Time for another two episodes of Desert Captive…

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*Waving atcha, guys!”

Who’s excited about the Royal Wedding…… We’re having a party in this house tomorrow to celebrate the wedding of the year. Cannot wait!

I’m working so hard on great stories for you. HITCHED TO THE ITALIAN is heading for final edits and my editor is in bits over some scenes. *Evil laugh*. I’m working on OUR RULES too. And GREGORIO’S BRIDE, which will be a Christmas story and is rocking along. But it’s time for the next two episodes of DESERT CAPTIVE… Enjoy!

DESERT CAPTIVE

Copyright © C C MacKenzie 2018

EPISODES FIVE AND SIX

 

EPISODE FIVE

 

While Bella waited for him to speak, Gilchrist stood, and moved to study a vibrant bouquet of fresh flowers.

He sniffed a fat pink rose.

His fingertip stroked the velvet petal like a lover.

It sorted of reminded her of the way Sarif had touched her, his fingertips gentle as they’d stroked her bare back, after a tumultuous de-flowering that had shocked both of them to the core. The memory of how he’d towered over her, his dark face fierce, those sharp cheekbones flushed. She remembered how his eyes had gone wide as he’d cum. She remembered how he’d felt inside her, thick, powerful, overwhelming really as he’d taken her body and every thought in her mind. All those memories, and more, made her shiver.

She blinked.

Annoyed with herself, she wondered why the moment that had changed both their lives forever had leaped into her mind right at that moment.

Gilchrist was too busy with the flowers to notice, thank goodness, because that man’s intuition was a blade honed by intelligence and an experience of people that made it razor sharp.

At the moment, it appeared he needed time to gather his thoughts. and that bothered her.

It bothered her a lot, because in her experience of him in the past, the Colonel was not a man who second guessed himself.

Once he made a decision, he was a man of action.

Determined.

Driven.

Merciless.

However, it appeared, he was happy to show her a softer side to his personality, if the way he delicately inhaled the scent of another flower was anything to go by.

That tickle of alarm, of the feeling that something was off, again slid down her spine.

Without turning, he took out of his inside jacket pocket a slim silver metal device in the shape of a pen.

She recognised a device that was state-of-the-art, a new digital scanner.

He pressed a button, a tiny blinking blue light appeared and he moved the scanner around and through the flowers, beneath the clear glass vase, then did a quick and thorough sweep of the room including her bed.

While he was busy looking for God knew what, Bella sat there and waited.

Slipping the scanner into his pocket, he returned to his seat.

From a side pocket he produced a small clear plastic bag.

The bag contained three tiny bugs, listening devices.

“Found these in here this morning.”

This morning?

Something of her shock must have shown on her face because he nodded.

“I thought it wise to take precautionary measures. After all, they failed to kill you or severely injure you once. Who was to say they may not make another desperate attempt to take the life of you or your child. A nurse who is one of ours did a quick sweep of the room while you slept. To be honest, we didn’t expect to find anything, since we believed we had you wrapped up all nice and tight. You may imagine our surprise.”

Through her good eye, Bella peered at the bugs.

“They look Russian.”

He nodded.

“Well spotted.”

“Which means they didn’t overhear my conversation with Sarif, because I assume you found them before he arrived,” she muttered.

Gilchrist’s bushy brows rose above his black framed glasses.

“I suppose it all depends on who they are working for, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes flew to his.

“You suspect Sarif?”

“He actually entered the room early this morning. When he took a break, our nurse did the scan. Who else was in here alone with you?”

He was right.

Sarif had been permitted entry to her room while she slept.

Gilchrist continued, “From what I hear, to gain access, he and the Quarram Ambassador made a bit of a nuisance of themselves with the authorities who run this hospital. We slipped up there, and I can assure you a head will roll because of it.”

Returning the little bag to his pocket, he sat back, looking pleased, he had her full attention.

“From what we’ve learned of Sarif’s character, during his many trips to London to attempt a dialogue with you, and may I just say I’ve been impressed at the way you managed to keep him at arms length for so long, he is a man who is not only ruthless, but by his recent behaviour, he is not shy to place himself above the law. When I say he is not afraid to take any prisoners, I mean it in a literal sense, which is unfortunate news for you, my dear.”

Bella blinked.

“Me?”

“I know he is a difficult man, however, it’s terribly unfortunate that you are not on speaking terms with your father, Arabella.”

She frowned, not liking where the conversation was going.

“What has my father got to do with Sarif or Quarram?”

“It’s not your father I am concerned about at the moment, it is another member of your family.”

Unease slid into her belly.

“Who?”

“It’s Rupert, my dear.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t understand. Rupert’s only a boy. He’s a student. He’s studying anthropology at Cambridge.”

Gilchrist took a breath and when his eyes met hers, the expression in them—one of doom—made her breath hitch.

