A Cinderella For The Desert King
KIM LAWRENCE
Saved by a vow…Crowned as his queen!To escape desert bandits, Abby Foster pledged herself to a mysterious stranger—sealing the deal with a searing kiss! Months later, she discovers she’s still married. And her ‘husband’, who is now heir to the throne, summons her to his side! But being swept into Zain’s world of glamour—and exquisite pleasure—is overwhelming for shy Abby. Can this innocent Cinderella ever become this powerful Sheikh’s queen?
Saved by a vow...
Crowned as his queen!
To escape desert bandits, Abby Foster pledged herself to a mysterious stranger—sealing the deal with a searing kiss! Months later, she discovers she’s still married. And her “husband,” who is now heir to the throne, summons her to his side! But being swept into Zain’s world of glamour—and exquisite pleasure—is overwhelming for shy Abby. Can this innocent Cinderella ever become this powerful sheikh’s queen?
KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in Anglesey with her university lecturer husband, assorted pets who arrived as strays and never left, and sometimes one or both of her boomerang sons. When she’s not writing she loves to be outdoors gardening, or walking on one of the beaches for which the island is famous—along with being the place where Prince William and Catherine made their first home!
Also by Kim Lawrence (#ue1deef32-c2f9-5481-af0d-ca4083691d58)
Maid for Montero
Captivated by Her Innocence
A Secret Until Now
The Heartbreaker Prince
One Night with Morelli
The Sins of Sebastian Rey-Defoe
Her Nine Month Confession
One Night to Wedding Vows
Surrendering to the Italian’s Command
A Ring to Secure His Crown
The Greek’s Ultimate Conquest
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
A Cinderella for the Desert King
Kim Lawrence
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07241-0
A CINDERELLA FOR THE DESERT KING
© 2018 Kim Lawrence
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Herb, my much missed writing companion
and friend—best dog ever!
Contents
Cover (#ubd3bc977-589e-5c4f-a1f3-fe93c2e2dab9)
Back Cover Text (#u05908e72-6056-5fb0-8143-1612f7ae1671)
About the Author (#ucc3ab08a-a471-54a8-97ad-50575016bf18)
Booklist (#u9e0fd68b-0922-5695-8672-011705a12260)
Title Page (#uec2001a7-ee74-5564-bd1d-1e6085ac023d)
Copyright (#u9e65d70e-3b63-5419-96cd-0f45946de77d)
Dedication (#u00385de8-9f03-50cf-b193-3ee0d4c596ce)
CHAPTER ONE (#u04721c4b-5fa6-55f4-beb4-548f7ff1d33f)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc20ec8dd-f7a4-5717-8f81-2e30998ed3b6)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua4372ef3-bd9f-5639-b3aa-8b05bd6cb582)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue1deef32-c2f9-5481-af0d-ca4083691d58)
ABBY FOSTER WAS HOT, her feet ached—part of the photo shoot had involved her walking up a sand hill in shorts and four-inch heels—and something had bitten her on the arm. The thick layer of make-up had disguised it but not stopped it throbbing and itching like hell.
All that was bad enough but what was really the icing on the cake was the fact that their transport had broken down. She’d been meant to be in the first four-wheel drive, the one she had travelled out of Aarifa city to their desert location in, but the stylist had pushed past her, bagging a seat next to the photographer’s assistant the girl had a crush on.
So, thanks to young love, Abby was now stranded in the middle of who knew where, trying without success to tune out the raised, angry voices outside. So far she had resisted the urge to add her own voice to the melee, but her clenched teeth were beginning to ache with the effort.
Leave well alone remained the best strategy, though, so along with Rob, who had reacted to being stranded in a desert by promptly taking the opportunity to grab a nap and falling asleep, she’d waited inside the broken-down vehicle.
It was a decision she was starting to rethink as the temperature inside the dark car rose and Rob, the person who had made her climb that damned sand dune ten times before he was satisfied he’d got the shot, began to snore.
Loudly!
Rolling her eyes, she pulled a bottle of water from the capacious tote bag she always carried with her. Despite the frequent-traveller miles she had clocked up since she’d embarked on her modelling career, Abby had never mastered the art of travelling light.
She had half-unscrewed the top before caution kicked in and she realised she may need to ration herself. Before he’d fallen asleep Rob had confidently claimed they would be rescued in a matter of minutes, but what if the photographer was being overly optimistic?
What if they were stuck here longer?
The internal debate didn’t last long. Her grandparents had raised her to always be cautious—pity they hadn’t displayed the same quality when it came to financial advice, considering they’d been swindled out of their life savings by a crooked financial advisor. But caution won out.
Gregory’s good-looking face, complete with that boyishly sincere smile, materialised in her head as she tightened the lid with a vicious turn and put the bottle back into her bag. Her jaw clenched, she fought her way through the familiar toxic mixture of guilt and self-contempt she experienced whenever she considered her own part in her grandparents’ situation. They put a brave face on it but she knew how unhappy they were.
It didn’t matter which way you looked at it, it was her fault Nana and Pops had lost their financial security.
If she hadn’t been fool enough to fall for Gregory’s sincere smile and the blue eyes that went with it, and if she hadn’t imagined herself in love and taken the sweet man of her dreams home to meet her grandparents, then they would still have the comfortable retirement they had worked so hard for to look forward to.
Instead they had nothing.
Her throat thickened with emotion, which she dismissed with a tiny impatient shake of her head. Tears, she reminded herself, weren’t going to fix anything; what she needed was a plan.
And she had one. At last.
A militant gleam lit her green eyes as her rounded chin lifted to a determined angle. By her calculations, if she took every single piece of work that came her way—barring those that wanted her to pose minus clothes, and there were quite a few—in another eighteen months she’d be able to buy back the retirement bungalow her grandparents had lost because of her conman boyfriend. She’d brought him into their lives, he’d got them all to trust him and then he had vanished with her grandparents’ life savings. In a vicious parting shot he’d emailed her a photo of him with another man, the pose they were in making the salt-in-the-wound footnote ‘You’re not really my type’ slightly redundant.
Gregory’s patience with her inexperience and his reassurance that he was prepared to wait because he respected her now made perfect sense.
Shutting out the humiliating memories before they took hold, Abby peeled off a wet wipe from a packet in the inner pocket of her bag. Eyes closed, she wiped her face and neck, removing the last of her make-up along with some of the dust and grime.
She was repeating the action while thinking longingly of a cool shower and a cold beer when one of the two men outside put his head into the cab. He fiddled with something beside the steering wheel before turning reproachfully to Abby.
