The Sheik's Command (6 page)

He was breathing hard. His body was pressed on top of hers, their hearts beating in angry unison. Sweat dampened her skin and grit stuck to it. He lowered his mouth, almost touching hers. “Don’t
ever
disobey or challenge me in public,” he growled. “Understand?”

She was furious, unable to breathe under his weight, but the sensation of his hard body against hers awakened a whole other kind of panic. As did the sensation of his warm breath over her lips. Nikki hadn’t felt a man’s weight on top of her in seven years and desire tore through her, so hot and fast and sudden that she began to shake.

He ripped off his glasses, obsidian eyes tunneling fiercely
into hers as if to negate the weakness she’d glimpsed earlier. To show he was still strong. In command.

Her heart lodged in her throat at his raw intensity. And fear whispered. Would he hurt her like Sam had? Her husband had gone so far as to hire someone to kill her—but the hired gun had killed her children by mistake.

When Zakir finally spoke, his voice was pure steel. “You
will
obey my word or our deal is off. No medicine. No safe passage. Instead I will return you to Al Na’Jar and ship you off to the States in one of my jets.”

Terror lashed through her. She could not lose her orphans. She could
never
return to the States. “How
dare
you threaten me,” she ground out. “How dare you hold innocent children hostage for your own royal pride!”

“It’s not pride, Nikki,” he whispered angrily, so close she could feel the beating of his heart. “Allowing a woman to undermine my authority in public is sacrilegious. If it got back to the Council that I permitted a woman to touch me—a woman to whom I am not betrothed—my throne
will
be challenged. And I
will
lose. Don’t do this again, Nikki, or I will be forced protect my country over helping you.”

“You mean protect your power,” she said angrily.

His eyes burned into hers. “My power, Nikki—” his voice went lower “—is the
only
way I can protect my people and honor my family and my father’s will. This is my duty, my only obligation.”

She swallowed, face flushing. And with alarm she realized her blouse button had popped open in their tussle, exposing the lace of her bra. Nikki’s gaze slid in horror down to her exposed chest.

Zakir followed her gaze. He was silent for a moment, then his eyes lifted, met hers. And in that instant they both felt the intensity of the sexual chemistry between them, fired by
adrenaline. He swallowed, but barely missed a beat. “Now tell me which is the path to the Berber village.”

“Zakir, I understand your constraints. But I just cannot risk the lives of my children by allowing the Berbers to think I betrayed them by bringing you and your soldiers into their hidden village.” Her voice quavered slightly, but she stuck to her guns. Never again would a man push her around. Never again would some alpha tyrant take her children. “If you don’t let me go alone,” she said, “I won’t go at all.”

His features turned hawkish, dangerous. “You think
you
can issue
me
an ultimatum?”

Nikki began to shake inside, but swallowed her fear. “I just did,” she whispered.

S
he was serious.

If there was one thing Zakir had learned in both business and pleasure, it was never to put into a corner a man—or woman—who had absolutely nothing left to lose.

He sat up slowly, smoothed his palm over his hair.

She wriggled into a sitting position, angrily yanking her blouse back over her bra. But as she did, her scarf caught behind her and pulled off her hair. And Zakir’s focus was shot.

Her tousled strawberry-gold curls, the shape of her mouth, the rapid rise and fall of her chest completely stole his attention and ability to reason. An urge to reach out, touch her hair, feel those silky curls between his fingers overcame him.

And Zakir knew he was in trouble. The only way he was going to get rid of this growing compulsion to touch Nikki Hunt was to get her out of his sight. Out of his country. Out of his mind.

And one way to accomplish that was to get this visit to
the Berbers over with stat. Then he could go in peace to his Summer Palace, where his next worry would be to find a wife.

“Think about it, Zakir,” she said crisply as she re-covered her hair with her scarf. He noticed her hands were trembling. “The Berber tribesmen have scouts everywhere in these hills. They’ll see us coming from miles away, and your convoy will meet resistance. Trust me on this, if—”

“Trust
you?
On matters of my own country and people?” He laughed condescendingly. “Do you honestly think I do not have contingency plans for the possibility of an ambush when we enter those hills?”

“That’s the last situation you want. You could lose hold of the Rahm Hills if you go in there and start up a war.”

Zakir felt irked by her challenge, yet he was increasingly surprised by this woman’s boldness—and his confounding attraction to her. “That, Nikki,” he said patronizingly, “is why I came here with you. To meet with the sheik of this clan and talk to his people.”

She leaned forward, pressing her point. “And that, Zakir, is exactly why you
must
let me go to their village alone. Please, let me be your envoy. Let me secure my children, and
then
you and your men can come in.”

