Sheikh Seduction

He worked with the sheik. A slide show of romanticized pictures flashed through her mind, straight from the sheik romance novels she’d read. “Is he here today?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he doesn’t attend low-level meetings,” she said, hiding her chagrin pretty well, she thought.

“He doesn’t attend any meetings if he can help it.” Her companion had the bearing and self-assurance of a man in charge, but he wasn’t among the top tier of executives. Jeff and she had been introduced to them at a reception upon arrival.

She wondered if he might be a close, trusted assistant to the sheik, but his body language and air didn’t seem to fit the secretary image. He had a commanding physical presence, his form well-built and powerful. There was a watchful awareness about him that wasn’t typical of the average office worker. Nor was his impeccable suit.

And then it clicked. He was probably one of the sheik’s bodyguards.

The elevator stopped and he gestured for her to step out first, very atypical of her experience here so far. Maybe he hadn’t been in the country long enough for the local attitude to rub off on him. She wondered how long ago he’d been shipped in from the U.S. as a security consultant to the sheik. He had to be good at what he did to be brought all this way.

No doubt about it. She stole another furtive glance, not wanting him to notice her obvious interest. He looked to be the kind of guy who would be good at whatever he did. She couldn’t imagine him turning all that intense energy to a purpose and not succeeding.

He gestured at an elevator directly opposite theirs. “That’ll take you to the helipad.”

He held her gaze for another second, fire and mystery swirling in his dark eyes. God, this settingwas making her ridiculously fanciful. Then, moving with an inborn elegance, he strode toward the opaque doors that closed off the short hallway from the rest of the floor.

She craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sheik’s private offices. It would be neat to see a real-life sheik. She’d been disappointed when she’d realized their itinerary didn’t include meeting the man.

“What is he like, the sheik?” she couldn’t help calling after him. She pictured Sheik Abdullah in flowing white robes edged with gold, a kaffiyeh on his head, looking fiercely royal, surrounded by the splendor of his station. She was a little sketchy on the splendor part. Sometimes it showed up in her imagination as a gilded room in some palace, other times as a tent with priceless Persian rugs, set up at a breathtaking oasis in the middle of the desert.

He turned toward her and said, “Not someone you’d want to meet.”

Was that amusement glinting in his eyes?

“He’s a morose bastard.” He placed a tanned hand on the door. “Enjoy your time in Beharrain, Miss Reeves,” he said before he slipped through.

She blinked, then shook her head slightly and walked to the elevator, refusing to feel guilty for having made the men wait. She squared her shoulders as she stepped in, getting ready for the subtle manipulations she would have to deal with on the way to the well. Jeff was going to do everything he could to pressure her into remaining in the background at tomorrow’s presentation. She wasn’t going to let him. Nor would she ever allow him to get his hands on her share of the company.

Would he eventually give up?

But as the elevator door opened to the roof, and oppressive heat surrounded her, a second question popped into her mind, for a moment overriding the first. How did the sheik’s bodyguard know her name?

MAYBE SHE SHOULD HAVE gone back to the hotel. The temperature had to be well over a hundred degrees outside. The Hummer they’d taken was air-conditioned, but heat radiated through the window next to her.

They should have been at the well long ago, but the corporate helicopter had some problems, and the decision had been made to go by car. No more than a three-hour drive, they’d been assured. Sara’s teeth were still on edge from her fifteen-minute conversation with Jeff, who’d used this as an excuse to mount a new offensive, doing what he could to convince her to stay behind.

She sat next to him now, trying not to look at Husam. He had insisted on keeping them company on the road, while a second Hummer transported two other men from MMPOIL who were supposed to take the same chopper, plus two armed guards. The fact that bodyguards were necessary didn’t exactly put her at ease.

One sat in her vehicle, as well, next to Husam. The man from the elevator. He’d shown up at the last second—Tariq somebody. The driver had started the engine just as he got in, so she didn’t catch his full name.

“Water?” he was asking in that deeply masculine voice, pulling a bottle of Evian from the cooler and pointing toward the glasses.

“Yes, please,” she said.

Jeff shook his head. Husam declined with a respectful bow and an odd look on his face. Maybe he thought the direct contact between them was impolite.

Tariq poured, then handed her the glass, which she took very carefully to make sure they didn’t touch—according to her guide book that was a big no-no around here.

