The Sheik's Command (10 page)

Transported, Zakir inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, allowing his other senses to absorb this moment. Nikki’s voice wrapped around him like soft velvet, bringing even more memories of family, comfort, a time when everything was right in his young world.

And in his heart Zakir suddenly yearned to return to that place of family and togetherness. He longed to feel inside himself the pure love that he’d glimpsed in his father’s eyes as the then king had looked upon his mother.

Nikki reached a verse where the children’s voices joined hers, a little orphan choir rising in song, high in the barren hills of a desert night—children of violence, singing with such innocence and purity and beauty that it could make a man weep.

This surely was the essence of life, of the future. Especially for a country like his. And Zakir realized suddenly that this childlike purity that could still be coaxed from these abused war orphans was the very thing that Nikki sought so desperately to save.

Compelled, hungry for something he could not even begin to articulate, Zakir reached forward and carefully edged aside the curtain that hung over the door. He peered inside, eyes trying to adjust to candlelight.

Nikki’s face was turned away from him. He could see the blur of her profile, skin like porcelain. She wore no scarf, and her golden hair fell across her face in a cascade of loose curls. She looked like an angel.

Around her feet, on seven reed mats on the dirt floor, were the children. Each pair of dark eyes was turned toward Nikki, their voices earnest as they sang the fairy-tale words of Zakir’s youth.

The eldest child, Samira, caught his movement at the door. She glanced up and abruptly stopped singing. Like an electric current rippling through the other kids, they all fell instantly silent and spun to face him.

Zakir sensed their fear.

He cleared his throat, stepped inside the room. “I apologize,” he said in Arabic, then French.
“Je suis desolé.
I wanted to listen, but not to disturb.”

Nikki lurched to her feet, hand shooting to chest in surprise. “Zakir!” She hurriedly groped for her scarf to cover her hair. But he stepped forward and stayed her with his hand on her arm. “Please, don’t.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t want you to hide yourself from me anymore,” he whispered against her ear. Then loudly he said, “I just wanted to hear the story.” He smiled and turned to the orphans, holding his hands out at his sides, palms up. “So, you must be the famous children who crossed the burning sands of the Sahara!”

A little boy bobbed his head and excitedly got up on to spindly brown legs. He bowed deep. “I am Solomon, your Royal Highness.”

Zakir laughed with deep pleasure, and he crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he peered into the young boy’s dark eyes. “I know. And I am Sheik Zakir Al Arif, the King of Al Na’Jar. Can you introduce me to everyone else, Solomon?”

Pride swelled the little boy’s chest.

Nikki’s eyes glistened as she watched him, and for some damned reason Zakir wanted to do her proud, to not disappoint her. He wanted to see that glow of admiration in her eyes again. He wanted to ease the tension that seemed to permanently knot her shoulders.

“This is Philippe, Mahmoud, Lorita, Koffi and this is Lina—” Dusky faces broke into smiles as the children launched to their feet in turn and bowed in front of Zakir.

“And this is Samira,” declared Solomon. “She’s going to have a baby!”

Zakir’s heart torqued with sudden ferocity as Samira, a mere child herself, lowered her dark head in reverence, her silken hair spilling forward. She had Arabic blood, like him, but with much browner skin—a child of mixed race and culture, born of violence, and carrying another conceived in violence. A cycle that never ended.

A cycle Nikki was fighting to stop.

Zakir shot a fierce a glance at Nikki, suddenly understanding
the steel he’d glimpsed in her eyes. He now knew how she’d managed to walk up that deserted boulevard toward his tanks and guns. He understood the way in which she’d confronted him in his reception room.

He exhaled slowly, a little overwhelmed with the sudden rawness of affection he felt for her, and he turned to her children. “Did you all have enough dinner tonight?”

They nodded quietly.

Nikki picked up the candle, cupping her hand around the flickering light as she moved toward the door. “Time for sleep,
mes enfants,
” she said fondly. “I will be back soon. I’m just going outside to talk with the king.”

She carried the candle to the door and blew it out before exiting. In the sudden darkness, Zakir had to reach for the wall. He felt his way to the entrance and held back the reed mat for Nikki.

