Captive For The Sheikh's Pleasure

Erin had called for an ambulance and, Maggie realised now, she must have told them she had a child sleeping in the flat.

It had felt like an invasion at the time—being lifted from her bed and carried to an ambulance.

She had held her mother’s hand throughout the journey and told her she loved her over and over. At the hospital she had been led to a small room to wait and it had been there she had been told that her mother was dead.

That was fear, Maggie told herself as she stared out into the dark night.

She could deal with this.

And there had to be a logical explanation.

She remembered being driven through the night some time after her mother had died.

Again, she had been awoken, seemingly in the middle of the night.

Now, though, she recalled arriving at yet another new temporary accommodation. A couple had been eating their dinner. It had been the middle of winter and dark, but perhaps not the middle of the night as she had thought then.

There had been a more logical explanation then and there had to be one now.

Maggie simply could not fathom what it was.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked one of the men, but either he did not understand or simply chose not to answer.

The helicopter was circling and she could feel them hover and then be lifted by a gust of wind. She could see the tension on the features of the men as the pilot fought to land them in the storm.

There was a complex beneath, the white of a large tent with a collection of smaller ones dotted around the main one, like surf on the ocean. And the sand moved in waves beneath them, not unlike the sea itself. Finally they landed and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.

She was hauled from the helicopter and a large hand pushed her head down as she was dragged through the sands.

The air was cold, the sand stung her cheeks, and then she was pushed, or did she simply stumble?

Maggie pulled herself up to her knees, anticipating being hauled back to her feet and determined to do it herself.

It took a moment to fathom she was now alone.

The sound of the chopper combined with the shrieking wind was deafening and she put her hands over her ears, battling with too many thoughts and sensations to attempt to think clearly.

The flashing lights were lifting, the helicopter was taking off again, and Maggie covered her eyes as she realised she had been left there alone in the shifting sand.

The sharp grains blasted her cheeks and stung her eyes as she tried to gauge her surroundings. Squinting, she could just make out the white of a tent in the distance.

It was huge.

Bigger than the circus tent she had been to as a child.

And in the midst of terror, as so often happened, a happier memory flashed to mind—sitting with her mother, eating a sticky treat, laughing and laughing...

She hadn’t known then just how precious that time was; it had seemed so natural to be content then. Now, though, she was a fighter and, if Maggie wanted to survive, then there was little choice but to make her way to the tent for protection.

Or perhaps not?

Briefly she turned from the tent and considered simply walking away and forcing them to come and get her.

Whoever they were.

Two steps into her journey away from the tent she gave up on the idea. There was no way she could last out here on her own.

The winds shrieked around her as Maggie reluctantly headed towards the tent, for it was like walking through molasses.

She reached the entrance and pulled a heavy drape aside, dreading what she might find—more henchmen? More captives? Her imagination was working overtime, but not for a second had she considered that she might step into luxurious beauty.

The inside of the tent was softly lit and the sound of screeching winds was mercifully muted as the drape closed behind her. She caught strains of music and the scent of incense, and felt an irresistible pull to follow the length of the corridor ahead.

Thick carpet had replaced the sand and was soft on her bare feet; the walls were lined with a stream of tiny bells that made a soft tinkling sound as she ran her hands along them.

No one came to find her.

She walked further and came to an entrance covered by a veil of sheer fabric and she thought she must be at the centre.

Still, nothing made sense, for she had never seen such beauty before in her life. The floor was spread with rugs and was scattered with cushions. Gorgeous tapestries hung on the walls and light from many lamps danced along them. In the centre was an enclosed fire with a flue that led to the high roof of the tent. The only indication of the stark weather conditions outside was the gentle billowing of the roof as she looked up.

Maggie walked over to a low table that was laden with fruits and delicacies. There were ornate jugs that were filled to the brim and beside them were jewelled goblets, but though thirsty she did not take her fill.

‘Help yourself.’

A deep voice jolted her. Maggie did not move and neither did she look around. The voice was so rich that it seemed to come from all sides and she was not certain of its direction.

‘No, thank you,’ Maggie said, and was both surprised and pleased that her voice did not waver.

‘Turn around,’ he told her. ‘Or do you not have the courage to repeat your demands to my face?’

‘Demands?’ Now she spun and immediately wished she hadn’t, for Maggie had been braced to face a monster. Instead, what she saw was a man more beautiful than any she had ever seen.

And Maggie did not want him to be.

Absolutely she did not want that to be her first thought as she faced her captor.

And she knew that this man was her captor.

Not the henchmen who had dragged her sleeping from her bed and brought her here; she knew now that they had followed his orders.

Maggie was certain that he gave orders, for it was crystal clear to her that he was a leader.

He was taller than most and wore dark layered robes; on his head was a black kafeyah tied with a braided rope. His clothes were immaculate, as if not so much as a grain of sand would dare to sully him.

Though unshaven, he was far from dishevelled; in fact, he was impeccably groomed. His face was chiselled, and though his eyes were an intense hazel, it was his mouth that drew her eyes.

‘I assume you know why you are here?’ he said and his English surprised her—or rather the clipped, well-schooled accent did.

