Captured By A Sheikh

“Lie down!” the man whispered as he edged toward the window.

Holly obeyed, shielding Ben with her body. Had the people who’d fired at their car found the cabin as well? Or could it be the police?

The scraping noise returned, following by a pattering on the roof. Her captor lifted a slat of blinds and peered into the night.

Finally, he turned the lamp back on. “It was a branch in the wind. The rain has started, as you can hear. It should be quite a storm.”

Holly swallowed her disappointment. She had hoped it was the police coming to rescue her and Ben. But at least it wasn’t armed assailants, either.

“Who shot at us earlier?” she asked. “And who are you? I don’t even know your name.”

The man drew himself up proudly. Somehow his confident air made his robe and headdress appear less outlandish. In fact, Holly could have sworn they suited him better than the jeans and sweatshirt he’d worn that afternoon.

“I am Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil of Alqedar.” He delivered this bizarre information without a trace of self-consciousness. “That is a small nation in south-central Arabia, in case you do not know. Although my son has been born in America, I have every right to take him home.”

The words “sheikh” and “Arabia” seemed like phrases from a fairy tale. “Who are you really?”

An eyebrow lifted, and then he laughed. “You do not believe me? I’m not surprised. But it is true.”

She tried a different tack. “Ben was born here. That makes him a U.S. citizen. You can’t just whisk him off, not if his mother opposes it.”

The man shrugged. “It seems that his mother has found better ways to occupy her time.”

“I’m his next closest relative!”

“And you would have married yourself a lawyer to defend your so-called rights,” he observed with a trace of sarcasm. “How very American of you.”

Although the implication infuriated Holly, she wouldn’t stoop to debate it. “What’s between Trevor and me is none of your business. And even if you are a sheikh and Ben really is your son, nothing gives you the right to hold me prisoner!”

“You chose to jump in the car with us. That was your decision.” The man regarded her with what might have been sympathy, or merely irony. “I am afraid I cannot let you go yet, Ms. Rivers, even though it was to be your wedding night. Perhaps I can make it up to you.”

Her throat tightened.

He regarded her with amusement. “I did not mean that literally, but it could be arranged.”

He was a sheikh, but more importantly, he was a leader from a foreign country. If he possessed diplomatic immunity, Holly thought in a burst of fear, he could do anything he wanted, and get away with it.

Chapter Three

Sharif did not understand why, after all these years, he was suddenly seized with the desire to possess a woman. Why at this perilous time, when he needed to stay alert, and why this defiant woman?

From the moment he’d held her in the car, Holly had aroused a response like no woman since Yona. And now, in the rise and fall of her breasts as she stared at him, he read a rising passion that matched his own.

She was fighting her desire in vain. He knew from his younger days what it took to seduce a woman, and this one lay within his power. All it would take was the touch of his lips against her face and throat, and the hard commanding movements of his body, and he could bring them both to ecstasy.

Holly’s eyes widened. With fear or longing, or both? “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”

She was, the sheikh reminded himself sharply, another man’s bride. She was also a threat to his ability to take his son back to Alqedar.

Stiffly, he drew back. “You have nothing to fear. I told you, I am not an abuser of women.”

“And you really don’t know what’s happened to my sister?” Even at this tense moment, Holly Rivers was more concerned for the missing woman than for herself, he saw with reluctant admiration.

“I wish I did.” Sharif bent and ran one finger along his son’s cheek. “It would be easier to straighten out this mess if she were here. Unless she intended, as I feared, to seek custody.”

“I don’t know what she intended.” The young woman brushed back a wave of red hair that had fallen across her temple. “I haven’t seen her in three months, since before Ben was born.”

“Then how did you get him?”

“A friend of hers brought him, a musician named Griff Goldbar. He said she would come back in a few days. That was over a month ago.”

About that time, the clinic owner had stopped taking Zahad’s calls. Such a coincidence must be meaningful. “Do you know a woman named Noreen Wheaton?”

“No, why?”

“She’s the head of the clinic that hired your sister,” he said. “If you’ve been searching for Jasmine, surely you found some record of the surrogacy arrangement.”

