Never Resist a Sheikh (International Bad Boys)

by Jackie Ashenden

  He’d wanted to claim her, take her back to his country, and if she chose him as her husband, then Altair would have no argument with that, surely? He was a man who respected the ancient customs.

  Unfortunately, though, Zakir’s luck was not with him today and it was not Safira in that car.

  Surely God was playing games with him.

  Not answering Jamal immediately, Zakir walked over to where the woman lay and he frowned. Jamal hadn’t had a care about her, letting her fall where she may, and her long, thick braid was dragging in the dust of the street, her cheek pillowed against a rock.

  His frown deepened and he sank down on his haunches next to her.

  She was very young and her skin was very pale, like fresh milk. Her hair was the most astonishing color, a deep, rich copper, threaded through with gold, and little curls of it were escaping that severe braid. She was delicate-looking, not at all the supple, lithe warrior woman he’d hoped to capture.

  A strange feeling lodged in his chest, one he couldn’t immediately identify.

  He was hard man. A warrior born. He didn’t have soft emotions and had made sure to excise them from his heart a long time ago. As a soldier, he couldn’t afford them.

  Yet for some reason, he didn’t like the way Jamal had left her on the cobbles. He didn’t like that her cheek was scraped by the rock and there was street dust in her magnificent hair. That was not the way a woman should be treated, a little chihuahua like this one or not.

  “Sire?” Jamal asked, keeping his voice low as if afraid to disturb him. “How do you wish to proceed?”

  Zakir kept his gaze on the woman. He couldn’t leave her here, that was for certain, not when she could identify him. They also had to get out fast, before the driver regained consciousness or someone saw the SUV apparently parked in the middle of a street. Which left him little option. He’d have to take her back to Al-Shakhra. It wasn’t ideal, but some good might come of this disaster yet. She might even prove useful; anything was possible.

  His decision made, Zakir wasted no more time, leaning forward and scooping her up into his arms without hesitation.

  “Sire?” Jamal sounded puzzled. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “She will have to come back with us,” he said curtly.

  “But sire—”

  “We have no other choice.” He started heading toward the truck, the rest of his guards staying silent.

  “We do not know who she is, though.”

  He stopped and gave Jamal one hard glance. “Then you will find out, won’t you? Search the car and take whatever is in there.”

  Jamal’s expression had become impassive; he knew better than to push his king. “Yes, sire.”

  Zakir turned back to the truck, nodding to one of his other men who pulled open the dusty door at the back. Then he got inside with the woman and arranged himself on the hard seat facing the door with her in his lap.

  She was such a slight weight, but very warm. Jamal must have overdone the sedative since she was completely out of it, making no movement or sound as he arranged her more comfortably. He could have left her on the floor but the truck’s suspension was hard and they’d be driving fast over rough terrain in order to get to the old, army chopper his men had secreted in the desert. She’d probably roll all over the place and get in the way, which meant he had to hold her.

  At least unconscious she wouldn’t be biting him.

  Zakir looked down at her. Reddish-gold lashes lay on her pale cheeks, the rough scrape from the rock marring her skin. Her mouth was full and soft, and very red.

  Back in the car, she’d stared at him in shock and fear, eyes the color of smoke gone wide. He hadn’t expected her shock to turn to fury when he’d put his hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. Nor had he expected her to bite him.

  It was death to harm the king of Al-Shakhra. Jamal was completely within his rights to carry out that sentence.

  But Zakir had stopped him. And now he was holding this ridiculously fragile woman in his arms like a child, when by rights he should be punishing her for harming his royal personage.

  He frowned, studying her more closely.

  Her features were small and precise, and she had a delicate, pointed chin. Not beautiful but…arresting. He didn’t know quite why that was, only that she was different from the beautiful women he remembered from his father’s carefully curated harem. The harem Zakir had disbanded after his brother Farid’s death.

  He hadn’t had a woman since.

  Almost as soon as the thought had occurred to him, he felt something stir down low in the darkness where he kept it. The briefest flickering of desire.

  He crushed it reflexively. It had been two years since his brother’s death. Two years since he’d assumed the throne, and he hadn’t had a woman in all that time. A very, very purposeful decision, because nothing good came of passion, he knew that for a fact.

  Luckily, he found it easy to ignore. Having trained as a soldier, he had excellent control over his physical appetites and didn’t feel the absence of this particular one.

  The door at the back of the truck banged open and the rest of his men got in, Jamal bringing up the rear. He was carrying a suitcase and a black laptop bag, which he placed at Zakir’s feet.

  “This was in the back seat, sire.” Jamal sat, banging on the side of the truck as he did so. The engine started with a roar, the driver maneuvering the heavy vehicle laboriously around in the narrow street.

  “Good.” Zakir firmed his grip on the woman. “Did you find any identification for her?”

  “Only this.” Jamal handed over a black leather wallet.

  Adjusting his hold, Zakir took it and flicked it open. There were numerous cards and other forms of ID, all bearing the name Felicity Cartwright, with her picture and birthdate on the front. The name meant nothing to him.

  Zakir looked down at her again. She was a child, really, only twenty-four.

