Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Sheikh's Desert Duty\Nine Months to Redeem Him\Fonseca's Fury\The Russian's Ultimatum (7 page)

“I suppose I should take my leave. I might need a map of this place, if you have one handy, otherwise I fear I will spend a good portion of my time wandering around feeling lost.”

“I have a feeling it would be best for me if you felt a little bit lost. In which case, you would cause me less trouble.”

“Don't bet on that. I imagine I will contrive new ways to cause you trouble daily. Until I get what I want.”

“What is it you want?” he asked, knowing what her answer would be.

“What is it you're hiding?” she asked.

The question took him off guard. Perhaps because she had grazed far too close to the bone.

Not just in terms of Leila.

“Nothing but the usual skeletons,” he managed, knowing his voice sounded strangled, affected.

“I look forward to seeing them,” she said.

He gritted his teeth. “I am not James Chatsfield.” Neither did he actually have any information on Chatsfield he could share.

“I know,” she said, nodding once.

If he had thought he'd understood her, he'd been wrong. Bitterly so. She'd put him on his back foot, and he didn't like it. For one thing, she was far too beautiful. For another, she was unpredictable. “Excellent. And on that note, I bid you good-night. My quarters are just here, so you will forgive me if I do not walk you back to yours. It is quite a trek.” And he had a feeling, that were he to accompany her in dark corridors, his control would be tested in ways he did not want to think of.

“I shall manage. Though if I end up in a royal vault and decide to abscond with the crown jewels, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

“It is a risk I shall have to take.”

“Clearly you're a man who lives on the edge.”

Her words brought them up short. “On that score you would be wrong.” He nodded firmly, turning away from her, breaking the connection between them. The sooner he got rid of her, the better. “Good night.”

Behind him he heard her voice, slightly shaken, confused. He did not care, or rather, he should not. “Good night.”

Her tone of voice made him want to speak again. Made him want to say something kinder, something not quite so short and harsh.

“Later this week I shall take you to see the desert...”

He did not know why he was offering this, except that it was a chance to show the world what Surhaadi was, who they were. And she had seemed interested.

Moreover, he needed to keep her busy. He could not have her wandering about the palace appearing to be a lover, or a captive. Not considering the fact that media attention would be on them very soon for the wedding, not considering that he had a fiancée he had made certain he was faithful to.

If he had a story to give his staff, things would be better. Yes, she was a reporter covering the wedding and the history of Surhaadi.

Yes, getting her out of the palace for the day would be the best course of action. Taking her out to see the Bedouin tribe would be good, seeing as it would give her something to focus on that had nothing to do with Leila or James Chatsfield.

“And after that?” She was fishing for the scandal, still. She was right, she was rather stubborn.

“After that we will continue the interview.”

“And I will have my scandal?”

“You will have your scandal.”

And with that, he strode from the room, without looking back.

CHAPTER FIVE

Z
AYN
MANAGED
TO
avoid her for the next several days, setting a firm departure time for their trip to the desert late in the week.

She spent those days rattling around the palace, feeling slightly shaky and deprived since she had no contact with the outside world. She was ready to trade her kingdom for some internet. Or Zayn's, since she didn't actually have a kingdom.

The day of their desert trek dawned bright and early. She'd lost some sense of time and place after being cooped up in the palace, but still she was up, and dressed, courtesy of the clothing that had been provided for her by Zayn. It was a strange thing, having an entirely new wardrobe just sitting there for her. Not so idly she wondered if she would be able to bring it home with her. Then she felt guilty for wondering about that. But it wasn't as though she could afford to go refresh her wardrobe every season, or even every year. And as projecting a polished, professional image was important in her line of work, she knew the clothing was important, too. And, as always, she was conscious of the fact that she was working from a disadvantaged place. People were more likely to be watching for her to appear low class, disheveled or cheap. Because once they knew where she came from they expected those things.

Isabelle could go to work in sweatpants and it would be assumed she was on the cutting edge of some fashion statement. The same consideration would not be given to Sophie. Not that either of them would ever go to work in sweatpants. For all that Isabelle had many advantages due to her name, she never seemed to take them for granted. Neither did she seem to rest on her laurels. It was just another reason why the two had become fast friends in spite of their differences.

And as she wandered through the corridor, wondering where she was supposed to meet Zayn, her thoughts turned back to why she was here.

She took a deep breath, and adjusted the loose, flowing tunic top she was wearing. She had a mission, and she would do well to remember that.

The interview she'd conducted earlier in the week had been informative, and certainly held information she could use in the piece she would write for the
Herald
. But it had not furthered her cause where Isabelle was concerned. And she could not allow herself to be too distracted.

