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The Desert Virgin
The Desert Virgin
Sandra Marton
ISBN: 978 1 472 03146 4
THE DESERT VIRGIN
© 2006 Sandra Marton
First Published in Great Britain in 2006
Harlequin (UK) Limited
1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk Version: 2020-08-18
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All about the author…
Sandra Marton
SANDRA MARTON wrote her first novel while she was still in elementary school. Her doting parents told her she’d be a writer someday and Sandra believed them. In high school and college, she wrote dark poetry nobody but her boyfriend understood, though looking back, she suspects he was just being kind. As a wife and mother, she wrote murky short stories in what little spare time she could manage, but not even her boyfriend-turned-husband could pretend to understand those. Sandra tried her hand at other things, among them teaching and serving on the board of education in her hometown, but the dream of becoming a writer was always in her heart.
At last Sandra realized she wanted to write books about what all women hope to find: love with that one special man; love that’s rich with fire and passion; love that lasts forever. She wrote a novel, her very first, and sold it to the Harlequin Presents line. Since then, she’s written more than sixty books, all of them featuring sexy, gorgeous, larger-than-life heroes. She’s a four-time RITA® award finalist. From Romantic Times BOOKclub she’s received five awards for Best Harlequin Presents of the Year and a Career Achievement Award for Series Romance.
Sandra lives with her very own sexy, gorgeous, larger-than-life hero in a sun-filled house on a quiet country lane in the northeastern United States.
“Sandra Marton introduces sexy, action-adventures to Presents with The Desert Virgin. This story is one nonstop exhilarating ride as an irresistible alpha hero rescues the woman, who will become his true love, and saves them both as they traverse a desert nation to gain their freedom…. Sandra Marton has once again outdone herself and has raised the bar of excellence in romance.”
—Shannon Short, Romantic Times BOOKclub
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
AT THIRTY-TWO, Cameron Knight stood six foot four inches tall. He had green eyes and a leanly muscled body, courtesy of his Anglo father; jet-black hair and knife-sharp cheekbones, thanks to his half-Comanche mother. He loved beautiful women, fast cars and danger.
In all the ways that mattered, he was still the dangerously handsome bad-boy half the girls in Dallas, Texas, had lusted after when he was seventeen.
The only thing that had changed was that Cam had turned his passion for danger into a career, first in Special Forces, then in the Agency, and now in the firm he’d started with his brothers.
Knight, Knight and Knight had made him rich as hell. Men on three continents asked for his help when things got out of hand.
Now, to Cam’s surprise, so had his father.
Even more surprising, Cam had agreed to give it.
That was why he was flying high over the Atlantic in a small private jet, heading for a dot on the map called Baslaam.
Cam checked his watch. Half an hour to touchdown. Good. Things had happened so fast that he’d had to spend most of the flight reading his father’s files on Baslaam. Now, he had time to try to relax.
A man about to drop into an unknown situation needed to be ready for anything. Deep breathing exercises, what one of his instructors at the Agency had always referred to as tai chi of the mind, did the job.
Cam put back his leather seat, closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Maybe because he was on a mission for his father, he thought about his life. What he’d made of it. What he hadn’t.
How close he’d come to meeting his father’s bitter predictions.
“You’re worthless,” Avery used to tell him when he was a kid. “You’ll never amount to anything.”
Cam had to admit he’d seemed determined to prove his father right.
He’d cut school. Gotten drunk. Smoked dope, though not for long. He didn’t like the loss of self-control that came with the short-lived high.
By seventeen, he was a kid heading for trouble.
Angry at his mother for dying, at his old man for caring more for money than for his wife or sons, he’d been a time bomb ready to go off.
Late one night, driving a winding back road, watching the speedometer needle of his souped-up truck climb over one hundred, he’d realized he was going past the dark house of a cop who’d roughed him up a year back. It hadn’t been much, just a little hard handling.
What mattered was that the cop had done it as a courtesy to Cam’s father.
“His old man wanted me to give the kid somethin’ to think about,” Cam had heard the cop tell his partner.
With those words echoing in his head, Cam had pulled his truck to the side of the road. Climbed a tree, jimmied open a window, stood over the sleeping cop while the bastard snored, then went out the same way he’d gone in.
It was an exhilarating experience. So exhilarating that he did it again and again, breaking into the homes of men who danced to his old man’s tune, taking nothing from the break-ins but the satisfaction of success.
One night, it all came apart. He was in college by then, home for a long weekend…and he’d come within a whisper of getting caught.
