The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

Author DANA MARTON lives near Wilmington, Delaware. She has been an avid reader since childhood and has a master’s degree in writing popular fiction. When not writing, she can be found either in her garden or her home library. For more information on the author and her other novels, please visit her website at www.danamarton.com. She would love to hear from her readers via e-mail: DanaMarton@yahoo.com.

With many thanks to Denise Zaza and Allison Lyons

Prologue

“Tariq?” the sheika yelled as she ran through the palace, her bare feet slapping on the marble floor. “Have you seen Tariq?” she demanded of the guard at the end of the dark hallway, desperation squeezing her throat.

“Probably playing somewhere.” His gaze implied he thought her a hysterical female. He didn’t take her seriously.

They never did.

She ran on, knowing she could expect no help from the man—not from him, not from the others. She thought of the two sons she had already lost, and cold fear curled in her stomach. She wept.

“Tariq?” She opened one door after another and tried not to think of Habib, who at the age of four had been found after just such a night, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs.

A sleepwalker, they’d said.

She was his mother. She knew better.

Her giant belly hurt from the mad rush, and she put a hand over it, over the sons who waited to see the world. The sheik was happy.

The sheika had hoped for a girl.

She ran forward, down one corridor, up more stairs. The palace was riddled with passageways: some splendid, some used by servants, others secret and known only to the family. She hated to think of Tariq lost in the maze at night, hunted like a small animal by unseen enemies.

Her child.

Would none of her sons live long enough to pass out of the nursery? She cursed the greed of men, the line of succession and the fact that she was the sheik’s favorite wife, garnering more envy than she could defend her children against.

“Allah, let me find him hale tonight.” She whispered the same words she had said so many times before.

If Tariq made it past age eight and moved into his father’s care, perhaps he would be safe. Nobody would dare touch him that close to the sheik. She would hate to see him go, but was willing to give him up to save him.

She heard footsteps in the darkness and moved silently in the direction of the sound. Small steps. Tariq. She didn’t dare call his name. Heavy boots thumped on the marble behind her.

Her lungs were straining after her desperate race through the palace, and from being squeezed by the babies she carried. The air in the room was thick with the scent of incense that had been burned earlier, making it even harder for her to breathe, to think.

At the last second, she hid behind heavy brocade curtains, and when she saw the five-year-old who was the light of her heart stumble by, she reached out and pulled him in, put a hand over his mouth. He recognized her immediately—by scent or feel, she didn’t know. He didn’t make a sound. She wrapped her trembling arms around him, stifling the sob of relief that bubbled up her throat.

She had found him in time. Allah be blessed.

There was a secret panel behind her. She opened it and slid inside, pressed the wood back into place. Men entered the room, talking.

“Check everywhere. He’s small. There, under the divan.”

Keeping her arms tight around her son, she willed her heart to still. The men wouldn’t know about the secret hiding place. She waited, motionless and silent, clinging to that hope.

But there was a scraping noise on the other side of the panel, and it popped open, a flashlight blinding her. She couldn’t see the men who surrounded them. Fear slowed her heart as she slid in front of Tariq. They could only take him if she were dead.

But Tariq pushed forward, putting his small body between her and the men, trying to protect her. The gesture just about broke her heart. She pulled him back.

Tense seconds passed as her eyes adjusted to the light. She wasn’t surprised to see her own guard. The captain watched her, and she knew he was thinking about whether two accidental deaths would be one too many for one night.

Four, she thought, sliding one hand off Tariq’s shoulder to curl protectively around her stomach.

“There you are,” the man said, and moved back, allowing them room to step out. “We received word that Tariq was missing, and came looking for the child.”

She moved with effort, her enormous belly slowing her down. Wary of a trap, she didn’t dare feel relief, but kept her son close.

“We will return you to your rooms, Sheika. It is careless of you to roam the palace this time of the night.”

She nodded, noting how his eyes narrowed with displeasure, the disappointment of an interrupted hunt.

She didn’t take an easy breath until she was inside her quarters, where no man was allowed but her husband, the sheik. She closed the door behind her, locked it, although she knew it mattered little. She wouldn’t let Tariq’s hand go as she walked around and checked on her daughters, who were sleeping peacefully.

“You sleep with me,” she told Tariq.

For once, he didn’t argue that he was a big boy and too old for that.

They slipped into bed, and she held him against her, as close as her giant belly allowed. She had to get him out of the palace to save him, she knew.

At the birth of each of her previous sons, the sheik had gifted her with a boon, allowed her a request he’d promised he would not deny. The new babes would come soon. If they were healthy and pleasing to the sheik’s eyes …

Tariq had to go far, far away. If even the guards were hunting him now … None of them were safe, perhaps not even the sheik. His successor, a son by the first wife, was impatient for the throne.