Nevertheless, she was excited to get out of the palace and see some of the countryside. This was her first experience with world travel, with seeing a culture that was different from her own, that wasn't just confined to a few blocks somewhere in New York City.

She walked into the entryway of the palace and stopped in her tracks when she saw Zayn standing there. He was dressed in a tunic and light pants, similar to her own, a headdress covering his dark hair. He had a length of fabric in his hands, strong brown fingers curved tightly around it.

“It is hot today, and there will be a lot of wind as we head away from the city. This will help.”

He held the fabric out to her and she approached slowly. “We won't get caught in a sandstorm or anything like that, will we?” she asked.

The little she knew about weather in the desert was that it could be unpredictable, and very harsh.

“It can be a risk. Sandstorms hit hard and without warning when they come. Sometimes there are floods to contend with, but those at least come with warning. But we do have state-of-the-art transportation, and if things get bad before we leave the encampment, we will be cared for there.”

“So, we're actually going to visit the people who refused to become part of Surhaadi as a nation?”

“Yes, but as I said, while they do not like to give me too much deference, for obvious reasons, we are quite friendly with each other. And they will not let me die out in the middle of the sands. At least, I hope not.”

“Your confidence astounds.” She accepted the scarf from him and surreptitiously studied the way he had draped his own over his head. She did her best to try and copy the fashion. She hated asking for help more than just about anything. She always wanted to step right in, and pick something up by observation. Never revealing the fact that she didn't simply arrive knowing how things work.

That stubbornness again, and yes, a bit of misplaced pride. But it came with a lot of long-held anger over what might have been. That if her father weren't a philanderer, or if he were at least honest about the fact that he was, she might have been treated like a child, and not a dirty secret. That if she'd been part of her family, raised in that glittering home upstate, she would have absorbed social graces, would have known how to navigate university and different social situations. Instead, she'd had to conduct herself with trial and error, and she had learned to fear the error.

So she had observed those around her, painstakingly so, in order to look as though she belonged. She hated asking for help. Hated admitting her shortcomings.

“Let me help you.” He took a step closer to her, and she took a step back.

“I have it.” She knew she was being stubborn, she didn't care.

“You do not.” He extended his hands, and gripped the fabric, adjusting it where it sat on her head, drawing a swath of it around and bringing it beneath her chin before tucking it into the folds of fabric at the base of her neck.

His thumb brushed against her jaw, the heat from his skin a shock to her system. She looked up, her eyes crashing into his. The expression she found there intense, dark, hinting at things she could scarcely understand. She wondered if he always operated at this level of intensity, or if it was something about her. If he was reacting to the touch, in the same way she had.

She should look away, and she knew it. She should pretend that this hadn't happened.

That he had touched her, but that it hadn't registered as anything. But she couldn't look away, she couldn't pretend. Because something about his gaze held her fast, something about it called her, tugged at something deep inside of her that had been previously unknown, previously untouched. And it didn't matter how much she wanted to ignore it, because her body simply wouldn't let her.

And she found she still couldn't look away.

She needed to. Oh, Lord, she needed to. This dark, yawning chasm that opened up in her stomach when he looked at her had to be covered up and never looked in. Never examined.

The idea that his could be attraction was unthinkable. That she could find herself interested in a man who was so far above her, who was engaged...

It would make her no better than her mother. And she could never allow that to happen.

Not to mention the fact that she should hate him on principle for forcing her hand and bringing her here.

Why was it so hard to hate him?

He cleared his throat and straightened. “There, that is more secure. You will find you have better protection against the elements.”

“I appreciate that.” It sounded so insipid, so forced, and she had a feeling he knew it. But it was the best she could do. Because her throat had gone drier than the desert sand outside, and all of her words seemed intent on sticking to it.

“I do strive to be of service to those who are in my country.” His voice was rough, yet smooth at the same time, like velvet. It slid over her skin, leaving a strange sensation behind, causing goose bumps to rise up on her arms.

“Well, given the fact that I am currently in your country for an unforeseeable amount of time, I do take that as a comfort.”

“I'm glad.”

“I suppose we should leave?” She had no idea if they should leave, if they were on any kind of timeline at all, but anything seemed better than standing here in the entryway feeling like the tile was shifting beneath her feet, feeling like she might die of heatstroke in spite of the cool air around them.

“Certainly.” He turned sharply and headed toward the double doors, which opened when he approached. She followed him closely, blinking against the harsh light as they stepped outside.

There was a large SUV parked near the doors. There was no driver, which surprised her.

