Desert Rogues Series Collection Volume 2
Author
Susan Mallery
Reads
16,2K
Chapters
94
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
“What kind of stupid does it take not to want to be a princess?” Cleo asked.
Zara Paxton ignored both her sister and the question. Stupid or not, what she wanted more than anything was to turn tail and run. This had been a really bad idea from the start.
“The mosaics on the east wall date back to the early 1100s,” the tour guide intoned as she pointed to the Bahanian palace wall covered with small tiles in a rainbow of colors. A few tiles had chipped over the past thousand years, but the majority were in place, detailing a lovely landscape of the ocean and a lush island in the distance.
“The scene is of Lucas-Surrat,” the guide continued. “The crown prince of the island has always been a member of the Bahanian ruling family.”
“How can you not want to know?” Cleo asked in a low voice. “Come on, Zara, take a chance.”
“Easy for you to say,” Zara pointed out. “We’re not talking about your life.”
“I wish we were. I would love to find out I’m the illegitimate daughter of royalty.”
Zara hushed her sister, then glanced around to make sure that no one in their tour group had overheard Cleo’s comments. Fortunately the others were more interested in what the guide had to say than any conversation between the two women.
Zara tugged on Cleo’s arm, pulling her to a stop. “Don’t say anything,” she said urgently. “We’re not sure what’s true. So I have a few letters. They don’t mean the king is really my father.”
Cleo didn’t look convinced. “If you don’t think there’s a possibility, what are we doing here?”
Zara didn’t have an answer for that. The “here” in question was a public tour of the famous royal palace of Bahania. Cleo had suggested they simply announce themselves at the front gate and demand to be let in. Zara had opted for the more subtle approach—hence the tour. If nothing else, she could get the lay of the land, so to speak. Her trip to Bahania had been impulsive, something she tried to avoid. Now that she was here, she was going to have to think through what she wanted to do.
“You make me crazy,” Cleo muttered, trailing after their group. “All your life you’ve wanted to know who your father is. You finally get some information on the man and suddenly you get all scared.”
Zara shook her head. “You make it sound cut-and dried, and it isn’t. I thought my mother had an affair with a married man and that’s why she wouldn’t talk about my father. If it turns out he really is the king, then life is a whole lot more complicated. I’m not sure I want to be a part of all this.”
“Which brings me back to my stupid remark,” Cleo said with a look of impatience. “Hello? This is your chance at the fairy tale, Zara. How many of us get to be transformed into a princess? Why on earth wouldn’t you jump at the chance?”
“Because I—”
“Princess Sabra! I did not know you had arrived.”
Both women turned to the man who hurried toward them. He was slight, in his mid-thirties and wearing some kind of uniform.
“I was told you would be arriving shortly. I had been watching for you, but must have missed you.” The man stopped in front of them and bowed slightly. “A thousand pardons.”
Zara blinked. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not—”
“I am new,” the man continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Please do not be angry. This way.”
Before Zara could protest, the man grabbed her arm and hustled her down a long corridor—one that led away from the tour group. She heard Cleo’s footsteps as her sister hurried after her.
“Zara? What’s going on?”
“I have no idea.” She tried to free herself, but the little man’s grip was surprisingly strong. “Look, you’ve made a mistake. I’m not who you think I am. I’m with the tour group. We’re just tourists.”
The man gave her a disapproving glance. “Yes, princess, but if you wanted a tour of the castle, you could simply ask your father, who is waiting for you even now.”
Father? Zara’s stomach tightened. She had a bad feeling about all of this.
They turned right, then left. She had a brief impression of large rooms, tile floors, beautiful statues and paintings, along with occasional glimpses of the blue Arabian Sea. Then they came to an oval foyer filled with half a dozen people. The man stopped and released her arm.
“I have found Princess Sabra,” he announced to the milling crowd.
Everyone turned to look at her. Conversation stilled. In the heartbeat of silence, Zara knew that something awful was about to happen.
Her premonition proved true.
