by Mel Teshco
Her belly twisted. The insurgents had already killed her mother, the Sheikha of Yheman, fifteen short months ago, when they’d fired dozens of rounds of mortars at the palace, killing many of the royal staff and servants too.
She pushed back the constant grief and lifted her chin. Her father, Sheikh Halim Al-Fayed, had managed to push the rebels back over the south border where they belonged—with no small help from his only daughter—and now they were focusing their efforts on Zafar and his dripping-with-riches province.
She and her father had nothing more to lose. Zafar’s ransom would be priceless, enough to secure Yheman’s future. She just had to wait for Zafar’s supposed once-weekly rides on one of his famed Arabian mounts before she had any hope of capturing him. But as it stood now, she’d yet to even catch a glimpse of the eminent desert sheikh.
She might have had more damn luck capturing him from his palace in the city. Except he had far tighter security in the city, where an attack could come from anywhere. Unlike this endless stretch of scorching desert, which made a natural fortress where enemies could be seen for miles.
She only hoped the guards in the watchtowers at each corner of the palace had become careless of an attack, and weren’t too eagle-eyed and vigilant. She arched a brow. Seeing that nothing much had even stirred inside the palace walls, she could assume Zafar’s sentries weren’t any threat.
Her royal guard, Lamar, lowered his binoculars and turned to her. “You think we’re wasting our time, don’t you?”
She secured the safety catch of her sniper rifle before handing it to him and pushing to her feet. She sighed heavily. “I’m starting to think my father likes the idea of sending me on a wild goose chase to keep me safe and out of trouble.”
Lamar straightened beside her. “Wild goose chase, this is what you learned at those English schools?” he asked, raising his dark brows high above his beaked nose and thin, cracked lips.
Some of her untamed hair had escaped its topknot, and she tucked the strands behind her ear. She only resisted cutting her hair in honor and respect of her English mother who’d loved its unruliness. Loved its willfulness in a part of the world where women were…ruled.
She nodded. “My father wanted me to learn western ways. What he didn’t expect was me questioning all of Yhemen’s traditional values.”
Lamar grinned, his teeth white against his swarthy skin and nut-brown eyes. “You are different from our women. But not all Yhemen men think that’s a bad thing.”
She strode toward their jeep in her worn pants and dull cotton blouse that blended perfectly into her surrounds. “Yeah, well, I guess some of them like a challenge in the chase, not a woman willing to bow and scrape to their every whim.”
“One thing you’ll never do is bow and scrape,” he laughed, “not even for your father—“
His voice cut off as a chopper abruptly pierced the stillness with its loud thomp-thomp of rotors. She stared for perhaps a second at the flying beast skimming just above the long stretch of rock and sand toward them, before she screamed, “Run!”
Bullets hit the ground between them and the jeep and she dived for cover, shielding her face as sand and rubble sprayed into the air. She twisted behind her, her tense muscles easing only slightly at seeing her friend also sprawled out on the ground, alive and well.
“Don’t move,” Lamar gritted out, his face ashen.
She glowered, her muscles bunching in readiness to run. But not before she talked sense into her friend. “You want the Czuden dog to imprison and torture us?”
He blinked and exhaled roughly. ”Zafar isn’t the man you think he is—“
She sucked in a breath as realization hit her, harder than a strike to the gut. “Traitor,” she whispered, not that he’d hear her over the deafening roar of the helicopter. But his guilty, averted gaze revealed he’d understood her.
She dragged in another harsh breath, betrayal cutting deeper than any knife. She didn’t move though, not yet. She stayed slumped to the ground in surrender as the helicopter landed perhaps twenty yards away. She heard the faint thud as booted feet connected to the sand, seconds before she pushed to her feet and sprinted toward the jeep.
Another spray of bullets hit the sand way too close for comfort. She heard Lamar’s stricken shout, but she didn’t stop. Diving forward, she rolled and hit the ground on the protective side of her jeep.
