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

“I heard that those were accidents. He didn’t even know Aziz would be at the well.”

“He is a modest man. Doesn’t like to brag …. So, do you still have that mistress in Khablad?”

Tariq moved along as the conversation switched to women. Grief for Aziz sat heavy in his heart. He clamped his jaw tight, fury coursing through his veins. Who in hell was “the shah?” Was Karim in danger? He had to get back to Sara and the satellite phone and warn his brother. But first, the trucks.

He walked through the building and stopped just inside the doorway. He was nearly at the vehicles. Unfortunately, more bandits hung around here.

He waited until one came near, then made a small noise. The man didn’t seem to hear. Tariq kicked his boot against the wall. That stopped the guy. He turned toward the building and stuck his head in.

Tariq was ready. He’d considered the tire iron, but put a chokehold on the man instead, and with one quick move, pulled him in. A knife appeared, but he deflected it, then gained possession. Not that he could use the thing. Instead, he snapped the man’s neck, then laid him on the ground and began to remove his uniform. A giant bloodstain on the cloth would draw attention, and he needed to blend in.

When he was dressed and had the white kaffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head—enough to obscure his features, but not so much that people would wonder what he was doing with it now that the winds had died down—he stepped outside.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to him as he made his way to the resort’s main hotel tower, where the bandits were camped out. He slipped inside. Six men were visible, but he couldn’t see into every corner. He walked about, keeping to the shadows until he made sure his first assessment was correct.

“Too early,” someone said.

“We might have to stop again if there’s another storm,” a second man responded.

Tariq paid them little attention. He had a knife he was itching to sink into the tires, but three of the men were sitting near the trucks, sharing a carafe of Arabian spiced coffee. The scent of cinnamon carried in the air as one of them poured.

“… Gallbladder. I’ll have to go into the hospital sooner or later.”

“I hate doctors,” his friend responded, and they began to swap horror stories of medical mishaps in their respective families.

Tariq scanned the blankets on the sand, packages of food, guns that had been left around, a five-gallon water jug. He pretended to go for water, and managed to swing an abandoned AK-47 over his shoulder in the process.

He moved toward the truck in the back, parked a few feet farther from the men than the one in front. He knelt out of sight, and was just raising the knife, hoping the hissing air wouldn’t make too much noise, when someone came around the back of the vehicle, nearly falling over him. Tariq sprung up, one hand over the man’s mouth even as the other was slicing his neck. He rolled the body under the truck, behind the large tire, where it might not be immediately seen. Then he slashed the rubber before moving on.

Four years ago, living in California, he would have found the idea of killing a man unthinkable. But a lot had happened since he had left that life behind. This was another world. Sometimes it seemed another reality, another dimension. He’d had to defend his life enough times that he’d learned to do so with skill. And when, in a disagreement over borders, apart of his tribe, his fakhadh, had clashed with a Yemeni gang that outnumbered them five to one, he had been expected to lead them in tribal warfare that seemed to throw him back centuries.

Except for the automatic weapons.

He didn’t know whether to curse those or be grateful for their effectiveness, which had ended the fight in short order. In his great-grandfather’s time, such an argument could have lasted generations before enough men were killed on each side that everyone felt honor had been restored.

The brief war had been a shock to his California, CEO sensibilities. But it had happened a few years ago. Now he was fully immersed in the volatile lifestyle of his countrymen. He was used to the fighting and the killing, the intricacies of Middle Eastern politics, the contrast of poverty and riches, the assassins. And he was getting used to being lonely, not being able to trust anyone.

Sara Reeves’s clear blue eyes flashed into his mind. He could trust her, for now. She had little interest in his country, beyond the contract that had brought her here. A contract that was signed already and sitting on his desk back at his office, although she didn’t know that.

Tariq crouched by another tire and sank his knife into it.

“How did this happen?”

“Who is responsible?”

People were coming back from scouring the construction site, talking with vehemence. He listened, then swore when he caught bits and pieces of the diatribe. Some bodies had been found. The bandits were organizing a search of the buildings.

