The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy

Tariq was right, and it annoyed her that what he’d been able to see at a glimpse had taken her so long to grasp. “Enough time passed for me to realize that we didn’t really mesh outside the office.”

While her father had been alive, Jeff had deferred to him, but after his death, he took it for granted that he would assume full leadership of the business that Sara had helped build from the ground up.

“We didn’t have the same goals.” Jeff had thought they should go after profits more ruthlessly. Sara wanted to keep in line with the original mission statement, which declared support for non-fuel uses of oil, and education of the public about them.

“What are your goals?” Tariq asked.

“I want the company to stay the way my father and I dreamed it. I want it to make a difference. I want it to be something I can be proud of, something my grandchildren can be proud of.”

He didn’t respond, and she wondered in the ensuing silence whether he was pondering his own, much larger conglomerate. “What do you want out of MMPOIL?” she asked.

“I want to provide security to my people, and to preserve the Bedu code of honor while doing it. We need the oil, but I won’t sell off our lands. I won’t let oil extraction, or development, kill the desert, where we came from. I won’t sell out to foreign investors.”

It occurred to her as she listened what an enormous weight that must be on his shoulders—the well-being of his people. The hundred or so employees whose livelihood depended on her own company didn’t come close in comparison.

“You should go to sleep,” Tariq said. “You’ll need your strength in the morning.”

He was right. She turned away from him. Sleep would be good, just so she could forget about his nearness for a while. It couldn’t be smart for the two of them to be lying like this, pressed together.

“What if you fall asleep, too?” she asked, dismayed at how throaty her voice sounded.

“Unlikely,” he murmured, so close his hot breath fanned her neck.

He wrapped a strand of her hair around one long finger.

Okay—sharing body heat she could write down to doing whatever they could for the sake of survival. This she could not. And yet she couldn’t pull away. Her body refused to.

“Look, I’m not the affair-on-every-business-trip type,” she said, not daring to turn around.

“I’d hope not. But you feel this.” It wasn’t a question.

“We’ve both been traumatized. We’re tired,” she said, unwilling to acknowledge the attraction out loud.

“You think it’s too fast.”

“Yes.”

He thought on that for a second. “Among my people, a bride might see her groom only once before the wedding.”

“And you think that’s normal?”

“No. Yes. For some people. I didn’t grow up here.”

“You said you lived in the U.S.”

“From age five to thirty-five.”

Which explained his flawless English. “So you’re practically an American.” She turned to look at him, curious about his life, about what had taken him from his country at such an early age, and what had brought him back.

She wasn’t sure she could live here. But she was a woman, and their circumstances were vastly different. He was a sheik. She drew a slow breath, still not used to that thought.

“Don’t let the civilized veneer fool you. America might have rubbed off on me. But it’s nothing more than frosting on one of those cupcakes that are so popular over there. Beneath that, I’m Bedu.”

Looking into his dark, glittering eyes, she had no trouble believing that. But the image … She bit back a smile.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I do. I just wouldn’t compare you to a cupcake.” She grinned, then grew serious as her gaze fell to his chiseled chest and the shadows dancing on his tanned skin. He was a businessman, as cultured and competent as any she had met. But she’d seen him fight. Under his tailor-made suit he was a warrior.

“Then what am I?” He arched an eyebrow and watched her soberly.

She thought for a moment. “A mountain lion.”

He seemed to be pleased with that. “And you?”

Right now, under his intense gaze, she felt like a deer caught in headlights. She couldn’t tell him that.

“You’re a lioness. We are the same,” he said, when she took too long to answer.

And then he leaned forward and kissed her.

His lips were warm and firm and imbued with some magical power that wiped her mind clean. The passion between them was palpable, the kind that up until now she hadn’t been sure existed outside of her favorite books. Though they were practically strangers, the chemistry they shared had a force of its own that made the raging sandstorm seem puny by comparison. She felt picked up and swept away, drowning in sensations that were impossible to resist, impossible to turn away from.

