Forged in the Desert Heat
Maisey Yates
A woman who could start a warThe Gypsy Sheikh. Betrayer. Modern-day marauder. Zafar Nejem has been called many things, and now he is to be called Your Majesty. Returning to the throne of Al Sabah, his first act is to rescue American heiress Analise Christensen from her desert kidnappers.Ana is engaged to the ruler of a neighbouring kingdom, and her discovery must be concealed until Zafar can explain her presence or else he risks war. But as the sun rises over the sand dunes so does the forbidden heat that burns between them, threatening everything…‘The hardest working woman in romance!I never miss a Maisey!’– Annabelle, 39, Wakefieldwww.maiseyyates.com
‘I don’t have to be good, Ana, I just have to win. In the end Al Sabah has to win. The rest … The rest doesn’t matter.’
‘And you’ll do anything to win?’
‘Anything,’ Zafar said.
Ana believed him. There was no doubt. The way he said it—so dark and sure and certain—sent a shiver through her body, down into her bones. And yet it didn’t repel her. It didn’t make her want to run. Perversely, it almost made her want to get closer.
The shock of fear that ran through her body was electric. It sent ripples of warning, showers of sparks that sent a crackling heat along her veins. She felt like a child standing before a fire. Fascinated and awed by its warmth, knowing there was something that might make it all dangerous, but not having any real concept of the damage it could do.
Even having that moment of clarity, she didn’t draw back.
MAISEY YATES was an avid Mills & Boon
Modern™ Romance reader before she began to write them. She still can’t quite believe she’s lucky enough to get to create her very own sexy alpha heroes and feisty heroines. Seeing her name on one of those lovely covers is a dream come true.
Maisey lives with her handsome, wonderful, diaper-changing husband and three small children across the street from her extremely supportive parents and the home she grew up in, in the wilds of Southern Oregon, USA. She enjoys the contrast of living in a place where you might wake up to find a bear on your back porch and then heading into the home office to write stories that take place in exotic urban locales.
Recent titles by the same author:
HIS RING IS NOT ENOUGH
THE COUPLE WHO FOOLED THE WORLD
HEIR TO A DARK INHERITANCE
(Secret Heirs of Powerful Men) HEIR TO A DESERT LEGACY (Secret Heirs of Powerful Men)
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Forged in the Desert Heat
Maisey Yates
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my daughter.
Never be afraid to stand up for yourself, or to stand for what’s right.
You’re the hero of your story.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u7b82d84e-007f-5425-a945-df40e9eed037)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf3f30fdb-9690-50eb-aa9d-f2ff4b8626cb)
CHAPTER THREE (#ubd7df52a-bff7-522e-b759-e70435b0f699)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u8c9aedf2-ef52-5303-93bd-ddd1581f309f)
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)
EXCERPT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
SHEIKH ZAFAR NEJEM scanned the encampment, the sun burning what little of his skin was revealed. He was as covered as he could possibly be, both to avoid the harsh elements of the desert, and to avoid being recognized.
Though, for most, the odds of that would be low out here, hundreds of miles from any city. But this was his home. Where he’d been raised. The place where he’d made his name as the most fearsome man in Al Sabah.
And considering his competition for the position, there was weight to the title.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary here. Cooking fires were smoldering, and he could hear voices in the tents. He stopped for a moment. This was no family encampment, but that of a band of highway men. Thieves. Outlaws, not unlike himself. He knew these men, and they knew him. He had a tentative truce with them, but that didn’t mean he was ready to show himself.
It didn’t mean he trusted them. He trusted no one.
Especially not now.
Not now that there was certain to be unrest. Anger, backlash over his installation in the palace. On the throne.
Back to his rightful position.
The Gypsy Sheikh’s return had not been met with delight, at least not in the more “civilized” corners of the country. His uncle had done far too efficient a job in destroying his reputation for anyone to be pleased at his coronation.
If only he could dispel the rumors surrounding his exile. But he could not.
Because they were true.
But here, among the people who felt like his own—among the people who had suffered most at his uncle’s hand—there was happiness here at least. They knew that whatever his sins, he had been working to atone.
Zafar looked out toward the horizon, all flat and barren from this point to Bihar. There was one more place to stop and seek shelter, but it was another five hours’ ride, and he didn’t relish the idea of more time spent in the saddle today.
He dismounted his horse and patted the animal, dust rising from his black coat. “I think we’ll take our chances here,” he said, leading him to a makeshift corral, where other horses were hemmed in, and opened the gate.
He closed it, making sure it was secure before walking back toward the main tent.
One of the men was already coming out to greet him.
“Sheikh,” he said, inclining his head. “A surprise.”
“Is it? You had to know I was heading back to Bihar.” A growing suspicion. The desert was vast and it seemed strange to intersect with Jamal’s band of thugs at this particular moment.
“I may have heard something about it. But there is more than one road to the capital city.”
“So you had no desire for a meeting with me?”
The other man smiled, dark eyes glinting in the golden light. “I didn’t say that. We were hoping to run into you. Or, at least, someone of your means.”
“My means are still limited. I haven’t yet been back to Bihar.”
“And yet, you do find ways to acquire what you need.”
Zafar looked the man over. “As do you. Will you invite me in?”
“Not yet.”
Zafar knew something wasn’t right. His truce with Jamal and his men was tentative. It was probably why they wanted to see him. He was in a position to put a stop to what they did out here in the desert, and he knew the places they liked to hit.
They weren’t dangerous men; at least, they weren’t entirely without conscience. And so they were on the bottom of a long list of concerns, but, as was human nature, they clearly believed themselves more important in his world than they were.
“Then have you gifts to offer me in place of hospitality?” Zafar asked dryly, a reference to common custom out in the desert.
“Hospitality will come,” Jamal said. “And while we don’t have gifts, we do have some items you might take an interest in.”
“The horses in the corral?”
“Most are for sale.”
“Camels?”
“Them, as well.”
“What use have I for camels? I imagine there is an entire menagerie of them waiting for me in Bihar. Cars, as well.” It had been a long time since he’d ridden in a car. Utterly impractical for his lifestyle. They were a near-foreign thought now, as were most other modern conveniences.
The other man smiled, his teeth brilliantly white against his dark beard. “I have something better. An offer we hope might appease you.”
“Not a gift, though.”
“Items this rare and precious cannot be given away, your highness.”
“Perhaps you should allow me to be the judge of that.”
Jamal turned and shouted toward the tent and Zafar watched as two men emerged, holding a small, blonde woman between them. She looked up at him, pale eyes wide, red rimmed. She wasn’t dirty, neither did she look like she’d been handled too roughly. She wasn’t attempting an escape, either, but given their location...there would be no point. She would have nowhere to go.
“You have brought me a woman?”
“A potential bride, perhaps? Or just a plaything.”
“When have I ever given the indication that I’m the sort of man who buys women?”
“You seem like the sort of man who would not leave a woman in the middle of the desert.”
“And you would?” he asked.
“In no uncertain terms, Your Highness.”
“Why should I care about one Western woman? I have a country to consider.”
“You will buy her, I think. And for our asking price.”
Zafar shrugged and turned away. “Ransom her. I’m sure her loved ones will pay much more than I am willing or able to.”
“I would ransom her, but it is not my intention to start a war.”
Zafar stopped and turned, his muscles locked tight, his heart pounding hard. “What?”
“A war, Sheikh. It is not in my best interest to start one. I don’t want those Shakari bastards all over my desert.”
Shakar was the closest neighboring country to Al Sabah and relations between the two nations were at a breaking point, thanks to Zafar’s uncle. “What does Shakar have to do with this woman? She’s Western, clearly.”
