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

“He is a modest man. Doesn’t like to brag …. So, do you still have that mistress in Khablad?”

Tariq moved along as the conversation switched to women. Grief for Aziz sat heavy in his heart. He clamped his jaw tight, fury coursing through his veins. Who in hell was “the shah?” Was Karim in danger? He had to get back to Sara and the satellite phone and warn his brother. But first, the trucks.

He walked through the building and stopped just inside the doorway. He was nearly at the vehicles. Unfortunately, more bandits hung around here.

He waited until one came near, then made a small noise. The man didn’t seem to hear. Tariq kicked his boot against the wall. That stopped the guy. He turned toward the building and stuck his head in.

Tariq was ready. He’d considered the tire iron, but put a chokehold on the man instead, and with one quick move, pulled him in. A knife appeared, but he deflected it, then gained possession. Not that he could use the thing. Instead, he snapped the man’s neck, then laid him on the ground and began to remove his uniform. A giant bloodstain on the cloth would draw attention, and he needed to blend in.

When he was dressed and had the white kaffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head—enough to obscure his features, but not so much that people would wonder what he was doing with it now that the winds had died down—he stepped outside.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to him as he made his way to the resort’s main hotel tower, where the bandits were camped out. He slipped inside. Six men were visible, but he couldn’t see into every corner. He walked about, keeping to the shadows until he made sure his first assessment was correct.

“Too early,” someone said.

“We might have to stop again if there’s another storm,” a second man responded.

Tariq paid them little attention. He had a knife he was itching to sink into the tires, but three of the men were sitting near the trucks, sharing a carafe of Arabian spiced coffee. The scent of cinnamon carried in the air as one of them poured.

“… Gallbladder. I’ll have to go into the hospital sooner or later.”

“I hate doctors,” his friend responded, and they began to swap horror stories of medical mishaps in their respective families.

Tariq scanned the blankets on the sand, packages of food, guns that had been left around, a five-gallon water jug. He pretended to go for water, and managed to swing an abandoned AK-47 over his shoulder in the process.

He moved toward the truck in the back, parked a few feet farther from the men than the one in front. He knelt out of sight, and was just raising the knife, hoping the hissing air wouldn’t make too much noise, when someone came around the back of the vehicle, nearly falling over him. Tariq sprung up, one hand over the man’s mouth even as the other was slicing his neck. He rolled the body under the truck, behind the large tire, where it might not be immediately seen. Then he slashed the rubber before moving on.

Four years ago, living in California, he would have found the idea of killing a man unthinkable. But a lot had happened since he had left that life behind. This was another world. Sometimes it seemed another reality, another dimension. He’d had to defend his life enough times that he’d learned to do so with skill. And when, in a disagreement over borders, apart of his tribe, his fakhadh, had clashed with a Yemeni gang that outnumbered them five to one, he had been expected to lead them in tribal warfare that seemed to throw him back centuries.

Except for the automatic weapons.

He didn’t know whether to curse those or be grateful for their effectiveness, which had ended the fight in short order. In his great-grandfather’s time, such an argument could have lasted generations before enough men were killed on each side that everyone felt honor had been restored.

The brief war had been a shock to his California, CEO sensibilities. But it had happened a few years ago. Now he was fully immersed in the volatile lifestyle of his countrymen. He was used to the fighting and the killing, the intricacies of Middle Eastern politics, the contrast of poverty and riches, the assassins. And he was getting used to being lonely, not being able to trust anyone.

Sara Reeves’s clear blue eyes flashed into his mind. He could trust her, for now. She had little interest in his country, beyond the contract that had brought her here. A contract that was signed already and sitting on his desk back at his office, although she didn’t know that.

Tariq crouched by another tire and sank his knife into it.

“How did this happen?”

“Who is responsible?”

People were coming back from scouring the construction site, talking with vehemence. He listened, then swore when he caught bits and pieces of the diatribe. Some bodies had been found. The bandits were organizing a search of the buildings.