Playing dangerous games was one thing; being stupid was another. Cam quit school, joined the Army, got recruited into Special Forces. When the Agency expressed interest, he said yes. Risk was what you ate and breathed in covert operations.
He thought he’d found a home.
Not true. It turned out the Agency sometimes asked things of you that made you a stranger, even to yourself.
His brothers had taken similar routes. Fast cars, beautiful women, playing Russian roulette with trouble, seemed the path a Knight took to manhood.
A year apart in age, they attended the same college on football scholarships. They’d even all scored touch-downs in the same game, one memorable championship season.
They’d all quit school after a couple of years, joined the Army, then Special Forces and, finally, maybe inevitably, the clandestine labyrinth of the Agency.
Just as inevitably, they’d grown disillusioned with what they found there.
The brothers returned to Dallas and went into business together. Knight, Knight and Knight: Risk Management Specialists. Cam had come up with the name after hours of solemn planning and not-so-solemn drinking.
“But what in hell does it mean?” Matt had asked.
“It means we’re gonna make ourselves a fortune,” Alex had said, grinning.
And they did. Powerful clients paid them exorbitant amounts of money to do things that would have made most men’s bellies knot with fear.
Things that the law just wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—handle.
The only person who seemed oblivious to their success was their father…and then, last night, Avery had turned up at Cam’s Turtle Creek triplex.
Avery hadn’t wasted time on preliminaries. He’d explained that his oil contracts negotiator in the sultanate of Baslaam hadn’t reported in for almost a week and was unreachable by cell phone or satellite computer.
Cam had listened, expressionless. Eventually Avery fell silent. Cam still said nothing, though by then he knew what had brought his father to him.
Moments crawled by. Avery grew red-faced. “Goddammit to hell, Cameron, you know what I’m asking.”
“Sorry, Father,” Cam said tonelessly. “You’ll have to tell me.”
For a second, Cam figured Avery was going to walk out. Instead, he took a deep breath.
“I want you to fly to Baslaam and see what the hell’s going on. Whatever your fee is, I’ll double it.”
Cam had tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers, leaned back against the railing of the wraparound terrace that looked out on the city.
“I don’t want your money,” he said quietly.
“Then what do you want?”
I want you to beg, Cam had thought. But the damnable code of honor drummed into him by the Army, by Special Forces, by the Agency and maybe even by his own convictions, kept him from saying the words.
This was his father. His blood.
Which was why, less than eighteen hours later, he deplaned into a desert heat so fierce it slammed into him like a fist.
A small man in a white suit hurried toward him.
“Welcome to Baslaam, Mr. Knight. I am Salah Adair, the sultan’s personal aide.”
“Mr. Adair. Good to meet you.” Cam waited a couple of seconds, then made a show of looking around. “Isn’t the rep from Knight Industries with you?”
“Ah.” Adair smiled brightly. “He has undertaken a survey beyond the Blue Mountains. Did he not notify you of his plans?”
Cam returned the bright smile. The negotiator was an attorney. He wouldn’t have recognized signs of oil from signs for a neighborhood gas station.
“I’m sure he notified my father. He must have forgotten to tell me.”
Adair led him to a black limo, part of a mixed convoy of old Jeeps and new Hummers. All the vehicles held soldiers bristling with weapons.
“The sultan sent an escort in your honor,” Adair said smoothly.
The hell it was. No escort would involve so many armed men. And where were all the regular citizens of Baslaam? The paved road that led into town was empty. As the only road in a country trying to claw its way into a semblance of the twenty-first century, it should have been crowded with traffic.
“The sultan has arranged a feast,” Adair said with an oily smile. “You will taste many delicacies, Mr. Knight. Of the palate…and of the flesh.”
“Great,” Cam said, repressing a shudder. This part of the world, delicacies of the palate could make a man’s stomach roll. As for delicacies of the flesh…he preferred to choose his own bed-mates, not have them chosen for him.
Something was wrong in Baslaam. Very wrong, and dangerous as hell. He had to keep alert. That meant no strange foods. No booze. No women.
Definitely, no women.
Where were all the women?
Leanna wasn’t sure exactly how long she’d been locked in this all but airless, filthy cell. Two days, maybe two and a half—and in all that time, she’d yet to see a female face.
She kept hoping she would because a woman would surely listen to her. Help her escape from this hellhole.
That was right, wasn’t it?
It had to be.