She looked from his mouth to his eyes that flashed irritation at her lack of response, but she stared back without blinking.

Maggie refused to show fear.

And she refused to answer him.

She would say nothing until it was clear why she was here, Maggie had decided.

‘Did you really think that there would be no repercussions, Suzanne?’

And then she reversed her decision not to speak.

Of course it might be far safer to say nothing, but there was one thing this man just had to understand because Maggie was finally starting to—it really was all a mix-up. Perhaps a less than simple mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Here was the rational explanation she had been searching for earlier.

And once he knew that, she would be free.

So she cleared her throat and stated her case.

‘I’m not Suzanne.’

CHAPTER FOUR

HER REVELATION DID not send him scurrying to apologise, although Maggie doubted that this man had ever scurried or apologised to anyone in his life, though she stated her case again. ‘There’s been a mix-up. You see, I’m not Suzanne.’

‘Of course you’re not.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I hardly expected you to use your real name.’

‘But I know who she is...’ Maggie was starting to see how it had happened. Oh, she had no idea what Suzanne was up to and what he might want with her, but she could now see what had occurred tonight. ‘I used Suzanne’s ticket to go on the desert tour. It was a last-minute change of plan.’

‘So where is she now?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Maggie chose to be evasive, rather than reveal that Suzanne had left earlier for Dubai. ‘But whatever she’s involved in has nothing to do with me.’

‘It has everything to do with you!’

‘I’m not Suzanne,’ she said again. ‘My name is Maggie. Maggie Delaney. I don’t even know who you are.’

That seemed to amuse him.

His mouth spread into a smile and he walked over to her.

Right over.

He came into her space, and as his hand moved towards her she flinched; he gripped her chin and forced her face up.

She refused to meet his eyes as he spoke.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sheikh Ilyas al-Razim...’

She knew that name and her eyes met his then and all trace of that smile was gone. Contempt blazed in his eyes and his fingers were firm on her jaw as he spoke on. ‘You shall deal with me now, rather than an aide. I have decided to cut the snake off at the head myself.’

‘I don’t know what you want with me.’

He released her then and went over to a low dark table where he retrieved a folder, which he held out to her.

‘Did you enjoy your day on the royal yacht?’ he asked.

With shaking hands Maggie took the folder and opened it. A photo of her wearing just a bikini was the first thing she saw.

In it she was smiling, but Maggie could well remember the awkwardness of that moment and could see the grit of her teeth. It paled in comparison to her discomfort now as she realised she had been photographed and that he must have examined it.

‘There are more,’ he told her.

And there were, for there she was lying on a bed as Hazin came into the cabin.

Maggie felt sick.

‘Keep going,’ he said calmly.

The next was an image of the royal prince whose cabin she had inadvertently ended up in. Hazin was laughing and naked! Very quickly she jerked her eyes away, but there was no solace for her gaze went straight to Ilyas’s.

And his eyes were not kind.

‘What is your relationship with my brother?’ he asked.

Oh, this was the older brother Hazin had spoken less than fondly of.

‘Answer the question. What is your relationship with my brother?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘So you often share a bed with men you have no relationship with?’

‘Not often, no...’

He didn’t get her nervous humour—the vague joke that had shot out, because Maggie had never shared a bed with a man in her life.

‘When these sex tapes surface...’

She laughed.

Possibly it was the shock of being stranded in the desert that made it such a nervous laugh. Or perhaps it was the irony that she, a twenty-four-year-old virgin, was being accused of taking part in some salacious scandal with a royal prince.

‘You find this funny?’ he checked.

‘A little,’ Maggie said. ‘Well, I find it bizarre—although possibly it’s a nervous reaction—but, yes, the thought of me appearing in a sex tape is laughable.’

He frowned and Maggie guessed this foreboding man had no idea what being nervous felt like, and neither would he laugh easily. She spoke on, eager to clear up the mistake. ‘I can assure you there are no sex tapes—at least, none with me in them.’

He said nothing.

‘I had sunstroke,’ Maggie explained. ‘I just went to lie down.’

‘You’ve recovered quickly,’ he mused. ‘Given that you were well enough to go on your little tour.’ He seemed to tire of her then. ‘We will speak later.’ He called out in Arabic and there was the sound of small bells and two women dressed in black came in. ‘Go and make yourself presentable.’

‘Presentable?’ Her voice was incredulous, but then nerves flooded in as she was terribly aware he had seen photos of her with very little on and perhaps that was his reason for bringing her here. ‘If you think for one moment—’

‘Go and clean up,’ Ilyas interrupted.

‘The only thing that needs cleaning up is your mistake,’ Maggie said. ‘You can’t keep me here. I’m due to fly home on Monday.’

‘What time?’

‘In the morning.’

‘How convenient,’ he said, ‘when the tapes are due to be released at midday.’ He shook his head. ‘You aren’t going anywhere yet, but we shall speak later. There are still a couple of hours till sunlight and you should get some sleep. I would prefer to speak when you are properly rested. Your laughter in the face of something so serious is concerning. That sunstroke you mentioned perhaps?’

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