This was no tentative good-night kiss that might come at the end of a first date. This kiss was meant to brand a woman’s soul. Tariq possessed her, instantly and completely. Heat pooled between her thighs when his tongue touched hers, even as she tried to resist his pull.

His long fingers caressed her hair, her face, her neck, dipping to the blanket and loosening it. Then his hand closed over her breast. Pleasure skittered through her, a thousand points of light.

She was so not going to do this. She had to stop. Now.

She kept kissing him and arched her back, pressing her distended nipple into the heat of his palm. He dragged his thumb over the sensitized tip, and she felt the shock down to her toes.

The deep, hungry growl that escaped his throat should have sobered her. She did pull away a little and look into his dark eyes, which gleamed with endless passion and heat. She could not glance away; she could not move back another inch. He held her enthralled.

With one long finger, he parted the blanket from top to bottom. She let him, mesmerized by the obvious need behind the soft fabric that covered his waist. Then he pushed her onto her back with one gentle hand and pressed closer, half covering her with his body.

Part of her said she was crazy for allowing this to go on. Another part insisted that she’d never felt this way before with any man, and what if she never would again?

He trailed his fingers between her breasts, over her stomach, to the cropped patch of hair below. Pleasure shot through her and had her trembling. Too fast. Too fast. The sensation scared her as much as it possessed her—frightened her because it possessed her.

She laid a hand on his chest and pressed against him. At this slight display of resistance, he stilled. When she drew her lips from his, he did not follow. But he leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing shallow and ragged, the first sign that he was as affected as she’d been. No, not the first. The hard proof of his desire pressed against her thigh.

She had come close to—

“We can’t,” she said, her voice weak.

“Why? What purpose would denying ourselves serve?”

“This is not how it works.” She wished she could form a coherent thought. What was happening here? What she had nearly done, and some part of her was still contemplating … She wasn’t like this at all.

“There are no one-night stands and quick hookups in the U.S.? That’s not how I remember it.”

She wondered how he had lived when he’d been there. A billionaire sheik. He’d probably had his choice of partners. And Sara was stupid beyond reason for allowing the thought to dismay her.

She pulled farther back, until they were no longer touching, until she could look into his dark eyes.

“I’m not a one-night stand sort of woman.”

“Good. I’m not a one-night stand sort of man.”

She retied the blanket around her. Tightly. And was proud that her fingers trembled only a little. “I’m not going to do this.” She marshaled the last of her willpower and resistance. “It’s not going to happen.”

The hyena laughed under their window, startling her back into his arms.

Chapter Five

Tariq crept through the night, sticking close to the buildings, staying deep in the shadows. Dawn had not yet arrived, but the moon lit their way. The storm had died down and their clothes were dry. Time to look around.

He couldn’t sleep, anyway. Not after he’d touched Sara and experienced the depths of her passion, the sweetness of her mouth, the feel of her under him. She had drawn away. He’d pushed too fast, too hard. Found it difficult not to. His sudden and fierce need demanded he have her.

“This way,” he murmured, and dashed across an open area, toward the large building near where he’d seen the tire tracks before. She ran behind him. Whoever had arrived in the middle of the night, in the middle of the storm, was most likely there.

Sara had come because they had but one weapon between them, the tire iron, and they’d had to put out the fire now that the wind was no longer blowing. They couldn’t risk someone smelling smoke. Tariq hadn’t seen the hyena for a while, but he didn’t want to leave her behind unprotected.

“Keep low,” he whispered.

She ducked her head down, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She hadn’t put it back up. She was beautiful and sexy, with an incredibly hot body that made him ache with wanting. But there was so much more to her. Beauty alone couldn’t distract him this much. The world was full of beautiful women, and there was no shortage of sexy bodies happy to press up against a sheik who owned a couple of oil wells.

He wasn’t proud of the fact that in his youth he had taken advantage of that.