“Yes. Clearly. She is also, if we believe her ranting from when we first took her, American heiress Analise Christensen. I imagine you have heard the name. She is betrothed to the Sheikh of Shakar.”
Yes, he had heard the name. He was largely cut off from matters of State but he still heard things. He made sure he did. And clearly, Jamal made certain he heard things, as well. “And how is it I play into this? What is it you want with her?” he spat.
“We can start a war here, or end one, the choice is yours. Also, with the wrong words in the right ear, even if you take her, but threaten us? We can put you in a very bad position. How is it you ended up with her? The future bride of a man rumored to be the enemy of Al Sabah? Your hands are bound, Zafar.”
In truth, he would never have considered leaving the woman here with them, but what they were suggesting was blackmail, and one problem he didn’t need. One problem too many.
So, buy her and drop her off at the nearest airport.
Yes. He could do. He didn’t have very much money on him, but he didn’t think their aim was to get the highest price off the beauty’s head so much as to seek protection. Zafar was, after all, ready to assume the throne, and he knew all of their secrets.
He looked down at the woman who claimed to be an heiress, betrothed to a sheikh. Anger blazed from those eyes, he could see it clearly now. She was not defeated, but she was also smart enough to save her energy. To not waste time fighting here and now.
“You have not harmed her?” he asked, his throat getting tight with disgust at the thought.
“We have not laid a finger on her, beyond binding her to keep her from escaping. Where would her value be, where would our protection be, if she were damaged?”
They were offering him a chance to see her returned as if nothing had happened, he understood. If she were assaulted, it would be clear, and Al Sabah, and by extension the new and much-maligned sheikh, would be blamed.
And war would be imminent.
Either from Shakar or from his own people, were they to learn of what had happened under his “watch.”
He made an offer. Every bit of money he had. “I’m not dealing,” he said. “That is my only offer.”
Jamal looked at him, his expression hard. “Done.” He extended his hand, and Zafar didn’t for one moment mistake it as an offer for a handshake. He reached into his robes and produced a drawstring coin purse, old-fashioned, not used widely in the culture of the day.
But he’d been disconnected from the culture of the day for fifteen years so that was no surprise.
He poured the coins into his hand. “The woman,” he said, extending his arm, fist closed. “The woman first.”
One of the men walked her forward, and Zafar took hold of her arm, drawing her tight into his body. She was still, stiff, her eyes straight ahead, not once resting on him.
He then passed the coins to Jamal. “I think I will not be stopping for the night.”
“Eager to try her out, Sheikh?”
“Hardly,” he said, his lip curling. “As you said, there is no surer way to start a war.”
He tightened his hold on her and walked her to the corral. She was quiet, unnaturally so and he wondered if she was in shock. He looked down at her face, expecting to see her eyes looking glassy or confused. Instead, she was looking around, calculating.
“No point, princess,” he said in English. “There is nowhere to go out here, but unlike those men, I mean you no harm.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?” she asked.
“For now.” He opened the gate and his horse approached. He led him from the enclosure. “Can you get on the horse? Are you hurt?”
“I don’t want to get on the horse,” she said, her voice monotone.
He let out a long breath and hauled her up into his arms, pulling her, and himself, up onto the horse in one fluid motion, bringing her to rest in front of his body. “Too bad. I paid too much for you to leave you behind.”
He tapped his horse and the animal moved to a trot, taking them away from the camp.
“You...you bought me?”
“All things considered I got a very good deal.”
“A good...a good deal!”
“I didn’t even look at your teeth. For all I know I was taken advantage of.” He wasn’t in the mood to deal with a hysterical woman. Or a woman in general, no matter her mental state. But he was stuck with one now.
He supposed he should be...sympathetic, or something like that. He no longer knew how.
“You were not,” she said, her voice clipped. “Who are you?”
“You do not speak Arabic?”
“Not the particular dialect you were speaking, no. I recognized some but not all.”
“The Bedouins out here have their own form of the language. Sometimes larger families have their own variation, though that is less common.”
“Thank you for the history lesson. I shall make a note. Who are you?”
“I am Sheikh Zafar Nejem, and I daresay I am your salvation.”
“I think I would have been better off if I were left to burn.”
* * *
Ana clung to the horse as it galloped over the sand, the night air starting to cool, no longer burning her face. This must be what shock felt like. Numb and aware of nothing, except for the heat at her back from the man behind her, and the sound of the horse’s hooves on the sand.
He’d stopped talking to her now, the man who claimed to be the Sheikh of Al Sabah, a man whose entire face was obscured by a headdress, save for his obsidian eyes. But before she’d been kidnapped...and it surely had only been a couple of days...Farooq Nejem had been the ruler of the country. A large and looming problem for Shakar, and one that Tariq had been very concerned with.
“Zafar,” she said. “Zafar Nejem. I don’t know your name. I can’t...remember. I thought Farooq...”
“Not anymore,” he said, his voice hard, deep, rumbling through him as he spoke.
The horse’s gait slowed, and Ana looked around the barren landscape, trying to figure out any reason at all for them to be stopping. There was nothing. Nothing but more sand and more...nothing. It was why she hadn’t made an escape attempt before. Going out alone and unprepared in the desert of Al Sabah was as good as signing your own death certificate.
They’d been warned of that so many times by their guide, and after traveling over the desert in the tour group on camelback for a day, she believed him.
So much for a fun, secret jaunt into the desert with her friends before her engagement to Tariq was announced. This was not really fun anymore. And it confirmed what she’d always suspected: that stepping out of line was a recipe for disaster.
She was so fair, too much exposure to the midday sun and she’d go up in a puff of smoke and leave nothing but a little pile of ash behind.
So bolting was out of the question, but the fact that they were stopping made her very, very uneasy. She’d been lucky, so lucky that the men that had kidnapped her had seen value in leaving her untouched. She wasn’t totally sure about her new captor.
She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the burn in her lungs, compliments of the arid, late-afternoon air. It was so thin. So dry. Just existing here was an effort. More confirmation on why running was a bad idea.
But she had to be calm. She had to keep control, and if she couldn’t have control over the situation, she would have it over herself.
Her captor got down off the horse, quickly, gracefully, and offered his hand. She accepted. Because with the way she was feeling at the moment, she might just slide off the horse and crumble into a heap in the sand. That would be one humiliation too many. She had been purchased today, after all.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“At a stopping point.”
“Why? Where? How is it a stopping point?” She looked around for a sign of civilization. A sign of something. Someone.
“It is a stopping point, because I am ready to stop. I have been riding for eight hours.”
“Why don’t you have a car if you’re a sheikh?” she asked, feeling irritated over everything.
“Completely impractical. I live in the middle of the desert. Fuel would become a major issue.”
Oh yes. Fuel. Oil. Oil was always the issue. It was something she knew well, having grown up the daughter of the richest oil baron in the United States. Her father had a knack for finding black gold. But he was a businessman, and that meant that the search was never done. It was all about getting more. Getting better.
And that was how she’d met Sheikh Tariq. It was how she’d ended up in Shakar, and then, in Al Sabah.
Oil was the grandaddy of this entire mess.
But it would be okay. It would be. She thought of Tariq, his warm dark eyes, his smile. The thought of him always made her stomach flip. Not so much at the moment, but given she was hot, tired, dusty, and currently leaning into the embrace of a stranger, thanks to her klutzy dismount, it seemed understandable.
She straightened and pushed away from him, heart pounding. He was nothing like Tariq. For a start, his eyes were flat black, no laughter. No warmth. But so very compelling...