“Right at this moment, Rupert Faulkner is rotting in a dungeon in an ancient Moorish prison in up country Quarram.”

Bella’s head spun.

“What the hell for?”

“Apparently he tried to smuggle an ancient piece of antiquity out of the country.”

Bella didn’t hesitate.

“Bullshit. Rupert is a straight arrow.”

Gilchrist nodded.

“Quite.”

“Has the British Consul in Quarram made a formal complaint?”

“I imagine they would, if they knew anything about it.”

She blinked.

“I don’t understand.”

“It seems there is no official record of Rupert entering the country in the first place. There is certainly no official record of him having left. There is only one person who wields enough power and authority in Quarram to make custom documentation and a British citizen disappear…”

Oh, Bella could join the dots just fine.

“Sarif,” she whispered.

For a long pause no one spoke, until she blurted, “But what on earth would he have to gain?”

“Leverage.”

“For what?”

Gilchrist studied her face, her eyes.

“I think that bump on the head may have affected your reasoning. You are carrying his child. His heir. If Sarif cannot persuade you to accompany him to Quarram, it appears he’s perfectly ready, willing and able to blackmail you to bend to his Imperial will.”

Bella’s nostrils flared.

“If he did that I would kill him.”

“Understandable. However, killing Sarif would not bring your brother back. It would only sign his death sentence.”

Sincerely shocked, because Gilchrist was not describing a Sarif El Haribe that Bella recognized.

The Sarif she knew had a deep seated sense of right and wrong.

He put duty, to his people and his country, at the centre of everything he did.

“This doesn’t make sense. Sarif is no dictator or despot,” she said now. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Gilchrist lifted his hands in a who-knows gesture.

“And therein lies the rub. He has no history of violence or a psychological kink in his make up, that we know of, to suddenly morph into a tyrant. However, something fundamental has changed him. And I thought you might hold the answer to why he would entice your brother to Quarram, plant an artefact on his person as he attempted to leave the country and then make him, to all intents and purposes, disappear.”

“Wait. He enticed Rupert to Quarram? How?”

“How do you think? By offering a rare opportunity for a British anthropology team to have the first look at a new find. Kept strictly hush-hush of course. They didn’t use any of the main airports to fly in and out, for obvious reasons.”

“Thieves,” Bella breathed. “Due to the way terrorist groups in the region have pillaged world heritage sites there’s a thriving market in rare Arab antiquities.”

“Precisely. What young man of his energy and intellect, thirsty for adventure and fired up with a voracious ambition to make a name for himself in his chosen field, could possibly resist such temptation?”

Now that, temptation, she could readily believe of Sarif.

Hell, hadn’t she succumbed to his lethal temptation herself?

Bella closed her eyes.

“God, my mother must be frantic.”

Gilchrist pursed his lips.

“I suspect she might be, if she knew anything about it.”

Bella’s eyes flew to his.

“He’s not told her?” she asked referring to her father.

“Not yet. He reached out to me first. I was on my way to see you when events,” he waved a hand down her person lying in the hospital bed, “somewhat overtook us.”

Again she closed her eyes.

God, that meant her father not only knew she’d been injured, but that she was pregnant.

An unmarried mother.

He’d never forgive her for that.

This situation was one hot mess.

But it was a vivid anxiety for her baby brother that made her heart twist in her chest.

Rupert was clever.

He was physically fit since he rowed for his university team, but he was not equipped to deal with isolation, maybe even starvation and worse…

Her imagination wanted to run wild.

Then logic took control.

There was no way that any man from the royal house of El Haribe would torture an innocent young man—a boy.

“Sarif would never harm him.”

Gilchrist sat back and folded his arms.

His eyes fixed on Bella’s face.

“Are you sure about that? What about to gain parental control of a son?”

“He’s an Arab. He’d do anything to legitimise his child,” she whispered her thoughts aloud.

“Anything?” Gilchrist asked.

Facing the truth, Bella nodded.

“Anything.”

 

  EPISODE SIX

 

“Good job I have a plan,” the Colonel said.

If he did, Bella wanted to hear it.

She was ready to kick-ass.

First, she needed to know her brother was safe.

Second, she couldn’t wait to listen to Sarif’s explanation.

It had damned well better be a good one.

“I’m all ears.”

“Cambridge University, under implicit instructions from my department, have applied to Quarram for an exploration permit to send a team—actually special agents—to authenticate a find of ancient relics in the north of the country, where we believe Rupert is being held.”

The promise held in those words, that her country was actually going to do something to get her brother out, had a lovely little ripple run through Bella’s blood. A little ripple she hadn’t felt for months since she’d left the service.

“Since you’re telling me this, I assume I’ve returned to active service?”

“You’ve never been off active service, my dear.”

She nodded and took a breath.

“Okay. What’s my role?”

Gilchrist didn’t hesitate.

“Simple. You marry Sarif, become Queen of Quarram, find out what’s going on in the upper echelons of Sarif’s Court, and free your brother.”

