Captive of the Desert King. Donna YoungЧитать онлайн книгу.
much with her. Jarek had allowed nothing more than a miniature recorder for interview notes. Which meant only questions about Taer, now that Taer had agreed to deal with the United States over the small country’s crude oil supply.
The picture restriction, she could handle. Even the cell phone restriction.
The personal questions were going to be tough.
No fuss, no obstacles. In and out before their Annual Independence Ball, Jarek had insisted.
Or no admittance.
“Sarah, what happened to your purse?”
Sarah followed Rashid’s finger to a hole in the side of her bag.
“I don’t know.” Quickly, she unzipped the purse and dug through its contents.
“It’s a bullet,” Rashid exclaimed. “Your purse stopped a bullet.”
Her fingers touched her wallet. A brand-new vintage, slim envelope wallet that she’d bought for the trip. But when she pulled it out, the leather nearly fell apart in her hand. Tucked between shattered credit cards and a ripped checkbook, was the slug.
“I guess it did,” she agreed, then dug through the rest of her things until she found her digital voice recorder. One side showed a small dent but no other marks. She pressed the record button.
“Does it work still?”
“Let’s see.” Sarah pressed the playback button. Does it work still?
A smile tugged at the prince’s lips. “You are very fortunate. If you hadn’t had your purse, you’d have been shot in the back.”
“I’d have to agree, Your Highness.” Sarah fished through the rest of her things and after a few minutes decided only her wallet had suffered any real damage. She tried not to think about how close that bullet had come to severing her spine.
As if reading her mind, Ping snorted and shook her head.
Sarah laughed, very much aware her reaction was more nerves than humor. “You can say that again.”
“She does that for attention,” Rashid admitted. “My father says she is vain. But she is allowed to be since she is a beautiful horse.”
“She is very beautiful,” Sarah agreed. “May I pet her?”
Rashid considered the request for a long moment. “Yes. But know that sometimes she bites the grooms when they handle her.”
Sarah ran her fingers over Ping’s nose, making sure the horse would catch the scent of Jarek’s scarf.
“She likes you,” Rashid commented, obviously impressed. “She doesn’t like anyone except me. And my father, of course.”
“I think she only likes me because you are standing here,” Sarah assured him. “But I’m glad she didn’t bite me.”
Feeling her muscles tighten, Sarah stepped back and bent over sideways to stretch out the stiffness. “Do you ride often, Your Highness?”
“Everyday, if I can. Taaj and Ping are Arabian horses. So they are conditioned for the desert,” Rashid replied, watching Sarah with an idle curiosity. “They enjoy it, too.”
“Do you and your father ride often together?”
“No,” Rashid admitted slowly. “He is far too busy. So I try not to bother him.”
Rashid’s statement came out with a practiced, almost robotic ease.
“Is that what your father told you?”
“No. Not really.” Rashid pretended to straighten Ping’s bridle and didn’t say any more.
Sarah decided to change the subject. “You know, I used to ride a long time ago.” She shifted, then stretched to the opposite side.
“You haven’t forgotten,” Rashid commented with six-year-old diplomacy. “You held your seat well enough.”
“Gee, thanks,” Sarah murmured, then straightened.
Rashid laughed. “You did look funny bouncing around, though, Sarah.” He froze, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure it was funny. And I prefer to be called Sarah,” she replied, winking. “Our secret?”
“Yes.” Rashid tried to wink, but succeeded only in making both eyes flutter.
Jarek approached, effectively cutting off Sarah’s laughter.
“Rashid, water Ping over by Taaj, please.” His words were even and contained no censure, surprising Sarah. He handed his son a feed bag filled with water. “Make sure you drink some water, too, Rashid.”
“Yes, Papa.” Rashid paused, noting the rifle Jarek held in his other hand. “You think the Al Asheera are close?”
“No. But I want to be sure,” Jarek replied, solemnly. “I’m going to the nearest ridge. I want to check our tracks and get my bearings. We cannot risk mistakes.”
Jarek waited until Rashid led his horse away, before he turned to Sarah. “I realize we are caught in unusual circumstances. But don’t think for a moment my demands have changed.”
Sarah’s smile thinned into a tight, angry line. “You mean the big, bad reporter might churn up your son a bit emotionally, just to get some inside information?”
“Exactly. I will not tolerate any infringement upon my son’s privacy,” Jarek remarked.
“You don’t have to worry. I only eat little boys on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she retorted, jabbing at his arrogance. “Today is Thursday, Your Majesty.”
“Be careful, Miss Kwong.” Jarek advanced, crowding her, forcing her head back to meet his eyes. Sarah slapped her hand to his chest, dug her heels into the sand.
The black eyes flickered over her hand, then back to her face, telling her what he thought of her stand against him.
“I eat female reporters every day of the week,” he warned, each syllable a low, husky rasp that sent awareness skittering up her spine.
Pride stopped her fingers from curling into his shirt. But it was the flash of desire in the deepest part of Jarek’s gaze that made them tremble.
Jarek swung away, leaving her to watch him in stunned silence. She crossed her arms over her chest, knowing the self-protective move wouldn’t have helped her one bit if he’d followed through on his threat.
“You shouldn’t make him angry,” Rashid admonished, coming to stand at her side. “It won’t help our situation.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?”
“Six.”
“Sure you’re not thirty?” she commented wryly and watched Jarek crest the dune. If anyone was comfortable in their skin, it was Jarek Al Asadi. His muscles were well-defined and fluid, his stride purposeful.
“My Uncle Quamar said I have an old soul with new bones,” Rashid said, shrugging. “Whatever that means.”
“It means you are smart for your age.” Sarah pulled him to her side for a quick, reassuring hug.
“Sarah, can I tell you something?” Rashid’s tone turned serious.
“Sure, sport.”
“Papa didn’t know I had followed him from the palace into the desert this morning,” Rashid confessed. “I snuck past my guards and the horse handlers.”
“You snuck past…into the desert…” Sarah stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. All the scenarios of what could have happened to the child raced through Sarah’s mind.
“Sweet Lord,” she whispered.