Sheikh's Desert Duty

“Phone number?”

She rattled it off, because at this point, if she had her boss on the other end of the phone, perhaps she could at least signal her distress. Sheikh whatever-his-name-was retrieved the phone from the interior pocket of his jacket, and dialed the number she had given. A moment later she heard the phone stop ringing on the other end, and heard her boss’s voice coming through the line, muffled but recognizable.

“Yes, I am calling about an employee of yours. Sophie Parsons.”

She could hear words, but not what they were.

“She has done nothing wrong. She is with me, in fact...Sheikh Zayn, of Surhaadi...Yes, that one. We got into a bit of a discussion, and we spoke about her coming to Surhaadi to run a piece on my upcoming marriage.”

The implications of what he was saying turned over in her mind, and for the first time, she realized that some of this could actually go her way. That she could get something out of this.

Except where Isabelle is concerned. You’re leaving Isabelle up a creek without a paddle.

Not that she was doing it on purpose. If she had her way, she would escape the limo and run screaming into the night. But she didn’t seem to have much choice. He would load her onto the plane kicking and screaming if he had to, of that she had no doubt. There was barely another living soul out here, at least no one who didn’t work for him. And he had her boss on the line, her job in his hands, and if she did not have access to the media, the help that she could be to Isabelle was limited, anyway.

No, she wasn’t deserting her friend for self-serving reasons. She wasn’t deserting her friend for any reason that was in her control.

“She is a very charming young woman,” Zayn continued. “I find myself captivated by her. I should like to read her perspective of the goings-on.”

Her boss responded, his voice sounding much more cheerful and genial than it ever did when he spoke to her. Probably because she was a gopher and not a sheikh.

“I am not certain how long I will have her in Surhaadi, but of course we do have internet connections, and she will be able to make contact.” Somehow, Sophie doubted he would allow her free contact.

“Yes, I daresay it will be a wonderful exclusive for your paper. She will be in touch soon.” Zayn hung up, putting the phone back inside his jacket pocket. “There, that was relatively painless, wasn’t it?”

“For you, perhaps. I find all this has been quite painful.”

“I have scarcely laid a finger on you.”

“Pain can come in a lot of forms. Often I find the physical is the least of my worries.” That much was true, she had enough emotional garbage to last a lifetime.

“Well, it is all settled, your boss is happy to have you come to Surhaadi with me. And if you refuse, I will not hesitate to call him back and let him know you blew the story, and that I will require your immediate termination if the paper is to get the exclusive that I have now promised.”

“So those are my options? Be carried onto the plane kicking and screaming and lose my job, or get on the plane and keep my job.”

“That about sums it up.”

“What about my scandal? I need to do this. If you think I was out here for my own gratification, you’re wrong. I’m doing this for someone else. For a friend, and it’s important.”

“Come with me, and you will have your scandal.” His dark eyes were fathomless, impossible to read. But she could also see that she had no choice but to go with him.

She swallowed hard, trying to combat the swarm of nerves crawling through her system like a hoard of ants. “Then I guess we are going to Surhaadi.”

* * *

Zayn’s private plane was far more luxurious than anything Sophie had been exposed to before. And in the years since she’d moved up from her nondescript existence in a quiet neighborhood, tucked away from people she and her mother might encounter who would know who her father was, she had seen a fair bit of luxury.

She had not, however, seen private plane levels of luxury.

She felt like it had to be some kind of mental disconnect happening within her brain right now. Because she was essentially being kidnapped, and yet she was admiring the butter-soft quality of the leather that covered the chairs that were stationed throughout the airplane cabin.

All things considered, she didn’t feel like this was the time to be admiring the qualities of leather. Though if she thought about anything much deeper she might go insane. Because all of this was just too much to digest at once. She needed time to get used to this whole being kidnapped by a sheikh thing.

“There are two bedrooms in the back of the plane, and you’re welcome to use whichever one you like,” he said, speaking as though he was playing host at an extremely civilized dinner party. “You are also welcome to stay up here should you prefer. Can I get you a drink?”

“Well, the offer of the bedroom is certainly appreciated. As is the offer of a drink. Which I accept.”

She had never been much for drinking. After Isabelle had accepted her into her group of friends, Sophie had often found herself dining in places that were way above her pay grade. Soup or salad, coupled with the water, had often been the only thing on her menu. Certainly, had her friend been aware of the fact that Sophie couldn’t afford the places they’d gone, Isabelle would have happily given Sophie the money to pay for her meal. But charity had never sat well with Sophie. And anyway, the burning hunger to one day be able to order the fish dish, rather than ordering from the appetizer section, was one of the things that kept her going.

She had often been afraid that if she took those kinds of incentives from herself she would lose some of her drive. And that, in her mind, was unacceptable.

Of course, a fish-based entrée was not the be-all and end-all to her ambition. She’d worked for what she had. Every single bit of prestige and education. She’d gained tentative acceptance, acceptance that would have simply been her due had she been one of her father’s legitimate children.

The university she had attended had been a given for her half siblings. Something they could simply have because of their parentage. While she had not been afforded the same.

Because she and her mother had been secret. Because she and her mother had been kept separate. So she had set out to prove that she didn’t need her father’s influence, or money. She had worked her way to university on her own, graduating in the top of her class with a degree in journalism.

Three years on, and now that she was doing very little else beyond making coffee for the Herald, some of that triumph had dwindled.

But she was determined to hold on to her ambition. Because it had gotten her this far. Because it was the only thing she had to get her the rest of the way.

Which was why she couldn’t curl into a ball and give up now. This was the only way she could figure out how to help Isabelle, anyway. The sheikh claimed to know more than he let on, and she had to find out what it was he knew. She was stuck with him for a while, then.

And her boss now expected a profile of the royal wedding in Surhaadi. Which meant she might as well take in the whole experience. A certain amount of observation, including the quality of the leather, would be required of her.

She was, after all, a journalist. And so, she was hardly working to her full capacity at the moment as to what she intended to be one day. What was it they said? Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Well, right now, she would be taking in details, acting the part of the journalist she wanted to be, rather than the journalist she was. True, all of this had a bit more of a society bent than she cared for. She was interested in, someday, taking on stories that might be a little more hard-hitting than a sheikh’s upcoming marriage. But this was several rungs up the ladder she was currently standing on, and she would be foolish if she didn’t just go ahead and embrace it.

Frankly, she was kidnapped either way.

“What do you prefer?” he asked.

“Oh, something red, I should think. Do you drink white for a kidnapping?”

“I would think most people would prefer something a little bit stiffer for their kidnapping.”

“So, you admit that you’re kidnapping me.”

He wandered over to an ornate covered bar that was set into the wall, bottles closed into shelves, secured into carved wooden holders. He opened the doors, and selected a bottle of wine. “I do not see the point in quibbling over semantics. It changes nothing either way.”

“Well, one allows me a little bit of justified anger.”

“I do not see what you have to be angry about. Unless you have a lover you are meant to meet tonight.”

The very idea was ridiculous. She didn’t do the whole man-woman thing. Who had the time? Or the inclination toward heartbreak. Maybe, when she got to where she was going, maybe, if she ever found a man she thought she might be able to trust. Maybe. Two very big maybes.

“My diary for the evening was free,” she said.