‘You might have said something, Abby—we’ve been trying to open the damned engine for hours.’ He gave the lever he’d located a sharp tug and yelled to the man outside. ‘Got it, Jez!’
By her count it had actually only been ten minutes. ‘It felt more like days,’ she retorted, more bothered by the swelling bite on her arm than defending herself from this unfair criticism. Teeth gritted, she rolled up the sleeve of her blouse to take the pressure off the area, not that the shirt was actually hers—she was still wearing the outfit selected for today’s shoot, the shorts and shirt apparently meant to convince viewers that if a girl chose the new shampoo the company was unveiling with this campaign, they too could go from a casino table to trekking up sand dunes in the desert all while maintaining perfect, glowing hair. They might, but they’d also have blisters if they wore these wretched heels.
The developments through the fly-speckled window didn’t look good. The men had both stepped back hastily from the scalding steam that billowed out from the engine.
And then they both started shouting again.
She nudged Rob’s foot with her own—luckily for him she had swapped the spiky heels for canvas pumps.
‘We should go out and see if we can help.’
Or at least stop them killing one another, she thought as she grabbed a scarf from her bag and pulled the strands of sweat-damp hair back from her face, securing the flaming waves at her nape in a ponytail that was neither smooth nor elegant.
As she got to her feet, head down to avoid banging it on the door frame, Rob opened one eye, nodded, then closed it again and began to quietly snore.
Cool was the wrong word, but at least the temperature outside was marginally less oppressive than that inside the car.
‘So, what’s the verdict, guys?’ she asked, adopting a cheerful tone.
Her attitude did not rub off on the two men.
On the occasions she had worked with the lighting technician previously, Jez had always had a joke up his sleeve to lighten tense situations, but his sense of humour had clearly deserted him today. Frowning heavily, he stepped away from the inner workings of the steaming engine, his face glistening with sweat as he dropped the bonnet back into place.
‘It won’t go and, before anyone asks, I haven’t got a clue what’s wrong or how to fix it. If anyone else feels the urge...be my guest.’ The thickset technician tossed a challenging look in the direction of the younger man but the intern’s aggression had drained away and he was standing biting his nails, suddenly looking very young and very scared.
‘No need to worry, Jez. I’m sure once they realise they’ve left us behind they’ll come back to look for us,’ Abby said, determined to look on the bright side, despite the fact that the sun was quickly setting and darkness was starting to steal across the desert around them.
‘We shouldn’t have stopped,’ the younger man muttered under his breath as he kicked a tyre.
The older man nodded his agreement. ‘What’s he doing?’ He nodded towards the vehicle where the self-acknowledged photographic genius lay sleeping, exhausted, presumably by the effort of taking several dozen shots of an unusually shaped rock with a lizard sitting on it. By the time he had been satisfied with the result, the two lead vehicles in their small convoy had vanished back towards the city they’d come from earlier in the day.
‘He’s asleep.’
Abby’s announcement was greeted with astonished looks and a cry in unison. ‘Un-bloody-believable!’
The two men looked at one another and laughed, their mutual disgust for Rob draining some of the hostility out of the situation. The smiles didn’t last long though.
‘Anyone got a phone signal?’
Abby shook her head. ‘Well, what’s the worst that could happen?’
‘We die a slow and painful death from thirst?’ Rob’s voice suddenly cut in as he made a graceful and yawn-filled ascent from the vehicle.
Abby threw him a look. ‘Seriously, what is the worst that can happen? At least we’ll have a story to tell over dinner when we get home.’
‘Guys.’
They all turned to look at Jez, who grinned broadly as he stabbed a finger towards plumes of dust in the distance. ‘They’ve come back for us!’
Abby sighed and wiped the moisture from her forehead. ‘Thank God!’ She frowned at the sound coming from the direction of the fast-approaching vehicles. ‘What was that?’
The young man shook his head, looking as puzzled as Abby felt. The two older men exchanged sharp glances, Rob turning to her. ‘Maybe you should get back inside, Abby, love.’
‘But—’ This time the sharp cracking noises were louder and Abby felt her initial relief at being found slip away, replaced by the first flurries of fear as she stared at the approaching dust cloud. ‘Was that gunfire?’ she whispered.
‘We’re fine,’ Jez said, shading his eyes. ‘We’re in Aarifa... It’s safe as houses. Everyone knows that.’ Another volley of gunfire cut across his words. He glanced at Abby. ‘Maybe just to be on the safe side you should go inside and keep your head down...?’
* * *
The pure-bred Arab horse picked his sure-footed way through a darkness that was profound, a thick, velvety blackness against which the flowing white robe of his rider stood out.
Rider and animal, at full gallop, moved in harmony across the sand, slowing only when they reached the first rocky outcrop. At a distance, the column of rock seemed to rise vertically from the ground, but in reality the spiralling path to the summit, though not one recommended to someone without a head for heights, was a series of shorter ascents punctuated by relatively flat sections.
The highly bred horse was panting by the time they crested the summit and paused, the animal drawing air through flared nostrils, the rider waiting for the usual sense of peace this spot gave him.
Not tonight though.
Tonight, even the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama—incredible any time of day but especially magnificent at night, set against the backdrop of a velvet sky sprinkled with stars—failed to penetrate or lift Zain Al Seif’s black mood. The most he could claim was the relaxing of a little of the tension in his muscles as he drank in the view, the illuminated ancient walls of the palace with its towers and spires making it visible for miles around. Tonight, however, there were more lights than usual, lights that spread into the old town, built within the shadow of the citadel walls and extended beyond into a geometric pattern created by the brightly illuminated tree-lined boulevards of the modern city with its tall, glass-fronted buildings.
There were a lot more lights tonight because today the city...the whole country, in fact...was celebrating. There had been a wedding. A royal wedding.
And the world loved a royal wedding, Zain reflected, his sensually sculpted lips twitching into a cynical curve. On this occasion, the world minus one.
He couldn’t escape it even here.
The horse responded to Zain’s tight-lipped curse with a snort that was loud in the stillness. His mount, picking up on his own mood, began to paw the ground and dance around in circles that would have sent a less experienced rider catapulting over his head.
‘Sorry, boy...’ Zain soothed, patting the spooked animal’s neck, an action that sent out a puff of the red dust that clung to everything in this desert. He waited for his horse to calm down before dismounting, an action he performed in one supple, well-practised action, his boots making no sound as he landed lightly on the uneven stone surface.
Releasing the reins, he took two steps forward and stood on the edge, not noticing the dizzying drop into blackness as his deep-set electric-blue eyes were drawn to the city’s lights. As he stared the faint smile that had curved his lips disappeared, those same lips flattening into a grim line. His dark, angled brows drew together in a parallel line above his hawkish, narrow nose as he embraced a fresh surge of self-contempt.
