Seized By The Sheik. Ann Voss Peterson
been attracted to him from the first time she’d laid eyes on him, at a reception in Kyros, his hair nearly as black as his tuxedo. Each time she’d spoken with him since, she’d felt on the edge of giggling and blushing. She’d had to force herself to remain professional.
And now?
Now she just wanted to talk to him again. She just wanted to look in his eyes and feel that blush one more time.
Sasha cleared the badlands. The landscape flattened into sage-pocked plains and abrupt, flat-topped hills called benches. The mountains loomed closer on the northern horizon. The scent of pine tickled the dry wind.
The going was slow, even on the more even ground. With each sway of Sasha’s stride, Callie could feel Fahad’s weight tip to one side or the other as he grew weaker and even less able to hold himself steady. He was a big man. Not as tall as Efraim, but thick and muscled. If he tilted too far to either side, she wouldn’t be able to hold him.
The sun dipped lower in the western sky, its aurora kissing the blue shadow of mountains before starting its slip behind. Soon she would have to navigate by the glow of twilight. She needed to keep moving. Among the mountains, twilight seemed to last forever. But when night finally fell, it was blacker than a nightmare.
“Efraim.” Fahad’s voice was low, a harsh whisper.
Callie leaned her face close to his. The rusty scent of blood filled each breath she took. “He’ll catch up with us. He’ll be okay.”
“You let him…”
She finished the rest of his sentence with her imagination. An extra shard of guilt dug into her. “I didn’t let him. He insisted on protecting you, protecting me.”
“You care only for your negotiations.”
His words hit her like a slap. “That’s not true.” She’d been telling herself that that was all she should care about ever since she’d first met Efraim. That she should be professional. That she should think only of her job. Now a part of her wished she’d never listened.
“He shouldn’t die…”
His voice was growing weak. She leaned closer. “…you should.”
“I should what?”
“Die.”
The vitriol in his one word shook her to the core. She’d faced opposition before in her job. Hatred for the United States. Distrust. She’d faced some of the same from the people she’d grown up with. But never had someone wished her death straight to her face. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“You have polluted Efraim.”
“Polluted?” Words gathered in her mind, bitter words she longed to throw back. She bit the inside of her lip. Pouring gasoline on this kind of fire would only make it burn brighter, hotter. She would let him have his say.
“You, your country…let him go.”
Let him go? “Efraim does what he feels is best. I have no hold on him.”
“Let him go.”
All her experience as a diplomat, and she had no idea what to say to the man. She could find no words. “Efraim makes his own choices.”
“Then may you both…” A rasping sound vibrated through his chest and back. He strained backward, against Callie, as if struggling to breathe.
She shifted him to the side.
“Your family and his…may both be destroyed.” He slumped heavily against her. He gasped in a labored breath, then another.
She grasped the saddle’s fork and held on.
“Whoa, Sasha.” Reaching around the other side of him, she transferred the reins into the hand gripping the saddle. She threaded her free hand along the man’s neck and felt for his pulse. His skin felt clammy. Sweat soaked his hair, his beard. A faint, thready rhythm beat against her fingers.
Still alive, but for how long?
She picked up the reins again and clucked to Sasha. Eyes on the horizon, she searched for the telltale signs of the creek that wound through her family’s ranch while the sun slipped behind the mountain range.
EFRAIM HELD HIS GUN at the ready and strode toward the flash of movement he’d seen between clumps of sage. Probably an animal. A pronghorn antelope darting across the land or a coyote scrounging for food or scampering after a rodent. But deep down he feared it wasn’t something so innocuous. Whoever had shot Fahad was still out here. Watching him. Following. He sensed him.
At least he hoped the gunman was following him and not Callie and Fahad.
He could no longer see them. He hadn’t been able to for quite a while now, even over this open stretch. But he could see her horse’s fresh tracks among sagebrush and prickly pear. And at his pace, he had to be closing in on her. Of course, with only the faint glow of the sun from beyond the mountains, seeing anything was becoming a challenge.
A slight rustle carried on the dying wind.
Ahead, vegetation grew a little taller, a little more lush. A clear indication of water. Probably a creek. He pulled out Callie’s rifle. Lifting it to his shoulder, he peered through the scope and scanned the area.
No horse. No man. But also no animal. At least not one he could see.
Whoever was out there was very good. Either someone who knew the land, or someone trained to disappear. He could be lining Efraim up in his sights right now, and Efraim wouldn’t even know he was there.
Not until the bullet hit.
He tried to clear his mind, to focus on what his senses told him, not what his imagination could invent. Whoever was out there had been following Callie or him or both since Fahad was shot. He hadn’t shot back since his second attempt in the badlands, but that didn’t mean killing them wasn’t his aim. Efraim just wished he knew why the man was playing with them like a cat plays with its prey before devouring it.
Dry soil crunched under his boots. The wind had died down with the fall of night, and the air was still, making every sound loud as gunfire. He breathed deeply, searching for the scent of burning tobacco, the sharp tang of a man’s sweat, something, but all he could detect was the ever-present fragrance of sage flavored with a distant hint of pine.
He lowered the rifle. Another thing he hadn’t seen was any sign of a ranch, and that had him worried. It couldn’t be too much farther, could it? He hoped it was as close as Callie thought. And he could only pray Fahad was still alive and strong enough for it to matter.
The hiss sounded from the prairie floor, like the shake of a maraca, louder than the wind.
Oh, hell.
He looked down at the earth in front of him.
The black coil of a rattlesnake lay near a clump of sage. Again, it sounded its deadly warning.
Efraim took a slow step backward. Then another. In all the riding and climbing he’d done in Rattlesnake Badlands, he hadn’t seen a single one of the reptiles. They’d probably been hiding from the hot sun. This one had ventured out to enjoy the cooler evening air.
He took several more backward steps.
The rattle faltered, then stopped. He’d barely drawn a breath when another sound came from behind him. The unmistakable clack of a rifle chambering a round.
“Turn around and I’ll blow your head off.”
The voice sounded American. A local, or at least a pretty good imitation of the accent. A slight tremor vibrated under the words.
Efraim gripped the rifle. He slid his finger to the trigger guard.
“Throw the rifle down.”
Could he spin around, aim and fire before the man could take him out? He doubted it. He’d proven himself