Handcuffed to the Sheikh, Too Read online

  He quickly ran the scenarios in his mind again, factoring in his brother's movements.

  On one hand, Walid was more likely to discover his absence. However, Walid could be more easily managed. Walid would literally be under Zallaqi control.

  Ithnan smiled to himself and gave Jibril instructions. If Walid became a problem, he was to be fed the same cover story as anyone else. If the prince of Askar did not believe the tale, Jibril was to delay. Politely, of course. Several key mechanical parts had been removed from the Askari royal helicopter on arrival. Walid could not leave without Ithnan's consent. Jibril would tell the Askari contingent the craft was broken and would take days to repair. His brother would see through the deception, but Ithnan did not particularly care.

  Should Askar declare war on Zallaq, Walid would be the most valuable hostage in history. The thought gave him a great deal of satisfaction.

  "As for the plan," he said, "I see no reason not to proceed."

  The presence of the ruler of Ramadi was less than ideal. But the constant diplomatic missions between Zallaq and other countries meant there was never a moment when he did not have important guests in his palace.

  Then, for no reason, Miss Gwendolyn Spencer's face burst into his mind once again. She had captured his attention, though he did not know if he wished to teach her a lesson in the selfishness of the human heart, or protect her innocence from the true nature of people.

  What he did know was that he desired her.

  The plan he had worked on since Devoe announced the pipeline project months ago shifted and re-formed.

  "But," he told his security chief, "there will be some slight alterations."

  TWO

  Where was she again? Gwen snuggled into the mounded pillows on her bed. They seemed strangely solid and warm, but she shut her eyes tighter and filed that problem away to work on later.

  First things first. She should know where she was. After all, they'd been here six days.

  There had just been so many trips with her father. Sometimes it felt like she had a different bed every week. Bangkok, Bonaire, Dubai... Dubai? Was that it?

  Ohhh. She cringed, everything flooding back to her. Not Dubai. Zallaq. Zallaq that belonged to the white-hot smoking sheikh who had looked at her—when she returned his property to him—like he was thinking of committing her to an asylum.

  You are lying. And not very well. He seemed less offended by the deceit than irritated at her lack of skill at dishonesty.

  Well, he would soon find out there was a much better liar in her family.

  Her father had dragged her on this "fact-finding" trip for his potential pipeline from the region's rich oil fields to a port city on the Gulf. He'd told the sheikhs of both Zallaq and Askar he considered them the top candidate, so both countries had invited him to enjoy their hospitality. Her father had accepted both invitations. Two royal sheikhs wining and dining him to persuade him to choose their country? To a man who had quit school to deliver newspapers to help his family, rich men fighting over him was heaven. Her father had never gotten over his resentment of the tiny tips he'd received from the richest houses on his route. Now, he made rich people pay and pay, even though he was one of the wealthiest men in Chicago.

  But couldn’t he have done this trip on his own and left her back in her cubicle?

  Sure, her father might own the company she worked for, but she was more comfortable in the HR department, meeting fresh candidates for interviews, than she'd ever be at a high society party. She'd trade her dozen designer ball gowns from Paris for a business casual pantsuit any day.

  They didn't have to be on the plane to Askar until noon and the lack of light streaming through her windows told her the sun hadn't risen yet. She had hours before she had to face the sheikh with the dry sense of humor and devastating eyes.

  She tried to roll over in the bed, but something stopped her. The pillow. It wasn't shifting at all. So she threw a leg over and snuggled in. Despite the weird shape and the strange firmness, the pillow seemed to fit great, except for squishing her ear uncomfortably.

  She was trying to get a better hold when she heard something that made her freeze in place.

  Tha-ump. Tha-ump. Tha-ump.

  The pillow made a sound deep inside. It also rose and fell in a regular pattern, like... breathing.

  Not a pillow.

  A man. There was a man in her bed.

  She popped open an eye and instantly recognized his profile. Not just any man.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled in dire warning. Thanks, but too late, she thought drily.