A male voice yelled that they were imposters. People dove at them from all directions. Zara didn’t know what to do, and that indecision cost her breath when a large man threw himself at her. One second she was standing, the next she hit the hard, tiled floor with the impact of a train barreling into a brick wall.
Air rushed from her body. Her head banged against something unforgiving and the room began to spin. The next thing she knew, she couldn’t breathe and there was a gun pointed at her temple.
“Talk!”
The voice commanded her obedience. Zara blinked and tried to suck in a breath. Her lungs wouldn’t cooperate. The spinning increased, fueled by panic. She moved—or at least made the attempt—but her body froze. She inhaled again and this time air seeped into her lungs. Again and again she drew breath until she was able to focus. It was then that she realized her body wasn’t frozen, it was pinned by a large, angry man with the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen.
Blue had always been her favorite color, she thought somewhat hysterically. It was the color of the sea and the sky. But the irises of this man held no warmth. Staring at him, she felt chilled down to her bones. Maybe even down to her soul.
“Talk,” he repeated. “Who the hell are you?”
“Zara Paxton,” she breathed.
The pressure on her temple increased. She swallowed when she remembered the gun.
“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Everything she’d read about Bahania had told her that the country was safe, forward thinking and a perfect tourist destination. Perhaps the brochures had been wrong.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, ignoring her question.
“My sister and I were touring the castle. A man pulled us away and insisted we come with him.” She hesitated, not wanting to say that he’d called her Princess Sabra and had mentioned seeing the king. That sounded too far-fetched to be believed.
Those cold blue eyes never wavered from her face. She didn’t doubt that he could read her every thought, so there was no need to go into detail. She noticed the man wore traditional Middle-Eastern garb, and that his Anglo features looked out of place.
They were nestled together intimately, his legs pinning hers, his chest flattening her breasts. One of his hands rested on her throat where he could no doubt feel the galloping of her pulse.
She licked her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” the man muttered as he slid off her and got to his feet.
Zara sat up slowly. She glanced around and saw that she was the center of attention—one of her least favorite things to be. Two burly guards were holding Cleo, but released her when the blue-eyed man instructed them to do so.
Zara got awkwardly to her feet. She still felt a little shaky and afraid. Cleo rushed to her side and they held each other. Zara pushed up her glasses.
“What happens now, Mr….” Her voice trailed off as she realized she didn’t know the man’s name.
“Rafe Powers.”
He spoke several sharp commands in a language she didn’t recognize. The area cleared.
“Come this way,” he said, and started walking without checking to see if they would follow.
Zara had the idle thought that they could run for it, but where would they go? They were in a strange country, in a huge castle and she had no idea of the floor plan. As the guards had disappeared, it seemed unlikely that they were about to be arrested.
She glanced at Cleo, who shrugged. Together the two women trailed after the man in the long robe and traditional headdress.
He led them into a small office. After seating them in chairs, he perched on the corner of the desk and studied them both.
“There’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” Zara said when the silence had stretched on for too long. “I was telling the truth before. My sister and I were on the tour, and suddenly we were dragged away. Then you and those guards attacked us. I’d like to know what’s going on.”
Rafe Powers rubbed his temple. “That’s what I’d like to know, as well. You two have any ID on you?”
Zara and Cleo exchanged a look. Did they really want to turn their passports over to this man?
“I’m not the bad guy here,” Rafe said, confirming Zara’s suspicions that he could read her mind. “I won’t take any documents out of this room. I simply want to make a few phone calls.”
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Cleo said in a stage whisper. Her short blond hair was more spiky than usual, and the corners of her full mouth trembled.
Zara nodded. She had been worried about a lot of things when they’d talked about coming to Bahania, but being attacked in the palace wasn’t one of them. What on earth was going on?
They pulled their passports out of their purses and handed them over. Rafe picked up the phone on the desk and began making calls.
Five minutes later a young woman appeared with a tray of cold drinks and small sandwiches. She smiled as she entered and set the refreshments on the credenza by the window. Without saying a word, she bowed slightly and backed out of the room. Rafe was still talking, but he jerked his head toward the food.
