The Untamed Sheik
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Tessa Radley
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One
Silence greeted Prince Shafir ibn Selim al Dhahara as, traditional robes billowing, he swept through the tall, carved wooden doors that a palace aide had flung open at his approach.
The mood inside the king’s personal chamber was somber. Three men huddled over a laptop in the center of a round antique table and glanced up at Shafir’s entrance. While his two brothers looked relieved to see him, his father—King Selim—was frowning.
Once seated with them at the table, Shafir leaned back, crossed his ankles and met his father’s piercing gaze. The king’s frown deepened at the informal pose. “You are late, Shafir.”
“I was in the desert. I came as quickly as I could.” Shafir gestured down to his dusty boots. “I didn’t even take the time to change.”
As the head of Dhahara’s tourism ministry, Shafir had spent the past week showing an international delegation the adventure tourism and trail-hiking potential of their small desert kingdom. Much time had been spent ensuring that each country’s representative understood that opening Dhahara to international tourism meant putting in place measures to guarantee the desert would remain rugged and unspoiled.
“There is a problem, Father?”
“Not a problem exactly.” The king’s frown lines eased a little. “A challenge.”
“A challenge?” Shafir exchanged a questioning glance with his older brother, Khalid—His Royal Highness Crown Prince Khalid ibn Selim al Dhahara, to give him his full title. Their father’s idea of a challenge meant a situation fraught with difficulty—one of his father’s own diplomats’ worst nightmares.
“It is a challenge that should suit you well, Shafir.”
“Me?” Shafir raised a dark eyebrow. “What about my honorable brothers? Or have you already allocated other challenges to them?”
Khalid grinned. “You arrived last—you drew the short straw.”
“The most honorable straw, and a chance to be a hero.” His younger brother, Rafiq, appeared wickedly amused.
“Be a hero?” Shafir eyed his brothers. Both looked like they were trying hard not to laugh.
His father, by contrast, looked grave. “Shafir, you are a man who has been forged and hardened to steel by the Dhaharan desert.”
Shafir bowed his head, then lifted it to assess his father respectfully.
Black eyes set in a wise, weather-beaten face stared back at him. “My son, I don’t want any scandal, so it has to be one of you three who take care of it. Rafiq is already committed, and his beloved may not understand.” The king glanced to his right. “And Khalid is the crown prince. I cannot afford—”
Shafir interrupted. “So what is this challenge?”
“It’s not that tough.” Rafiq clicked open an image on the laptop on the table in front of them. “And this time I wouldn’t exactly call it a challenge. All you need to do is get rid of her.”
An image of a woman flashed up on the monitor. Shafir got an impression of dark hair, plus eyes tilted up at the corners and brimming with laughter. The barrage of questions he’d been about to ask evaporated, leaving only one: “Who is she?”
“She is the woman who is about to derail Zara’s fairy-tale wedding,” said Rafiq.
“Do not mock your cousin.” The king scowled. “Zara’s wedding is the first in our family in almost two decades. My three sons have failed to oblige me.”
“Our hopes are pinned on Rafiq,” Shafir said quickly, and flags of color flared in his younger brother’s cheeks. “He’s in love.”
“But not yet betrothed to be wed.” A reproachful glance at all of them accompanied the king’s words. “For now there is only Zara’s wedding. With the immense media buildup, I cannot let that woman wreck the dreams of our nation.”
The glare the king bestowed on that woman’s image gave Shafir pause. This was the first he’d heard of any threat to his cousin’s wedding. But it certainly explained his father’s displeasure. The king had always doted on Zara, his dead brother’s only child.
Shafir had met the intended bridegroom. Jacques Garnier was a French businessman whose family was enormously wealthy. Apart from other interests, like importing rugs and olives from the Middle East, the Garniers owned a château in the Loire Valley, and Jacques exported wines worldwide from the family winery. King Selim had been highly satisfied with the match, particularly since Zara was very much in love.
