The Sheikh's Lost Princess

The Sheikh’s

Lost Princess

Linda Conrad

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Copyright

About the Author

When asked about her favorite things, LINDA CONRAD lists a longtime love affair with her husband, her sweetheart of a dog named KiKi and a sunny afternoon with nothing to do but read a good book. Inspired by generations of storytellers in her family and pleased to have many happy readers’ comments, Linda continues creating her own sensuous and suspenseful stories about compelling characters finding love.

A bestselling author of more than twenty-five books, Linda has received numerous industry awards, among them the National Reader’s Choice Award, the Maggie, the Write Touch Readers’ Award and the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award. To contact Linda, read more about her books or to sign up for her newsletter and/or contests, go to her website at www.LindaConrad.com.

To a great group of bloggers: Jan Vautard, JanieC,

Ellen, Kelley Hartsell, Jessiecue, Elaine,

and Tammy Y at the eharlequin.com blog.

Thanks for the help. You guys rock!

Chapter 1

S hakir Kadir was living in a romance novel.

But no author would write such a fanciful plot. A beautiful princess kidnapped by an evil sultan and held captive in a harem? A daring rescue attempt by an ex-lover, parachuting in on a moonless night? Not many novels could be this outrageous. Yet here he was, stuck inside an unbelievable reality.

Would he end up the hero or the fool in this melodrama? It didn’t much matter. Shakir could do no less for the woman he’d once loved—despite both his brothers’ concerns to the contrary.

As he grimly waited for the chopper pilot to arrive at the jump zone coordinates, Shakir watched the desert floor below. Flying at low altitude through eerie darkness, the quiet drone of the Merlin Mk3’s engine made talking difficult. But infrared night vision goggles allowed him to pick out objects despite the lack of light. He hadn’t traveled to this desolate wasteland since he’d been a teen. But the backward country of Zabbarán had not changed all that much in the intervening years.

Without the aid of running lights, their chopper blew like smoke through starlit skies. Shakir recognized rock outcroppings and herds of sheep below them. He remembered that late at night the desert could be as lonely and as silent as death.

Attempting to focus his attention away from the coming mission, he thought of how he had come this far. His extended family had opted to form a new intelligence unit under his younger brother, Tarik’s, control. Tarik, a genius in covert strategy, resigned his commission in the United States Special Forces in order to organize an undercover operation for the Kadirs. It was Tarik’s embedded undercover operatives that had provided them with current maps and architectural drawings for a hostage rescue mission.

Shakir’s new position was as head of black ops for the family. It still amazed him that the Kadirs had suddenly needed to organize and operate like an army during a time of war. The answer to why was complicated.

The Kadirs had been forced into engaging in a cold war of sorts with an old enemy, the Taj Zabbar clan. The Taj had initiated this conflict unilaterally a few months back, supposedly in revenge for centuries-old perceived grievances.

To Shakir’s mind, that was just so much rhetoric and showed insane thinking.

The Kadir family were Bedouin peoples. Nomads. They did not claim any country as their own and had never occupied any territory with borders to defend. In the modern era, the Kadir family no longer belonged strictly to the desert. The family ran international shipping operations and traded legitimate goods between various countries of the world. So why should a nonviolent family of traders and shippers like the Kadirs be forced to engage in a fight with an ancient tribe of thieves and murderers? It didn’t make sense.

The Taj Zabbar clan had recently won their independence from Kasht, a neighboring country. With their independence, the Taj gained control of the territory of Zabbarán, a vast desert with millions of barrels of oil lying directly beneath the surface of the land.

The Taj Zabbar’s sudden great wealth seemed to have opened up painful memories and long-ago hurts for them, and now, apparently, they intended to get even for ancient grievances by destroying the Kadirs. It was not the peoples of Kasht, who had been their true oppressors, that the Taj wanted to hurt. No. The country of Kasht had licked its wounds and made trading pacts with the Taj. Then the imprudent Taj turned all their hatred to the task of injuring and destroying the Kadir family.

Shakir wasn’t particularly politically-minded, but he would be willing to wager that money and power lay at the bottom of the Taj’s cold war. Someday, he was sure the answers would come out. In the meantime, the Kadirs were fighting back and trying to reveal the truth of the Taj’s intentions to the world.

“Brother.” Tarik’s whispered voice broke through the silence of his earpiece. “One last chance to back off this fool’s errand.”

“The hostage extraction is on,” Shakir muttered through his lip microphone.

Tarik was convinced this journey would lead them into a trap. But then, Tarik’s job entailed questioning everything, every fact and every rumor, until all answers became clear. Shakir’s job, on the other hand, was black ops. See a problem. Fix the problem. By stealth or by force, whichever worked best.

