Bodyguard Lockdown

by Donna Young

  He took the reins, tugged, and the horse started toward the foothills.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Is it worth three men’s lives to save yours?” Booker snapped. “Yes.”

  She’d wrestled with her conscience during the time she waited. Those men were going to kill Booker.

  “No,” she said honestly. “You’re hurt. We could’ve used one of those jeeps right about now.”

  “I wanted to make sure they weren’t going anywhere with you,” he acknowledged, then patted the horse’s neck. “And Sam came back for me.”

  * * *

  THE MALAQUO OASIS WAS little more than a water hole surrounded by indigenous plants and trees. It fed into wells across the foothills where villages lay.

  Still, it provided plenty of shelter and water to help them recover. And privacy.

  Booker’s skull throbbed, but he hung on to his consciousness. He forced his eyes to focus on the area. “We’ll stop here.”

  He slid off the horse, but his legs didn’t support him. Pain shot through his hips as his knees slammed into the ground.

  Darkness edged in on his vision. He fought it off.

  “From the looks of you, we have little choice,” Sandra said impatiently. “We should have stopped hours ago.”

  “We needed water and shade.”

  “What you need is rest, Booker,” Sandra shot back. “And that’s doctor’s orders.”

  When he took a step, his legs gave way. Sandra was there, catching him under his arm just before he pitched forward.

  “Hold on, big guy,” she murmured.

  He grabbed the back of her neck, the weakness in his fingers proof of his fading strength.

  Slowly, he brought her face to his. His mouth found hers. A butterfly kiss that fluttered, then settled into a promise of something more, something deeper.

  If he’d been rough, she would have resisted. But a whisper of a kiss? One that left a longing for a time she’d never forgotten. Where she lay in his arms, their bodies entwined...

  Sandra pulled back, locked her knees. Forced her thoughts back to the present. “Don’t, Booker.”

  Twenty-four hours of watching her being tied up, beat up, shot at, was enough for any reasonable man to question his sanity. Never before had he lost all control, never had he wanted to strangle and make love to a woman at the same time.

  He’d definitely lost his mind.

  She lifted her chin, just a bit, but couldn’t hide the sheen of tears. He wasn’t having it. Those hurt puppy eyes weren’t going to touch his heart this time. Or any other time.

  But when he looked in them, he saw more than hurt. For the first time, Booker saw real fear. She’d faced the guns, the fire ants, a kidnapping, and not once did she show fear, except when she thought he would be killed.

  “I needed to put a stop to your bossiness,” he muttered. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  It worked. But that wasn’t his typical “stop arguing” kiss. That was...

  What?

  Loving, he admitted.

  “You’re very lucky, McKnight. You’re in no condition to rationalize,” she warned, but the words were soft. “Otherwise, you’d be very afraid of me right now.”

  “Your anger doesn’t scare me, Doc,” Booker admitted, still tasting her on his mouth. “Not as much as...”

  “As what?”

  “Your stupid heroic ideas,” Booker bit out, his frustration getting the best of him.

  “Stupid—”

  “You buried me...alive.”

  “You were unconscious!”

  “Why didn’t you use some of that ammonia in your medical bag to wake me up?”

  “From a concussion? Seriously?” She shook her head. “I carry the ammonia to confuse any tracking dogs—” She froze midstep, her brows raised. “How did you know the contents of my bag?”

  “I searched the bag while you were asleep on the horse,” he muttered.

  She took a few more steps, her movements stiff, jerking with anger.

  “Not so rough, Doc.” Jackhammers thrashed the inside of his skull. “I don’t have my legs under me yet.”

  “If I wasn’t a doctor, I’d drop you on your head,” she replied, her words sharp, but her arms instantly gentled around him.

  “As long as I’m sitting down first.”

  “Fine,” she agreed. “You had no right to search my things.”

  “I had every right,” Booker corrected. “I’m trying to keep you alive, damn it. If you had the cylinders, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion and I certainly wouldn’t be dealing with the damn headache.”

