Czytaj książkę: «Desert Justice»
“Can’t you simply take no for an answer?” Simone snapped.
He lifted their joined hands. “Not when you tremble like this.”
Her hand wasn’t the only part of her quaking with pleasure. She was glad Markaz didn’t know the full extent of his effect on her. “Read my lips. I don’t want—”
Before she could complete the sentence, his mouth crushed hers. As he deepened the kiss, the last of her resistance vanished. He felt the change when she stopped trying to free her hand and curled her fingers tighter around his.
He lifted his head, his eyes flaming. “You were going to tell me something.”
She shook her head, her expression dazed. “I was, but it’s gone now.”
He trailed kisses along the line of her jaw, her shivers of pleasure echoing his own tremors as she arched against him. “Good. For now I want you to think only of me.”
The gaze she directed at him was troubled. “And later?”
“There is no later, only now.”
Dear Reader,
When I was a little girl, my family moved to Australia from England. My adopted country had different customs, accents, a different social structure and a landscape alien to anything I’d known, vast and untamed, the earth red where I’d only known green. Much as I loved (and still do) this wonderful frontier country, adapting was a challenge. Now I wouldn’t live anywhere else, and have explored Australia from coast to coast with my husband, a former crocodile hunter, making fascinating discoveries at every turn.
This may explain why my heroines often find themselves in unusual settings or situations where they also have to sink or swim. Invariably, they swim, with a gorgeous man right alongside. In this book, I wanted to create a desert warrior worthy of a headstrong, capable Aussie heroine. His kingdom also had to be something special to equal her homeland. I hope you find both as enticing as she does.
Best,
Valerie
Desert Justice
Valerie Parv
MILLS & BOON
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VALERIE PARV
With twenty million copies of her books sold, including three Waldenbooks bestsellers, it’s no wonder Valerie Parv is known as Australia’s queen of romance and is the recognized media spokesperson for all things romantic. Valerie is married to her own romantic hero, Paul, a former crocodile hunter in Australia’s tropical north.
These days he’s a cartoonist and the two live in the country’s capital city of Canberra, where both are volunteer zoo guides, sharing their love of animals with visitors from all over the world. Valerie continues to write her page-turning novels because they affirm her belief in love and happy endings. As she says, “Love gives you wings, romance helps you fly.” Keep up with Valerie’s latest releases at www.silromanceauthors.com.
To Drew, with thanks for his generosity, and to my agent, Linda Tate, for her patience and belief in this story.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Chapter 1
From his hiding place among the ruins of the ancient castle known as Al-Qasr, the business-suited man studied the foreign tourist through powerful binoculars. He was almost disappointed to find that she wasn’t the one he’d come to kill.
As she spoke boldly to a male guard, the watcher’s lip curled in distaste. When he ruled Nazaar, such wanton behavior would be punished. Female beauty like hers would be hidden from men’s eyes, saving them from the sinful lust he felt stirring in his loins.
Should he kill this woman, too, as an example to all temptresses? He touched the vial of poison in his pocket. There was enough for her as well as his intended target. Why not start as he meant to go on?
Simone Hayes felt her heartbeat quicken as she saw the motorcade arrive at Al-Qasr. As she’d hoped, the fleet of Rolls Royce cars pulled up close to where a silk cordon separated the tourists from the royal party. Unlike the expectant crowd around her, she wasn’t waiting for a glimpse of His Royal Highness Sheikh Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari, hereditary monarch of Nazaar.
Nevertheless, her gaze was attracted by a pennant bearing the royal coat of arms fluttering from the lead car. Then the sheikh himself emerged from the vehicle. Unlike most of his entourage, Markaz al Nazaari had no beard to reduce the impact of a strong, unyielding profile that would have looked at home on a Roman coin. His upright bearing and assured movements suggested an enviable ease with who and what he was. Simone didn’t need to be any closer to feel the air of absolute authority he projected.
Applause followed him as he was welcomed by the director of the Al-Qasr, an ancient fortress complex in the desert, now a popular tourist attraction. In contrast to the intense light, everything about the sheikh looked dark, from the glimpse of night-dark hair and brows visible under his traditional headdress, to his burnished olive skin. She couldn’t see his eyes as he approached the receiving line, but she would bet they were dark, too. He looked about as relaxed as a trap waiting to be sprung, she thought with uncharacteristic fancy.
