Seduced by His Target (3 page)

A man she’d do well not to underestimate.

He skirted the fire and headed toward her, then stopped a few feet away. This close, she could see the straight, inky lashes fringing his eyes, the stark grooves bracketing his grim mouth, the sensual shape of his bottom lip. Her nails had barely missed his left eye, and one long scrape ran from the upper edge of his cheekbone into his beard stubble, adding to his ruthless look. He was half a head taller than she was, putting her at eye level with the hollow of his muscled throat. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes.

For several seconds, he didn’t speak. Instead, he continued to study her, spurring her heart to an off-kilter beat. Then he lowered his gaze, letting it travel slowly over the length of her, causing her heart to race. His gaze flicked back to hers, the impact no less powerful this time. And she couldn’t mistake the sexual awareness flitting through his eyes.

The answering warmth in her body shocked her. Appalled, she hugged her arms.

“What do you want?” he asked in English.
Flawless, American English.

“You’re American?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate, but she angled her head, studying him with even more interest now. Few nonnative speakers had an accent that perfect. He
must
have spent time in the States—which might make him sympathize with them.

“Listen,” she began. “I don’t know who you were after, but you must have made a mistake. I’m a doctor. So is Henry, the man I’m with. You must have confused us with someone else.”

He folded his arms, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his muscled chest. “We didn’t make a mistake.”

Taken aback, she tried to recoup. “If you’re after a ransom—”

“We’re not.”

Her heart skipped.
They had to be.
Ignoring his answer, she tried again. “I can get the money. I have a friend, a photographer. She can come up with whatever you want. Just take us to a town where I can contact her.”

His black eyes continued to hold her. Firelight danced on his swarthy skin, emphasizing the harsh hollows of his granite face. “I told you. We don’t want your money.”

“But then...” She glanced at the other men. Their fixed stares further unnerved her, and she tightened her grip on her arms. And suddenly, visions spun through her mind of terrified captives paraded across the television screen, pleading desperately for their lives—and then slain. Did these men intend to
kill
them?

No.
She quashed a burst of dread. She couldn’t start imagining the worst. They probably planned to negotiate a prisoner swap, to force the Peruvian or American government to free a jailed criminal in exchange for them. FARC had used that tactic in Colombia for years. Maybe these men were doing the same.

But that brought dangers of its own. She couldn’t risk the public exposure, no matter how much she wanted to get free. She’d spent too many years on the run, always moving, always changing her identity, carefully staying out of the limelight to evade the enemies dogging her. Not only was her powerful family hunting her down, but she had a gang executioner on her trail, a man who needed to ensure her silence after she’d chanced upon his crime. And if he ever figured out who she was, he wouldn’t just go after her. He’d pursue the other two witnesses, her closest friends.

But as much as she wanted to bolt she couldn’t worry about herself right now. She had to think of Henry, and get him to a hospital fast. She’d plot her own escape later, once she made sure he was safe.

She lifted her gaze to her kidnapper’s, wishing she could read the thoughts behind those impenetrable black eyes. “Is there a reason you need two doctors? Does someone need medical help?”

“No.”

“Because Henry’s hurt. He has a concussion. Altitude sickness, too. He needs urgent medical care. We need to get him down the mountain to a hospital before his condition gets any worse.”

His brows snapped into a frown. He glanced toward the cave behind her, a hint of uncertainty flitting through his eyes. Or had she imagined that? Just because he spoke English like a native didn’t mean he had a heart.

But whether he sympathized with them or not didn’t matter. She had to convince him to let Henry go.

“Henry has HACE,” she continued. “High altitude cerebral edema. His brain is swelling, and the concussion is making it worse. If we don’t get him to a lower altitude immediately, he could die.”

The white-turbaned man by the campfire rose. Her kidnapper glanced his way, and suddenly, a shutter fell over his face, every trace of sympathy vanishing from his eyes. “Get back in the cave,” he told her and turned away.

But she leaped out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

He stopped. He slowly turned to face her, his gaze trained on hers. An electric jolt sizzled through her, the iron feel of his bulging biceps scorching her palm like a red-hot brand. Startled, she released her grip. What was
that?
Shaken at her odd reaction, she stepped back.

“Please.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Henry and I... We’re not important. No one cares if we disappear or not. And the organization we’re with, Medical Help International, won’t negotiate with you. We signed an agreement. They’re not responsible for rescuing us if anything goes wrong.”

“I told you, we don’t want your money.”

“Then what
do
you want?”

He didn’t answer, and she tried again. “There’s no point in keeping Henry. You can’t possibly need him. He’s too sick. You have to let him go.”

