Taken by the Sheikh (12 page)

“And somewhere out there they hope to find you,” he murmured. “To establish I was telling them the truth—that you escaped into the desert to die of heat and thirst.”

“But they won’t find me,” she said in sudden panic. “And that puts you in danger, doesn’t it!” She twisted in his arms, eyes wide.

“Watch and listen,” he soothed. “They’ve no doubt over-paid some unscrupulous contractor to fly where he knows he has no right to. He’ll be given a lesson that will dissuade him from doing so again, long before he can cover all the area he needs to. Do you hear my surprise yet?”

His dark eyes fixed on hers. One eyebrow quirked up in inquiry. And an instant later the combined assault of a trio of low-flying jet fighters pulverized the drowsy peace of the tower. Laurel screamed in panic and threw herself against Rafiq’s chest as the whole lodge reverberated with the intensity of it.

The thunderous roar surrounded them for only a few seconds before it rolled on out into the desert toward the hapless helicopter. In disbelief she pushed herself away from Rafiq and peered through her narrow spy-gap again. The dark needle-nosed planes shot across the sky in close formation, dipped, turned, circled, and surrounded the intruder.

“You’ll be the least of their worries now,” he said with satisfaction.

“
You
did this?”

“Nice toys to have at my disposal?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. His grin was as carefree as a small boy’s.

CHAPTER TEN

“Now that annoyance is out of the way, we’ll go riding,” he said a few minutes later as he led her back down the stairs to her bedroom. “Your jeans will be fine for that.”

He plucked up the new boots.

“Riding?” she quavered. “Horses? I’ve never been on one. I don’t know how.”

“If you can face down a gang of terrorists you can certainly ride my mother’s placid old mare. It was one of the chief pleasures my parents had—coming here and riding free and unobserved like ordinary citizens.”

And with that Rafiq swept her outside again, through the gate, past another much smaller house which she’d discovered was Yasmina and Malik’s, and to the block of stables and garages.

They walked in from the blinding sun to a half-dark world scented with hay and leather and dust 

The horses whickered in greeting. To Laurel they looked enormous.

“Do they live here all the time?”

“For many years. It has been their home forever. This beautiful black gelding was my father’s.” He drew close, patted the gleaming muscled neck and murmured endearments in Sounamese. “And this is Azizah, my mother’s mare. Come, Laurel. Let her know you.” He took her hand and laid it on the mare’s warm flank.

“Azizah” she repeated, trying to appear much braver than she felt.

“It means ‘precious’. She was very precious to my mother. And he is Muzaffar, which you would translate as...‘victorious’.”

“Black for the King, white for the queen?”

“Azizah is a grey. Grey horses grow whiter as they age. Yes, she’s almost completely white now,” he added, keeping Laurel’s hand under his own and rubbing it to and fro over the mare. “Yasmina and Malik exercise them every day if I can’t. We all wear the same robes, so even to a trained observer the riders appear identical. If anyone is watching, they’ll see nothing different.”

“Do you really need to be so careful?”

“I choose to be,” he said in a tone that didn’t invite further discussion.

Malik had already saddled both mounts. Rafiq helped Laurel into her boots.

“Wear this,” he said, unhooking a traditional robe from a line of pegs and enveloping her in it.

“You said there was nothing I could wear last night,” she accused. “This would have covered me.”

“It smells of horse. I would not have taken you to my bed in this.”

“You wouldn’t have had to take me to your bed at all if you’d been kind and reasonable and not tried to lock me in the other room.”

“Kind and reasonable?”

She took an involuntary step backwards at his softly threatening tone.

“Kind and reasonable,” she repeated, chin up in defiance.

“Rescuing you from those thugs and directing you to the safety of the lodge was not kind? Ensuring you did not wander again into the hostile desert was not reasonable?”

“Telling me
nothing
wasn’t kind.”

“I told you everything. I told you much more than I should have—more than I’ve ever told anyone.”

She tipped her head on one side and glared at him.

“Making me stay in your bed wasn’t reasonable. I got no sleep at all.”