Out of professional interest, she itched to get a better look at the mishlah he wore over his white dishdasha. The mishlah, a transparent black surcoat with exquisitely embroidered gold edges, was only worn by royals, sheikhs and potentates. On his head was the haik, a long stream of white cloth held in place by an i’qal, a black band threaded with gold.
Taller than the men around him with the exception of a giant who stayed glued to his boss’s side, the sheikh looked exactly how Simone had imagined a prince of the desert should look.
She had to make an effort to switch her attention to the guards and attendants surrounding the sheikh. Could her father’s half brother be among them, as her inquiries had led her to hope?
Unfortunately, every one of the sheikh’s party wore impeccable—and identical—white dishdashas, the traditional neck-to-ankle male garment in Nazaar. Only their roving eyes and the tiny black earpieces linked to wires disappearing inside their clothing distinguished them from the other Nazaari men she’d seen when she explored the ancient site earlier.
The man she sought had a distinctive tattoo of a coiled snake around his right wrist, but the sleeves of their dishdashas fell over the men’s hands. How was she supposed to get a look at their wrists?
She hadn’t expected to be so distracted by the sheikh that he and several members of his party were inside the main building by the time she snapped out of her reverie. Now what was she going to do? She’d already been told that no visitors were allowed inside while the sheikh inspected some recently completed restoration work on the famous tourist attraction. She would have to try again to spot her half uncle when the royal party emerged from the main building.
The inspection would last exactly forty-five minutes, she’d been told by an attendant, then the sheikh would be entertained to lunch under an elaborate marquee erected between the rose-colored buildings.
Around her the crowd was dispersing, heading for the air-conditioned café or into the other monuments that were still open to the public. Simone had explored some of them before it became too hot.
Although she had Nazaari blood and the Australian climate should have prepared her, she found the baking heat of the desert more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. She decided to freshen up at the restroom alongside the café, then have a cold drink before resuming her study of the sheikh’s party. This time she would try to keep her mind on her mission, she promised herself.
The most pressing was to find her father’s half brother who’d stayed in Nazaar when her parents had fled to Australia after her father’s life was threatened for writing editorials supporting Markaz’s father, Kemal. Ali al Hasa had agreed with the old sheikh’s efforts to drag Nazaar into the twentieth century, but Kemal had been assassinated for his efforts, along with his older son, forcing Markaz to return from living in America and take over the reins.
Her other purpose was to source new designs and materials for her thriving, Internet-based heirloom embroidery business. Her mother, a skilled seamstress, had stimulated Simone’s fascination with Middle Eastern crafts. She’d allowed herself a week to track down Yusef, and another to focus on her business, but the first week was almost up and this was as far as she’d come.
Simone stopped long enough to remove her sun visor and fan herself with it, for all the good it did. Before leaving Australia she’d had her heavy curtain of pale gold hair cut to chin length. Now the strands curled damply in the heat. Her father had teased her mother about their only daughter’s golden coloring. Fortunately her features left her parentage in no doubt. Her nose and chin were as well defined as her father’s, while her long lashes and full lips were inherited from Sara. She also had Ali’s energy and commitment, demonstrated in the success of her business.
In Australia he’d changed their family name from al Hasa to Hayes, settling at Port Lincoln on the fringe of Australia’s great desert, the Nullarbor Plain, the landscape most like his homeland. There Ali had started an Arabic newsletter for expatriates. Simone had worked with him for a few years, polishing her language skills, although they still left a lot to be desired in her opinion. When he’d taken the newsletter online, she’d decided it was time to do her own thing, also using the Internet. Ali had been her strongest supporter.
Sadness yawned inside her for her father, brought back no doubt by being surrounded by men who reminded her so much of him. After everything Ali and Sara had gone through making a new life for themselves and their daughter, the ultimate cruelty had been having his life ended by a hit-and-run driver. By his side as she usually was, Sara had suffered a broken leg and bruising, but had recovered.