But now there appeared to be a glitch. Shafir suppressed a curse and stared at the screen. “What is her name?”
“Megan Saxon.”
It wasn’t her regular, unmistakably beautiful features that captured Shafir’s attention. It was the zest for life that she radiated, her eyes sparking with the same irrepressible humor that curved her lips upward. Joie de vivre, the French called it.
Shafir glanced away. “How do you know she intends to sabotage Zara’s wedding?”
His father sighed. “Garnier has been abstracted, so Zara knew something was wrong. Then she found missed calls from this woman on Garnier’s private cell phone and recognized the name as one of his business colleagues. At first she thought the worst and cried for a whole day. Finally she confronted Garnier.”
“And?”
“Ay, me.” King Selim shook his head. “The woman is stalking him. Garnier hadn’t told Zara because he didn’t want to scare her, but the woman won’t give up. And now she’s coming to Dhahara.”
“She’s coming here?” Shafir leaned forward. That was a lot more serious than merely calling and texting.
“She called him just before her flight took off.”
Shafir blew out a breath in frustration. “So when did he intend to tell us?”
The king flapped a hand. “It doesn’t matter. We know now and can sort out a plan. You can call security in, though, if the woman proves to be…” He paused.
“Too much of a challenge for Shafir?” Khalid said, his eyes dancing.
“The woman hasn’t been born who is too much of a challenge,” Shafir said dryly. “But we need to contain this. No security forces. No police. We don’t want an international incident.” He thought of the delegation he’d impressed with Dhahara’s marketability as a safe yet exotic tourism destination. At his invitation, two members of the delegation had extended their planned trip and were staying for Zara’s wedding. Now it appeared the wedding was at risk.
And Zara’s happiness.
Like his brothers, he had a soft spot for Zara, and he’d always gone out of his way to try to be the older brother she’d never had. Just as his father did his best to fill the space left by her father’s death.
“Shafir, I need you to stop this woman from wrecking the wedding,” said the king.
“Tell her that she’s wasting her time—Jacques is marrying Zara,” Rafiq suggested. “Convince her to go home.”
Shaking his head, Shafir said, “If she’s come all this way and has her heart set on Jacques, it won’t be that easy.” But if this woman thought she could hurt Zara, she’d soon learn she’d have to get through him.
“No,” agreed Khalid. “She could easily turn nasty and tell Zara a lot of ass’s tales.”
Shafir shook his head slowly. “She won’t get access to Zara. We’ll tighten security.” He’d see to that personally. No one was going to harm his sweet-natured cousin.
“But she might sell a pack of lies to one of those European scandal sheets.” The king shuddered. “They don’t peddle truth.”
“She could do that.” Shafir rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
“Seduce her, Shafir. Then she’ll forget all about Jacques.” Rafiq’s dark eyes were full of humor.
Khalid roared with laughter. Even his father threw back his head and cackled.
Was Shafir the only one who didn’t find it funny?
“You’re confusing me with Khalid,” he countered. “Women cling to him like bees to a honey pot.”
“You scare them,” said Rafiq. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Khalid nodded. “Women want to be courted, flattered. The desert has taken you over. Look at you, covered in dust, your hair wild and sun streaked.”
Shafir glowered and ran one hand through his overlong hair. “It protects my neck from the sun.”
“Hmm…but that dangerous, untamed aura might appeal to the woman.” Rafiq cocked his head to one side. “I dare you to seduce her.”
Shafir glared at them. He didn’t do seduction. It wasn’t his style. He played it straight and fair with women, just the way he dealt with everyone else he met. “I’m not sinking that low.”
“Scared?” ribbed Khalid.
“Of a woman?” Shafir shrugged a shoulder carelessly. “Never.”
“My sons,” chided the king, “there is work to be done.” To Shafir he added, “Keep her from causing mischief by whatever means you choose, and Rafiq will make sure the path of true love runs smooth between Zara and Jacques.” His father reached over and patted Shafir on the back. “But I want no scandal, hear? The only story I want to see on our TVs or in the Western magazines is Zara’s—”
“—Fairy-tale wedding.” Khalid rolled his eyes to the ornately carved ceiling.
