by Donna Young
Rashid grinned, dimples flashing. “My Aunt Anna calls me ‘sport,’ also.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t mean—”
“That’s all right. You have my permission to do so in private. I like the name. It’s very American.” He glanced around Ping’s neck and spotted Jarek watering Taaj. “Just don’t use the name around my father. It will be our secret.”
“Our secret,” Sarah agreed, unable to resist the young boy’s charm. She just wondered how much that secret was going to cost her in the future.
No more than she’d paid in the past, she mused and wondered if they guillotined their enemies in Taer.
Sarah hated small planes, hated job restrictions more, but she would have flown the whole three thousand miles in a cardboard box—with dozens of hoops to jump through—for a chance at this interview. A chance to see Jarek and put the past to rest.
There were rules attached, of course. No cell phone. No cameras. No personal questions about his son, or his late wife or any other family member for that matter.
In consideration of his requests she hadn’t brought much with her. Jarek had allowed nothing more than a miniature recorder for interview notes. Which meant only questions about Taer, now that Taer had agreed to deal with the United States over the small country’s crude oil supply.
The picture restriction, she could handle. Even the cell phone restriction.
The personal questions were going to be tough.
No fuss, no obstacles. In and out before their Annual Independence Ball, Jarek had insisted.
Or no admittance.
“Sarah, what happened to your purse?”
Sarah followed Rashid’s finger to a hole in the side of her bag.
“I don’t know.” Quickly, she unzipped the purse and dug through its contents.
“It’s a bullet,” Rashid exclaimed. “Your purse stopped a bullet.”
Her fingers touched her wallet. A brand-new vintage, slim envelope wallet that she’d bought for the trip. But when she pulled it out, the leather nearly fell apart in her hand. Tucked between shattered credit cards and a ripped checkbook, was the slug.
“I guess it did,” she agreed, then dug through the rest of her things until she found her digital voice recorder. One side showed a small dent but no other marks. She pressed the record button.
“Does it work still?”
“Let’s see.” Sarah pressed the playback button. Does it work still?
A smile tugged at the prince’s lips. “You are very fortunate. If you hadn’t had your purse, you’d have been shot in the back.”
“I’d have to agree, Your Highness.” Sarah fished through the rest of her things and after a few minutes decided only her wallet had suffered any real damage. She tried not to think about how close that bullet had come to severing her spine.
As if reading her mind, Ping snorted and shook her head.
Sarah laughed, very much aware her reaction was more nerves than humor. “You can say that again.”
“She does that for attention,” Rashid admitted. “My father says she is vain. But she is allowed to be since she is a beautiful horse.”
“She is very beautiful,” Sarah agreed. “May I pet her?”
Rashid considered the request for a long moment. “Yes. But know that sometimes she bites the grooms when they handle her.”
Sarah ran her fingers over Ping’s nose, making sure the horse would catch the scent of Jarek’s scarf.
“She likes you,” Rashid commented, obviously impressed. “She doesn’t like anyone except me. And my father, of course.”
“I think she only likes me because you are standing here,” Sarah assured him. “But I’m glad she didn’t bite me.”
Feeling her muscles tighten, Sarah stepped back and bent over sideways to stretch out the stiffness. “Do you ride often, Your Highness?”
“Everyday, if I can. Taaj and Ping are Arabian horses. So they are conditioned for the desert,” Rashid replied, watching Sarah with an idle curiosity. “They enjoy it, too.”
“Do you and your father ride often together?”
“No,” Rashid admitted slowly. “He is far too busy. So I try not to bother him.”
Rashid’s statement came out with a practiced, almost robotic ease.
“Is that what your father told you?”
“No. Not really.” Rashid pretended to straighten Ping’s bridle and didn’t say any more.
Sarah decided to change the subject. “You know, I used to ride a long time ago.” She shifted, then stretched to the opposite side.
“You haven’t forgotten,” Rashid commented with six-year-old diplomacy. “You held your seat well enough.”
