Hidden In the Sheikh's Harem (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

F
EELING
 
HORRIBLY
 
GUILTY
 
that she had been enjoying her own time while her father was away, Farah raced to the ancient stables and saddled her beloved white stallion. If what Lila said was true then her father could face the death penalty and her heart seized.

As if he could sense her turmoil, Moonbeam whinnied and butted his head against her thigh as she saddled him. ‘It's okay,' she said, knowing she was reassuring herself more than the horse. ‘Just go like the wind. I don't have a good feeling about this.'

Riding into the secret camp a short time later, she reined in Moonbeam and handed him off to one of the guards to rub down. As it was dusk the camp was getting ready to bed down for the night, the tarpaulin tents shifting and sighing with the light breeze that lifted her
keffiyeh
. The camp was set up with mountains on one side and an ocean of desert on the other and she usually took a moment to appreciate the ochre tones in the dying embers of the evening sun.

Not tonight, though. Tonight she was too tense to think about anything other than hoping Lila was wrong.

‘What are you doing here?' Amir asked curtly as she approached her father's tent, his arms folded across his chest, his face tense.

‘What are you?' She folded her arms across her own chest to show him she wasn't intimidated by his tough guy antics. He'd been her friend once, for Allah's sake.

‘That's not your concern.'

‘It is if what I just heard is true.' She took a deep breath. ‘Please tell me it isn't.'

‘War is men's business, Farah.'

‘War?' The word squeaked out of her on a rush of air and she let out a string of choice words under her breath. Amir looked at her with the disapproving frown he wore ever since he had asked her father for her hand in marriage; the boy she had once played with, and who had taught her to use a sword when she'd been twelve and full of anger and despair over the death of her pregnant mother, seemingly long gone. ‘So it's true.' Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘The Prince of Bakaan is here?'

Amir's lips tightened. ‘Your father is busy.'

‘Is he in there?'

She'd meant the prince but he'd misunderstood. ‘He won't want to see you right now. Things are...tense.'

No kidding.
You could have cut the air in the camp with a knife. ‘How did this happen?' she demanded. ‘You know my father is old and bitter. You're supposed to look out for him.'

‘He is still leader of Al-Hajjar.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Farah? Is that you?' Her father's voice boomed from inside the tent.

Farah's insides clenched. As much as her father's controlling and chauvinistic ways chafed—a lot—he was all she had in the world and she loved him. ‘Yes, Father.' She swept past a disgruntled Amir and entered the plush interior of her father's retreat, lit from within by variously placed oil lamps.

The roomy tent was divided into sleeping and eating areas with a large bed at one end and a circle of cushions at the other. Worn rugs lined the floor to keep out the night-time chill and silk scarves were draped from the walls.

Her father looked tired as he sat amongst the cushions, the remnants of his evening meal set on a low table before him.

‘What are you doing here, girl?'

Looking out for you
, she wanted to say but didn't. Theirs had never been an overly demonstrative relationship even when her mother had been alive. Then, though, at least things had been happier and she'd tried so hard to get that feeling back in the years since.

Frown lines marred his forehead and his hands were clasped behind his broad back, his body taut. If she'd been a boy she would have been welcomed into this inner sanctum but she wasn't and maybe it was time she just accepted that. ‘I heard that you have the Prince of Bakaan here,' she said in a ‘please tell me it isn't true' voice.

He stroked his white beard, which she knew meant he was thinking about whether to answer her or not. ‘Who told you?'

Farah felt as if a dead weight had just landed on her shoulders. ‘It's true, then?'

‘The information needs to be contained. Amir, see to it.'

‘Of course.'

Not realising that Amir had followed her in, she turned to him, her eyes narrowing as she noticed that one of his eyes was blackened. ‘Where did that come from?'

‘Never mind!'

Farah wondered if it was from the prince and turned back to her father. ‘But why? How?'

Amir stepped forward, his jaw set hard. ‘Prince Zachim arrogantly assumed he could go dune driving in the middle of the night without his security detail.'

Ignoring him, Farah addressed her father. ‘And?'

‘And we took him.'

Just like that?

Farah cleared her throat, trying not to imagine the worst. ‘Why would you do that?'

‘Because I will not see another Darkhan take power and he is the heir.'

‘I thought his older brother was the heir.'

