The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy. Dana Marton
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.
“Let’s go.”
Her wrist was caught in a band of steel that pulled her forward.
“Did they see you?” she whispered, hurrying to keep up with him.
“The hyena paid them a visit. I shouldn’t have left you here.” His voice was taut with intensity.
He picked a different path than the one they’d taken to get here, keeping in the cover of buildings and out of sight of the men, who were still milling about outside.
“Who are they?” she asked, struggling through the soft sand, which sucked at her feet with every step.
“Drug runners.”
“How many?” She hadn’t been able to see in the darkness.
“About two dozen. Well-armed.” Instead of taking her back to the villa where they’d spent the night, he was walking toward the structure that housed the Hummer.
She glanced at the sky before they stepped inside. How long before morning? How much time did they have left in the relative safety of darkness? Couldn’t be more than an hour or two. She tried to glance at his watch, but couldn’t make out the dial.
“You think the bandits will find us once it’s light outside?”
“They might.” He let her go at last, and walked to the vehicle. “They could pile back on their trucks and drive out without ever looking around. Or they could be here for a couple of days, waiting for the handover of the drugs, if it’s been arranged for this location. If they wander around, they’ll see the trailer doors I busted. I think they come here often. They would notice the missing wood that we took for the windows. If that happens, they’ll come looking for clues as to who was here.”
She glanced at the Hummer. Even if the two of them could successfully hide, they couldn’t hide the car. And if the smugglers took it … God, she didn’t want to be stranded in the middle of the desert.
Tariq reached into his shirt, and only now did she notice the bulge there. She could have kissed him when he pulled out a satellite phone. Okay, she could have kissed him without much provocation at any time, but she was extremely relieved to see the phone.
He was dialing already. Then he spoke in rushed Arabic, before stopping to listen to the response from the other end. It couldn’t have been good news. His face turned darker and darker, his free hand fisting at his side. He barked several questions, scowling fiercely as he hung up.
He set the phone on the Hummer’s hood, then leaned against the car and rubbed his hands over his face. Then he swore. Heartily. In English.
When he was done, he looked at her and apologized.
“What is it?” Her heart clamored. Although she hadn’t understood a word of the conversation, she knew something was seriously wrong.
“My brother Aziz was killed,” he said. “The new well was blown up yesterday. Nobody survived.”
“The well we were going to?” She felt light-headed and decided to sit down.
He nodded, a stony expression on his face. “The fires are still burning. Emergency crews are trying to put them out and cap the well again. My brother Karim is coming with a chopper. I told him where we are.”
He picked up the tire iron he’d dropped as they’d come in, and she knew he was considering going back to fight those bandits, to find out if they knew anything about this, to take out his rage on someone.
But he wouldn’t stand a chance. She needed to distract him until he calmed down a little. She couldn’t begin to imagine what losing a sibling would feel like, but she had lost her mother at an early age, then more recently her father. She could understand the rage.
She stood and walked to him, placed a comforting hand over the one that held their sole weapon. “I’m sorry.” She stepped closer and laid her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating madly beneath her ear. “Were you close?”
He nodded, then began talking with some reluctance. “When I was a child in the U.S., I lived with distant relations of my mother. Their sons were older, and didn’t much like the intruder they considered me. I spent a lot of time being ganged up on, or alone. I always thought of myself as the piece that didn’t belong, fantasized about my real family, how it would be when I returned. Perfect.” He gave a sour chuckle. “Then, after a while, I grew up and forgot that I’d ever wanted to come back. I suppose I was angry.”
“At your family, for sending you away?”
“Yes. My mother said she wanted to save me from danger, but she kept my twin brothers, who were born just before I was exiled. Only they didn’t call it that. Everyone said I was going to America to get a Western education. My father had sons from other wives. He could afford to send me far away to see if I learned anything useful to bring back to him. As a child, I was often dejected. Then over the years, teenage angst was added on top of that, and I convinced myself I didn’t care. And later I made a life for myself separate from my family.”
“What brought you back?”
“A call for help.” He drew a slow breath. “I thought myself so separate from them, but a call was all it took. My family and my people needed me. They needed someone to take over the company, someone who knew how to lead a large business the Western way, who could negotiate on the same level with the foreigners who poured into the