“And I got even less, worrying the whole night you would slip from my arms and try something stupid with one of the guns. They’re not loaded, by the way.”

She huffed out an annoyed breath.

“I had a knife in mind for you. A nice sharp little knife, just about here.” She prodded his chest.

He grasped her small hand and moved it. “
Here
. Here’s where you need to stab me. Remember that so you get it right. I’d rather not be abandoned half-dead.”

 His face was impassive, but she caught the sexy twinkle in his eyes. Without warning he dipped his head and gave her a small swift kiss on her surprised lips.

“What a delicious temptation you are, Miss Kiwi. I need to cover your pretty mouth up so I’m not always looking at it and thinking of doing this.” He bent again; for a softer more languid assault, and Laurel’s legs turned to jelly as he explored her lips with the tip of his tongue. Instinctively, she rose up on her toes, clung to his shoulders, and began to seek his tongue with her own. The thrilling sensations intensified as she found it. Their flesh slid together, and her previously quiescent body tingled and flamed into a dazzling firestorm.

So men can be like this?

In her limited experience they were bullies or fools or animals. Disgusting Gary’s exhibitions had turned her off sex more surely than any lecture by a well-meaning doctor or social worker could have done, but Rafiq...?

He finally drew away with a rueful smile and a sigh.

“You might just make me forget we’re here to go riding,” he said, voice husky.

Laurel jerked back, embarrassed. How could she have forgotten she was his captive, and that he refused to set her free? She’d fallen into his arms so easily—totally inappropriate behavior for a prisoner to show her jailer. She wrinkled her nose and turned away from his gorgeous eyes.

Get your act together Laurel!

Rafiq reached for her head-cloth and showed her how to adjust it so it protected as much of her face as possible.

“That’ll keep you safe from me, you blue-eyed blonde temptress,” he said. But her still-quivering nerves told her safety was a long way distant, and anyway she was no longer sure she wanted to be safe from his potent sexuality. 

She watched with fascination as he donned his own robe and head-cloth. He left his face uncovered.

“You can wear yours like this now you’re out of my reach,” he said. “You won’t be galloping today.”

He led the horses out and helped her to mount, apparently enjoying the excuse this gave him to touch her again. Laurel flinched as his hands cupped her bottom to boost her up. He adjusted her stirrups and showed her how to hold the reins.

“Your feet, Laurel,” he said, gripping her around an ankle, “go like this.” He pushed her heel lower than her toe. “Hold your legs securely around her, but don’t squeeze—and move with her, not against her. If you want her to move forward,
then
you squeeze with your lower legs.”

“Squeeze for forwards,” she repeated.

“If you need her to stop, pull gently on the reins and she’ll know what you mean. To turn, swivel your upper body in the direction you want and this will send your signal down the reins to her.” He swung up onto Muzaffar and they left the stable-yard at a sedate walk.

She found the first few minutes terrifying. Azizah seemed so high, so huge, so unsteady. Laurel got joggled backward and forward, although the gentle horse was only sauntering along. Even Azizah seemed surprised by her squeaks of dismay. She swung her big head around and glanced back with her luminous fringed eyes.

“Hold tighter. Don’t let her turn,” Rafiq reminded.

They walked the horses out across the sand and down through a grove of palms to a sparkling rush-edged lake. Two white birds flapped out of the greenery and honked their disapproval at being disturbed. Azizah danced a step or two sideways, and Laurel leaned lower and clung on.

“I’m getting better,” she called with delight once the mare was steady again.

Rafiq looked across at her, enjoying her reaction. How long since he’d felt so carefree? When had he last seen such a mixture of trepidation and excitement as he now saw in her vivid blue eyes?

Suddenly his undercover work seemed just a little less important, and the constant adrenalin high he’d lived for the last several years revealed itself as a weary necessity rather than an exhilarating rush.

But he knew his desire for vengeance still burned deep and hot.

He turned the horses back towards the stables after twenty minutes or so.

“Already?” she asked.

“I’ll put you in Malik’s good care,” he said. “He taught me to ride—now he can help you. His English is adequate for such instruction.”