She blinked.

The man had lost his tiny mind.

There was no way in hell she was going to marry Sarif now.

No way.

“Why on earth would I do something so stupid?”

“Vengeance?”

Bella angled her head.

“Are you really going to suggest I marry Sarif for payback for kidnapping my brother?”

“Only a thought. But now you mention it…”

“You’re crazy.”

His eyes narrowed.

“And if I made it an order?”

“You’re forgetting one small thing.”

Those bushy brows rose in a silent question.

“The baby,” she said, pointing to her bump.

He lifted a hand as if to say, no big deal.

“Once you have played your part, we will get both of you out as soon as you request it.”

This time she raised her own brows, and then made an ouch face when her head hurt.

“So, you basically want a female James Bond and a baby to do your dirty work.”

“No one will ever suspect you. It’s the perfect cover.”

At that moment, Bella reckoned that sometimes the best thing you could do was to just remain silent because no words could explain the shit going on in her heart and mind.

He must have read her mind or her face, because Gilchrist shifted closer.

“The entire region is a tinderbox. All it needs is one flare to set it alight. We need to know who are behind the attempted destabilisation of the House of El Haribe. We need someone deep inside the El Haribe family. You’re it.”

Bella simply stared at him.

Well, hell, seemed a pregnant Jemima Bond was supposed to save the frigging world.

She could do this.

After years of living with Queen Charisse heading up her personal protection team, she knew the customs, the languages, well four of them.

She was close to the El Haribe family, especially Charisse and her very westernized husband, Khalid El Haribe.

If the worst came to the worse, Charisse would lend her aid.

And the old fox was right about one thing. Married to Sarif and pregnant with his child, no one would suspect her of espionage.

She hoped.

She took a deep breath, blew out her cheeks, gave him the stink eye.

“Anything happens to my baby and you’ll be it.”

His limpid gaze met hers.

“Excellent. Your country thanks you for your service,” he said and shifted to press the red bell next to her bed.

On cue, a nurse she’d never seen before entered.

Bella studied the metal tray in her hand, in particular the huge syringe.

“What is that?”

The Colonel stood.

“A tracking device. Just in case…”

She blinked as he headed for the door.

“Where does it go?”

He turned, flashed her a white smile.

“Right buttock.”

Bella made a face, which was wasted since he’d already gone.

“Just roll on your left side,” the nurse said in a brisk tone. The woman needed to work on her bedside manner. “It will only hurt for a moment.”

Bella did as she was told.

The scent of antiseptic hit her before the shock of a cold and wet swipe on her ass.

Then—

Fuck.

Christ.

Jesus.

The pain just went on and on, had this woman never heard of a local anaesthetic?

Then there was pressure, a thumb on her ass and a plaster and that was it.

“Well done,” the nurse from hell said. She turned the wall light down low. “Try and get some sleep.”

When she was finally left alone, Bella lay back and stared at the ceiling, and thought of her brother. He’d better be safe and sound, not one hair of his head hurt,

or King Sarif El Haribe would rue the day he’d ever been born.

*********************************************

 

Looks like Sarif’s in Big Trouble. Then again, so is Bella as we will find out next week. I’m enjoying the thrills and spills of this story as it grows live right in front of your eyes! Scary stuff for an author let me tell you.

Until next time,

Christine X

 

Desert Captive, Episodes 3 + 4…

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Hello, my darlings,

It’s time for another couple of episodes with Sarif and Bella…

Enjoy!

DESERT CAPTIVE

 

EPISODE THREE

Copyright © CC MacKenzie 2018

 

Four days later, wearing soft blue jeans and a black cashmere sweater, Safir stared unseeing out of another window.

This one in a private room of St. Martin’s hospital in central London.

He and diplomats from his Embassy had been utterly ruthless and pulled many strings to bring the hospital officials into line, not to mention running the gauntlet of police, and certain members of the British security services, who’d carefully and thoroughly grilled him on his involvement with and intentions towards Arabella. This was a woman who was, they reminded him on a daily basis, one of their own.

She’d regained consciousness three days ago and this morning had finally given permission for him to visit her.

Diplomacy was a skill like any other, and one he was good at, which was why—barely tolerated by the nursing staff—he was finally inside Arabella’s room, while she slept.

In a jail up country in Quarram, her brother was behaving himself too, which had surprised him. He’d left explicit instruction, the boy was not to be harmed.

Something else that had also surprised him was the fact, the Faulkner family were none the wiser that one of their members was missing. Looked like her family were not close.

A stirring from the bed, had him turn to watch her.

She was still asleep.

Her injuries made his belly clutch.

For as long as he lived, he would never forget the first time he’d seen her today.

Shock had come first.

Then anger.

Both had combined to spin into a fist in his gut as he’d stared at the livid bruise on her face, the split lip and the grazed knuckles.

