Seduced by His Target

Chapter 2

Rasheed sprawled over the writhing woman, struggling to get her under control. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to involve the other women in the tent and risk their capture, too. But his target bucked and squirmed beneath him, yanking his hair, raking her nails down his cheek, making it difficult to hold on. Then she dug her thumbs into his eyes.

He reared back in the nick of time. Damn. Whoever this woman was, she knew how to fight. Fed up, he grabbed hold of her arms and dragged her outside the tent into the blustery storm.

Rain lashed his face. The wind clawed at his hair and clothes. The woman managed to jerk one hand free and lunged toward him, jabbing her finger into his armpit, sending pain shuddering through his nerves, despite his coat. He swore, but didn’t let go.

Instead, he tackled her to the ground then flipped her over and sat atop her, using his weight to hold her down. But she trapped his feet against her side and knocked his arms loose in a move so quick it caught him unprepared. Then she rolled him over and tried to stand.

His respect for her grew, even as his training kicked in. He still didn’t want to harm her. But damn it, he had to play his part. And frankly, she was better off with him than the real terrorists, who’d probably kill her if she tried to resist. Using brute force, he took her down again, ignoring her yelp of pain.

Knowing he had to hurry, that too much could go wrong if he drew this out, he whipped out a scarf and secured her wrists behind her back as she thrashed and struggled to rise. Thunder boomed. Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the woman’s furious green eyes. His breath sawing, he wrapped another scarf around her mouth, muffling her angry cries.

Then he stood. Breathing heavily, he pulled her upright. She took a quick step back, intending to run, but he went in low and scooped her up. Then he slung her over his back in a fireman’s carry and loped toward his waiting horse.

She squirmed, and he staggered off balance, nearly dropping her in the mud. The wind howled past. The skies seemed to open up, the rain bucketing down so hard he could barely see. He made it to the horse, then tossed her over the saddle, and started to untie the lead.

But she wriggled loose and fell. Lightning scissored the sky, followed by a vicious crack of thunder. Already spooked—and with a woman now crawling beneath his hooves—the gelding reared and tried to bolt.

Swearing, Rasheed dived at his captive and dragged her from beneath the trembling horse. He had no choice now. She’d get killed if she tried to run. And he couldn’t reason with her. She’d never cooperate with a kidnapper, even if it was for her own good.

Wishing he could avoid it, he gripped her neck, bearing down on the pressure points. Short seconds later, she slumped, unconscious, to the ground. He spared a moment to soothe the gelding, then picked up the woman and draped her over the pommel, positioning her so she wouldn’t fall.

“Easy,” he told the prancing horse. Still trying to catch his breath, he unhitched the lead and sprang into the saddle, adjusting his prisoner across his thighs.

Lightning erupted in a staccato burst, revealing the billowing sheets of rain cleaving the night. Rasheed glanced at the camp, taking in the chaotic scene. One man lay on the ground. Another chased the mules as they galloped off. The tents flapped like sheets on a clothesline, their stakes torn loose by the savage storm.

He sent a fleeting wish for the medical team’s safety, hoping they’d be all right.

He was less certain about the spitfire in his lap.

Holding on to his unconscious captive, he wheeled his gelding around. He spurred him into motion, cantering to the trailhead where the leader of the terror cell lay in wait. Then, with the thunderstorm raging around him, he raced off into the night.

* * *

Nadine regained consciousness bit by bit. Her forehead throbbed. Her throat felt bruised and raw. Every inch of her body ached, from her incredibly sore ribs to the fire scorching through her shoulder blades. And she couldn’t seem to move her arms.

Someone had kidnapped her. The realization flooded through her in a rush. Henry. Lauren. Manny. Oh, God. Where were they? Panicked, she wrenched open her eyes. Then she blinked, struggling to orient herself and make out shapes in the inky night. Flames from a campfire flickered several yards off. The rain had stopped, but moisture clung to the air, so she doubted much time had passed. More impressions began to emerge from the darkness—the low rocks slanting above her, the trickle of nearby water, the chill from the stone floor seeping into her bones. She was in a cave, her hands bound, her back propped against the wall.