Leanna eyed what little water remained in the bucket she’d been given that morning. If she drank it, would they give her more? Her throat was parched from the heat, though the worst of it was over. She had no watch—the men who’d kidnapped her had torn it from her wrist—but the blazing eye of the sun had begun its descent behind the mountains. She knew because the shadows in her squalid prison were growing longer.
That was the good news.
The bad was that the darkness would bring out the centipedes and the spiders. Dinner plates with legs, was what they were.
Leanna closed her eyes, took a deep breath, told herself not to think ahead. There were worse things than centipedes and spiders waiting for her tonight. One of her guards spoke just enough English to have told her so. Remembering the way he’d laughed still made her shudder.
Tonight, she would be taken to the man who’d bought her. The king or chief or whatever he was called of this horrible place. The bugs, the heat, the taunts of her captors would all seem like pleasant memories.
“The Great Asaad will have you tonight,” the guard had said, and his gap-toothed grin and obscene hand gesture had guaranteed she understood exactly what that meant.
Leanna began to shake. Quickly she wrapped her arms around herself, willed the trembling to stop. Showing her fear would be a huge mistake. It was just that it was hard to imagine how this could have happened. One minute she’d been rehearsing Swan Lake with the rest of the corps on the stage of a tired but beautiful old theater in Ankara. The next, she’d stepped out a side door for a break, been grabbed and tossed in the back of a stinking van…
The door swung open. Two enormous men, their hands the size of hams, stepped into the cell. One stabbed his thumb upright in the air and mumbled something she assumed meant she was to go with them.
She wanted to fall to the floor. She wanted to scream. Instead, she stood tall and glared at her captors. Whatever came next, she’d face it with as much courage as she could manage.
“Where are you taking me?”
She could see that she’d surprised them. Why not? She’d surprised herself.
“You will come.”
The giant’s English was guttural but clear. Leanna put her hands on her hips.
“The hell I will!”
The men lumbered toward her. When they clamped their meaty paws around her arms, she dug her heels into the vermin-infested straw that covered the floor but it didn’t do much good. They simply lifted her to her toes and dragged her between them.
Still, she fought. They were strong but so was she. Years spent en pointe and at the barre had toughened her muscles. She had a terrific high kick, too. It had once earned her a spot in a Las Vegas chorus line and she put it to good use now.
She got the Talking Giant right where he lived.
He doubled over in pain. His partner found that vastly amusing but before Leanna could give him the same treatment, he twisted her arm high behind her back, jammed his ugly face into hers and snarled something she couldn’t understand.
She didn’t have to. Between the stink of his breath and the spray of his spittle, the message was clear.
Still, why would that stop her? She knew what came next. Talking Giant had told her this morning, though she’d already suspected. Two other girls from the troupe had been kidnapped with her. One, same as Leanna, had assumed they’d been taken for ransom but the other had quickly eliminated that possibility.
“They’re slavers,” she’d whispered in horror. “They’re going to sell us.”
Slave traders? In this century? Leanna would have laughed, but the girl added that she’d seen a news report on the white slave trade on television.
“But who would they sell us to?” the first girl said.
“To any son of a bitch who can afford to buy us,” the third girl had answered, her voice trembling. Then she’d added details, enough so the first girl had tossed her cookies.
Leanna had never been the type to throw up or swoon. Ballerinas looked like fairy-tale princesses on stage but the truth was, dancing was a tough life, especially if you came to it via a publicly funded dance program instead of some expensive Manhattan studio.
While one girl vomited and the other shivered, she’d fought the ropes that bound her. But their captors burst in, held them down and injected something into their arms. She’d come to in this horrid cell, alone, knowing she’d been sold…
Knowing it was only a matter of time before her owner claimed her.
Now, that time had come.
The giants dragged her down a long corridor that stank of sweat and human misery. They shoved her into a small room with stained concrete walls and a drain in the middle of the floor, and slammed the door behind her. She heard the sound of a bolt sliding into place but she threw herself at the door anyway, pounding it with her fists until her knuckles hurt.
Then she slumped to the cold floor, looked at the stained walls, at the drain. At the dark, wet stain around it.
She buried her face in her hands.
A long time later, she heard the bolt sliding open. Leanna began to tremble.
“No,” she whispered to herself, “don’t let them see how scared you are.” Somehow, she knew that would only make things worse. Slowly she dragged herself to her feet and lifted her chin.
A woman entered the room. Leanna sagged with relief. Two men with cold, dead eyes stood behind her but the woman’s bearing made it clear she was in charge.