“Where are we?” she asked, looking away from him, and at their surroundings.
“In the middle of the desert. I would give you coordinates, but I imagine they would mean nothing to you.”
“Less than nothing.” She squinted, trying to see through the haze of purple, the sun gone completely behind the distant mountains now. “How long until we reach civilization? Until I can contact my father? Or Tariq?”
“Who says I’ll allow you to contact them? Perhaps I have purchased you for my harem.”
“What happened to you being my salvation?”
“Have you ever lived in a harem?” He lifted a brow. “Perhaps you would like it.”
“Do you even have a harem?”
“Sadly,” he said, his tone as dry as the sand, “I do not. But I am only just getting started in the position as sheikh, so there is time to amass one.”
She nearly choked, fear clutching at her. “I am...stranded in the middle of a foreign desert....”
“It’s not foreign.”
“Not to you!” she said.
“Continue.”
“I am stranded in the desert with a stranger who claims he’s a sheikh, a sheikh who bought me, and you are joking about my future! I have no patience for it.”
She had no patience left in her entire body. At this moment, she had two options: get angry, or sink to the ground and cry. And crying was never the preferred option. No, the schools she’d attended, the ones she’d been sent to after her mother left, had been exclusive, private and very strict. She’d been taught that strength and composure were everything. She’d been taught never to run when she could walk. Never to shout when a composed, even statement would do. And she’d learned that tears never helped anything in life. They didn’t change things. They hadn’t brought her mother back home, certainly.
So she was going with anger.
His manner changed, dark brows locking together. His black eyes glittering with dark fire. He tugged at the bottom portion of the scarf, which had kept most of his face hidden until that moment, and revealed his lips, which were currently curled into a snarl.
“And you think I have the patience for this? These men are playing at starting a war between two nations simply to keep their petty ring of thieves intact. They are trying to buy my loyalty with blackmail. Because they know that if your precious Tariq finds out you were taken by citizens of Al Sabah, or God forbid, they find out the Sheikh of Al Sabah possessed you for any length of time against your will, that the tenuous truce we have between the countries will shatter entirely. How do you suppose my patience is?”
She blinked, feeling dizzy. “I...I’m going to start a war?”
“Not if I play it right.”
“I imagine putting me in your harem wouldn’t defuse things.”
“True enough. But then...perhaps I want the war.”
“What?”
“I am undecided on the matter.”
“How can you be undecided on the matter?”
“Easily,” he said. “I have yet to have a look at any of the papers left behind by my uncle. I have had limited contact with the palace since finding out I was to be installed as ruler.”
“Why?”
“Could have something to do with the fact that my first, albeit distant, act was to fire every single person who worked for my uncle. Regime changes are rough.”
“Is this a...hostile takeover?”
“No. I am the rightful heir. My uncle is dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Her manners were apparently bred into her strongly enough that they came out even in the middle of a crisis of this magnitude.
“I’m not. My uncle was the worst thing to happen to Al Sabah in its history. He brought nothing but poverty and violence to my country. And stress between us and neighboring countries.” His dark gaze swept over her. “You are unfortunate enough to have become a pawn in the paradigm shift. And I have yet to decide how I will move you.”
CHAPTER TWO
FOR ONE MOMENT, Zafar almost felt something akin to sympathy for the pale woman standing in front of him. Almost.
He had no time for emotions like that. More than that, he was nearly certain he had lost the ability to feel them in any deep, meaningful way.
He’d spent nearly half of his life away from society, away from family. He’d had no emotional connections at all in the past fifteen years. He’d had purpose. A drive that transcended feeling, that transcended comfort, hunger, pain. A need to keep watch over Al Sabah, to protect the weakest of his people. To see justice served.
Even at the expense of this woman’s happiness.
Fortunately for her, while he imagined she would be delayed longer than she would like, he had a feeling their ultimate goals would be much the same. Seeing her back to Tariq would be the simplest way to keep peace, he was certain. But he had to figure out how to finesse it.
And finesse was something he generally lacked.
Brute force was more his strength.
“I don’t like the idea of that at all,” she said. “I’m not really inclined to hang around and be moved by you. I want to go home.” She choked on the last word, a crack showing in her icy facade. Or maybe the shock was wearing off. It was very likely she’d been in shock for the past few days.
He remembered being in that state. A blissful cushion against the harsh reality of life. Oh yes, he remembered that well. It had driven him out into the desert and the searing heat had hardly mattered at all.
He hadn’t felt it.
He was numb. Bloody memories blunted because there was no way he could process them fully. Deep crimson stains washed pink by the bone-white sun.
If she was lucky, she was being insulated in that way. If not...if not he might have a woman dissolving in front of him soon. And he really didn’t have the patience for that.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Right. War. Et cetera.”
“You were listening. Now, hold that thought while I go and set up a tent. Can you do that? And can you also not wander off?”
“I don’t have a death wish,” she said. “I’m not about to wander off into the desert at night. Or during the day. Why do you think I haven’t escaped?”
“That begs the question how you were taken in the first place.” He took the tent, rolled up and strapped to the back of his horse, and walked over the outcrop of rock. He would hide them from view as best as he could.
Jamal and his men were hardly the only thieves, or the only danger, they could face out in the desert.
“I was on a desert tour. Of the Bedouin camps in Shakar. On the border.”
“So my people went into Shakar to take you?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“You are damned lucky they knew who you were.” He didn’t like to think of the fate she might have met otherwise.
“My ring,” she said. “It gave me away. It was part of the Shakari crown jewels.” She flexed her fingers, bare now. “They kept that. But then, they would be pretty bad thieves if they didn’t.”
“Fortunate you had it,” he said. “Odd they did not produce it as proof.”
Pale eyes widened, panic flaring in their depths. “But you must know about me,” she said. “You must know that Tariq planned to marry soon. I would imagine even base intelligence would have brought you that bit of information.”
“An alliance that pertains to the political, I believe,” he said.
“Yes. And he loves me.”
“I’m sure he does,” Zafar said dryly.
“He does. I’m not fool enough to think that my connections have nothing to do with it, but we’ve been...we’ve been engaged for years. Distantly, but we have spent time together.”
“And you love him?”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her chin up, blue eyes defiant. “I do. With all my heart. I was looking forward to the marriage.”
“When was the marriage to take place?”
“A few months yet. I was to be introduced to his people, our courtship to be played out before the media.”
“But your courtship has already taken place.”
“Yes. But you know...appearances. I mean, that’s the whole point of not taking me straight back to Shakar, isn’t it? Appearances. You don’t want Tariq to know your people, or by extension, you were involved in this. And you don’t want to appear weak. You don’t want people to know it happened on your watch.” She nodded once, as if agreeing with herself. “That’s a big part of it, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t had a single day in the palace yet. I don’t want to be at the center of a scandal involving a kidnapped future sheikha of a neighboring country, so yes, you’re right.”
“I see.”
“What is it you see, habibti?” he asked, the endearment flowing off his tongue. It had become a habit to call women that. Because it was easier than remembering names. Safer, in many ways. It kept them at a distance and that was how he preferred it.
Life in the desert, on the move, made it difficult to find lovers, but he had them in a few of his routine stops. A couple of widows in particular Bedouin camps, and a woman in the capital city who was very good at supplying him with necessary information.
She squinted, pale eyes assessing him. “That this is a threat to you personally.”
“I am not the most well-liked man in Al Sabah. Let’s just say that. This is an issue when one means to rule a country.”