He deserved to feel like a fool, because he had been a fool. A complacent bloody fool.
Yes, he’d had a lucky escape but that was the problem—he’d needed luck. He prided himself on being such a great judge of people but the beautiful bride being toasted by an entire country and assorted foreign dignitaries had totally fooled him with her act. The only positive he could see in the situation was that his heart had not been involved. His pride, however, was another matter and it had taken a serious hit.
Of course, now Zain could see the clues, but during the pleasurable six-month affair he had remained oblivious even when he had crossed his own self-imposed very clear line; the progress towards it had been so insidious he hadn’t heard the alarm bells when he had started thinking of what they shared as a relationship... Who knew where that could have led?
Luckily, he never had to find out, because Kayla had got tired of playing the waiting game and when she received a better offer she took it. Zain, still under the illusion they were playing by his rules, had never for a moment suspected that lovely...lovely, poisonous Kayla had been playing him.
She had turned up at his apartment in Paris earlier than expected after her trip home to Aarifa to see her family. He’d been pleased enough to rearrange his schedule so they could spend the afternoon in bed. Afterwards, as he lay in bed, his attention was divided between the laptop propped on his knees and Kayla, who had dressed before taking a seat in front of the mirror and beginning to repair her make-up.
‘You really don’t need that,’ he’d said offhandedly.
They had been enjoying a discreet affair for six months and he had never seen her without her make-up. On the admittedly few occasions they had spent the night together she always vanished to the bathroom before he woke, emerging looking flawless, a silent signal there would be no repeat performance that morning as she didn’t want her hair mussed or her lipstick smudged.
She had turned to him at his words, lipstick in hand and a hardness in her smile he had not seen before. ‘Sweet of you to say but,’ she paused and applied a second layer of red to her lips before standing up and strolling back to the bed, ‘although I was prepared to pretend to like art and opera and even be interested in supremely boring politics for you, I’ve never been prepared to settle for the fresh-faced look you seem to like in your women.’
The shrillness in her laugh had made him wince, so unlike her usual placating style designed to stroke his ego.
‘No-strings-attached sex...did you really believe that was all I wanted? Do you really think we met by accident, that I took that awful pittance-paying art-gallery job because I want a career? Oh, well, at least it wasn’t a complete loss. I certainly never had to pretend with you when we were in bed...’ The concession emerged on a deep sigh. ‘You know, I’m really going to miss this.’
Zain, still processing the contents of her confession, had not yet reacted as she sat down on the edge of the bed and trailed a red fingernail down his bare, hair-roughened chest, but his lips curled in distaste now at the memory.
‘I thought I owed you...’ she paused ‘...well, nothing actually, but I figured one more time, for old times’ sake, wouldn’t hurt. My family are formally announcing my engagement to your brother next weekend, so I’m afraid, darling, we won’t be able to do this for a while. Don’t look so shocked! It is kind of your fault. All I ask is that you try and look a teeny bit heartbroken at the wedding. It would make your brother’s day.’
Now, alone in the desert, Zain felt his lips curl into a thin-lipped smile. He might not have inherited his father’s physical characteristics but it seemed that he had inherited a genetic predisposition to be blind to women’s faults. Then the smile vanished as he scanned the moon-silvered landscape and pushed away the self-contempt.
Acknowledging a weakness meant you could guard against it.
His father had lived the last fifteen years of his life consumed by a combination of self-pity and pathetic hope, not accepting the reality of a situation. It had been the man’s downfall.
It would not be Zain’s.
He stared out into the darkness as the scene in his head continued to replay with relentless accuracy.
‘Of course, I’d prefer to marry you, darling, but you never did ask, did you?’ Kayla had reproached with a pout, the truth of her anger showing for the first time. ‘And I put so much effort into being perfect for you. Still, once things have settled we can pick up where we left off in bed, at least, so long as we’re discreet. And that’s the beauty of it all—Khalid isn’t...well, let’s just say he’s in no position to object, as I have enough dirt on him to...’
Zain abruptly closed down the conversation playing in his head.
People wrote bucket lists of things they wanted to do before they died. At nine, practical Zain had penned a list of things he would never do while he lived. Over the years, some had fallen by the wayside—he’d actually grown quite fond of green vegetables, and kissing girls had proved less awful than he’d thought—but others he had rigidly stuck to. The primary one being that he would never allow himself to fall in love or get married—he was determined never to repeat the mistakes his father had made.
Marriage and love had not only broken his proud father as a man but also had threatened the stability of the country he ruled and the people he owed a duty to. Watching the process as a youngster, Zain had been helpless to do anything, the love and respect he once felt for his father turning to anger and shame.
The situation could have had more serious consequences—not that his father would have cared—had the sheikh not been surrounded by a circle of courtiers and advisors loyal to him. Somehow, they had shielded him and managed to maintain the illusion of the strong, wise ruler for the people.
Zain had not been shielded.
He shook his head, aware that he was indulging in a pastime that he would have been the first to condemn in others, and he didn’t tolerate those who lived in the past.
A movement in the periphery of his vision interrupted his stream of thought.
Head inclined in a listening attitude, Zain turned his head and stared hard through the dark towards where the invisible border between Aarifa and their neighbour Nezen lay.
He was on the point of turning away, deciding he’d imagined it, when suddenly it was there again...a flash of light that could be a flashlight, or possibly headlights. The light was accompanied this time by a distant sound that drifted across the moonlit emptiness... It sounded like voices shouting.
This time, lights stayed on. Definitely headlights.
He sighed, feeling little enthusiasm for rescuing what would inevitably turn out to be some damn idiot tourist—they averaged about ten a month—with no respect for the elemental environment. Zain loved the desert but he also had a healthy respect for the dangers it presented.
He sometimes wondered if the deep emotional connection he felt with the land of his birth was made stronger by the fact that, growing up an interloper, he’d had to prove his right to belong.
Things had changed, though sometimes an overheard comment or knowing glance would make him wonder just how much.
Admittedly, no one called him names these days, no gangs egged on by his brother threw stones, excluded him or simply beat him up, but scratch the surface and the prejudices were still there. His existence continued to be an insult to many in the country, especially those members of the leading Aarifan families.
He was more of an annoyance than his mother, who at least was living on another continent. It would have been easier in many ways if he had been a bastard, but his parents had married, not letting a little thing like his father’s already having a wife and an heir get in the way of true love.
Love...!