‘That dog Nadir lives in Europe and wants nothing to do with Bakaan,' Amir answered.

‘That is beside the point.' She shook her head, still not comprehending what her father had done. ‘You can't just...
kidnap a prince!
'

‘When news gets out that Prince Zachim is out of the picture, the country will become more and more destabilised and we will be there to seize the power that has always been rightfully ours.'

‘Father, the tribal wars you speak of were hundreds of years ago. And they won. Don't you think it's time to put the past to rest?'

‘No, I do not. The Al-Hajjar tribe will never recognise Darkhan rule while I am leader and I can't believe my own daughter is talking like this. You know what he stole from me.'

Farah released a slow breath. Yes, the king's refusal to supply the outer regions of Bakaan with basic medical provisions, amongst other things, had inadvertently led to the death of her mother and her unborn brother—everything her father had held dear. Farah tried not to let her own misery at never quite being enough for her father rise up and consume her. She knew better than anyone that wanting love—relying on love—ultimately led to pain.

Her father continued on about everything else the Darkhans had stolen from them: land, privileges, freedom. Stories she'd heard at her bedtime for so long she sometimes heard them in her sleep. Truth be told, she actually agreed with a lot of what her father said. The dead King of Bakaan had been a selfish, controlling tyrant who hadn't cared a jot for his people. But kidnapping Prince Zachim was not, in her view, the way to correct past wrongs. Especially when it was an offence punishable by imprisonment or death.

‘How will this bring about peace and improve things, Father?' She tried to appeal to his rational side but she could see that he had a wild look in his eyes.

Her father shrugged. ‘The country won't have a chance of overthrowing the throne with him on it. He's too powerful.'

Yes, Farah had heard that Prince Zachim was successful and powerful beyond measure. She had also heard he was extremely good-looking, which had been confirmed by the many photos she'd seen of him squiring some woman or another to glamorous events. Not that his looks were important on any level!

She rubbed her brow. ‘So what happens now? What was the Bakaan council's response?'

For the first time since she'd walked in, her father looked uncertain. He rose and paced away from her, his hands gripped behind his back. ‘They don't know yet.'

‘They don't know?' Farah's eyebrows knit together. ‘How can they not know?'

‘When I am ready to reveal my plans, I will do so.' Which told Farah that he didn't actually have a plan yet. ‘But this is not something I am prepared to discuss with you. And why are you dressed like that? Those boots are made for men.'

Farah scuffed her steel-capped boots against the rug. She'd forgotten that she still wore old clothes from working with the camels, but seriously, they were going to discuss her clothing while he held the most important man in the country hostage? ‘That's not important. I—'

‘It is important if I say it is. You know how I feel.'

‘Yes, but I think there are more...pressing things to discuss, don't you?'

‘Those things are in play now. There is nothing that can be done.'

A sudden weariness overcame him and he flopped back onto the cushions, his expression looking suspiciously like regret. Farah's heart clenched. ‘Is he...is he at least okay?' She cringed as visions of the prince beaten up came into her head. She knew that would only make things worse—if that was even possible.

‘Apart from the son of a dog refusing to eat, yes.'

‘No doubt he thinks the food is poisoned,' she offered.

‘If I wanted him dead, I'd use my sword,' her father asserted.

‘How very remiss of him.' Fortunately her sarcasm went over his head, but it didn't escape Amir, who frowned at her. She rolled her eyes. She knew he thought she overstepped the boundaries with her father but she didn't care. She couldn't let her father spend his last years in prison—or, worse, die.

‘Perhaps that is the answer,' Amir mused. ‘We kill him and get rid of the body. No one could pin his death on us.'

Farah gave him a fulminating glare. ‘I can't believe you said that, Amir. Apart from the fact that it's completely barbaric, if the palace found out, they would decimate our village.'

‘No one would find out.'

‘And no one is going to die, either.' She shoved her hands on her hips and thought about how to contain the testosterone in the room before it reached drastic levels. ‘I will go and see him.'

‘You will not go near him, Farah,' her father ordered. ‘Dealing with the prisoner is a man's job.'

Wanting to point out that her father was doing a hatchet job of it if the prince was refusing to eat, Farah wisely kept her mouth shut. Instead she decided to take matters into her own hands.

‘Where are you going?'