Holly’s expression grew troubled. “Jazz must have taken her contract with her. I cleaned out her room, but there weren’t any papers from a clinic.” The baby began to squirm. “I think he’s hungry.”

“I’ll get the formula.” Sharif went to fetch the bag that Aunt Selima had packed.

As he crossed the cabin, he wondered why the clinic director had been reluctant to talk to Zahad. Had there been threats against the clinic and, if so, from whom? With the police after him, Sharif could hardly contact Mrs. Wheaton to ask her directly.

Or perhaps he was looking in the wrong direction. The woman, Jasmine, might have enemies of her own. Her disappearance might bear no relationship to Sharif or to the clinic.

On his way back to the alcove, he tuned the television set to an all-news station, grateful that, in California, even remote cabins came equipped with TV service. At the moment, however, the report concerned local politics.

“My great-aunt provided these supplies.” He set the bag beside Holly on the bed. “She and my cousin Amy will care for the child when I get home.”

“You’re not married?” In the filtered light, the woman could have passed for a teenager.

“My wife died many years ago.” To cut off further questions, he presented her with a can of formula. “Is it necessary to heat it?”

“Not really,” Holly said. “Do you have a clean bottle?”

“I would scarcely bring a dirty one!” He handed it to her. “How long will that last?”

“There’s enough for two feedings, so maybe half a day. Is this all you’ve got?”

“There are two more cans.” Obviously, it would not be enough. “Zahad will get more.”

After filling the bottle, the woman settled the baby at the same angle Selima had demonstrated. Sharif wondered whether women did these things by instinct, but he knew better than to ask an American woman.

“You have a phone?” she said.

Sharif patted his robe.

“I wondered if I could call my fiancé,” she said. “Trevor must be going crazy.”

Trevor. Ah, yes, the athletic blond man in his forties who had crossed the courtyard that afternoon. Sharif no longer believed Holly had manipulated her groom, yet she didn’t speak of him as if she were in love. Her reasons for marrying were, however, none of his business.

“I am sorry to put you both to this inconvenience,” he said. “However, the police will be monitoring his telephone and might be able to locate us.”

“Even through a cell phone?”

“It is possible,” he said. “The technology is developing rapidly.”

From the TV, the word “kidnapping” drew his attention. A picture came on screen, a blurry angled shot taken from overhead. It showed Sharif, Zahad and Holly getting into the car.

“A security camera in a strip mall captured this scene earlier today in Harbor View, where a bride and her nephew were abducted minutes before her wedding,” said a woman announcer’s voice.

“The victim has been identified as Holly Jeannette Rivers, a hairstylist from Harbor View. Her sister, Hannah Jasmine Rivers, vanished three months ago. Hannah Rivers is the mother of the kidnapped baby.”

A security camera! Sharif cursed under his breath. Neither he nor Zahad had considered that possibility in such a small row of stores.

The picture changed to computer-enhanced closeups of Sharif’s and Zahad’s faces, side by side, like a wanted poster. He realized the camera must have taken numerous shots during their hour-long surveillance.

“Police say the men in the photograph have been tentatively identified as Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil and his aide, Zahad Adran, from the small Arabian nation of Alqedar.”

How? he wondered, and then realized the camera must also have captured the license plate on the rental car, which could be traced to a subsidiary of the Bahrim Corporation. With that information and those pictures, it wouldn’t take long to make an ID.

“A spokesman for the State Department told our station that the sheikh is not in the country on official business and has no diplomatic immunity,” the announcer said. “It is unclear what connection he has with the Rivers family.”

Sharif had known he ran a security risk four years ago when he relinquished his powerful post in the central government to devote himself to the well-being of his province, but he had never anticipated such a situation as this.

Alqedar’s president, Sheikh Abdul Dourad, was an old friend. In his fifties, the president had fought for freedom alongside Sharif and Zahad. However, even he could not retroactively grant diplomatic immunity.

On TV, the anchorwoman sat at her desk beside a blond man in a business suit. “We have with us Trevor Samuelson, the fiancé of kidnap victim Holly Rivers.” She turned to him. “Mr. Samuelson is an attorney in Harbor View and would like to say a few words to the abductors.”

