Table of Contents
THE SHEIK’S DANGEROUS TEMPTATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Table of Contents
THE SHEIK’S DANGEROUS TEMPTATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
THE SHEIK’S DANGEROUS TEMPTATION
MARY JO SPRINGER
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE SHEIK’S DANGEROUS TEMPTATION
Copyright©2017
MARY JO SPRINGER
Cover Design by Leah Kaye Suttle
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
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Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-475-5
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The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
As always I wish to thank my family
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Chapter 1
Everyone was dead.
An eerie silence choked the air as the merciless sun beat down on Sheik Malik el Hajjah. Raising his hand, he halted the twenty handpicked men in his bodyguard. Their hunting rifles remained holstered as automatic weapons emerged from beneath their desert robes.
Massacre.
His stomach clenched. A year ago, that damn word never infiltrated his vocabulary. Now, it popped up on a weekly basis.
His eyes meticulously scanned the towering sand dunes surrounding them before straying back to the slaughter in front of them. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood in alarm as a shiver of fear registering nine point nine on the Richter scale bolted up his spine. An irritating drop of sweat ran down his cheek, and he swiped it away with one swift moment. “Looks like your anonymous tipster’s information was correct,” Malik stated.
Nazem, his head of security, stood in his stirrups, high-powered binoculars plastered to his face as he searched for intruders. “Let’s pray the rest of his predictions about the threats to your life prove less accurate.”
The corners of Malik’s lips lifted. “Yes, let’s make sure the fourth time is not a charm.”
Blood, carnage, assassins—he’d had a gut full since the day he’d learned of his family’s assassination.
His personal guard methodically closed ranks around him. Behind mirrored aviator sunglasses, Malik scrutinized the horror.
“Who do you think is responsible for this . . . this extermination?” His impatient tone ripped through the stillness.
“Your Highness, if I knew the answer to that question, I’d be able to sleep at night.”
“Right,” Malik threw over his shoulder as he continued to stare out over the landscape.
Battling the stinging force of the blowing sand, grit, and dust, he drew the yards of fabric of his howlis more securely across his face. Silently he prayed for a hint of a cool breeze to calm his nerves. His gaze snapped back to the field in front of him, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. He counted five bodies outside the black Range Rovers, all male, all Middle Eastern, all shot multiple times.
The pungent stench of death cocooned them with its gelatinous vapor. His midnight-black stallion, Sirocco, danced beneath him, whining and snorting his apprehension.
Reaching down, he patted the horse’s neck. “Easy boy,” he soothed, scrambling to settle both the animal and himself.
He failed.
Sensing death, the horse reared back. Malik held on for all he was worth, tightening his grip on the reins, using every ounce of his horsemanship to prevent the animal from dumping him on his backside in the sand. He squeezed the horse’s mid-section with his thighs as he struggled for control. Sirocco let out a fierce scream as he reared back again.
Malik reached down and comforted the animal, whispering soothing Arabic words into his ear until the horse calmed beneath him, while his eyes continued to inspect the gruesome scene surrounding the two Range Rovers. The bullet-riddled doors were flung wide. They must have been used as temporary shields. The solemn image reminded him of two huge crows downed by a hunter’s bow. Except no hunter had engineered this malicious act—no, this was the work of paid mercenaries, cold-blooded killers who’d hunted men for either money or amusement. Well acquainted with this villainous breed, he’d witnessed their handiwork up close and personal.
Déjà vu slammed into him with the force of a tsunami. Sadistic men like these had masterminded the deaths of his father, mother, two older brothers, and younger sister less than a year ago.
He gritted his teeth and blew out the pent-up breath he’d been holding since they’d first spotted the bodies. He’d sworn on the graves of his family members that he’d bring their killers to justice, no matter the cost, no matter the amount of time—even if it took him the rest of his life. He’d see someone pay for his heart-shattering misery. But first things first. The mystery surrounding the bodies in front of him required his consideration.
Judging from the size and depth of the quickly vanishing tracks, armored cars and special ops would be his guess. What were they doing here?
He slipped his rifle from its holster, flung a leg over his horse, and leaped to the ground.
“Sire, no!” Nazem shouted, his voice combating both wind and sand.
Malik blocked any further objections with a raised hand. Aligning his rifle over his shoulder, he slid down the dune, his boots sinking into the burning sand.