Zakir exhaled in frustration. She was right, and he knew it. She was astute and an incredibly fast read of a situation.

And truthfully, Zakir had not considered the well-being of her orphans. He’d been wholly focused on politics, on saving his country. Wasn’t that more important?

Perhaps the children didn’t even exist.

Perhaps this woman had ulterior motives.

Zakir cursed in Arabic and dragged his hand over his hair again.

She was also the kind of woman he could use on his side. Nikki understood tribal cultures. She spoke Arabic. She
loved the desert. She had sharp political insight, and she was bold. She was also a link to the Western life Zakir had grown accustomed to, a lifestyle he’d enjoyed.

In some ways Nikki was a lot like him—her feet planted in two different worlds. A bridge between two cultures. Never mind the fact she was also beautiful and incredibly desirable.

Zakir shook himself, feeling light-headed, then suddenly he realized his vision was blurring again. He reached quickly for his sunglasses. “Fine,” he said quietly, his mind racing. “We’ll compromise. My men will stay in the Red Valley while I go alone with you to meet the Berbers.”

She considered his proposal. “You’ll go unarmed?”

“No. That I cannot do.”
Because I have yet to trust you.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand. “I will, however, travel in the robes of a simple Berber. If they see us approaching from afar, I will merely look like your guide. When we meet them, you can explain your ‘guest.’ Your children will not come to harm this way, Nikki.”

“But when they learn it is
you?
”

“By then I will be in their custody, in their village. I will not be a threat to them. They will be in control.”

She studied him, something akin to respect crossing her features. Clearly, she had not expected this of him. And in spite of himself, Zakir liked the way it felt to surprise her, to win her respect.

Silence hung for several beats. “All right,” she said quietly.

“Wait here,” he commanded.

Zakir got out of the Humvee, called Ghorab to his side and stood motionless in the wind for a second, his hand resting on his dog as he considered his next steps. And as his blood pressure eased, so did the dark blur in his left eye. He noted
this. It was something he needed to tell Tariq as soon as possible.

Zakir then strode over to Tenzing Gelu, his lead bodyguard, the man he trusted most. “We’re going to the base camp at the south end of the Red Valley. The Sheik’s Army camel handler should be waiting there with animals by now. You will all remain at the camp while Ms. Hunt and I travel ahead on camel to meet the Berbers,” he said brusquely. “We will remain in radio contact at all times, and I will carry a GPS so that you can map the way into their village.”

A ripple of surprise passed through the guard and his men. They were his top five bodyguards, and they knew he was taking a risk. “May I speak, your Royal Highness?” asked Gelu.

“Make it quick. I want to get into those mountains before nightfall.”

“I do not believe this is wise, your Highness. You could meet with an ambush. The woman herself is not to be trusted. She could be allied to the enemy.”

“I am aware of this,” he snapped. “I will watch her carefully. And I will be armed. She will not.”

“But your Highness—”

He raised his hand. “Enough. We move. Now!”

Gelu caught the eyes of the other guards, but no one said anything more.

Zakir paced beneath the Bedouin tent cover, his boots soundless on the soft sand. The small desert encampment at the south end of the Red Valley provided only minimal respite from the windstorm. A table with monitoring and radio equipment had been set up under the canvas, behind a screen. With this equipment his Gurkha militia would track his progress into the mountains.

He’d sent Nikki to wait in another tent while he changed
his robes and organized the loading of supplies onto camels. Zakir had already dismissed the animals’ handler and sent him back to his camp. He did not want anyone from the army aware of his new plans. He trusted only his Gurkhas.

It’s better to die than to be a coward.

That was the historic slogan of the Gurkhas—Nepalese soldiers once designated by the Victorian British as having been descended from a “martial race.” The British military still recruited about 200 Gurkhas each year in one of the toughest and most fiercely contested military selection procedures in the world.

Omair had informed Zakir that 30,000 young men vied for the British Army spots each year, and the private military company for which Omair contracted had managed to start recruiting several hundred of these Gurkhas annually—men who’d either been overlooked in the selection process or soldiers who had chosen to retire from the ranks of the British military. Tenzing Gelu was such a man. He had a long history with the Brits, but had chosen to leave in favor of a more lucrative freelance profession.

Omair had personally selected a cadre of these Gurkhas for Zakir’s protection after the assassination of their parents and brother, and he’d put them through a rapid Arabic learning process, which was still ongoing.

Zakir’s Gurkhas had no emotional or historical connection to the locals of Al Na’Jar and would be loyal only to him for the duration of their contract.