She stiffened as Amir called out to her in a commanding tone. Slowly she pivoted back around to face him. ‘To get something to eat,' she said tightly. ‘Is that okay?'

He had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. ‘I would like to speak with you.'

She knew he was waiting on her answer as to whether she would accept his courtship but she wasn't in the mood to face his displeasure when she told him no. ‘I don't have anything to say to you right now,' she informed him.

His jaw tensed. ‘Wait for me outside.'

Farah smiled sweetly. Like that was going to happen!

Quickly stepping out of the tent, she took a moment to pull her headdress lower and bent her head to shield her eyes against the setting sun. The air temperature had already dropped and the nearby tents flapped in the increasing wind. She looked for signs of a storm but found nothing but a pale blue sky. That didn't mean one wasn't coming. In the desert they came out of nowhere.

Deciding not to waste time on food, she stomped off to the only tent that had a guard posted outside, anger rolling through her. Anger at her father for his outrageous actions and anger at the prince himself—the lowly offspring of the man who had inadvertently caused her mother's death and changed her once-happy life forever.

She tried to get her emotions under control but it felt like she was fighting a losing battle. Still, she needed to remain calm if she was going to work out a way to get her father out of this mess before he did something even more insane—like listen to Amir!

CHAPTER THREE

Z
ACHIM
 
SHIFTED
 
HIS
 
hands and feet and felt the ropes chafe his wrists and one of his ankles where it had slipped beneath his jeans. His stomach growled.

Ordinarily he wouldn't say he was a man who angered easily. Three days in this hellhole at the hands of a bunch of mountain heathens had ensured that his temper not only festered, but also boiled and blistered as well. And it wasn't just directed outwards. It had been stupid to drive so far from the city without alerting anyone as to where he was going.

He rubbed the ropes binding his wrists against the small sharp stone hidden in his lap. He'd picked it up when he'd ‘fallen' during a toilet break the day before. Since refusing to eat, his ropes had not been checked, which was to his advantage, because it had taken that long to work through the thick layers, but he was just about there. Once his hands were free it would be a simple matter to untie his ankles and get the hell out of there.

He leant his head against the solid wooden post he was secured to by a length of rope circling his waist. It allowed him enough room to lie down on the dusty ground but that was it. What he wouldn't give for the comforts of his soft bed back at the palace. Ironic when he considered that three days ago he'd been looking for a way to leave the stifling walls of the place.

Be careful what you wish for
, he thought grimly.

He wondered what had happened in his absence and how his brother was dealing with the fallout from his disappearance. He also wondered why he hadn't heard any search helicopters fly overhead.

Flexing stiff muscles that had been bound for too long, he tried to ignore the fact that his stomach was trying to eat itself. He'd been in worse situations during his stint in the army, though he wouldn't wish that on anyone. Okay, maybe he'd wish it on Mohamed Hajjar and his pompous second-in-command who thought himself mightier than a prince.

The sound of footsteps pausing at the entrance of his tent brought his head up and he shoved the sharp rock beneath him. When the flap was raised he feigned sleep, hoping that whoever had arrived would leave quickly so he could get on with sawing at his bindings. If they were checked now there was no way the person wouldn't notice what he'd been up to.

With his senses on high alert, he listened to the sound of the soldier's footfalls. A lightweight, he decided. About one hundred and twenty pounds. Someone he could take easily if it came to that. Unable to smell food, he wondered what the soldier wanted. It was too soon for a toilet break so he kept his features impassive. Whoever it was had gone a few too many rounds with a camel, by the smell of them.

‘I know you're not asleep,' a low, sexy voice murmured, sending ripples of awareness across his skin. Hell, that was some voice the soldier had, and he slowly peeled his eyes open, curiosity getting the better of him. He took in black steel-capped boots and combat trousers and moved up the slender figure from the dusty midthigh-length tunic that covered a small pair of breasts plumped up by rigidly folded arms. His gaze lifted to an unsmiling but feminine face that was shadowed by the tribe's traditional red-checked
keffiyeh
. Not a guy, then—a relief, given his body's instant reaction to the voice.

‘And I know you're not a man even though you're dressed like one. I didn't know Hajjar allowed women in his army of rebels.'

She stiffened slightly. ‘Who I am is not important.'

Zach leant his head back against the pole and watched her. She was quite petite overall and was probably less than one twenty, now that he got a good look at her. Maybe one ten, he assessed with the clinical precision left over from his army days.