The hostage rescue mission clearly seemed to require both. A group of western women were being held inside one of the Taj Zabbar’s desert fortresses. The females had been either kidnapped or lured there to be auctioned off to the highest bidders. Great fortunes could be had by selling to the international pornography, sex and slavery trades.

The Taj Zabbar were well known as middlemen in every sort of illegal trade. It mattered little to them why their clients wanted the women. Only that they would pay dearly for them.

Shakir would never forget the exact moment he’d spotted the name Nicole Olivier on the list of abducted women that a Kadir undercover operative provided. Shakir had carried a mental picture of her around in his head for the past six years. But when he’d first read the name, he couldn’t bring her face to mind. Years of trying to block her memory, and the hurt that went along with it, had temporarily wiped his mind clean.

But it didn’t take long for everything to come back in a painful rush.

It was about that same time when his brothers had cautioned about any rescue attempt becoming a trap. Darin and Tarik both believed it was possible that the Taj Zabbar could’ve somehow learned of Shakir’s old relationship to Nicole, the Princess of Olianberg. If that were true, his brothers worried that the enemy would be trying to lure the Kadir’s middle son, Shakir, to Zabbarán for blackmail, or possible execution.

Shakir didn’t buy it for a moment. Princess Nicole’s family had been out of the news for several years. Ever since they were forced to abdicate their claims to the throne of their tiny European principality. After their failed coup attempt, the family had quietly dropped out of sight. Even Shakir could find no word of them.

When he’d first fallen for Nicole at university, the Olianberg royal family had insisted on keeping their only daughter’s relationship to a Bedouin from leaking to the press. Shakir hadn’t even realized it was a problem at the time because when they’d first met, Nicole had kept her royal heritage hidden from him, as well as from the rest of the world.

Coming back to the present, Shakir had no idea how the Taj had managed to capture Nicole. But he knew why. She was beautiful. Stunning. He was convinced the Kadir name had not come up in connection to hers. After their youthful affair had ended, the royal family seemed intent on burying the relationship, hopeful that no one would ever find out.

Giving his pack, chute and assault weapon one last check, Shakir turned the thumbs-up sign to his baby brother and the six other men on his team. Their plan was simple. They would drop into the country covertly, sneak into the fortress and rescue the women without drawing the attention of the main unit of fortress guards.

The operation had to be timed to the minute. Two hours and thirty-six minutes to be exact. Then they must return to the pickup point to meet the extraction choppers. In and out. Simple. He’d bloody well been through tougher assignments and hostage rescues during his years in a Royal Parachute Regiment in Afghanistan.

This one was a piece of cake.

Not long after they’d dropped into the desert, Shakir and Tarik stood in shadows at the base of a wall, waiting for the signal. Tall stone walls surrounded the enormous Taj fortress, but Kadir operatives had uncovered a secret passage to the inside.

The midnight chill crept into Shakir’s bones as he waited and concentrated on executing his job. He shook it off, reminding himself not to let his mind slip. If he was to remain focused, he couldn’t think about the possibilities—what he might find were the physical conditions of the women being held inside these walls.

The Taj Zabbar weren’t noted for their humane treatment of prisoners. That these prisoners were also female did not bode well for their safety. So far the Kadirs hadn’t found any tangible proof that the Taj Zabbar clan posed a threat to the whole world. But the Taj record on torture and abuse of their own citizens and neighbors, including women and children, was legendary.

Two clicks sounded in his earpiece.

“There’s the signal,” Tarik whispered. His brother disappeared into a nearly invisible slit in the wall and three of the men fell in behind.

Shakir hefted his Israeli-made Micro Tavor assault rifle, adjusted his NVGs and moved out, protecting their six. By using a grappling hook, the Kadir rescue unit hoisted each other over the outer perimeter walls and down onto the first in a series of multi-level lawns, porches and terraces.

Instead of making their way straight to the main house, the little troop of rescuers turned south and crouch-walked along the inner wall, heading toward a smaller building with Moorish influences. The small house, originally used as a Kasht palace, was now used as the harem for the new Taj fortress that had been built around it.

The main quarters of the new fortress, recently constructed by a Taj Zabbar elder, were reputed to be a showplace. With ornate tiled halls, splashy and expensive artwork and lavish furnishings, the palace was ripe with ostentatious wealth and fit for the elder Umar. He had spared no expense to make it a true paradise on earth.

Shakir didn’t need to see the new palace to dislike everything about it. His mission was clear. Following the others, he made his way down the wall to the small ancient building situated to the east of the main palace.

When the Kadir troop quietly entered the former concubines’ quarters, Shakir noticed immediately that the Taj elder had done nothing to modernize these original buildings. Faded oriental carpets covered the floors, exactly as they had done for a hundred years. Cracked and stained rock walls and winding, narrow hallways led them through a maze of tiny, dark rooms.

