Hide-And-Sheikh. Gail Dayton
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for your own good.”
Alarm flashed through him. Was she a terrorist after all?
Then the door was open and Omar, his valet-cum-bodyguard, was hauling him into the room. Frank, the rent-a-bodyguard from the service his family used in New York, stood behind Omar, with a third burly guard beyond.
“Thanks, Miss Sheffield,” Frank was saying. “I knew if anybody could find him, you could.”
Ellen’s smile was gone, replaced by a businesslike scowl. “I wouldn’t have had to, if you bozos hadn’t lost him in the first place.”
“You are a bodyguard?” Rudi goggled at her.
“I’m a security consultant. Frank and George are bodyguards.” She indicated the two locals. “See if you can keep up with him now.”
And she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.
The woman of his dreams had come on to him just to track him down for his family and return him to the dubious safety of his bodyguards.
Rudi started to laugh. He had to—she had outwitted him so cleverly. She had won this round.
But the game was not over yet.
And she had promised him they could talk later, if he wished. Rudi definitely wished to talk much more with Miss Ellen Sheffield.
Two
Ellen Sheffield was the best at what she did.
At least, she used to be, before she met that too-handsome-for-her-own-good son of a sheikh. His movie-star face kept popping into her head, complete with that obnoxious grin. The one that made him look even more handsome. No matter how hard she tried to dismiss him as a lightweight, tell herself the grin was goofy and the man uninteresting, his voice would whisper in her mind’s ear, A person cannot drink oil. And she’d wonder if he still wanted to talk.
Because, however many times she told herself she didn’t want to see him, she couldn’t forget that he had actually wanted to delay going upstairs at the hotel. He’d invited her into the bar. He’d seen past the mask to the person behind her polished facade, the first man to bother looking in years. Maybe ever.
When she was little, she’d been merely “the Sheffield boys’ sister.” Then she’d grown breasts, and her brothers’ friends had done nothing but stare at them. Until her brothers beat them up.
None of the boys in high school had dared ask her out, and with a policeman for a brother, none of the men in the academy had, either. So she’d had no preparation for Davis’s practiced seduction when she’d met him at a book signing just after she’d finished her course.
Ellen sighed. Davis had been such an overwhelming experience that she’d agreed to marry him before she realized what kind of man he was. Before she realized what kind of woman he wanted. He wanted a decorative, expensive toy to show off to his friends, not a person. Ellen’s opinions, desires, thoughts and wishes had all been dismissed as unimportant. Her career was immaterial. Davis expected her to drop everything and dance to his tune.
When she’d broken the engagement, his “friends” had moved in, all of them wanting the same thing: a beautiful woman to show off. She’d learned then how to use her appearance as a tool, a weapon against them. That skill had benefited her career, both in the police department and since. Vic Campanello, her partner on the job and her current boss, called her his secret weapon. Which was why she’d been tapped to find Prince Rudi the Gorgeous.
She didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want him popping into her head. He might have noticed the devil in her eyes, but he couldn’t care anymore. Not now, not after she’d put him back into his gilded cage.
Ellen got out of the cab and slammed the door. Then she overtipped the driver because she felt guilty for taking out her guilt on his cab. She had not betrayed Rudi, or Rashid, or whatever the man wanted to call himself. She had probably saved his life. He had no business wandering around New York on his own, not with terrorists stalking Qarif’s ruling family, of which Rudi was most definitely a member.
The terrorists had been a problem in Qarif for most of Rudi’s life, but lately things had changed, according to Campanello. The old leader had been captured, and the new, more militant leader had vowed vengeance for the captivity, even though he was probably the one who’d tipped the authorities off.
Rudi might be used to the terrorist threat, but that didn’t mean there was no danger. Ellen’s job was to protect him from that danger, and she had absolutely no reason to feel guilty for doing her job.
Summer flowers bloomed in beds lining the paths, but they might as well have been weeds for all the attention Ellen paid them as she headed into Central Park. She checked her watch and picked up her pace. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her meeting.
Swainson Security had been hired to provide security for a music video to be shot in Central Park sometime in the next month, and she was supposed to meet with the producer, the director, the group’s manager and whoever else thought they needed a finger in the pie, to check out locations. She much preferred this kind of work to tracking down spoiled dilettantes. Though she had to admit that finding Rudi had been a challenge. She did enjoy a good challenge.
Campanello had told her this morning he had a new assignment for her, one that would begin immediately after this meeting. Maybe it would offer something tough enough to keep her mind off Qarif’s prince. The fact that the boss wouldn’t tell her what the new job was, however, made her suspect that it might have something to do with said prince.
Ellen ground her teeth, then curled her lips up in what she hoped resembled a smile more than a snarl as the band’s manager turned to greet her. Time to go to work.
Rudi stared at the piece of paper in front of him on the polished table without actually seeing it or anything it said. It was Wednesday. Hump Day, as they had called it when he was in college in Texas, and probably everywhere else in the United States. If he could make it past Wednesday, it was a downhill slide to the weekend. Only, the weekend would be no better, trapped as he was by his bodyguards and big brother Ibrahim.
Rudi felt Ibrahim’s glower and ignored it. He pulled his hand inside the sleeve of his djellaba and discreetly scratched his thigh. Ibrahim had insisted on traditional dress for the negotiations today, to remind the other parties just who they dealt with. Rudi stuck his hand back out and took yet another sip of water. Maybe he could escape to the rest room for a few minutes, if he drank enough water.
He had no idea why he had to be at this forsaken meeting anyway. It was not as if he could contribute anything but another body. Ibrahim’s wife or one of his children now in New York could contribute as much. Rudi would happily trade places with Kalila and escort the children to museums and even opera, while she sat in on her husband’s meetings. They were about finance and numbers, dollars and marks and yen and things he knew nothing about. Did not want to know about.
Give him a piece of ground, a “Christmas tree” rig and a couple of roughnecks to handle the steel, and he could bring in the well. He could even tell you if the piece of ground might produce anything, whether water, oil or gas. But high finance could kill him. If Rudi got any more bored, his heart just might forget to beat, fall asleep just like the rest of him. Although if he actually dozed off, Ibrahim would be the one to kill him.
He had sworn off thinking about her. This resolution had lasted about as long as every other resolution he had ever made. Maybe an entire hour. He needed something to do that would keep him awake, so he began to plot his revenge on Ellen Sheffield. Most of the plots involved isolated tents in the desert, paved with thick, soft carpets and plenty of pillows, and thin, gauzy, semitransparent clothing. Better yet, no clothing at all.
Not that the plots would ever come to fruition. It had been ten days since Ellen had turned him back over to the loving, suffocating arms of his family like a runaway schoolboy, and he still had no hint how to find her. Her company “did not give out personal information,” as he had been told several times over