  What a disaster this raid had been. He had no princess to take back home, no warrior queen with the ancient name and lineage he needed to calm the people as he dragged his country into the modern age. All he had was an unknown, red-haired westerner who looked like she’d blow away in the first puff of a desert wind.

  It was unacceptable. Especially when there was no time to undertake another raid. Not when Altair would no doubt be working hard to overcome his princess’s doubts and marry her at the first opportunity.

  Anger turned over inside Zakir, thick and hot. He needed a wife and he’d been a fool for resisting so long. His government was getting restless. They wanted heirs. They wanted a future. They wanted hope after the horrific deaths of Farid and Maysan, his sheikha.

  You are not exactly going away empty handed, though.

  Zakir stared down at the unconscious figure of Miss Felicity Cartwright.

  And thought.

  Chapter Two

  Felicity woke up feeling disgusting. She had a dry mouth, her stomach was unsettled, and what was even worse than all of those things put together, was the fact that she had no memory of falling asleep in the first place.

  Opening her eyes seemed like a good idea—at least until she opened them to find she wasn’t in the plane that had brought her to Al-Harah, nor was she in the SUV on her way to her hotel. She definitely wasn’t in her New York apartment either.

  She appeared to be in a small room with a stone-flagged floor and dressed stone walls, with a tiny, narrow window letting in a surprising amount of light. There wasn’t any other furniture apart from the single bed she was lying on and a narrow wooden bench that had her suitcase and laptop bag resting on it.

  The room was as bare and clean as a monk’s cell.

  Where on earth was she?

  Slowly, she sat up, pulling a face as her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Yeah, feeling sick was so not helping right now. She slipped off the bed and went to the window, peering out through the narrow casement.

  And blinked.

 
She was up high, on the side of what looked like a mountain with a valley spread out below her. A small city glittered in the fierce sun, a few office towers reaching to the sky and a dry, rocky, golden landscape beyond it.

  Yeah, definitely not New York. Not Al-Harah either.

  Fear gathered—a small hard stone in her already unsettled gut.

  Okay, so she’d been in the SUV and on her way to the hotel. She’d been annoyed about not getting any cell phone signal and then…

  Frightening black eyes. A hand on her throat. Her phone taken away. The robed, bearded man. She’d been pulled out of the car, a nasty rag had been clamped over her mouth and then…nothing.

  She swallowed, turning from the window and its disturbing view, crossing the little room to the heavy wooden door and pulling on the handle.

  It was locked.

  Felicity stared at it, the fear growing bigger and bigger by the second.

  Calm down. Okay, so looks like you’re a prisoner, but you’re alive, aren’t you?

  Well, sure, being alive was a good thing, but for how long? Where was she? And why had she been taken from the streets of Al-Harah and transported…here. Wherever “here” was. And by whom?

  Her heart was beginning to race now, panic just around the corner.

  Oh God. She’d been unconscious. Anything could have happened to her. She swallowed, looking down and giving her clothing a quick check. But apart from being a bit wrinkled, everything was all in place. Didn’t seem like she’d been touched, or at least, she didn’t feel like she had been. That was something at least.

  Turning from the door, she went over to the wooden bench where her laptop bag was and pulled it open. Her laptop was gone. So was her phone.

  “Oh no.” The words came out as a pathetic whisper.

  Slowly, she backed away from the bench and sat down on the bed, the sick feeling getting worse. Not good. So not good. Here she was, locked up in a room in God knew where, with no way of contacting anyone.

  Come on. Panicking is not going to help.

  Felicity took a deep breath, then another, consciously trying to make herself relax. Her fingers curled on the side of the mattress, digging in.

  Okay, so she was a damn genius. She should be able to think her way out of this one, right?

  At that moment, there came the sound of a lock being turned and the door of her prison cell swung open.

  A man stood in the doorway, robed and bearded, a heavy sword belt around his waist and a rifle slung over his back. He was not the black-eyed man she remembered from before, but he looked dangerous all the same. His dark eyes swept over her and though he betrayed nothing of his thoughts, she got the distinct impression he did not think much of her.

  “You are awake,” he said in heavily accented English.

  Perhaps it was the relaxation technique kicking in. Perhaps she found a well of courage inside her she never knew she had.

  More likely she was just stupid, because when she opened her mouth, it wasn’t meek, appropriately prisoner-like words that spilled out.

  “Given that I’m sitting up and staring at you, of course I’m awake,” she snapped.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Get up,” he ordered. “You must come with me.”

  “Come with you where? Why? Who are you? Where am I? What have you done with my—”

  “Do not argue.” He was looking distinctly annoyed with her now. “If you want the answers to your questions, you will come with me.”

  Ah, okay then. Pity about the arguing since she really felt like arguing with him. But then again, that was stupid since she was apparently someone’s prisoner.

  Fear kicked inside her again, the panic rising, but she swallowed it determinedly back down. If they’d wanted to hurt her they would have done so by now, and also, there was the fact that she was still alive. So that was good.

  Besides, a mean-looking, bearded man with a sword and a rifle could not be any scarier than her perfectly put together Upper East Side mother in full-on matchmaker mode. Right?