It was the understatement of the century. If he had been recognized anywhere in the city while his uncle was in command, his life would have been forfeit. His exile had been under the darkest of circumstances, and since then, he’d hardly done anything to improve his standing, particularly with those loyal to his uncle.
His loyalty was to the Bedouins. To ensure they never suffered because of his uncle’s rule, and without him, they would have. No medical, no emergency services of any kind. His uncle had put them at the mercy of foreign aid while taxing them with particular brutality.
They had become Zafar’s people.
And now...now somehow he had to assume the throne and unite Al Sabah again, redeem himself in the eyes of the people in the cities while not losing the people in the desert.
And without incurring the wrath of the Sheikh of Shakar.
Not a tall order at all.
“It doesn’t really make me feel all that good about being out here with you.”
“I’m certain it does not. I’m also certain that’s not my problem. Now, I have a tent to pitch so that we don’t have to sleep in the open.”
“You expect me to sleep in a tent with you?”
“I do. The alternative is for one of us to sleep without any sort of protection and I’m not going to do that. I assume you won’t, either. You should see all the bugs that come out at night.”
Ana shuddered. The idea of sleeping in the vast openness of the desert with no walls around her at all was completely freaky, and she didn’t want any part of it. But the thought of sleeping next to this man...this stranger...was hardly any better.
Her one and constant comfort was the fact that he didn’t want to start a war.
Maybe she should tell him she was a virgin. And that Tariq knew it. So if he tried anything he shouldn’t there would be no getting out of it. War would be upon him.
A war over her hymen. Yuck. But potentially true.
And if it would help protect her, well, she wasn’t above using it as an excuse. But she would save it. Because...yuck.
“How long do you intend to keep me with you?” she asked, watching as he began to work at setting up what looked to be a far-too-small tent.
“Until I no longer need to.” He was wearing so many layers, robes to keep him protected from the sun, that it was hard to tell just how his body was shaped, and yet, because of the ease of his movements and the grace in them, she got a sense that he was a man in superior physical condition.
Not that she should notice or care.
“That’s not very informative.”
“Because I have no more information to give. I will have to evaluate the situation upon arrival at the palace, and until then, we are stuck with each other.”
He continued to work, his movements quick and agile, practiced.
“So...you do this a lot?”
“Nearly every night.”
“You buy kidnapped women and then carry them off on your horse every night?”
“I was just referring to the tent.”
“I know,” she said, looking up at the sky, vast and dotted with stars. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” Otherwise she really would cry. She didn’t have enough energy for anger anymore. Lame jokes were her last line of defense.
And she couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Her father would need her to keep it together, to make sure she made it back to him. Back to Tariq. She’d done everything right, had spent so many years doing her best to be helpful. To not be a burden.
Falling down in the home stretch like this was devastating.
“Technically,” he said, tying a knot in a rope at the top of the tent. “I didn’t buy you. I ransomed you.”
“That does sound nicer.”
“Think of it that way then. If it helps.”
“A small comfort, all things considered, but I’ll take it.”
“There, it is done. Are you ready to sleep?”
No and yes. She didn’t want to get into the tent with him and sleep on the ground. It was demoralizing. More than that, it was scary. The idea of being so close to him made her heart pound, made her feel dizzy. But she was also ready to collapse with exhaustion. No matter that Zafar was a stranger, he wasn’t her kidnapper. He wasn’t the same as the men who’d been holding her these past few days.
No matter how austere and frightening he was, he had saved her from her kidnappers.
“Oh...thank you,” she said, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Thank you so much.”
And something in her broke that she hadn’t even realize had been there. The dam on her emotions that had been keeping her strong, keeping her from falling apart since she’d been taken from the camp all those days ago. Or maybe the same dam that had been in place for years, holding back tears for ages, and unable to withstand this new onslaught of life’s little horrors.
And control was suddenly no longer an option.
A sob shook her body, emotion tightening her throat. And then she broke down completely. Great gasps of breath escaping, tears rolling down her face.
He didn’t move to comfort her; he didn’t move at all. He simply let her cry, her sobs echoing in the still night. She didn’t need his touch. She just needed this. This release after days of trying to be strong. Of trying not to show how scared and alone she felt.
And when she was done she felt weak, embarrassed and then angry again.
“Done?”
She looked up and saw him regarding her with an expression of total impassivity. Her outburst hadn’t moved him. Not at all. Not that she really wanted comfort from this big...beast man. But even so. A little reaction would have been nice. Sympathy. Offer of a cold compress or smelling salts or...something.
“Yes,” she said, her throat still tight, her voice croaky. “I am done. Thank you.”
“Ready to sleep?”
“Yes.” The word escaped on a gust of breath. She was completely ready to collapse where she was standing. She didn’t know how that had happened. How exhaustion had taken over so completely.
And then she realized she was shaking. Shivering. She couldn’t do this. She had to be strong and keep control. She had to hold it together.
“I don’t know why,” she said through chattering teeth.
He swore, at least she assumed it was a swearword, based on the tone, and took two long strides toward her, gripping her by the arms and drawing her into the warmth of his body. It wasn’t a hug. She knew that right away. This was no show of affection; it was just him trying to keep her from rattling apart.
She trembled violently, his strong arms, his chest, a wall of support. It was amazing that he smelled as good as he did. Yes, it was a weird thought, but it was simple, basic and one she could process.
All those layers in the heat and she would have imagined he might smell like body odor. Instead he smelled spicy, like fine dust and cloves. And he did smell of sweat, but it wasn’t offensive in any way. He smelled like a man who had been working, a man who had earned every drop of that sweat through honest effort.
That, somehow, made it seem different than other sweat.
Not that she could really claim to be an expert in the quality of sweat, male or otherwise, but for some reason, that was just how it seemed to her.
This current train of thought was probably a sign of a complete mental breakdown. Highly likely, in fact. Yes, very likely, because she was still shaking.
And adding to the signs of a breakdown, was the fact that part of her wanted to curl her fingers around his robe and hold him tightly to her. Cling to him. Beg him not to let her go.
“The nearest mobile medical unit is...not very near,” he said, his voice rough. “So please don’t do anything stupid like dying.”
“If I were dead, how much help would a mobile medical unit be anyway?” she asked, resting her head on his chest, something about the sound of his heartbeat making her feel more connected to the world. To living. She was so completely drained; it felt like it was the reminder of his life that kept her connected with hers. “Besides I don’t think I’m dying.”
“Does anyone ever think they’re dying?”
“I’m not hurt.”
“How long has it been since you had a drink?”
She thought back. “A while. I’m not even really sure how many days it’s been since I was kidnapped.”
“I’m going to put you in the tent.”
She nodded, and at the same time found her feet being swept off the ground, as her body was pulled up against his, his arms cradling her, surprisingly gentle for a man with his strength.
He carried her to the tent and set her down on a blanket inside. Then he left her, returning a moment later with a skin filled with water.
“Drink.”
She obeyed the command. And discovered she was so thirsty she didn’t think she could ever be satisfied.
She pulled the skin away from her lips and a drop ran down her chin. She mourned that drop.
“I hope you weren’t saving that,” she said.
“I have more. And we’ll stop midmorning at an oasis between here and the city.”
“Why didn’t we stop at the oasis tonight?”
“I’m tired. You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” she said. His tenderness was threatening to undo her, if you could call the way he was speaking to her now tenderness.
“You must be realistic about your own limitations out here,” he said. “That is the first and most valuable lesson you can learn. The desert can make you feel strong and free, but it also makes you very conscious of the fact that you are mortal.”