He glanced toward the other truck, in plain sight of the men. Couldn’t reach it without being seen … He had to get Sara out of here.

Unnoticed by the bandits who were milling about up front, shouting and shaking their weapons, he walked toward the other truck and stuck the knife in one tire. But he couldn’t do more without risking discovery, so he headed out, regretfully leaving behind the tire iron that had served him so well until now. He couldn’t afford to catch the bandits’ attention with anything that seemed out of place.

He kept his head turned away from them, but walked with brisk confidence, a man on a mission.

“You stay with the shipment,” one of them barked at him, apparently mistaking him for the man whose clothes he wore.

“Be back in a minute,” he said without slowing, making his voice scratchy, as if something was stuck in the back of his throat, or as if he’d just woken up.

The man grabbed him by the arm.

If he tried to explain his way out of this, chances were they would realize the voice wasn’t right, nor were the eyes. There weren’t so many of them that they wouldn’t know each other. So he simply turned and shrugged the man off with impatience.

He almost made it. It came down to a stupid bit of chance, a coincidence. As the guy gestured in displeasure, the barrel of his rifle got caught in Tariq’s headdress and pulled it off.

Tariq had just enough time to register that the game was lost.

The next second a dozen guns were pointed at his head.

WHERE WAS HE?

“Come on, come on, come on,” Sara whispered.

There was an awful lot of movement near the buildings, a lot of shouting. And the sounds were coming her way. She sat in the Hummer, expecting Tariq to come flying in so they could take off, but he didn’t appear.

If anyone came up to the building before Tariq got here, he’d be sure to check out the vehicle. Under the circumstances, this didn’t seem like the best place to hide. She got out, careful not to slam the door behind her, and looked around. No place to conceal herself here. She went to the back window. Bandits were running in and out of buildings, as if searching for something. It wouldn’t be long before they reached her.

Fear and desperation coursed through her as she grabbed the gun Tariq had left her. Her other hand held the satellite phone. She would do what she had to, but facing the men head-on would be suicide. And the first one would reach her within seconds.

She tucked the gun and the phone into the waistband of her suit—there was plenty of room, considering they’d barely eaten since yesterday—and rushed back to the car. Stepping up on the hood, she jumped and pulled herself up to the roof through a hole in the ceiling. At least, she tried to.

She was a businesswoman, one too busy to spend regular time at the gym. She bit her lip. It didn’t seem this hard in the movies. Where was her upper body strength? Apparently, working on a keyboard all day long did nothing for her biceps. And her skirt wasn’t helping, either. After a few seconds, it became abundantly clear why action flick heroines always wore pants.

Sara swung her legs and felt the gun slip, clenched her teeth with frustration. The only saving grace was that the weapon fell onto the sand instead of the car, making no noise at all. She swung harder on the next try and gained purchase with her feet at last, rolling away from the hole a fraction of a second before the first bandit rushed inside.

She held her breath, grateful that at least she still had the phone.

The man shouted for the others, who arrived in a hurry. She heard some banging. Were they kicking the car?

The engine started.

No, no, no. She and Tariq needed that to get out of the desert. What could she do? Distract the men until Tariq got there? What if he wasn’t coming? She didn’t want to consider that possibility. Lying low seemed to be the smartest thing for now. With some luck, they could get the car back once they regrouped.

Exhaust wafted up through the hole next to her. She fought not to cough.

Then the vehicle began to move, the sound changing as someone put it in gear and drove outside. They didn’t go far before they stopped. She crawled toward the partially completed wall that would frame the upper floor of the building someday, hoping to get a glimpse of what was going on. Gunshots went off the next second, freezing her to the spot. At first she thought they might have seen her somehow, but no bullets pinged anywhere nearby.

Tariq?

Then an explosion shook the building, deafening her. She lay flat on her stomach. Oh, God.

Those bastards had blown up the Hummer. Why? What sense did that make? But of course, the idiots didn’t need a reason. They were ticked off, and did whatever they damn well pleased. A peek over a low spot in the wall revealed a smoldering pile of twisted metal, confirming her worst fears.