He glanced toward the other truck, in plain sight of the men. Couldn’t reach it without being seen … He had to get Sara out of here.

Unnoticed by the bandits who were milling about up front, shouting and shaking their weapons, he walked toward the other truck and stuck the knife in one tire. But he couldn’t do more without risking discovery, so he headed out, regretfully leaving behind the tire iron that had served him so well until now. He couldn’t afford to catch the bandits’ attention with anything that seemed out of place.

He kept his head turned away from them, but walked with brisk confidence, a man on a mission.

“You stay with the shipment,” one of them barked at him, apparently mistaking him for the man whose clothes he wore.

“Be back in a minute,” he said without slowing, making his voice scratchy, as if something was stuck in the back of his throat, or as if he’d just woken up.

The man grabbed him by the arm.

If he tried to explain his way out of this, chances were they would realize the voice wasn’t right, nor were the eyes. There weren’t so many of them that they wouldn’t know each other. So he simply turned and shrugged the man off with impatience.

He almost made it. It came down to a stupid bit of chance, a coincidence. As the guy gestured in displeasure, the barrel of his rifle got caught in Tariq’s headdress and pulled it off.

Tariq had just enough time to register that the game was lost.

The next second a dozen guns were pointed at his head.

WHERE WAS HE?

“Come on, come on, come on,” Sara whispered.

There was an awful lot of movement near the buildings, a lot of shouting. And the sounds were coming her way. She sat in the Hummer, expecting Tariq to come flying in so they could take off, but he didn’t appear.

If anyone came up to the building before Tariq got here, he’d be sure to check out the vehicle. Under the circumstances, this didn’t seem like the best place to hide. She got out, careful not to slam the door behind her, and looked around. No place to conceal herself here. She went to the back window. Bandits were running in and out of buildings, as if searching for something. It wouldn’t be long before they reached her.

Fear and desperation coursed through her as she grabbed the gun Tariq had left her. Her other hand held the satellite phone. She would do what she had to, but facing the men head-on would be suicide. And the first one would reach her within seconds.

She tucked the gun and the phone into the waistband of her suit—there was plenty of room, considering they’d barely eaten since yesterday—and rushed back to the car. Stepping up on the hood, she jumped and pulled herself up to the roof through a hole in the ceiling. At least, she tried to.

She was a businesswoman, one too busy to spend regular time at the gym. She bit her lip. It didn’t seem this hard in the movies. Where was her upper body strength? Apparently, working on a keyboard all day long did nothing for her biceps. And her skirt wasn’t helping, either. After a few seconds, it became abundantly clear why action flick heroines always wore pants.

Sara swung her legs and felt the gun slip, clenched her teeth with frustration. The only saving grace was that the weapon fell onto the sand instead of the car, making no noise at all. She swung harder on the next try and gained purchase with her feet at last, rolling away from the hole a fraction of a second before the first bandit rushed inside.

She held her breath, grateful that at least she still had the phone.

The man shouted for the others, who arrived in a hurry. She heard some banging. Were they kicking the car?

The engine started.

No, no, no. She and Tariq needed that to get out of the desert. What could she do? Distract the men until Tariq got there? What if he wasn’t coming? She didn’t want to consider that possibility. Lying low seemed to be the smartest thing for now. With some luck, they could get the car back once they regrouped.

Exhaust wafted up through the hole next to her. She fought not to cough.

Then the vehicle began to move, the sound changing as someone put it in gear and drove outside. They didn’t go far before they stopped. She crawled toward the partially completed wall that would frame the upper floor of the building someday, hoping to get a glimpse of what was going on. Gunshots went off the next second, freezing her to the spot. At first she thought they might have seen her somehow, but no bullets pinged anywhere nearby.

Tariq?

Then an explosion shook the building, deafening her. She lay flat on her stomach. Oh, God.