“Given all the planning, it should be the wedding of the decade,” muttered Rafiq.
“Do I hear a touch of longing, little brother? Perhaps it’s time you got married, too,” Khalid said slyly.
“Married?” The king straightened. “Khalid, as the crown prince it is your duty to marry first.”
Khalid resumed gazing at the ceiling.
Shafir ignored the banter. As long as he was off the marriage hook, that was all that mattered. The woman hadn’t been born who could compete with his love for the vastness of the Dhaharan desert.
He cast another glance at the laptop. His task was hardly a challenge. All he had to do was stop Megan Saxon from contacting Jacques Garnier long enough for Zara to marry the bridegroom of her dreams.
No problem.
As Shafir’s limousine drew up outside the airport, a plane touched down on the runway. He narrowed his eyes. Megan Saxon was on that plane; he’d already received the confirmation from the airport’s chief of security.
It had begun.
Jacques had wanted to meet her at the airport, determined to try to persuade her to leave Dhahara.
“I feel responsible,” the Frenchman had said two hours earlier, his normally carefree expression bearing signs of strain. “Through business dealings with this madwoman I’ve created this unpleasantness for Zara. I need to make it clear to her that I love my fiancée.”
But though he admired the other man for taking responsibility for the whole unsavory matter, Shafir had shaken his head. “I can’t allow that. It’s too risky. The woman is clearly obsessed with you. She might make a public scene.” Which was what the king dreaded. “Or try hurting you. And what would Zara say then?”
He’d assured the anxious Jacques that he would deal with this Megan personally, and finally the Frenchman had relented.
“It must be my fault,” Jacques had said as he prepared to leave the palace, “yet I keep going over my business encounters with this woman, and I can’t figure out what I did to attract this.”
“Don’t blame yourself. She’s a lunatic.”
At the relief on Jacques’s face Shafir was seized by a surge of fury at the unknown Megan Saxon. Jacques didn’t deserve this persecution—no man did. The woman had also caused Zara a great deal of unhappiness and put a huge strain on the bridal couple’s relationship.
Now as he alighted from the limousine, he vowed to sort Megan Saxon out. He’d slicked back his hair and taken great care to dress European-style in a dark made-to-measure suit and immaculate white shirt. The last thing he wanted was for her to be spooked.
But his fashionable exterior was deceiving. As the king’s second son, Shafir had been allowed an amount of freedom that Khalid hadn’t. While Khalid had been schooled to succeed their father, Shafir had spent several years growing up with his grandmother in the desert, attending the local village school and later visiting bedu tribes. It was no secret that the people of Dhahara called him the untamed one.
Shafir was anything but a meek, by-the-book prince.
His jaw firming, Shafir nodded to the chauffeur and gestured to his bodyguards in the accompanying car to await his return. He moved with sleek grace as he entered the international terminal. Ignoring the sideways glances of recognition he attracted, he strode across the marble expanse, confident that his determined demeanor would ensure that people kept their distance.
He would meet Megan Saxon alone. She was going to rue the day she’d decided to threaten Zara’s happiness.
The vast space of Dhahara’s international arrivals hall struck Megan first. Its high vaulted ceilings were inset with skylights that let bright light filter in and made the air sparkle. Then there were the acres of white marble floors. If she hadn’t already known, the airport would have announced the desert country’s breathtaking riches.
A little way ahead behind a brass railing, a knot of people—most of them men wearing the traditional white thobes and holding up signs in Arabic script—waited for flight-weary passengers.
Jacques would be there, too.
His text just before she’d taken off at LAX on the final leg of this long haul—“See u tomorrow. Can’t wait” followed by hugs and kisses—had promised that.
Megan picked up her pace, hauling her suitcase behind her. Excitement started to thrum in her belly. It had been over three months since she’d last seen him, too briefly, in Paris, where they’d seen the New Year in together before each jetting off in separate directions. He to pursue business interests in the desert kingdom and she back to New Zealand.
