The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie West
‘Just hold on tight, Ms Winters.’
The formality was absurd in the circumstances. He was all that stood between her and possible death. This stranger who’d appeared when she was at her weakest: injured, desperate and almost despairing. He’d shared his strength, giving her hope when she most needed it.
And now, wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a pair of manacles, she lay as close to him as any lover. His bulk pressed down on her—a shield against the storm’s savage fury. In the process she was discovering the unique imprint of his body, learning the impressively hard planes and lean muscles of this superbly built stranger.
And she didn’t even know who he was.
She opened her mouth to ask his name, then shut it. He wouldn’t be able to hear her over the tumult.
Instead she did what little she could for the man who risked his life for her. She spread her fingers over the back of his head, hoping to protect him from flying debris. Then she turned her face towards his, finding primitive comfort in the haze of his breath against her skin.
Rafiq felt the moment she surrendered to the inevitable and lay quiet beneath him. The rapid beat of her heart slowed to something closer to normal and her fierce rigidity lessened. But she didn’t relax her hold. Her hands splayed protectively over his skull, as if to ward off hurt.
His lips twisted at the absurdity of the gesture.
Ms Isabelle Margaret Winters, twenty-five, of Cairns, Australia, was a remarkable woman. A fighter, determined to push herself beyond the limits of normal endurance if she had to. She didn’t give up, no matter what the odds.
She’d even tackled Dawud with his own knife!
He smiled at the memory. If they got out of this alive he’d enjoy using that piece of information.
Dawud was an old friend, but sometimes he forgot that he couldn’t make Rafiq’s decisions. He’d even tried to argue that he should stay behind with Isabelle Winters. Dawud should have known better. Rafiq was responsible for her. He knew his duty. He’d learned early to shoulder his responsibilities and face every challenge head-on.
He shifted his weight, trying to ease the searing pain in his shoulder where something had sheared through the air and slammed into him. The movement only made him more aware of her soft body cushioning him. With her arms over his shoulders, her high breasts tilted against him. Her hips cradled him in a way that made him think of bedroom pleasures. The intimate touch of her lips against his chin made him wonder what her kisses would be like.
He was aware of her with every sense. Could feel her femininity against his hardness. Despite the grit in his nostrils, he inhaled the intriguing scent of her skin. Could imagine the taste of her on his tongue.
And he could sense her confusion and desperate fear.
He dragged his brain back to their predicament, furious at his weakness. To be distracted by a beautiful woman now, in this extremity! It was beyond all logic.
Would flying debris be the worst they’d have to endure? Or would the atoll be washed away?
It was in the hands of destiny.
The thought made him recall his grandfather. The old man had firmly believed in the force of destiny. Even when he’d lost his son, Rafiq’s father, he’d remained as proud and stiff-necked as ever, saying that his son’s fate had been written and blaming no one for the accident.
If the old man were alive, he’d say it was Rafiq’s fate to be on this outlying isle with Isabelle Winters.
After all, she wouldn’t be here but for Rafiq. He’d made it his business to approve personally the members of the marine survey expedition, expediting visa arrangements. Without his agreement she wouldn’t be in his country.
And now this. Guilt seared him. She was an innocent pawn in a political scheme of which she knew nothing.
The storm would delay Dawud’s return to the main island. He wouldn’t arrive before the deadline for payment of the kidnap ransom. And Dawud couldn’t send a message ahead from the inflatable with news. The radio was dead. A malfunction due to the storm or to sabotage?
Without word that the captives were safe, no one would dare countermand Rafiq’s initial order to pay the ransom if the hostages weren’t found in time.
Much as it had galled him to give in to the demand, Rafiq had known immediately that Isabelle Winters and her companion were in great peril. He knew who was behind the kidnapping. And he knew that without the ransom one or both hostages would be killed.
He refused to have that on his conscience.
He’d bring the ringleader to justice. But it would be too late to save the kidnap victims. So he’d bargained for time. Q’aroum didn’t need the international notoriety that the kidnap and execution of foreign nationals would bring. His country had a reputation for stability, for being a place where it was safe to do business. That couldn’t be jeopardised.
So right about now, according to his instructions, the outrageous ransom demand was being paid. And there’d be no keeping it secret. Not in a place like Q’aroum, where news spread with the speed and inevitability of the desert wind.
By morning the whole island nation would know that the Peacock’s Eye, the most revered and coveted family heirloom in the world, and one of his country’s national treasures, had been paid for the life of the woman in his arms.
Belle woke to the dull pounding of the surf.
So. She was alive.
Experimentally she shifted her legs, gritting her teeth as abrasive sand scratched the raw skin of her ankles. Fiery circlets of pain ringed her feet, throbbing in time with her pulse.
At least she had a pulse. Last night she’d wondered if she’d see another dawn.
If it hadn’t been for him she might not have survived. He’d protected her with his body as the cyclone tore the night apart. The din had stunned her, and nothing had existed beyond the barrage of sound and his weight on her. And the steady beat of his heart that had kept her hope alive.
Who was he? Where was he?
She squinted up through gritty eyes. A stab of bright sunlight blinded her and the ache in her head ignited into a flame of agony that kept time with the pulse of pain in her legs. Tentatively she moved her hands. Sharp pins and needles shot through her. She’d spent the night with her arms wrapped around his head. Now her shoulders had set.
Belle clenched her jaw as she dragged down protesting arms, rolled over and levered herself up onto her knees. Her bones had surely calcified, unwilling to permit movement. She braced herself on her hands and opened her eyes again. Blearily she focussed on the ugly manacles.
She remembered the hulking brute who’d locked them round her wrists. His satisfaction as he’d watched her struggle against their unforgiving weight.
Suddenly she understood with nauseating certainty that lack of funds hadn’t prevented the kidnappers using modern, lightweight handcuffs. Those men had bristled with an arsenal of automatic weapons. The manacles had been a deliberately sadistic choice. Anger surged through her. Searing fury at her helpless sense of violation.
But they hadn’t won. She hadn’t given up fighting.
She forced herself to stand, ignoring the silent scream of protesting muscles. For a moment she swayed. Then she planted her feet wide, found her balance and straightened. She narrowed her eyes against the glare. A black bank of cloud marked the distant horizon, but overhead the grey was broken by patches of bright light.
The sea was high, rough and threatening. The island wasn’t familiar any more. Its boundaries had changed in the night, reshaped by the gouging sea. Slowly she turned. During the night the force of the wind and water had eaten into the island, carving a sheltered, almost enclosed inlet at its centre.
There!