Following the deep-seated tracks, his gaze constantly scanned the massive wind-swept sand for any sign of attack. He flinched when a vulture flew out in front of him, the animal’s loud caw a warning. Shit! He was edgy. Every unidentifiable sound, every backfire, could be a sign of an impen
ding attack.
His brows furrowed as he searched for a signal, a flicker of life, any evidence of who might have committed this crime.
He saw none.
Directly behind him, Nazem barked commands into his satellite phone. “I need a tactical and forensic team to the Disanti Ridge immediately!”
As Malik approached the vehicles, the circling vultures overhead snared his concentration, their unhurried rotating dance both hypnotic and disturbing, a reminder that his own life—all their lives—hung by a precarious thread. Assassins hid everywhere, behind sand dunes, in shadowed hallways, behind the wheel of a car.
Everywhere.
With his heart nearly pumping out of his chest, Malik proceeded closer. He knelt beside one of the bodies sprawled in the sand. A rusty puddle stained the area around the man’s head. Sliding his fingers inside the man’s collar, their pads slid over his carotid artery.
Nothing.
Damn.
Time of death? Impossible to calculate; he detected warmth from the man’s body but the heat of the sun could be responsible.
“Your Highness, wait!”
Ignoring Nazem’s warning, he rose and approached the other cars, halting to check the other bodies. None were alive.
“Fan out and protect the king!” Nazem directed. Malik’s bodyguard instantly obeyed, forming a tight perimeter around the scene.
Grateful for the long white robes and headdress of his people, he yanked the cloth closer around his face, shielding himself from the metallic odor of death.
He paused, realizing he’d made a mistake. There were seven bodies—five outside the cars, two in the backseat of the second vehicle. Sticking his head inside the second car, his breath died in his throat as he descended into hell. Heart-stopping terror leeched through him.
Blood covered everything, blanketing the car windows, the sand, the bodies. His lips twitched into a sneer. Expertly orchestrated, this assault was both premeditated and executed with chilling precision. His throat burned as acidic bile rose. He swallowed hard, forcing his stomach to stop heaving.
Removing his sunglasses, he examined the size and length of the footprints in the sand. The perpetrators had moved with lightning speed, butchering everything in their wake, wasting neither movement nor ammunition, leaving their victims very little chance to defend themselves.
A killing force.
A contracted killing force, no doubt.
Flashbacks of the past year plagued him constantly. The only remaining legitimate member of Baharah’s royal family, he recognized that his enemies yearned to kill him to rid his country of every drop of royal blood. But no matter the personal cost, he’d bring his country into the twenty-first century. As sheik, it was his duty to educate Baharah’s children. To help them succeed on a global stage.
A certain element of the population opposed the transition. They preferred the time-honored ways of the desert. Malik understood their desire to cling to the values of the past. He wasn’t opposed to tradition, but he also knew the demands of a technically demanding world. Only he stood between the anarchists and their goal. He was a marked man. He knew that, and he accepted the risk.
He’d already paid a tremendous toll.
“Your Highness, I beg you . . . it’s not safe here.”
“And where exactly am I safe?”
“The palace is a fortress, sire.”
“More like a prison.”
He refused to be hidden away like some scared rabbit. No. If death came to take him, let it be where he had a chance to fight back. To take as many of them as he could before they killed him.
His head swiveled from left to right, searching for any indication of an impending attack.
Stunned and sickened by the day’s events, his shoulders shook with indignation.
“Who are these poor souls?” Nazem asked from behind him, snapping him out of his musing. “And what were they doing out here, miles away from the city?”
Good question.
Anger clenched Malik’s gut. “Damn it! What a waste of human life!” The abhorrence in his voice startled his guards.
With renewed determination, he rummaged through the first car, seeking identifications.
He found none.
All the papers, passports, phones, guns, and whatever else these people possessed were missing, taken by the criminals. He slammed his fist against the console, frustrated by his inability to untangle the mystery. Withdrawing from the first car, he moved to the next, his white robes flapping about him in the punishing wind. The unanswerable question of why kept sticking in his craw, churning his insides into a contorted mass.
Returning to the second car, he stuck his head inside.