Telephone calls and frequent texts were no substitute for face-to-face contact. Then Jacques had suggested they spend some time together. Megan had jumped at the opportunity to get to know such a romantic, caring man better. Fired up by his stories about the exoticism of Dhahara, she’d booked their accommodation in Katar, the capital.
Unexpectedly, Jacques had objected, suggesting they visit nearby Oman instead. But Megan had her heart set on Dhahara. And finally Jacques had agreed to the luxurious villa in the desert she’d discovered. Megan hoped that this brief escape would give her a chance to get to know him properly…to discover whether the interest that had shimmered between them at international wine shows where they’d met intermittently during the past year was the real thing.
This time there would be no rush and bustle of work to distract them. This time they had six whole days to devote to getting to know each other.
Megan scanned the sea of faces as she approached.
A hard, hawkish face stood out from the rest. Their eyes clashed, his a dark, implacable bronze. His expression was tight and unwelcoming.
Nothing like Jacques’s easy French charm.
A shiver ran down her spine and she looked quickly away, her gaze moving along the row. A crease formed between her brows as, decidedly uneasy now, she searched again for Jacques. Nothing.
Unbidden, her gaze flitted back to the unwelcoming stranger. He wore a beautifully tailored suit. Expensive—her fashion-conscious eye pegged it as Dior. He wore no tie. A crisp white shirt with the top button undone provided a startling contrast to his honeyed skin.
Megan lifted her eyes to his face and felt the sear of his inspection as his gaze traveled over her. The lightweight gray pantsuit that had seemed a perfect compromise between circumspect covering for an Arabian country and suitable for the hot desert climate now felt incredibly filmy. She should’ve worn her black linen business suit, the one with the high mandarin collar and the long skirt. Sure she would have boiled. But perhaps then she wouldn’t have felt so terribly exposed under his relentless gaze. When his eyes met hers there was a slight curl to his lip as if he hadn’t been impressed by what he had seen.
Megan was shaken by the sense of rejection that ripped through her. She wasn’t vain, but she knew she was attractive. Outgoing and friendly, men liked her. She didn’t usually inspire this kind of reaction.
Thankfully he was destined to remain a stranger.
She tossed her head and stared dismissively past him, renewing her search for Jacques. Never before had his idiosyncratic lack of punctuality irritated her this much. She felt exposed, naked, and she wished he’d been on time for once in his charming life. This time the effusive apologies that always made her laugh weren’t going to be enough. More than anything she wanted to hurry to Jacques’s car and escape that disconcerting bronze gaze.
Megan sighed, impatient with herself. She was granting a stranger too much importance. Her gaze swept the arrivals hall, hoping for a glimpse of Jacques’s lean body tearing toward her, his hair flopping around his face.
No sign of merry green eyes, no laughing mouth.
“Megan Saxon.”
At the sound of her name murmured in a deep, unfamiliar voice, Megan whipped around to find the stranger beside her.
“What do you want?” She glared at him, acutely aware of every exaggerated tale she’d ever heard about Middle Eastern males—their chauvinism, and their assumption that any Western woman was theirs for the taking.
Not that he’d struggle to find female companionship. He was handsome in a hard-edged way. Pretty gorgeous actually, if you liked your men fierce and frowning, which Megan did not.
And he knew her name.
“Come with me.”
“Most certainly not.” Surely white-slavers, however well-dressed, didn’t frequent such public places, Megan speculated with acerbic humor. But despite her bravado she took a quick glance around. Reassuringly there were lots of people in the airport. Men. Groups of veiled women. Families. Even a sprinkling of guards in official-looking uniforms. Several people were looking their way with curious interest in their eyes, but they maintained a respectful distance.
No cause for concern.
At least, not yet.
A hand landed on her arm.
“Don’t touch me.” She used her most freezing tone—the one that made even her brothers back off.