It was a good thing he was wearing NVGs. But it was by using only his more feral abilities, the ones honed and trained by his warrior grandfather, that Shakir recognized the distant scent of precious water. Intel claimed the women were being held in a private chamber beside the ancient harem baths. He caught the slight whiff of mold, heard the low drip of water and led the way.

As the unit of Kadir men silently crept forward toward the baths, Shakir’s mind went back to the first time he had ever seen Nicole. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d been a lonely outcast, barely surviving his first year at a British university. She was the shy but beautiful student from some unheard-of European country who had offered to tutor him in English.

They’d struck up the friendship of two misfits. Then slowly the friendship developed into a romance. He’d fallen hard. But when she’d finally confessed the truth of her royal background and told him she was promised to a man that she’d never met, he walked away without a fuss.

Only to die a thousand solitary deaths in the six years since.

Scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes to wipe away the sweat, Shakir checked those memories. No point in a rehash. The past was in the past. Today, the mission was rescue—not reopening a festering sore that would never heal.

Another click sounded in his earpiece, and he halted mid-stride. They’d come to the door leading to the women’s damp prison. Tarik and one other man peeled off from the group to dispatch the two guards—unseen, but nevertheless standing between their position and the chamber.

Counting down, Shakir gave his brother thirty seconds and then led the way into the harem with his weapon at the ready. It was a huge open room, with gigantic columns rising thirty feet or more and then disappearing into the darkness of a vast ceiling. Low torch lights reflected off the rippling waters of the bath.

He pushed the NVGs up his forehead and searched the shadowed chaise longues and steps beside the pool, looking for Nicole. Two of the women he’d also expected to find slept fitfully on top of ratty-looking beds. Two others reclined on the steps, staring bug-eyed off into a nonexistent distance. The whole atmosphere reminded him of an opium den he’d once visited in his rougher days.

“They’ve been drugged.” Tarik came up behind him, whispering low. “We expected something like this. But it will make it tough leading them to freedom in their condition.”

Tarik spun in a circle and counted heads. “Have you spotted her yet?”

“She isn’t here.” Shakir didn’t know whether to be relieved or panicked.

He went with standby mode. “Take these four and move out. I’ll keep looking.”

Tarik nodded and silently crept away toward the closest woman. Shakir was grateful that his brother had not mentioned the obvious. Time would not allow an extensive search. If he didn’t locate Nicole soon, the extraction choppers would leave without them.

As he flipped the NVGs back over his eyes and moved into darkness, Shakir’s lifetime of training overruled his all-too-human mind. Long ago he had developed the instincts of a predator. A hunter. He would use those instincts now to locate his former lover.

And he would not allow himself to dwell on the other possibilities. He would not consider the chance that Nicole may have already been sold into slavery. Or that the Taj elder might have picked her out for his own household. Or that she had already been accidently given a lethal overdose of the drugs.

Shutting out any of those potential pitfalls, he moved swiftly. Those thoughts were inconceivable and therefore they did not exist.

Not for the hunter.

“Your plan is too dangerous, miss. Please reconsider.” The old handmaiden’s shoulders were rounded and bent and her ancient eyes watery. But her sharp gaze seemed bright with intelligence, good sense and a healthy dose of fear.

Nikki Olivier went against her better judgment and hugged the woman. “I must go tonight, Lalla. I cannot manage another day of pretending to take the drugs. The guards will soon uncover my stash of unused pills and you and I will both suffer the consequences.”

“But if given another day or two …” The old woman continued with her pleading. “The moonlight will guide your way to the coastal village of Sadutan. The Zabbarán desert is full of dangers on moonless nights, but you dare not travel during the day.”

The old woman named Lalla had done so much for her. Grateful, Nikki wanted to ask about her nationality in order to carry a message back to her family. Nikki had grown curious about where the old woman had originally come from before she’d been bound into slavery. Her accent sounded eastern European, but Lalla spoke both French and English fairly well, along with a generous knowledge of the language of her captors. How long had this poor soul been a household slave for the Taj elder?

Nikki decided to keep her questions to herself. She did not wish to share her own secrets and asking curious questions could only bring trouble.

“I have a broad knowledge of astronomy, Lalla. I shall have little difficulty navigating by the stars.”

Lalla opened her mouth, then shut it again without any more words of caution. “Here is the boot polish, miss. Your nose requires another coat.”

Nikki rubbed the foul stuff over the bridge of her nose. The boot polish mixed with soot that she’d used as a disguise had turned her skin a warm brown. She wiped her hands, pulled her precious map from the folds of her robes and moved closer to the nearest light source, wanting to study her route.

Going to Sadutan was not her plan. But she didn’t want anyone, not even Lalla, to know her true destination. If, after she was gone, the Taj elder tortured Lalla for information, the old woman would be unable to tell him anything useful.