She lay down on the blanket and curled her knees into her chest, her back to Zafar. She heard the blanket shift, felt it pull beneath her as he lay down, too.
“The wilderness is endless, and it makes you realize that you are small,” he said, his voice deep, accented, melting over her like butter. She felt like the ground was sinking beneath her, like she was falling. “But it also makes you realize how powerful you are. Because if you respect it, if you learn your limitations and work with them, rather than against them, you can live here. You will never master the desert...no man or woman can. But if you learn to respect her, she will allow you to live. And living here, surviving, thriving, that is true power.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, and the world upended. “I’m cold,” she said, a shiver racking her.
A strong arm came around her waist, and she was pulled into heat, warmth that pushed through to her soul. It was a strange comfort. It shouldn’t even be a comfort, and yet it was. Being held by him felt good. Human touch, his touch, soothed parts of her she hadn’t known had been burned raw by her nights in the desert.
His fingertip drifted briefly along the line of her bare arm. A soothing gesture. One that stopped the chill. One that made her feel like a small flame had been ignited beneath her skin.
Her last thought before losing consciousness was that she’d never slept with a man’s arm around her like this. And the vague sense that she should be saving this for the man she was marrying.
Except that didn’t make sense. This was just sleeping.
And she badly needed sleep.
So she moved more tightly into his body and gave in to the need she’d been fighting against ever since she’d been kidnapped.
And slept.
CHAPTER THREE
“YOU NEED TO wake up now.”
Zafar looked down at the sleeping woman, curled up on the floor of the tent like an infant.
The sun was starting to rise over the mountains, and in a moment, the air became heated. Enough that if you breathed too deeply it would scorch your lungs. And he didn’t relish riding through the heat of the day. He wanted to get to the oasis, wait it out, then continue on to the city.
He didn’t want to spend another night out here with this fragile, shivering creature. He needed to be able to sleep, and he could not sleep beside anyone.
Plus, she was far too delicate. Far too pale. Her skin an impractical shade of pink, her hair so blond it was nearly white, her eyes the same blue as the bleached sky.
She would burn out here in the desert.
She stirred and blinked, looking up at him. “I...” She pushed into a sitting position. “Oh, no. It wasn’t a dream.”
“No. Sorry. And are you referring to me or the kidnapping? Because I should think I am preferable to a band of thieves.”
“The kidnapping in general. This entire experience. Ugh. My whole body hurts. This ground is hard.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps you should talk to the Creator about softening it for you.”
“Oh, I see, you think I’m silly. And wimpy and whatever.” She pushed a hand through her hair, and he noticed her fingers got hung up in it. He wondered how long it had been since she’d been able to brush her hair. He imagined she hadn’t been given the opportunity to bathe or take care of any necessities really.
And he wondered if they had gone with her when she’d had to take care of certain biological needs. If they had stood guard. If they had made her feel humiliated. It heated the blood in his veins. Made him feel hungry for revenge. But he couldn’t follow the feeling. Emotion didn’t reign in his life. Not now. Emotion lied. Purpose did not.
And it was purpose he had to follow now, no matter the cost.
“I think very little about you, actually. At least, about you as a person. Right now, you are an obstacle. And one that is making me late.” He’d been contacted by one of his men. There was an ambassador Rycroft, a crony of his uncle’s who was anxious for a meeting. Zafar was about as anxious for it as he was for a snakebite, but he supposed that was his life now.
Meetings. Politics.
“Excuse me?” She stood now, her legs shaky, awkward like a newborn fawn’s. “I’m making you late? I didn’t ask to be kidnapped. I didn’t ask for you to buy me.”
“Ransomed. I ransomed you.”
“Whatever, I didn’t ask you to.”
“Be that as it may, here we are. Now get out, I need to take the tent down.”
She shot him a deadly glare and walked out of the tent, her chin held high, her expression haughty. She looked like a little sheikha. A pale little sheikha who would likely wither out here in the heat.
“I have jerky in my saddlebags,” he said.
“Mmm. Yay for dry salted meat in the heat,” she said, clearly not satisfied to look at him with venom in her eyes. She had to spit it, too.
For all her attitude, she went digging through the bags, and as soon as she found the jerky she was eating it with enthusiasm. “More water?” she asked.
“In the skin.”
He continued deconstructing the tent while she drank more water and ate more food. For a woman who was so tiny, she didn’t eat delicately.
“Did they feed you?”
“Some,” she said, between gulps of water. “Not enough, and I was skeptical of it. So I only ate when I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Poisoning you, or drugging you would have served no purpose.”
“Probably not, but I was feeling paranoid.”
“Fair enough.”
“But you won’t hurt me, will you?” she asked, almost more a statement than a question, pale eyes trained on him.
“You have my word on that.”
He would not harm a woman. No matter her sins. Even he had his limits. Though he might see a woman thrown in jail for the rest of her life, but that was an entirely different woman. A different matter.
“I didn’t think you would. That’s why I slept.”
“How many days?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was afraid to close my eyes because who knew what might happen. But it only makes things worse. It makes you...think things that aren’t real, makes it all blur together and then...it’s all scary enough without the added paranoia. I thought I was going crazy.”
“Understand this,” he said. “I’m not holding you for fun. I am not holding you to harm you in any way. I need to get a better read on the situation. I know this isn’t ideal for you, but war during your courtship would be even worse.”
“War would be worse in general,” she said. “But maybe I can talk to Tariq....”
“Maybe. And maybe it would matter. But there are times when a man must show his strength to protect what is his. There is a time for peace, but when your fiancée has been kidnapped, I am not sure that’s the time.” He paused. “And then there’s how my people will react. It is the sort of thing they expect of me. I will be implicated, make no mistake. Jamal will ensure it. And you know, for many leaders, it wouldn’t matter. They could crush the rumors, destroy the rebellion. Me? There is no loyalty to me here. It is not the love of my people chaining me to the throne, but law. If they could see me relieved of the position, many of them would, do not doubt it.”
“But you need to rule?”
“I was born to rule. It is my rightful place, stolen from me. I was exiled, banished, and I will not live the rest of my days that way. The throne of Al Sabah is mine now, and I mean to take it.”
“Even if you have to hold me to do it?”
“You will be kept in a palace, surrounded by luxury that rivals anything your darling fiancé could produce for you, so I doubt you’ll feel to put upon. Consider it a spa retreat.”
She looked around them. “Shall I start with sand treatment? Good for the pores, or what?”
“All right, the retreat portion of the vacation starts tonight. For now, consider yourself still on the desert tour. Only this is one-on-one. And you’re now with a man who knows the desert better than most people know the layout of the city they grew up in.”
“I don’t know whether to ask questions about the rocks or the dirt. The beauty is so diverse out here.”
“The landscape in Shakar is similar. Perhaps you should rethink your upcoming marriage if the best you can muster for your surroundings is a bit of bored disdain.”
“I’m sorry to have insulted your precious desert. I’m in a bad mood.”
“Your mood is the least of my worries, habibti. Now—” he put the bundle of tent back onto the horse, took the skin from her hand and refixed it to the saddlebags “—get on the horse, or I shall have to assist you again.”
She looked up at the horse and then back at him, genuine distress in her blue eyes. “I can’t. I wish I could. But my legs feel like strained spaghetti. It’s not happening.”
“It’s no matter to me. I held you all night. Putting my arms around you again isn’t exactly a hardship.” Her cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red and it had nothing to do with the sun. He didn’t know why he’d felt compelled to tease her that way. He didn’t know why he’d felt compelled to tease her at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt the least desire to engage in humor or lightness of any kind.
