Читать книгу The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy - Dana Marton - Страница 7

Thirty years later

She’d been brought here to fail. It was expected of her. Hoped for.

Sara Reeves exited the conference room last, following the men, as was the custom in the region. Jeff had drilled that into her head. Whatever you do, commit no offense. He’d made it clear it was the most important thing he expected of her on this trip, the only thing.

“Let us go see the new well,” Ahmad Maluk, one of the three directors who represented MMPOIL at today’s meeting, said, gesturing toward the bank of elevators. “It’ll be a twenty-minute helicopter ride. Miss Reeves is welcome to stay at the hotel and rest if she so wishes.”

She wished they could meet the sheik. But they’d already been told that was not going to happen. “I’d love to see the well,” she said with respect, talking to no one in particular, not wanting to offend the men by addressing them directly.

“You rest,” Jeff said, solicitous as ever. “I can handle it.”

He could always handle everything—except the actual work. At schmoozing he was king. Hard to believe there’d been a time when she’d been in love with the man.

“Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” Husam, the man on Ahmad’s left, suggested. He was the youngest of the three Beharrainians, around thirty if that, with a sharp chin and nose, and even sharper eyes that he’d kept on Sara for most of the meeting.

She glanced away, hating the submissive gesture, but knowing that in this culture it was expected of women. One of the slew of oddities that made it difficult for her to stand on even ground for the negotiations.

They should have seen the well and been back by now, but Jeff had had stomach problems that morning and they’d had to delay their meetings. He had used her as an excuse, told everyone she’d been sick. The Arabs put a lot of stock in the strength of a man. If Jeff appeared weak for any reason it would be detrimental to their negotiations. And she could appear a little weaker, so as not to challenge their ideas of women and give offense. The world according to Jeff.

The best thing Sara had ever done for herself was to break their engagement. Unfortunately, untangling their business interests proved more difficult.

Jeff flashed her one of those smiles she had fallen for four years ago, before she’d realized that they, along with most things about him, were fake. “You could go shopping,” he said.

With admirable restraint, she kept herself from voicing the response forming on her tongue. “I’d prefer to see the well.”

Jeff shrugged with annoyance, but didn’t push further. Perhaps he’d given up on trying to manipulate her for the time being.

She zeroed in on the hallway to the left, where she’d seen a sign for a restroom on their way in. Since she knew they would be spending several hours in the desert today, she’d doubled her water intake. “Why don’t you go up? I’ll be with you in a second.” She nodded toward her destination.

Jeff scowled, as if her basic necessities were nothing but feminine whims he was forced to put up with.

She hurried down the hall, trying not to be too paranoid and obsess over what he would say this time to undermine her in her absence. Of course, with this potential customer, the fact that she was a woman was probably enough.

Glancing into the mirror as she exited the restroom two minutes later, she made sure her insecurities didn’t show. B. T. Reeves Studio, a public relations firm specializing in the oil industry, was as much her company as Jeff’s—more so, in her opinion. No matter how hard he pushed her, she was not going to relinquish her heritage. She wanted more than anything to regain control of the company and make it a success, a tribute to her father, who had started it.

Husam’s dark shape ahead caught her eye, his back half-turned to her. Was he waiting for her? She hadn’t liked the way he’d stared at her all through the meeting. She didn’t want to be stuck in the close quarters of an elevator with him. He was talking on his cell phone in Arabic, sounding nervous and angry at the same time.

Grateful for the soft carpet, which allowed her to remain undetected, she walked in the other direction. MMPOIL’s headquarters was a giant building. There had to be more than one bank of elevators.

She turned the corner and was relieved to see she’d been right. She pushed the call button and held her breath until the bell dinged and the doors opened. They were just starting to close behind her when a man stepped through. For a moment, all she registered was relief that he wasn’t Husam.

Oh, my. Definitely not. Wasn’t even in the same category.

This guy was close to forty and a good head taller than Husam. He brought a strong sense of presence with him as he stepped inside, so strong his body almost vibrated with intensity. The space in the elevator seemed to shrink, the air thinning all of a sudden.

