The Sheik's Safety. Dana Marton
sheik, he would not shame his people by dying from a bullet in the back that he’d gotten while running from his enemy. He thought of his family and hoped he had time for a quick prayer for them.
He could clearly see the man’s finger on the trigger, the small movement of the last two digits as he began to squeeze it. Allah be merciful.
Something hissed in the air. The next thing he knew, the man was facedown in the sand, a knife sticking out of his back.
Where had that come from? Saeed drew up short. Movement by the palm trees caught his gaze, and he stared at the moonlit figure of the woman standing with her feet braced apart. Her long hair streamed around her shoulders, flitting in the strengthening breeze.
His captive was awake.
SHE HOPED TO HELL she had made the right decision. Because now that she had thrown her spare knife, she was officially unarmed. Dara rubbed her right shoulder as she took in the surprise on the man’s face, visible in the full moon even at this distance.
They were at an oasis, although she had no clue how she’d gotten there. She had come to in the middle of a gunfight and her first thought—after she’d pushed back the sudden rush of memories of the crash and the onslaught of grief—was to sneak off unseen. Then she spotted the SUV.
The vehicle was worth staying for. But she couldn’t make a beeline for it with three men filling the air with bullets. She contented herself with watching the fight, hoping they would kill each other and save her the unpleasant trouble.
The one with the blue headdress wasn’t half-bad, but woefully outmatched by the two with AK-47s. The decision to save him hadn’t been conscious. Instinct had whipped her arm forward when she threw the knife, instinct honed by years of combat experience.
She watched, wary now, as the man started toward her, his heavy dark robe parting to show a long white shirt that reached almost to the bottom of his white pants. He finished rewrapping his headdress as he walked, leaving only his eyes free. She assessed him, trying to determine how much of a threat he was.
His figure trim and muscular, he walked steady and didn’t appear wounded. He looked to be in his midthirties, a couple of years older than she was, a man in his prime. None of her observations pleased her. Least of all that he was armed.
She locked her trembling knees as he came nearer. Under no circumstances did she want him to know how weak she was. She glanced at the vehicle. Too far. She didn’t have enough strength to run. She looked around for a makeshift weapon and came up empty. Great. She really hoped the guy felt some gratitude for her saving his life, because judging by his size and the state she was in currently, no way she could wrestle him down.
Ah, hell. She wasn’t supposed to come into contact with anyone except for the arms smugglers they were here to pick up. The Colonel had high hopes they’d talk if put under enough stress, and lead him to Tsernyakov, the elusive businessman who was responsible for eighty percent of the illegal gun trade in the region.
No one was supposed to know about the unauthorized U.S. military operation in the country. From the look of him, the guy striding toward her had a couple of questions. She wracked her brain for a logical explanation on what she was doing in the middle of the desert in a camouflage uniform.
He stopped a few feet from her, a silver-studded antique rifle slung over his shoulder. He had her two knives tucked into his belt, his sinister curved dagger still in hand. The light of the full moon glinted off the dagger’s golden sheath that looked like a museum piece.
She raised her gaze to the man’s face, hoping to read his intention. “Where am I?”
The cobalt blue of the headdress matched his eyes that appraised her with curiosity and distrust. What little skin she could see looked tanned by the sun, his eyelashes and eyebrows the blackest black. He looked fierce and proud, a warrior from another time.
“Jabrid,” he said.
She hoped that was the name of the oasis and not Arabic for “prepare to die.”
The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Scenes from a long-ago-seen movie floated through her mind, about a desert prince coming upon an English woman, the sole survivor of a caravan attack, throwing her over his horse and carrying her off to his sumptuous tent. She could swear the man in front of her was the guy. Except, no horse, she noted with relief. And then, without taking his eyes off her, he whistled.
The brief series of notes was not earsplitting, but high-pitched and swift, carrying over the sand. She turned in the direction of a soft sound coming from behind her, and what she saw took her breath away.
The magnificent black stallion coming toward them was straight out of the film. His long mane and tail swept through the air, his saddle covered with a richly woven blanket—red and white, she could just make out the colors in the moonlight—the tassel fringe bobbing like so many tiny bells. A white mark, in the distinct form of a bird spreading its wings in flight, graced the animal’s forehead.
“Do you have any more knives?” the man asked with a British accent, drawing her attention from the horse, which came to a stop next to him and was now nuzzling his wide shoulders.
The muscle cramps in her legs were strong enough to make her knees buckle, but she bit her lips and thrust out her chin, refusing to fall down. She lifted her hands a little, palms forward. “Fresh out.”
He looked her over then nodded, slid his dagger into its sheath. “Who are you?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” She widened her smile, trying to look innocent.
His eyes narrowed. “You want a million for the answer?”
She laughed. Never let them see you scared. “I meant I’d give a million if anyone could tell me.”
He took a few seconds to digest that. “You don’t remember?” he asked with a hint of incredulity, one ebony eyebrow cocked.
“Nothing before I woke up under this palm to the sound of shooting.”
“Nothing?” The second eyebrow joined the first.
Her lips pressed together in mock consternation, she shook her head. Shouldn’t have done that, she realized as the landscape swam around her. Three days of forced march through the desert without food and water had left her severely dehydrated. She swayed a little, but caught herself. He must not know what an easy prey she was.
He made an unintelligible sound as he looked her over again. “You sound American.”
No sense in denying that, since her unmistakable accent had already given her away. “Yes, I think so.”
“Why were you armed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you get the second knife from?”
She glanced down and pointed at her boot.
“And you’re sure you don’t have any more?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“I’d like to check.”
She thoroughly resented the suggestion. Could be worse though—he could have demanded a strip search. In her current condition, she was pretty much obliged to do whatever he asked. Well…within reason. She plopped onto the sand, grateful to be off her feet. A few more minutes and she would have fallen. Maybe if she played nice, he would let her have some food and water, not to mention the SUV. He didn’t need the vehicle anyhow. He had his horse.
She took off her boots and tossed them to him, then while he looked them over, she took off her socks, too, enjoying the air on her feet, reluctant to put her footgear back on when he returned it.
“Any water in that well?” She nodded toward the stone circle with her head. Her tongue felt swollen, her lips painfully chapped.
“Too much sand in it,” he said as he pulled a flask from the saddlebag and handed it