The white-turbaned man approached, fingering his gun. Nadine sucked in a breath, determined not to show any fear. But this man’s dead eyes made her insides crawl.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her kidnapper in Arabic, and her heart stopped cold. Oh, God. These men
were
Middle Eastern.

What were they doing here?

Her kidnapper turned to the turbaned man. “The man in the cave is hurt. She wants us to let him go.”

Her lungs seized up. Dizziness barreled through her, and she feared she was going to heave. They weren’t only speaking Arabic, but Jaziirastani, a dialect spoken only in her father’s country.

The father who wanted her dead.

The man’s hate-filled eyes burned into hers. “He’s staying with us. Now shut up and get back in the cave.”

Nausea roiled inside her. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. But she had to stay calm,
think
and get Henry out of this mess—before he ended up dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said in English, trying her best to look confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak your language.”

“The hell you don’t,
Nadira al Kahtani.
Now get back in the cave or I’ll shoot your friend.”

Her knees went weak. Shocked speechless, she staggered backward, then stumbled into the cave. She wobbled over to Henry and collapsed on the ground beside him, her carefully built world crashing apart.

“What happened?” he asked.

Too overwhelmed to answer, she pulled her legs to her chest, her entire body starting to shake.

They knew her name. They knew who she really was.

“Did you find out what they want?” he asked again.

She’d found out, all right.
They wanted her.

After fifteen years on the run, her past had caught up with her. And this time it looked as if there was no way out.

Chapter 3

R
asheed couldn’t believe it. Their captive was Nadira al Kahtani, the daughter of his prime suspect.
The daughter of the man who’d murdered his wife.

Still struggling to process that bombshell, he adjusted the cinch on his gelding’s saddle as the terrorists prepared to ride out. He’d known she was Middle Eastern. And he could see her as a member of the Jaziirastani royal family with her regal, spirited air. But Nadira al Kahtani? The daughter of the banker financing this terrorist mission? It didn’t make any sense.

Incredulous at the revelation, he shuffled through his memories, trying to reconcile this stunning development with what he knew of the secretive clan. Yousef al Kahtani was a wealthy Jaziirastani banker who resided in Washington, D.C. The intelligence community had long suspected him of funneling money to the Rising Light terrorists and funding jihadist activity worldwide. But thanks to his generous campaign contributions, he also had power. And every time they got close to unraveling his murky activities, some high-level politician ran interference, stopping the investigation in its tracks.

Al Kahtani’s wife had died over a decade ago. Aside from a son, Sultan, he had a daughter, Nadira, rumored to be both brilliant and beautiful, who’d disappeared shortly after her mother’s death. In fact, she’d dropped off the grid so completely the CIA assumed she’d returned to her father’s native country, where she’d either married or died.

Rasheed shot a glance at the woman sitting near the entrance to the cave. He skimmed the elegant lines of her profile, the feminine arch of her brows, and his pulse took another skip. Intel had definitely gotten the
beautiful
part right, especially with her startling green eyes. But where had she been for all these years? How had these terrorists found her when the CIA couldn’t track her down? And if her father was financing this jihadist expedition, why would they capture her?

Growing even more confused now, he turned his attention to their extra supply horse and inspected the tack for frays. No matter what the explanation for the kidnapping, their cell leader, Manzoor, couldn’t have plotted it on his own. He might be in charge of their crack contingent, but he didn’t have the power to shape their agenda, only to carry out their attacks.

So who had authorized the woman’s abduction? Why would they kidnap her now, en route to an important mission—a mission rumored to be so catastrophic it had the intelligence community running scared? And if al Kahtani wasn’t funding the upcoming attack, who was?

Unable to come up with an answer, Rasheed grabbed the horses’ reins and led them to the cave. But there was one thing he did know—everything about this kidnapping felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And he had to watch his back. Yousef al Kahtani was no fool. He’d evaded prosecution for years, running a financial operation so labyrinthine even the CIA couldn’t sort it out. And this could all be an elaborate ruse. Al Kahtani could have sent his daughter here to investigate
him.
He’d penetrated Rasheed’s cover once before—and killed his wife to warn him off.

Now he might be using his daughter to strike again.

The woman rose at his approach. She straightened her spine and faced him—her chin canted high, her hands balled into fists, her gorgeous eyes challenging his—a show of feistiness he’d come to expect after the way she’d fought him off. But as he drew to a stop beside her, he caught a myriad of other emotions crowding her eyes—worry, uncertainty,
fear.

He frowned. The fear could be an act, a way to gain his sympathy and test where his loyalty lay. But could she actually make her face go pale on command?