Now he took the time to study her hair, black, longer now.

He remembered, he couldn’t help it, the way they’d come together.

How they’d mated.

Fast.

Furious.

Fantastic.

Her mouth might be hurt and swollen now, but he remembered how her lips had trembled, all full and soft, before their first kiss. Now he remembered how she’d sucked him deep in her throat.

He went rock hard.

So hard, he drew in a shaky breath.

God, the woman was asleep and he was standing there staring at her with a raging hard on?

How did she do this to him?

How?

She’d thought about killing a life and he was attracted to her?

Was he crazy?

 

Then his gaze dropped lower.

The sight of her belly swollen with his child, had caught him totally by surprise when he’d first seen her. It caught him again as emotions, too many, too confusing, slammed into him.

Even now all those emotions and more squeezed his chest, twisted tight, and seemed to spear his heart.

Four days had given him plenty of time to brood on Arabella’s many sins.

For a while it had been touch and go they’d lose the baby.

He’d been worried sick.

But the child was—according to the medical team—a fighter.

Through the hell of an appallingly helpless anxiety, Safir had felt the first stirring of pride in his unborn child. A boy. And Safir had made a promise to God that should the child be spared, he would be a good father. It would be impossible for his son to be born a bastard. Only a legitimate child could inherit the throne.

And even though she clearly did not deserve it, he would be a loyal and faithful husband to Arabella, until the baby was born, and then he’d personally put her on a plane out of his country and out of his life.  Not once did it occur to him that a woman in her delicate situation, unmarried, may not want or desire himself as a husband.  As far as Safir was concerned, Arabella’s wants or desires simply didn’t come into the equation. Like him, she would be bound by duty and honor to his people, whether she liked it or not, until her usefulness was over.

It occurred to him he’d need to get rid of his French mistress, fast.

He’d give her the Paris apartment as a parting gift.

Now he had an heir he could, after all, afford to be generous.

“Sarif?”

Arabella’s voice was no more than a whisper, but it put an abrupt end to his thoughts.

He moved towards the bed.

“Yes. It is I.”

Since her right eye was swollen shut and surrounded by a dark bruise that reached from temple to chin, she peered at him through the partially closed other eye.

In spite of the spectacular mess of her face, Sarif reckoned she looked good.

The first time he’d met her, she’d blown him away.

Five months later he might not like it, but he had to admit nothing much had changed.

He could smell the scent of her shampoo.

Lavender.

The hospital gown was ugly as sin, the cotton the color of sickly green.

On her slim wrist was the black watch he remembered, masculine.

The watch had a webbed strap and looked like something a diver might wear.

Her mouth was swollen.

The split bottom lit for some reason made him go hard as stone.

Dammit.

Five months since he’d last seen her and he’d thought of her every day and every night, no matter how hard he’d tried not to.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

Sarif blinked and wondered if the head injury was more extensive than the doctor’s had first thought.

“Where else would I be?”

She sighed.

Her hand, the knuckles bruised and battered, smoothed over her baby, their baby.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, sounding so unlike her normal sparky self that he frowned.

Sarif felt a strong urge to hold her.

He wanted to smooth that silky slide of dark hair back from her pale face.

But the thought occurred to him that he had no right.

He had no right to touch her, and then another truth struck him.

Perhaps he had no right to the child they’d made either?

“You are very lucky to be alive,” he said, his voice sounded hoarse, but he kept his face straight.

She shrugged.

“So they say. They haven’t found the driver.”

“The car was found smouldering and abandoned on waste ground.” Then he added casually, “It wasn’t an accident.”

For a long time she simply stared at him, then she blinked.

“I don’t have enemies,” she said at last. “At least none who’d want to kill me.”

Sarif didn’t know about that.

He was pretty tempted to strangle her right now.

She took a deep breath that moved her chest.

Her breasts had grown a little, the nipples hard and firm jutted through the thin cotton fabric.

The ache in his groin an unwelcome distraction that shot his throught process apart.

“It’s not safe for you in London,” he said.

Bella simply watched him, that eye wary.

“What do you suggest?”

Sarif folded his arms.

“I suggest you do the right thing,” he said in a clipped tone. “For once in your life, think of someone other than yourself. Think of our child. Marry me. Live in Quarram.”

Bella said nothing for the longest moment, and Sarif held his breath until her eyes clicked to his and held.

“Just like that?”

He shook his head, and wondered why it was that nothing ever went according to plan with this woman.

“No, not just like that. I need a wife. Our child needs a father. By marrying me, I understand the sacrifice you have to make. But, as we have clearly seen, the fact is I cannot protect you here—”

“And you think I’ll be safe in Quarram?”

He did not hesitate.

“I guarantee it.”

“Brave words, Highness. There is no way your people will accept a Westerner as your consort. The whole idea of marrying me is ludicrous and you know it.”

Sarif stood utterly still, as if carved from stone.