It’d been only over the last few years before he’d returned to Beharrain that the emptiness of his relationships had begun to bother him. And since he’d been here, he’d barely had a relationship at all.

Spending a day and a night with Sara Reeves made him wish for things he hadn’t given much thought to before. And he couldn’t afford to now. The task at hand required his full attention.

“Watch out.” He pointed toward a scorpion that skittered across the ground a few inches from her feet. He kicked sand at it. The scorpion lifted its tail, but turned and moved off in the opposite direction.

Sara’s lips tightened as she stared after it, but she didn’t make a noise or any sudden movement that might betray their presence. “Poisonous?” she whispered.

“Yes.” At the beginning of construction they had done an extensive relocation project, capturing scorpions and transporting them to the Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter, the uninhabited part of the desert.

Out of the dozens of species of scorpions in his country, only a few were poisonous. None had been found when they had surveyed the area, then shortly after work began, contractors came across several nests of them. It made Tariq wonder if they’d been brought in, yet another insidious form of sabotage. But as with the rest, nobody talked, nothing could be proved.

He moved forward again, creeping along the wall when they reached the building they’d been heading for. Sara came up close behind him the next time he stopped to listen for noises inside, their bodies separated by only an inch or two. He was aware of every soft breath she took, her every move, and wondered if she was as acutely aware of him as he was of her.

Back in the villa, she had pulled away. Probably the smart thing to do—not that he’d liked it. The instant connection between them had probably taken her off guard as much as it had him. So he would give her time. As much as he could. He would plan a slow seduction. It hardly seemed possible, and yet he must, because he wasn’t ready to walk away from her. He wanted more. A lot more. As soon as they were both safe and away from danger.

He moved on to the next window hole and glanced inside. “Two trucks,” he whispered.

She stiffened, probably thinking about the attack. But she drew her back straight in the next second, and he knew if it came to that, she would be ready to fight.

“Not the same ones,” he told her.

The trucks stood in the shelter of the walls, the one closest to him a Russian-made Kamaz. He couldn’t see enough of the other one to identify it, but they didn’t look like the beat-up military trucks that had attacked them on the way to the well. These were later models, in better shape.

Men slept, some snoring, on the sand that covered the floor.

“A single sentry,” he whispered as he watched a youth of maybe twenty sitting facing the entry. His back was propped against the wall, and his head bobbed as he fought sleep.

Tariq focused on the trucks. “I want to see what they are transporting.” It might provide the clue to why his convoy had been attacked, why his oasis project was regularly visited by people who had no business being here.

“Be careful,” Sara said.

With her on his heels, he ducked to keep out of sight, then rounded the building to get to the other side. Coming in the front would have been too conspicuous. But the structure had plenty of gaps in the walls. The best point of entry was a window hole on the other side, where the trucks would keep him out of sight of the guard.

Suddenly, the hair prickled at Tariq’s nape. He wasn’t consciously aware that he’d heard something, but he must have, because all of a sudden he knew without a doubt that they were no longer alone. He held up a warning hand for Sara as he stopped midstride and looked around slowly. A small sound came from behind a pile of bricks a few yards away. He flattened Sara against the wall and stepped in front of her, keeping the tire iron ready.

A shadow stretched forward in the moonlight. Was somebody crouching there? Tariq prepared to lunge. But then the shadow moved again and separated from the brick pile. The hyena. The animal growled at them.

Sara grabbed on to his shirt from behind.

“Keep still,” he whispered.

“Over there,” she whispered back.

He glanced around and spotted another, much larger shape between two buildings.

A camel? “How did that get here?”

Got lost in the sandstorm, most likely. Or it could be here with its rider, hiding out from the storm as Sara and he were, although Tariq would have expected the animal to be tied up in that case. Camels were notorious for wandering off, not something someone whose survival depended on the beast was likely to forget.