She’d dressed before the attack, so she still wore her jacket and jeans. But she’d lost her cap, and her wet hair clung to her neck and cheeks, adding to the cold. Her arms were completely numb.

She wriggled her icy fingers, then pulled on her restraint, unable to loosen the knot. At least her kidnappers had removed her gag, enabling her to breathe.

But who had captured her and why?

She turned her head, focusing on the campfire outside the cave. Three men sat around it, a row of boulders at their backs. To the right were several horses, their saddlebags piled nearby. To the left was a sheer rock wall. Smoke from the campfire rose in lazy wisps, then dissipated in the pitch-black air.

Trying not to attract their attention, she studied the men again. One lay on his side, asleep. Beside him, a man wearing a white turban cleaned his weapons and whistled an off-key tune. The closest man sat facing the campfire, his back to the cave, his collar-length black hair gleaming like obsidian in the wavering light.

They all had jet-black hair. The two she could see best had swarthy skin and beards. Were they Hispanic? Middle Eastern? Her heart swerved hard at the thought.

But that was ridiculous. They couldn’t be Middle Eastern, despite the turban the one man wore. They had to be drug runners. Who else would be traveling through the Andes on horseback—and kidnapping foreigners, no less?

Besides, who these men were, or why they’d brought her here didn’t matter right now. She had to concentrate on getting free.

Except...where were the other prisoners? Surely they hadn’t only kidnapped her?

Frowning, she ran her gaze around the cave again. This time, she caught sight of a man lying prostrate in the shadows, and her heart missed several beats. Henry. She couldn’t mistake his gray hair. And of all the people to kidnap...he was already suffering from altitude sickness. He couldn’t take any more abuse.

But where was the rest of the team? Her uneasiness growing, she struggled to remember details about the attack. But all she recalled was a kaleidoscope of jumbled impressions—slashing rain, a heavily muscled man knocking her down, the scream of a frightened horse. The storm had been too fierce, the raid too fast. Maybe the other team members had gotten away.

And if they had, they’d immediately mount a rescue...or maybe not. They wouldn’t know where the kidnappers had gone. The rain would have erased their tracks. And even assuming they did catch up, they couldn’t take on a drug cartel. It would be suicidal to try, especially since Manny had the only gun. No, they’d head straight down the mountain to the nearest town and summon help.

Which meant she was on her own. She had to decide on a plan, then help Henry escape while they still had the advantage of surprise.

Assuming he was alive.

Her eyes swung back to their captors. The men continued to lounge around the campfire, still not looking her way. But they didn’t need to keep watch. They’d blocked the mouth of the cave, trapping Henry and her inside.

Her hands bound, her movements awkward, she fought her way to her knees. Then she crept across the cold, stone ground toward Henry. Several difficult yards later, she reached his side.

“Henry,” she whispered, kneeling beside him. He groaned, and she tried again. “Are you all right?”

His eyes fluttered open, and he clutched his head. “Nadine?” He sounded dazed. “What the hell...?”

“Shh. We’ve been kidnapped. How do you feel?”

“Awful. Like a mule stepped on my head.”

She could imagine. “Can you loosen this scarf? My hands are tied.”

Grimacing, he released his head. “I’ll try.”

“Hold on. Don’t move.” She swiveled around, leaning close enough for him to reach her wrists. Then she waited while he fumbled with the knots.

“It’s wet. I can’t... Wait. Here we go.” A second later, the scarf slithered free.

Prickles stabbed her arms. She gasped at the rush of pain, then bit down hard on a moan. Hunching her shoulders, she rubbed her arms and hissed as the circulation began to return.

“Are you okay?” Henry whispered.

Still wincing, she sucked in a breath. “I’m fine.” Better than he was, at any rate. Trying to ignore her discomfort, she turned to him again. “Come on. Sit up so I can check your head.”