The man poured for himself, as well. He sat opposite her, the seats facing each other, and seemed to command Husam’s deference. At least the latter left plenty of room between them. Tariq was working directly with Sheik Abdullah, after all, and probably had the sheik’s ear. Other than respectfully greeting the newcomer when he arrived, Husam had not attempted to talk to him, though his appearance had clearly surprised him.

He even refrained from staring at Sara for the most part, which was fine by her. She hadn’t been overjoyed when she’d realized that they would be riding together.

“I love this car,” Jeff said in an overly cheerful tone. “Custom? Always said that the H2 and H3 can’t be compared to the H1 Alpha wagon.”

Husam perked up and the two embarked on a discussion about Hummers that she only intermittently understood. Which left her plenty of time to ponder her companions.

It seemed laughable now that a few hours ago she’d felt threatened by Husam. Next to Tariq, he seemed insignificant. Even Jeff, who was handsome in a softer, city-boy sort of way—he’d certainly gotten around among the women at the company office—couldn’t hold a candle to Tariq, whose raw masculinity seemed to jump across the short gap that separated his knees from hers.

She wished he would join the conversation so she could find out more about him and the man he worked for, but he seemed lost in the contents of the folder he’d brought along. Probably for the best. When he did look at her, his intensity made her feel painfully self-conscious, anyway.

“Any Bedouins around here?” Jeff asked, pronouncing the word “bad ones,” a private joke he’d made several times since they’d arrived, thinking nobody noticed.

But Sara saw the muscles tighten in Tariq’s jaw. If he took offense, however, he gave no other sign of it, didn’t even look up.

“Farther in the desert to the south,” Husam said.

She glanced out the window.

There was no road, only a faint track that wasn’t bad when they were going over sand. But when they hit rocky areas, she was afraid her kidneys would be shaken to bits by the time they reached their destination. She wanted to ask how much farther they had to go, but would have bitten off her tongue before doing so. If the men weren’t bothered by the ride, then she was prepared to pretend that she wasn’t, either.

She looked out over the dunes, daydreaming about Bedouin raids of the past, about horses flying over the sand, the treasures of the East packed on camelback, the shouts, the braying, the clashing of swords. Then she bit back a smile. Clearly, she’d read too many historical romances.

She wondered if Abdullah was anything like the sheiks of old, and the image of a breathtaking warrior atop a black Arabian stallion floated into her mind. But that picture was quickly replaced by the very real appearance of a beat-up military truck, the first sign of life they’d seen since they had entered the desert.

“Are we here?” she asked, full of hope.

Both Tariq and Husam were staring out the window, Husam’s face inscrutable, while Tariq’s grew dark as he reached behind his seat and came up with a handgun.

“What’s going on?” Her voice went squeaky, her heart thumping at the sight of the weapon.

“Get down,” Tariq commanded in a tone that bore no argument, and she did so immediately, putting her head between her knees.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God,” Jeff was saying, and did the same. “What’s happening? Are those bandits?”

Bandits? The air left Sara’s lungs. Nobody had said anything about bandits. Beharrain was supposed to be safe and a friend of the U.S., thanks to its American-born queen. That was one of the reasons Sara’s company had decided to do business here instead of some other country in the region.

Couldn’t be bandits. She’d seen those beat-up old army trucks all over the city. People bought them after they’d been decommissioned by the military, and used them for everything from furniture moving to selling Middle Eastern fast food on the streets.

The sound of a round from a machine gun—the truck was definitely not selling melon sherbet—sounded over the growling rattle of the Hummer’s engine, which the driver was pushing to the limit now. Bandits! her brain screamed in disbelief, as she shrunk instinctively, trying to make herself as small a target as possible.

From the corner of her eye she saw Tariq roll down the window and return fire. Spent shells pinged to the floor at her feet. Oh, God, oh, God, help us. An acrid smell lingered in the air, which after a moment she realized was the smell of gunpowder from the weapon’s discharge.

Blood rushed in her ears, and her body vibrated with her growing panic. This couldn’t be happening. Had to be a dream.

On her first night in the country, she’d had a torrid dream of being abducted by a mysterious sheik, a story line straight out of a book. Now she was dreaming about a bandit attack because she’d been watching the regional news, which had reported the kidnapping of a group of journalists in Yemen, across the border. The terror around her couldn’t be real. The front desk would be ringing with her wake-up call any minute now.