“Gee, thanks,” Sarah murmured, then straightened.
Rashid laughed. “You did look funny bouncing around, though, Sarah.” He froze, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure it was funny. And I prefer to be called Sarah,” she replied, winking. “Our secret?”
“Yes.” Rashid tried to wink, but succeeded only in making both eyes flutter.
Jarek approached, effectively cutting off Sarah’s laughter.
“Rashid, water Ping over by Taaj, please.” His words were even and contained no censure, surprising Sarah. He handed his son a feed bag filled with water. “Make sure you drink some water, too, Rashid.”
“Yes, Papa.” Rashid paused, noting the rifle Jarek held in his other hand. “You think the Al Asheera are close?”
“No. But I want to be sure,” Jarek replied, solemnly. “I’m going to the nearest ridge. I want to check our tracks and get my bearings. We cannot risk mistakes.”
Jarek waited until Rashid led his horse away, before he turned to Sarah. “I realize we are caught in unusual circumstances. But don’t think for a moment my demands have changed.”
Sarah’s smile thinned into a tight, angry line. “You mean the big, bad reporter might churn up your son a bit emotionally, just to get some inside information?”
“Exactly. I will not tolerate any infringement upon my son’s privacy,” Jarek remarked.
“You don’t have to worry. I only eat little boys on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she retorted, jabbing at his arrogance. “Today is Thursday, Your Majesty.”
“Be careful, Miss Kwong.” Jarek advanced, crowding her, forcing her head back to meet his eyes. Sarah slapped her hand to his chest, dug her heels into the sand.
The black eyes flickered over her hand, then back to her face, telling her what he thought of her stand against him.
“I eat female reporters every day of the week,” he warned, each syllable a low, husky rasp that sent awareness skittering up her spine.
Pride stopped her fingers from curling into his shirt. But it was the flash of desire in the deepest part of Jarek’s gaze that made them tremble.
Jarek swung away, leaving her to watch him in stunned silence. She crossed her arms over her chest, knowing the self-protective move wouldn’t have helped her one bit if he’d followed through on his threat.
“You shouldn’t make him angry,” Rashid admonished, coming to stand at her side. “It won’t help our situation.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?”
“Six.”
“Sure you’re not thirty?” she commented wryly and watched Jarek crest the dune. If anyone was comfortable in their skin, it was Jarek Al Asadi. His muscles were well-defined and fluid, his stride purposeful.
“My Uncle Quamar said I have an old soul with new bones,” Rashid said, shrugging. “Whatever that means.”
“It means you are smart for your age.” Sarah pulled him to her side for a quick, reassuring hug.
“Sarah, can I tell you something?” Rashid’s tone turned serious.
“Sure, sport.”
“Papa didn’t know I had followed him from the palace into the desert this morning,” Rashid confessed. “I snuck past my guards and the horse handlers.”
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“You snuck past…into the desert…” Sarah stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. All the scenarios of what could have happened to the child raced through Sarah’s mind.
“Sweet Lord,” she whispered.
“He didn’t find out until after you and Ramon crashed.” Rashid stepped away from her, his little body stiff, his face set. “So if my father seems angry, it’s because of me. I’m sorry.”
THE ANGER RODE HIGH on Jarek’s shoulders, put the rigidness in his long, quick strides. But it was desire that constricted his gut, left him aroused.
And made him run, damn it. For the second time in one day.
Jarek stopped just short of the ridge top. Anything higher would make him a target.
The Al Asheera were out there. Not far behind them, he was sure.
Scowling, Jarek narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare, peered through the rippling heat waves that floated above the desert floor and shimmered against the sandstone cliffs just beyond.
The wind had died hours before. Sweat trickled from his temples, down his cheeks, itched the scarred skin of his back.
He sat back on his haunches, snatched off his head scarf and hit it against his thigh.
Laughter drifted toward him. Hers. His son’s. Both light, both a little hesitant—as with any budding friendship.