And if she
wasn’t
pretending, if she wasn’t in cahoots with her father, and she really was an innocent victim in this attack, then why had they kidnapped her? What did she know about their plans?

He came to a stop, resolved. Whatever the answer, he had to find out. Thousands of American lives hung in the balance, depending on his success.

“Henry’s getting worse,” she announced. “We need to get him to a hospital right now.”

Rasheed shifted his attention to the injured doctor and inwardly groaned. She was right. The poor guy looked like the epitome of misery with his thin shoulders bowed, his hair sticking up in snowy clumps, his hands cradling his bloody head.

But what could he do to help? He didn’t have the authority to let him go. And showing even a hint of sympathy would invite the terrorists’ attention, increasing their suspicions of him.

Cursing this complication, he reached into his saddlebag and handed her a pouch of leaves. “Here. Try these.”

Her jaw sagged. “Coca leaves? Are you kidding? He doesn’t have a tension headache. He has a concussion. I told you. This is serious, life threatening. He needs oxygen and a CT scan.”

And
he
had a cover to maintain. He couldn’t afford to act out of character with so many lives on the line. Keeping his expression blank, he shrugged. “If you find an oxygen tank lying around, help yourself. In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with that.”

Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes darkened to forest-green, her indignation clear. And without warning that attraction leaped between them, that deep, sensual awareness he’d felt toward her from the start. And he had the damnedest urge to haul her against him, to turn that passion toward something more pleasurable—a kiss that would make them burn.

Stunned, he turned back to the horse. What the hell? Talk about the wrong woman! She was the daughter of a terrorist, his prime suspect, the man who’d ordered his wife’s death. She couldn’t get more off-limits than that.

Not that there was a
right
woman. He didn’t have relationships anymore, not since his wife had died. He’d spent too many years in the terror training camps, too many years living amid the dregs of society to ever lead a normal life. That part of him was gone. And even if he could turn back time and be the man that he once was, he wouldn’t do it. He refused to put a woman in jeopardy again.

Dragging his mind back to his mission—the
only
thing that mattered—he glanced at Henry again. “You know how to ride?”

The doctor looked up, confusion in his dazed eyes. “I went on a pony ride once as a kid.”

Great. A regular Buffalo Bill. “How about you?” he asked Nadira.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Where are we going?”

Not bothering to answer, he motioned toward the extra horse. “You can ride the mare. Henry will ride with me.”

“He can’t ride. I told you, he has a concussion.”

“Would he be better off on foot?”

“He’d be better off if you hadn’t kidnapped him.”

No kidding. And as soon as they reached a village, he’d try to convince the terrorists to leave him behind. But in the meantime...

He glanced at the men sitting astride their horses—their sharp gazes taking in every detail of the exchange—and hardened his voice. “Look. We’re heading out. You can ride or walk—your choice. But either way, you’re going to move. Both of you.
Now.
”

Nadira crossed her arms. Her full lips flattened into a mulish line. Rasheed held her gaze, knowing he couldn’t afford to relent—not with the terrorists watching their moves. She’d pay too high a price if he did.

But Henry lurched to his feet, interrupting the standoff, and staggered his way. “Don’t worry. I can ride.”

Sure he could.
The man could barely stand upright, let alone trot down a mountain trail. But without a helicopter to airlift him to a hospital, what other choice did he have?

With a sigh, he mounted his horse. He held out a hand to Henry, but his gaze went to Nadira again. “Help him up.”

For a minute, he thought she’d refuse. She glanced at the steep rocks hemming them in, the two men waiting on the trail ahead, as if weighing her chance of escape. But then she moved to Henry’s side.

“Put your foot in the stirrup,” he told Henry.

The doctor grabbed his hand and complied. With Nadira’s help, Rasheed pulled him into place behind him, wincing at his feeble moan. He just hoped the old man could hold on.

Nadira walked around the gelding to the supply horse, then vaulted into the saddle with practiced ease. He let go of the reins, and the mare pranced back. She expertly wheeled the horse around.

Then she paused, and her gaze collided with his. And for a moment time seemed suspended, her green eyes pinning him in place. A flush darkened her cheeks. Her black hair had escaped its braid, tumbling like silk across her slender back. She sat with a regal air astride the horse, the dawn-tinged mountains rising around her, her brilliant eyes defiant, pride etched in her royal lines.

She was mesmerizing. Gorgeous.

And she was the daughter of his enemy, the key to stopping this terror attack.

He hardened his resolve. “Let’s go.”