But beneath that was something darker. Something he had to ignore. A pull that he couldn’t acknowledge.
“Do what you must,” she said, defeated.
He locked his fingers together and lowered his hands, creating a step for her. “Come on,” he said.
She looked down and squinted. “Oh, fine.” She put one hand on the horse’s back and one on his shoulder, placing her foot into his hands and pushing up. He lifted her as she swung her leg over the horse and took her position.
“Front or back, habibti, it’s no matter to me.”
She looked genuinely troubled by the question. And then as though she was calculating which method would bring her into the least contact with his body.
“I...front.”
He found the position a bit more taxing, but the alternative was to have her clinging to his back, thighs shaped around his, her breasts pressed to his back. The thought sent a strange tightening through his whole body. His throat down to his stomach, the muscles in his arms, his groin.
No. He had no time for such distraction. She would remain untouched. Protected. He swore it then and there. A vow made before the desert that he would not break.
Fiancée or not, a man who would take advantage of a woman in her position was the basest of creatures.
And are you not more animal than man after your time out here?
No. He knew what was right. And he would see it done.
Right was why he was returning now. Back to a palace that was, in his mind, little more than a gilded tomb. A place that held ghosts. Secrets. Pain so deep he did not like to remember it.
But this had nothing to do with want. Nothing in his life had to do with want; it was simply duty. If doing right meant riding into hell, he would. While the palace wasn’t hell, it was close. But there could be no hesitation. No turning back.
And no distractions.
He got on behind her, gripping the reins tightly. “Hold on.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. “If we’re going to make it back to the palace today, we have to go fast.”
* * *
Fast was an understatement. They made a brief stop at the oasis, a pocket in a mountain that seemed to rise from the earth, shielding greenery and water from the sun, providing shade and relief from the immeasurable heat.
Sadly, they didn’t linger for very long and they were back in the sun, the horse’s hoofbeats a repetitive, pounding rhythm that was starting to drive her crazy.
By the time the vague impression of the city, hazy in the distance, came into view, Ana was afraid she was going to fall off the horse. Fatigue had set in, bone deep. She felt coated in a fine layer of dust, her fingers dry and stiff with it.
She needed a bath. And a soft bed. She could worry about everything else later, as long as she had those two things as soon as humanly possible.
This was not her life. Her life was cosseted in terms of physical comforts. A plush mansion, a private all-girls school with antique, spotless furniture and women’s college dorms that rivaled any five-star hotel.
Hot baths and soft beds had been taken for granted all of her life. Never again. Never, ever again. She was wretched. She felt more rodent than human at the moment. Like some ground-dwelling creature rooted out of her hole, left to dry out beneath the heat.
As they drew closer she could see skyscrapers. Gray glass and steel, just like any city in the United States. But beyond that was the wall. Tall, made of yellow brick, a testament to the city that once had been—a thousand years ago.
“Welcome to Bihar,” he said, his tone grim.
“Are you just going to ride in?”
He tightened his hold on her. “Why the hell not?”
He was a funny contradiction. A man who was able to spout poetry about the desert, soliloquies of great elegance. And yet, when he had to engage in conversation, the elegance was gone. On his own, he was all raw power and certainty, but when he had to interact...well, that was a weakness for sure.
“Seems to me a horse might be out of place.”
“In the inner city, yes, but not here on the outskirts. Not on the road to the palace. At least not the road I intend to take.”
They forged on, through the walls that kept Bihar separate from the desert. They went past homes, pressed together, stacked four floors high, made from sun-bleached brick. Then on past an open-air market with rows of baskets filled to the brim with flour, nuts and dried fruit. People were milling about everywhere, making way for Zafar without sparing a lingering glance.
She turned and looked up at him. Only his eyes were visible. Dark and fathomless. His face was covered by his headdress. No one would recognize him. It struck her then, how funny it was.
The sheikh riding through on his black war horse, a captive in the saddle with him. And no one would ever know.
They continued on, moving up a narrow cobbled street, past the dense crowds, and through more neighborhoods, the houses starting to spread out then getting sparser. The cobbles turned to dirt, a path that followed the wall of the city, in an olive grove that seemed the stretch on for miles. Then she saw it, a glimmer on the hilltop, stretching across the entire ridge: the palace. Imposing. Massive. Beautiful.
White stone walls and a sapphire roof made it a beacon that she was sure could be seen from most points in the city. Bihar might have thoroughly modern buildings that nearly touched the sky, but the palace seemed to be a part of it. Something ethereal or supernatural. Unreal.
Zafar urged the horse into a canter and the palace rapidly drew closer. When they arrived at the gate, Zafar dismounted, tugging at the fabric that covered his face, revealing strong, handsome features. Unmistakable. No wonder he traveled the way that he did. There was no way he would go unrecognized if he didn’t keep his face covered. No way in the world.
He reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out...a cell phone. Ana felt like she’d just been given whiplash. Everything about Zafar seemed part of another era. The man had ridden a freaking black stallion through the city streets, and now he was making a call on a cell phone.
It was incongruous. Her brain rejected it wholly, but it couldn’t argue with what she was seeing. Her poor brain. It had tried rejecting this entire experience, but unfortunately, the past week was reality. This was reality.
“I’m here. Open the gates.”
And the gates did open.
She was still on the horse, clinging to the saddle as Zafar led them into an opulent courtyard. Intricate stone mosaic spiraled in from the walls that partitioned the palace off from the rest of the world, a fountain in the middle, evidence of wealth. As were the green lawns and plants that went beyond the mosaic. Water for the purpose of creating beauty rather than simply survival was an example of extreme luxury in the desert. That much she knew from Tariq.
As if the entire palace wasn’t example enough.
She looked at Zafar. His posture was rod straight, black eyes filled with a ferocity that frightened her. There was a rage in him. Spilling from him. And then, suddenly, the walls were back up, and his eyes were blank again.
They were met at the front by men who looked no more civilized than Zafar, a band of huge, marauder-type men. Desert pirates. That’s what they made her think of. All of them. Her escort included. One of the men, the largest, even had a curved sword at his waist. Honestly, she was shocked no one had an eye patch.
Fear reverberated through her, an echo along her veins, a shadow of what she’d felt when she was taken from the camp and her friends, but powerful enough that it clung to every part of her. Wouldn’t let her go.
She was in his domain. Truly, she had been from the moment she’d been hauled across the border from Shakar to Al Sabah, but here, with evidence of his power all around, it was impossible to deny. Impossible to ignore.
His power, his strength was frightening. And magnetic. It drew her to him in a way she couldn’t fathom. Made her heart beat a little faster. Fear again, that was all. It could be nothing else.
“Sheikh,” one of them said, inclining his head. He didn’t even spare her a glance.
“Do you need help dismounting?” Zafar asked.
“I think I’ve got it, thanks.” She climbed down off of the horse, stumbling a little bit. So much for preserving her pride. She looked over at Zafar’s sketchy crew and smiled.
“We shall need a room prepared for my guest. I assume you saw to the hiring of new servants?”
She nearly laughed. Guest? Was that what she was?
The largest man nodded. “Everything has been taken care of as requested. And Ambassador Rycroft says he will not be put off any longer. He insists you call him as soon as you are in residence.”
“Which, I suppose is now,” Zafar said, his voice hard, emotionless. “Take the horse.”
“Yes, Sheikh.”
If any of his men were perturbed by the change in status they didn’t show it. But then, she imagined that Zafar had always been the one in charge. That he had always been sheikh to those who followed him.