Jarek grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was his son to befriend an ex-lover. Especially a woman reporter with heavy-lidded cat eyes and a smart mouth.
Forcing his frustration back, Jarek studied the terrain. The Sahara was little more than a vast, empty void of beige, spotted here and there with tufts of brittle brush, cracked earth and broken rock.
He searched for movement—a stirring of dust, a glint of steel, branches that had no business moving in the thick, oppressive air.
At one time Jarek had been military. A necessary vocation for the royal. A man could not lead, unless he also served, his father always said.
Training and instincts told him there would be trackers sent through the smoke. Men who understood the barest scratch against stone, the slightest swirl of sand that was once a footprint.
He slid his rifle across his thighs, let the weight of it remind him he had killed before and would likely kill again before they reached safety.
With a hiss of displeasure, a lizard scurried from its shaded cover beneath a nearby saltbush.
Jarek hit the sand sideways, his rifle ready, his finger tight on the trigger. A flash of red cloth—no more than a millisecond of warning—and Jarek fired.
The rifle exploded, on its heels came a cry of pain, the thud of a body against the ground.
He crawled on elbows and knees, ignoring the burn of the sand beneath him. Within moments, he reached the Al Asheera soldier.
Jarek’s nostrils flared at the scent of blood and soured sweat. The rifle bullet struck the rebel’s face, leaving torn skin and shattered bone in its place. Quickly, Jarek searched his pockets but found only a few dollars and a small bag of hashish.
A buzzard circled above, his screeches marked his territory for those who needed warning.
“Don’t worry,” Jarek muttered, but already his gaze scanned the immediate perimeter. The Al Asheera always traveled in pairs.
“Where’s your partner?” Jarek asked the dead man. “Running for help?”
Jarek blinked the sweat from his eyes, allowing a moment for the sting to fade. If he tracked the soldier, he’d leave Rashid and Sarah vulnerable. And that was unacceptable.
Instead, he scrambled down the slope, cursing fate with each step.
It was time to run. Again.
Chapter Four
The man woke. Tense. Alert. Ready for an attack.
He laid quietly for a moment, listening for the rustle of the tent, the footsteps on the ground outside. A habit he’d developed from childhood. A habit that had saved his life more than once over the years.
“Master Baize. Your guest is here.” The voice pierced through the curtain, its tone deep and heavily accented.
Oruk Baize forced his muscles to relax. “Give me a minute, Roldo, then send him in.”
A quiet sigh caught Oruk’s attention. Slowly, he slid the silk sheet from the warm body beside him. The material hissed over a supple white shoulder, down the slender curves and smooth back to round, naked buttocks.
For a moment, he thought about opening the window flap, allowing the sunlight to pierce the darkness—maybe burn off the stale scent of sex and sweat that still hung heavy in the air. It’d be worth the tongue lashing he’d receive, to see her pale skin heat in temper.
Besides, he might be up for a good fight, he mused, silently. Something he’d grown accustom to over the months, and now actually anticipated.
He threw the sheets back over the woman and stepped from the bed. Seduction, domination. A little of both. The thought made him hard, then annoyed.
Business before pleasure.
Oruk pulled on a pair of dark, silk trousers and zipped them enough to cover his hips. No need to exert too much energy.
After all, this associate would be dead soon.
He stepped through the curtain opening and into the main part of the tent.
Oruk was a big man, with wide shoulders and a deep, barreled chest. His features were that of a soldier—broad, flat and unyielding. But attractive enough to have his bed warmed most nights.
He was the son of a camp follower. Most were, in the Al Asheera. He’d never known his father and barely remembered his mother—a whore who had deserted him when he was nine.
He’d survived like most of his kind. At ten, he’d learned to shoot a gun, throw a knife. By eleven, he’d killed with them.
Oruk walked to the opposite side of the tent and stopped by his teakwood coffee table. Some comforts he refused to give up, even when he was forced to act as a nomad.