“Just don’t hurt Holly or Ben.” The man stared into the camera. “Whatever your quarrel is, if you want money or whatever, we can work this out.”

His expression was earnest but restrained. Like a soldier stoically facing battle, Sharif thought.

“Thank you, Mr. Samuelson. Now for a look at how long this rain is going to last and how much accumulation we can expect…”

Holly wore a guarded expression as she fed the baby. During Trevor’s appeal, she’d showed no sign of longing for her betrothed. What was she thinking?

And why did she keep sneaking sideways glances at Sharif? Did she too feel this urge to touch?

Her tenderness toward his son formed a bond between them. A man and woman who shared a baby usually also shared the intimacy of their bodies. But she was not the mother, the sheikh reminded himself. And she was not, and never could be, his woman.

The mobile phone rang. After muting the TV, he answered it.

Zahad spoke in Baharalik, an ancient language that survived only in Bahrim. “Did you see the newscast? Yes? I am angry with myself. I should have spotted the camera.”

“We may still be able to resolve this matter,” Sharif said. “Since the mother is missing, I doubt we face a custody battle.”

“Only charges of kidnapping!”

Holding the baby against a cloth laid over her shoulder, Holly was rubbing his back with circular motions. She appeared to pay him no notice.

Into the phone, he said, “I hope to persuade the woman to drop charges. She has accepted that I am the child’s father, and she did leap into the car of her own free will.”

“I doubt she or the authorities will see it that way,” grumbled his cousin. “I do not think it wise to trust her.”

Zahad was a genius at intrigues, but sometimes, Sharif had learned, the shortest distance between two points really was a straight line. “Nevertheless, we need to get my son home quickly. If I can persuade her to plead our cause, it might help.”

“She will lie to you,” warned his aide.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I will have to use my judgment.”

“I would rather you used your wits,” Zahad said. “Although, I admit, you have reason to doubt my advice, now that we have been shot at and photographed all in one day.”

“I do not doubt you,” Sharif said. “You are my other self.”

“As you are mine. I will call as soon as I learn anything from my sources in Alqedar. So far, they have uncovered no rumors of a plot.”

The sheikh rang off with a silent prayer of thanks for his faithful relative. Although they had attended different universities while exiled during their country’s dictatorship, they had trained together at a military camp, and they had both shed blood in the war of liberation. There was no one he trusted more than Zahad.

Perhaps the man was right about Holly. Perhaps she would lie in order to liberate herself, then betray him. But he had to try to win her over, for his son’s sake.

HOLLY WISHED she were an expert at languages. If only she knew what the men had been saying!

At least, according to the newscast, Sharif had told the truth about his identity. He really was a sheikh, and he’d given her his true name.

Did that mean he was being honest about Jazz? That he hadn’t harmed her, and that her sister really had become a surrogate to raise money for a demo recording?

It was, Holly supposed, the kind of impulsive scheme that Jazz might get involved in. But surely Sharif knew more than he was telling about her sister’s disappearance.

She bit her lip. Nothing in her quiet life had prepared her to deal with this brooding, complicated man.

At least the effects of the medication had worn off. She felt tired and sore, but her brain was functioning.

“You must be hungry.” Lamplight etched shadows into the man’s face.

“I guess so.” She tried not to think about Trevor and the wedding reception he’d planned at his favorite restaurant.

In the corner kitchenette, the sheikh opened a refrigerator. His broad shoulders blocked Holly’s view of the contents.

At last he swung around. “We have plenty to eat, if you like Middle Eastern food.”

“That’s fine.” Holly had eaten at several exotic restaurants with Trevor, although she couldn’t remember much about the food. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Only over a campfire.” The sheikh removed a platter. “Fortunately, this can be microwaved.”

A sense of unreality teased at Holly. Was she really about to eat dinner with an Arabian sheikh in a robe and headdress?

As he moved around the kitchen, the white fabric molded itself to his powerful build. She wished she weren’t so aware of Sharif’s leashed strength and the smoldering way he studied her when he thought she was unaware.

