Naeemah sat on the edge of Leah’s bed and reached for the sheet covering Leah’s body. She tugged lightly at it, and at first Leah resisted, confused and embarrassed by what the naked girl was doing.
Leaning forward, Naeemah stroked the hair from Leah’s face. Her expression was sweet and without guile. She stroked Leah’s left shoulder, murmuring something soft and low in her native language. The wine was having its effect too, smoothing some of the jagged edges of fear that had been a constant since the abduction. Naeemah’s touch was so soft and gentle, her voice a sweet, if incomprehensible, lullaby. Leah let her eyes close.
When Naeemah tugged again at the sheets, Leah didn’t fight her. She felt the air cool against her bare breasts, and then Naeemah’s feather-light touch. Leah kept her eyes closed when she felt the soft flick of Naeemah’s tongue against her nipple.
Leah lay still, thinking this young woman’s gentle, sensual touch was far preferable to Khalil’s insistent groping, and certainly better than being beaten. But when she felt the coverlet slide completely away, leaving the rest of her body exposed, Leah opened her eyes.
“I don’t—I’m not—” she began, feeling the color surge into her cheeks.
“Shh,” Naeemah said, touching a finger to Leah’s lips. “It is good,” she added in careful English, surprising Leah into silence. The girl pressed Leah back against the pillows. Leah allowed herself to fall back, settling carefully to avoid contact with her bandaged wound.
Reaching for the pitcher, Naeemah poured a second glass of the strong wine and handed it to Leah. Leah took it, not knowing what else to do. For all she knew, Naeemah was under direct orders to do what she was doing, and wouldn’t stop until she’d done what she’d been commanded to do. Lifting her head, Leah drank the wine and set the glass down.
The girl began again, lightly kissing and licking Leah’s nipples, her small hands stroking and cupping Leah’s breasts until Leah again let her eyes close, sighing with pleasure she couldn’t deny.
This time when the girl moved lower, Leah didn’t try to fight her. She stayed still, her eyes closed, even when she felt Naeemah scooting between her legs, insistent hands gently pushing her thighs apart.
Leah jumped a little when she felt Naeemah’s soft kitten tongue moving lightly over her bared pussy. The woman clearly wasn’t a virgin when it came to girl-on-girl sex. She stroked Leah’s thighs as she kissed and licked in teasing circles around and over Leah’s rising clit.
Leah finally let go, surrendering to the sweet pleasure Naeemah offered. She sighed, lifting her hips to meet Naeemah’s lapping tongue. She reached for Naeemah’s head, twining her fingers in the girl’s lustrous, dark hair.
Leah gave a small cry as an orgasm arced through her senses—not the powerful, blinding release she’d experienced with Devin, but more of a sweet, tremulous shudder, moving in concentric circles through her body like ripples on the surface of water disturbed by a skimming stone.
A moment later Naeemah sidled up beside her, molding her small, naked form against Leah’s side. She reached for Leah’s hand, placing it on her own small breast. Embarrassed, Leah pulled her hand away, shaking her head.
Naeemah frowned, her pretty, dark eyes filling with tears. Leah turned her head away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just can’t.”
They lay quietly side by side for a few minutes. Finally Naeemah whispered something in English it took a moment for Leah to process. Then the girl rolled from the bed and, inexplicably, lowered herself into the slave’s greeting position, extending her hands over her head, her forehead pressed to the ground.
Alarmed, Leah swung her head to the corner of the room toward which Naeemah bowed, but no one was there. Naeemah remained in that position for several long seconds before rising in a fluid, graceful motion, retrieving her robe from the floor as she rose. She gave Leah a last reproachful glance and then glanced again to the corner, before slipping through the side door and closing it with a click.
Leah lay still a long moment, Naeemah’s unwelcome but not unsurprising words echoing in her head. She reached for the coverlet, drawing it to her chin as she stared at the empty space Naeemah had bowed to. Leah saw nothing at first, but as her eye moved upward she gave a violent start, clutching the sheets in a white-knuckled grip.
There, mounted discreetly where the wall met the ceiling, was a small video camera. Beneath the red blinking light, the lens was aimed at her like a lidless eye, violating Leah with its relentless stare.
