The Sheikh's Destiny (Harlequin Romance) (12 page)

He kept his gaze focused on the trail ahead, but his mind was completely on her. On doing this last thing for her, bringing her out of a hiding far more complex than his disappearance. On saving her, if he could. His plan to rescue her
was done—and if the worst happened, she'd at least know how he felt about her.

After a long silence, she grated out, ‘It's not a matter of what I like or don't like. You know I'm not suitable. The country would be in an uproar if you didn't marry someone who could bring diplomatic or financial advantage to them all. That's how it works.'

He did know—but he also knew how to fight it, to use his power and people's devotion to his advantage. But though he could see that wasn't the real issue, not yet. ‘Yes, it seems that Harun and Amber know it, too—to their cost. Is that what you want for me?'

‘No!' She sounded so frustrated he decided to take a chance.

‘What's the real reason, Hana? What hurts you so much you can't even say it out loud?' he asked, with so much tenderness in his heart he saw her gulp and press her lips together.

‘Stop it. Just get us to the truck.'

‘There it is, right ahead of us.' He didn't press her further; she was almost at breaking point—and it told him what he meant to her. ‘Let's go, and pray constantly there's an exit to this track, and they're not waiting at the end of it.'

Hana opened her door and grabbed her backpack with her undamaged hand, and ran for the truck without looking back. The stiffness of her spine was a clear
back off
species of its own.

Does she know how her body language gives away so many of her thoughts and emotions?
He ran after her and threw himself in the truck. He found the keys in his backpack zip pocket and, after ensuring all the other entrances were double-locked, he started the truck. ‘It won't be easy with the truck's tyres gone, but—'

And he cursed inside as he saw the fuel levels.

‘What is it?'

He turned to her, knowing he couldn't protect her
now…but he knew what he had to do. ‘We need to refill the fuel tank. I have twenty gallons and a hose in the back, but…'

‘But it's time we don't have.' She searched his eyes for a moment, her face white. ‘We're going to be taken, aren't we?'

‘We're not done yet,' he said with grim purpose. ‘We're not giving up.' And from beneath the console he pulled out his ace in the pack: a satellite phone. As he drove down the trail, he speed-dialled the first number on memory, and spoke quickly. ‘Brian, it's Alim from the northern run. I need help. I'm with one of the aid nurses from Shellah-Akbar. She's injured and needs medical assistance—' He listened as the pilot interjected with a vital question for the help he needed. ‘No, she's not a local; she's Australian. We escaped the village a few days ago and are currently sixty kilometres north-northwest of the village with Sh'ellah's men not far behind. We need to get out, and fast. Is anyone in the region?' He nodded at the answer, and said grimly, ‘If it helps, my surname is El-Kanar. Yes, I'm
that
Alim El-Kanar.' He felt Hana's wondering gaze on him as he listened again. ‘Thanks, Brian, we'll meet him there.' He disconnected and tossed her the phone. ‘We're meeting the pilot in twenty minutes at a prearranged spot. We'll only have a minute to get away.'

‘You're going back to your life,' was all she said.

‘Yes.' He flicked a glance at her; her face was pale, and she hadn't touched the phone. ‘In case this doesn't work out, would you like to call anyone, make your peace?'

It was a tradition in Abbas al-Din, to make peace as a final thing; it prepared the heart to meet their maker. Hana looked down at the phone, her face filled with a hunger so pitiful it wrenched at his gut; then she pushed it away. ‘No.'

She sounded as final as she had in rejecting him, with the same desperate resolution. His poor dawn star; how she suffered for whatever happened to her in the past. How small
and lonely she looked, shutting him out from helping her. How brave and beautiful, with mud and blood from multiple scratches encrusting her skin and mouth, her hair splitting and breaking from its plait, stiff with the dirt plastered through it, and a cap torn so badly spikes of hair pushed through. Just Hana…his woman, his queen, even if she rejected him for the rest of her life.

He didn't flinch from the tasks ahead of him. To save her he'd do anything, endure whatever he must. And save her he would—from this current situation, and from what held her in such invisible chains. He'd set her free, no matter what it took.

Here we go,
he thought as he saw headlights at the end of the trail. Grimly he shoved the gear down and pressed a series of buttons: his own special modifications for attack and defence. ‘Hang onto the roll bar,' was all he said to her, and floored the accelerator.