Encouraged by Tariq’s attention being drawn elsewhere, the hyena crept closer. Tariq tried to shoo the damn thing toward the camel, but of course, the hyena was interested in him and Sara, smaller targets that would make easier prey. It eyed Tariq with a leer, not looking particularly impressed by the tire iron. Understandable, when its powerful jaws could easily snap in half the wrist that held it.

Tariq swung the length of metal, anyway. The hyena danced back, but didn’t run away. And they couldn’t shout, couldn’t throw anything at it, couldn’t make a noise. Tariq strode forward, keeping his body between Sara and the beast.

When he reached the next window hole, he looked in and took stock of the men inside from this different point of view. There were about two dozen of them, all sound asleep, apparently. But going in through this opening was still too risky. Tariq ducked down again and kept moving, turning back every few steps to keep track of the hyena, and of Sara.

When he reached the window he’d been aiming for, he looked inside and searched the dim interior carefully. Everyone in his line of vision seemed asleep. The trucks blocked his view of the guard.

He turned and handed Sara the tire iron. “Over there,” he mouthed, pointing to a nearby stack of bricks that towered over their heads. He helped her up on top, trying not to get too distracted touching her. He kept his hand on her arm for a long moment, then reluctantly pulled away.

She would be safe here, out of the hyena’s reach and out of sight if any of the smugglers wandered outside. Plus, from her higher position, she had a good view of the surrounding area, and could keep an eye out for anyone approaching. He stepped back to the window and leaned into the building, checking to make sure he wouldn’t be stepping on anyone when he climbed in.

“Don’t take any chances.” The soft whisper came from behind him.

He nodded without looking back.

Silently, he pulled himself up to the sill. Then he lowered himself to the floor inside. His shoes sank a good inch into the loose sand that had been recently blown in by the winds.

The only light came from the moon peeking through many holes in the walls. Tariq had no trouble blending into the shadows. He walked slowly, in a crouch, and stopped frequently. A man who lay on the floor spread-eagle, snoring up a storm. The grating sound stopped just as Tariq passed. He froze. But a glance back showed the man still sleeping, his head turned in the opposite direction.

Crossing the ten yards from the window to the nearest truck took nearly as many minutes. Tariq lifted the corner of the canvas and looked inside. Too dark to see anything. He listened for sounds of breathing. Nothing. Not that he had expected to find anyone. No sense in sleeping in the stifling air of a closed, hard truck bed when one could sleep on the soft sand outside.

He pulled himself up and crawled in, letting the flap close, and complete darkness envelop him. He went by feel, bumping into wooden crates that filled most of the truck, leaving enough room for only a handful of armed men to guard the cargo when they were on the road.

Guns was Tariq’s first thought. He wedged his fingertips under the top of the nearest crate, but had trouble prying it open. Whoever had closed it had nailed it down well. He searched around for a tool, but found nothing. Then he came across a banged-up license plate and used that. Precious minutes ticked by as he eased the top open a millimeter at a time. He froze when someone spoke in Arabic directly outside.

“Ready?”

A groan came in response.

Tariq ducked behind a crate so they wouldn’t immediately see him if anyone checked inside. He felt around for a weapon, but his fingers met only crates and more crates. Fortunately, there was no further conversation, only footsteps walking away.

Probably the changing of the guard.

Tariq didn’t dare move for a good fifteen minutes, until he could be reasonably sure that the guy who’d just come off duty was asleep. Then he lifted the crate’s top and eased it off, reached inside. His fingers brushed against what could have been a bag of flour. He knew better.

Drugs.

On his tribal land. He gritted his teeth at the insult, at the danger that these smugglers were bringing to his people. This would be stopped, and he would be the man to stop it. As soon as he saw Sara Reeves to safety.

He inched back the way he had come and pushed the flap aside an inch, looked out to make sure the new guard wasn’t anywhere nearby. But everything seemed the same as when he’d come in, with no movement among the men. Tariq went over the tailgate and dropped quietly to the sand, then crept to the cab and stepped up. Reaching in through the open window, he was grateful when he felt the satellite phone he’d dared to hope would be there.