But the old man wouldn’t see it that way. He had a favorite wife, and also a favorite son. And he was blind to the young sheik’s faults.

Little Tariq’s body gave a shudder in his sleep. His mother smoothed a hand over his thick, dark hair, hoping he would feel her presence and be calmed even in his dreams.

“Shh.” She placed a light kiss on the top of his head. “Whatever I have to do, whatever I have to give, you will be safe.”

Chapter One

Thirty years later

She’d been brought here to fail. It was expected of her. Hoped for.

Sara Reeves exited the conference room last, following the men, as was the custom in the region. Jeff had drilled that into her head. Whatever you do, commit no offense. He’d made it clear it was the most important thing he expected of her on this trip, the only thing.

“Let us go see the new well,” Ahmad Maluk, one of the three directors who represented MMPOIL at today’s meeting, said, gesturing toward the bank of elevators. “It’ll be a twenty-minute helicopter ride. Miss Reeves is welcome to stay at the hotel and rest if she so wishes.”

She wished they could meet the sheik. But they’d already been told that was not going to happen. “I’d love to see the well,” she said with respect, talking to no one in particular, not wanting to offend the men by addressing them directly.

“You rest,” Jeff said, solicitous as ever. “I can handle it.”

He could always handle everything—except the actual work. At schmoozing he was king. Hard to believe there’d been a time when she’d been in love with the man.

“Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” Husam, the man on Ahmad’s left, suggested. He was the youngest of the three Beharrainians, around thirty if that, with a sharp chin and nose, and even sharper eyes that he’d kept on Sara for most of the meeting.

She glanced away, hating the submissive gesture, but knowing that in this culture it was expected of women. One of the slew of oddities that made it difficult for her to stand on even ground for the negotiations.

They should have seen the well and been back by now, but Jeff had had stomach problems that morning and they’d had to delay their meetings. He had used her as an excuse, told everyone she’d been sick. The Arabs put a lot of stock in the strength of a man. If Jeff appeared weak for any reason it would be detrimental to their negotiations. And she could appear a little weaker, so as not to challenge their ideas of women and give offense. The world according to Jeff.

The best thing Sara had ever done for herself was to break their engagement. Unfortunately, untangling their business interests proved more difficult.

Jeff flashed her one of those smiles she had fallen for four years ago, before she’d realized that they, along with most things about him, were fake. “You could go shopping,” he said.

With admirable restraint, she kept herself from voicing the response forming on her tongue. “I’d prefer to see the well.”

Jeff shrugged with annoyance, but didn’t push further. Perhaps he’d given up on trying to manipulate her for the time being.

She zeroed in on the hallway to the left, where she’d seen a sign for a restroom on their way in. Since she knew they would be spending several hours in the desert today, she’d doubled her water intake. “Why don’t you go up? I’ll be with you in a second.” She nodded toward her destination.

Jeff scowled, as if her basic necessities were nothing but feminine whims he was forced to put up with.

She hurried down the hall, trying not to be too paranoid and obsess over what he would say this time to undermine her in her absence. Of course, with this potential customer, the fact that she was a woman was probably enough.

Glancing into the mirror as she exited the restroom two minutes later, she made sure her insecurities didn’t show. B. T. Reeves Studio, a public relations firm specializing in the oil industry, was as much her company as Jeff’s—more so, in her opinion. No matter how hard he pushed her, she was not going to relinquish her heritage. She wanted more than anything to regain control of the company and make it a success, a tribute to her father, who had started it.

Husam’s dark shape ahead caught her eye, his back half-turned to her. Was he waiting for her? She hadn’t liked the way he’d stared at her all through the meeting. She didn’t want to be stuck in the close quarters of an elevator with him. He was talking on his cell phone in Arabic, sounding nervous and angry at the same time.

Grateful for the soft carpet, which allowed her to remain undetected, she walked in the other direction. MMPOIL’s headquarters was a giant building. There had to be more than one bank of elevators.

She turned the corner and was relieved to see she’d been right. She pushed the call button and held her breath until the bell dinged and the doors opened. They were just starting to close behind her when a man stepped through. For a moment, all she registered was relief that he wasn’t Husam.

Oh, my. Definitely not. Wasn’t even in the same category.

This guy was close to forty and a good head taller than Husam. He brought a strong sense of presence with him as he stepped inside, so strong his body almost vibrated with intensity. The space in the elevator seemed to shrink, the air thinning all of a sudden.

There was a stark wildness to his masculine features, his tanned face and dark hair. Sara’s first impression had been of a hard-set, square jaw and wide shoulders stiff with displeasure, but that seemed to disappear as he watched her. His dark eyes held her gaze.

“Hello.” His deeply masculine voice was as spellbinding as the rest of him.