Zara took that as a sign that it was permissible for them to partake of the offering. She and Cleo stood and moved to the far side of the room.
Cleo, always hungry, eyed the snack. “Think they’re drugged?”
“I’m beginning to think we’re caught up in a badly made spy movie,” Zara admitted, trying to ignore the way she trembled. Adrenaline surged through her, making her want to run and hide. “But I doubt they went to all the trouble to drug the food.”
Cleo shrugged and reached for one of the glasses. She sipped, then sighed. “Lemonade. It’s perfect.”
Zara’s mouth watered and she found herself sipping the ice-cold liquid. While Cleo munched on a tiny sandwich, Zara studied the small office, along with their host.
The room was modern, with a computer against the far wall and flat-screen monitors showing news from around the world. The only window overlooked a courtyard filled with a garden of different flowers and fruit trees. Linoleum covered the floor, not the tiles they’d seen on their palace tour.
Her gaze slipped back to the man on the phone. Zara couldn’t tell much about his body due to the long flowing robe covering him, but she’d felt his strength as he’d pressed into her, holding her captive. His accent sounded American. He had blue eyes, and while his skin was tanned it wasn’t dark. What was Rafe Powers doing in the Bahanian royal palace and why was he pulling guns on unsuspecting tourists?
As if sensing her attention, Rafe turned toward her. Zara told herself to look away. Even as a blush climbed her cheeks, she couldn’t seem to make herself move. It was as if he’d mesmerized her. Her body stilled, her heartbeat slowed, and once again she could feel the weight of him on top of her.
No emotion flickered in his eyes. His firm mouth didn’t give away his feelings, nor did his body language.
Finally he shifted and hung up the phone. Zara felt as if she’d been released from a spell. The shivering returned, along with the sensation of being exposed.
“So what’s a nice schoolteacher like you doing in a place like Bahania?” Rafe asked.
His voice—deep and strong—made her swallow. “I’m not a schoolteacher, I’m a college professor.”
He shrugged as if to say “what’s the difference?”
Cleo sighed. “Zara worked her butt off to get to full professor. You’d better not mess with her about that.”
Cleo made her announcement in between sandwiches. When Rafe turned his steady gaze to her, Cleo instantly took a step back.
“I mean it,” she said sounding brazen, all retreats to the contrary. “For all we know, her father is the king. You don’t want to get him mad at you, right?”
“King Hassan is your father?”
Rafe asked the question with just enough amusement to make Zara wince. She put down her drink and squared her shoulders. This had gone on long enough.
“Here’s what I know. My sister and I are American citizens on a public tour of the palace. For reasons no one has explained, we were forcibly taken away from our tour and led into a private area. There we were attacked. Now you’ve taken possession of our passports. I want them returned immediately, then I would like us to be escorted from the palace.”
“Zara!” Cleo frowned. “What about the king?”
“This isn’t the time,” she said, not looking at her sister, instead focusing on Rafe Powers, who hadn’t appeared the least bit impressed by her speech.
He surprised her by holding out their passports. But other than that, he didn’t make any attempt to grant her wishes.
Zara grabbed the documents and tucked them into her purse. “May we leave now?” she asked.
“Not until I hear the whole story.”
“There isn’t a story.”
“There’s the letters,” Cleo said helpfully. “Zara has these letters from King Hassan to her mother.”
Rafe carefully watched the two sisters. Cleo, the younger, was short and blond, with the curvy kind of figure that made most men’s mouths water. Rafe dismissed her. He was far more interested in the tall, slender brunette who claimed to be the daughter of a king.
He could see how the guard had mistaken her for Princess Sabra. Zara was only a couple of inches taller. Their features were alike, though Sabra’s hair was red while Zara’s was such a dark auburn it looked almost black. Both she and the princess had large brown eyes, and the shape of their faces was remarkably similar. However, the American schoolteacher wore glasses, while the princess did not. And even though he’d been in close contact with Princess Sabra, never once had his body reacted to her. However, his few moments of nearness to Zara Paxton had left him…intrigued.