That included good whiskey. And even better, a smoke.
He opened a nearby humidor and selected a cigar. Cuban. Expensive. And the only brand he smoked.
The tent rustled. He felt a short gust of wind, heard the hard step of man in a hurry. “Hello, Murad.” He clipped off the end of the cigar and lit it with a match.
“We had a deal, Baize.”
Oruk ignored the slight tone of contempt in the other man’s voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the office?”
He took several deep puffs, but didn’t offer the businessman a cigar. Why waste a good cigar? Oruk thought with derision.
“They escaped from the plane wreckage.”
Murad Al Qassar was a businessman by trade, an accountant by looks. With short trimmed hair and long, thin features, he was the only man Oruk knew who wore a pin-striped suit and a tie to an Al Asheera camp.
“I know,” Oruk finally answered. “Roldo told me.”
Roldo Costo threw himself onto the pile of pillows in the corner of the tent and shrugged. “Things happen.”
Roldo was a little man with greasy hair and rotted teeth. Still, Oruk did not keep him employed for his looks, only for his talents.
“The king decided at the last minute not to meet the reporter in Morocco. There is little we can do about that,” Oruk pointed out.
“I disagree,” Murad snapped.
“The king won’t get away from my men again, Murad.” Roldo took out his knife and began cleaning his fingernails, a habit Oruk knew Murad found disgusting. It was the exact reason why Roldo did it whenever the businessman came around.
“Luckily for us, he was there in the desert,” Roldo added. “He watched Ramon’s plane go down. We’re tracking them to the caves.”
“Who?” Murad demanded. “Ramon and Jarek?”
“The reporter, the king and his son,” Oruk inserted. “So you see, Murad, things are working out in our favor.”
“The prince?” Murad took a moment to digest that bit of information. “What about Ramon?”
“He’s dead,” Oruk explained. “Roldo found him in the cockpit. Or what was left
of him.”
“That’s not good enough, Oruk.” Murad eyes narrowed. “We had a deal. One that’s cost me a tremendous amount of money.”
Oruk studied the red tip of his cigar. “There is nothing to worry about. Instead of being on the plane, the king was in the desert with his son. An outing of sorts. Fate placed him and the boy in the vicinity of the crash site.”
“I don’t believe in fate.”
“Destiny, then.” Oruk smiled at his own joke. “Either way, it is good luck for us.”
Murad swore. “And yet the king is still alive.”
“Like I said.” Roldo shoved his knife back in his boot and stood. “My men have staked out the caves and are waiting to move in at daylight. The cliffs are too risky in the dark. I’ll lose good men.”
“Take the risk,” Murad snapped, his lips curling back on his teeth in anger. He stepped up to Roldo, going toe-to-toe with the mercenary. “We had an agreement. The king and his son dead. They’ve accommodated you by being together, don’t mess it up. We haven’t been able to get this close to him or his son in a long time. Understand me?”
“I understand that you will take care of the buyers and the shipments,” Oruk answered for Roldo. He walked to the bar cart to pour himself a shot of whiskey. “And I will take care of the Royals and your gambling debts once we have control of Taer.”
“I also provided the weapons,” Murad reminded him.
“And I provided the Al Asheera,” Oruk countered, then signaled Roldo to step away from Murad. When the little man moved, Oruk continued. “We are all doing our part.”
“I’ll believe that, Oruk, when Roldo takes care of the king and his son.”
“In my time, Murad.” Oruk’s tone hardened. “Not yours.”
“Time is running out,” Murad warned. “Soon Jarek will sign the agreement with the Americans.”
“Agreed.” Oruk flicked his ashes, let them fall to the rug. “But once we control the throne, it will not matter. The death of the reporter will only widen the rift with the Americans.”
“What about his cousin, Quamar? And Sheik Bari?”
“I imagine Quamar will be searching soon,” Oruk reasoned. “It will take time for him to notify Bari. By then, we’ll have the king and his son.”