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With one long finger, he parted the blanket from top to bottom. She let him, mesmerized by the obvious need behind the soft fabric that covered his waist. Then he pushed her onto her back with one gentle hand and pressed closer, half covering her with his body.
Part of her said she was crazy for allowing this to go on. Another part insisted that she’d never felt this way before with any man, and what if she never would again?
He trailed his fingers between her breasts, over her stomach, to the cropped patch of hair below. Pleasure shot through her and had her trembling. Too fast. Too fast. The sensation scared her as much as it possessed her—frightened her because it possessed her.
She laid a hand on his chest and pressed against him. At this slight display of resistance, he stilled. When she drew her lips from his, he did not follow. But he leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing shallow and ragged, the first sign that he was as affected as she’d been. No, not the first. The hard proof of his desire pressed against her thigh.
She had come close to—
“We can’t,” she said, her voice weak.
“Why? What purpose would denying ourselves serve?”
“This is not how it works.” She wished she could form a coherent thought. What was happening here? What she had nearly done, and some part of her was still contemplating … She wasn’t like this at all.
“There are no one-night stands and quick hookups in the U.S.? That’s not how I remember it.”
She wondered how he had lived when he’d been there. A billionaire sheik. He’d probably had his choice of partners. And Sara was stupid beyond reason for allowing the thought to dismay her.
She pulled farther back, until they were no longer touching, until she could look into his dark eyes.
“I’m not a one-night stand sort of woman.”
“Good. I’m not a one-night stand sort of man.”
She retied the blanket around her. Tightly. And was proud that her fingers trembled only a little. “I’m not going to do this.” She marshaled the last of her willpower and resistance. “It’s not going to happen.”
The hyena laughed under their window, startling her back into his arms.
Chapter Five
Tariq crept through the night, sticking close to the buildings, staying deep in the shadows. Dawn had not yet arrived, but the moon lit their way. The storm had died down and their clothes were dry. Time to look around.
He couldn’t sleep, anyway. Not after he’d touched Sara and experienced the depths of her passion, the sweetness of her mouth, the feel of her under him. She had drawn away. He’d pushed too fast, too hard. Found it difficult not to. His sudden and fierce need demanded he have her.
“This way,” he murmured, and dashed across an open area, toward the large building near where he’d seen the tire tracks before. She ran behind him. Whoever had arrived in the middle of the night, in the middle of the storm, was most likely there.
Sara had come because they had but one weapon between them, the tire iron, and they’d had to put out the fire now that the wind was no longer blowing. They couldn’t risk someone smelling smoke. Tariq hadn’t seen the hyena for a while, but he didn’t want to leave her behind unprotected.
“Keep low,” he whispered.
She ducked her head down, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She hadn’t put it back up. She was beautiful and sexy, with an incredibly hot body that made him ache with wanting. But there was so much more to her. Beauty alone couldn’t distract him this much. The world was full of beautiful women, and there was no shortage of sexy bodies happy to press up against a sheik who owned a couple of oil wells.
He wasn’t proud of the fact that in his youth he had taken advantage of that.
It’d been only over the last few years before he’d returned to Beharrain that the emptiness of his relationships had begun to bother him. And since he’d been here, he’d barely had a relationship at all.
Spending a day and a night with Sara Reeves made him wish for things he hadn’t given much thought to before. And he couldn’t afford to now. The task at hand required his full attention.
“Watch out.” He pointed toward a scorpion that skittered across the ground a few inches from her feet. He kicked sand at it. The scorpion lifted its tail, but turned and moved off in the opposite direction.
Sara’s lips tightened as she stared after it, but she didn’t make a noise or any sudden movement that might betray their presence. “Poisonous?” she whispered.
“Yes.” At the beginning of construction they had done an extensive relocation project, capturing scorpions and transporting them to the Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter, the uninhabited part of the desert.
Out of the dozens of species of scorpions in his country, only a few were poisonous. None had been found when they had surveyed the area, then shortly after work began, contractors came across several nests of them. It made Tariq wonder if they’d been brought in, yet another insidious form of sabotage. But as with the rest, nobody talked, nothing could be proved.
He moved forward again, creeping along the wall when they reached the building they’d been heading for. Sara came up close behind him the next time he stopped to listen for noises inside, their bodies separated by only an inch or two. He was aware of every soft breath she took, her every move, and wondered if she was as acutely aware of him as he was of her.
Back in the villa, she had pulled away. Probably the smart thing to do—not that he’d liked it. The instant connection between them had probably taken her off guard as much as it had him. So he would give her time. As much as he could. He would plan a slow seduction. It hardly seemed possible, and yet he must, because he wasn’t ready to walk away from her. He wanted more. A lot more. As soon as they were both safe and away from danger.