Questioning him wasn’t something anyone would do lightly. He exuded power, strength. Danger. Everything that should have repelled her. But it didn’t. It scared her, no mistake, but it also fascinated her. And that scared her on a whole new level.
“Your things?” the other man asked.
“I have none. Neither has she. Remedy that. I want the woman to have a wardrobe of new clothing before the end of the day. Understood?”
The man arched one brow. “Yes, Sheikh.”
Oh, good grief. They were going to think she was the starter to his harem. Or at least they would think she was his mistress. But there was no way to correct it now. This was an unprecedented point in Al Sabah’s history. Zafar was taking over the throne, and the entire palace clearly had new staff. Zafar would be an completely different sort of leader to the one they’d had before, that much was true.
And it would be such a relief, not just to the people here, but to Tariq’s people. She knew that things had been strained between Shakar and Al Sabah, that Tariq had feared war. He’d called her late one night and expressed those fears. She’d valued that. Valued that he cared enough to tell her what was on his mind, his heart.
It was part of why she’d fallen in love with him. Part of why she’d said yes to his engagement offer. Yes, her father had instigated it. And yes, he was a driving force behind it, but she wouldn’t have said yes if she wasn’t genuinely fond of Tariq.
Fond of him.
That sounded weak sauce. She was more than fond of him. Love was the word. No, theirs wasn’t a red-hot relationship. But so much of that was to be expected. Tariq was old-fashioned and he’d courted her like an old-fashioned guy. It was respectful.
Plus, he was so handsome. Smooth, dark skin, coal eyes fringed with thick lashes, strong black brows...
She looked back at Zafar and the memory of Tariq and his good looks were knocked completely from her head.
Faced with Zafar, the sharp angles of his face, black beard covering most of his brown skin, obsidian eyes that were more like a dark flame and his lips...she really was quite fascinated by his lips...well, it was hard to think of anything else.
He wasn’t smooth. His skin was marked by the sun, by wind. There was nothing refined about him. He was like a man carved straight from the rock.
She wasn’t sure handsome was the right word for it. It seemed insipid.
“Shall we go in? It is my palace, though I have not been back here in fifteen years. I was born here. Raised here.”
Which meant he’d come into the world like everyone else, rather than being carved from stone, so there went that theory.
“Must be...nice to be back?” She watched his face, saw no expression change. If she hadn’t caught that moment of intense, dark emotion at the gates, she would think he felt nothing at all. “Strange? Sad?”
“It is necessary that I’m back. That is all.”
“I’m sure you feel something about being back.”
“I feel nothing in general, Ms. Christensen,” he said, addressing her by her name, any part of it, for the first time. “I should hardly start now. I have a country to rule.”
“But you’re...human,” she said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement. “So, I’m sure you feel something.”
“Purpose. Every day since my exile there has been one thing that has enticed me to open my eyes each morning, and that has been the belief that my people need me. That it is my duty and my right to lead this country, to care for these people, as they should be led and cared for. Not in the manner my uncle did it. Purpose is what has driven me for nearly half of my life, and purpose is what drives me now. Emotion is unnecessary and weak. Emotion lies. Purpose doesn’t.”
In so many ways, he echoed a colder, harsher version of what she’d always told herself. That doing right was what mattered. That when people stopped doing right and started serving themselves, things fell apart. Utterly and completely.
She’d seen it in her own family. She’d never wished to bring the kind of destruction her mother had, so she’d set out to be better. To be above selfishness. To do the right thing, the thing that benefitted others before it benefitted her.
To take care, instead of destroy. To be a blessing instead of a burden.
But hearing it from his lips, it seemed...wrong. At least she acknowledged emotion; she just knew there were more important things in life than giddy happiness. Giddy happiness was fleeting, and selfish. She felt it was just her mission to make sure she didn’t put her feelings above the happiness of others. There was nothing wrong with that.
“You know what else doesn’t lie? My muscles. I’m so stiff I can hardly move.”
“A bath then. I will have one drawn for you.”
“Th-thank you.”
“You sound surprised.”
“You’re giving me nicer things than my last kidnapper.”
“Savior, Analise. I think the word you’re looking for is savior.”
She looked into his midnight eyes and felt something tug, deep and hard inside of her. Something terrifying. Something that touched the edge of the forbidden. “No, I really don’t think that’s the word I’m looking for.”
“Come,” he said, walking toward the doors of the palace.
Zafar didn’t wait for the double doors to open for him. He pushed against them with both palms, flinging them wide, the sound of the heavy wood hitting the stone walls echoing in the antechamber.
He simply stood for a moment, and waited. For what he did not know. Ghosts, perhaps? There were none. None that were visible, though he could almost feel them. The pain, the anguish this place had witnessed seemed to echo from the walls and he felt it deep down in his bones. If he listened hard enough, he was certain he could still hear his mother screaming. His father crying.
The air was heavy. With memory, with a cold, stale scent that lingered. Probably had more to do with the stone walls than with the past.
He’d spent years living in a tent. Hell, it had been over a year since he’d actually been in a building that wasn’t made from canvas. The walls were too heavy. Too thick. Making the air even harder to breathe.
He wanted to turn and run, but Ana was behind him. He felt like an animal being herded into a cage, but he wouldn’t show that weakness. He couldn’t.
So he took another step inside. Into darkness, into the place that had seen so much death and devastation. It was a step back into his past. One he wasn’t prepared to take, but one that had to be taken.
“Zafar?”
He felt a small hand on his arm and he jerked away, looking down at Ana. She didn’t shrink back, but he could see something in her wilt. Unsurprising. She must think him more beast than man, but then, there was truth in that.
“We shall have your bath run for you,” he said, his voice tight, cold, even to his own ears.
He had no choice but to move forward. To embrace this because it was his destiny. And his penance. He gritted his teeth and walked on.
Yes, this was his penance. He was prepared to pay it now.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS ZAFAR’S great misfortune that Ambassador Rycroft was near and insisted on a meeting immediately. With Zafar in his robes, filthy from traveling. He had no idea how he must appear to the immaculately dressed, clean-shaven man who was sitting in his office now. He had very little idea of how he appeared at all. He didn’t make a habit of looking at mirrors.
The man was, per the paperwork he’d seen of his uncle’s, important to the running of the country. At least he had been. Zafar suspected that many of the “trade agreements” ran more toward black market deals. But he lacked proof at the moment.
They’d been making tentative conversation for the past few minutes, and Zafar felt very much like a bull tiptoeing through a china shop.
“This regime change has been very upsetting to those of us at the embassy.”
“I am sorry for that,” Zafar said. “My uncle’s death has inconvenienced you. I’m not certain why he couldn’t postpone it.”
Rycroft simply looked at him, offense evident in his expression. “Yes, well, we are eager to know what you intend to do with the trade agreements.”
“Your trade agreements are the least of my concern.” Zafar began to pace the room, another move that clearly unnerved his visitor. He supposed he was meant to sit. But he couldn’t be bothered. He hated this. Hated having to talk, be diplomatic. He didn’t see the point of it. Real men said what they meant; politicians never did. There was no honor in it, and yet, it was how things worked. “I have stepped into a den of corruption and I mean to sort it out. Your trade agreements can wait. Do you understand?”
Rycroft stood, his face turning red. “Sheikh Zafar, I don’t think you understand. These trade agreements are essential to the ease of your ascension to rule. Your uncle and I had an understanding, and if you do not carry it out, things might go badly for you.”
Anger surged through Zafar, driving his actions before he had conscious thought. All of his energy, seemingly magnified by the feeling of confinement he was experiencing in this place, broke free. He grabbed the other man by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall, holding him firmly. “Do you mean to threaten me?”