She shot him a glare, then nudged the mare into action and started down the rocky trail. Rasheed fell in behind her, his eyes on her swaying back. She was the key, all right. She just might have the answers he needed to unravel this case. And if so, he intended to get them.

Starting now.

* * *

By the time they finally stopped to rest five hours later, Nadine knew one thing. Henry wasn’t going to make it, and it was all her fault.

She climbed down from her horse with a groan, muscles she hadn’t used since childhood protesting with a vengeance now. They’d been working their way down the mountain for hours, the sun frying her scalp as it inched toward its midday pinnacle, the parched brown landscape gradually giving way to a vibrant green. Every time she’d glanced back, she’d glimpsed Henry barely clinging to their kidnapper, his face chalk-white, his eyes lolling back in his head. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out.

The gelding came to a stop beside her, and the kidnapper called Rasheed leaped off. Shaking aside her discomfort, Nadine hurried over to help Henry dismount.

But the kidnapper beat her to it, catching the injured doctor before he fell. “I’ve got him.”

Henry tottered and leaned against him, the deathly pallor of his skin making her even more alarmed. She hugged Rasheed’s heels as he half carried, half dragged Henry into the shade of a sprawling tree and settled him against the trunk. Henry slumped back and closed his eyes.

Worried, she knelt on the ground beside him and checked his pulse. His forehead was clammy, his breathing too shallow and fast. The gash on his head had stopped bleeding, thank goodness, but he still sported that ugly knot.

Rasheed dropped the saddlebag at her feet. “How is he? Any improvement?”

“Improvement?” She tipped back her head and glared. “Look at him! I told you he couldn’t ride.”

His gaze shifted to the wounded man. He rubbed his scruffy jaw, an emotion that resembled sympathy ghosting through his dark eyes. And for a moment, she was tempted to believe that he was a good guy, that he cared about their safety and was actually on their side.

Shocked, she gave herself a mental shake. What was this? Stockholm syndrome? This man wasn’t her friend. He was an outlaw, a criminal, the man who’d kidnapped her. Was she so desperate for an ally that she’d started imagining kindness where it didn’t exist?

So what if he spoke English like an American? So what if he was gentle with Henry, and seemed sensitive to his plight? It was probably a ploy, a trick to make her more pliable, to convince her to cooperate. She had to stay on guard.

“He can rest while we eat.” Rasheed motioned to the saddlebag he’d dropped. “There’s water in there. Some dried food, too. There should be enough for all of us. Go ahead and get it out.”

“What? You expect me to wait on you after all you’ve done?”

He shot her a level gaze. “Get out the food, Nadira.”

“Nadine.”

“What?”

“I’m Nadine, not Nadira.” She hadn’t gone by that name in years. And she had no intention of starting again now.

His eyes held hers for a heartbeat. The silence between them stretched. “Fine. Then, get out the food,
Nadine.
And don’t leave this spot.” Not waiting for an answer, he strode off.

Indignant, she scowled as he watered the horses, then joined the other men. He was delusional if he thought she’d cooperate with him. She was a prisoner, not his servant, and he could get his own damned food.

Still fuming, she turned her attention back to Henry. But one glance at the older doctor, and her anger instantly deflated, giving way to a rush of concern. His eyes were closed, his skin waxy in the midday light—definitely not a good sign. She removed her jacket, balled it up and wedged it behind his head.

Then she settled on the ground beside him, pulled her knees to her chest and tried to think. Her head ached. She was so thoroughly exhausted she wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. And icy frissons of panic kept creeping through her nerves, the extent of her predicament impossible to ignore.

Her father had found her. How he’d done it in this remote location she didn’t know. But he had to be behind her kidnapping. Nothing else made sense. And unless she escaped, he was going to make good on his promise to see her dead.

Even worse, she’d dragged Henry into this mess. Now his life was in danger because of her.

What was she going to do?

She rubbed her gritty eyes, sighing as the warm breeze tousled her loose hair. The temperatures had risen as they’d headed downhill, riding northeast toward the coca fields. She glanced at the sheer mountains jutting into the sky, the river wending through the valley miles below. In the distance, coca fields filled the ancient terraces, forming a multihued patchwork of green.

Knowing she had to come up with a solution, she looked at her captors again. They knelt in the shade beside the creek, going through the ritual of their midday prayers. A cold feeling took hold in her gut. They were the same type of men she’d grown up with, the men she’d fled her home to escape—zealots who preached a doctrine of hatred, bullies who used brutality to get their way. Men like her father, her brother. Men who treated women like property, who thought they had a divine right to control her destiny and would kill her if she didn’t comply.