Bodyguard Confessions. Donna YoungЧитать онлайн книгу.
Al Asheera approached.
Quamar waited with his back tight against the wall, the corner only inches from his face.
The man stepped past, his rifle raised. Quamar knocked the weapon away, heard it clatter on the street. He grabbed the man’s head and twisted. The sound of bone cracking split the air.
Anna cringed, fighting back the bile that rose to her throat. Quamar snagged the man’s turban, handed it to her along with the rifle. “Hold this.” He picked up the body and tossed it toward the back of the alleyway as if it were little more than garbage.
After he placed the dead man’s turban on his head, the scarf over his face, he grabbed back the rifle. Hesitating, his eyes bore into hers. “Are you going to faint?”
“I don’t faint,” she responded, swallowing back more bile. Her legs wobbled for a few moments, but she stiffened her knees to stop their shaking. She’d be damned if she gave in to the weakness.
She expected to see anger but she saw nothing but a dark void in the giant’s irises. No emotion. No regret.
Like most weapons, Quamar was clear, concise, cold.
And, God help her, right now she was grateful for it.
He led her through a lobby, decorated tastefully, if not minimally, with scarlet drapes, Persian rugs and the occasional potted plant.
Automatically, Anna moved toward the elevator only to be pulled short by a hand on her shoulder. “Stairs,” Quamar murmured close to her ear.
With quiet feet they climbed each flight of pristine-white steps—the vague scent of ammonia still clinging to its tiles.
Quamar stopped them mid-step. A door creaked somewhere beneath. Someone coughed and Anna’s nerves snapped and sizzled, like live wires beneath her skin. The slap of shoes echoed throughout the stairway only to fade seconds later when another door banged open.
Perspiration beaded at her temples while her muscles remained tight. Only when he tugged her forward again did she dare breathe.
When they reached the seventh floor, Quamar stopped and cracked open the door. A bright light pierced through the semi-dark stairway. Anna squinted until her eyes adjusted.
Quamar studied the hallway with care, noting one Al Asheera at the end of the corridor. The man sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall and a rifle across his lap.
His eyes were closed.
A decoy?
A dozen doors stood between them, six on each side. Each door potentially hiding more Al Asheera.
Quamar studied the doors, looking for any jarred open or for fresh foot tracks by their thresholds.
Anna shifted behind him but otherwise remained silent. The woman was astute and learned quickly. That simple fact might save her life, he thought grimly.
In the stream of light, Quamar placed his forefinger to his lips, then pointed to Anna’s feet. “Stay,” he mouthed.
One short nod told him she understood, but her frown told him, once again, she wasn’t pleased about it.
Soundlessly, Quamar crept down the hall, picking up the light scent of polish, the stronger scent of sweat and tobacco.
The guard’s eyes flickered, then opened. But when he caught sight of Quamar, he scrambled to his feet rather than firing his rifle. A fatal mistake.
Quamar’s knife hit, sinking into the guard’s forehead, his surprised features a death mask as he slumped to the floor.
Expertly, the giant searched the man. Finding nothing, he shoved the body into a nearby utility closet, grabbed his knife and the rifle, then waved Anna forward.
Quamar tapped on the door.
Seconds ticked by. Quamar tapped again.
“Who is it?”
Quamar spoke too low for Anna to hear, but after a few words, the door opened.
A woman, no more than thirty, petite with feathered black hair just past her shoulders, waved them in.
“Quamar.” Relief underlined his name.
Quamar placed a finger to her lips, gave her one of the rifles. With silent steps, he made his way through the apartment, searching the adjoining rooms. A few moments later, he returned and motioned Anna into the apartment.
Tentatively, she glanced around. Luxurious by any standard, the apartment still managed a homey appearance. Muted, jeweled colors of sapphire, emerald and ruby draped the walls, covered the floors. A balanced blend of patterns and solids, mixed with the darker mahogany of the furniture, did more than relax—it soothed the senses.
“Your mother will be out in a moment,” Quamar said, before placing both rifles on a nearby dining table. “I caught her by surprise.”
For the first time, Anna took a good look at her rescuer.
Oh, he was tall, she’d known that. Even in the hospital bed, the blankets and bandages hadn’t been able to hide the height of the man. But they certainly hid the massive strength beneath.
The romantic in her recognized his stance as that of a warrior—taut, tense but poised. To protect, to rescue those he stood guard over—those he deemed defenseless. Her. Rashid.
Broad shoulders and bulging muscles were well defined under the flow of his black robe. Bare-chested, his rich, bronzed skin glistened with sweat and golden undertones where his robe parted into a V, framing the rigid abdominal muscles. He wore his dark pants loose and low on lean hips. But the cotton did little to conceal the firm, tight-muscled thighs beneath.
The woman in her took him in with one, slow stroke of her eye, recognizing instantly the attraction that fluttered in her stomach.
He’d taken off the turban, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. Dark eyebrows framed onyx eyes and long, thick lashes. Their arch, concealed now with a frown, she imagined appeared with a vengeance once his humor surfaced. If he had one.
He kept his head and face clean-shaven, adding a smooth texture to otherwise masculine features. His jaw was chiseled with a slight cleft in his chin—cut from the same stone that carved his high cheekbones, the straight slant of his nose.
His mouth, beautifully sculptured from the Greek gods—hard and sexy, with just enough give to hint at something softer beneath.
“Miss Cambridge, are you all right?”
Startled, Anna looked up to catch Quamar studying her. The black deepened enough to indicate he’d been watching her awhile.
“I’m sorry.” Heat flushed her cheeks. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“How about you, Quamar?” the woman asked, frowning as she glanced between the couple.
“I am fine, Sandra.” Quamar’s half smile only brought a raised eyebrow from his friend. He bent down and kissed the woman’s lips. A brief kiss, one of reassurance. Not passion.
Sandra’s leather-brown irises narrowed with concern. “I’ll just make sure you all are. If you don’t mind.” She walked across the room and grabbed a large black bag.
“Anna, this is Doctor Sandra Haddad,” Quamar stated when the woman returned. “Her father, Omar, is the physician to the royal family. Sandra is Taer’s coroner.”
“My father? Is he…” Sandra paused, unable to go further.
“The Al Asheera won’t harm your father, Sandra.” An older woman stepped from a nearby hallway. Her accent placed her as British. Older by at least thirty years, her skin showed little of her age. She was trim and petite, barely passing Anna’s shoulder. A glance from mother to daughter showed they had the same hairline, the same brown eyes. “He is too valuable. There is need of him.” And, Anna noted, the same stubborn line in their brow.
The