens from place to place, or someone sweeping the mosaic lined stone passageways.

  An ugly sense of foreboding built in Mac’s chest as she hurried along in her long, traditional gown. Why was everything so far apart here? She took a right, then wondered if maybe she should have turned right two hallways back. This place was like a labyrinth. An old man polishing a big brass urn turned to look up at her as she rushed toward him. She opened her mouth to ask him directions, before realizing that he wouldn’t speak a word of English anyway.

  Then the deafening boom of an explosion ripped through the palace.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mac shrieked before she could stop herself. Then she hitched up her robe and took off running in the direction of the blast. She was no coward. And she might be partly to blame if she’d allowed the security equipment to malfunction because the air-conditioning had gone dow
n.

  The thick solid walls of the palace were unmoved, but as she drew closer to the blast, she could see braziers knocked askew on the walls and lanterns swinging from their chains, disturbed by the impact.

  Other staff members rushed toward the sound and they found ground zero in the elegant dining room where the guests had shared dinner the night before. The long, wooden table was blown into three pieces and the beautiful mosaic walls were scarred by flying debris.

  One man lay on the floor, and two women bent over him, loosening his clothing. One of them was wailing with distress. “Has someone called a doctor?” She wished she’d worked harder to learn the language. Even the words she did know had gone right out of her head.

  A bomb? What else could it be? Thank goodness almost everyone was outside for the contest. The injured man looked pale, but his chest was moving. Mac moved in and took his pulse. Faint but there. She couldn’t tell what was wrong with him but she knew better than to try to move him.

  Osman and Amahd rushed into the room and she felt a wave of relief that they were unhurt. For all she knew, this wasn’t the only explosion. Amahd was on his phone talking rapidly in Ubarite. Osman ushered in the medical crew—standing by on the contest grounds in case anyone got thrown from their horse—and pushed back the gathering crowd of onlookers.

  Mac’s place wasn’t here. She needed to find Mosir and figure out what was down so she could get it running again. She turned to leave the room, when Amahd grabbed her arm. “You’re okay?” The intensity in his eyes made her breath catch.

  Her skin burned where he held it. “I’m fine. I wasn’t here when it happened, but I came running. I must go see what needs work.”

  “Of course.” He held her gaze for a split second before she tugged herself away and took off, pulse racing, toward the equipment storage.