“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, removing his hand. “I startled you. My name is Shafir.” A brief hesitation, then he added, “I am a friend of Jacques’s.”
Her anger fizzled away under a tide of embarrassment.
“Why didn’t you say so?” The memory of the disdainful inspection he’d given her flitted through her mind, and she hesitated. No hint of criticism remained in those piercing eyes. Had she imagined it? Or had it just been the standard inspection of an Arabian man for an unaccompanied woman?
He gave her a smile, and it lit up his face. Wow. He’d been handsome enough before, but with the darkness banished he was simply devastating.
“Uh…where is Jacques?” Megan stuttered, unable to take her eyes off him, stunned by how much difference a smile could make. He should smile all the time. Or maybe not. He’d be a danger to the ability of any susceptible female to think straight. Although she wasn’t about to forget that unsettling once-over he’d given her. “When will he get here?”
“Jacques is not coming.”
She tensed again, her eyes searching his face, scared to voice the sudden fear that struck black ice into her heart.
But he must have seen something in her expression, because he said quickly, “Nothing has happened to him.”
Relief flooded her. “You must think I’m neurotic. My brother died in a car accident and for a moment I thought…” Her voice trailed away and she gave a small shrug. Nothing could describe the bewilderment, the sense of loss that had followed Roland’s death. And she didn’t owe this man any explanation anyway.
“Jacques is fine—he’s not hurt. He simply asked me to meet you in his place.” His voice deepened further, and Megan thought she detected sympathy in his eyes.
“Oh, maybe he left me a message.” Megan reached into the tote slung over her shoulder for her cell phone. She had yet to switch it on; the No Cell Phones signs in the customs hall had been quite clear.
“You haven’t been to Dhahara before, have you?”
Megan gave the imposing stranger an abstracted glance.
“If you don’t have a local SIM card it will take some time for your phone’s roaming system to register the Dhaharan network.”
Megan glanced down at her phone, noting the turning hourglass on the backlit screen. Seemed he was right.
With a sigh she dropped the phone back into her tote. “Why isn’t Jacques here, then?”
“He had a meeting—”
“—With a Persian rug merchant. I remember.” Megan nodded. Jacques had mentioned it when they’d spoken while she’d been waiting to board in Auckland two days ago.
His eyes narrowed a little. “Their meeting is dragging on longer than expected. He asked me to fetch you and take you to your hotel.”
Instantly her suspicions seemed foolish. If it hadn’t been for that initial inspection he’d given her, Megan would have relaxed completely. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“It is my pleasure.”
Megan allowed him to relieve her of the retractable pull handle of her suitcase. Conscious of his strength and the muscular bulk of his body under the exquisitely tailored suit, she trotted beside him as they headed for the airport’s glass exit doors.
Outside, a host of unfamiliar scents assailed her. Spices. Heat. Dust. The hot, dry fragrance of the Dhaharan desert.
A frisson of delight shook her. This was a wild untamed world such that she, a New Zealand country girl at heart, had never experienced. Nomads. Caravans. She couldn’t wait to explore it further with Jacques at her side.
“This way.” The command uttered in a throaty growl brought her back to earth.
This way revealed a shiny white limousine with a second car waiting behind. A uniformed man built like a barn door leaned against the front passenger door while a chauffeur stood attentively beside the open rear door. Except this chauffeur wore flowing robes and a white headdress that was secured with the black cords that the guidebook she’d read on the plane said were called agal. A far cry from the black uniform and peaked cap she was accustomed to. Bemused, Megan ducked into the silent interior.
The cool air-conditioning was disappointing after the hot air redolent with Arabian fragrances. Megan leaned back against plush black velvet cushions and spared a glance for the man who had followed her in.
He dominated the enclosed space, giving Megan the sense of a wild animal that had been temporarily caged. A wolf perhaps. She met those bronze eyes. No, not a wolf—this was no animal that ran in packs. A panther. Or a jaguar. Wild and very, very dangerous.