While Sara’s physical injuries had healed, her mind had been slower to recover. She had plunged into a clinical depression that nothing so far had been able to relieve. Thinking of her in the nursing home in Port Lincoln, Simone felt another wave of sadness sweep over her. She hadn’t wanted to leave her mother in her present condition, but Sara was in good hands and had begged Simone to find out what had happened to the young relative they’d left behind in Nazaar. Yusef al Hasa would be almost fifty now, no longer the young hothead her mother remembered. At twenty-eight, Simone herself was older than Yusef had been when her parents left Nazaar. They’d wanted him to come with them, but he’d joined the rebels opposing the reform process.
How had he made the leap from rebel to sheikh’s guard, Simone wondered. Had he finally been convinced that Markaz’s father was right in wanting to give his people more freedom, especially the women? Or had Yusef simply grown weary of fighting a losing battle?
Nazaar was still far from being a free country, but from her parents Simone knew things had improved greatly in the last thirty years. Women were no longer considered the property of men, and could drive cars and pursue careers, although from what Simone had seen, more than a few men still regarded their wives as possessions. About half the women she’d seen still wore traditional abayas, long black hooded cloaks over their clothes. A very few wore burkas, fabric masks that left only their eyes visible to the world.
The sheikh still ruled, but members of his advisory council were elected by the people every four years. Since Nazaar opened its borders to tourists ten years before, her parents had talked of returning for a visit, but had never gotten around to it. Simone suspected they had preferred to keep their memories intact.
Lost in thought, she was almost bowled over by a woman pushing past her into the ladies’ room. “You’re excused,” she muttered in mild annoyance as she followed the woman into the cool interior. A swinging door leading to the cubicles explained the woman’s haste.
Like the rest of the site, the restroom was spotless and gleaming, the rose-colored marble walls in keeping with the historic locale. Wide velvet-covered couches with elaborate curling ends lined the walls and a counter held a brass drinking water fountain and disposable cups. Simone made a beeline for it, slaking her thirst with a sigh of pleasure.
At a basin, she splashed water onto her face and wrists and the back of her neck, glad to have the room to herself for a few seconds. Behind her, a rush of water preceded the other woman’s return. Only then, Simone noticed the woman was chalk-white and gripping the edge of the door for support.
Her previous irritation at the woman turned to concern. “Are you all right?”
The woman shook her head, then said in American-accented English, “The heat is affecting me.”
“Maybe you should sit down.” Simone said, wondering if she should find someone to help. The woman looked really ill.
The woman lurched to one of the couches and dropped onto it, resting her head back against the marble wall. Without asking, Simone filled another cup with water and offered it to her.
Her reward was a shaky smile. “Thanks.” She drank quickly, but when she lowered her hand, the cup slid out of her grasp.
Simone picked it up. She had the nagging feeling she’d seen the woman somewhere before. But where and when? Her speech was American, and she had the put-together look of a professional woman. She wore tailored navy pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with the kind of easy elegance Simone envied. The woman would have been attractive but for her waxy skin and the way her short-cropped dark hair was sticking to her face.
Annoyed at feeling helpless, Simone looked around. Fine time for the attendant to be on a break. “Shall I find a doctor for you?”
“No, thanks. I just need to get back to my car.”
Suddenly she bent forward, clutching her stomach. She didn’t moan, but her tightly compressed lips suggested she wanted to. Alarmed, Simone said, “You’re in no condition to drive. I’ll find someone who works here to help you.”
“No.” The command rang with unexpected authority as the woman straightened. “Please don’t,” she added in an obvious effort to soften the command.
Stayed at the entrance, Simone turned back. “You could have food poisoning, or some kind of bug. You need a doctor.”
The woman smiled wanly. “I’ll see someone as soon as I get back to my hotel. My car is in the closest parking lot.” She levered herself to her feet, but tottered when she took a few steps.
Simone was at her side instantly. “At least let me help you as far as the parking lot.”
As they stepped out into the heat the woman’s breath caught but she steadied herself. Simone steered her to the blue rental car she indicated, noting that it took the woman three tries to get the doors unlocked with the remote. How on earth did she expect to drive anywhere? “Look, there’s a first-aid center near the restroom. Why don’t I—”
The woman placed a clammy hand on her arm. “Please don’t. There’s too much at stake.” Too much of what? Sounding as if the effort cost her, she said, “I’m not…I can’t…explain any more. But I need you to give something to Markaz.” She fumbled in her bag.
