She had to at least try, for Connie’s sake.
The warlord stared at her, the expression on his harsh face utterly unforgiving, and Ivy’s mouth went bone dry. Unable to stop herself, she slid a protective hand over the slight roundness of her stomach.
His predator’s gaze flickered as he spotted the movement and abruptly he straightened to his full height, looking down at her.
‘You can stop pretending now,’ he said in perfect, accentless English. ‘I know you’re awake.’
His voice was as deep and as harsh as his features, like an earthquake rumbling under the ground, and he issued it not so much as an observation but as a command.
He was a man used to giving orders, which made sense. Authority radiated from him, the kind of authority that came without arrogance, the kind that was innate. The kind of authority that some people were simply born with.
Ivy found herself stirring and opening her eyes before she’d even registered that she was doing so.
The warlord said nothing, his frozen gaze taking in every inch of her as she sat up, making it obvious that the onus was on her to explain herself.
Fear gathered like a kernel of ice in her stomach and she kept her hand where it was, as if she could protect the small life inside her not only from the man standing in front of her, but from her fear as well.
But giving in to such emotions was never helpful and despite the urging of her primitive lizard brain to make a dash for the door, throw it open, and run for her life, she remained where she was. Being practical was key; she wouldn’t get far even if she did run, not in a fortress full of soldiers. And besides, where would she run to? There was nothing but desert outside, her guide having abandoned her as soon as he realised that she had no intention of merely viewing the fortress from a safe distance, that she actually wanted to go inside and speak to the warlord himself.
Anyway, show no fear. That was what you had to do when faced with a predator. Running would only get you eaten.
Ivy ignored the ice inside her, just as she ignored that, even from a few feet away, the man still managed to loom over her, making the guardhouse feel ten times smaller than it actually was.
‘I should thank you,’ Ivy began coolly. ‘For your—’
‘Your name and purpose,’ the man cut across her in that rough, rumbling voice, his tone making it clear that this was not a request in any way.
Okay, so if he was indeed Sheikh Nazir Al Rasul, the infamous warlord—and she had a sneaking suspicion he might be—then she would have to tread delicately here.
But she also wouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. Back in England, she managed an entire children’s home full of foster kids, some of them with quite severe behavioural and mental-health issues, and she had no difficulty keeping them in order.
One man, no matter how tall and terrifying, was not going to get the better of her.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘My name is Ivy Dean. I’ve registered my whereabouts with the British Consulate in Mahassa and they know exactly where I am.’ She forced herself to meet the man’s terrifyingly cold eyes. ‘And if I don’t return within a few days, they’ll also know exactly why.’
He said nothing, continuing to pin her where she sat on the edge of the camp bed with that icy stare, his face betraying no expression whatsoever.
Fine.
‘I’m here because I need to speak with Sheikh Nazir Al Rasul,’ she continued, determinedly holding his gaze. ‘It concerns a private matter.’
The man stood so still he might have been carved from desert rock. ‘What private matter?’
‘That’s between me and Mr Al Rasul.’
‘Tell me.’ There was no discernible change in tone from anything else he’d said, but if his other statements had been orders, this was a command. One that he clearly expected her to obey without question.
She should have been cowed. Any other woman in her right mind would be, especially after standing for hours in the hot sun outside the gates of a desert fortress, waiting to speak with one of the most terrifying men she’d ever heard about.
But Ivy hadn’t spent more than two weeks in Mahassa trying to find a guide who would take her into the desert in search of the mysterious warlord for nothing. She’d spent all her meagre savings trying to find this man and she wasn’t going to give up now, especially when she was so close to her goal.
In fact, if her suspicions were correct, then her goal was standing right in front of her.
Except, she needed to know he was indeed the man she’d been searching for. Because if he wasn’t, this could end up going very badly, not only for her but also for the baby she was currently carrying.
Ivy folded her hands calmly in her lap, pulling on the same practical, steely mask that she used with the most recalcitrant boys in the home. ‘I’ll speak with Mr Al Rasul,’ she said firmly. ‘As I said, it’s a private matter.’