While Zakir had told Nikki that he knew little of Omair’s movements, it was only partially true. Omair remained in constant contact with his brothers even though the exact nature of his whereabouts was kept secret. Omair could just as easily be deep in some South American jungle as he could be moving undercover among the top society of Washington, D.C., or in London.

But one thing Zakir did know was that once Omair had taken on a mission he’d stop at nothing until his jambiya had tasted the blood of his quarry.

Zakir flicked out his wrist and checked his watch. He wanted to leave within the next ten minutes.

The canvas walls of her tent flapped in gusts, and sand scraped at the outsides. Nerves danced inside Nikki’s stomach. Would she remember the way into the village? It all seemed so different in the blowing sand.

She plunked down onto the military camp cot and began running through the landmarks in her mind, but suddenly something in the atmosphere shifted and the hair on the back of her neck prickled—someone had entered the tent.

But before she could spin around, a cold blade pressed against her throat and a hand clamped over mouth, skin rough, dry. “Do not make a sound,” a man’s voice hissed in her ear in English.

She nodded slightly, afraid that any movement would cause the knife to slice into her skin. And slowly it dawned on her—it was the long edge of a kukri blade that was being held at her throat.

Gradually the man eased pressure of the blade, came around to face her, a finger on his lips reminding her to remain silent. Shock raced through her as she recognized Zakir’s lead Gurkha. Tenzing Gelu.

“Listen carefully,” he said, blade still under her throat. Sweat began to prickle over her lip.

“You’ll be the only one with his Royal Highness for the next two days, possibly more,” he said quietly, in perfect English. “You will watch the king’s every move and report back to me when you return. I need to know exactly what the king says to the Berbers, what promises he makes them. I want to
know the names of the men he talks to. I want to know what those men tell the king of their alliances with other tribes in the region. Everything. And you will not breathe one word of this to him.”

“What on earth makes you think I will agree to do this?” she whispered.

“If you don’t, your children will die.”

She quieted, glancing at the tent entrance, a new kind of fear rising in her.

“If I even think you have breathed a word of this to the king, not even he will be able to protect your orphans.”

“I don’t believe you,” she hissed.

Sand whipped the tent flap, sending it clapping against the side panel.

He bent close, his breath bitter, the kukri pressing tighter against her throat.

“Are you ready to gamble with their lives—the fourteen-year-old’s in particular? Because I will start with her.”

She swallowed, bitter bile and hatred rising in her throat. She glared at the man’s eyes and saw no emotion at all. How did he know about Samira? Then it hit her—he’d been one of the guards who dragged her from Zakir’s chambers. He’d have heard Nikki’s desperate plea to the king. He knew just how much Samira meant to her.

“Why are you doing this? You’re not even from Al Na’Jar,” she said, voice low, eyes crackling, fear racing with growing rage. “This is not your country. This is not your political battle. What’s in this for you?”

He smiled, one side of his mouth curving a little higher. His teeth were in a perfect white row, small. “I’m a mercenary, Ms. Hunt. I work for the highest bidder.”

“Who is that bidder?”

He laughed softly, but with no light in his eyes. And she was scared.

“I’ll expect that report when you return.”

Nikki glared at him, shaking inside. The man removed the blade from her throat and backed out of her tent.

Zakir handed Nikki a camel rope. She took it with her right hand, where he’d noticed the calluses. Clucking her tongue, she coaxed the animal to lower itself to the ground and climbed expertly into the saddle, clicking her tongue again. The camel protested, pulling back its lips and showing yellowed teeth, yet she managed to make it rise like a complaining wobbly leviathan. Zakir repressed a small smile.

He felt a grudging admiration for the way she’d stuck to her guns in arguing with him.

He also liked the way she’d felt under him. But he quashed that thought. “Ready?” he called to her over the wind.

She nodded, looking a little pale.

Zakir frowned. Every now and then he felt in his gut she was telling the truth. But then there were signs that once again made him nervous. He’d have to watch her carefully.

He mounted his own camel and flicked his tasseled whip, calling his dogs to heel behind him, and they began to move in a small convoy. Zakir allowed Nikki to take the lead so he could watch her back. A third camel, roped to his, took up the rear with the medical supplies and gifts for the Berbers, along with ropes and tent equipment.

The wind grew harsh as they neared the Rock of Swords. Zakir wound his kaffiyeh over his nose and mouth to keep the dust out. His eyes were hidden behind shades. He looked like an ordinary Berber dressed in plain black, riding his camel.

Nikki also wound her scarf like a turban over her face and hunched into the hot wind.

They rounded the Rock of Swords and began to climb a very narrow and steep path into the mountains.