Was the woman delirious? “He’s surrounded by guards. I couldn’t even get close,” Simone protested.
“You must, please. His life is at stake.”
What had Simone gotten herself into? She hadn’t been able to get close enough to the sheikh’s party to look for her half uncle. Now she was supposed to take a message to the sheikh from a woman who was either ill or delusional, possibly both.
“You need a doctor,” she tried again, adding in desperation, “Why don’t I drive you back to your hotel?” Arriving in a cab, Simone had no car of her own to worry about.
The woman clenched her teeth, but not before Simone had seen them chattering. “I’m not crazy. Tell Markaz you met Natalie. Give him…oh, God, he’s coming.” She wrenched a ring off the third finger of her right hand and closed Simone’s fingers around it, then gave her a shove that almost knocked her off her feet. “He mustn’t see you with me. Go.”
Regaining her balance, Simone looked in the direction of Natalie’s wild-eyed gaze. The only other person nearby was a stocky, dark-haired man in a business suit and reflective sunglasses, weaving his way between the cars. He stopped and spoke to a woman seated in another car. Nothing in his actions seemed to justify Natalie’s panic.
Simone debated taking Natalie’s keys away from her, but was daunted by the strength she’d felt in that shove. If the woman was demented by the heat or illness, she might become even more violent. Simone reached a sudden decision. “I’m getting help whether you want it or not.” She didn’t wait for more arguments, as she set off across the parking lot in the direction of a first-aid center she’d passed earlier.
She was almost there when she heard a distant cry and swung around. The man in the business suit was standing over Natalie.
Simone froze. Was the man Natalie’s husband, taking care of her at last? But she’d sounded terrified when she’d said, “He’s coming.” Then the man pushed Natalie into the car and slammed the door.
Before Simone had the thought fully hatched, she was racing toward the car. The man looked up. Seeing her, he sprinted around the car and wrenched open the driver’s door and threw himself inside. Seconds later the engine roared into life.
The car was moving by the time she reached it. Futilely she hammered on the window as it slid past her. Natalie was slumped in the seat, but opened her eyes at the sound. Was it Simone’s imagination or did she mouth the word Markaz before the car picked up speed?
Jumping clear seconds before being run down, Simone could only watch as they sped off, her sense of despair growing. She should have done more to help. But what?
Becoming aware of metal biting into her palm, Simone unclenched her fist and looked at the ring the woman had pressed on her. The gold was incised with symbols, among them a beaver holding a piece of wood. On the shank was a design of two men and a lamp. Nothing that explained what Simone had just witnessed.
Unless the ring meant something to the sheikh.
Outside the main building, a flurry of activity told her he was emerging. The crowd was several people deep, but desperation enabled her to push her way to the front and grab the arm of the nearest guard. “You must help me. A woman’s been abducted in the parking lot.”
“Report this to Al-Qasr’s own security,” the guard responded in guttural English. “I cannot leave my post.”
“I don’t want you to leave your post.” You muscle-bound moron, she barely resisted adding. “You must tell the sheikh that Natalie needs help urgently. She sent him this.”
The guard looked at the ring as if it could bite. “Gifts should be sent to the palace.”
“It isn’t a gift, it’s a message. The sheikh knows the woman who sent it. She needs his help.”
The man’s determination wavered, but only for a second, before his jaw hardened and he gestured Simone back. “Take this to local security.”
A scattering of applause greeted the appearance of Sheikh Markaz, once again shadowed by his giant bodyguard. What would happen if she threw the ring to the sheikh and called out, “catch”? A vision of being tackled by the giant, her bones breaking under the impact, stopped her.
But she wasn’t defeated yet. She reached over the cordon and tugged at the guard’s sleeve. “You must give this to His Highness. A woman’s life is at stake.”
The guard roared a response in Arabic. “Persist and you will find yourself under arrest,” he said in English.
Having already considered the possibility, she felt chilled, but her determination notched higher. “The woman told me the sheikh’s life is in danger, as well.”