He knew she was watching.

They stepped outside, and Zakir clicked his fingers softly, his hounds surging to his side. He hooked his fingers into Ghorab’s collar as they walked into the night. “How are they doing, Nikki?”

“Better.”

“Samira? Have you been able to turn her baby?”

“No. And she’s still running a fever.”

He nodded quietly, leading her toward the dying fire with no real purpose other than talking to her out of earshot.

“Where did you learn that song, Nikki?”

“Do you know it?”

“My mother used to sing those words to us in Arabic when I was a child.”

She stilled, looked up at him and smiled. Moonlight caught the slight gleam on her teeth and the shimmer of her eyes. It was all Zakir could see. But her smile did crazy things to
his chest. Giving Nikki pleasure expanded Zakir in a way he could not define.

“Why are you smiling, Nikki?”

“Some men,” she said quietly, “you just can’t imagine as having been children.”

He laughed. “Solomon will be like that someday. Mark my words. Overnight you will suddenly see only a powerful man, and you will no longer see the boy.”

“And how would you know?” He heard the slight jest in her tone, a playfulness he had not detected before.

“I just do.”

“Because you were like him?”

He shrugged, slipping effortlessly into easy conversation with her as they resumed walking, his dogs moving like shadows at their side. “I think Tariq was more like Solomon. Very earnest, helpful. He wanted to solve the world’s problems. I was perhaps more quiet than Tariq. My mother used to call me broody, but I was not as sullen as Omair.” He laughed again. “These Rahm Berbers might call me the Dark One, but Omair is the true dark horse. He’s the one whose thoughts will never be read.”

“Well, unless Solomon gets a break, he’ll become like his father.”

“And who was Solomon’s father?”

“A warlord. Very cruel, very powerful. Solomon ran away.”

“Why?”

“He was abused.”

“He was lucky,” said Zakir softly. “How so?”

“Because he found you.” Zakir paused, turned to glance down at her.

Moonlight caught the glisten of emotion in her eyes, but
she said nothing. And Zakir couldn’t stop himself. He touched her cheek, in the dark, with no one to watch.

“Nikki,” he whispered, her skin soft under his palm, cool in the night air. He moved his thumb under her chin, his fingers cupping the side of her face. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.” He brought his lips close to hers. “And I speak of much more than physical perfection,” he whispered in Arabic.

A shiver trilled down Nikki’s spine.

She swallowed, unable to speak, and she was suddenly, utterly desperate to lean into this man’s hard, warm body, to feel his strength, to absorb more of the calm power he seemed to infuse with his touch.

It was such a human need—to be touched. Comforted. Loved. A need Nikki had tried to ignore for so long. And Zakir was forcing those long-buried desires to rise to the surface, making her burn with hunger for him.

He removed his hand abruptly, and she felt as if she’d been dropped from a safety net. Nikki cleared her throat, anxiety tearing through her desire. This man was too strong, too masculine, too sensual, and when she was around him her mind narrowed. It was as if she had no control.

And with her mounting panic, the stark reality of her situation returned. She’d been told to spy on Zakir—if she didn’t, her children could be hurt. She was going to have to face that Gurkha. She
had
to give him something, and right now she had nothing.

“How did the meeting with the elders go?” Her voice came out husky as she changed the topic.

She felt his body go still, as if he was surprised by the question. An energy, soft and dark, crackled between them. Nikki’s pulse began to race.

“The talks went exceedingly well,” he said finally. “I learned from the Rahm sheik that my father often met with
clans. The men knew my father as a person who loved the desert and its people, and so remained loyal to him. My father had also informed them about his plan for democracy. They were happy to learn that I will pursue this agenda, that they will one day have a voice in the government of Al Na’Jar.” He paused. “Thank you again for your help, Nikki. It was good that I came without my guards.”

“What did the chiefs from the surrounding villages say?”

“They’re on board. Their support will enable a grassroots alliance along this entire eastern border region. If I can continue to foster relations like this among other Al Na’Jar clans, I can build support for my monarchy from the bottom up, and the handful of enemies inside my administration will be unable to topple me. Besides,” he said, smiling, “it has been good for me to reconnect with these people. They are the essence of Al Na’Jar. They share my values.”