He could not remember the last time anyone had ever spoken to him in that particular tone.

Disrespectful.

Disobedient.

Was it possible she was going to argue?

With him?

By the look on her face, it seemed she was.

***

Bella squinted, her eyesight a little blurry, as she studied how much he’d changed in five short months.

He was still six foot three with the blue blood of hundreds of years of warriors flowing in his veins. Even in jeans, he looked the part. A ruler. A King.

It could be a trick of the light, but he looked older and leaner.

And since he wore his usual, do-not-mess-with-me-expression, he was not exactly a barrel of laughs.

He was a man, who took life far too seriously, she reckoned, and still ridiculously handsome of course.

She’d met plenty of handsome men before and they’d left her cold.

Well, she didn’t feel cold looking at him right now.

Anything but.

His hair, that glossy black, had changed too. The style had grown from the short crop he’d worn before. Now it was it was smoothed back from that wide brow. She reckoned those cheekbones were too sharp. The strong nose was too arrogant. The jaw much too stubborn.

He was just too much.

Then his dark eyes hooded beneath black brows held hers and something in them, something like a warning shivered through her. She put it down to her head injury. How could she have forgotten those dark grey eyes, eyes that didn’t look at all friendly as they held hers.

Then Sarif smiled, just a flash of white teeth. A smile that was too confident, and maybe a little smug. Her head hurt, a lot, just looking at him.

“To succeed to the throne, my child must be legitimate.” The way he paced back and forth in front of her bed, as if he was a man clearly at the end of his tether, touched something deep inside. He stopped and his gaze caught hers. “I refuse to father a bastard.”

He sounded genuine, sincere even.

“I promise to think about it,” she found herself saying.

Her head felt too heavy for her shoulders.

Dark grey eyes seemed to pin her to the pillow.

“That’s just the trouble. You have had too much time to think about it. Months. The time for thinking is over.”

And see, right there, was the bad attitude that just pressed all her hot buttons.

If only she wasn’t lying in a bed, injured, she’d be able to give him a few home truths.

Out of the blue she focused all her attention on his mouth.

Her throat went dry.

The memory of how he’d kissed her, with hunger and a demand that would not be denied, made her close her eyes. Her breasts ached. A pulse between her legs ached. In her mind, she could actually taste him and feel the way his tongue had mated with hers. He’d used his teeth on her bottom lip, and on other—places. God. The room felt too hot. Hell, she felt too hot. Baby hormones, that must be why she felt like this, hadn’t she read they often made women horny?

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with a deep interest that made her cheeks flush, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. His eyes dropped to her breasts and narrowed.

Her breath hitched when the tip of his tongue ran over his bottom lip.

And was that a bulge growing between his legs?

He was aroused?

Seriously?

The room seemed to snap and crackle with an electricity both of them clearly could not deny.

But it was the arrogant smirk that made her eyes narrow into slits.

How was it possible she wanted to kiss and smack that mouth both at the same time?

“Well, it’s too bad for you I live in a country where personal freedom and choice is a right and not a privilege. My answer is no.”

Sarif raised his eyes to heaven, as if praying for divine intervention.

Well, Bella didn’t believe in God, so good luck with that, pal.

He ran a hand through his hair as he took the seat next o her bed.

“Don’t you remember what we did? We worked well together, Bella.”

 

Actually, Bella reckoned he was right about that.

They had worked well together to neutralize troublemakers who’d done everything they could to threaten the house of El Haribe and destabilize King Khalid and Queen Charisse’s tiny kingdom Onuur.

Sarif had a quick mind, even if he was a stubborn bastard at times.

She’d challenged him—and he challenged her right back.

In spite of his heritage and background, he was open to suggestions and possibilities.

The issue was that they’d challenged each other on a personal level too.

And for a short time they had indeed made a good team.

On the other hand, they’d bickered and fought like a pair of wildcats too.

When they weren’t taking a swipe at each other, they’d fallen into bed, once.

And that one time had changed both of their lives forever.

The truth was the attraction that had driven them both had baffled them both too.

And on some fundamental level, she knew he knew that.

Any marriage between them would turn into a bloody battlefield. If she drew a red line in the desert sand, he’d cross it without a thought. And then he’d have his hands on her—and that would be it—the ultimate surrender—her body.

But now her body hummed with the memory of the feel of those strong hands over her skin, how he’d touched her everywhere, and how she’d simply gone up in flames.

She took a breath to steady the crazy fluttering in her heart and told her body to behave itself.

How could she have forgotten that ever since she’d left, it had been all over the tabloids that Prince Sarif El Haribe had recently had those hands all over a French actress?

Annoyance with him, with herself, burned bright in her belly.

“I refuse to be added to your harem and become a love slave,” she said with a decided snap in her voice.

 

Sarif said nothing in response to the love slave dig, which was no surprise to Bella.