“We aren't going by ourselves, are we?”

“I am very familiar with the terrain, it shall be fine.”

For some reason she couldn't quantify, his driving skills were not the concern. It was the idea of being alone with him. Even the other night in the study, though it had felt isolated, she had been aware of the fact that there were still people around them.

“Why are we going alone?”

“So as not to look like a descending army. I do all my business with Jamal and his people alone.”

“You're not taking me out to the desert to kill me.”

“Don't be absurd. If I was going to do such a thing, I would simply leave you to die. I wouldn't do anything so prosaic as
killing
you.”

“Color me relieved. I don't suppose you would joke about leaving me out in the desert to die if that were actually your plan.”

“It is very difficult to say.” He opened the passenger door and held it for her.

She looked at him hard. He was impossible to read, but she didn't imagine that the man who had just so carefully adjusted her veil so that she might be protected against the elements could have any intention of leaving her out in the middle of the desert. No point in making her comfortable only to let her die of heatstroke.

With that in mind, she got into the car, but kept her eyes on him as he closed the door behind her. He rounded the front of the vehicle and got in, buckling his seat belt and putting the car in gear. She hurried to buckle, as well.

“How long does it take to get there?”

He flashed her a smile, his teeth bright against his dark skin, and she realized it was the first time she had ever seen a genuine smile on his face. “That all depends on where we might find them today.”

* * *

They drove for ages, until the road faded, until the sand rose higher, turning a richer golden brown, as though the sun were closer here, baking it like bread. And in spite of the care that Zayn had taken with her head covering earlier, she was starting to get worried again about the possibility of him leaving her out in the middle of nowhere. Paranoid, possibly, but she supposed not entirely without merit, seeing as he had already brought her to his country by force. Well, partial force, partial bribery. She still wasn't certain whether or not he would've chased her if she had tried to run off, but she would've found herself jobless, and that was threat enough.

Just when she was starting to get truly nervous, she saw a spiral of smoke rising up from behind a dune.

“That would be them.” Zayn's deep voice answered the question she hadn't even been able to ask yet.

“They really are quite a ways out here. What happens if there's some kind of medical emergency?”

“Often it isn't a happy ending. Though now they have satellite phones, and they do often use the rescue services available in Surhaadi.”

“They use the medical services, even though they don't acknowledge the government?”

“Most of the time. Though there are some elders who refuse to do so. I prefer that they do.”

“That's very decent of you. I think there are a lot of leaders who wouldn't like that. Who would say that it was the cost of their stubbornness.”

She looked over at him, at his strong profile, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Yes, I suppose that is the case. But then, we all make decisions, often they are not wholly bad, but not wholly good, either. They want to preserve their heritage, and I understand that. And then, when tragedy strikes, often it becomes apparent that remaining separate can cause damage. But there is no real right or wrong answer in this. And I do not fault them for wanting help when they are desperate. I know what it's like to change because of circumstances. I know what it's like to see the error of your ways when it's too late.”

This was a different side of him, the strong ruler versus the modern-day marauder who had taken her from New York. The man who served an entire populace, not just his family. This was the history of his country personified, and she could see now why he had wanted her to come out here.

The car maneuvered slowly over the top of the dune, and the encampment came into view. Nestled on the edge of an oasis that had been invisible until this very moment. The sun shone on the water, the still surface reflected everything like a mirror. Tents were erected along the embankment, children running in circles around them. There were cooking fires already started, clothes hanging across lines, blowing in the breeze.

“I'm hoping we'll receive a warm welcome.”

“Do you think there's a chance we won't?” she asked.

“I never take anything for granted, especially out here. Because out here, it does not matter that I am the sheikh. Not to them, and not to the desert. We are simply guests, myself as much as you. Though they are familiar with me.”

He brought the car to a stop, and turned the engine off. They were still a great distance away from the encampment, but she imagined this was part of not seeming as though he was storming the camp.

He got out and she followed suit, her feet sinking into the sand. She adjusted her weight, and shook the remaining sand out of her pant leg. “You almost need snowshoes to walk on this.”

“Or practice,” he said.

“Don't sound so amused. I don't often make a habit of going to the beach, but this is kind of an extreme version of that. And I'm unpracticed as it is.”

“Too late,
habibti
, I am amused. It cannot be helped.”

“Perhaps I should simply slide down the dune, and make a grand entrance.”

“I would prefer if you did not. But I am not in total control of your actions, neither do I pretend to be.”

She laughed. “Oh, that's rich. I think you fancy yourself entirely in control of my actions.”

“I am not so foolish as to think that I could control you entirely.”