  “Sit here.” She settled Booker in a small clearing near the lagoon. Relief replaced her anger. At least he hadn’t found anything in the bag.

  “Take care of Sam, will you?” Booker lay back and shut his eyes against the sun. “Just lead him to the water—he’ll do the rest.”

  “Why did you name him Sam?”

  “After someone I once knew,” he drawled, “who didn’t come back for me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Quamar stormed into the palace’s main office. “You cannot do this, Jarek. You cannot issue an order for your guards and secret service to join in the search for Sandra.”

  “You forget I am king. I do what is necessary,” Jarek snapped. “Sandra has been missing for over twenty-four hours. I want her found. She hasn’t left the country through the checkpoints or airports. It means she’s still out there.”

  “We do not have the manpower to protect the palace and to search the desert,” Quamar reasoned. “She is with Booker.”

  “With our wives and children sent to the States for protection, we need no one else.”

  “Your duties—”

  “Have been canceled, damn it!” Jarek said, his patience gone.

  “Uncle Bari has offered the men from his caravan,” Quamar offered.

  Bari Al Asadi, even after abdicating, still had many men who stayed with his nomad ways, following his caravan. Men who fought against the Al Asheera years before.

  “They were once soldiers...most are too old now. They are no longer able to fight off trained mercenaries.”

  “He has a hundred men—”

  “We need ten times that many, Quamar,” Jarek replied slowly. “I convinced Cain to send some American troops here to help.”

  “And?”

  “Someone on Capitol Hill blocked his order. Cain flew back this morning to find out who.”

  Quamar knew Cain well enough that heads would be rolling once he hit the States. “Is President Mercer aware of this?”

  “No. Cain suspects whoever blocked the order might be the same person who helped Trygg escape. And might deal directly with the Oval Office.”

  “When Mercer finds out Cain is keeping him in the dark—and he will—Cain will be flayed alive.” A strategist, Cain’s reasoning was always sound. But President Mercer had an Irish temper that never fit in any equation.

  The intercom clicked on. “Your Majesty.”

  Jarek hit the button. “Yes, Trizal.”

  “Dr. and Mrs. Omar Haddad are here to see you.”

  Jarek glanced up at Quamar. “Do you want to explain our problems with manpower to them?”

  Quamar sighed. “No, I do not.”

  With a curt nod, Jarek hit the button again. “Send them in.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Omar Haddad wasn’t a tall man, but he was fit for his age, with dark eyes and silver-gray hair that covered most of his head. Dark skin, with deep lines marring his features—more from worry, Quamar imagined, than the Sahara sun.

  “Your Majesty.” Omar’s tone cut with censorship. “We are sorry to disturb you, but we couldn’t wait around our quarters any longer without hearing a word from you.”

  Jarek acknowledged Omar’s frustration with a nod, but it would not change his position on the matter. As a precaution, Jarek had ordered the Haddads to the palace and placed them under gu
ard. He did not want Trygg using them as a weapon against Sandra.

  “Have you found out anything, Your Majesty?”

  “Not yet.” Jarek took Elizabeth’s hand in his and frowned at the icy feel of her skin. He covered it with his other hand to add his warmth. “Elizabeth, if there was news I would have sent it over at once.”

  “You haven’t heard from Booker McKnight, then, either?” Omar asked, his eyes narrowed. It was apparent to Jarek that Omar did not trust Booker to take care of his daughter.

  “No—”

  “Are you looking?”

  “The Sahara is thousands of square miles. It takes time—”

  “I know this,” Omar said. “This is my daughter we are talking about, Jarek.”

  He used his king’s first name, a sign of family—one that Omar didn’t often use to take advantage. Jarek sensed the extent of his friend’s worry. He let the familiarity pass.

  “I understand—”

  “With all forgiveness, I do not believe you do, Your Majesty,” Elizabeth said quietly, then looked to each man. English born, Elizabeth Haddad was steeped in blue-blooded culture. The daughter of a surgeon, she made the perfect wife for Omar. Trim, petite, with impeccable taste, she’d endured much over the years that tested her spine of steel.