Those bastards had blown up the Hummer. Why? What sense did that make? But of course, the idiots didn’t need a reason. They were ticked off, and did whatever they damn well pleased. A peek over a low spot in the wall revealed a smoldering pile of twisted metal, confirming her worst fears.

Best case scenario—she and Tariq would manage to evade the bandits and survive. Yet they would still be stuck in the middle of the desert. Sara clung to the satellite phone, their only hope at this stage. The men were laughing as they strode back where they’d come from.

One of the trucks was rolling out of their headquarters. A couple of men jumped on, while others went inside. A few seconds later, two reappeared, dragging a man to the back of the truck. He was dressed like the others, but his wide shoulders seemed familiar. Tariq? Her heartbeat raced. She couldn’t make out the man’s bloody face. He seemed deathly still.

Fear and shock clutched her heart, and pain sliced into her chest. She waited for an eternity, her mind in turmoil, before the other truck appeared, as well. Then the bandits drove away. She waited some more, hoping Tariq would emerge from one of the buildings. When it became clear that he wouldn’t, she went back to the hole.

They had taken her gun. She stared at the bare sand at least nine feet below her. No other way down but to jump.

If she broke a leg, she was as good as dead.

Not that she would survive all that long up here in the beating sun, without water. She stuck the phone in the back of her waistband and leaned forward to make sure she wouldn’t fall on it. She would still be better off with a working phone and a broken leg than the other way around. She took a deep breath and jumped, yelping in pain when she landed hard on her feet and fell over, the shock reverberating up her shinbones.

She stood gingerly, testing her ankles. No major damage. She said a brief prayer of thanks as she limped to the door. The trucks were dark points in the distance.

She stared at the charred remains of the Hummer for a brief second, registering anew that she was trapped here. Then she flexed her ankles and started out in search of Tariq, scared of what she would find. The tension in her spine tightened with each empty building she walked through.

No sign of him anywhere.

Except for the bloodstain on the floor of the main building the bandits had slept in. They’d taken him. The realization was too scary to accept, but she couldn’t deny it. She was his only hope. She needed to get with the program and make a plan. Where would they take him? She wouldn’t allow herself to think that he might not be alive.

“Don’t let him be hurt,” she whispered into the empty air, fighting the desperation that threatened to engulf her. She was alone, without a car or a weapon. But she refused to think that all was lost. She had the phone.

Her fingers closed around it and she pulled it from her waistband, just as a dark shape appeared in the doorway.

Looked like she wasn’t alone, after all. The hyena was here.

“Go away,” she yelled, and glanced around desperately. She had nothing to defend herself with, so she grabbed a fistful of sand and threw that at the slobbering beast. That didn’t seem to faze it. She drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Animals could smell fear. She raised herself to her full height, hoping to look more formidable. Easy. She could handle this. She had to, because she wasn’t going to let Tariq die.

The repulsive scavenger meandered in, keeping its beady eyes on her, giving a bark. The sound reverberated across the room and bounced off the walls, sounding like deranged human laughter.

She stepped back, her heel striking something: the tire iron, half buried in the sand. Sara said a prayer of thanks as she used it to fend off the intruder.

Chapter Seven

The shah gripped his cell phone so hard the plastic squeaked in protest.

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“It is Sheik Abdullah. He said so himself.”

The man had as many lives as a cat. The attack on the convoy had not been meant for him, hadn’t been planned at all. The oilmen had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

One of the men had recognized him after the fight, had thought him dead, but was too stupid to make sure. Had the sheik died, it would have been a bonus. But he seemed to have survived, after all, to interfere once again.

Was it a sign? Maybe Sheik Abdullah could be used for something. He was the king’s cousin. No love lost there, but honor would demand that the monarch ransom him. For money or other advantages. It bore thinking about. And then there was the treasure.

The ex-king, Majid, Tariq’s half brother, had amassed incredible wealth, not all of which had been found after his death. Speculation ran wild about where all the gold must be. Who would know better than Tariq, who had succeeded Majid as sheik of their tribe?