She grinned maniacally, swiping a thick sludge of blood from her brow as she ducked low and dragged the driver’s door open. About to throw herself into the seat, she froze on seeing the bare ignition.
Fuck.
Tears pricked her eyes. She’d never forgive Lamar, not for as long as she lived. And she planned on living a very long life, no matter what the bastard Zafar had planned for her.
“Well, well. You’re not what I was expecting at all.”
The deep, dark voice with its vaguely satanic tone shivered across her senses and centered deep in her womb. She slowly straightened and gained her very first visual of the man. Her breath caught. Holy shit. The grainy pictures she’d seen of her neighboring prince had done him little justice.
In the flesh Zafar really was breathtaking. From his blacker-than-black hair, his wide shoulders in a white cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned, thick forearms, and his long legs in non-traditional dark pants. It didn’t hide the fact his dark eyes held no warmth. They held countless sins and many secrets.
“Zafar.” Her voice sounded like the crackle of dried parchment, but her chin tilted even as her heart hammered. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting either.”
He strode around the jeep with the long-limbed grace and alertness of a panther. She swallowed past her dry throat. She wouldn’t beg him for leniency. She was still of royal blood, despite her country’s many problems.
“You may call me Husam.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Husam the sword. She’d heard his warrior name spouted from every corner of her country, yet he hadn’t once lifted a finger to assist his neighbors, despite her father’s pleas for help. Her eyes shot open. She didn’t even try to disguise her hatred. “And why would I do that?”
He stopped in front of her and lifted his hand, his fingers that grazed across her jaw sending a skittering of electricity along her nerve endings. She swallowed again, forcing her stare not to drop from his even as his blunt fingers trailed along her bottom lip.
He smiled, as though all too aware of her reaction. “Because my little dove, I want to take you to my bed, and I want to hear my revered name spilling from your lips.”
She swung her hand, except the satisfying crack of her palm landing on his sculptured cheek didn’t eventuate. He closed his fingers around her wrist mid-flight, and she gasped at his brute strength, at the feral glitter in his dark stare.
“You strike the sheikh in his homeland, little dove, and my men will shoot you down before I have a chance to command them otherwise.”
Her peripheral vision noted his three guards in their traditional white thobes with their firearms held loosely in their grip. She had no doubt they were three of his best soldiers turned into personal bodyguards. One of many men trained in combat who could’ve helped secure Yhemen’s borders.
The bastard only cared for his own people, only wanted what was best for Qutum and his province, Czuden, while everyone outside those borders went to hell. She fisted her hands. She’d bet Zafar’s two brothers, who also each ruled a province in their country of Qutum, were no better.
Her stare narrowed. “Perhaps a quick death would be preferable to rape.”
His throaty laugh prickled across her skin and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He leaned closer. “You might not know it yet, but you’re an ember ready to burst into an inferno. Believe me, there will be no force involved.”
Her breath hissed, even as she acknowledged the damning truth. She was a twenty-two year old woman who was yet to explore the sensuality she knew was inside her,
locked away. Imprisoned like so many of the Yhemen women who still shielded themselves in their burkas, despite the relaxed laws under her father’s reign.
Zafar moved his thumb slowly back and forth across the pulse point at her wrist. “But seeing as you willingly threw yourself past a hail of bullets, perhaps I’ll keep a closer eye on you, hmm?”
Her chest tightened as violent thoughts filled her head, but before she could snarl obscenities, the sheikh turned to Lamar. “You did good.” He held up his free hand and her once friend threw the jeep’s keys. Zafar—she’d never call him by his honored name, Husam—caught them effortlessly and added, “My men will fly you to a safe house.”
Lamar nodded, then asked haltingly, “And what of the sheikha?”
Amber stifled a laugh that bordered on hysteria. Lamar was worried about her future now? How pathetic. She didn’t need his pretense, not anymore. She knew now where his loyalties lay.