Hana gasped as they headed straight at the Jeep blocking the path. ‘Alim, we can't possibly make it past—'

He laughed, hard and defiant. ‘Who's The Racing Sheikh here? You have no idea what I can do with this baby. Just hang on and watch—and trust me.'

She lifted a brow and smiled back, her chin high. ‘Bring it on, Your Lordship. I'm ready.'

The truck bumped hard as he kept pedal to the metal, slowly increasing speed, the engine revving hard and high. Shots fired, but only made cracking sounds on the double-reinforced bulletproof glass he'd made at his private lab in the basement of his Kenyan house. Hana shrieked the first time and dived down, but soon re-emerged with the same
come-and-get-me
laugh he'd done a minute ago. And the truck gunned straight for the Jeep blocking the path, more than twice its size and with the massive spiked bars now protruding from the front and sides—

The warlord's men dived out the doors seconds before connection, screaming as they bolted to safety. More shots cracked the glass but it held. And the truck lifted high, higher, as the specially modified rims lifted up and over the Jeep, crushing it beneath its weight and the rollers he'd lowered between the front rims.

He heard the men shouting as they took off, and grinned.

‘Is there anywhere they can damage us with their guns?' Hana asked, sounding awed.

He slashed the grin her way. ‘Nope. Only a bazooka or bomb will break this baby. It must be frustrating for them with no tyres to shoot out, the fuel tank triple-lined with hard-coated plastic over reinforced steel and boxed in lead casing, and bulletproof glass. They'll have to surround the truck to stop us.'

‘They obviously don't have bazookas or bombs. And if they do surround us, we can run them over.' She sounded excited, gripping his arm instead of the roll bars.

Good, she hadn't thought about the fuel situation. He didn't want her to remember, just as he didn't tell her that the rubber rims on the tyres had only been made to last a hundred ks at most. By the time they ran out she'd be safe—that was all he wanted. He drawled, ‘Is this enough excitement for you, my dawn star?'

She laughed. ‘My parents would say this was my destiny. I was born to be killed in a shoot-out or car chase. They could never stop me watching those kinds of shows or reading suspense novels.'

It was the first time she'd mentioned her family without pain—but he didn't have time to pursue it. ‘Here they come. Four Jeeps, about a hundred metres back. They're probably waiting for reinforcements to arrive before taking on the truck.'

‘They won't be able to surround the truck before we reach the plane.' She sounded exultant. ‘We've done it, Alim.
You've
done it!'

He fought to keep the sense of inevitability from his voice as he replied, ‘No, we did it.' He revved the truck to its limits before changing gear. ‘This is going to get rough.'

She held to the roll cage as he took the straightest route, right over rocks and on shifting sand and dirt. She bumped and lifted right off the seat so many times, her shoulder had to be in agony, but she didn't make a sound, except when he asked her to check the GPS built into the console, to be sure they were still heading in the right direction. Nor did she look back.

There was a blinking light to the west, only a hundred feet up and falling when they drew near to the assigned meeting place. The enemy was only five hundred metres behind.

He put the headlights on high beam and flashed the old distress call in Morse code, as prearranged: CQD. Then he geared down and stopped. ‘Hurry, Hana. We only have seconds.'

She nodded and grabbed at the backpacks. ‘Leave them,' he said as he opened her door for her, rough with the exhaustion hitting him, almost thirty-six hours awake. ‘Plane weight has to be kept to a minimum.'

She nodded and took the hand he held to her, stumbling at a dead run for the Cessna.

The small plane hit ground and skidded as it twisted to avoid the truck. The second it was still, the door flew open. ‘Get in,' the pilot yelled, but Alim had already scooped Hana into his arms, and was putting her in. ‘Go.'

Hana's eyes widened as she saw it was only a two-seater plane; the back was loaded to the ceiling, with no time to unload to make room for him. She struggled against the pilot as he strapped her in. ‘No, Alim, you can't do this!'

‘Go!' He slammed the door shut, hardening himself against the sight of her anguished face, the hands against the windows, as if she could reach him from behind the invisible barrier.

Swirling dust covered him as the plane began to move. Red dust choked him from behind as the warlord's men arrived.