  “You both are husbands and you both have children. If your child disappeared, would you not worry? Would you not demand answers?” Elizabeth paused, the paleness of her skin evidence of the strain, the fear. “Would you not do everything in your means to bring her back, and those who have done her harm, to justice? If not for yourself, then for your wives?”

  “What do you mean, ‘everything in your means’?” Jarek questioned, purposefully looking beyond the despair to the couple’s determination. Something was amiss, something that he could not put his finger on.

  “I hope you have not done anything foolish, Omar,” he said, then turned to the older woman. “Elizabeth?”

  “What they are not telling you, Jarek, it that there is a bounty on Sandra’s and Booker’s heads.” Sheik Bari Al Asadi entered the office unannounced—a privilege given only to the man who had abdicated his throne years before to Jarek’s father, Makrad. “Omar has offered double the amount for the return of Sandra.”

  “How much is that, Father?” Quamar asked.

  Hard-bitten and weathered, with a white beard and black eyes, Quamar understood his father, Bari, had little patience when those he loved were in danger. And while Sandra wasn’t blood, Sheik Bari considered her a niece, and Omar his brother.

  “Two million,” Omar stated, his tone arrogant, almost defiant.

  “Do you have two million?”

  “I have means of getting it.”

  “And you know this how?” Jarek’s tone matched his uncle’s impatience.

  “Mind your tongue, nephew.” Bari’s black eyes hardened, his tone sharpened by an innate royal edge. “Just because I am no longer king does not mean I no longer have loyal subjects. Or deserve the respect of my position.”

  “My apologies, Uncle.” Jarek’s jaw flexed, his impatience schooled behind set features. But he didn’t back down. His uncle might once have been king, but Jarek still was. “At the end of the day, it is I who am responsible. Not you.”

  Bari gave a brief nod, accepting the explanation. “Trygg now has the Al Asheera hunting Booker and Sandra.”

  “The Al Asheera are no longer a threat,” Jarek replied.

  “I have heard whispers they have a new leader by the name of Minos.”

  Jarek waved his hand. “We obliterated their armies years ago. Those who survived are scattered over the desert.”

  “Even if only one is alive, they are still a threat, nephew. Do not ever forget it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sandra raised Booker’s eyelid, checked the dilation with her flashlight and noted the one pupil was still not normal.

  Earlier, she’d cleaned the wound, stitched it, then bandaged it to keep it protected.

  He’d have a scar, but a small one compared to the others that tattooed his body. Several from knives, a few from bullets. One across his right knee from falling down a treacherous mountain.

  It was part of his history, a part that he never shared with her.

  The sky dimmed to a murky orange, losing its heat, allowing the shadows to grow, the night to settle in.

  Sandra tossed more wood on the fire, risking discovery for the warmth, then led the horse to the water and grass.

  Surviving the night was the most important thing right now. Many fires littered the desert. Camps were everywhere, filled with nomads, tourists and caravans.

  Fatigue made her legs shake. Sandra sat near Booker, taking a minute to gather some energy.

  They’d lose a day here. A necessary delay. She wouldn’t take chances with Booker’s physical condition.

  She wouldn’t have another death on her conscience.

  The strap of her medical bag caught at her neck. Sandra slipped it over her shoulders.

  Of its own accord, her hand drifted over the thick seam in the back. It wouldn’t be long before she’d need the map hidden in the lining.

  Booker shifted, muttering in his sleep.

  Her hand slipped over his forehead, then behind his neck. The heat of his skin nearly singed her fingers.

  She silently cursed, knowing the concussion had brought on the fever.

  She grabbed a bottle of water and the bottle of aspirin from her bag. It was all she had; she hoped it would be enough.

  She slipped the aspirin toward the back of his tongue, then lifted his head. “Booker, wake up.”

  She shook him gently. Booker’s eyes fluttered open. Fever and firelight turned the blue irises molten silver.