“Bring him to me,” he said into the phone, before he flipped the lid closed. He didn’t expect the shipment for another three days. They weren’t far away, but there were no roads where they traveled, which slowed things considerably.

Sheik Abdullah. The shah grinned. Plenty of time to send for Abbas, who was an expert at getting men to talk. If Tariq knew anything about the gold, they would get it out of him. If it turned out he didn’t, they could still ransom him to his cousin, the king.

SHE WAS INSANE. She belonged in a zoo along with the camel and the hyena. Preferably in a separate cage.

Sara held on for dear life as the camel she’d somehow managed to mount swayed under her, progressing forward with undulating movements. Why anyone would ever ride one of these beasts escaped her. They were slow, stinky and uncomfortable in the extreme. And this one had spit on her! Had had to show his disapproval before they’d been able to come to terms.

Every inch of her skin was covered to keep the murderous rays of the sun at bay. Luckily, one of the saddlebags had been full of brand-new kaffiyehs, the traditional headdresses men wore. Maybe the animal’s owner had been on his way to market.

She followed the tire tracks in the sand instead of taking the shortest way out of the desert. She couldn’t leave Tariq.

He had saved her life. She wasn’t the type who could turn her back on him now and live with that decision. The bandits had an hour’s head start. She would follow and see where they took him. Once she had a location, she would call Karim again. He was searching the desert for them already, thanks to the satellite phone. She had called the last number dialed, as soon as she had managed to outwit the hyena.

Beharrain wasn’t a huge country. The desert wasn’t as endless as it seemed. Help would come; she had to believe that. And she would do whatever it took to survive until then. She glanced at the water jugs, at the blanket, the saddlebag where she’d stuffed the food Tariq had brought from the vending machines. Good thing that had been buried under sand, or the bandits would have taken everything.

She looked back and sighed. The hyena was following close behind. Probably waiting for her to fall out of the saddle. A distinct possibility.

“Go away!”

She had hoped to leave the beast in the proverbial dust, but the camel was so slow it would have lost in a race with a snail. Race. Didn’t she read something in her guide book about camel races? Come to think of it, she was sure she’d seen camels on the National Geographic channel that moved faster than this one. So it could go faster. But how to make it?

She kicked the animal in the side gently. “Go!”

It ignored her.

She jiggled her body up and down in the saddle. “Go! Go! Go!”

The animal picked up speed. Marginally.

“Faster!” She slapped its side.

And to her surprise, the camel actually broke into a run. Time to hang on. If she thought her perch in the saddle had been precarious when the animal was walking, this was a hundred times worse. She needed all her skill and concentration to stay in place. She didn’t dare turn and check on the hyena.

“Faster!” she yelled each time the camel thought about slowing, and the animal listened, responding to the tone of her voice.

She might have a chance to catch up with the bandits yet, depending on the camel’s stamina. The trucks had been driving slowly when they’d left, probably due to the uneven terrain. The sandstorm had left drifting dunes behind.

An hour of galloping brought them to a rocky area, one that sloped upward, with mountains in the distance. Sara was fine while there was sand mixed in with the rocks, but once the rocks won out, she could no longer see any tracks.

The camel was slowing now, too, since the ground was harder to run on. It was probably tiring. She untied a new bottle—she had drained one already—and took a long drink, then glanced back. The hyena was a dot in the distance. But it still followed.

“Let’s go.” She urged the camel forward, scanning the mountainous region ahead. Then she noted movement on a ridge far ahead, and made out the silhouette of two trucks against the sky.

Maybe she could catch up a little before they completely disappeared. The camel could go through narrow passages that trucks couldn’t. She gripped the reins with one hand, the saddle with the other, dark spots dancing before her eyes all of a sudden. She blinked them away.

The heat was strong enough now to kill. And there was little shade among the rocks, not even higher up the mountain. The sun was almost directly overhead.