She stilled, her pulse quickening with sudden apprehension. Then he smiled and the mood of danger evaporated. He was urbane, smooth, a civilized twenty-first-century man. Except for the reflected gleam of those magnetic eyes in the dimness.
Okay, maybe not completely civilized.
Megan shook off the strange fancy. Civilized or not, he wasn’t her problem. Thank God.
A need to fill the prickling silence forced her into conversation. “You said you and Jacques are friends?”
A nod. But he didn’t bother to expand.
Megan swallowed. She needed to see Jacques again. Despite his family’s wealth, Jacques was predictable…easygoing…charming.
Civilized.
Everything this man wasn’t.
After drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled. “It was a long flight,” she said as his head turned toward her. “How long will it take to get to the hotel?” It would be a relief to freshen up the room she had booked for the night. She and Jacques planned to leave for the desert villa early tomorrow morning.
The man who had introduced himself only as Shafir leaned forward and opened the door of a well-concealed fridge. “Forgive me. I have been remiss. Would you like a drink? Champagne, perhaps?”
So he could produce manners when he had to. For the first time Megan realized her throat was parched. “A drink would be lovely, but I’d prefer mineral water, please.”
She’d barely eaten on the flight, and there was no point getting light-headed. There would be time enough for that tomorrow. No doubt she and Jacques would share a bottle of champagne on the terrace overlooking the desert and toast each other…and their hopes of discovering something meaningful.
A small green bottle and a glass appeared with a flourish. The sound of gurgling water filled the space between them. Then Megan found herself holding a cold, smooth glass. A crack sounded as he pulled the tab off a Coca-Cola and lifted the can to his lips.
The dimmed ceiling lights reflected off his hair. It hung to just below his collar, longer than she would’ve expected given his carefully conservative attire. Below his chin she could see his throat moving as he drank thirstily, his sleek skin gleaming as the light caught it.
Wrenching her gaze away, Megan took a hurried sip of the water. The dryness in her throat eased. Resolutely she turned her head as the limousine crested a rise and stared out through the tinted windows to where the concrete highway uncurled through the desert like a silver ribbon. In the distance the sands undulated in mounds. Dunes. Again a sense of anticipation stirred her.
It was all so wonderfully alien.
And so different from the lush green of the Hawkes Bay where she’d grown up and where—aside from the frequent business trips abroad to wine shows—she’d lived all her life.
She leaned forward, absorbing the view, the exoticism of it all. “That’s the Dhaharan desert, right?” She couldn’t suppress the lilt in her voice. “Almost four thousand square miles of dry sand that comparatively few people inhabit.”
“That’s correct. But it’s not as bleak as people think.”
Scanning the stark, golden dunes that sloped dramatically away from the highway, concealing the city of Katar that lay beyond, she said, “I read that tourism in Dhahara will be expanding in the near future.”
“You’re well informed.” He sounded surprised.
“I was interested.”
“Why?”
There was an edge to his voice. Yanked from her study of the dunes, Megan looked away from the gold-shaded landscape. “Why not?” She shrugged. “I also read that while Dhahara does import some products from the United States and the European Union, it’s pretty self-sufficient and does very well on exports like oil, olives and handmade rugs.” Suddenly conscious of sounding like she’d swallowed a guidebook, Megan abruptly stopped talking.
“What do you hope to find here in Dhahara?”
Definitely an edge and a glint of suspicion in those strange eyes.
“What do I hope to find?” she echoed his question. “What does anyone hope for when they visit a place they’ve never been? Excitement…adventure…romance.” His expression darkened at her flippant reply. “Okay, more than anything I want to relax. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a holiday.” And I badly want to fall in love with Jacques. But she didn’t say that. Instead she asked, “How long until we reach Katar? I can’t wait to freshen up.”
He blinked.
Unease coiled coldly in the pit of her stomach. She glanced out the window. The dunes had receded, giving the impression that the desert had expanded. “Shouldn’t there be buildings…high-rises out there?”