He probably thought he was so far above her he could do whatever the hell he liked, and that included, wife or no wife and a wide variety of women.

Face set, he got to his feet, and moved towards the door.

He turned back to study her.

She couldn’t tell from his closed expression what he was thinking.

“You need to rest,” he said. “Do not let little stupid things influence your decision. Sleep on it and think about what is best for our child.”

He left.

Bella had the distinct feeling she hadn’t come out the winner of this latest skirmish.

Anyway, he was right.

She did need rest.

 

 

EPISODE FOUR

 

Copyright © CC MacKenzie 2018

 

Later that evening Bella, feeling a lot better after a nice long nap and a light supper, was wasting time flicking through a glossy magazine.

Her head throbbed every time she tried to do what Sarif had suggested, to think, and so she stopped thinking.

It was late, around ten in the evening.

When the door opened slowly, she looked up expecting to see a nurse, and went utterly still when she saw the man standing there.

She very much doubted he was here to bring her flowers.

Her old boss from CI5, Colonel Roger Gilchrist, peered at her over the top of his black framed glasses and raised bushy silver brows. He was a slim and broad-shouldered sixty-two. His raw-boned face always made Arabella think of a clever Professor. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal suit of the finest Italian wool, a white shirt of stiff cotton, and his striped regimental tie.

His hair, a stunning mane of black and silver, was brushed back from a lean and powerful face.

“Well now, young lady, this is a nice mess you’ve got yourself into.” His voice was like grit stone spilling down a steel chute and running through a metal grate. “Spoke to your doctor. You and the baby were lucky.”

She put down her magazine.

“Didn’t see it coming.”

The Colonel took a seat and folded his arms.

“Might not be so lucky next time,” he said.

She blinked and automatically placed her hand on her belly as if to protect her baby.

“It wasn’t an accident,” she muttered her first thoughts.

And beneath her hand, her belly tightened.

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. “When you’re feeling a bit better, you can watch CCTV footage. I imagine you will want to meet the person who tried to mow down you and your child.”

Arabella had the distinct feeling she was being led to a place she didn’t want to go.

“I don’t have enemies,” she said.

When the Colonel merely angled his head and stared blandly, Arabella had to laugh.

“Okay. Maybe pals of the late and not lamented paedophile, assassin, and rapist, Omar, might have an issue with me.”

The Colonel studied her through narrowed eyes.

“What makes you think you’re the target?” He sat forward in his chair, rested his elbows on bony knees, his hands clasped. “I know you’ve had a head injury, but think about it. The whole region is a tinderbox, and with the right spark it’s ready to blow. There are powerful and greedy eyes on all El Haribe lands. They’ve already tried and failed to destabilise Onuur. If they are prepared to assassinate a Queen, what makes you think they’d baulk at killing the mother of the heir to Quarram?”

“You sound like Sarif.”

The Colonel gave her a look she knew well, a look that clearly stated do-not-mess-with-me.

“Sarif is almost as hard-headed as you are. You’ve managed to keep him at arms length for months.”

“It’s my life we’re talking about here,” she said. “I make the choices.”

“True. But he is a king.” He hesitated for a moment. “The man has rights.”

All anger seem to slide away and now Arabella nodded.

“I know that.”

“He’ll want to legitimise the child.” The Colonel slid his hand through his hair, the movement reminding her forcibly of Sarif and how he’d worn the exact same expression when he had spoken to her earlier. “He’ll want marriage.”

She knew that.

Arabella glared.

“What’s this? Marriage guidance? A bit out of your sphere of influence isn’t it?”

Gilchrist chuckled to himself.

He’d always admired Bella’s sharp mind.

Her stubborn streak.

Her absolute devotion to her country and her duty.

He had a grandson around her age.

He’d thought about introducing them, then changed his mind, because even though his grandson was as hard and tough as they came, Bella could be, well, mean.

Plus, he’d heard the rumors, Bella wasn’t into men—most of the time.

“I must admit,” he began, treading carefully. “There is an element of—surprise—shall we say, that it appears you’re pregnant via a rather conventional route.”

Bella knew the statement was his clumsy way of saying—WTF?

Her face went hot at the thought of what she and Sarif had done—they’d fucked like rabid rabbits. And of course, the old bastard didn’t miss her embarrassment.

“I always thought the Sandhurst scandal had been blown out of all proportion,” the Colonel said now, opening dialogue on a subject that was no one’s business except her own.

Arabella rubbed her belly and felt the baby kick.

“We were drunk. It was a quick fumble caught on a cell phone. And I hear it made her big bucks on the Internet.”

“Regrettable behaviour on everyone’s account,” he said, and fiddled with his shirt cuff. Then those steely eyes found hers. “Have you spoken to your father?”

Now Arabella felt dizzy.

Her father, her family, knew nothing of her recent troubles, and that was how she wanted it to stay.

Her business.

End of.