He moved on to the next window hole and glanced inside. “Two trucks,” he whispered.
She stiffened, probably thinking about the attack. But she drew her back straight in the next second, and he knew if it came to that, she would be ready to fight.
“Not the same ones,” he told her.
The trucks stood in the shelter of the walls, the one closest to him a Russian-made Kamaz. He couldn’t see enough of the other one to identify it, but they didn’t look like the beat-up military trucks that had attacked them on the way to the well. These were later models, in better shape.
Men slept, some snoring, on the sand that covered the floor.
“A single sentry,” he whispered as he watched a youth of maybe twenty sitting facing the entry. His back was propped against the wall, and his head bobbed as he fought sleep.
Tariq focused on the trucks. “I want to see what they are transporting.” It might provide the clue to why his convoy had been attacked, why his oasis project was regularly visited by people who had no business being here.
“Be careful,” Sara said.
With her on his heels, he ducked to keep out of sight, then rounded the building to get to the other side. Coming in the front would have been too conspicuous. But the structure had plenty of gaps in the walls. The best point of entry was a window hole on the other side, where the trucks would keep him out of sight of the guard.
Suddenly, the hair prickled at Tariq’s nape. He wasn’t consciously aware that he’d heard something, but he must have, because all of a sudden he knew without a doubt that they were no longer alone. He held up a warning hand for Sara as he stopped midstride and looked around slowly. A small sound came from behind a pile of bricks a few yards away. He flattened Sara against the wall and stepped in front of her, keeping the tire iron ready.
A shadow stretched forward in the moonlight. Was somebody crouching there? Tariq prepared to lunge. But then the shadow moved again and separated from the brick pile. The hyena. The animal growled at them.
Sara grabbed on to his shirt from behind.
“Keep still,” he whispered.
“Over there,” she whispered back.
He glanced around and spotted another, much larger shape between two buildings.
A camel? “How did that get here?”
Got lost in the sandstorm, most likely. Or it could be here with its rider, hiding out from the storm as Sara and he were, although Tariq would have expected the animal to be tied up in that case. Camels were notorious for wandering off, not something someone whose survival depended on the beast was likely to forget.
Encouraged by Tariq’s attention being drawn elsewhere, the hyena crept closer. Tariq tried to shoo the damn thing toward the camel, but of course, the hyena was interested in him and Sara, smaller targets that would make easier prey. It eyed Tariq with a leer, not looking particularly impressed by the tire iron. Understandable, when its powerful jaws could easily snap in half the wrist that held it.
Tariq swung the length of metal, anyway. The hyena danced back, but didn’t run away. And they couldn’t shout, couldn’t throw anything at it, couldn’t make a noise. Tariq strode forward, keeping his body between Sara and the beast.
When he reached the next window hole, he looked in and took stock of the men inside from this different point of view. There were about two dozen of them, all sound asleep, apparently. But going in through this opening was still too risky. Tariq ducked down again and kept moving, turning back every few steps to keep track of the hyena, and of Sara.
When he reached the window he’d been aiming for, he looked inside and searched the dim interior carefully. Everyone in his line of vision seemed asleep. The trucks blocked his view of the guard.
He turned and handed Sara the tire iron. “Over there,” he mouthed, pointing to a nearby stack of bricks that towered over their heads. He helped her up on top, trying not to get too distracted touching her. He kept his hand on her arm for a long moment, then reluctantly pulled away.
She would be safe here, out of the hyena’s reach and out of sight if any of the smugglers wandered outside. Plus, from her higher position, she had a good view of the surrounding area, and could keep an eye out for anyone approaching. He stepped back to the window and leaned into the building, checking to make sure he wouldn’t be stepping on anyone when he climbed in.
“Don’t take any chances.” The soft whisper came from behind him.
He nodded without looking back.
Silently, he pulled himself up to the sill. Then he lowered himself to the floor inside. His shoes sank a good inch into the loose sand that had been recently blown in by the winds.
The only light came from the moon peeking through many holes in the walls. Tariq had no trouble blending into the shadows. He walked slowly, in a crouch, and stopped frequently. A man who lay on the floor spread-eagle, snoring up a storm. The grating sound stopped just as Tariq passed. He froze. But a glance back showed the man still sleeping, his head turned in the opposite direction.
Crossing the ten yards from the window to the nearest truck took nearly as many minutes. Tariq lifted the corner of the canvas and looked inside. Too dark to see anything. He listened for sounds of breathing. Nothing. Not that he had expected to find anyone. No sense in sleeping in the stifling air of a closed, hard truck bed when one could sleep on the soft sand outside.
He pulled himself up and crawled in, letting the flap close, and complete darkness envelop him. He went by feel, bumping into wooden crates that filled most of the truck, leaving enough room for only a handful of armed men to guard the cargo when they were on the road.