‘Alim, don't do this!
Alim!
' she screamed through the Perspex, hitting it with her fist. Tears rained down her face, his brave Hana who never cried or complained.
‘Alim!'

‘I'm coming back for you, you hear me? I'll find you, Hana,' he yelled to her, with such conviction even he almost believed it.

The plane took off on a short run as the Jeeps screeched past Alim, aiming their rifles high, ready to shoot them down—

‘My name is Alim El-Kanar,' he announced in Gulf Arabic, calm, imperious in all his mud and torn clothing. Praying one of them knew enough Gulf Arabic to get the gist before somebody killed him. ‘I'm the missing sheikh of Abbas al-Din. I am worth at least fifty million US dollars in ransom to your warlord.'

It seemed they all understood well enough. Twenty assault rifles dropped from the skyward aim, and levelled at his chest.

Compassion For Humanity Refugee Camp,
North-western Kenya
Nine days later

‘H
ANA
, you're wanted in Sam's office,' one of the nurses called to her as she passed, bearing a box of ampoules for immunising babies. ‘Looks like your transfer's come through.'

‘Thanks.' She put down the box, and headed for the director's office, sick with relief. Soon she'd be out of here, in a remote village where there was no radio blaring in the main tent, replaying the ongoing story of The Racing Sheikh and his capture by the warlord Sh'ellah, demanding a hundred million US dollars for Alim's safe release. In the village she wouldn't see newspapers with pictures of him as he was released two days before, so tired, with bruises on his face and arms that showed how brutal his stay with the warlord had been.

Everywhere she went, aid workers talked about him. Who'd have known? Sure, they never saw his face—he always hid it behind the full flowing scarves of an Arab man—but the quiet, withdrawn driver was The Racing Sheikh?

Women lamented missing out on a chance with him. Men wished they'd gone out in that
wicked
truck of his to see his
skills firsthand. And Hana moved around the camp like a lonely ghost, waiting, waiting for word from him, for his voice…

I'm coming back for you… I'll find you, Hana.

It obviously wasn't going to happen. He was the sheikh again. He had a life that could never include her.

She walked through the flap—

‘You have the burq'a on again.'

The air caught in her lungs as her diaphragm seized up. Slowly she turned towards the main desk, hardly daring to believe—but he was there, he was
there
, standing by the side of the desk, and smiling at her as if it had been only hours since he'd seen her. Smiling as if she was something beautiful and special to him.

‘You're out of hiding, I'm back in it,' she said, when she could speak. Pulling the veil from her face, her hair, without even thinking about why she did…knowing they were alone without even checking.

He made a rueful face. ‘I'm clean at least.'

‘You look different without the mud.' One step, another, and they were only inches apart—which of them was moving? She thought it was her, but she was in front of him too fast, shaking and gulping back more foolish tears. ‘You're here.'

His smile was tender; his gaze roamed her face. ‘I told you I'd come for you.' He added, ‘Sam's gone for ten minutes. Any longer and someone could come in and find us.'

Hana barely heard him; she shook her head, mumbling, moving to him, ‘They hurt you…' Her hands were on his face, trembling, drinking in his skin, warm, living skin—he was alive,
alive
. And she was crying again. ‘Alim, I was so scared—' She put her hand over his heart, felt it beating. ‘You're alive,
alive
.'

‘I'm alive,' he agreed, still smiling with all that emotion shimmering in those dark-forest eyes. His fingers reached
out, touched her cheek. Beauty ripping through her, stealing her soul with a touch.

Then without warning her bunched fist hit him, attacking without power, as weak as the knees buckling beneath her. ‘You frightened me half to death,' she sobbed, collapsing against his chest and his arms enfolded her for the first time. ‘I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep for worrying. How could you risk your life like that, Alim? How
could
you?'

‘For you, it was for you,' he murmured into her hair. ‘For my beautiful, brave dawn star, I'd sacrifice more than my freedom for a week.'

‘Don't risk yourself for me, I'm not worth it,' she whispered, tears raining down her face, aching for him. ‘You could have died, Alim! Your country needs you!'

‘Not as much as I need you.'

Simple words, stealing her breath. She stared at him, her eyes asking the questions her heart dared not risk.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Its understated magnificence stood between them like the fire-wielding angels barring the way to paradise; it must have cost more than she made in all the five years she'd been here. ‘The plane's waiting. We have to go, Hana.'