“
Your
values?”

He laughed low, seductive. “Yes, Nikki. Values I’d forgotten in those boardrooms of Europe and in those nightclubs…” His voice grew distant as he glanced up at the sky. “In some ways it took this terrible family tragedy to bring me home.”

Or perhaps it’s your fear of impending blindness. The realization of your own vulnerability has shown you what really matters.

He took her arm. “This is unorthodox,” he said very quietly, close to her ear, his breath sending a warm shiver over her skin. “But would you care to join me in my hut for a drink? It will be our last time alone before my Gurkhas arrive tomorrow.”

“They’re coming
here?
”

“The Berbers say my bodyguards are now welcome in the village. I sent for just three of them—Tenzing Gelu, Abhi Hasan and Rajah Sadal. They’re en route by camel as we speak. The other two men have more experience in strategic
planning, so they’ll return to the Supreme Palace and select a bigger security team for me. I plan to spend some time building more alliances to the northeast and will be using the Summer Palace as a base for a while.” He touched her elbow gently as he spoke, guiding her. “So, how about the drink, Nikki?”

Her heart thudded, perspiration breaking out over her skin. Everything was happening too fast. Gelu was already on his way. She needed to work out a plan.

“I’m exhausted, Zakir. But thank you for the invitation. For everything. You’ve given my children another window of hope.”

And you’ve given me some self-esteem back.

Zakir nodded, disappointed and a little vulnerable for having vocalized his need and being rejected. In silence he led her back to her hut, using Ghorab, Khaya and Tala as guides.

She stopped outside the door. The scent of the desert was cool, tinged with residual smoke from the fire.

“Good night, Zakir.” She began to pull the curtain back, but froze as he placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Nikki?” he whispered.

She straightened up slowly, and Zakir felt her lean toward him, as if wishing to linger with him. Then quickly resisting the urge, she reached again for the reed curtain. He caught her arm and turned her to face him.

Silence and tension simmered between them.

Shaded from the other huts, Zakir was unable to stop what came next. He threaded his hand into her hair and cupped the back of her neck. Lowering his head, drawing her into him, he kissed her lightly on the mouth. He felt her lips, soft, warm, open under his, and his vision spiraled into a red-and-black kaleidoscope of shadows as heat speared into his groin.

Her body seemed to sigh into his, as if every molecule in
her being wanted to give into her need for him, but it was only for a nanosecond. Because Nikki stiffened suddenly and drew back. Her eyes were wide and glittering in the dark, moonlit pools in a pale face. She stared at him, then ducked quickly into the dark hut.

As the reed curtain rustled back into place, Zakir felt hot, his mouth dry.

What in hell are you doing here?

Inhaling sharply, he turned, giving a soft whistle to his dogs. He hooked his fingers lightly around Ghorab’s collar and made his way back to his hut where he paced the packed mud floor of the small interior, cursing himself.

Zakir believed he could trust Nikki enough to let her leave the country now. The presence of her orphans and the Berbers themselves had confirmed her story. She was a genuine and compassionate healer. She was not here to harm him—Zakir believed that.

So why was he messing with her, touching her? Why was he letting himself be distracted? He had a duty to fulfill, problems that needed attention. Like the insurgency. Like his rapidly failing vision. Like finding a wife.

Irritable, Zakir grabbed his satellite phone, dialed Tariq on the encrypted system.

This was his first moment of total privacy in a day, and he needed medical advice from his brother. He glanced at his watch as the phone rang. It would be late in Washington, but he knew Tariq, the dedicated neurosurgeon, would still be at his office. Zakir paced as he listened to the phone ringing an ocean and continent away, and his thoughts drifted back to Nikki and her haunting eyes.
Oyoon el waha,
he thought—eyes of the oasis. A place of sanctuary, in which a man could drown himself.

So absorbed was Zakir that he started at the sudden sound of Tariq’s voice.

“Zakir?” His brother sounded concerned. “What is wrong? Has something happened?” he said in Arabic.