For one traitorous moment, she wished that, for one night, she could be someone other than prosaic Holly Rivers. That she could yield to instincts that she didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly justify.

No, she must not think that way. She must set her mind to escaping.

The man had said they were in a canyon. Even in paved-over Orange County, there remained wilderness areas with thick undergrowth inhabited by coyotes and mountain lions. Did she really dare to take the baby out there?

Gazing down at Ben, Holly saw that he’d dozed off. Gently, she settled him on the center of the queen-size bed.

The bell on the microwave indicated their food was ready. Her mind still mulling the dangers of an escape, Holly stood up. Without warning, the world began to spin, and she groped shakily for support.

Swiftly, Sharif reached her side. As he caught Holly’s arm, her knees went weak and she had to lean against him.

“The drug must be affecting your balance,” he said. “It will help if you eat something.”

“I thought I was over it.” Glancing up, she found his face close to hers, his gaze filled with concern. She knew she ought to be frightened, but instead she felt relaxed. Trusting.

“Stay in bed. I’ll bring the food here.” His low tone vibrated through her.

“No.” Holly didn’t dare fall asleep again. They needed to talk. The more she knew, the better her chances of getting out alive. “I want to sit at the table.”

“I’ll help you.” One arm encircled her waist. As the sheikh steered her across the room, she detected other thicknesses of cloth beneath the white fabric. So he was dressed under his robe. The realization highlighted how little she knew about him or his culture.

“At home, do you live in a tent, or a palace, or what?” she asked. “I don’t know much about Alqedar. Or about sheikhs, either.”

His jaw worked, and she realized he was suppressing a smile. Okay, she probably did sound like an idiot, but how was she to know?

“I live in a palace, and we have all the comforts of home.” Supporting her with one arm, he pulled out a chair at the wooden table. “Most of Alqedar’s leaders are educated in the West. We must be able to bridge two worlds, preserving our traditions while meeting the industrialized nations on their own terms.”

“You certainly speak English well.” She sank onto the chair, and immediately missed the comfort of his nearness. “Where did you go to school?”

“At Columbia, in New York.” He took a seat opposite her. “So I am familiar with your country.”

“New York is only one small part of America.”

“I have traveled through most of the states,” he said. “The dramatic landscapes of Utah and Arizona are like nothing else I’ve seen. And some of your cities exert a unique charm.”

Holly felt more provincial than ever. She’d seen less of her own country than this foreigner.

He dished some food onto her plate. Inhaling the aromas, Holly found that she really was hungry.

For a while, they ate without speaking. Under the table, the sheikh’s legs brushed hers. Although he moved them away, she was left with an impression of muscle and sinew.

“Tell me exactly why you kidnapped Ben,” she said. “You were afraid of a custody battle?”

“Exactly. The practices of your legal system do not always tally with those of my country,” he said. “We hoped for a quick getaway.”

“But now that your plan has failed—”

“It hasn’t failed, it has suffered a few setbacks,” he replied. “We incurred what you Americans call ‘the double whammy.’ We got shot twice, first by a camera and then with a gun.”

“You never explained who was firing at us,” she said. “Do you know?”

“Not for certain.” As Sharif ate, she saw that the backs of his hands bore thin, straight scars, as from knife wounds. “I have enemies, from my country’s fight for freedom. It is also possible that your sister has enemies.”

“Jazz hangs out with some strange people, but as far as I know, they don’t carry weapons.”

“What kind of strange people?” From a plastic bottle, he poured mineral water into two glasses.

“Musicians.” With their long hair and disorderly life-style, Jazz’s colleagues had little in common with most people Holly knew. “Maybe they only seem strange in Southern California, because they’re more interested in making music than money.”

“Your sister was interested in money, to make a demonstration recording,” Sharif reminded her.

“I wish she’d told me,” Holly said. “I would have loaned it to her. Or Trevor would have. He manages my parents’ estate, not that it’s worth much. But he’s always come through in a pinch. How much did you pay her?”

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Sharif said.

She choked on her food, and had to wash it down with water. “A hundred and—? Jazz got that much?”