Two bodies lay tangled together on the plush leather of the backseat. A man’s body covered a woman’s, his protective gesture shielding her from imminent death. Malik would have done the same—any honorable man would. He cringed, shaking his head. What kind of coward shot a woman point blank?
He examined the man, checking for a pulse.
Nothing, not a spark of life.
“He’s dead like all the others,” he shouted to Nazem, “There are four small-caliber bullet wounds in his chest and an execution-style wound to the head.”
“Someone made damn sure this man didn’t survive,” Nazem commented, dragging the other bodies and grouping them together to transport by helicopter so they could check for credentials. Malik nodded in recognition of Nazem’s quick work, noting that his entire group of men were exposed out here in the wide-open desert.
Malik rolled the man’s limp body off the woman. Blood covered her blouse, skirt, legs, and face. Was the mass amount hers, or the man who had shielded her? Pushing back a tangled wad of long blond hair, his fingers explored the significant lump on the back of her head. She’d taken quite a blow, possibly from the butt of a gun. In all probability, fracturing her skull.
A slight movement caught his eye. Her chest rose. He smiled, hope flooding through his veins. Maybe it wasn’t too late; maybe he could save one victim. Placing his fingers against her neck, the steady thump of her heartbeat pulsed.
“Nazem, I need a chopper, stat!”
Without questioning his orders, Nazem pulled out his satellite phone, “Yes, Your Highness.”
“She’s still alive.”
“Great, Your Highness. Maybe we can get some answers?”
Answers . . . yes, maybe they’d catch a break for once and obtain some useful information.
Blood oozing from a gunshot wound in her side literally drenched her white silk blouse. Seeking access to her wounds, he ripped her shirt down the front, sending tiny pearl buttons popping around the interior of the car.
He froze.
Sliding backward onto his haunches, he stared at the walnut-sized leather pouch nestled within her bra. Withdrawing the packet, he pulled the drawstring. To his utter surprise and dismay, diamonds spilled into his palm. Ho . . . ly shit!
“Desert diamonds,” Nazem confirmed from just above his shoulder.
“Damn.”
“Exactly.”
“I thought we had this under control?”
“Apparently we need to go back to the drawing board.”
Shaking off the discovery, Malik concentrated on his patient’s condition. The rest of this mess could be sorted out later. Right now, this woman demanded his immediate consideration. He examined the deep, puckered wound splintering her flesh just below her rib cage.
“These diamonds and their trafficking are the bane of my existence,” he stated as he continued to work on the woman.
“They finance this ‘revolution’.” Nazem spat.
“Will they stop at nothing?”
“I’m afraid you already know the cruel a
nswer to that, my lord.”
Using his fingers, Malik probed the injury, halting when a visceral moan of pain escaped her lips.
“Shh, shh,” he soothed, his fingers stroking her cheek, “It’s all right. I’m a doctor.”
Soft words, the kind used to console a child, flowed from him. She probably couldn’t hear them. He didn’t care; the words of comfort were as much for him as they were for her.
From outside he heard Nazem shouting, “Sire, we have to go! There’s a large sandstorm moving in from the west.”
“Forget it! I’m not leaving this woman to die out here alone.” Time was running out. His golden hour had expired long ago. If he didn’t get her into surgery fast, extremely fast, she’d be dead. Already slipping into shock from the huge amount of blood loss, her skin was cool. He placed his hand over the wound, stanching the flow. “Nazem, grab my medical bag.”
Malik always carried medical supplies with him. Out in the desert, emergencies could arise at any moment—anything from scorpion stings to gunshot wounds to sunstroke. He never, ever left the palace without it, even though he mostly worked on the administrative side of medicine now that he was Sheik. He missed practicing actual medicine, missed the absolute satisfaction of saving lives. He rolled the woman toward him as he waited for the bag, searching for an exit wound.
He halted in mid-movement.
“Son of a bitch!” The woman’s hands were bound behind her back, the tautness of the rope creating dark purple bruising on the delicate skin of her wrists. Outrage roared through him, so strong it pilfered his breath.
When his medical kit arrived, he tore the sterile packages open, all the while cursing the man he’d found on top of her. The filthy bastard hadn’t been chivalrous after all. No, a damn coward, a spineless jerk whose only intention was to protect his prize. As he withdrew Lidocaine and a suture kit, his gaze slid to the floor. The sight of her bound ankles made it nearly impossible for him to function.
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