She replayed the words Naeemah had whispered in her careful, memorized English before rolling into that servile bow on the floor.
“For the Master,” Naeemah had said.
“Fuck the Master,” Leah muttered, turning on her side. She reached for the pitcher Naeemah had left behind, but it was empty. Curling into herself, she winced as her bandaged shoulder made contact with the bed. Any lingering pleasure from the orgasm had evaporated, and the constant fear that colored every waking moment since the ordeal had begun had returned in full force.
As Leah lay there, drifting in and out of troubled sleep, all at once, the image of Devin Lyons slipped into her mind, rising from the secret, safe place where she’d tucked him. Did he know she’d been abducted? Was he even now looking for her?
He had to know she wouldn’t just vanish without telling him why, or at least goodbye. What they’d shared had been precious, and real, so real. He had to know something had happened.
Though she didn’t believe in such things, or hadn’t known she did until that moment, Leah closed her eyes, focusing every bit of her being, from the very depths of her soul, on somehow reaching across the void of time and space, desperate to connect with the one man who might save her.
“Devin,” she whispered. “Please find me. Please don’t give up.”
Though she knew it must be her imagination, Leah felt something move over her—a touch, a whispered promise, a brief, bright light that for that one moment at least blotted out the ever-present fear and gave her the thing she needed most to hang on—hope.
Chapter 11
Devin tugged on the collar of his starched shirt and blew out a breath. Though he’d barely slept the night before, he felt wired and jittery, helped in part by the five cups of coffee he’d had so far that morning. Though the elegant Bentley was air-conditioned, he could feel the sweat dampening the back of his shirt.
The suit he wore was his, but the Italian loafers, hand-sewn silk tie and the emerald and gold cufflinks were not. They had been provided courtesy of the task force, along with the hand-tooled leather portfolio he carried with Cromwell Estate Agency stamped in gold lettering on its face, the purchase contract neatly folded inside it.
The briefcase beside him contained more British pounds sterling than he earned in a typical year; again, none of it his. Also in the briefcase were the specs for the property, which Devin had studied exhaustively the day before, working with the task force experts to design a purchase contract that would be hard to turn down, even if the owner claimed he didn’t want to sell.
Uncle Ron had come through with flying colors, pulling strings and using his influence with Scotland Yard and Interpol to secure Devin a position with the task force as part of the two-man front team. Though he’d wanted to leap into a car and head immediately for the compound, Interpol hadn’t been quite ready for the operation to go forward. They’d spent the day with Devin, briefing him on his role, and refining their own plan of attack. Interpol’s goal was to gain legitimate access to the estate.
Now finally, on the fourth day since Leah had gone missing, they were taking some concrete action. The operation, of course, wasn’t without risk. They were dealing with criminals, and Devin had been made to understand that if the cover was blown, his life could well be at risk. It was a risk he was more than willing to take if it meant saving the woman who had burst into his life like flashing golden sunshine, and then disappeared without a trace.
Amir Haddad, a fifty-something task fo
rce agent of Arabic descent, sat beside Devin as they were driven toward the compound. He looked elegant and dapper in his perfectly tailored suit, though the day before he’d been in shirt sleeves and jeans as they’d hashed out their final plans and Devin’s role in them for hours on end. Amir’s fictitious dossier had been meticulously compiled by Interpol. He was Sheik Ali Samir Mahmood, a Qatar billionaire with homes around the world and a love of purebred Arabian horses.
Perhaps sensing Devin’s jangling nerves, Amir put a hand on Devin’s forearm. He spoke in a calm, measured tone. “Remember, just be yourself. You are my estate agent. This is your area of expertise. You’ve bought and sold properties similar to this a dozen times over the years. We’re lucky to have you onboard, Mr. Lyons.”
Devin tried to take comfort from Mr. Haddad’s reassurances, and in fact it was true. He’d been quite successful in his real estate endeavors in Asia, and did have a solid and legitimate background. They’d decided to have him use his real identity, since the more authentic the setup, the more likely they were to succeed.