“There are no high-rises in Dhahara. We pride ourselves on preserving our desert heritage—even in our cities.”
Of course. She’d read about the determination of the Dhaharans to keep their traditional architecture. But where was the urban sprawl of industrial buildings that lay on the outskirts of most big cities?
She fell silent and scanned the landscape beyond the glass. Surely the highway should be packed with vehicles? After all, according to the guidebook she’d devoured on the plane, millions lived in Katar. Yet there was little sign of human activity, just the odd dot far ahead of them on the highway and even fewer in their wake. Even the car that had been waiting behind them at the airport had disappeared.
Megan’s unease deepened.
He’d never answered her question about how long it would take to reach the capital. Apart from what looked like tracks, no major roads branched off the highway, which cut straight through the desert.
The first shard of real fear spiked through her. Polite inquiry had gotten her nowhere, and she’d never been one to avoid an issue. “You’re not taking me to my hotel, are you?”
He stared at her from inscrutable eyes.
The fear spread. “Answer me! Where are you taking me?” Stupid! Why had she ever gotten into this limousine with him at all? He’d said his name was Shafir. No surname. And that he was a friend of Jacques. That was the sum total she knew about the man.
What had she done?
“I want to talk to Jacques. Now.” Her voice shook just a little. Inside, her heart was hammering against her rib cage.
“He’s in a meeting.”
The pitch of his voice didn’t change, but Megan no longer believed him. “You’re lying! Where is Jacques? I don’t think you’re a friend of his at all. What have you done to him?”
“Calm down.” The icy whiplash of his voice steadied her. “I have done nothing to Jacques.”
“Who the hell are you?” She thought desperately about everything she’d devoured about Dhahara. It was a wealthy kingdom ruled by King Selim al Dhahara. She couldn’t recall reading about any political unrest. Or kidnappings. But then, she’d been excited at the prospect of seeing Jacques again. Her focus had been on the exotic and romantic aspect of the country. Beyond assuring herself that the country was safe and tourist friendly, she hadn’t done a lot to find out about the political subtleties. Another mistake. Was he some crazed politico? Or a bandit out for ransom? Or, heaven help her, a terrorist?
Oh, God.
She stared at him, her eyes stretched wide, her pulse pounding in her ears.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you.” In one swift movement he crumpled the can and slotted it into a concealed rubbish holder.
Megan’s gaze fixed on the mangled red-and-white remains of metal. “I’m supposed to believe that?” she muttered.
He growled something that she barely heard, too focused on the ruthless strength he’d revealed by crushing that can as if it were no more than a wad of tissue paper.
The frantic vibration of her cell phone diverted her attention from the crumpled metal between his fingers. Her messages had come through—the roaming service must have kicked in, and not a minute too soon! Feeling like the cavalry had arrived, Megan reached for her bag, but as she extracted the phone, a hard hand closed over hers.
“I’ll take that.”
No way! Disregarding his power, his size, Megan grabbed his wrist and wrestled with him, determined not to let him commandeer her last link to the outside world.
In one simple move he seized the phone and transferred it to his other hand and held it away from her. Driven by desperation, Megan dove across his lap, intent on claiming back the phone—her phone, dammit.
The hard thighs that tightened to rocklike firmness beneath his elegant trousers was the first warning that she had made a colossal mistake. She jerked her gaze upward.
Oh, no.
Bare inches separated their faces. Megan was aware of muscle shifting under her. He surrounded her. And he was big—much bigger than she’d realized.
Her breath came in ragged fits, yet he didn’t appear to be breathing at all. She gulped in air, but she could do nothing about her pounding heart.
A stillness fell between them.
Danger. Her senses shrieked the warning. It struck Megan exactly how vulnerable her position was. Scrambling off his lap, she abandoned all attempts to retrieve her phone.
“Sorry,” she muttered, unsettled by her rash stupidity.
“Don’t be sorry.” But he didn’t smile. His cheekbones stood out starkly under the tight mask of tawny skin. “Be careful.”