There was a stark wildness to his masculine features, his tanned face and dark hair. Sara’s first impression had been of a hard-set, square jaw and wide shoulders stiff with displeasure, but that seemed to disappear as he watched her. His dark eyes held her gaze.

“Hello.” His deeply masculine voice was as spellbinding as the rest of him.

“Hi.” She should have looked away politely. She couldn’t, even with all her senses suggesting that this guy was several levels above Husam on the danger scale.

Husam hadn’t really done anything but stare at her. Maybe he wasn’t used to blondes, or women in a negotiating position. She was in a whole new culture. She had to adjust to certain oddities.

She fixed her attention on the closed doors, but couldn’t hold it there long before glancing again at the man next to her. He was staring at the sheet of paper in his hand, no longer looking at her, which should have made him seem less intimidating. It didn’t.

She acknowledged the fact, but wouldn’t let it bother her. She was used to intimidation on a daily basis.

“Do you know if this goes to the helipad?” she asked, unsure whether he would understand her. Anybody could say “hello.”

“I’ll show you when we get up there.” His U.S., West Coast accent surprised her. Another American?

“Thanks.”

She relaxed marginally, but then her business persona kicked in. “Do you work here or are you visiting?” If MMPOIL had solicited other U.S. companies to bid on the same project she and Jeff were here for, she needed to know.

“I work here,” he said, setting her mind at ease.

He folded the paper and slid it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, then looked at her again. His gaze was sharp and intelligent, intense, but lacking Husam’s disquieting intrusion. “Are you here with the Dallas delegation?”

She nodded, wondering how he knew, and what his role was at the company. A subtle, pleasant scent of sandalwood filled the small space and surrounded her. He didn’t crowd her as people had tended to do since her arrival—apparently due to their different attitude about personal space—but stood back, detached.

“You work with the sheik?” she asked, registering at last that he hadn’t pushed another button. The fiftieth floor was still the only one lit. That meant he was going to the top, as well, which, according to Jeff, was Sheik Abdullah’s domain. And also the location of the only elevator that went to the roof. This way, access to the helipad was restricted. For security reasons, she supposed.

The man nodded with a short, deliberate movement of his head, power evident even in such small a gesture as that.

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 setting was 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.

Instead, their car slowed, sending her panic into higher gear. She glanced up and caught a glimpse of the driver draped over the steering wheel, half of his face missing. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, but nobody was paying attention to her.

Tariq exchanged some words with Husam in Arabic as the vehicle rolled to a halt in the sand. Maybe he was Beharrainian, after all. Or Beharrainian-American. She tried to focus on that instead of on the bile rising in her throat as she lurched to the floor, whimpering when bullets sprayed the side of their Hummer.

Jeff tumbled from the vehicle on the other side. “We have to run for it.”

She followed him out, then flattened herself on the sand, using the tires for cover.

The attacking truck was coming closer, Tariq still firing from his seat, his face a mask of concentration as he focused on the task. The scene would have easily fit into an action movie—dashing hero saving the day. Except that even motion picture heroes couldn’t win against an opposing force this overwhelming. A second truck had appeared behind the first.

Fear pushed her to flee from what she knew to be certain death. But where? Husam was outside now, keeping low to the ground and running. The driver of the first Hummer had realized that the second one had been disabled, and turned around, coming back for them.

“Let’s go for it.” Jeff grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up.

For a moment she hesitated, too scared to leave their cover. But maybe he was right. Husam had nearly reached the other vehicle already. Maybe they, too, could make it to relative safety. The Hummer was lighter and faster than the trucks. They might be able to outrun the attackers.

She pushed herself to her feet and sprinted forward, focusing on their goal. If she looked around, if she considered for even a moment the massacre surrounding her, she would have frozen, providing an easy target for the next bullet.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Keep low,” Tariq yelled from behind them, covering them as best he could.

They were twenty feet away when Jeff stumbled and dragged her down with him. The sand scorched her bare palms as she put them out for support.