  He started to stretch, setting off a fresh wave of panic. Before she could react, a muscled arm bound her waist and hauled her on top of him. She found herself nose to nose with His Royal Majesty. And thigh to groin with aroused male.

  With his eyes closed, he murmured something sweet and sexy in Arabic. She froze in place as a demanding hand cupped the back of her skull, bringing her face even closer. The fog in her brain cleared too late for her to stop him from doing what he intended. To kiss her.

  Perfect lips touched her own.

  He brushed his mouth against hers, whisper soft. The hand at the back of her head was insistent. But his kiss was not. The kiss of a man who was sure of himself, who knew his strength would get him what he wanted, but instead wanted a woman to desire him.

  He sent warmth through her body like hot desert wind.

  She was aware of every inch of solid muscle beneath her, and all too aware of the hand sliding down her neck, trailing down her shoulder, slipping down her back, moving to her—

  She made a strange squeaking noise.

  The man's eyelids opened, revealing a very distinctive set of eyes. His family was famed for them. She'd seen the pattern repeated in generations of portraits hanging in the gallery of his marble and glass palace.

  The brilliant golden edges of his irises deepened to the darkest brown, so dark you couldn't see where the black pupil began. Those eyes gave him an otherworldly, alien look. They made him cold, and distant as the stars.

  Before insanity set in, she rolled off him.

  Except... she found herself trying to steady herself in empty space. She floated in nothingness for a very long millisecond, tensing for her inevitable harsh landing, then overbalanced and tumbled to the floor with a blunt clunk.

  Pain thudded through her, obliterating the warmth of his kiss. An injured grunt escaped her.

  The mattress, which she now identified a thin thing supported by a rusty-looking metal frame, squeaked a warning he was moving. An instant later, his flawless face appeared, looking down at her with an imperious scowl.

  "Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing in my bed?"

  He will eat you alive, warned Ithnan's brother, in her head. Do not trust him.

  ***

  "I repeat, what are you doing in my bed?"

  As Gwen sat up, she reached behind to cradle the back of her head. At least she tried to. Something hard and cold pressed into her wrist and kept her from moving far. She looked at the hand, willing her eyes to focus. One side of a set of handcuffs shackled her to...

  Oh crap. To him.

  What the hell was going on?

  He swung his long, expensively trousered legs over the edge of the bed. Ah yes, he'd asked what she was doing in his bed. No idea, Your Majesty.

  "Ah," he said. "You are the spy."

  Her back went ramrod straight at the accusation. "I told you before, I am not a—"

  She blew out a breath. She couldn’t really blame him for bringing that up again. She'd gone out to the balcony to give him back the Heart of Zallaq, and when his brother burst in, she couldn't interrupt. So she hid. "I got stuck behind a potted plant, that's all."

  The sheikh began to tie his bow tie. Masterfully. Without a mirror. Fifteen seconds after waking up. But because his left hand was handcuffed to her right, she had to scramble to her knees to keep her wrist from being wrenched. "I will pretend to
believe you. For now. We will discuss why you were kissing me after you explain where have you taken us."

  "You kissed me. And I didn't take us anywhere." She glanced around the room, which wasn't completely dark anymore. At the other end, six feet off the ground, was a small window, gridded with solid metal bars. Golden dust motes floated in the light filtering through. "I have no clue where we are. The last thing I remember is going to bed in your palace, mister."

  The sheikh's eyebrows slammed together above his patrician nose. "Mister?" he asked, as if the word tasted of stale garlic.

  Gwen bit the inside of her cheek. He ruled a country, and he was her host. She should treat him with more respect. Well, screw that. Someone had kidnapped them and shackled them to each other. Not much room for respect there.

  "Get used to it," she told him, and jingled the chain of their restraints. "We're stuck together with each other. I’m not calling you 'Your Majesty' for the next who knows how long. Do you know where we are?"