Scooting closer, she wrapped her arm around his waist. Then she slowly tugged him upright and leaned him against the wall. She slanted a quick glance at the men outside, but they weren’t paying attention to them. Yet.

“I’ve got a penlight,” Henry said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled it out.

“Wait.” Nadine crawled around Henry, positioning herself between him and the cave’s entrance in case their captors looked their way. Then she clicked on the tiny flashlight and trained it on his scalp. “You’ve got a knot and a nasty gash. Look at me.” She angled the light toward his eyes. “Your pupils look good. Do you have any nausea? Dizziness?”

“Both. I probably have a concussion.”

“Hopefully a mild one. Does anything hurt besides your head?”

He grimaced. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Definitely.” A concussion combined with altitude sickness would cause anyone tremendous pain, let alone a man his age.

She eyed his head again. “We really need to clean that cut. I don’t suppose these guys have a first aid kit.”

“Doubtful.” He craned his neck to see the men outside the cave. “So who are they?”

“Good question.” One she didn’t have a clue how to answer yet. “I’m guessing it’s the drug cartel the agency warned us about.”

“I thought they’d moved out of the area.”

“That’s what they said. Obviously, they were wrong.”

Henry slumped back against the rock and closed his eyes. “So what are we going to do?”

“Get you to a hospital, for one thing.” He needed medical attention at once—an oxygen tank, a CT scan and several days of bed rest, preferably at a lower altitude.

But how could they escape? Henry wouldn’t last on foot. A jolting race down the mountain on horseback would make his concussion worse. And even if they could slip past their captors, where would they go? She had no idea where they were. She couldn’t roam aimlessly around the Andes in the darkness with an injured man in tow.

But neither could she leave him behind.

Her gaze gravitated back to the men. She didn’t want to bargain with their kidnappers. But what other choice did she have? And maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe they’d captured the wrong people—and she could convince them to let them go.

“Stay here,” she murmured to Henry. “Let me deal with this.” Inhaling to gather her courage, she rose and walked to the entrance of the cave.

The captor with the turban stopped sharpening his knife at her approach. His gaze pinned hers, and she abruptly stopped, a stark chill scuttling through her nerves. His eyes looked cruel and utterly ruthless, as if every trace of humanity had disappeared from his soul. And she knew instinctively that this thug would kill her in a heartbeat without a qualm.

He muttered something she couldn’t hear to the dozing man. That man roused himself and sat upright, and her disquiet edged up a notch. He had the same full beard and swarthy skin, but he was heavier, with a coarse, flat nose and fleshy lips. He also wore a scarf, the black-and-white-checkered kaffiyeh that the Arabs wore. His silver tooth winked in the light.

Shuddering, she crossed her arms, the impression that they were Middle Eastern growing stronger now. But even with their head coverings it didn’t make sense. They had to belong to a drug cartel. She was in the mountains of Peru, not the Middle East.

But the way they continued to stare at her with something akin to hatred in their eyes...

Memories bubbled up, fragments from news reports she’d read—how Middle Eastern terrorists had formed partnerships with South American drug cartels who smuggled them into the United States.

Nonsense. She couldn’t go off the deep end and let paranoia skew her thoughts. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Oiga,” she said in Spanish. “Excuse me.”

Neither man answered, and her belly made a little clutch. They had to understand Spanish. Unless they spoke an indigenous language, like Quechua or Aymara...

She racked her brains, scrambling to remember the handful of phrases she’d learned. “Imainalla-kashanki. Hello. Do you speak Spanish?”

The third man lumbered to his feet. He turned, and his gaze slammed into hers. And for a moment, she couldn’t move. The intensity in his eyes held her riveted, cementing her in place. Startled, she took in his dark, slashing brows, his collar-length coal-black hair, his high, bold nose in his chiseled face. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders tapering to a flat belly and muscled thighs. His mouth was hard, his onyx eyes unreadable, not providing any hints of his thoughts. But his hot black eyes simmered with intelligence, prompting another flurry of nerves.