“Come on. Get up.” She pulled, keeping an eye on the beat-up military truck, which was dangerously close. When Jeff didn’t move, she glanced at him. His eyes were gazing into the distance, a frozen look on his face. He was dead, his fingers still locked around her arm. “Jeff?”

Dead. Gone. She stared at him, immobilized by mind-numbing horror, barely registering the sight of two men jumping off the back of the still-moving truck and running for her.

They wore camouflage uniforms, their heads completely covered with white headdresses. By the time she was fully cognizant of the danger and could act again it was too late. One of them grabbed her, rough fingers digging into her flesh, yanking her away from Jeff’s prone body on the sand. “No! Let me go!”

The other reached for her, too, but then crumpled to the ground with a surprised expression on his face. She spun around and saw Tariq running toward them. Her captor welcomed him with bullets.

Everything was happening too fast. She couldn’t think, didn’t know what to do, which way to run.

Blood spread on Tariq’s arm. He slowed, his expression even fiercer, more determined than before. He didn’t look like the type of man who would give up while his heart beat in his chest. And neither could she.

“Get away from me!” She whipped back to face her captor, kicking and screaming, though she knew it was useless. Tariq wasn’t going to reach her. She was only delaying the inevitable.

Sara had always wanted to see the desert. Now she had done so. It wasn’t nearly as romantic as she had thought. The place was scary and dangerous, and dashing heroes didn’t ride about saving damsels in distress.

“No!” She fought with her nails and teeth, her feet and elbows, even attempted to butt the man with her head. But her efforts were neutralized as easily as if she were a child. Bodies littered the sand now. She would be next, she thought, nearly hysterical with fear and breathless from her efforts.

She should be dead already, she realized then, in a moment of clarity. The bandits could have shot her at any time. They hadn’t. They wanted to take her. The recognition brought a fresh wave of panic. “What do you want from me?”

As she twisted away from her attacker, she expected to see Tariq sprawled on the sand next to the others. But miraculously, he was still coming. The sight of him, bloodied but undeterred, gave her new strength to claw at the menacing, gap-toothed bandit who held her in a viselike grip.

“You’re not gonna take me!” she grunted. “Let me go!”

Then Tariq was there, finally, and her captor fell dead at her feet the next second. Tariq grabbed her arm and ran with her toward the other Hummer, the closest cover. Bullets flew all around them, from men who fought on the sand and those who’d stayed on the trucks.

She ducked behind the car when they reached it, hoping there’d be someone there to join, to gain strength from numbers. But nobody was alive save for her and Tariq, and the vehicle had been shot to oblivion.

“Why are they doing this?”

Tariq didn’t answer. He was too busy returning fire.

His arm was covered in blood. He’d lost too much. How long would he be able to keep up the fight? Sara planned to take the gun from him and continue shooting if he wavered, but the handgun clicked with his next shot. Empty.

He glanced at her, his dark eyes swirling with barely restrained rage that softened as he held her gaze, the look turning into something akin to regret.

This was it, she thought. As good as he was, he could do no more without firepower. They had seconds at most before the bandits reached them. And then … She couldn’t bear thinking about what would happen next. Her mind was filled with the gruesome images of the men who had been mercilessly massacred already. Jeff …

Sand flew up around them. The bandits had plenty of ammunition and were not afraid to use it.

“Take off your jewelry.” Tariq cast his useless weapon aside, then rolled up his sleeves to pull off an expensive watch. He buried it in the sand, along with his cell phone, which had the No Signal message on its display. “Quick,” he said when she hesitated, wondering about his request.

She slipped off her two rings, although, facing certain death, those few grams of gold were the last things she was worried about.

He brushed sand over them, as well.

The bandits were shouting and moving closer, emboldened by the lack of return fire.

Fear squeezed her lungs, so tight she could hardly breathe. She dipped her head when a bullet came too close, and could all of a sudden see the oncoming attack through the gap above the tire. For a moment she was struck speechless, but then she asked, with all the desperation she felt. “What do they want from us?”

She didn’t get to find out. Something hard connected with the back of her head and her world went dark.