  Something was off. Well, everything, actually. Nothing was right here. She scanned the room quickly. They weren't in the palace, unless they were in a dungeon that hadn't been on the tour.

  He narrowed those half-gold eyes at her, then checked out the room. If the Royal Palace of Zallaq, a light and elegant fusion of centuries-old marble and modern concept glass, had an opposite, this room was it. Instead of entire walls of glass to make you feel the room floated on the edge of a cliff, a little natural light trickled in from one tiny barred window. A single buzzing light bulb glowed in the center of the room, leaving the corners in shadow. Unlike the intricate mosaics of the palace, cheap tile in mottled beige covered the floor.

  The rustic wooden table and mismatched chairs had seen better days—many, many better days. The thin, uncovered mattress seemed new. Well, that was a relief, since they'd spent at least part of the night there. No bedbugs or other little friends, at least.

  "I am afraid not," he said. Calmly. How in the hell could he be so calm?

  "Is it part of the palace? Maybe an outbuilding or something?" she asked, hope in her voice. Maybe someone was pulling a prank. A dumb one.

  "If such a building were on my palace grounds, I would tear it down immediately. No, actually, I would fire the royal decorator first." He didn't smile. "Then tear it down."

  She bit her lip. "So, if I didn't bring us here"—she rattled the handcuff chain—"and you didn't bring us here, then..."

  Her stomach shriveled. She'd gone to sleep in the palace and woken up handcuffed to a guy she barely knew, in a place she'd never seen before. This was all kinds of bad.

  She caught intense eyes staring at her like she was an interesting painting in a museum. Knowing her reactions were on display made her stiffen up and face facts.

  "Okay, then. I guess there's two options. Either we've been kidnapped or we're in a zombie movie and on the other side of the door are two thousand ravening undead waiting to eat our brains," she said. "How are your decapitation skills? I suppose they might be a little rusty, since you can just order people's heads taken off."

  "It has been a while since I had to do my own dirty work," he answered without hesitation. "But I think I could manage a few dozen. I will leave the rest to you."

  "Oh, no problem, then." She rattled the handcuffs. "These must be just to slow us down."

  He stared at her. He took in every inch of her face and then her body, with the self-assurance of someone who was used to ignoring any social grace he found inconvenient.

  She remembered she wasn't wearing a bra. Or underwear.

  Crap. While he still wore his tuxedo from the party, complete with the golden serpent pin on his lapel, she couldn’t have dressed more casually if she tried. When she traveled with her father, she dressed in designer outfits from the priciest Paris boutiques, even if she felt like a total fraud in them. She'd learned to keep up the pretense to please her father. But in the privacy of her own room, she indulged in the one thing that made her feel like herself.

  Her Tom the Toad pajamas. Every night, when she slipped into them, she returned to herself, to Gwen the normal, ordinary girl, instead of Gwen the heiress, daughter of a billionaire entrepreneur.

  She wore the pants now, paired with a tight-fitting pink t-shirt. And like every night, she'd divided her long brown hair into two Pippi Longstocking braids.

  He looked ready for diplomatic reception. She looked ready for a fifth-grade all-girl sleepover. At least she wasn't barefoot, even if all she had on was a pair of thin ballet-style slippers.

  "The handcuffs are obviously to slow us down." He leaned closer to her. He smelled like sand warmed by the sun. "They must have heard of your superior demon-hunting skills. The zombie hordes are frightened of us. We have them where we want them."

  As much as she loved him playing along with her story, they had to face reality. "So... we've been kidnapped."

  The corners of his mouth turned down. "I am afraid so. But we have nothing to fear, Miss Spencer."

  "Gwen."

  "Short for Gwendolyn, as I recall," he said.

  "Everybody calls me Gwen," she told him. "I guess we should check the door. I'll feel like an idiot, since it has to be locked."

  "How would you feel if we did not try the door and later found out we were not locked in?" he asked.

  "Good point," she had to admit.

  The knob only moved a half an inch when he twisted. The deep breath she released surprised her—had she expected the door to be open? No, not really. Yet some small part of her had hoped.