“Hi.” She should have looked away politely. She couldn’t, even with all her senses suggesting that this guy was several levels above Husam on the danger scale.

Husam hadn’t really done anything but stare at her. Maybe he wasn’t used to blondes, or women in a negotiating position. She was in a whole new culture. She had to adjust to certain oddities.

She fixed her attention on the closed doors, but couldn’t hold it there long before glancing again at the man next to her. He was staring at the sheet of paper in his hand, no longer looking at her, which should have made him seem less intimidating. It didn’t.

She acknowledged the fact, but wouldn’t let it bother her. She was used to intimidation on a daily basis.

“Do you know if this goes to the helipad?” she asked, unsure whether he would understand her. Anybody could say “hello.”

“I’ll show you when we get up there.” His U.S., West Coast accent surprised her. Another American?

“Thanks.”

She relaxed marginally, but then her business persona kicked in. “Do you work here or are you visiting?” If MMPOIL had solicited other U.S. companies to bid on the same project she and Jeff were here for, she needed to know.

“I work here,” he said, setting her mind at ease.

He folded the paper and slid it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, then looked at her again. His gaze was sharp and intelligent, intense, but lacking Husam’s disquieting intrusion. “Are you here with the Dallas delegation?”

She nodded, wondering how he knew, and what his role was at the company. A subtle, pleasant scent of sandalwood filled the small space and surrounded her. He didn’t crowd her as people had tended to do since her arrival—apparently due to their different attitude about personal space—but stood back, detached.

“You work with the sheik?” she asked, registering at last that he hadn’t pushed another button. The fiftieth floor was still the only one lit. That meant he was going to the top, as well, which, according to Jeff, was Sheik Abdullah’s domain. And also the location of the only elevator that went to the roof. This way, access to the helipad was restricted. For security reasons, she supposed.

The man nodded with a short, deliberate movement of his head, power evident even in such small a gesture as that.

He worked with the sheik. A slide show of romanticized pictures flashed through her mind, straight from the sheik romance novels she’d read. “Is he here today?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he doesn’t attend low-level meetings,” she said, hiding her chagrin pretty well, she thought.

“He doesn’t attend any meetings if he can help it.” Her companion had the bearing and self-assurance of a man in charge, but he wasn’t among the top tier of executives. Jeff and she had been introduced to them at a reception upon arrival.

She wondered if he might be a close, trusted assistant to the sheik, but his body language and air didn’t seem to fit the secretary image. He had a commanding physical presence, his form well-built and powerful. There was a watchful awareness about him that wasn’t typical of the average office worker. Nor was his impeccable suit.

And then it clicked. He was probably one of the sheik’s bodyguards.

The elevator stopped and he gestured for her to step out first, very atypical of her experience here so far. Maybe he hadn’t been in the country long enough for the local attitude to rub off on him. She wondered how long ago he’d been shipped in from the U.S. as a security consultant to the sheik. He had to be good at what he did to be brought all this way.

No doubt about it. She stole another furtive glance, not wanting him to notice her obvious interest. He looked to be the kind of guy who would be good at whatever he did. She couldn’t imagine him turning all that intense energy to a purpose and not succeeding.

He gestured at an elevator directly opposite theirs. “That’ll take you to the helipad.”

He held her gaze for another second, fire and mystery swirling in his dark eyes. God, this setting was making her ridiculously fanciful. Then, moving with an inborn elegance, he strode toward the opaque doors that closed off the short hallway from the rest of the floor.

She craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sheik’s private offices. It would be neat to see a real-life sheik. She’d been disappointed when she’d realized their itinerary didn’t include meeting the man.

“What is he like, the sheik?” she couldn’t help calling after him. She pictured Sheik Abdullah in flowing white robes edged with gold, a kaffiyeh on his head, looking fiercely royal, surrounded by the splendor of his station. She was a little sketchy on the splendor part. Sometimes it showed up in her imagination as a gilded room in some palace, other times as a tent with priceless Persian rugs, set up at a breathtaking oasis in the middle of the desert.

He turned toward her and said, “Not someone you’d want to meet.”

Was that amusement glinting in his eyes?

“He’s a morose bastard.” He placed a tanned hand on the door. “Enjoy your time in Beharrain, Miss Reeves,” he said before he slipped through.

She blinked, then shook her head slightly and walked to the elevator, refusing to feel guilty for having made the men wait. She squared her shoulders as she stepped in, getting ready for the subtle manipulations she would have to deal with on the way to the well. Jeff was going to do everything he could to pressure her into remaining in the background at tomorrow’s presentation. She wasn’t going to let him. Nor would she ever allow him to get his hands on her share of the company.

Would he eventually give up?

But as the elevator door opened to the roof, and oppressive heat surrounded her, a second question popped into her mind, for a moment overriding the first. How did the sheik’s bodyguard know her name?