Guns was Tariq’s first thought. He wedged his fingertips under the top of the nearest crate, but had trouble prying it open. Whoever had closed it had nailed it down well. He searched around for a tool, but found nothing. Then he came across a banged-up license plate and used that. Precious minutes ticked by as he eased the top open a millimeter at a time. He froze when someone spoke in Arabic directly outside.
“Ready?”
A groan came in response.
Tariq ducked behind a crate so they wouldn’t immediately see him if anyone checked inside. He felt around for a weapon, but his fingers met only crates and more crates. Fortunately, there was no further conversation, only footsteps walking away.
Probably the changing of the guard.
Tariq didn’t dare move for a good fifteen minutes, until he could be reasonably sure that the guy who’d just come off duty was asleep. Then he lifted the crate’s top and eased it off, reached inside. His fingers brushed against what could have been a bag of flour. He knew better.
Drugs.
On his tribal land. He gritted his teeth at the insult, at the danger that these smugglers were bringing to his people. This would be stopped, and he would be the man to stop it. As soon as he saw Sara Reeves to safety.
He inched back the way he had come and pushed the flap aside an inch, looked out to make sure the new guard wasn’t anywhere nearby. But everything seemed the same as when he’d come in, with no movement among the men. Tariq went over the tailgate and dropped quietly to the sand, then crept to the cab and stepped up. Reaching in through the open window, he was grateful when he felt the satellite phone he’d dared to hope would be there.
He glanced at the men between him and the window hole in the wall, his way out.
He needed weapons, too.
But as he bent to reach for the AK-47 lying next to a bearded man on the sand, a shout came from the other side of the trucks, followed by sounds of people coming awake and jumping to their feet.
Tariq ducked under the vehicle.
Gunfire erupted at the building’s front, and voices shouting and swearing angrily. He could see feet moving that way.
His heart leaped and banged against his rib cage. He tried, but couldn’t see the source of the disturbance amid all the chaos. He only prayed it wasn’t Sara. She wouldn’t have left her safe position for anything, would she?
“YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED out of it.” The shah let his full disapproval sound in his voice.
His son hung his head with respect. “Yes, Father.”
“And for what? A woman?”
“You have not seen her. She—”
“Silence!” he thundered. He’d had his share of foreign whores over the years. They had been a ready source of entertainment. That his son should become bewitched by one defied understanding. “Do you have need of another wife?”
“No, Father.”
The boy had gotten the first at age seventeen, a fifteen-year-old, sweet virgin his mother had arranged for, and his grandfather had negotiated. The lad had been caught pestering the maids one time too many. Not that there was anything wrong with that; that’s what they were there for. But should there be a child … The first son should be born in wedlock.
The shah scowled. He had no intention of letting history repeat itself. He’d acquired his son’s second wife as a college graduation present, when the boy had professed to falling madly in love with one of his friend’s sisters, at age twenty-two. The third wife had come just last year.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Father.”
Good. The three wives the boy had so far were obedient, and had gifted him with many sons. Since the Quran allowed only four, the smart thing to do was to save the last one for when he was older, fifty or sixty or even more. A fourteen-year-old virgin could do miracles for a man’s body and soul at that age, revitalizing him all over again.
“Go prepare yourself for the feast,” he told the boy.
His closest allies would soon be here. He would reveal his secret to them. And then, with his son, his firstborn, his pride, together they would begin to reclaim their family’s legacy.
SARA WAS LOST IN THOUGHT, trying to find some explanation for the out-of-character way she had acted with Tariq, feeling flushed all over again at the thought of his kisses and his hands on her, when the gunfire erupted.
Tariq.
She glanced around, but couldn’t see anything from her perch on the brick pile. The hyena was nowhere in sight. After a split second of evaluating her situation, she slid to the ground. Had Tariq been discovered? He had to have been. Why else would the bandits be shooting?
She gripped the tire iron and peeked in the window. The trucks sat in the middle of the large open area. She could see men near the front of the building, but couldn’t make out what they were doing, other than that they were upset over something.
The gunfire stopped.
Had Tariq been captured?
She waited to see if they would bring him back in, trying to think how she could possibly save him. What could she do against truckloads of bandits?
If he was still alive. She hadn’t counted, but at least two or three dozen shots had been fired.
The thought of possible implications gripped her with icy fingers.
A dark shape separated from the deep shadow between the two trucks—a man hurrying toward her, keeping low.
Fear mingled with hope inside her. It could be that someone had spotted her, but it also could be Tariq. If it was one of the bandits, wouldn’t he have shouted for the others? Hope grew even as she held the tire iron ready to swing.
Then the man reached the swatch of moonlight that came through the window, and she relaxed, stepping back as Tariq vaulted through the hole.