A rock fell on her chest, constricting breath. ‘I—I understand.' She wheeled away before he saw the devastation in her eyes.

‘I don't think so. A delegation from the UN wants to speak to us about our experience, to know about the new borders and Sh'ellah's weaponry and acts against people in the region. They'll be at my house in Mombasa tomorrow.'

Joy streaked through her at the same moment as panic. She'd be with Alim again, if only for a short while. Where the UN went, so did the media. ‘I can't!'

He gathered her hands in his. ‘I agreed to it on the condition that your face and identity were kept out of it. You have
my word I'll keep your identity out of any interview. But what we say could help the people of Sh'ellah's region escape from his violent domination.'

‘Oh.' She felt small-spirited and petty standing before him, thinking of herself when the people she cared about still suffered far more than she ever had. Hating that she still couldn't face her reality…and that, too soon, she had to tell Alim the truth of why she couldn't marry him, or be his lover. ‘Of course,' she said, hiding the shivering inside. ‘I'll get my things.'

‘Your things are already in the plane,' he said, adding when she stiffened, ‘Neither of us has a choice, Hana. Sam's going to tell those who ask that you've been reassigned, so there's no connection between us anyone could take to the media. I've spoken of the nurse that saved my life, of course, but you're still safely obscure.'

Strange, but, though he'd spoken without inflection, when he said ‘safely obscure' she felt like the most miserable of cowards. ‘Thank you.' She lifted her chin, refusing to apologise for or explain her life choices.

‘There's a car right behind the tent. I have to ask you to walk to the front of the camp while I ride there, so if I'm recognised entering the car, we aren't seen together.'

She nodded and, realising too late that she still had her hands on his chest, blushed and dropped them. ‘That's fine.'

‘We'll talk in the plane, Hana.' His eyes glittered with soft meaning.

‘All right.' She all but bolted from the room.

The director, Sam, had done his job well. At least six people wished her well at her new assignment as she headed for the gates, and she felt like a miserable liar. What was the difference? Wasn't that what she'd been the past five years?

I can't make myself lie to Alim.
And that terrified her, given the ordeal facing her.

The car wasn't fancy or designed to draw attention, she noted in relief as the back door opened, and she hopped in. The windows were tinted, and Alim sat in the furthest corner from the people milling around in front of the gates. The dark glass between the driver and passengers was pulled up, creating a sense of intimacy.

The car took off, purring with the quiet smoothness that screamed
expensive
. ‘Not quite as loud as the truck or the Jeep,' she commented, aiming for lightness, her heart pounding hard at the look in his eyes.

He shook his head, moving closer to her. ‘It's twenty minutes' drive to the plane. I never said hello before.' He tipped up her face and, before she could react, pulled aside the veil she'd replaced after leaving the office, and brushed his mouth over hers, soft, lingering, too soon over. ‘Hello, Sahar Thurayya. I've missed you…as you can probably tell.'

Her pulse beat so fast in her throat; she couldn't make her tongue move or her mouth open. Their first real kiss…so gentle and chaste—he was treating her with the honour of—

She closed her eyes. Despair washed through her like a river's surge, leaving her entire body feeling unclean in the wake of arousal she had no right to feel. One kiss, and she was so alive, so vivid and aching for him—but she could never have him, not as husband or lover. She gulped down the pain in her throat, but still couldn't speak. All she could do was shake her head.

‘No?' he asked softly. ‘You didn't miss me? It's hard to believe, given the greeting you gave me.' The fingers at her chin caressed her skin. She shivered with the power of his simplest touch, chains far stronger than any Mukhtar could shackle on her. ‘Look at me, Hana.'

Long moments passed, but the pain only grew worse as she hesitated. She lifted her lashes.

‘I know you said it doesn't revolt you, but that was in a life-and-death situation. This time, I want you to look carefully.' He pulled his light linen shirt over his head, leaving his chest and stomach bare—revealing the pinkish grafts over twisted scars running across one shoulder, half his chest and down over his stomach. ‘More surgery will help but there's only so much anyone can do for such extensive second-degree burns. I'm trusting that the nurse in you will be able to refrain from feeling physically ill at the sight of me,' he said, with a wryness that tore at her heart. ‘I have scars on my thighs as well, since some of the graft skin came from there when a couple of the other patches didn't take.'