“Do you speak English?” Leanna asked. No reply, but that didn’t prove anything. “I hope you do,” she said, trying to sound reasonable instead of terrified, “because there’s been an awful mis—”
“You will disrobe.”
“You do speak English! Oh, I’m so—”
“Leave your clothing on the floor.”
“Listen, please! I’m a dancer. I don’t know what you think I—”
“Do it quickly, or these men will do it for you.”
“Do you hear me? I’m a dancer! And I’m an American citizen. My embassy—”
“There is no embassy in Baslaam. My lord does not recognize your country.”
“Well, he’d better. Otherwise—otherwise—” The woman jerked her head toward the men behind her. Leanna shrieked as one of them moved faster than she’d have thought he could and grabbed the neck of her T-shirt. “Stop it! Take your hands off—”
The shirt tore to the hem. Leanna lashed out but he laughed and caught her wrists in one hand, lifting her off her feet so the other man could yank off her sneakers and her cotton trousers.
When she was stripped to her bra and panties, they flung her to the floor. Leanna scrambled toward the wall and screwed her eyes shut. Maybe she was dreaming. She had to be dreaming.
This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be real, couldn’t be—
She shrieked as a gusher of warm water hit her in the face. Her eyes flew open. A scraggly line of serving-women surrounded her. Some held steaming pitchers, some held soap and towels. The men had dragged in an enormous wooden vessel…
A tub?
“Take off your undergarments,” the woman in charge snapped. “Bathe yourself well. If you are not clean enough, you will be punished. My lord, the sultan Asaad, will not tolerate filth.”
Leanna blinked. She was in an improvised bathroom. That was the reason for the drain in the floor.
A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat.
The ruler of this godforsaken place had bought her, had her thrown into a vermin-infested hole in the ground. He was going to make her into his newest sex toy.
But first, she had to scrub behind her ears.
Suddenly everything that had happened, that was happening, seemed unbelievable. Leanna let the laughter out. Peals of it. The servant women stared at her in disbelief. One giggled and slapped her hand over her mouth, but not quickly enough. The woman in charge slapped the one who’d dared laugh, barked an order, then rounded on Leanna in rage.
“Perhaps you would like to appear before my lord beaten black and blue!”
Leanna looked her tormentor in the eye. She was tired of being afraid, tired of behaving like a whipped dog. Besides, all things considered, what could she possibly lose?
“Perhaps you’d like to appear before him and explain how you managed to damage the merchandise.”
The woman blanched. Leanna’s heart was racing but she smiled coolly.
“Tell your goons to get lost and I’ll get into that tub.”
Stalemate, but only for a few seconds. Then the woman snarled a command and the men marched out of the room.
Leanna took off her bra and panties, stepped into the tub, eased down in the hot water and let it soothe her body while her brain worked feverishly to come up with an escape plan.
Unfortunately, by the time she was pronounced clean enough for the sultan of Baslaam, she still hadn’t thought of anything. Improvisation was for actors, not for classically-trained dancers.
But she’d never been a coward.
If she had to, she’d die proving it.
CHAPTER TWO
CAM had seen a lot of places in upheaval.
Baslaam wasn’t in upheaval. It was in collapse. It didn’t take training as a spy to see that.
No people. No vehicles. A gray sky, filled with plumes of smoke. And the vultures, scores of them, circling overhead.
Things were not going well in the sultanate, he thought grimly.
Adair offered no explanations. Cam, nobody’s fool, didn’t request any. All he kept thinking was that the pistol he’d secreted in his briefcase might end up being useful.
The sultan was waiting for him in a marble hall with ceilings easily twenty feet high. He sat on a gold throne elevated on a silver platform, and he sure as hell wasn’t the man Avery had described.
The sultan, his father had told him, was in his eighties. Small. Wiry. Hard-eyed and determined.
The man on the throne was in his forties. He was big. Huge, really, a mass of muscle just starting to turn to fat. The only resemblance between the picture Avery had painted and this behemoth were the eyes, but the hardness in them spoke more of cruelty than determination.
Had there been a coup? That would explain a lot of things, including the disappearance of his father’s representative. It was a good guess the poor bastard was one of the unlucky souls attracting the attention of the vultures.
Cam had only one real question. Why hadn’t he been disposed of, too? The man on the throne must want something of him. What? He had to find out, and do it without giving away the game.
Adair made the introductions. “Excellency, this is Mr. Cameron Knight. Mr. Knight, this is our beloved sultan, Abdul Asaad.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Knight.”
“Excellency.” Cam smiled politely. “I expected you to be older.”
