Never Resist a Sheikh (International Bad Boys) (2 page)

Swallowing, she fumbled for her seatbelt and pressed the button, keeping an eye on the men in front of the car. Perhaps if she was quick enough and quiet enough, she could get out of the car and get away without them even noticing.

The seatbelt clicked and she pushed it aside, reaching for the car door handle and pulling slowly, hoping like hell the door wouldn’t make a noise as it opened.

She was already halfway out when abruptly the door was pulled wide and one of the men placed himself in front of her.

Crap. Not fast enough.

Felicity’s heart sank all the way down to into her Converses. “Hey, look,” she began, “I’m not—”

But the man only reached out and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her out of the car, shutting the door then dragging her stumbling around to the front of the SUV where the rest of the men were, including that black-eyed mountain who’d had his hand around her throat.

The man pulling her stopped, his grip hard on her arm, and he said something in Arabic to the black-eyed, bearded man who was staring
at Felicity with such intensity she wanted to curl up and die on the spot.

Weird that him putting a hand over her mouth hadn’t put the fear of God into her, but him staring at her? Her palms were getting sweaty and she wanted to be sick.

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, glancing furtively to see if the driver was okay instead. They’d dragged him over to the side of the street, sitting
him up against the wall. He was still unconscious but seemed to breathing.

At least that was something. They hadn’t killed him so maybe they wouldn’t kill her. Pity her Arabic was limited to “hello” and “thank you”. She hadn’t thought “Please don’t kill me” might be useful.

The black-eyed man was speaking in that rough avalanche of a voice, full of stones and ice and a dark, dangerous rumble.
He hadn’t taken his gaze off her, making her mouth go dry with fear and yet, at the same time, sending another hot spear of anger through her.

Men. They thought they could rule the world. Well, she wasn’t going to cower. No freaking way. She wasn’t going to be bullied either, not when she’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

This isn’t the Upper East Side, idiot. This is life or death.

No, it wasn’t New York City. But who was it who’d said it was better to die on your feet than to live on your knees? Whoever it was, they were right.

Felicity lifted her chin, meeting the man’s gaze, preparing to stare him down if necessary.

There was a whole world of secrets in those dense, black eyes. Deep shadows and mysteries and a darkness that for some reason was as mesmerizing as it was
terrifying.

A man totally outside of her experience. Which made him suddenly and completely fascinating.

She opened her mouth to say something, but for the second time that day, someone put a hand over her mouth and nose. There was a cloth and it smelled…weird.

Her vision blurred. Oh, hell. What was happening now? She struggled feebly against the hands holding her, but it was no use.

The black-eyed
man kept watching her.

And he was the last thing she saw as the darkness reached up and grabbed her, pulling her under.

*     *     *

Zakir ibn Rashiq
Al-Nazari, ruling sheikh of Al-Shakhra, looked down at the small, crumpled form of the woman lying not far away on the ancient cobblestones of Shara and cursed. Viciously.

This raid was not supposed to
go this way. His intelligence had led him to believe the black SUV had been carrying Princess Safira, fiancée of the sheikh Al-Harah, not some ill-mannered, little American woman.

“I am sorry, sire,” Jamal, his head of security, said as he put the cloth soaked in a powerful sedative back in his robes. “I was sure that—”

“I do not care what you were sure of,” Zakir snapped. “You were wrong and
so was the intelligence we were given, and now we are left with…this…” He made a gesture to the pathetic creature curled up unconscious on the street.

Holy God, she was definitely not what he’d crossed the border into Al-Harah for. He’d come for the sleek, beautiful lioness that was Princess Safira, hoping to take her back to Al-Shakhra and make her his sheikha. And, instead, in place of a lioness,
he’d gotten a…chihuahua.

He glared at the unconscious girl. Not only had she
not
been Safira, she’d then had the gall to bite him like a little animal. With surprising force. Then, as if the situation hadn’t been bad enough, in his efforts to quell her, his keffiyeh had dropped to reveal his face. Definitely a problem.

No one could know he was here, not until the princess had been secured and
they were both safely back in Al-Shakra where Altair couldn’t get her.

Except now, not only had they not secured the princess, they also had a witness.

Jamal was stony-faced. “This car was supposed to be carrying Princess Safira, sire.”

“And yet do you see the princess, Safira, anywhere?” Zakir demanded. “No, you do not. And now I am left with this girl, whoever she is, who has seen my face.”

The rest of his men were silent. Just as well. He was in the kind of mood that could involve sending certain people on long runs in the deep desert with rucksacks full of rocks on their backs.

Jamal, clearly thinking along those lines too, said quickly, “Leave her to me, sire. I can—”

“There will be no killing.” He interrupted before the other man could utter another word. “That is not what
we came here to do.”

Jamal always did what needed to be done, but Zakir would not be responsible for killing or hurting any woman, neither would he tolerate it from any of his subjects. Yes, he was sheikh of a country recovering from the depredations of his dictator of a father, a country who still held to the old ways, medieval in many respects, including its treatment of women. But he would
set a new example; even if he didn’t quite know what that example would be other than he had to be better somehow. He’d been brought up a warrior, not a sheikh.

“Then what do you wish us to do?” Jamal asked, clearly wanting to make up for his error.

Zakir narrowed his gaze at the woman. He couldn’t think of any other way around it. If he left her here she would alert the authorities, and even
if she didn’t know who he was, she’d gotten a good enough look at him that those authorities would soon find out who had attacked her. And Sheikh Altair would not hesitate to retaliate.

And taking the princess would not have made him retaliate?