What a dismal thought. Nikki couldn’t help feeling guilty and tried once again to plead her case. “Please come with me, Lalla. I beg you. Do not stay behind.”

Lalla dropped her gaze to the floor in an imitation of the way Taj women behaved. “It is too late for me. Too many years have passed. If God wishes to bring me home, I am ready to go.”

The old woman was talking about dying. Suicide by torture. Nikki felt fresh tears threatening to ruin her makeup job but she held them back. She had to stay strong.

“You are young and you have a mission yet to accomplish,” Lalla added more forcefully than Nikki would’ve thought possible. “A mission best undertaken alone. Someone waits for you to change destiny. You must succeed in those efforts.”

Now how could she know that? How could this old woman possibly know that Nikki had voluntarily come to Zabbarán to search for her son? She had told no one.

Thinking back on the whole sordid story of arriving in Zabbarán expecting to find a new job waiting for her as promised, only to be thrust into a dank cave-like prison with five other women, was not something Nikki did often. She didn’t know what the Taj elder had in mind for her future now but knew it wouldn’t include a legitimate job.

She’d come to Zabbarán with high hopes of locating her baby, and she would find him, or die in the attempt.

Truthfully, Nikki’s first unforgiveable mistake had been in trusting her Parisian neighbor to watch her little boy while she went to work. That mistake had been the start of this journey through hell.

But, in her own defense, she’d been desperately poor at the time and her child had needed food and a place to live. After her father died, Nikki was left with no choice but to go to work. And there had been no friends or family to babysit her son while she worked.

Still, in retrospect, that seemed like a lame excuse. But at the time she was trying to be a good parent. The neighbor woman had actually seemed rather sweet and was good with children. She was kind. And, she already watched over other children from their building.

Nikki had checked around for another job, desperate to find a different solution. Eventually, she’d given in and handed over her five-year-old boy for eight hours a day to a woman she barely knew.

Then the day arrived when Nikki came home to find her son, the neighbor and all the neighbor’s possessions gone. It was her worst day—in a lifetime filled with bad days.

Nikki flew straight to the Paris police who looked at her as if she had sprouted wings. “Sorry, madame. We will take the report. But many children disappear each year in Paris. Not many are ever found. We will do our best.”

Fighting hysteria and with no one to help her, Nikki beat on every door in her apartment building, searching for anyone with information. Her tears did not open any mouths, but eventually she sank to threatening people with bodily harm. That bought her a little information.

She was told the neighbor who’d disappeared with her baby had bragged about selling two of her charges to a desperate middle-eastern couple. The couple supposedly had wanted sons and were willing to pay a fortune to obtain them. Greed. Her son was taken from her because of greed. The more she thought of it, the more it made her sick to her stomach.

Nikki also learned that the middle-eastern couple claimed to be from a small town in the newly freed country of Zabbarán. She rushed back to the police with the news. They took the information and shrugged. Then they suggested she hire a private detective.

Too low on funds to consider such a solution and now frantic with worry, Nikki badgered everyone she met for ideas on how to get her son back. Eventually she was introduced to a man, who knew of a man, who was recruiting westerners for jobs in the new country of Zabbarán. She’d jumped at the prospect.

The next thing she knew, she’d landed in this horrible place. If it hadn’t been for Lalla …

“You must adjust the moustache, miss.”

Nikki refolded her map and put it away before pressing down against the smattering of dark hair she’d glued to her upper lip. “How is the disguise?”

“You will not fool anyone for long. Your feminine figure stands out even under the manly robes. Try to avoid encounters. And …” Lalla reached under her own robes and withdrew a dagger. “If you are attacked, use this wisely.”

Staring down at a wide blade attached to a short leather hilt, Nikki tried to imagine using such a blade on a human. It was unthinkable—until she considered her son. For his sake, she would use any weapon at her disposal.

Reaching out to take the knife, Nikki froze with her arms stretched wide. One second ago she and the handmaiden had been alone in the harem’s kitchen. The next instant she’d felt another presence behind her back, joining them in the room. Her instincts went on alert.

But before that fact had time to sink in, Nikki was attacked and roughly thrown to the floor. The dagger flew from her hands and clattered against the stone as the fall took her breath. Sucking in air, she fought to move. But as she tried to squirm out of the way, she was pinned underneath the hard planes of a man’s body.

A big man.

Chapter 2

Shakir silently pointed the older woman into a corner, jammed the barrel of his weapon to the base of the young Taj soldier’s skull and ordered the kid to be silent. The soldier kept squirming and moaning. Pressing his advantage with a knee to the kid’s kidney, Shakir tried to quiet the tango. He growled orders in both the Taj Zabbar language and in the few words of Kasht that he could remember.