This was the man who’d attacked her. She couldn’t mistake him. The scratches she’d carved on his cheeks gave him away.

He wasn’t exactly handsome. Taken individually, his features were too rough-hewn for that. But he was striking, incredibly so, from the sharp perception in his unwavering eyes to the day’s growth of beard stubble darkening his jaw. He reminded her of a primitive warrior, an ancient desert sheikh.

A man she’d do well not to underestimate.

He skirted the fire and headed toward her, then stopped a few feet away. This close, she could see the straight, inky lashes fringing his eyes, the stark grooves bracketing his grim mouth, the sensual shape of his bottom lip. Her nails had barely missed his left eye, and one long scrape ran from the upper edge of his cheekbone into his beard stubble, adding to his ruthless look. He was half a head taller than she was, putting her at eye level with the hollow of his muscled throat. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes.

For several seconds, he didn’t speak. Instead, he continued to study her, spurring her heart to an off-kilter beat. Then he lowered his gaze, letting it travel slowly over the length of her, causing her heart to race. His gaze flicked back to hers, the impact no less powerful this time. And she couldn’t mistake the sexual awareness flitting through his eyes.

The answering warmth in her body shocked her. Appalled, she hugged her arms.

“What do you want?” he asked in English. Flawless, American English.

“You’re American?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate, but she angled her head, studying him with even more interest now. Few nonnative speakers had an accent that perfect. He must have spent time in the States—which might make him sympathize with them.

“Listen,” she began. “I don’t know who you were after, but you must have made a mistake. I’m a doctor. So is Henry, the man I’m with. You must have confused us with someone else.”

He folded his arms, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his muscled chest. “We didn’t make a mistake.”

Taken aback, she tried to recoup. “If you’re after a ransom—”

“We’re not.”

Her heart skipped. They had to be. Ignoring his answer, she tried again. “I can get the money. I have a friend, a photographer. She can come up with whatever you want. Just take us to a town where I can contact her.”

His black eyes continued to hold her. Firelight danced on his swarthy skin, emphasizing the harsh hollows of his granite face. “I told you. We don’t want your money.”

“But then...” She glanced at the other men. Their fixed stares further unnerved her, and she tightened her grip on her arms. And suddenly, visions spun through her mind of terrified captives paraded across the television screen, pleading desperately for their lives—and then slain. Did these men intend to kill them?

No. She quashed a burst of dread. She couldn’t start imagining the worst. They probably planned to negotiate a prisoner swap, to force the Peruvian or American government to free a jailed criminal in exchange for them. FARC had used that tactic in Colombia for years. Maybe these men were doing the same.

But that brought dangers of its own. She couldn’t risk the public exposure, no matter how much she wanted to get free. She’d spent too many years on the run, always moving, always changing her identity, carefully staying out of the limelight to evade the enemies dogging her. Not only was her powerful family hunting her down, but she had a gang executioner on her trail, a man who needed to ensure her silence after she’d chanced upon his crime. And if he ever figured out who she was, he wouldn’t just go after her. He’d pursue the other two witnesses, her closest friends.

But as much as she wanted to bolt she couldn’t worry about herself right now. She had to think of Henry, and get him to a hospital fast. She’d plot her own escape later, once she made sure he was safe.

She lifted her gaze to her kidnapper’s, wishing she could read the thoughts behind those impenetrable black eyes. “Is there a reason you need two doctors? Does someone need medical help?”

“No.”

“Because Henry’s hurt. He has a concussion. Altitude sickness, too. He needs urgent medical care. We need to get him down the mountain to a hospital before his condition gets any worse.”

His brows snapped into a frown. He glanced toward the cave behind her, a hint of uncertainty flitting through his eyes. Or had she imagined that? Just because he spoke English like a native didn’t mean he had a heart.

But whether he sympathized with them or not didn’t matter. She had to convince him to let Henry go.

“Henry has HACE,” she continued. “High altitude cerebral edema. His brain is swelling, and the concussion is making it worse. If we don’t get him to a lower altitude immediately, he could die.”

