Bodyguard Lockdown(16)

“You haven’t heard from Booker McKnight, then, either?” Omar asked, his eyes narrowed. It was apparent to Jarek that Omar did not trust Booker to take care of his daughter.

“No—”

“Are you looking?”

“The Sahara is thousands of square miles. It takes time—”

“I know this,” Omar said. “This is my daughter we are talking about, Jarek.”

He used his king’s first name, a sign of family—one that Omar didn’t often use to take advantage. Jarek sensed the extent of his friend’s worry. He let the familiarity pass.

“I understand—”

“With all forgiveness, I do not believe you do, Your Majesty,” Elizabeth said quietly, then looked to each man. English born, Elizabeth Haddad was steeped in blue-blooded culture. The daughter of a surgeon, she made the perfect wife for Omar. Trim, petite, with impeccable taste, she’d endured much over the years that tested her spine of steel.

“You both are husbands and you both have children. If your child disappeared, would you not worry? Would you not demand answers?” Elizabeth paused, the paleness of her skin evidence of the strain, the fear. “Would you not do everything in your means to bring her back, and those who have done her harm, to justice? If not for yourself, then for your wives?”

“What do you mean, ‘everything in your means’?” Jarek questioned, purposefully looking beyond the despair to the couple’s determination. Something was amiss, something that he could not put his finger on.

“I hope you have not done anything foolish, Omar,” he said, then turned to the older woman. “Elizabeth?”

“What they are not telling you, Jarek, it that there is a bounty on Sandra’s and Booker’s heads.” Sheik Bari Al Asadi entered the office unannounced—a privilege given only to the man who had abdicated his throne years before to Jarek’s father, Makrad. “Omar has offered double the amount for the return of Sandra.”

“How much is that, Father?” Quamar asked.

Hard-bitten and weathered, with a white beard and black eyes, Quamar understood his father, Bari, had little patience when those he loved were in danger. And while Sandra wasn’t blood, Sheik Bari considered her a niece, and Omar his brother.

“Two million,” Omar stated, his tone arrogant, almost defiant.

“Do you have two million?”

“I have means of getting it.”

“And you know this how?” Jarek’s tone matched his uncle’s impatience.

“Mind your tongue, nephew.” Bari’s black eyes hardened, his tone sharpened by an innate royal edge. “Just because I am no longer king does not mean I no longer have loyal subjects. Or deserve the respect of my position.”

“My apologies, Uncle.” Jarek’s jaw flexed, his impatience schooled behind set features. But he didn’t back down. His uncle might once have been king, but Jarek still was. “At the end of the day, it is I who am responsible. Not you.”

Bari gave a brief nod, accepting the explanation. “Trygg now has the Al Asheera hunting Booker and Sandra.”

“The Al Asheera are no longer a threat,” Jarek replied.

“I have heard whispers they have a new leader by the name of Minos.”

Jarek waved his hand. “We obliterated their armies years ago. Those who survived are scattered over the desert.”

“Even if only one is alive, they are still a threat, nephew. Do not ever forget it.”





Chapter Ten



Sandra raised Booker’s eyelid, checked the dilation with her flashlight and noted the one pupil was still not normal.

Earlier, she’d cleaned the wound, stitched it, then bandaged it to keep it protected.

He’d have a scar, but a small one compared to the others that tattooed his body. Several from knives, a few from bullets. One across his right knee from falling down a treacherous mountain.

It was part of his history, a part that he never shared with her.

The sky dimmed to a murky orange, losing its heat, allowing the shadows to grow, the night to settle in.

Sandra tossed more wood on the fire, risking discovery for the warmth, then led the horse to the water and grass.

Surviving the night was the most important thing right now. Many fires littered the desert. Camps were everywhere, filled with nomads, tourists and caravans.

Fatigue made her legs shake. Sandra sat near Booker, taking a minute to gather some energy.

They’d lose a day here. A necessary delay. She wouldn’t take chances with Booker’s physical condition.

She wouldn’t have another death on her conscience.

The strap of her medical bag caught at her neck. Sandra slipped it over her shoulders.

Of its own accord, her hand drifted over the thick seam in the back. It wouldn’t be long before she’d need the map hidden in the lining.

Booker shifted, muttering in his sleep.

Her hand slipped over his forehead, then behind his neck. The heat of his skin nearly singed her fingers.

She silently cursed, knowing the concussion had brought on the fever.

She grabbed a bottle of water and the bottle of aspirin from her bag. It was all she had; she hoped it would be enough.

She slipped the aspirin toward the back of his tongue, then lifted his head. “Booker, wake up.”

She shook him gently. Booker’s eyes fluttered open. Fever and firelight turned the blue irises molten silver.

“Drink,” she whispered. “Please.”



“You’re safe?” His voice shook, from fever or relief; it still troubled her. “I thought you died—”

“We’re both safe for now, Booker,” she assured him. “Drink some more water. You need to stay hydrated.”

“We?” His eyes bored into hers. “You said we.”

“Yes. We—”

“You and the baby. You’re both okay?”

Sandra froze. “The baby?”

Booker glared at her, his eyes hazy from distant memories. “The baby, Emily. Remember? Our baby?”

“Booker, it’s Sandra. Not Emily.” She placed the bottle at his lips, coaxed him to take a few sips. Shivers rippled over his skin, caused his shoulders to shake.

“Damn cold,” Booker muttered. “Where’s the jungle? Why Siberia?”

“We’re in the desert,” Sandra soothed. The temperature was dropping quickly out here. The fire wouldn’t be enough. Not with a fever raging.

“You’ll be warm soon. I promise.” She lowered his head, then took off her shoes, stripped down to her T-shirt and panties. She burrowed beside him, rubbing herself against the coldness of his skin, cradled his head against her shoulder and closed her eyes.

But his words whispered through her mind.

The baby, Emily. Our baby.

“Sandra?” Booker rasped out, the desperation in his tone ragged. He pulled her across his chest, cupped her chin in his hand.

“Yes?” she answered, wanting what he offered, knowing he did so in his dreams. “You’ve got a fever, Booker. You need rest.”

His arms tightened when she shifted, pinning her to the length of his body. His eyes filmed over with a blue haze, raced over her face. “God, you’re beautiful.”



Then his mouth covered hers. Hot, feverish, it demanded, no begged, a response.

“Booker, please.” Now she was the one who begged.

On a groan, he deepened the kiss and her will broke.

Tongue swept against tongue, rubbing, seducing in soft, sensual circles. Then his mouth moved to her lower lip, drawing it between his own, nipping and suckling until her toes curled, her limbs shook, her body thrust against his in a desperate attempt to end the torture, or continue it, she couldn’t be sure. Didn’t care.

Her hands found his shoulders, drew him down on her. His skin slid against hers, hot and feverish. His body trembled, then shivered, then shuddered.

Sandra crashed into reality. Felt him shudder again. Fever induced, not desire driven.

“Booker. You’re not well.” She grabbed his shoulder, pushed him away, let him roll to her side. “You need rest.”

He groaned once, then didn’t stir.





Chapter Eleven



Pain drove Booker awake, but panic and fear opened his eyes. Startled, he reached for his gun. The pain—sharp and white-hot—speared his shoulder, tore through his neck.

He remembered then. The horse’s hooves. The fight with the mercenaries.

Waseem’s admission before he died.

The new leader of the Al Asheera, a man named Minos, wanted Sandra. Wanted whatever she was hiding from Trygg.

He saw her then, waist deep in the water. Her gun left on a rock, less than a foot from her elbow.