The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy

“I got him.”

She didn’t knock him out, but the unexpected attack stunned the man enough that Tariq could gain the upper hand. He got the man’s knife from his belt somehow. He drew it up, and as they flipped, let his weight drive the blade home.

Both men went still the next second.

“Tariq?” She dropped the pot and rushed to untangle them. “Tariq!”

He sat up and looked at her, a quick grin spreading on his bruised but handsome face, though his dark eyes didn’t smile. They looked tired, but alert, and something else she couldn’t decipher.

“What is it?”

“You’re lethal with a pot. I’d hate to see you with a cast-iron skillet.” He pushed to his feet finally and retrieved the knife, wiping it on the bandit’s shirt before shoving it into his belt. Then he collected the guns, handing her the smaller one. “It’s time we got out of here.”

He strode to the door and peered out. She followed. A few other bandits loitered around the water pipes. Maybe they wanted to get an early start. Maybe they were in a rush, meeting someone at a given time, wanting to make up for the hours the sandstorm had forced them to linger.

“You should be able to get to the Hummer without them seeing you. Keep to the cover of the buildings,” he said. “Get in the car and stay down.”

“And you?” Sand that still floated in the air from the storm dimmed the sun a little. Not enough to keep it dark, but giving the light an eerie cast.

“I’m still going to see if I can slice a few of their tires.”

The idea just about stopped her heart. Was he insane? “There’s no time for that now. They’re awake,” she said, with an edge of desperation in her voice.

His somber gaze held hers, telling her he was fully aware of the severity of the situation, and didn’t like their options any better than she did. “We can’t have them following. We’d never make it to the chopper. Go. If you run into trouble, start shooting. I’ll come for you.”

Of that, she had no doubt. But she would have preferred a plan that didn’t include the use of any weapons. “Be careful.”

“You, too. If I don’t come for you, get in the car and drive as fast as you can.” He held out his hand and pointed. “Karim will find you. If he doesn’t, the closest village is a four-hour drive that way.”

He held her gaze for so long that she thought he might draw her to him. She wished for it, for the feel of his strength around her, a moment of comfort. But both realized they had no time for anything except the quickest possible escape. He handed her the satellite phone, but kept the tire iron, stepped back and took off in the direction of the bandits, keeping low to the ground, hidden behind the chest-high rifts of sand the storm had created.

She started in the opposite direction, watching out for bandits who might be searching through the site. How on earth was she supposed to get by them unseen?

HE HATED TO LEAVE HER alone, even if she was a fiercely independent woman. She was capable, he’d seen that. But she was in foreign territory. All the more reason for him to hurry and finish his mission, so he could get back to her.

Tariq cursed the dark shirt he wore, which would make him stand out from a distance. The bandits had camouflage uniforms made for the desert, the color of sand faded by the sun. He peeked around the corner of a building to judge how far it was to the next wall that would hide him.

Three men were smoking in the shade, about thirty feet away. They weren’t looking in his direction, but as soon as he moved, they would see him. He waited a minute or two, hoping they would clear out. They showed no signs of getting ready to move on.

“Take another wife,” the oldest of the men said.

“I have four already,” another said as he stomped sand off his boots. “The law won’t allow more.”

“Divorce one,” the third man advised with a sharp laugh. “It’s easy enough.”

“They all have children.”

“Boys?”

“Mostly. Only two girls from the first.”

There was a meaningful silence.

They were Beharrainian, their local accent unmistakable. Although most inhabitants of the Middle East and a large part of Africa spoke Arabic, the dialect changed from region to region, country to country.

Tariq didn’t recognize the voices, and hoped the men weren’t from his own tribe. But then again, he could hardly claim to know his tribe so well that he would recognize each voice. Other sheiks would have.

The thought pricked him with guilt.

Other sheiks lived their whole lives among their people. He’d been sent away at the age of five. Hardly his fault.

And yet everyone seemed to think so. Everyone expected more from him than he could deliver.

And four years after he had returned, as hard as he tried, he still didn’t fully feel like one of them.

What man would betray the honor of his tribe by selling drugs that debased his own people? What kind of man would wait among sand dunes to shoot innocents, blow up oil wells that fed tens of thousands? What kind of man would throw aside the mother of his daughters? How was Tariq supposed to relate to that?

He knew well enough what would await a divorced woman—disgrace and poverty. If she was lucky and her father was still living, she might go back there. Or a brother might take her in. If not … The chance of finding another husband was slim. Most men here wouldn’t dream of marrying anyone but a virgin.

Tariq winced, recalling the selection of sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds the tribal leaders had paraded before him, girls they’d expected him to marry to strengthen alliances. He might marry yet for the sake of his tribe, but by everything that was holy, if he did, he would wed a grown woman. Not one who had been forced into marriage by her male relatives.

His ideas did not make him popular among the conservatives.

He thought of Sara. If he had his way, if he were a man without obligations … He pushed the thought aside and drew back. The men didn’t look like they were going anywhere. He would have to find a roundabout way.

He moved as fast as he could, the sand making it easy to proceed quietly. He rounded the next building and surveyed the area ahead of him. Nobody there. He dashed across the open stretch of sand and pressed against the unfinished wall of what one day would be a five-star spa.

“There’ll be hell to pay.” The words came from somewhere behind him.

The place was crawling with bandits.

He slipped inside the building and ducked down, making sure he kept under the windows as he moved toward the exit opposite. But a name caught his ear—Karim ibn Abdullah, his brother. Despite the heat, a chill nested in Tariq’s chest. What had they done with him? He stilled.

“… the only one of the brothers left,” a man said.

“He’s a dark one,” another responded in a glum voice. “He will want revenge.”

“I’ll take out his other eye and see if he can find us then.” The first man laughed it off.

Karim had lost the sight in one eye in an unfortunate accident, at the same time as Aziz’s leg had been crippled, twenty some years ago. Tariq had often wondered if the “accident” had been meant to kill them. It ended up saving their lives instead. Their father had declared them unfit to rule, and therefore no competition for his favorite son, Majid, who had eventually wrested control of the throne.

“The shah probably has plans for him already. We don’t have to worry about him. Allah’s will be done.”

The other one grunted. “I wonder if all the money will be found when the brothers are gone, or if they will take their secret to the grave with them.”

“The shah will find a way to get the treasure. I wouldn’t mind helping him.” The man laughed. “He took care of Tariq and Aziz.”

“I heard that those were accidents. He didn’t even know Aziz would be at the well.”