He glanced at the men between him and the window hole in the wall, his way out.

He needed weapons, too.

But as he bent to reach for the AK-47 lying next to a bearded man on the sand, a shout came from the other side of the trucks, followed by sounds of people coming awake and jumping to their feet.

Tariq ducked under the vehicle.

Gunfire erupted at the building’s front, and voices shouting and swearing angrily. He could see feet moving that way.

His heart leaped and banged against his rib cage. He tried, but couldn’t see the source of the disturbance amid all the chaos. He only prayed it wasn’t Sara. She wouldn’t have left her safe position for anything, would she?

“YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED out of it.” The shah let his full disapproval sound in his voice.

His son hung his head with respect. “Yes, Father.”

“And for what? A woman?”

“You have not seen her. She—”

“Silence!” he thundered. He’d had his share of foreign whores over the years. They had been a ready source of entertainment. That his son should become bewitched by one defied understanding. “Do you have need of another wife?”

“No, Father.”

The boy had gotten the first at age seventeen, a fifteen-year-old, sweet virgin his mother had arranged for, and his grandfather had negotiated. The lad had been caught pestering the maids one time too many. Not that there was anything wrong with that; that’s what they were there for. But should there be a child … The first son should be born in wedlock.

The shah scowled. He had no intention of letting history repeat itself. He’d acquired his son’s second wife as a college graduation present, when the boy had professed to falling madly in love with one of his friend’s sisters, at age twenty-two. The third wife had come just last year.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Father.”

Good. The three wives the boy had so far were obedient, and had gifted him with many sons. Since the Quran allowed only four, the smart thing to do was to save the last one for when he was older, fifty or sixty or even more. A fourteen-year-old virgin could do miracles for a man’s body and soul at that age, revitalizing him all over again.

“Go prepare yourself for the feast,” he told the boy.

His closest allies would soon be here. He would reveal his secret to them. And then, with his son, his firstborn, his pride, together they would begin to reclaim their family’s legacy.

SARA WAS LOST IN THOUGHT, trying to find some explanation for the out-of-character way she had acted with Tariq, feeling flushed all over again at the thought of his kisses and his hands on her, when the gunfire erupted.

Tariq.

She glanced around, but couldn’t see anything from her perch on the brick pile. The hyena was nowhere in sight. After a split second of evaluating her situation, she slid to the ground. Had Tariq been discovered? He had to have been. Why else would the bandits be shooting?

She gripped the tire iron and peeked in the window. The trucks sat in the middle of the large open area. She could see men near the front of the building, but couldn’t make out what they were doing, other than that they were upset over something.

The gunfire stopped.

Had Tariq been captured?

She waited to see if they would bring him back in, trying to think how she could possibly save him. What could she do against truckloads of bandits?

If he was still alive. She hadn’t counted, but at least two or three dozen shots had been fired.

The thought of possible implications gripped her with icy fingers.

A dark shape separated from the deep shadow between the two trucks—a man hurrying toward her, keeping low.

Fear mingled with hope inside her. It could be that someone had spotted her, but it also could be Tariq. If it was one of the bandits, wouldn’t he have shouted for the others? Hope grew even as she held the tire iron ready to swing.

Then the man reached the swatch of moonlight that came through the window, and she relaxed, stepping back as Tariq vaulted through the hole.

“Let’s go.”

Her wrist was caught in a band of steel that pulled her forward.

“Did they see you?” she whispered, hurrying to keep up with him.

“The hyena paid them a visit. I shouldn’t have left you here.” His voice was taut with intensity.

He picked a different path than the one they’d taken to get here, keeping in the cover of buildings and out of sight of the men, who were still milling about outside.

“Who are they?” she asked, struggling through the soft sand, which sucked at her feet with every step.

“Drug runners.”

“How many?” She hadn’t been able to see in the darkness.

“About two dozen. Well-armed.” Instead of taking her back to the villa where they’d spent the night, he was walking toward the structure that housed the Hummer.