Zafar nodded toward his desert palace. “She’ll be safe with me.”
Hysteria edged toward a full-on meltdown when she glowered at Lamar and gritted out, “I hope guilt keeps you awake at night, asshole.”
He winced and Zafar nodded at his guards, directing them to lead Lamar to the waiting helicopter.
She glared after her once royal guard, hoping the traitor felt the burn of her wrath. Lamar must know that Zafar’s idea of keeping her safe would be to take her again and again between his sheets. A pity something inside her warmed, flushing her skin and causing her throat to dry, while the most intimate part of her turned slick and wet.
Bloody hell. She was as perverted as Zafar. Sickening considering she hated the Czuden sheikh who would have his fill of her, then toss her into his damn harem until the next time he wanted her.
She’d heard the stories. Zafar’s sexual needs were legendary. One woman was never enough. He kept a stable of women to appease his lust. And why wouldn’t he? The more women in his harem and his bed, the more celebrated and revered his name.
Lamar climbed into the helicopter with the three soldiers. He didn’t look back, didn’t made eye contact with the woman he’d betrayed. Amber’s lip curled. Coward. Had he forgotten she’d saved his life only three weeks ago? Perhaps she shouldn’t have shot the rebel who’d snuck up behind Lamar with a sharp-edged knife.
The helicopter rose into the air and she squeezed her eyes closed against the sand and grit blowing from its accelerating rotors. She should be used to feeling dirty. After going without a shower for three days, and with water strictly limited to drinking only, she couldn’t get much grubbier. Or smellier.
A smile tilted her lips as dark satisfaction filled her. With any luck, Zafar would keep his distance and leave her alone.
Instead the sheikh released her wrist to place an outspread hand on the small of her back, ushering her to the passenger side of the jeep. Even before he opened the door and waited for her to climb in, she drew his intoxicating scent deep into her lungs. Her lashes fluttered along with her womb. Dark spices with a hint of citrus and honey. It took all her willpower not to turn and press her nose against his chest and inhale deep.
“Keep looking at me like that and the last thing I’ll be doing is driving.”
She clenched her hands. He was her sworn enemy, a man who’d stood back while she and her people fought to protect their country of Yhemen. Many had already died at the insurgents hands. “Go to hell.”
“Already been there, little dove.” He slammed her door shut and strode to the driver’s side. Firing the engine, he reached across her and secured her seatbelt into place. She froze. His nearness overwhelmed her senses, her mind screaming alarm even before one of his big hands lingered on her hip. “Safety first,” he drawled softly.
She pressed her lips together and turned away from him, focusing instead on the helicopter that was already a speck in the sky. Except the silence it’d left behind was intense and oppressive.
Zafar’s husky chuckle snapped her attention back his way. His black eyes were no longer soulless; they were filled with mirth and…warmth.
“You find this funny?” she hissed.
“Totally amusing.” His eyes gleamed and he added huskily, “And totally arousing.”
The dark growth of his stubble highlighted the flash of his smile. She shivered, trying not to dwell on dirty thoughts about his mouth and the rasp of his bristles going to work between her thighs.
He brushed a piece of her scraggly hair behind her ear. “One day you’ll thank me for claiming you as my own.”
She seethed at his audacity, at his unadulterated arrogance. “I’ll hate you more with every passing hour.”
He threw the gear stick into first with another throaty laugh, the jeep taking off with a spin of tires that kicked up even more sand and dust. He glanced her way. With his mouth no longer pulled into a stern line, his lips were full and sensual, made for kissing and pleasure.
She pressed a hand to her belly. Lord help her, despite her hatred of him, she’d never felt more inclined to sin.