Again, there was no discernible change of expression in his icy gaze and he didn’t move. Yet it felt as if the atmosphere in the guardhouse abruptly chilled. The two guards standing at attention became very still, their agitation apparent.
Apparently it was not done to disobey this man.
A tremor of fear moved through Ivy at the same time as she felt something else, something unfamiliar, flicker in her bloodstream. A small thrill. Which didn’t make any sense. She was a woman alone in a fortress full of men who could kill her easily. And no matter how confidently she’d talked about the British Consulate, they couldn’t exactly help her right now if things went south.
Which they might, if the rumours about the man in front of her were true.
So there was no reason at all for her to feel the smallest twinge of excitement, of...anticipation? The thrill of matching wits with someone as strong-willed and determined as she. Maybe even stronger.
Perhaps it was the pregnancy doing strange things to her. Why, she’d just been talking to Connie the other day about—
Connie.
An echo of grief pulsed through her, but she forced it away. No, now was not the time. Connie’s last wish had been to find Mr Al Rasul, and so that was what she was going to do. Then she could grieve her friend properly, once this was all over.
‘Perhaps you did not understand,’ the man said with icy precision. ‘You’ll tell me. Now.’
Ivy refused to be cowed. ‘This is for Mr Al Rasul’s ears alone.’
Something dangerous glinted in his eyes. ‘I am Mr Al Rasul.’
Of course he was. Somehow she’d known that the second he’d spotted her faking a faint.
Still, one couldn’t be sure. And she had to be very, very certain about this.
‘Prove it,’ Ivy said.
The atmosphere, already chilly, plunged a few thousand degrees and the two guards’ stares abruptly became very fixed. They were statue still, like rabbits being eyed by a hawk.
The icy kernel in Ivy’s gut got larger, sending out cold tendrils of fear to weave through her veins.
Why are you challenging him like this? Are you insane?
That could very well be. Perhaps she had sunstroke or was on the verge of extreme dehydration. Perhaps the last few days in Mahassa, spent following up leads only to end up in frustrating dead ends and brick walls, had got to her. Perhaps she was now hallucinating.
Still, she couldn’t back down. Not when the child inside her depended on her. And if she could stare down a bunch of sullen teenage boys who’d been caught shoplifting, then she could certainly hold out against one infamous desert warlord.
Sullen teenage boys aren’t likely to kill you.
That was very true. Though it was too late now.
The man’s cold, flat stare didn’t shift from her, not once. And he didn’t blink. She couldn’t read him at all.
Then he inclined his head minutely and the guard on his le
ft abruptly rattled off in heavily accented English. ‘You are speaking with the Commander, Sheikh Nazir Al Rasul.’
‘That’s your proof?’ Ivy couldn’t help saying. ‘One of your guards who is clearly terrified of you?’
‘That is all the proof you will be getting,’ Al Rasul said. ‘I am not accustomed to repeating myself, but in this case you’re obviously having difficulty understanding me.’ His gaze became sharper, more intensely focused, and Ivy’s breath froze as the expressionless mask dropped and she caught a glimpse of what it had been hiding.
Death. Chaos. Violence. Danger.
This man was a killer.
‘You will tell me your purpose here,’ he went on expressionlessly. ‘Or I’ll have you thrown out before the gates and you can find your own way back to the city.’
It was a death sentence and they both knew it.
This time it was harder to force down her fear and when she reflexively smoothed her robe over her stomach, her hands shook. ‘Very well,’ she said with as much calm as she could muster. ‘But as I said, it’s a private matter.’
‘You need not concern yourself with my guards.’
Good. She needed to get this over with and the sooner the better.
Ivy took a breath, steeled herself, then met his ferocious gaze. ‘I’m pregnant. And I’m here to inform you that the child is yours.’
Copyright © 2021 by Jackie Ashenden
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ISBN-13: 9780369706812
Nine Months to Claim Her
Copyright © 2021 by Natalie Anderson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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