The taut silence lengthened between them but he knew it wouldn't take her long to break it. Her energy was twitchy despite her outwardly cool composure.

‘I want to make a deal with you,' she finally said.

A deal?

The rage he'd been feeling earlier that had been eclipsed momentarily by curiosity returned with full force. He controlled it but barely. ‘Not interested.' He knew Nadir would be looking for him—and if he didn't get here soon he had his own escape plans—and then he'd bring hell down on Mohamed Hajjar for holding him like this.

The girl's eyes flashed darkly before she subdued them. ‘You haven't heard what I'm offering yet.'

‘If you wanted to gain my attention you should have worn less.' He raked her body with his impassive gaze. ‘A lot less. Possibly nothing at all, although even then I'm not sure you have what it takes to hold my interest.'

A lie, because for some reason she already had it. But his taunt had hit its mark if her little gasp was anything to go by.

‘My father is right. You're a lowly dog who doesn't deserve to rule our country.'

‘Your father?'

Farah Hajjar? Mohamed's daughter?
Well, well, wasn't that interesting? His gaze raked her again and he nearly smiled when he caught the self-disgusted look that crossed her face at her mistake. He hadn't expected the old guy to send his daughter to do his bidding. Was he hoping Zach would somehow be seduced into making a deal? If he was, he was going to be disappointed because, despite his reaction to her voice, Zach had never been attracted to Bakaani women. A shrink would no doubt tell him that it was because of the amount of arranged marriages his father had tried to foist on him. But Zach just preferred blondes. ‘I didn't think your father considered himself a part of Bakaan but it's nice to know that he still does.'

‘He...' She stopped and Zach could see she was trying to rein her temper in. She took a deep breath and slammed her hands on her hips, drawing his attention to their feminine curve.
Not going to help, sweetheart.

‘If you agree to let our region formally separate from Bakaan,' she said, ‘I'll let you go.'

‘
You'll
let
me
go?'

He laughed and she paced away from him, her stride long, and he realised she wasn't as small as he'd first assumed: maybe five-seven, five-eight. She stopped abruptly, facing him. ‘Your family has suppressed our people for long enough.'

Now that was something he couldn't argue with. He didn't condone how his father had ruled Bakaan, and he'd even considered launching a coup against him himself, but his mother would have been devastated. ‘I haven't done anything to the people of Bakaan.' But he couldn't allow her tribe to secede from the kingdom because others might follow and the country would get picked over by their neighbours, seeking to secure Bakaan's oil reserves for themselves.

‘You haven't done anything
for
them either,' she countered, ‘even though you've been back and have controlled the army for the last five years.'

‘And when was the last time that army attacked any of your people, or any other country, for that matter?' Zach bit out, surprised that her attitude had got to him.

‘You're saying you're responsible for peace?' She scoffed.

‘I'm saying that, for all your big talk, your father has potentially instigated a war by his current actions. Not me.' Her face paled at that and his eyes narrowed. ‘Something to think about,
sweetheart
,
before you run off at the mouth with your uneducated accusations!'

‘You only think they're uneducated because I'm a woman. I know more than you think,
Your Highness
.'

She loaded his title with as much derision as she could muster, which was a pretty impressive amount. But her spunk only irritated him more. ‘A woman?' he taunted. ‘I've known skunks that smell better than you. I would advise against marketing the scent. It's not all that appealing.'

Her eyes flashed darkly in the dying light. ‘As if I would want to appeal to you,' she returned scathingly.

Zach nearly laughed at her haughty tone. He'd yet to come across a woman who didn't want to appeal to him. Good genes, a good bank account and what sounded like a good title went a long way to impressing the female population. He raised his hands in the air and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Untie my hands, little heathen, and I'll soon change your mind.'

He almost heard her teeth grind together from across the room at his suggestive tone and, just as she was about to launch into what he could only imagine was another cutting admonition of his character, the tent flap was once again pushed aside and Hajjar's second-in-command sauntered in, bearing a dish of food. The smell hit Zach instantly and made his stomach curl in on itself.

Obviously surprised to see Mohamed's daughter, he pulled up short. ‘What are you doing here?' he bit out.

Zach saw her chin snap up and her eyes shoot daggers. ‘I can handle this, Amir,' she murmured icily.