Chapter Two
Amber’s body might have betrayed her, but at least she could rely on her soldier’s instincts. She took note of the tiniest details as the thick, heavy bars of Zafar’s front gates opened and he drove them inside
Guards in their white thobes patrolled the vicinity with automatic weapons. But not all of them were perfect killers. When she escaped, the portly older guard who looked bored and who was probably on the cusp of retirement would be an easier mark. The younger guard whose stare followed her a little too long would perhaps be susceptible to feminine wiles.
A row of shiny stables beckoned, and a horse stuck its head out of its stall and whickered at the commotion. More horses pushed their heads out, one a dark bay with a white blaze, another a gray with pricked ears. She hid a smile. Before the war she’d been a proficient horsewoman, she wouldn’t have lost that skill. One of Zafar’s Arabian mounts just might be her way out of this place.
A pity there was nothing to hide behind between the palace and the stables except a huge fountain that gushed high into the air. Her eyes narrowed. At least the noise of splashing water would subdue her tread.
But she’d have to factor in the rest of the twenty or so guards on patrol. Their ghutra headwear didn’t conceal their air of relaxed violence, like they were prepared to attack at the slightest provocation. She also sensed their respect and admiration for Zafar. A leader she guessed they would lay down their lives for.
Her belly churned. If she’d lived in Czuden she too might have admired him. Admired the fact he’d kept the insurgents at bay with very little bloodshed, while his people lived in relative peace and comfort, with no real threat of war.
Zafar parked the jeep near the steps leading to the double-doors of his palace. But she stayed immobile, unable to move, to face what was ahead of her. Even worse, to acknowledge that she ultimately might enjoy his touch. Lord only knew he had the experience to seduce her.
Waving away a servant who’d stepped forward to open their doors, Zafar turned in his seat to face her. He sighed on seeing her frozen expression. “This is your home now. You might as well get used to it and at least pretend you want to be here.”
Heat washed over her face, her blood pressure skyrocketing along with her rage. “This will never be my home! And I won’t pretend otherwise!”
He leaned close and unclipped her seatbelt, his breath warm on her scalp. “We’ll see.”
She turned away from him and stared the other way, all too aware of Zafar’s guards and their barely concealed horror. She expelled an unsteady breath. They’d probably never seen anyone oppose their great sheikh. That she was a lowly woman must be an even bigger sacrilege.
The driver’s door slammed and Zafar opened her door seconds later. “Come.”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
The air hissed out of her lungs when he reached for her, then flung her over his shoulder like a damn sack of potatoes. Tears pricked her eye
s when he spun a slow circle and called out to his men, “My trusted guards, meet the famed desert warrior princess…the Sheikha of Yhemen.”
At a ripple of laughter, she lifted her head, her furious eyes meeting the once admiring young guard whose stare now brimmed with mirth and a touch of sympathy. Her head dropped, humiliation rushing through her. But though her hands fisted, she didn’t dare lay a finger on the great Zafar, self-preservation was too powerful a force. “Put me down you oaf!” she hissed.
He ignored her and instead focused on his guards. “If you’ll excuse us.” His voice echoed, “I have a mission to fulfill.”
More laughter followed them as he strode up the wide steps. She didn’t dare look up at the men as their sheikh carried her away, her humiliation was far too great.
So why did she instead note every shift and flex of his shoulders and back muscles? Why was she fascinated by the tautness of his buttocks that seemed perfectly rounded for grasping? She inhaled his honeyed scent and shivered with need. Why the hell did she want to breathe him in?
She’d been out in the sun too long with too little water to overcome her dehydration. Nothing more. Add in suppressed hormones and she was a quivering, virginal wreck.
Coolness enveloped her as his tread echoed across the palace’s marble floor, except her face flashed with heat when she made out two guards standing sentry at the opened double doors.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her clenched fingers aching. She was a damn sheikha and he was deliberately making a fool out of her! Even her hatred for her so called friend, Lamar, paled in comparison to the raw anger Zafar created within.
“Kaela.” His greeting sounded cool, distant and formal. Then he spun around, his voice turning wry as he said, “Meet Sheikha Amber.”