“Ah, I see you haven’t. He will not be pleased when he finds out. He’s not a particularly forgiving man either. Might make trouble for you and especially for Sarif, don’t you think?”

She made a face.

If anyone knew how unforgiving her father was, she did.

However, neither could she deny a truth.

“He will.”

The Colonel leaned back and folded his arms.

“I have a proposition for you. A proposition that might see everyone get what they want out of this mess,” he said in that gravelly voice. But it was the tone, silk over steel, that had her watching him warily.

The old fox was up to something.

Whatever he was selling, she could always say no, couldn’t she?

“I’m listening…”

**********

 

Until next time…..

Christine X

Episode 2 of Desert Captive…

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Hello, my darlings,

There’s a rumour going around that next Monday we’ll see the hottest early May day holiday since records began.  We can only hope!

Grab a coffee or a glass of wine…

EPISODE TWO

In his office suite situated on the third floor, Prince Sarif El Haribe frowned at the sound of the clamour of sirens and blue lights flashing outside the Embassy window.

Since it was summer, he couldn’t see the scene through the heavy canopy of oak trees.

Plus, his thoughts were focused on other things.

More important things.

Things like Arabella Faulkner, a woman he hadn’t been able to forget for many long months.

Of course, he’d tried to forget how she’d felt as her body had held his like a too tight fist in a velvet glove. He’d tried to forget how she’d writhed beneath him, her eyes glazed with lust. He’d tried to forget the way she’d chanted his name over and over as he’d taken her so hard and so fast his vision had clouded. More, he’d tried to forget her smell, jasmine and sunshine and womanly arousal.

He closed his eyes because he could actually taste her on his tongue.

He’d been like this for months.

He’d lost weight.

A disciplined and controlled man in all things, he’d lost that discipline, that control, when she’d run from him, from them, from their future, he’d planned.

How many times had he replayed in his head the last time she’d spoken to him?

Why hadn’t he shared his feelings with her?

Instead of telling her what their future held, why hadn’t he discussed her needs, her anxieties?

His brother Khalid and sister-in-law Charisse had told him to give Bella time and space.

He’d followed their advice. After all they understood how a marriage of convenience worked. They’d fallen madly in love and were now cosily ensconced in marital bliss, true partners who supported each other through thick and thin.

Khalid was a lucky man.

The trouble was, Sarif was a King, a ruler of people who needed him, a King with heavy responsibilities and duties and commitments.

By walking away, by leaving him, Arabella had shown by her actions rather than words that she wanted no part of him or the people of Quarram. The last thing his country needed in these dangerous times was a reluctant Queen, a Queen from a diametrically opposing culture.

And yet, like a smacked puppy, he’d followed her to London to make sure she was safe.

More importantly, to make sure the child she carried—his secret child—was safe.

Even now he could hardly believe it.

When he’d received her message that she was finally prepared to meet with him, he’d been almost relieved.

Almost.

But then he’d again read the detailed report of her comings and goings over the past few months. He’d first seen it six long weeks ago, a report compiled by his new private secretary, Hafar, areport that even now sat on his desk, almost mocking him, and a report that had broken something deep within him.

Betrayal was a bitter taste on his tongue.

Although to be fair, she’d walked right up to the shaky edge of betrayal and hadn’t actually taken that final step.

No matter, the picture, the report painted of a woman he’d been prepared to trust, was not a pretty one.

However, he’d plotted and planned and now everything was coming together.

Sarif checked the time on the wall clock.

She was late.

Annoyance stirred in his belly.

He’d dressed carefully for the meeting.

His dark grey suit tailored in Savile Row, a shirt of crisp white cotton and a silk tie.

The English liked their silk ties.

Never a patient man at the best of times, he checked the time on his slim watch of white-gold and frowned.

She was late.

But the thing that seriously annoyed him was the way his nerves jangled.

He refused to acknowledge such a thing as nerves.

Nerves were a sign of weakness.

No man from the house of El Haribe was weak.

He was a King, for God’s sake.

Then he wondered, why now?

Why had Arabella called him this morning  out of the blue and accepted his invitation to meet him here at the Embassy. He’d immediately cancelled his appointments for the day, much to Hafar’s clear disapproval.

So what had made Arabella change her mind after months of radio silence and agree to see him? Recently one of his security personnel had been on her tail at all times.

Perhaps it had been her recent neonatal appointment for an ultrasound scan. Perhaps seeing the living, beating heart of their child had, belatedly, made her grow a conscience? This was an appointment she’d kept alone, with no one to support her. He wondered why the fact she’d been alone bothered him?

He glanced again at the thick file of the report on his desk, months of detailed information on her movements, where she’d gone and who she’d met.

One part he’d read again and again as the dog-eared paper proved.

He couldn’t seem to help himself but shift to open the file and read the page one more time. The part where, six weeks after she’d arrived in the capital, she’d gone to a private clinic for an appointment.

His hand fisted.

An abortion clinic.