Laurel’s spirits fell a little. She’d been enjoying the time so much so didn’t want to stop. Malik had been kind to her earlier, bringing her the magazines, and showing her to the comfortable lounger under the Casuarina tree—but his face was so savage, his nose as curved as an eagle’s beak, his silver beard bristling—that she’d felt far from at ease with him.

“And what are you going to do?”

“Ride like the wind.”

Rafiq’s white teeth gleamed in his dark face, and she could sense his anticipation. Her breath hitched as he adjusted the head-cover over his face and transformed himself to a man from ancient times—mysterious and fierce. Now she could see only the hard glint of his eyes.

He was thrilling.

A few seconds later he whirled the gleaming black horse around, and with an exultant and spine-tingling yell galloped off at high speed. Laurel watched until he was a dot in the distance and then she became Malik’s obedient pupil.

That evening, dressing for dinner presented more of a challenge. Laurel had stowed away all her beautiful new clothes once the riding lesson was over. She’d queried why the light-level in her bedroom was lower than Rafiq’s, and felt unsophisticated when he twirled a dimmer switch and corrected the problem. But how the fabrics glowed under the brighter lights!

Underwear was easy—the sheer black half-cup bra and tiny matching panties with bows of pale pink ribbon had made her catch her breath the moment she’d unwrapped them. She checked her reflection in the big mirror. Yikes—she needed a bit more than half a cup, but half a cup was all that existed.
My cups runneth over
, she thought with a giggle. So—something more concealing on top...

Eventually she settled for a long tiered peacock-blue skirt with little strings and fringes of iridescent beads that swished and swung as she moved, and a matching tunic top with a modest v-neck and beaded buttons down the front.

There were backless gold sandals, and she’d discovered a velvet bag containing a generous heavy handful of chains and other baubles which she feared were the real thing. She sorted through them and chose a pair of glittering drop earrings.

Definitely more suitable for the King’s house than last night’s shirt and bath-towel ensemble.

She finger-combed her newly-washed hair and investigated the expensive travel kit of cosmetics and perfumes she’d found in one of the bags. Shyly she made her way out towards the kitchen. 

Yasmina became extremely voluble at Laurel’s renovated appearance. There was much broad smiling and eye-rolling and ai-ai-ai-ing, and then she dashed away and returned with a hairbrush. She motioned Laurel to sit and proceeded to brush out her hair.

Rafiq’s deep voice intruded only seconds later.

“The ideal job for me,” he said, directing a few more words at Yasmina and taking over. “I thought your hair was beautiful the moment I saw it. So long and pale—so different from mine. How could I forget to buy you a hair-brush?”

“Our hair is black and white, like the horses,” Laurel said.

“So you are Azizah, and definitely ‘precious’. But will I, Muzaffar, be ‘victorious’?” came his query from behind her.

“I didn’t mean that,” she protested. “You know I didn’t.”

“But perhaps I did?” She heard the amusement in his voice as he continued to run the brush through her hair, lifting the long strands to dry in the warm air. “I stroked your beautiful hair in the van so you might feel soothed,” he confessed, “but it was for my own pleasure, too.”

“It didn’t soothe me,” she murmured. “It scared me witless. I had no idea what plans you had for me. And you kept touching me and touching me—my hair, my arm.”

“I always had your best interests at heart, Laurel. You were like a small scared animal I planned to somehow rescue.”

“And you did. I owe you my life.”

The brush continued to run over her scalp and down through her hair in dreamy strokes. It felt utterly luxurious and cosseting. No-one had ever brushed her hair like this. Foster parents had sometimes given it a rough toweling when she was young. Hairdressers waved a dryer at it when she had her ends trimmed. But this sensuous pleasure was seriously arousing. Her whole body became super-aware of his attention; of his hands, of his supple torso so close behind her, of his spicy cologne and husky voice.

“What a shame,” he said, “that your hair will get wet again when we swim tonight.”

So he really means it? He expects me to put on that bikini or the swimsuit and go down to the lake with him?

“I could tie it up,” she said, managing to find a nonchalant tone from heaven-knows-where.

“Or I could brush it dry again for you...?”