  “Drink,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “You’re safe?” His voice shook, from fever or relief; it still troubled her. “I thought you died—”

  “We’re both safe for now, Booker,” she assured him. “Drink some more water. You need to stay hydrated.”

  “We?” His eyes bored into hers. “You said we.”

  “Yes. We—”

  “You and the baby. You’re both okay?”

  Sandra froze. “The baby?”

  Booker glared at her, his eyes hazy from distant memories. “The baby, Emily. Remember? Our baby?”

  “Booker, it’s Sandra. Not Emily.” She placed the bottle at his lips, coaxed him to take a few sips. Shivers rippled over his skin, caused his shoulders to shake.

  “Damn cold,” Booker muttered. “Where’s the jungle? Why Siberia?”

  “We’re in the desert,” Sandra soothed. The temperature was dropping quickly out here. The fire wouldn’t be enough. Not with a fever raging.

  “You’ll be warm soon. I promise.” She lowered his head, then took off her shoes, stripped down to her T-shirt and panties. She burrowed beside him, rubbing herself against the coldness of his skin, cradled his head against her shoulder and closed her eyes.

  But his words whispered through her mind.

  The baby, Emily. Our baby.

  “Sandra?” Booker rasped out, the desperation in his tone ragged. He pulled her across his chest, cupped her chin in his hand.

  “Yes?” she answered, wanting what he offered, knowing he did so in his dreams. “You’ve got a fever, Booker. You need rest.”

  His arms tightened when she shifted, pinning her to the length of his body. His eyes filmed over with a blue haze, raced over her face. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  Then his mouth covered hers. Hot, feverish, it demanded, no begged, a response.

  “Booker, please.” Now she was the one who begged.

  On a groan, he deepened the kiss and her will broke.

  Tongue swept against tongue, rubbing, seducing in soft, sensual circles. Then his mouth moved to her lower lip, drawing it between his own, nipping and suckling until her toes curled, her limbs shook, her body thrust against his in a desperate attempt to end the torture, or continue
it, she couldn’t be sure. Didn’t care.

  Her hands found his shoulders, drew him down on her. His skin slid against hers, hot and feverish. His body trembled, then shivered, then shuddered.

  Sandra crashed into reality. Felt him shudder again. Fever induced, not desire driven.

  “Booker. You’re not well.” She grabbed his shoulder, pushed him away, let him roll to her side. “You need rest.”

  He groaned once, then didn’t stir.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pain drove Booker awake, but panic and fear opened his eyes. Startled, he reached for his gun. The pain—sharp and white-hot—speared his shoulder, tore through his neck.

  He remembered then. The horse’s hooves. The fight with the mercenaries.

  Waseem’s admission before he died.

  The new leader of the Al Asheera, a man named Minos, wanted Sandra. Wanted whatever she was hiding from Trygg.

  He saw her then, waist deep in the water. Her gun left on a rock, less than a foot from her elbow.

  Smart woman.

  He leaned back, angry at the relief that weakened his limbs. Made his heart beat hard.

  She’d left her clothes by the rocks to dry. She wore only her bra and, he assumed, her underpants.

  Slowly, she turned her back to him.

  He hissed through his teeth.

  Bruises tattooed her body. Brown and blue. Dark and ugly.

  She stepped from the water. The sunlight hit her dark hair, caught the lighter strands, the auburn highlights, set them on fire. Small, supple curves were wrapped up in flesh-colored panties, topped with a small bow at the top of the elastic.

  Desire tightened his gut, fisted his hands with frustration.

  Jaw clenched, he battled through the pain, forced down the desire.

  But he couldn’t force himself to close his eyes.

  Sandra stopped midstride when she saw him, then her features instantly became unreadable as she shuttered her thoughts from him. Slowly she emerged from the water.

  “You’re awake.” She stopped long enough to grab the pistol, clothes and, he noted, her medical bag before she joined him.

  Like he said before, smart woman.