Zara sighed. She pulled the chair a couple of feet away from the desk, then settled onto the seat. Still holding her lemonade, she reached into her large purse and drew out a stack of letters.
“My mother never told me who my father was. There were no pictures, no personal effects. She didn’t even share many stories about their time together. I assumed he was a wealthy married man. You see, she’d been a dancer and very beautiful. Men were always interested in her.”
Zara smiled slightly, as if remembering something that brought her pleasure. The smile faded as she fingered the letters.
“There were several pieces of jewelry. My mother sold most of them over the years to supplement our income. She died eight years ago, and I figured that any information about my father died with her.”
“Why did you come here now?” he asked, even as he wondered how much she intended to ask for. Had the plan been her idea or her sister’s? At what point had she realized she had more than a passing resemblance to Princess Sabra, and when had she decided to use that to her advantage?
“My mother kept these letters along with several other personal mementos with an attorney. I only discovered their existence a few months ago when he sent a bill for storage. I requested the things be sent to me instead. Once I read them, I realized…” Her voice trailed off.
“That you might be the king’s daughter. May I see the letters?”
Zara shook her head. “You know what I’d really like?”
About five million dollars, Rafe thought cynically.
“I’d like to go back to my hotel and forget this ever happened.”
“What?” Cleo sounded outraged.
Zara ignored her. “There’s been a mistake. I don’t want to be here. Can you get us out of the palace?”
Rafe considered the possibilities. Either she was having second thoughts about her plan, or she wanted time to come up with a better story. Or she was preparing to go to the media. Better that he not let her wander around on her own just yet.
“How about if I take you back to your hotel myself? As a way of apologizing.”
“Just show us the nearest exit and we’ll be fine.”
“I’d prefer to escort you. I insist.”
Zara didn’t look too happy, but she nodded her agreement. Rafe excused himself while he went to change his clothes, promising to return in ten minutes.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Cleo asked the second they were alone. “Why do you want to go back to the hotel? Zara, this is your chance to meet the king.”
Zara set her drink on the desk, rose and paced to the window. “Don’t you get it? Couldn’t you tell by the way he was looking at us? Rafe thinks we’re here for money.”
Cleo grinned. “Isn’t that one of the perks of being a princess?”
“I’m serious. He doesn’t believe us. He thinks we’re going to blackmail the king or something. It’s horrible.” She folded her arms over her chest.
All the times she’d imagined coming to Bahania, she tried to think of everything that could go wrong. She’d pictured the king telling her she wasn’t his daughter. She’d thought about having him admit to being her father and not wanting anything to do with her. She’d even figured he might think she was crazy. But she’d never thought anyone would think she was in it for the money.
“Why couldn’t Mom have fallen in love with a banker or an executive? Why did it have to be the King of Bahania?”
Cleo didn’t bother to respond. Zara knew her sister thought she was crazy for not simply marching up to the king and announcing she was his long-lost daughter. As if Zara had any chance of getting close to a member of the royal family. Besides, Cleo didn’t understand her ambivalence about the whole situation. Things had looked a lot clearer from five thousand miles away.
The door opened and Rafe entered. “Are you two ready?” he asked.
Cleo glared at Zara, as if daring her to say they could go. Which was unnecessary, because Zara wasn’t in a position to speak. In his traditional headdress and robes Rafe had been tall and intimidating. Dressed in a well-cut business suit, he was simply gorgeous.
His gold-blond hair had been cut military short, a style that looked both severe and sexy. He had a strong jaw, a perfect mouth, and while his eyes were still cold enough to freeze air, they were also doing odd things to Zara’s insides.
She’d never felt herself melting in the mere presence of a man. But even as she stood there, she could feel her bones dissolving. It was impossible to move, let alone have a coherent thought.
She’d come halfway around the world to find the man who might be her father. In the space of an hour, she’d had second, third and fourth thoughts, been thrown to the ground, held at gunpoint, accused of being a gold digger and struck by lightning. All this and it wasn’t even noon.