A growing noise of distaste vibrated in his throat as, with a creak of leather, he heaved himself back into the saddle and turned the horse. That word again. In his mind it was hard to be sane and celebrate something that people over the centuries used to justify...well, pretty much anything from bad choices to full-scale war!
Love really was the ultimate in selfishness.
He didn’t have to look much farther than his own parents to see its destructive power—there was no doubt of his father’s enduring love for his mother, but it was as if their love story had been perfectly designed to increase tabloid turnover.
The sheikh of a wealthy middle-eastern state—married to a wife who had already given him an heir—had fallen for the tempestuous Italian superstar of the opera world, a diva in every sense of the word... Zain’s mother.
Despite its progressive reputation, setting aside a wife was not unheard of in Aarifa—in fact, there were circumstances, even in these more enlightened times, when it would be positively encouraged, and even by the discarded bride’s family if brought on by the need for a male heir, especially when that heir would one day be the country’s ruler.
But Zain’s father had already had an heir and the wife whom he dishonoured by setting her aside came from one of the most powerful families in the country. The humiliation of the sheikh’s betrayal of the family with impeccable lineage was compounded by the unsuitability of the bride Sheikh Aban al Seif took in her stead, and the fact that the unsuitable bride had won over all her critics with her charm and smiles.
A nation had loved her and then fell dramatically out of love with her when she had walked away from her husband and eight-year-old son to resume her career.
The irony was that her humiliated, proud husband, the leader who had never dodged making tough decisions, the man known for his strength and determination, had not fallen out of love despite her betrayal. He’d have taken her back in a heartbeat and both his sons knew this, which perhaps accounted for the fact that they had never been what anyone could term close.
And in many ways, just like their father, Khalid was stuck in the past. His eyes still shone with pure malice when he looked at the half-brother whom he still held responsible for every bad thing that had happened to him and his mother. He still wanted whatever Zain had, be it success, accolades or, now, the woman on his arm. Ultimately it was about depriving not possessing and, once he had whatever it was he coveted from Zain, Khalid usually lost interest.
Would he lose interest in Kayla now he had her?
Zain shrugged to himself in the darkness. It was no longer his concern.
CHAPTER TWO (#ue1deef32-c2f9-5481-af0d-ca4083691d58)
ZAIN HAD COVERED half the distance to the stranded vehicle when he came across signs that made him slow, stop and, after circling, finally dismount to investigate.
He lost the attitude of disgruntled resignation with which he had embarked on the task as he studied the impressions of tyre tracks that stood out, dark in the moonlight. He picked up one of the shell casings that littered the area, holding it in the palm of his hand for a moment before flinging it away and leaping back into the saddle.
It took him ten minutes before he reached the car that stood with its headlights blazing. He yelled out a couple of times before the three men hiding inside revealed themselves, the drift of the hissed exchange between them suggesting to Zain that his ability to speak English without an accent made him friend not foe in their eyes.
Having halted the garbled explanations they all started to share, he demanded they speak one at a time and he listened, struggling to hold his tongue as he heard them describe what was a list of ineptitude that was in his mind approaching criminal, but there was a limit to his restraint.
‘You had a woman with you, out here?’ He could not hide his contempt.
‘We didn’t plan to get stranded, mate,’ the older man, who was nursing a black eye, said defensively. ‘And we told Abby to hide inside the cab when that mob drove up, but when they started laying into Rob,’ he nodded towards the taller man and Zain noticed the wound on his hairline that was still seeping blood, ‘she jumped out and laid into the guy with—’
‘It was her bag. She hit him with it.’
‘And then they hit her back.’
‘Was she conscious when they took her?’
It was the oldest man who responded to the terse question. ‘I’m not sure but she didn’t move when they chucked her in the back.’
The youngest, who looked little more than a boy to Zain’s eyes, began to weep. ‘What will they do to her... Abby, what will they do to Abby?’ he wailed.
The older man laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘She’ll be all right, son. You know Abby—she’s tough, and she can talk her way out of anything. She’ll be all right, won’t she?’ he repeated, throwing a look of appeal at Zain.
Zain saw no need to wrap up the truth. ‘They’ll keep her alive until they’ve assessed whether she’s worth money.’ It had been two years since the last border raids from Nezen. His father’s defence minister, Said, would be alarmed when he heard about this new incursion by the criminal gangs who lived in the foothills.
The brutal pronouncement drew a strangled sob from the boy.
* * *
What happens if I die here—who will pay off Nana and Pops’s debts? You’re not going to die, Abby. Think!
She lifted her chin and blinked, flinching as the yelling men riding up and down on camels fired off another volley of bullets into the air.
She’d lost consciousness when they’d thrown her in the truck and when she’d come to she’d had a sack over her head—a situation that had escalated her fear and sense of disorientation to another frantic level. What time was it? Where was she and what was going to happen next?
She still didn’t know the answer to either question and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know any longer.
She stiffened, her nostrils flaring in distaste as one of the men grabbed her hair in his filthy hand and tugged her towards him to leer in her face. She stared stonily ahead, only breathing again once he had let her go and moved away.
Ignoring the panic she could feel lapping at the edge of her resolve, she lifted her chin. Think, Abby. Think.
The effort to make her brain work felt like trying to run in sand, an apt analogy considering that the gritty stuff coated everything.
She clenched her jaw and ignored the pain in her cheek from where one of her captors had casually backhanded her when she’d tried to stop them beating Rob. She had to work out what she was going to do and how much time she had lost while she was blacked out. It seemed like another lifetime that the jeeps loaded with men wielding guns had surrounded their broken-down four-wheel-drive but it couldn’t have been that long ago.
It was still dark but the surrounding area was lit up not just by a massive bonfire, which was throwing out enough heat to slick her body in sweat, but also by the headlights of upwards of twenty or so cars and trucks parked haphazardly, enclosing the dusty area on three sides.
She pulled surreptitiously on the rope around her wrists but they held tight. Though her feet were unbounded and she was tempted to run, she doubted she’d get far. It would take only seconds for the half a dozen whooping men who rode back and forth on camels to catch her.
And where would she go?
There were no women.
Abby had never felt more isolated and afraid in her life. She had never known it was possible to feel this scared, but, though initially the fear had made her brain freeze, it began to work with feverish speed and clarity as one of the men who had dumped her down came across and said something in a harsh voice.
She shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand but he shouted again, and then when she didn’t react he bent forward and dragged her to her feet, pushing her forward until they reached an area where a dozen or so of the men were gathered in a half-circle.
When she pulled away from the group the man towing her pushed her hard in the small of her back and produced a long, curved, wicked-looking dagger. Expecting the worst, she fought against tears as he pulled her arms. Then the tears fell—partly in relief and partly in pain—as he sliced through the cord that held her hands behind her back.