  Gathering her courage, Felicity slowly rose to her feet and walked to the door. The man said nothing, gave her one last dismissive glance, then turned around and began to stride off down the corridor outside, robes fluttering out behind him as he moved. Felicity had to trot to keep up with him, fear giving her a short stab in the heart as two more robed men who had apparently come from nowhere fell in step behind her.

  Right. So she was being treated like a prisoner here, too. Good to know.

  She kept her attention resolutely forward as they walked, but at the same time she took in her surroundings.

  They were moving down a series of long, narrow hallways with heavy stone walls, the floors flagged with stone. The place had a feel of a great, medieval fortress; she almost expected to see the light of flickering sconces and hear the rattle of armor.

  Every so often the hallways would open out into vaulted chambers with staircases leading up or down. Some of the chambers were beautifully tiled, some of them were bare, clean, soft gray stone. She saw no one else, heard no one else. The only sound was the scuffing of the guards’ boots.

  Eventually, after going down at least two sets of stairs and feeling like she was plunging deep underground, Felicity followed the bearded man along yet another medieval corridor which ended in a massive set of double wooden doors.

  Another guard was stationed outside, though he moved quickly to one side as Felicity’s guard party approached.

  The bearded man pushed open the doors and went in, Felicity following him, trying to shake off the feelings of panic from the silence. Not to mention claustrophobia from the narrow hallways and the brooding sense of massive amounts of stone pushing down on her.

  That feeling eased as she came into a huge room, with stone pillars here and there. The room was divided into half with, incongruously in this very ancient-feeling space, a punching bag hanging from a frame, a rowing machine, and a stationary bike on one side. On the other was a massive, deep blue pool, beautifully lit with underground lights.

  But it wasn’t really the modern exercise equipment or the pool that held her attention.

  In the center of the room was a man stripped to the waist. He was tall, broad, and heavily muscled, wearing only a pair of close-fitting combat pants and desert boots. And he was fighting another man. With a sword.

  Felicity stumbled to a halt, staring.

  Sweat gleamed on the man’s bronze skin, the light following the graceful flex and release of powerful muscles. He turned, sweeping the long blade he held in an arc, only barely missing his opponent who danced back at the last minute. He moved again, fluid and light on his feet for such a big man, the sword a savage flash of light in his hands.

  Felicity’s heart leapt in her throat. Surely his opponent was going to end up a bloody mess on the ground, because there was no way to avoid that thrust.

  Yet the man’s opponent managed to dance back again. Only to find himself being tripped by a lightning fast foot. The opponent fell onto his back, his sword clattering on the stone floor, while the tall man pressed his booted foot into the center of the fallen man’s chest, his sword raised high.

  “No!” Someone said in hoarse voice.

  And Felicity was appalled to realize she was the one who’d spoken and her pathetic, little voice was echoing around the huge room like a rude word spoken in a holy place.

  The tall man stilled, his sword raised for a killing blow. Then he turned and his gaze, sharp as the sword he held, slammed into hers.

  All the breath left her body in a sharp rush.

  It was the black-eyed man. The man who’d put his hand around her throat.

  He wasn’t in dusty robes now and the dark stubble that defined his strong jaw had been trimmed, but there could be no mistaking those inky eyes. Cold and yet fierce at the same time. Intense. Calling a response she didn’t understand from somewhere deep inside her.

  It made her bristle for reasons she couldn’t explain and
she lifted her chin, staring right back. She had no idea who he was, but clearly he seemed to be the leader of…whoever this group of men were. Wherever this was. And obviously the man who could answer all her questions.

  The guard who’d led her here said something in Arabic and the black-eyed man answered curtly, his deep, gravelly voice setting off echoes inside that made her bristle even more. He took his foot off his opponent on the ground and wordlessly held out the sword. One of the guards behind Felicity instantly moved to take it. The black-eyed man then bent and held out a hand to his opponent, pulling him to his feet in one effortless display of male strength.

  Okay, so he wasn’t about to kill someone right in front of her. And she’d made an idiot of herself by calling out over what must have been a training exercise. A sword training exercise.

  Excellent. This day was getting better and better.

  The man grabbed a towel from a nearby bench, passing it over his face and shoulders before leaving it hanging around his neck, large capable hands gripping both ends. There was some kind of tattoo right across his chest, a flowing pattern of black ink, with fluid, cursive lines and dots like stars.

  He said something terse to the man who’d brought her here, not taking his eyes from her. The response obviously satisfied him because he gave a short nod.

  Then a silence descended, the room nearly vibrating with the dense, atmospheric pressure of it.

  He stared at her like a hunter with an animal in his sights.

  And for some reason it reminded her horribly of the way her father used to stare at her sometimes. As if he could turn her into the son he so desperately wanted by the force of his gaze alone.

  It made her feel like she was ten inches tall and being slowly and inexorably crushed in a large fist.

  Irritated with herself and the feeling she’d thought she’d long since outgrown, she forced out the words. “Wh-Who are you?” Great. She sounded thin and reedy and pathetic. And she stuttered. “W-Where am I?” She tried again. Which wasn’t any better.