She didn't have to ask where the rest of his skin came from.
Fadi's with me everywhere I go,
he'd said. Yes, his pride and his pain in one, the eternal reminder of his loss; he did have Fadi with him wherever he went. His brother's dead body had been his donor.

More tears rushed up, useless, bittersweet longing and empathy. Her trembling fingers touched his ruined skin, almost feeling the flame that had destroyed his clean flesh. Her fingers drank in the proof of survival against the odds. Oh, the agony he must have suffered!

His hands covered hers. ‘Do you find me revolting—not as a nurse, but as a woman?' he said, guttural. ‘If so, it ends here. I'm for ever in your debt, Hana. What happens from here is in your hands. My future rests with you.'

She heard nothing after the word ‘revolting'. She pulled her hands out from under his, and the quivering grew as she touched him, yearning and pain intertwined. She didn't realise she'd moved forward, falling into him, until her lips touched the mangled scars on his shoulder, her tears mixing salt to the warmth. And once she'd started, she couldn't stop; it was beautiful, so unutterably exquisite that the thought of not
touching him, not kissing him, was agony. She must, she
had
to kiss him again…

‘Alim,' she whispered, the ache intensifying, a woman's hollow throbbing of need for her man, unfamiliar and beautiful and addictive. She kissed the skin of his throat, chest and shoulder again and again, her mouth roaming over what he was now, what he'd always been, and both filled her with the deep anguish of feminine need, because his suffering had shaped him into the man she loved. ‘Alim, Alim.' Breathless voice filled with the restlessness of desire unleashed, her hands growing fevered in intensity of wanting.

His hands lifted her face. ‘No, no,' she mumbled in incoherent protest, palms and fingers still caressing him. ‘No, more, I need more…'

Then she saw his eyes, lashes spiky with tears unshed. ‘My Hana,' he said, husky. ‘My sweet, healing star, you've sealed our destiny.'

With a cry she pulled him to her, falling backward, his aroused body landing on hers as their lips met. Her fingers twined through his hair, caressed his neck, moving against him and moaning in need, wanting more of him, so much more. So many years feeling half dead, living only for others, existing inside the shadows of fear; now she was alive at last. More kisses, deep and tender, growing more passionate by the moment, and, oh, at last she knew how it felt to be filled with love given and returned…

The car pulled up. Loud engine noises came from outside. They were at the airstrip. He was hovering just above her, smiling in such tenderness her heart splintered, and she came back to a sense of herself—who she was;
what
she was.

What she'd done to him…and to herself.

The happiness shining in his face shattered in silence. He helped her to sit up, tossed the shirt over his head before the
door opened. She shoved the veil back in place, eyes lowered, mouth—foolish, needing mouth—pushed hard together to stop words tumbling out. Not yet, not yet. On the plane. In Mombasa. Anywhere but here and now.

The plane was a small jet, pure luxury in appointments. She'd never seen anything like it. Strapped into her seat beside him, she looked out of the window, waiting for him to speak, to ask the questions. Praying that, from somewhere deep inside, she'd find the strength to tell him.

They were in the sky before he spoke. ‘If I know you, you went straight back to work when you arrived at the camp, right?'

He sounded so ordinary. He was teasing her a little. It was a gift; he was moving past the awkwardness and embarrassment, allowing her time, letting her tell her story when she was ready. And she felt a smile form at the opening; she couldn't stop it. ‘Well, I did shower and change. Not the best thing for open wounds or sick people, all that mud.'

‘It wouldn't inspire much confidence in your hand-washing methods.'

She chuckled. It felt surprisingly good, the banter. With Alim, she could be herself, be teasing, silly Hana, and he liked it. ‘You should have seen people's faces as I walked in. A friend stopped me from coming in, thinking I was a refugee, so dirty and everything crumpled.'

‘You definitely smell better now.' He inhaled close to her. ‘No lavender though. What is that?' he asked, sounding nostalgic, as if he missed the lavender—and she resolved to wear it again before she could stop the thought. Foolish woman, wanting to please him.

‘Spiced vanilla. A local soap made from goat's milk. You know, Fair Trade and all that. The locals bring carts in and sell to whoever they can.'