Captive of the Desert King. Donna Young
Her fingers fluttered over his cheek, then closed his eyes.
Never had death brushed this close, or been this personal. The finality left her cold and empty.
Sarah swore and pressed her fingers into her eyes, averting the prick of tears, easing the throb of pain.
Suddenly, a horse whinnied to the right of the plane.
Sarah grabbed the gun and thumbed the safety off.
“Ramon.”
She aimed the pistol at the door. “Come through that door and it will be the last thing you do,” Sarah yelled.
“Don’t shoot, damn it. It’s Jarek, Sarah.” The sharp voice came from the outside—a command not a question. Only one man had a voice like that—the deep, haunting timbre, the edges clipped with a hint of a British accent.
When the passenger door slammed open, she was already lowering the pistol. “Your Majesty, this is a surprise.”
Coal-black eyes swept over her, taking in her slender frame, the pale skin.
She knew what he was thinking. Delicate. Reserved. Harmless. That’s what most people thought.
What he’d thought all those years ago. Before he got to know her.
“Are you injured?” He nodded toward the blood-soaked camisole.
“No.” She lied without qualm, her eyes studying the man. He hadn’t changed much over the past eight years. Leaner, more rigid, maybe. He dressed casually in tan riding breeches, a white linen shirt and black riding boots. The clothes were tailored and fit snugly over his broad shoulders, lean hips and long, masculine legs.
He certainly had the look of a desert king: an indigo scarf wrapped around his head, his sharp angled features, his skin bronzed from the sun and slightly grooved from the elements.
His eyes narrowed as they met hers.
Something shifted inside her. Fear? Relief? “Ramon is dead.”
Jarek glanced over at the pilot, but the king’s features remained stiff, emotionless. Only the slight tightening of his jaw gave away the fury beneath the indifference. Sarah realized she would have missed it if she hadn’t been studying his features so intently.
Then quickly, before she could react, he caught her chin, turned her head and examined her wound. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No,” she lied again, resisting the urge to touch her temple. Telling Jarek about her headache wouldn’t change the situation.
She looked beyond his shoulder and through the door to the empty desert. “Any others coming?”
“No.” He released her. “Just myself. And Rashid.”
“Rashid?” Sarah repeated, surprised. “The prince is here?”
“Yes.” His mouth flattened to a hard, almost bitter line. A mouth, she remembered, that heated with passion or curved wickedly with humor.
“We have very little time. I didn’t see any jeeps with the Al Asheera. Only horses. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have them,” Jarek added. He took Ramon’s gun from her grip, then pulled her from between the seats.
“Behind you is the survival kit. Water, rations, first aid. On the floor…” he pointed under the seats “…flares.”
“Got it,” she answered, but the first thing she snagged was her purse—a brown, leather hobo bag that had seen better days.
“Forget your purse. Take what’s important. Water first.”
“My purse is important. It won’t get in the way.” Quickly, she slipped it over her neck and one shoulder. She grabbed the survival kit and the extra sack of water. It took her a moment to find the flares hidden under a broken passenger seat in the back. She shoved several into her purse, along with a loose flashlight and gloves.
Jarek leaned over and checked the pilot’s pulse. After a moment, he cupped the older man’s cheek. “May Allah keep you always, my friend.”
Sarah turned away, uncomfortable with her intrusion. She stumbled from the plane, nearly landing face-first in the scrub and sand.
“Great,” she muttered. Impatient, she reached down and broke the heels off her shoes, trying not to think about how much the cost of the tan slingbacks had set back her budget a few months earlier.
“Miss Kwong?”
All boy. That was Sarah’s first thought as she looked at Rashid. His eyes were big and wide and black as midnight. Almost too big for the small body, the baby-soft features.
“Your Highness.”
He dressed like his father in the riding pants and boots. His scarf, just a tad off center, revealed sooty black hair spiking in sweaty strands against his cheeks and ears.
“I am glad to see you are unharmed,” the little boy greeted her in a quiet voice. Those big eyes looked past her shoulder to the plane even as he helped her with the supplies.
“Is Ramon safe?”
Sarah knelt down in front of him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Sarah explained, gently. “Ramon did not survive.”
“I see,” he whispered. His throat worked spasmodically against tears. “My father?”
“He’s saying goodbye.”
Jarek stepped out to the sand. In one hand, he carried a scarf—Ramon’s head scarf—filled with more supplies. In the other hand, he carried Ramon’s pistol. “Rashid—”
“I know, Papa. Miss Kwong explained.” The words were quiet, but resolute. Sarah saw the tears swell in the young prince’s eyes and how he bit his lip to keep them from falling.
Sarah stood, but left her hand on the boy’s shoulder long enough for a gentle squeeze of encouragement.
“There is nothing we can do for Ramon,” Jarek added, his gaze narrowing over her gesture. “Please let go of my son, Miss Kwong.”
The emotions punched hard, an angry swipe at her solar plexus. Resentment. Humiliation. Rage. She fought them all as she dropped her hand.
Eight years of denial fell away, lying like broken chains at her feet.
She’d come three thousand miles to see. To finally know. And now she did.
Nothing had changed.
“Miss Kwong, have you ridden?” Jarek asked briskly, his gaze now on the horizon.
“Yes. But it’s been a long time.” Too long, she added silently and resisted the urge to rub her temples where the pain was centered.
“You’ll ride Ping.” He nodded toward the gray mare. “Give me the backpack. You can keep your purse.”
He tied the scarf and supplies to Ping’s saddle. “Rashid, come hold the horse steady.”
“It’s okay, girl.” The little boy held the bridle and stroked the horse’s nose.
“Grab the pommel,” Jarek ordered Sarah, then glanced down at her foot. Noticing the broken heels, he raised an eyebrow in question.
“They’re styled to make a great impression, not for an afternoon hike in the sand.”
“I assure you. You’ve always made an impression. Without the shoes,” he murmured, then motioned her to lift her foot.
She placed her heel in his palm, felt the slight dusting of his thumb against her ankle. Her toes curled, but her back stiffened.
“Don’t,” she snapped, low and mean.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t