That got the guard’s attention, she saw, but his barked command also had his colleagues lifting their weapons. The ring glinted in the sunlight as she raised her hands instinctively. “I’m not the threat, but Natalie knows who is. You must find her.”
The ruckus she was causing was getting her noticed, she saw, feeling color surge into her face. Suddenly a sensation as if she was caught in the beam of a powerful light dragged her gaze past the guard and she found herself looking into the eyes of Sheikh Markaz himself.
His face appeared to be carved from the same living stone as the monuments around them. His eyes were as dark as the rest of his features, she noticed immediately. Not so much black as the green of a deep ocean cavern. The cavern impression was echoed in the hollows and hard planes of his cheeks, and a faintly cleft jaw that looked like stubbornness personified.
A flare of blatantly masculine interest suddenly lit his gaze, catching her unawares. She hadn’t reached her present age without attracting her share of male notice, and she was definitely attracting it now, she realized in amazement. Worse, it wasn’t one-sided. Her pulse was double-timing and all he’d done was look her way.
The extraordinary sensation of communion between them was over in an instant, then the sheikh’s attention was claimed by the giant. But she was left feeling thunderstruck. What on earth had just happened?
What had happened was he was moving on flanked by his goons, and she was still clutching the ring, she thought, cursing herself for her lapse. He was the richest and most powerful man in the country. That high-voltage look was probably part of his normal arsenal, hardly personal.
The royal party was heading for the luncheon laid on after the inspection, she noted. Access would be strictly controlled, but there must be some way she could get the ring to him, even if she had to slip it onto a tray of drinks being carried into the marquee.
Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she froze. A man in a business suit was making a beeline for her through the crowd.
As Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari came down the steps of Al-Qasr’s main monument, he lifted his hand in the not-quite wave that acknowledged the crowd’s good wishes, but conserved his energy. The cheers gratified him. Not everyone in Nazaar felt kindly toward his government. The rebels were in a minority, but a troublesome one. And sometimes dangerous. Already today, he’d been informed of a bomb threat that had closed Raisa International Airport.
A commotion in the crowd had him bracing himself. Was the airport incident a diversion for an attempt on his life here? But his bodyguard Fayed remained relaxed as he leaned closer. “It seems you’ve caught the eye of a pretty tourist, Markaz,” he murmured for the sheikh’s ears alone.
Markaz felt his mouth curve. He and Fayed had grown up together, as close as brothers, and Markaz trusted the big man with his life. He sought out the source of the fuss, then felt something inside him catch. “I could do worse.”
“Indeed you could, my friend. She’s beautiful.”
Beautiful was too mundane a description, Markaz thought. Engaged in an altercation with a guard, the woman’s eyes flashed blue-green like the oasis at the sheikh’s desert lodge. Under a tinted sun visor, her short golden hair feathered around her animated face, her strong features and golden coloring also speaking of the desert. Who was she and where was she from, this exotic melding of east and west?
By tourist standards she was modestly dressed in an embroidered white peasant blouse gathered decorously at the neck and with long sleeves. The diaphanous fabric hinted at small, high breasts and a neat waist. He couldn’t see her legs beneath a flowing wine-colored skirt, but if they were as shapely as the rest of her…
Suddenly she looked straight into his eyes, fantasy made flesh. He felt the effect all the way to his groin, and his breath strangled. But she was more than sexy. She had fire. She reminded him of an Arab thoroughbred. Probably untamable, but an adventure to attempt.
Fayed chuckled. “This must be love. She’s come prepared with a ring.”
The flash of gold in her palm made Markaz blink. His people often tried to press gifts and flowers upon their sheikh, although not usually the tourists, and a ring was a novelty. A flick of his fingers brought Fayed’s head closer. “Find out what she wants.”
If he’d surprised his friend, Fayed was too disciplined to show it. “As you wish. Do you want her brought to you?”
Markaz’s power extended that far, but he shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking, my salacious friend. She looks troubled. Perhaps I can help.”
“And if it is love?”
“Then tell her diplomatically that my country has first claim on my heart.”
Fayed frowned. “No country can satisfy all of a man’s desires.”
This woman could. Markaz dismissed the thought as fast as it arose. Not so easily dismissed was the aching conviction that Fayed was right.
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