She was rubbing her aching wrists when he began to speak, addressing the men gathered around and pointing at her. Someone shouted something and he grabbed her hair, holding it up to the firelight and drawing a gasp from the men with greedy eyes all fixed on her.
She cringed inwardly, her skin crawling at the touch of the eyes moving over her body. Desperately conscious of her bare legs, she wanted to pretend this wasn’t really happening to her, but it was. The sense of helplessness boiled over as she stood, hands clenched stiffly at her sides, shaking from a combination of gut-clenching fear and anger.
The man beside her spoke again, and as other yells echoed in answer she realised what was happening—she was being auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Outrage and horror clenched in her as she began to shake her head, trying to yell out and tell them that they couldn’t do this. But the words shrivelled in her throat, her vocal cords literally paralysed with fear.
She closed her eyes to shut out the nightmare of the leering faces, opening them in shock when the man beside her tore open her blouse to the sound of applause from the watching men as it gaped, revealing her bra.
Anger pierced the veil of fear and spurred Abby into retaliatory action. She didn’t pause to consider the consequences of her actions, she just lifted a clenched fist and swung. The man moved at the last moment but she caught his shoulder with a hard blow that drew a grunt of pain from him.
Someone laughed and the initial look of open-mouthed shock on his face morphed into something much uglier. There was no point running. There was nowhere to run to. The determination not to show her fear was suddenly stronger than the fear itself and Abby lifted her chin, clinging to her pride as she drew the tattered shreds of her shirt tightly around her against the imminent threat. The man advanced towards her, snarling angry words she didn’t understand, not that a dictionary was needed when his intent was pretty clear.
He lifted a hand to strike her when suddenly he froze. Everyone did, as a horse with a robed rider galloped full pelt into the semicircle, causing chaos as the men threw themselves to one side to avoid the slashing hooves. Just when it seemed as if man and horse were about to gallop straight into the flames of the bonfire, the horse stopped dead.
The rider, having achieved the sort of theatre-hushed entrance that film directors would have traded a row of awards for, calmly looked around, taking his time and not seeming to be bothered by the guns aimed at him.
After a moment, he loosed the reins and let them fall. The animal didn’t move an inch as his rider casually vaulted to the ground, projecting a mixture of arrogance and contempt.
Any idea that the hauteur and arrogance he oozed had anything to do with his superior position on the impressive animal vanished since, if anything, his air of command was even more pronounced as he began to move with long-legged purpose towards the spot where Abby stood as transfixed as everyone else by the tall figure in the flowing white robes. His elegance liberally coated his every move, oozing a level of undiluted male sexuality that had nothing to do with the way he was dressed or even the fact that, even without the dusty riding boots he wore, he had to be at least six foot six, with the length of leg and width of shoulders to carry off the height.
The rest of the men present wore Arab dress but there the similarity ended. The dregs of humanity who had been part of this degrading scene were bedraggled specimens. This man was...magnificent.
Abby registered this fact while not losing sight of the truth that he was probably just as much of a threat to her...maybe even more so. She ought not to care about such things in her position, but his face had perfectly sculpted features, symmetrical angles and hollows so dramatically beautiful that she experienced an almost visceral thrill of awareness looking at him.
He held the eyes of the man beside her until the man lowered his arm. The stranger gave a curt nod and then his gaze moved on to Abby. His scrutiny lacked the leering quality of the other mens’ but it was equally disturbing, though in an entirely different way. Her tummy fluttered erratically in reaction to his blue-eyed stare.
She lifted her chin and planted her hands on her hips, staring right back until a draught made her realise that her ripped blouse was still displaying a lot of skin. Head bent, cheeks hot, she clumsily attempted to pull the sides closer together across her chest as she awkwardly fastened the buttons with shaking fingers. The top button had gone so she used the one below and, as it was either cover her breast or her midriff, she chose her breast.
She thought she might have imagined the flicker of something close to admiration in the horseman’s lean face before he turned and spoke to the man who appeared to be the auctioneer.
His voice was low, a throaty, abrasive quality giving the deep, velvet drawl texture.
Whatever he said caused one of the men who had been bidding to step forward, shouting and gesticulating in protest. As the shouting man reached Abby she leaned back, her nostrils flaring in distaste as his foul breath wafted over her face. She winced and closed her eyes as he grabbed her hair, steeling herself against the pain she anticipated. But it never came.
Instead, the man’s grip loosened and fell away, the stench receding. Head bent, she half-opened her eyes and saw the man who had grabbed her standing some feet away. He was still close but his focus was not on her, it was on the tall, white-clad figure who stood smiling with his hand curled around the man’s upper arm, seemingly oblivious to the wicked-looking blade pointed at him.
Abby held her breath, her heart continuing to fling itself against her ribcage with bone-cracking force, while this fresh top-up to the adrenaline already flowing through her veins made her head spin.
She felt strangely dissociated from the scene she was watching, as though it were the cliff-hanger in a soap opera finale...but this was real. As was the metallic taste of fear in her mouth.
The silent war of attrition lasted a few seconds before the lesser man’s eyes widened and he turned his head and slid the blade back into the concealed sheath on his robe.
He had lost face and he was not going to retire gracefully. He began to gesticulate angrily as he shouted, but Abby noticed that the few growls of agreement from the audience of watching men were subdued. Clearly in the ‘lay it on the table and measure it’ stakes he had lost out big time.
The tall horseman appeared oblivious to the growing tension as he addressed his soft comments to the man who had been in charge of the flesh auction.
Her would-be purchaser bent in to listen and threw up his hands, turning to his audience and inviting them to share his contempt. The response was a low growl.
For his part, the tall stranger seemed utterly oblivious to the threat that lay heavy in the air as he held out a hand and slid a ring off one long, brown finger, dropping it into the palm of the waiting man’s extended hand, then sliding a metal-banded watch from his wrist and adding it to the auctioneer’s spoils.
The man produced a flashlight from his pocket and turned away, his shoulders hunched as he examined his haul. Without another word he nodded and called out something to another man, who came across holding a rolled-up sheet of paper. He unrolled it and laid it on top of a crate that was acting as a table.
Was it a bill of sale?
The idea filled her with a mixture of revulsion and disbelief. This could not be happening; it was too surreal.
Without even looking at her the horseman took her arm and tugged her with him to the makeshift table. He took the offered pen and wrote what she presumed was his name on it.
He then turned and held the pen out to Abby, who stared at it as if it were a striking snake before she shook her head and tucked her hand behind her back.
‘What is it?’