Well, that had always been a risk. But bride games were still played here in Al-Harah and definitely in Zakir’s country. And that was how Altair had
claimed his princess for himself, was it not? Still, the woman was only a bride if she consented after a day of feasting with the family of the man who’d taken her. And if the rumors were true, Princess Safira had refused Altair. Which meant she was fair game for a claiming.

The aristocratic families had long since fled Al-Shakhra, taking their daughters with them, which had left him no option
but to seek a bride farther afield. And Safira had been the perfect choice. A warrior queen, because strength was what his people respected, with an old and noble lineage. A woman who knew the old ways.

He’d wanted to claim her, take her back to his country, and if she chose him as her husband, then Altair would have no argument with that, surely? He was a man who respected the ancient customs.

Unfortunately, though, Zakir’s luck was not with him today and it was not Safira in that car.

Surely God was playing games with him.

Not answering Jamal immediately, Zakir walked over to where the woman lay and he frowned. Jamal hadn’t had a care about her, letting her fall where she may, and her long, thick braid was dragging in the dust of the street, her cheek pillowed against a rock.

His
frown deepened and he sank down on his haunches next to her.

She was very young and her skin was very pale, like fresh milk. Her hair was the most astonishing color, a deep, rich copper, threaded through with gold, and little curls of it were escaping that severe braid. She was delicate-looking, not at all the supple, lithe warrior woman he’d hoped to capture.

A strange feeling lodged in his
chest, one he couldn’t immediately identify.

He was hard man. A warrior born. He didn’t have soft emotions and had made sure to excise them from his heart a long time ago. As a soldier, he couldn’t afford them.

Yet for some reason, he didn’t like the way Jamal had left her on the cobbles. He didn’t like that her cheek was scraped by the rock and there was street dust in her magnificent hair.
That was not the way a woman should be treated, a little chihuahua like this one or not.

“Sire?” Jamal asked, keeping his voice low as if afraid to disturb him. “How do you wish to proceed?”

Zakir kept his gaze on the woman. He couldn’t leave her here, that was for certain, not when she could identify him. They also had to get out fast, before the driver regained consciousness or someone saw
the SUV apparently parked in the middle of a street. Which left him little option. He’d have to take her back to Al-Shakhra. It wasn’t ideal, but some good might come of this disaster yet. She might even prove useful; anything was possible.

His decision made, Zakir wasted no more time, leaning forward and scooping her up into his arms without hesitation.

“Sire?” Jamal sounded puzzled. “What
are you going to do with her?”

“She will have to come back with us,” he said curtly.

“But sire—”

“We have no other choice.” He started heading toward the truck, the rest of his guards staying silent.

“We do not know who she is, though.”

He stopped and gave Jamal one hard glance. “Then you will find out, won’t you? Search the car and take whatever is in there.”

Jamal’s expression had become
impassive; he knew better than to push his king. “Yes, sire.”

Zakir turned back to the truck, nodding to one of his other men who pulled open the dusty door at the back. Then he got inside with the woman and arranged himself on the hard seat facing the door with her in his lap.

She was such a slight weight, but very warm. Jamal must have overdone the sedative since she was completely out of
it, making no movement or sound as he arranged her more comfortably. He could have left her on the floor but the truck’s suspension was hard and they’d be driving fast over rough terrain in order to get to the old, army chopper his men had secreted in the desert. She’d probably roll all over the place and get in the way, which meant he had to hold her.

At least unconscious she wouldn’t be biting
him.

Zakir looked down at her. Reddish-gold lashes lay on her pale cheeks, the rough scrape from the rock marring her skin. Her mouth was full and soft, and very red.

Back in the car, she’d stared at him in shock and fear, eyes the color of smoke gone wide. He hadn’t expected her shock to turn to fury when he’d put his hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. Nor had he expected her to
bite him.

It was death to harm the king of Al-Shakhra. Jamal was completely within his rights to carry out that sentence.

But Zakir had stopped him. And now he was holding this ridiculously fragile woman in his arms like a child, when by rights he should be punishing her for harming his royal personage.

He frowned, studying her more closely.

Her features were small and precise, and she had
a delicate, pointed chin. Not beautiful but…arresting. He didn’t know quite why that was, only that she was different from the beautiful women he remembered from his father’s carefully curated harem. The harem Zakir had disbanded after his brother Farid’s death.

He hadn’t had a woman since.

Almost as soon as the thought had occurred to him, he felt something stir down low in the darkness where
he kept it. The briefest flickering of desire.

He crushed it reflexively. It had been two years since his brother’s death. Two years since he’d assumed the throne, and he hadn’t had a woman in all that time. A very, very purposeful decision, because nothing good came of passion, he knew that for a fact.

Luckily, he found it easy to ignore. Having trained as a soldier, he had excellent control
over his physical appetites and didn’t feel the absence of this particular one.

The door at the back of the truck banged open and the rest of his men got in, Jamal bringing up the rear. He was carrying a suitcase and a black laptop bag, which he placed at Zakir’s feet.

“This was in the back seat, sire.” Jamal sat, banging on the side of the truck as he did so. The engine started with a roar,
the driver maneuvering the heavy vehicle laboriously around in the narrow street.

“Good.” Zakir firmed his grip on the woman. “Did you find any identification for her?”

“Only this.” Jamal handed over a black leather wallet.

Adjusting his hold, Zakir took it and flicked it open. There were numerous cards and other forms of ID, all bearing the name Felicity Cartwright, with her picture and birthdate
on the front. The name meant nothing to him.

Zakir looked down at her again. She was a child, really, only twenty-four.