‘No, you can't.'

She responded in hushed tones and Zach avidly followed their furiously whispered interaction. She clearly had a personal relationship with the soldier and for some inexplicable reason he was disappointed.

Not wanting to dwell on why that was, he focused on the soldier's face. He wasn't at all happy with whatever it was she was saying but he clearly lacked the
baydot
to do anything about it. Idiot. All she needed was a sound kissing and she'd see reason.

A sound kissing?

He nearly chocked at the absurdity of the thought. His ancestors might have behaved that way, but since when did he think kissing a woman into submission was an acceptable mode of conduct for a man? And who would want to kiss this smelly little spitfire anyway?

Disgusted with his interest in their argument, he drew up his knees and used their distraction to work at his bindings.

Too soon the woman won and took the bowl of food from the soldier's hands. Needing more time alone, Zach goaded him by asking where he'd misplaced his
baydot
. The soldier stiffened. So did the spitfire.

She whirled on him, all fire and ice. Maybe ‘spitfire' was too tame a word to describe her. She was more like a wild little cat with her dark, almond-shaped eyes and pursed lips.

‘Come, Farah.'

The girl rounded on the other man and, for all that Zach didn't like him, he felt himself wince for the guy. ‘He's just trying to rile you,' she bit out.

Not stupid, then
, Zach mused with reluctant admiration.

‘He is dangerous,' the soldier returned. And he should know, since it had taken six of them to subdue him.

‘And tied up,' she pointed out impatiently. ‘Which I have no plans to change.' But Zach did and he felt another coil of rope give as he put more pressure on it.

‘What
are
your plans?'

Fascinated by the changed tension in the air, Zach stilled his movements. He sensed there was more behind that question than met the eye. The girl obviously did, too, but her scrunched brow indicated that she didn't understand the meaning behind his question.

He wants in your pants, sweetheart, if he hasn't been there already.

She released a slow breath. ‘Just give me five minutes here. I'll meet you in the dinner tent.'

Slightly mollified, the soldier nodded tersely. He sneered at Zach before stalking out of the tent, letting the flap drop back loudly into place.

She stared at it, brooding.

‘Trouble in paradise, little cat?' Zach offered, as if they were old friends taking tea together.

His question snapped her out of her reverie and she marched back to him. ‘Be quiet. And don't call me that.'

‘I thought you wanted me to speak.'

She glanced down at the small metal bowl in her hand and frowned. ‘What I want is for you to eat.'

Zach's stomach agreed with her. ‘I'm not hungry.'

She scoffed. ‘What is the point of starving yourself? You'll die.'

‘So nice of you to care.'

‘I don't.'

Her condescending attitude and lack of respect annoyed the hell out of him and he was starting to get some inkling as to the reasoning behind his ancestors' methods of subduing a woman. He wouldn't mind having this one bow down at his feet and acknowledge his superior position to hers. ‘You know, your father might want to send someone with better interpersonal skills to plead for leniency next time,' he suggested testily.

* * *

Damn
, but the urge to have this man bow and scrape at her feet was so strong Farah nearly pulled her small dagger out from inside the hidden pocket in her tunic and made him do it. His attitude was truly irritating.

As were those piercing golden eyes. Lion's eyes. They said so much and nothing at all, just stared back at her as if he knew something that she didn't. With the few days' worth of beard growth covering his angular jaw, those implacable eyes made him seem harshly masculine and deeply imposing even though he was sitting on the ground. The tightly coiled energy he emanated made her think of a cobra about to strike. Or an eagle about to take flight and rip its prey to shreds. He wore a dusty black shirt that stretched across broad shoulders and jeans that hugged what looked to be powerful thighs, the muscles bunching periodically when he looked at her.

She'd known he was incredibly good-looking from the magazine pictures she'd seen, but with his aristocratic features, wide mouth and pitch-black, neatly cropped hair, he was something else in the flesh. Not that she cared.

‘I have not come to plead for leniency,' she assured him.

‘Lucky.' His eyes trapped hers in a challenging stare. ‘Because when I get out of here I have no intention of giving it.'

Her mouth twisted. ‘Perhaps you need a little longer to think about your position,' she suggested, glancing pointedly at his bound hands.

‘Perhaps I do,' he drawled carelessly.