The music being blasted from several of the trucks that had masked the noise of his arrival came to Zain’s aid again, covering his murmured response.
‘You can read the small print later,’ he said, his words betraying an urgency suggesting the odds of them getting out of here diminished the longer they remained. ‘If you ever want to see your home and family again sign it right now, you little fool.’
Her eyes fluttered wide as they flew to his face—she had not expected a reply to her question, let alone one in perfect English.
She took a deep breath then let it out slowly. Why was she even hesitating when the alternative was even more grim? Abby gave an imperceptible nod. The words on the paper blurred as she bent towards it and the pen that had been thrust into her hand trembled.
She would have dropped it but for the steadying grip of the long brown fingers that curved over her hand and guided it to the paper.
She looked from the big hand that curved her trembling fingers around the pen to her shaky signature appearing on the paper but felt no connection to it.
She stood there like a statue while the horseman physically took the pen from her fingers, conscious of a low buzz of argument just to her right that became loud and a lot angrier as the horseman rolled up the paper and put it inside a pocket hidden inside his robe.
* * *
The girl looked up at him with glazed green eyes—shock, he diagnosed, stifling a stab of sympathy. He pushed it away; empathy was not going to get them out of here. Clear thinking was. There was nothing like the danger of a life and death situation to focus a man, Zain thought with a smile. A bit of luck thrown in would also help.
In the periphery of his vision he was aware of the argument that was escalating, fast becoming a brawl...others were drifting towards it and sides were being taken.
‘Come on,’ he said through clenched teeth.
As his fingers curved around her elbow he could feel the tremors that were shaking her body. He pushed away a fresh stab of sympathy. His priority right now was getting out of this camp before someone recognised him and realised that he was worth more money than any girl, even one with flaming hair, curves and legs... He cut short his inventory and lifted his gaze from the shapely limbs in question.
‘Can you walk?’ There wasn’t a trace of sympathy in the question.
Ignoring the fact her knees were shaking, the woman lifted her chin and responded to what he could admit had been a cold, vaguely accusing question.
‘Of course I can walk.’ She was unsteady but she fell into step beside him. It was clear that he was still a danger in her eyes but she clearly saw he represented her way out of this awful place.
‘We don’t have all day.’ Behind his impassive expression he was impressed that she was still walking, and she wasn’t having hysterics... This was going to be easier if she was not having hysterics.
‘Keep up.’
Clearly unused to looking up at many people, the woman tilted her chin to lob a look of resentment at his patrician profile. ‘I’m trying,’ she muttered between clenched teeth.
‘Then try harder before they realise they could attempt to retake you despite the bride price I paid.’ His glance travelled from the top of her flaming head to her feet and all the lush curves in between before trailing to his own hand, which looked oddly bare without the ring he had worn since his eighteenth birthday. ‘Or me,’ he added softly.
Luckily, he was the spare and not the heir.
Through the dark screen of his lashes he calculated how many people could get between them and the waiting horse. It was encouraging to see that most had moved to join in the fracas they were swiftly moving away from. Zain was content for the men to fight amongst themselves. It was the possibility of their stopping long enough to unite against a common foe—namely himself and the redhead—that bothered him.
None of the thoughts passing through his head showed in his body language, however, as he had learnt a long time ago that appearances did matter. It wasn’t about a macho reluctance to show weakness; it was common sense. Weakness would always be exploited by enemies, and that went pretty much double when the enemies in question were carrying weapons.
A spasm of impatience flickered across his lean features as the girl slowed and came to a nervous halt when they got within a few feet of the stallion.
‘He won’t bite...unless you annoy him.’
* * *
Abby’s experience of equines had until this point in her life been restricted to a donkey ride on the beach. Even at eleven, her long legs had almost touched the floor as she straddled the little donkey, who had plodded along and looked at her with sad eyes. This animal, with his stamping feet, looked about ten feet tall and his rolling eyes were not kind.
‘I don’t think he likes me.’
The mysterious stranger ignored the comment and vaulted into the saddle before reaching down and casually hauling her up before him.
Landing breathlessly, Abby clutched at the first thing that came to hand, which was the horseman, seizing on cloth. His body was hard as rock with zero excess flesh.
It wasn’t until the horse had stopped dancing like a temperamental ballerina and she had not fallen off that the comment hit her. ‘Bride price...?’
‘Can you do something with that hair? I can’t see a damned thing...’ Holding the reins in one hand, he pushed a skein of her copper hair away from his face and urged the horse into a canter. ‘Yes, we just got married.’
She turned her head to stare in wide-eyed alarm as he urged all several hundred pounds of quivering, high-bred horse flesh underneath them into action, and the animal hit full gallop in seconds.
Her shriek was carried away by the warm air that hit her face. Abby tightened her white-knuckled grip and closed her eyes, sending up a silent prayer...or maybe not so silent. She felt rather than heard his heartless laugh as the sting of sand hitting her face made her turn it protectively into his broad shoulder.
‘Just hang on.’
She had no intention of letting go or, for that matter, opening her eyes again as her stomach lurched sickly. She couldn’t see a thing anyway as they left the lights of the encampment behind. It was pitch-black. How on earth could he see where they were going?
Where were they going?
And were they really married?
The horse’s thundering stride didn’t falter. In fact, after a short time, the rhythm of its hoof beats seemed to have a soothing effect on her. Although perhaps that was too strong a word to describe the calm, almost hypnotic sensation allowing the rigidity of terror to slip from her body by degrees, allowing her to even lift her face from the man’s shoulder.
‘Are they following us?’
‘Maybe. I only managed to disable half the engines before—’ He cut off abruptly as he felt an echo of the swell of rage that had consumed him when he saw the guy raise his hand. ‘Did they...hurt you?’
‘Not in the way you mean.’ She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. It wasn’t fear that kept her eyes closed now but the fact that the mere effort of lifting her eyelids was a struggle.
But she had to try—there were questions she needed to ask. Not deep, meaningful stuff, just the basics, like who was he and where were they going?
‘This is mad,’ she said as another yawn escaped her. She felt weirdly numb and even her bitten arm seemed to have stopped hurting. Eyes closed, hurtling along like this felt strangely like flying, the hand that was looped casually around her ribs keeping her safe.
* * *
‘No, it’s physiology. Shock releases chemicals.’
And never underestimate the power of chemicals, he thought, the memory of the burst of raw rage that had hit him like a tsunami when he had seen the redhead paraded like a piece of meat for the benefit of the pack of rabid scum still fresh in his mind.
For a man who had always taken his ability to approach problems from the vantage point of cool detachment, the knowledge that his struggle to control the initial primal instinct, the rush of visceral hatred, to rush in without considering the consequences when it could have gone either way was disturbing.