The white-turbaned man by the campfire rose. Her kidnapper glanced his way, and suddenly, a shutter fell over his face, every trace of sympathy vanishing from his eyes. “Get back in the cave,” he told her and turned away.

But she leaped out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

He stopped. He slowly turned to face her, his gaze trained on hers. An electric jolt sizzled through her, the iron feel of his bulging biceps scorching her palm like a red-hot brand. Startled, she released her grip. What was that? Shaken at her odd reaction, she stepped back.

“Please.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Henry and I... We’re not important. No one cares if we disappear or not. And the organization we’re with, Medical Help International, won’t negotiate with you. We signed an agreement. They’re not responsible for rescuing us if anything goes wrong.”

“I told you, we don’t want your money.”

“Then what do you want?”

He didn’t answer, and she tried again. “There’s no point in keeping Henry. You can’t possibly need him. He’s too sick. You have to let him go.”

The white-turbaned man approached, fingering his gun. Nadine sucked in a breath, determined not to show any fear. But this man’s dead eyes made her insides crawl.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her kidnapper in Arabic, and her heart stopped cold. Oh, God. These men were Middle Eastern.

What were they doing here?

Her kidnapper turned to the turbaned man. “The man in the cave is hurt. She wants us to let him go.”

Her lungs seized up. Dizziness barreled through her, and she feared she was going to heave. They weren’t only speaking Arabic, but Jaziirastani, a dialect spoken only in her father’s country.

The father who wanted her dead.

The man’s hate-filled eyes burned into hers. “He’s staying with us. Now shut up and get back in the cave.”

Nausea roiled inside her. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. But she had to stay calm, think and get Henry out of this mess—before he ended up dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said in English, trying her best to look confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak your language.”

“The hell you don’t, Nadira al Kahtani. Now get back in the cave or I’ll shoot your friend.”

Her knees went weak. Shocked speechless, she staggered backward, then stumbled into the cave. She wobbled over to Henry and collapsed on the ground beside him, her carefully built world crashing apart.

“What happened?” he asked.

Too overwhelmed to answer, she pulled her legs to her chest, her entire body starting to shake.

They knew her name. They knew who she really was.

“Did you find out what they want?” he asked again.

She’d found out, all right. They wanted her.

After fifteen years on the run, her past had caught up with her. And this time it looked as if there was no way out.

Chapter 3

Rasheed couldn’t believe it. Their captive was Nadira al Kahtani, the daughter of his prime suspect. The daughter of the man who’d murdered his wife.

Still struggling to process that bombshell, he adjusted the cinch on his gelding’s saddle as the terrorists prepared to ride out. He’d known she was Middle Eastern. And he could see her as a member of the Jaziirastani royal family with her regal, spirited air. But Nadira al Kahtani? The daughter of the banker financing this terrorist mission? It didn’t make any sense.

Incredulous at the revelation, he shuffled through his memories, trying to reconcile this stunning development with what he knew of the secretive clan. Yousef al Kahtani was a wealthy Jaziirastani banker who resided in Washington, D.C. The intelligence community had long suspected him of funneling money to the Rising Light terrorists and funding jihadist activity worldwide. But thanks to his generous campaign contributions, he also had power. And every time they got close to unraveling his murky activities, some high-level politician ran interference, stopping the investigation in its tracks.

Al Kahtani’s wife had died over a decade ago. Aside from a son, Sultan, he had a daughter, Nadira, rumored to be both brilliant and beautiful, who’d disappeared shortly after her mother’s death. In fact, she’d dropped off the grid so completely the CIA assumed she’d returned to her father’s native country, where she’d either married or died.

Rasheed shot a glance at the woman sitting near the entrance to the cave. He skimmed the elegant lines of her profile, the feminine arch of her brows, and his pulse took another skip. Intel had definitely gotten the beautiful part right, especially with her startling green eyes. But where had she been for all these years? How had these terrorists found her when the CIA couldn’t track her down? And if her father was financing this jihadist expedition, why would they capture her?