The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy. Dana Marton
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sand off his boots. “The law won’t allow more.”
“Divorce one,” the third man advised with a sharp laugh. “It’s easy enough.”
“They all have children.”
“Boys?”
“Mostly. Only two girls from the first.”
There was a meaningful silence.
They were Beharrainian, their local accent unmistakable. Although most inhabitants of the Middle East and a large part of Africa spoke Arabic, the dialect changed from region to region, country to country.
Tariq didn’t recognize the voices, and hoped the men weren’t from his own tribe. But then again, he could hardly claim to know his tribe so well that he would recognize each voice. Other sheiks would have.
The thought pricked him with guilt.
Other sheiks lived their whole lives among their people. He’d been sent away at the age of five. Hardly his fault.
And yet everyone seemed to think so. Everyone expected more from him than he could deliver.
And four years after he had returned, as hard as he tried, he still didn’t fully feel like one of them.
What man would betray the honor of his tribe by selling drugs that debased his own people? What kind of man would wait among sand dunes to shoot innocents, blow up oil wells that fed tens of thousands? What kind of man would throw aside the mother of his daughters? How was Tariq supposed to relate to that?
He knew well enough what would await a divorced woman—disgrace and poverty. If she was lucky and her father was still living, she might go back there. Or a brother might take her in. If not … The chance of finding another husband was slim. Most men here wouldn’t dream of marrying anyone but a virgin.
Tariq winced, recalling the selection of sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds the tribal leaders had paraded before him, girls they’d expected him to marry to strengthen alliances. He might marry yet for the sake of his tribe, but by everything that was holy, if he did, he would wed a grown woman. Not one who had been forced into marriage by her male relatives.
His ideas did not make him popular among the conservatives.
He thought of Sara. If he had his way, if he were a man without obligations … He pushed the thought aside and drew back. The men didn’t look like they were going anywhere. He would have to find a roundabout way.
He moved as fast as he could, the sand making it easy to proceed quietly. He rounded the next building and surveyed the area ahead of him. Nobody there. He dashed across the open stretch of sand and pressed against the unfinished wall of what one day would be a five-star spa.
“There’ll be hell to pay.” The words came from somewhere behind him.
The place was crawling with bandits.
He slipped inside the building and ducked down, making sure he kept under the windows as he moved toward the exit opposite. But a name caught his ear—Karim ibn Abdullah, his brother. Despite the heat, a chill nested in Tariq’s chest. What had they done with him? He stilled.
“… the only one of the brothers left,” a man said.
“He’s a dark one,” another responded in a glum voice. “He will want revenge.”
“I’ll take out his other eye and see if he can find us then.” The first man laughed it off.
Karim had lost the sight in one eye in an unfortunate accident, at the same time as Aziz’s leg had been crippled, twenty some years ago. Tariq had often wondered if the “accident” had been meant to kill them. It ended up saving their lives instead. Their father had declared them unfit to rule, and therefore no competition for his favorite son, Majid, who had eventually wrested control of the throne.
“The shah probably has plans for him already. We don’t have to worry about him. Allah’s will be done.”
The other one grunted. “I wonder if all the money will be found when the brothers are gone, or if they will take their secret to the grave with them.”
“The shah will find a way to get the treasure. I wouldn’t mind helping him.” The man laughed. “He took care of Tariq and Aziz.”
“I heard that those were accidents. He didn’t even know Aziz would be at the well.”
“He is a modest man. Doesn’t like to brag …. So, do you still have that mistress in Khablad?”
Tariq moved along as the conversation switched to women. Grief for Aziz sat heavy in his heart. He clamped his jaw tight, fury coursing through his veins. Who in hell was “the shah?” Was Karim in danger? He had to get back to Sara and the satellite phone and warn his brother. But first, the trucks.
He walked through the building and stopped just inside the doorway. He was nearly at the vehicles. Unfortunately, more bandits hung around here.
He waited until one came near, then made a small noise. The man didn’t seem to hear. Tariq kicked his boot against the wall. That stopped the guy. He turned toward the building and stuck his head in.
Tariq was ready. He’d considered the tire iron, but put a chokehold on the man instead, and with one quick move, pulled him in. A knife appeared, but he deflected it, then gained possession. Not that he could use the thing. Instead, he snapped the man’s neck, then laid him on the ground and began to remove his uniform. A giant bloodstain on the cloth would draw attention, and he needed to blend in.
When he was dressed and had the white kaffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head—enough to obscure his features, but not so much that people would wonder what he was doing with it now that the winds had died down—he stepped outside.
Nobody seemed to pay attention to him as he made his way to the resort’s main hotel tower, where the bandits were camped out. He slipped inside. Six men were visible, but he couldn’t see into every corner. He walked about, keeping to the shadows until he made sure his first assessment was correct.
“Too early,” someone said.
“We might have to stop again if there’s another storm,” a second man responded.
Tariq paid them little attention. He had a knife he was itching to sink into the tires, but three of the men were sitting near the trucks, sharing a carafe of Arabian spiced coffee. The scent of cinnamon carried in the air as one of them poured.
“… Gallbladder. I’ll have to go into the hospital sooner or later.”
“I hate doctors,” his friend responded, and they began to swap horror stories of medical mishaps in their respective families.
Tariq scanned the blankets on the sand, packages of food, guns that had been left around, a five-gallon water jug. He pretended to go for water, and managed to swing an abandoned AK-47 over his shoulder in the process.
He moved toward the truck in the back, parked a few feet farther from the men than the one in front. He knelt out of sight, and was just raising the knife, hoping the hissing air wouldn’t make too much noise, when someone came around the back of the vehicle, nearly falling over him. Tariq sprung up, one hand over the man’s mouth even as the other was slicing his neck. He rolled the body under the truck, behind the large tire, where it might not be immediately seen. Then he slashed the rubber before moving on.
Four years ago, living in California, he would have found the idea of killing a man unthinkable. But a lot had happened since he had left that life behind. This was another world. Sometimes it seemed another reality, another dimension. He’d had to defend his life enough times that he’d learned to do so with skill. And when, in a disagreement over borders, apart of his tribe, his fakhadh, had clashed with a Yemeni gang that outnumbered them five to one, he had been expected to lead them in tribal warfare that seemed to throw him back centuries.
Except for the automatic weapons.
He