‘I’m not in shock,’ she told him, a hint of challenge in her voice as she prised her eyelids apart and gave her head a tiny shake.
He flashed a look downwards at the woman who sat in front of him. The angle meant her face was hidden from him and he could only see the top of her glossy head and the angle of her jaw. It was a stubborn angle, but it had taken more than stubbornness to stand there and throw a punch. It was stupid, yes, but also just about the gutsiest thing he had ever seen.
‘The danger is over and your adrenaline levels are dipping.’
Abby gave a tiny choking laugh, as if she thought the idea she was out of danger was funny.
‘You’ve found something to laugh about in this situation?’
‘I can have hysterics if you prefer,’ she said with annoyance, a strange look coming over her face. Then, ‘I feel sick,’ she warned him suddenly.
‘Don’t be,’ he said, knowing it was an unfeeling response but also knowing they couldn’t stop now. It wasn’t safe.
Luckily for them both her nausea passed, but the bone-deep exhaustion didn’t as he felt her fight the losing battle to stay awake. At last she gave in and when her head next slumped against his chest it stayed there, her breathing deepening and her body relaxing into his.
Zain dragged her soft, limp body in closer, giving the powerful animal free rein, and found the quiet place in his head that had eluded him all day. It turned out that all it took was being fired at, giving away a priceless gem that had been in his family for generations, and having a beautiful, albeit filthy and bedraggled, woman snore softly in his arms. Just when he’d thought life was getting predictable.
His narrowed glance moved once more towards the east, where he could see a ribbon of distant lights that indicated they were being pursued, but they had had a head start and if he made a detour to the Qu’raing oasis their paths would not cross.
The danger was over...so why did he feel as if he was about to face another?
CHAPTER THREE (#ue1deef32-c2f9-5481-af0d-ca4083691d58)
‘TIME TO STRETCH your legs.’
Abby murmured sleepily and ignored the voice but couldn’t ignore the creak of leather and the abrupt removal of the hard warmth she had been pressed against—as illusions of security went, this one was on an epic scale.
Abby fought her way through the layers of sleep and blinked... The ground was a long way off and the horse she sat astride was stamping and snorting restlessly.
She’d been asleep. How on earth had she actually slept?
She arched her back to stretch out the cricks in her spine and felt herself slip, so she grabbed the first thing that came to hand—a piece of horse mane—to regain her balance. Feeling slightly more secure, she risked letting go for a moment to brush away the hair that had fallen across her face, effectively blinding her.
She was half-inclined to pull the silky curtain back in place when her eyes connected with those of the tall man standing, arms folded across his chest, watching her.
Of their own volition, her eyes made the journey up from his dusty boots to the edges of the gold embroidery along the traditional gown he wore. Her throat drying as they reached his face, she lost interest in moving away. He was beautiful in a sharp-intake-of-breath, tummy-clenching way. The carved symmetry of his dark, dramatic features framed by the pale head-covering was riveting.
She quickly shook off her rapt expression, looking away and silently blaming her fascination with the carnal curve of this man’s mouth on the situation... Everything that had happened felt more akin to an out-of-body experience than reality.
‘I’d prefer not to stop,’ she said.
‘Is that a fact?’
His tone made her flush. ‘I just meant...the thing is... I wasn’t alone when they—’ She stopped as, without warning, a wave of revulsion tightened like a fist in her stomach, an echo of the fear she had felt when she had been thrown in the truck. It took her a couple of swallows to regain enough composure to finish huskily, ‘When they took me.’
He watched her thoughtfully as she fought for control.
‘They, the rest of the group I was travelling with, are stranded—we have to...’ She stopped, frustrated because he didn’t seem to grasp the urgency.
‘They are three grown men.’
Relief rushed through her; she’d asked her captors what had happened to the men left behind but the only response she’d had she hadn’t been able to understand. ‘You saw them?’ she said eagerly.
He tipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘They’re not hurt? Did they get the car going?’
‘They have shelter; they can survive a night in the desert.’
‘You haven’t reported their whereabouts to anyone?’
‘Following you seemed a priority at the time.’
She bit her lip. ‘And obviously I’m very grateful. I’m just worried about my friends.’
‘One special friend perhaps?’
The insinuation made her flush. ‘They are work colleagues. I’m a model. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to go and check, just to be sure.’
‘Be my guest.’
* * *
He took a step back and spread an arm in a sweeping gesture towards the miles upon miles of undulating ochre sand. The first fingers of the rising sun had drawn a line of deep red along the horizon and he knew she was seeing a vast, terrifying emptiness, but Zain also knew that it teemed with life and all around them the nocturnal creatures that inhabited the vastness were hiding away from the oncoming day and the heat it brought.
‘Which way do you suggest we go?’
She took refuge from frustration in a childish retort. ‘So what you’re telling me is to shut up and do as I’m told because you know best.’
Head tilted, he considered her comment. ‘In the desert, I definitely know best,’ he retorted calmly. ‘You coming down?’
‘Where are we?’
Not civilisation; the pale grey light of dawn revealed that much. There was something that looked like grass under their feet and a few scrubby trees to their left which blocked the view beyond. Behind them lay the seemingly endless miles of bare, bleak desert blushed pink by the dawn. She shivered again.
* * *
He had never seen skin so smooth, features so crystal-clear... He brought his list of her attributes to an abrupt halt. Her beauty had made her a victim today, but it was inevitable that there had been many occasions when it had played to her advantage, when men had made fools of themselves over her.
Zain dragged his eyes, which were inclined to linger on the long length of her slim, shapely legs, upwards. The twist of his lips held self-mockery as he observed, ‘It’s a bit late in the day for caution, don’t you think?’ His heart might be in cold storage but it seemed his libido was still active and functioning.
Maybe that was the way forward?
Not here, not now and definitely not with a woman who probably didn’t even realise how vulnerable she was. But empty sex, while not exactly an original way to move on, was a tried and tested method and appealed to him a hell of a lot more than drowning in self-pity or becoming celibate.
Sex was healthy if you kept it free of emotions. And he had learnt to control his years ago...mostly... Unbidden, the moment he had got his first glimpse of the kidnapped woman flashed into his mind.
When he set out to find her he’d had no mental image in his head of the woman he was seeking—she hadn’t actually been a person for him. Regardless, nothing he could imagine would have come close to the reality.
