Captive of the Desert King. Donna YoungЧитать онлайн книгу.
little body stiff, his face set. “So if my father seems angry, it’s because of me. I’m sorry.”
THE ANGER RODE HIGH on Jarek’s shoulders, put the rigidness in his long, quick strides. But it was desire that constricted his gut, left him aroused.
And made him run, damn it. For the second time in one day.
Jarek stopped just short of the ridge top. Anything higher would make him a target.
The Al Asheera were out there. Not far behind them, he was sure.
Scowling, Jarek narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare, peered through the rippling heat waves that floated above the desert floor and shimmered against the sandstone cliffs just beyond.
The wind had died hours before. Sweat trickled from his temples, down his cheeks, itched the scarred skin of his back.
He sat back on his haunches, snatched off his head scarf and hit it against his thigh.
Laughter drifted toward him. Hers. His son’s. Both light, both a little hesitant—as with any budding friendship.
Jarek grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was his son to befriend an ex-lover. Especially a woman reporter with heavy-lidded cat eyes and a smart mouth.
Forcing his frustration back, Jarek studied the terrain. The Sahara was little more than a vast, empty void of beige, spotted here and there with tufts of brittle brush, cracked earth and broken rock.
He searched for movement—a stirring of dust, a glint of steel, branches that had no business moving in the thick, oppressive air.
At one time Jarek had been military. A necessary vocation for the royal. A man could not lead, unless he also served, his father always said.
Training and instincts told him there would be trackers sent through the smoke. Men who understood the barest scratch against stone, the slightest swirl of sand that was once a footprint.
He slid his rifle across his thighs, let the weight of it remind him he had killed before and would likely kill again before they reached safety.
With a hiss of displeasure, a lizard scurried from its shaded cover beneath a nearby saltbush.
Jarek hit the sand sideways, his rifle ready, his finger tight on the trigger. A flash of red cloth—no more than a millisecond of warning—and Jarek fired.
The rifle exploded, on its heels came a cry of pain, the thud of a body against the ground.
He crawled on elbows and knees, ignoring the burn of the sand beneath him. Within moments, he reached the Al Asheera soldier.
Jarek’s nostrils flared at the scent of blood and soured sweat. The rifle bullet struck the rebel’s face, leaving torn skin and shattered bone in its place. Quickly, Jarek searched his pockets but found only a few dollars and a small bag of hashish.
A buzzard circled above, his screeches marked his territory for those who needed warning.
“Don’t worry,” Jarek muttered, but already his gaze scanned the immediate perimeter. The Al Asheera always traveled in pairs.
“Where’s your partner?” Jarek asked the dead man. “Running for help?”
Jarek blinked the sweat from his eyes, allowing a moment for the sting to fade. If he tracked the soldier, he’d leave Rashid and Sarah vulnerable. And that was unacceptable.
Instead, he scrambled down the slope, cursing fate with each step.
It was time to run. Again.
The man woke. Tense. Alert. Ready for an attack.
He laid quietly for a moment, listening for the rustle of the tent, the footsteps on the ground outside. A habit he’d developed from childhood. A habit that had saved his life more than once over the years.
“Master Baize. Your guest is here.” The voice pierced through the curtain, its tone deep and heavily accented.
Oruk Baize forced his muscles to relax. “Give me a minute, Roldo, then send him in.”
A quiet sigh caught Oruk’s attention. Slowly, he slid the silk sheet from the warm body beside him. The material hissed over a supple white shoulder, down the slender curves and smooth back to round, naked buttocks.
For a moment, he thought about opening the window flap, allowing the sunlight to pierce the darkness—maybe burn off the stale scent of sex and sweat that still hung heavy in the air. It’d be worth the tongue lashing he’d receive, to see her pale skin heat in temper.
Besides, he might be up for a good fight, he mused, silently. Something he’d grown accustom to over the months, and now actually anticipated.
He threw the sheets back over the woman and stepped from the bed. Seduction, domination. A little of both. The thought made him hard, then annoyed.
Business before pleasure.
Oruk pulled on a pair of dark, silk trousers and zipped them enough to cover his hips. No need to exert too much energy.
After all, this associate would be dead soon.
He stepped through the curtain opening and into the main part of the tent.
Oruk was a big man, with wide shoulders and a deep, barreled chest. His features were that of a soldier—broad, flat and unyielding. But attractive enough to have his bed warmed most nights.
He was the son of a camp follower. Most were, in the Al Asheera. He’d never known his father and barely remembered his mother—a whore who had deserted him when he was nine.
He’d survived like most of his kind. At ten, he’d learned to shoot a gun, throw a knife. By eleven, he’d killed with them.
Oruk walked to the opposite side of the tent and stopped by his teakwood coffee table. Some comforts he refused to give up, even when he was forced to act as a nomad.
That included good whiskey. And even better, a smoke.
He opened a nearby humidor and selected a cigar. Cuban. Expensive. And the only brand he smoked.
The tent rustled. He felt a short gust of wind, heard the hard step of man in a hurry. “Hello, Murad.” He clipped off the end of the cigar and lit it with a match.
“We had a deal, Baize.”
Oruk ignored the slight tone of contempt in the other man’s voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the office?”
He took several deep puffs, but didn’t offer the businessman a cigar. Why waste a good cigar? Oruk thought with derision.
“They escaped from the plane wreckage.”
Murad Al Qassar was a businessman by trade, an accountant by looks. With short trimmed hair and long, thin features, he was the only man Oruk knew who wore a pinstriped suit and a tie to an Al Asheera camp.
“I know,” Oruk finally answered. “Roldo told me.”
Roldo Costo threw himself onto the pile of pillows in the corner of the tent and shrugged. “Things happen.”
Roldo was a little man with greasy hair and rotted teeth. Still, Oruk did not keep him employed for his looks, only for his talents.
“The king decided at the last minute not to meet the reporter in Morocco. There is little we can do about that,” Oruk pointed out.
“I disagree,” Murad snapped.
“The king won’t get away from my men again, Murad.” Roldo took out his knife and began cleaning his fingernails, a habit Oruk knew Murad found disgusting. It was the exact reason why Roldo did it whenever the businessman came around.
“Luckily for us, he was there in the desert,” Roldo