She had two choices. To sit out the noon heat, hiding in the shade of the camel, letting that damn hyena catch up with her, and risk forever losing Tariq. Or to keep going, risking sunstroke and becoming hyena lunch, anyway.

“WHERE IS THE GOLD?” The man sitting by Tariq’s prone body asked the question for the hundredth time, hissing the words through his yellow teeth.

Tariq closed his bloodshot eyes. Maybe he’d already died and was in hell. It seemed unlikely that pain such as this would exist anyplace but there. He turned his face from the blistering heat and blinding light of the flames next to them. Better. That spoke against hell. He didn’t think a place like that would afford any relief.

The man kicked him. “Wake up and talk.”

He opened his eyes and glared into his torturer’s face, until the bastard turned toward the fire to pull out a stick that glowed red at the end. He lowered the hot tip to Tariq’s exposed thigh, and there was nothing Tariq could do. He was bound tight, the man’s foot holding his ankle to the ground. His pant leg had been ripped away a long time ago. Red welts lined his skin where he had been repeatedly burned.

“Where is the gold?”

Tariq turned his head toward the cave’s opening, not wanting to see his flesh seared yet again. He clenched his teeth and stared out into the night. A sole sentry sat by the cave mouth, while sleeping smugglers lay scattered across the floor. They had gotten bored with his torture over an hour ago, and gone to sleep, save the man who held the stick and seemed to have inexhaustible energy for causing him pain.

Fire branded his skin, but Tariq swallowed his groan, fought against the agony. He wasn’t going to give the bastard the satisfaction of crying out loud. “There is no money.” He said the words through gritted teeth, sweating profusely.

His torturer simply laughed and thrust the stick back into the fire.

Tariq kept his gaze on the small patch of sky and stars, trying to focus on them and on Sara’s beautiful face alternately as the sickly smell of his own burned flesh filled the air.

Where was she now? There had been that explosion. And then the smugglers had taken him away, without him seeing Sara again. Had they killed her? Fear of that had tortured him during the long trek, and was more painful than the burns on his thigh.

What had become of Karim? Had he, too, been lost to a trap? Those thoughts bound Tariq more tightly than his ropes. He should have somehow defended Sara and warned his brother.

He watched as the guard at the mouth of the cave raised his head and peered into the darkness. Had he seen or heard something? Was Karim coming? Had he found them somehow? Tariq had been listening for the sound of a chopper, but hadn’t heard it. Then again, torture did have a way of occupying a man’s full attention.

The guard stood and walked away from the opening of the cave.

A shadow appeared a few seconds later and slid inside. Not the guard, and not Karim, either, but someone much more slightly built. He recognized the shape and swore silently in helpless desperation, even though knowing she was alive filled him with relief. She shouldn’t be here.

He watched as Sara moved around, staying away from the area lit by the fire. He knew the exact moment she spotted him, knew when she decided to come out into the light to get to him.

His torturer was pulling the stick from the fire and giving him a demented grin, his focus fixed on his task.

Tariq could do nothing to stop Sara without bringing attention to her. Then she lifted something that in a split second he recognized as the tire iron. If they survived all this, he was going to frame it and hang it in the palace.

She brought the tire iron down hard on the back of the man’s head, and he folded without a sound. Sara immediately dropped to the sand next to Tariq and covered herself with a blanket, in case anyone woke up and looked around.

“Sara,” he said in a barely audible whisper, just to reaffirm that she really was alive and with him.

After a few moments, when no one raised the alarm, she reached out slowly, touched his face and left her hand there for a second. An amazing woman. He could only stare at her and drink in the sight. She was here, she was safe and she was about to save him.

She was already pulling water from somewhere and pouring it over his burns to cool them. She was an angel. His angel, he thought, with an urgent, possessive sense that took him by surprise.

He wished his hands were free so he could draw her into his arms. He inhaled a slow breath and held her troubled gaze in the light of the fire. “You shouldn’t have come.”

She was the one shaking her head now, even as she ran her fingers over the rope that bound him. “Karim is on his way.”