“No, only half was paid in advance, and the clinic took a share,” he said. “I presume she received something in the order of thirty or forty thousand.”

“She left eleven thousand dollars in her checking account,” Holly said. “I’m sure she spent some money on living expenses and maternity clothes. She must have taken the rest with her in cash.”

“And you truly have no idea why she left?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t know why she sent Ben to me, either.”

“Perhaps that musician friend of hers was involved,” he said. “Ten or twenty thousand dollars would be a fortune to him.”

Holly pictured Griff, whom she’d known casually for years. An easygoing, talkative fellow, he played drums in an alternative rock band with which Jazz sang.

He’d had a minor drug conviction a few years back, and he’d managed to avoid being questioned by the police since she reported Jazz missing. Nevertheless, she couldn’t imagine him hurting her sister.

“If he were up to something, why would he give himself away by bringing me the baby?” she pointed out.

The sheikh finished eating. “I do not know. I am grateful that at least he put my son in good hands.”

Holly’s cheeks warmed, and she hurriedly changed the subject. “I think she left of her own free will, but then something prevented her from coming back for Ben. I’ve been so worried.”

“I share your concern that something has gone wrong,” he said slowly. “This Noreen Wheaton, the director of the clinic, might be afraid of someone, or she is playing a game of her own.”

He pushed back his chair and walked to a leather suitcase. From a side pocket, he drew some papers. “Here is a copy of our contract with the clinic. I brought it to prove that the baby is mine. Perhaps you will see something in them that I have missed.”

The papers bore the name of the Crestline View Clinic. The legal terminology covered such issues as privacy and liability.

Holly studied the signatures at the bottom: Sharif Al-Khalil, witnessed by Zahad Adran, and Noreen Wheaton, witnessed by someone named Manuel Estrellas.

“Do you know anything about this man Estrellas?” she asked.

The sheikh took a seat beside her. “A clinic employee, I presume.”

She scanned the contract again. “Why isn’t Jazz’s name on here?”

“We were told she signed a separate contract with the clinic,” Sharif said.

“But she knew about you, right?” Holly returned the document to him. “I mean, that the baby was going to be raised by your aunt and your cousin?”

“You make it sound as if there were something wrong with my arrangements.”

Holly plunged in. “I just don’t believe Ben will be happy growing up without a mother.”

A tightening of the sheikh’s mouth indicated that she’d overstepped her bounds. “I would not have arranged to have a son if I could not provide him with a proper home.”

Tears pricked Holly’s eyes. “I just don’t want to lose him.”

His harsh expression softened. “Have you considered what will happen when your sister returns?” he said. “By your own account, she is unreliable, and you could not prevent her from reclaiming the child. What kind of life would he lead then?”

“I’ve been trying not to think about that.” Staring down at the table, Holly took a deep breath.

She reminded herself that Trevor wanted to marry her, and there was no reason they couldn’t have children of their own. But those children wouldn’t be Ben. They wouldn’t be the baby who’d opened the floodgates of love inside her.

The sheikh brushed a tear from her cheek. “To lose this child would hurt you very much.”

All she could do was nod.

“You are a woman who lives for others,” he murmured. “What then is left for yourself?”

“I don’t need anything for myself.” It seemed so obvious that she was surprised she had to explain it. “What more could a person want than to ensure the happiness of the people she loves?”

His hand cupped her chin. The roughness of his palm testified to a hard life, and yet his fingers stroked her jawline as lightly as a whisper. “Let us reach a sensible agreement, Holly Rivers. One that is truly best for all of us.”

“An agreement?” She allowed herself to meet his gaze.

“I propose that, tomorrow, you and I go together to the authorities,” he said gravely.

“You mean you’ll turn yourself in?”

“As soon as I find a lawyer, yes.” He studied her. “Will you promise to explain that you entered my car of your own free will?”

She nodded. “Of course. It’s the truth.”

“I will present the contract and show that I have only taken my own son,” he said. “It is a gamble, but I doubt they will press charges. It would be the fastest way to resolve this situation. And for us to get away from whoever is trying to kill me.”