MAYBE SHE SHOULD HAVE gone back to the hotel. The temperature had to be well over a hundred degrees outside. The Hummer they’d taken was air-conditioned, but heat radiated through the window next to her.

They should have been at the well long ago, but the corporate helicopter had some problems, and the decision had been made to go by car. No more than a three-hour drive, they’d been assured. Sara’s teeth were still on edge from her fifteen-minute conversation with Jeff, who’d used this as an excuse to mount a new offensive, doing what he could to convince her to stay behind.

She sat next to him now, trying not to look at Husam. He had insisted on keeping them company on the road, while a second Hummer transported two other men from MMPOIL who were supposed to take the same chopper, plus two armed guards. The fact that bodyguards were necessary didn’t exactly put her at ease.

One sat in her vehicle, as well, next to Husam. The man from the elevator. He’d shown up at the last second—Tariq somebody. The driver had started the engine just as he got in, so she didn’t catch his full name.

“Water?” he was asking in that deeply masculine voice, pulling a bottle of Evian from the cooler and pointing toward the glasses.

“Yes, please,” she said.

Jeff shook his head. Husam declined with a respectful bow and an odd look on his face. Maybe he thought the direct contact between them was impolite.

Tariq poured, then handed her the glass, which she took very carefully to make sure they didn’t touch—according to her guide book that was a big no-no around here.

The man poured for himself, as well. He sat opposite her, the seats facing each other, and seemed to command Husam’s deference. At least the latter left plenty of room between them. Tariq was working directly with Sheik Abdullah, after all, and probably had the sheik’s ear. Other than respectfully greeting the newcomer when he arrived, Husam had not attempted to talk to him, though his appearance had clearly surprised him.

He even refrained from staring at Sara for the most part, which was fine by her. She hadn’t been overjoyed when she’d realized that they would be riding together.

“I love this car,” Jeff said in an overly cheerful tone. “Custom? Always said that the H2 and H3 can’t be compared to the H1 Alpha wagon.”

Husam perked up and the two embarked on a discussion about Hummers that she only intermittently understood. Which left her plenty of time to ponder her companions.

It seemed laughable now that a few hours ago she’d felt threatened by Husam. Next to Tariq, he seemed insignificant. Even Jeff, who was handsome in a softer, city-boy sort of way—he’d certainly gotten around among the women at the company office—couldn’t hold a candle to Tariq, whose raw masculinity seemed to jump across the short gap that separated his knees from hers.

She wished he would join the conversation so she could find out more about him and the man he worked for, but he seemed lost in the contents of the folder he’d brought along. Probably for the best. When he did look at her, his intensity made her feel painfully self-conscious, anyway.

“Any Bedouins around here?” Jeff asked, pronouncing the word “bad ones,” a private joke he’d made several times since they’d arrived, thinking nobody noticed.

But Sara saw the muscles tighten in Tariq’s jaw. If he took offense, however, he gave no other sign of it, didn’t even look up.

“Farther in the desert to the south,” Husam said.

She glanced out the window.

There was no road, only a faint track that wasn’t bad when they were going over sand. But when they hit rocky areas, she was afraid her kidneys would be shaken to bits by the time they reached their destination. She wanted to ask how much farther they had to go, but would have bitten off her tongue before doing so. If the men weren’t bothered by the ride, then she was prepared to pretend that she wasn’t, either.

She looked out over the dunes, daydreaming about Bedouin raids of the past, about horses flying over the sand, the treasures of the East packed on camelback, the shouts, the braying, the clashing of swords. Then she bit back a smile. Clearly, she’d read too many historical romances.

She wondered if Abdullah was anything like the sheiks of old, and the image of a breathtaking warrior atop a black Arabian stallion floated into her mind. But that picture was quickly replaced by the very real appearance of a beat-up military truck, the first sign of life they’d seen since they had entered the desert.

“Are we here?” she asked, full of hope.

Both Tariq and Husam were staring out the window, Husam’s face inscrutable, while Tariq’s grew dark as he reached behind his seat and came up with a handgun.

“What’s going on?” Her voice went squeaky, her heart thumping at the sight of the weapon.

“Get down,” Tariq commanded in a tone that bore no argument, and she did so immediately, putting her head between her knees.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God,” Jeff was saying, and did the same. “What’s happening? Are those bandits?”

Bandits? The air left Sara’s lungs. Nobody had said anything about bandits. Beharrain was supposed to be safe and a friend of the U.S., thanks to its American-born queen. That was one of the reasons Sara’s company had decided to do business here instead of some other country in the region.

Couldn’t be bandits. She’d seen those beat-up old army trucks all over the city. People bought them after they’d been decommissioned by the military, and used them for everything from furniture moving to selling Middle Eastern fast food on the streets.