Of course, she hadn’t gone through with killing his child, which was just as well for her.

But as he read again, in black and white, that she’d even considered destroying an innocent, he finally faced the fact that her betrayal had killed something deep inside him.

She deserved every single thing that was about to befall her.

And so, Sarif accepted, he was about to cast aside all ethics and values of a life dedicated to duty and service.

He had plotted and planned and was almost ready to make his move to protect his son.

His son.

She carried a boy, as the ultrasound scan proved beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Gritting his teeth, Sarif El Haribe swore to Allah, he would break every single law of faith and country to protect his unborn child and take him home where he belonged.

Quarram.

And as for the woman who carried his son?

Well, Arabella Faulkner would do exactly as she was told, or, in the spirit of an eye for an eye, Sarif would put her brother to death in an instant.

The man-boy was nineteen and a student.

His name, Rupert Faulkner, youngest son of Brigadier Hamish Faulkner and his wife, Primrose.

A keen student of cultural anthropology, it had been all too easy to dupe Rupert into joining a fake archaeological dig to Quarram.

It had been even easier to plant a priceless artefact in his hand luggage as he tried to leave the country with the rest of his party. Now Rupert sat rotting in a Quarram jail. Sarif, since the King’s word overruled all democratic laws of man, had decreed the prisoner had no rights. No right to a lawyer. No right to consular assistance.

Now as he thought about him, Sarif had to admit the boy’s courage had impressed him.

No whining.

No begging.

He’d shown plenty of the famous British stiff upper lip.

As soon as Arabella Faulkner married Sarif, her brother would be set free.

Marry him, save her brother.

That was the deal.

Sarif was well aware his father and brother would look askance upon his appalling conduct, and see it as—extreme, which was why he’d told them nothing of his plans.

He lusted for revenge.

He lusted for justice.

Arabella had runaway like a coward.

She’d kept his unborn child from him and had thought, even briefly, to destroy it.

And for that he would never forgive her.

Revenge—Sarif decided with a righteous fury burning in his very soul—was a dish best served cold.

 

Again he moved to the window to calm his thoughts, to clear his mind.

He’d need to play it smart.

Arabella was no fool.

The woman was highly intelligent, and a trained fighter.

All he had to do was keep his head, and his temper, and persuade her to marry him.

Once she’d safely delivered his son, he’d divorce her and kick her out of his country.

And she would never see their child, or Sarif, again.

Result.

A knock at the door had him give permission to enter.

His private secretary, Hafar, entered, bringing with him the scent of Jeera Goli, a candy laced with cumin.

For a young man with a sweet tooth, Hafar was strikingly skinny.

And since Hafar refused to wear western dress, he wore his thwab and besht to denote his status as a servant of the King. He’d replaced his father, Ekram, in the position after the latter’s sudden retirement due to family issues. To tell the truth, Hafar’s obsequious ways got on Sarif’s nerves.

Looking on the bright side, Hafar might be considered a godsend.

His information technology skills were particularly impressive.

“My Lord,” Hafar’s nasally voice was smooth as silk, and annoying as hell. “There has been a most unfortunate occurrence outside the Embassy gates.”

Sarif frowned. “An accident?”

“A young woman has been hit by a car. The driver did not stop.”

Safir made a face of distaste.

“A hit and run.”

Hafar bowed again.

And waited.

Sarif lifted his brows.

“Something else?”

Looking back at the conversation later—the way Hafar’s tongue had licked his thin lips, like a snake, and pressed his fleshy palms together, as if in prayer, and all the while his dark eyes had stayed on him—it should have been a warning.

But what followed erased the conversation from his mind, until it was too late.

Far too late.

“The woman is Arabella Faulkner.”

***

Ooooooh, tune in next week…

Hugs,

Christine X

MANIC MONDAY – DESERT ORCHID EPISODE SIX

 

Hello my darlings.

 

Since I’m up the wall writing my work in progress and received requests to post larger episodes of Desert Orchid and I live to serve, I’ve added another 6,000+ words to the story today.

The next two episodes will be posted on Friday.

For those of you interested in stats, over 180 peeps are reading Desert Orchid on their phones (!) via the pdf file which I find mind boggling. A Reckless Night in Rome is clicking along and again most peeps are reading on phones or Kindles and downloading direct to their devices rather than going through their computers. Who knew?

As I said many are asking for more of the story at least twice a week and since this is the first time I’ve done this I’m happy to oblige. I should mention that this story it literally taking shape as I write and goes against every single engrained word of wisdom on how to write, so don’t do what I do. At the very least have some sort of outline. Having said that I do have a rough idea of where I’m going and found the notes I made on the original concept way back in 2009. What’s interesting to me are the different names I gave the characters and the animals! It’s like meeting an old friend! I can’t say how long it’s going to take to get to THE END! But at least I have an ending and now need to merge the work.

Enjoy!

Christine