  "Whoever is holding us must not know we're awake," she said. "We might as well get the party started."

  She raised her fist to pound on the door to summon their kidnappers. Before she could, he enclosed her hand in his much larger one. Sensation zinged through her fist, up through her arm.

  His firm grip froze her in place. "No."

  "No?"

  "We should not appear desperate. We should not show them any fear or any desire to leave here. Let them believe we are patient and content to stay as long as they are."

  Stay. Here? With him?

  She looked at the handcuffs.

  Like this?

  They'd have to spend every minute of the day together.

  Not to mention the nights.

  He'll eat you alive.

  She gulped.

  But he was right. They needed to lull their captors into a sense of complacency. Then, bam! Escape the first chance they got.

  She nodded, lowering her hand. She could wait. For now.

  "How do you know what to do?" she asked. "Why aren't you bothered? I think if you weren't keeping my mind off all the danger, I'd freak out right now."

  "You are far from freaking out, Gwendolyn," he pointed out. "You make jokes about the zombie apocalypse."

  "I'd love to be screaming and pounding on doors right now. So why are you so calm? Especially for someone who's used to everyone doing what he wants them to."

  "Perhaps"—with his one free hand, he adjusted his tie—"it is because I am so used to being held against my will."

  ***

  That was when the armed men burst in.

  The door crashed back on its hinges. Gwen jumped back from the door as far as the handcuff chain let her. Ithnan only tensed slightly.

  The empty room filled with bristling black weapons and restrained tension. The first man through the door had an assault rifle at the ready, aimed at her chest. A smaller pistol hung from the belt holding up dusty Levi's. A faded gray scarf was wrapped in a kind of turban around his head, with one wing of fabric drawn across his face, leaving only his eyes and an inch of his nose visible.

  Hatred gleamed a dull light from those eyes.

  I'm going to die, she thought. The second Ithnan turns his back, Gray Scarf will slit my throat.

  Four other men poured in through the small doorway. Checked kufiya scarves, the kind Yasser Arafat had once made famous, covered their faces. Three red, one black. Each man c
arried what looked like a well-used weapon. A couple of them had knives or other guns strapped to various body parts. But nothing made her feel less safe than the dead fire in Gray Scarf's eyes.

  Without the covered faces and guns, they could have been any citizen of Zallaq, walking down the streets of Ismek. Several wore shirts with designer American labels, the polo ponies and alligator icons wildly out of place.

  No one else raised his gun at Ithnan and Gwen. Just Gray Scarf.

  One guy in a red scarf elbowed past Gray Scarf, shooting his companion a dirty look. The other men arranged themselves on either side, flanking him.

  The leader, clearly.

  Did he nod slightly, as if acknowledging the man who was his king? Hmm. Maybe she was imagining things.

  He spoke to Ithnan in Arabic.

  Ithnan responded and took her hand.

  Listening to the communication and not being able to understand made her feel helpless. Her free hand fisted and her fingernails dug into her own palm. She wanted to scream and curse and assert herself. She wanted to piss these guys off as much as they'd pissed her off.

  But they were the ones with the guns. If she made them mad, they could shoot her. They had a more valuable hostage. She was expendable.

  The way Ithnan exuded confidence kept her from freaking out. The warmth of his dry palm against her moist one gave her a false feeling he could control their situation. If his ancestors were anything like him, she could see why they'd become kings.

  So, while Ithnan spoke with the leader, she concentrated on blanking her expression and cataloguing whatever info she could on these guys. Which was mostly, and uselessly, their feet. The majority of people—men and women both—in Zallaq wore sandals, and so did these guys. One of the men in the red scarves had an extra-long pinkie toe on his left foot, which she burned into her memory. Another had a bush of Hobbit hair all over his feet. The third desperately needed a pedicure to take care of those wild yellow nails. She couldn't identify him later by those nails, since he could change them in a minute with a clipper. Or a chainsaw.