He hadn’t needed the cacophony of competing music blaring from the trucks to cover his entrance into the ramshackle encampment. All attention had been fixed on her. In a heartbeat the electric air of anticipation in the place had been explained. It had taken Zain a moment to absorb every detail of her lithe, lush body, the impossibly long legs, the sinuous curves, the pale skin and tangled skein of flaming auburn hair. There was nothing plastic or air-brushed about her—just a warm, luscious, desirable woman.
It wasn’t difficult to imagine her on a billboard selling anything and maybe causing a few accidents. She was the sort of woman to make a man forget about his troubles. Not that he was that man but, even so, the last few miles with her soft body pressed against his had made for an interesting journey—just him, the sleeping girl and his testosterone. There was a simplicity to it that, after a day of his calculating his every expression and verbal intonation, had been a strange sort of relief.
* * *
It took a couple of seconds for Abby’s exhausted, stress-racked brain to pick its way through the man’s critical comment.
‘You think it was my fault I got kidnapped? I asked for it maybe...? You know, one of the things I despise most is victim-blaming...not that I am—a victim, I mean—but...oh, hell!’ She threw up her hands, immediately losing her balance and a couple of wild, flailing moments later falling straight into his open arms.
The impact of hitting a chest that was as hard as steel expelled a soft whoosh of air from her lungs as the arm banding her ribs loosened enough to let her slide slowly all the way to the floor. It was obvious before she made land fall that the rest of him was equally hard—the man was built of solid muscle—and falling had felt less alarming than the head-spinning, stomach-fluttering sensation that made her world spin. The sensation was so strong it was a breathless moment before she managed to get her erratic breathing under control enough to protest.
‘Let me g...go!’
He did, with a care that bordered, unexpectedly, on tenderness. ‘I’m not the one doing the holding,’ he pointed out, angling a quizzical look at her fingers still clutching the sleeves of his robe.
Before she could react to the taunting reminder, the blades of his dark brows drew into an interrogative straight line above his spectacular, dazzling blue eyes. ‘What’s that?’
She lifted a hand to the puffy, swollen area on her arm where his accusatory glance rested. ‘A bite, I suppose.’
He laid one hand on her forehead, caught her wrist with the other and extended her arm, bending in closer to inspect the area.
‘Do you mind? That hurts!’ she protested, turning her head away and tugging on her arm; after what had happened it seemed bizarre that he had fixated on this minor problem.
‘So you dress like you’re off to play a game of beach volleyball, and for good measure don’t use mosquito repellent. Do you know how dangerous this desert is?’
Fighting the urge to pull at the hem of her shorts to cover herself from his contemptuous gaze, she lifted her chin a defiant notch and cut across him.
‘It was a photo shoot. I don’t choose what I wear, and I did use repellent.’ It had been in the sunscreen that she had virtually bathed in. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to go straight back to my hotel,’ she announced.
He looked startled, then, after a short, stunned-seeming silence, gave a laugh. ‘I am not a taxi service.’
The amused hauteur in his response made her feel marginally less awful about coming across like some sort of snooty tourist, but she could see he had a point.
Her descent from snooty was rapid and clearly not at all what he’d expected. ‘Of course not. Sorry. And I suppose it’s a bit late but I’m tremendously... Thank you,’ she said, her gratitude as genuine as her hope he really was one of the good guys. She felt the ball of fear in her stomach tightening and refused to acknowledge it.
The groove between his brows deepened. Her rescuer hadn’t expected the back-down and it threw him, as did the obvious genuineness of it. ‘I don’t require your thanks.’
The lingering shock in her system made her response teary. ‘Tough, I’m grateful.’
‘What were you doing all the way out there alone anyway?’ His question had an unexpected throaty quality.
Abby took a breath, feeling tears press against her eyelids, and tried to flatten out her emotional response. Facts, she could do facts.
‘We were meant to be much closer to the city, but nobody had factored in the wedding. Did you know? Sorry, it doesn’t matter.’ All her efforts focused on not sounding weepy, she avoided his eyes. That bright, glittering stare made it hard for her to concentrate. ‘But it did complicate things—there was a no-fly zone, diversions and a lot of restrictions.’ They had sat in an airport lounge drinking coffee while emails between the firm paying for the jaunt and the director decided their fate. ‘I even wondered at first when I was...’ Catching herself up short, she gave a self-conscious little nod. She swallowed, her hand pressed to her throat as she relived those awful moments when the men had grabbed her. ‘I wondered, actually hoped it was a set-up for publicity...’ She swallowed again and rubbed her hands over her forearms, remembering the sensations of total, overwhelming helplessness. ‘I feel grubby.’ She wasn’t talking just about the sand clinging to her skin and hair or the assorted smears of dirt on her inadequate clothing.
‘Then come.’ He tipped his head towards the trees. ‘Bathe.’
She blinked at the unexpected response.
‘A horse needs water.’ He took hold of the horse’s reins and approached the scrubby undergrowth.
The incline had not been apparent from where they had stood but it explained why she hadn’t been able to see the taller trees or the palms. An oasis meant water and soon they reached it, a bubbling trickle that rose up from the ground and ran in a thin silver ribbon through the trees. Neither horse nor rider paused; instead they carried on, the reason becoming clear a few moments later when the stream fed into a pool of turquoise water framed by palms.
Her exposure to life’s ugliness had given her a new appreciation of life’s beauty, and emotion deepened her voice as she stared at the shimmering, postcard-perfect image and gasped. ‘It’s beautiful!’
The stranger watched her battle to subdue the tears, blinking and sniffing but stubbornly determined not to add any new tear tracks to her face as she pressed a hand to her soft, trembling lips. Standing there, bedraggled, her face filthy and scratched, she knew she looked ridiculously fragile. Stubborn pride was the only thing holding her up.
‘We need to do something about your arm.’
The first hint of gentleness in his voice released the floodgates and the tears began to overflow, sliding down her cheeks as first one sob escaped her lips then another. They just kept coming...deep, subterranean sobs that shook her entire body.
* * *
Without thinking, Zain reacted to her distress. He moved in closer, took her by the arms and stood there, bodies close but not touching, his chin on her head while she wailed like a banshee. One look at her tear-filled eyes and the fear warring with pride there had touched him in a corner of his heart he hadn’t known existed.
The sobs and tremors shaking her body subsided and finally she pulled away, looking embarrassed rather than grateful.
‘I must look terrible,’ she sniffed, not quite meeting his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, too distracted by the scene playing in his head to display any tact.
She was under him, her warmth pushing up into him, her body arching as he slid deep inside her.
He’d known her barely a few hours and already it was becoming a recurrent theme that his imagination was intermittently adding erotic details to. More a man for action, Zain had never thought fantasies were any substitute for reality. What he hadn’t realised until this moment was just how frustrating they were!
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