As the car drove along the winding, narrow roads that led to the estate, Devin offered a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening. Please let me find Leah. Please let her be there. Please let her be alive.
Finally they arrived at a large wrought iron gate beside which stood an intercom mounted on a post. The driver, also an undercover Interpol agent, lowered his window and pressed a button on the intercom. “Sheik Ali Samir Mahmood,” he said, as if just the man’s name was enough, which apparently it was. The gate slid slowly open, and the Bentley eased through.
As they curved along the private road toward the cliffs on which the magnificent villa had been built, the turquoise waters of the Andaman Sea sparkled into magnificent view and then Devin saw the breathtaking horse sculpture garden he’d seen in aerial photos George had collected, and which Jaidee had described. He swallowed hard, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. They were actually in the compound. Leah might be only yards away from him.
They parked in front of the main house of the sprawling property that Devin knew from the specs was actually a series of six separate buildings. Sheik Mahmood, as Devin reminded himself to think of Amir, walked a little ahead of Devin up the broad stone pathway and up the stairs toward the huge double doors.
Before they had a chance to knock, the doors were swung open and there stood a tall, swarthy man with a shaved head and a goatee, a diamond stud in one earlobe, dressed entirely in black. “Good afternoon,” he said, stepping back and waving them in to the large front hall. He looked down his rather long nose at Devin. “Welcome to the home of Yousef Khalil. I am Hasan Hijaz, his steward.” He held out his hand.
“A pleasure,” Devin lied, extending his own hand. “Devin Lyons, at your service.” His steward? What was the guy, a fucking king? Devin hoped the instant dislike he’d taken to this steward didn’t show on his face.
Turning toward Amir, Hijaz smiled, or at least lifted his lips in what approximated a smile, though to Devin his eyes seemed cold and cunning. They shook hands as well.
“I do hope you will forgive me, gentleman, but the prince is a man of great wealth and importance. We have to take precautions suitable to a man of his stature before allowing anyone into his presence.”
During Devin’s briefing, he’d been told that Khalil was a millionaire many times over, due to family money associated with oil, and also, no doubt, to his slave trafficking, but he was no prince. He liked to pass himself off as a distant cousin of the King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, but no such bloodline existed.
Two short, muscle-bound men appeared behind Hijaz, their small, piggy eyes blank as they stared through Devin and Amir. “Please remove your jackets and lift your arms. These men are trained to do a quick but thorough search for weapons. And of course,” Hijaz nodded toward the briefcase in Devin’s hand, “We’ll need to examine the contents of the case. Again, I do apologize for the unseemliness of this precaution, but I’m sure you understand…”
“Absolutely,” Amir said crisply, slipping out of his suit jacket, which he handed to Hijaz. “I insist on the same at all my properties. One can’t be too careful in these dangerous times.” A sharp glance in Devin’s direction made him hand over the money-stuffed briefcase to Hijaz. Then Devin shucked his jacket and, along with Amir, stood with arms out while the two men patted and frisked them from neck to ankle.
Hijaz moved out of his line of vision with the briefcase, but Devin could hear the clasps being clicked open. Would it faze Hijaz in the slightest to see all those bundles of cold, hard cash? Somehow Devin doubted it.
As Amir and Devin were putting their jackets back on, Hijaz returned, holding out the briefcase. “A regrettable formality,” he said, training his cold, marble eyes on Devin.
Turning to Amir, Hijaz smiled and began to speak in Arabic. Amir responded in kind. Devin, who had a rudimentary knowledge of the language, was able to discern that they were exchanging pleasantries and making comments and inquiries about each other’s health and the health of their respective families.
Finally Hijaz led them through a large, elegantly appointed living area and up a flight of wide, thickly carpeted stairs. They were taken to the end of a hallway and through an open door. One wall of the room was entirely of glass, opening onto a stunning view of the sea lapping against the white sand of the shore. On a pedestal in front of the window stood an exquisitely rendered white marble sculpture of a horse rearing back on its hind legs, its mane flying—a miniature of the life-size horses displayed in the estate gardens.