Politicians might use diplomacy. He would not.
“No,” the ambassador said, his eyes wide. “I would not...I would never.”
“See that you do not, for I have erased men from this earth for far less, and don’t forget it.”
He released his hold on Rycroft and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I will go to the press with this,” the other man said, straightening his jacket. “I will tell them that they have put an animal on the throne of Al Sabah.”
“Good. Tell them,” he said, anger driving him now, past the point of reason. Past whatever diplomacy he might have possessed. “Perhaps I will have fewer pale men in suits to deal with if you do.”
* * *
As she sank down into the recessed tub, made from dazzling precious stone, and the warm water enveloped her sore, dusty body, Ana had to rethink the savior thing.
These bubbles, the oils, the bath salts...it all felt like they, and by extension, Zafar, might very well have saved her life.
She would have liked to stay forever and just indulge, but she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t just relax and indulge. It wasn’t in her. She had to be useful. There was always something to do. Except, right now there wasn’t really anything.
Such a strange feeling. She didn’t like being aimless. She didn’t like feeling out of control. She needed purpose. She needed a project. Something to keep her mind and hands busy. Something to make her feel like she was contributing.
Being kidnapped wasn’t engaging much, except the constant war between her fight-or-flight response. It was terrifying, all of it, and yet she didn’t know the right thing to do.
She’d been working so hard for so many years. The desert trip was her last and first hurrah. Post-graduation, pre-public engagement. She’d wanted a touch of adventure, but nothing like this.
She pushed up from the bench and stepped out of the bath. There was a plush towel and a robe waiting for her. And she would be lying if she wasn’t enjoying it all a little bit. Premature princess points being cashed in now.
Glamorous in theory. And yet, it would be a lot like an extension of the life she already had. Living for appearances. That was all normal to her. She felt like she was always “on.” Even with her friends. The elite women’s college they’d gone to had encouraged them to be strong, studious and polished. To conform to a particular image. And even when they had personal time, even when they laughed and let the formality drop a bit, that core, that bit of guardedness, still ran through the group just beneath the surface.
She’d always been afraid to show too much of herself. Those tears in the desert had been some of the most honest emotion she’d let escape in years.
She wrapped herself in the robe and wandered back into the bedroom. “Oh, you are kidding me,” she said, looking down at the long, ornate table along the nearest wall. There was a bowl filled with fruit on it. Figs, dates, grapes.
“All I need is a hottie cabana boy with palm fronds standing by to fan me,” she muttered, taking a grape from the cluster and popping it into her mouth.
“I see you’re finding everything to your liking.”
She whipped around and saw Zafar striding through her bedroom doors. He looked...different. He had lost the headdress and heavy traveling robes, in favor of a white linen shirt and a pair of pale dress pants. His long hair was wet, clean and tied back. He had kept the beard, but it was trimmed short.
Somehow, he looked even more dangerous now, with this cloak of civility. Because at least before, he was advertising that he was a hazard. He had danger signs and flares all over him before. This great hairy beast with a full beard and flowing robes. With windburned skin and a thin coating of dirt. And the sweat smell. Not forgetting that.
But now she felt she could see more of him, and it displayed, to her detriment, just how handsome he truly was. Square jawed with a strong chin, and yet again, the lips.
Why was she so fascinated by his lips? Men’s lips weren’t that big a deal.
“Everything is lovely, all things considered.”
“What things considered?”
“Does the phrase ‘gilded cage’ mean anything to you?”
He shook his head. “No. You are comfortable?”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes. More or less. But I would feel more comfortable if I could let my father or Tariq know I was safe.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” He started pacing over the high-gloss obsidian floor. A caged tiger. That was what he reminded her of. The thought sent a little shiver of fear chasing down her spine. “I was hardly exaggerating when I said this incident could push us into war. Neither of us want that, am I right?”
“They must be frantic!” she said. “Honestly, can you...can you channel what it might be like to feel, just for a second? They probably think I’m dead. Or sold. Which I was. But...but they probably think I’m in grave peril. I could talk to Tariq. At least give me a chance.”
He shook his head. “Things are far too tenuous for me at the moment. Let me tell you a story.”
“I hope it has a happy ending.”
“It hasn’t ended yet. You may well decide how it does end, so listen carefully. There once was a boy, who grew up in an opulent palace, fully expecting one day to be king. Until the castle was invaded by an enemy army, an enemy army who clearly knew how to get direct access to the sheikh and sheikha. They were killed. Violently. Horribly. Only the boy was spared. He would be king; at sixteen, he could very well have ruled. But there was a problem. An inquiry, suggested by the boy’s uncle, which indicated he was to blame for the death of his parents. And he was found guilty.”
There was no emotion in Zafar’s voice. There was nothing. It was more frightening than if there had been rage, malice, regret. Blank nothingness when speaking of an event like that, total detachment when she knew he was talking about himself...it was wrong. It was frightening, how divorced from it he was.
It made her wonder if she was as safe with the dynamic ruler as she’d initially imagined.
“Exiled to the desert for fifteen years under a cloud. The uncle ruled, the people fell into despair, the country to near ruin. And who was to blame? The boy, of course. A boy who somehow survived those years alone and is now a man. A man who must now assume the throne. You see what is stacked against me?”
“I understand,” she said, shifting, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet. She suddenly became very conscious that she was wearing a robe with nothing beneath it. “But let me tell you a story about a girl and...and...no, let me just say, I disappeared some six or seven days ago from a desert tour I wasn’t supposed to be on. My friends are probably frantic. My fiancé is probably...concerned.” Devastated might be a stretch. Tariq was a very even-tempered man. “My father...” She nearly choked then. “My father will be destroyed. I am all that he has...you have to understand.”
Even as she said it, she hoped it was true. Strange that she was wishing for her father to be distressed, but...but she was always so afraid that his life was easier without her. It had been for her mother. No child to take care of. No one to break her lovely things.
“And you have to understand this. Inquiries are being made about you. Discreet ones, but it is happening. Kazeem received a phone call with a very clear threat. That the future Sheikha of Shakar was missing, and should she be found on Al Sabahan soil my reign will hold a record for brevity.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling dazed.
“I am all this country has,” he said, his voice hard, echoing in the room. “If there is to be a future for my people, I must remain on the throne. There is no room for negotiation.”
“So, what if I try to leave?”
“You will be detained. But I seriously doubt you will try to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a sensible woman. A woman who wouldn’t want blood on her hands.” He looked at her, his eyes taking on a strange, distant quality. “Take it from a man who knows, habibti. Whether you spill it with your own hand or not, blood won’t come clean.”
She believed him. Believed it was true. Believed that he knew what it meant to have blood on his hands. Not for one second would she doubt it.
Could she do it? Could she risk it?
The entire thing made her uneasy, but she hardly had a choice. She could try and run, she could try to find her way back on her own, try to call Tariq, who would storm the castle and...and...oh dear.
She looked at Zafar. Did she really trust this man? That he would release her? That he would do what he said?
She did. Because she’d been alone with him in the desert overnight, and he’d slept with his arm curled around her waist to keep her from shivering. Because when she’d needed touch, no matter whether he understood it or felt it or not, he had provided it. He hadn’t taken advantage of her, had never once touched her inappropriately or in a way that would harm her.
In short, he treated her exactly like a man in his position should treat her, provided he was telling the truth.
“I require an exit strategy, Sheikh,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“When will you release me? Regardless of what is happening. There has to be a set end date. A sell-by.”
“I’m not certain I can give you that.”
“I require it,” she said. “No more than thirty days.”
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