A man stood with his back to them, staring out at the ocean view, his hands clasped behind his back. As they entered the room, he turned to face them. He was wearing a white silk shirt over loose-fitting red silk pants, his feet clad in tan leather sandals. He was tall and lean, with an elegant hooked nose, a full mouth and lots of dark, wavy hair. Devin recognized the man was handsome but something about him put Devin off. Perhaps it was the intensity of his large dark eyes as they moved restlessly over the two men. There was a kind of coiled, dangerous energy in the man that made Devin’s hackles rise, despite his movie star smile.
Hijaz bowed slightly in the direction of the man. “May I present Sheik Ali Samir Mahmood and his estate agent, Devin Lyons. Gentlemen, this is Yousef Khalil, my lord and master.”
Lord and master? That was a bit much, Devin thought, even giving allowance for the fake title of prince and the flowery language of traditional Arabic greetings.
The man nodded toward Hijaz in a way that told Devin he took the appellation as his due. Turning toward Amir and Devin, he said, “Welcome to my humble abode, gentlemen.” His accent was pure Oxford. He strode toward them, shaking hands with each, placing his second hand on top as they shook.
Gesturing toward a grouping of chairs, he indicated that the men should sit. Devin had expected Hijaz to join them, but he said, “I will see to your refreshments, gentleman,” and, with another bow, left the room.
Amir and Khalil began the customary and, to Devin’s mind, very lengthy exchange of greetings and discussion of familial health that was necessary in polite Arabic society. They spoke in English for Devin’s sake.
“I understand you are an admirer of horses,” Khalil finally said, and off the two went, discussing their mutual love of all things equine, while Devin silently chafed.
“Excuse me,” he wanted to say. “You two keep chatting. I’ll just go off and have a look for the cells where you keep the kidnapped women, shall I?” Instead, he extracted the thin portfolio from his suit jacket that contained the fake contract for the sale of the property, along with the special pen Interpol had provided. He depressed the small button on the side of the pen that activated the microphone and recording device, and placed it and the portfolio on the coffee table.
He half expected Khalil to grab the pen and fling it across the room in a rage, or worse, pull out a gun and shoot them both on the spot. But he only went on talking to A
mir about the superiority of Arabian purebreds, gesturing with his long, elegant hands as he made his point.
The two men’s discourse was interrupted by a short, thin man in a white shirt and black pants who carried a tray containing a brass dallah, three tiny coffee cups and a plate of dried dates. Khalil made a big deal about pouring the coffee himself, watching with dark, expectant eyes until they had tasted it. Devin forced himself take a sip, though his stomach was roiling with nerves.
After they drank the strong coffee and nibbled dates, Amir finally said, “As I discussed with your man, I am prepared to pay a significant sum for this stunning property. The horse sculptures alone are enough to seal the deal. I know you say you aren’t interested in selling, but I am hopeful we can come to a mutually satisfactory agreement.”
He leaned forward, his tone dropping into something conspiratorial. “You see, I’m familiar with the blueprint of the buildings. I’m especially concerned with proper quarters for my women. I want somewhere they can be sequestered, you understand. Kept safe from the prying eyes of the servants and guests. And of course, I keep my women under strict control. I don’t hold with this modern nonsense about women’s rights. What does that even mean? A woman exists solely to serve a man, don’t you agree?”
Khalil raised his eyebrows, his mouth lifting in a genuine smile. “Indeed I do. Women don’t have the natural intelligence and understanding of a man. They must be taught, especially today’s modern women, that their place is at the feet of their man. If sometimes that lesson is at the end of a whip…” He shrugged, his eyes glinting as he added, “Firm discipline is essential.” He licked his red lips, his dark eyes flitting from Amir to Devin. Devin wanted nothing more than to smash his face in.
“Quite,” Amir asserted, playing his part perfectly. “Aside from the glorious sculpture garden,” he gushed, “that is the one thing that most struck me about this villa.” He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his expression intent. “I need a common room for my women, and then of course a separate chamber for each. Mr. Lyons, who has reviewed the blueprints meticulously, assures me you have the proper accommodations for easily five women, quite apart from the rest of the house.”
Dark Obsessions - Volume I: Four Intense Capture Fantasies in One Sizzling Collection Page 34