Captive of the Desert King. Donna Young

      He glanced down at his son. “Although it seems I haven’t done a good job with that, either.”

       Chapter Five

      Roldo Costa sat on the jeep’s hood, anger twisting his insides into a vicious knot. It wasn’t his fault the king and his brat slipped past Oruk’s men. He dug into his pocket for his paper and bag of weed.

      Hell, it wasn’t his job to search and destroy.

      It was only to destroy, Roldo thought with contempt.

      But then, the Al Asheera leader never appreciated the beauty of Roldo’s expertise.

      Effortlessly, he rolled the joint and licked the paper closed. The desert chill had settled in, making his mood even fouler. He wanted to be at the city’s brothel, a place called the Cathouse, drinking and whoring.

      The women liked him there. They thought he was a big shot because he got them booze from Milan and drugs from a cousin in Columbia.

      They thought he was tough, too.

      He lit the joint and took a long drag. The smoke was harsh, spurred by the cocaine he’d added to the mix. It bit at the back of his throat, burned its way to his chest.

      While he waited to catch his buzz, Roldo pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster, enjoying the weight of it in his hand.

      Since the jeep had no roof, he reached over the windshield of the jeep and flipped on the headlights.

      A buzzard squawked, its wings flapping against the stark beams. But it didn’t fly away. It wasn’t willing to give up its meal of rotted flesh unless it was absolutely sure there was danger near.

      Roldo leveled his pistol at the bird. “Take off, you dumb son of a bitch. Fly while you can.”

      The bird stared at him for a moment, then settled back into his meal.

      “Stupid bird.” Roldo squeezed the trigger. Laughing at the puff of feathers, he watched the vulture flop dead.

      He shoved his gun back into its holster, took another hit off his joint. “Let’s see if the Royals are as stupid as you, bird,” he yelled. He left the joint hanging from the corner of his mouth and walked around to the back of the jeep.

      From the boot, he pulled out C-4, a detonator and wire. “This is the difference between smart and stupid, bird,” he muttered.

      Like the vultures, Oruk’s men tracked their prey, and then waited for it to drop dead in front of them.

      Stupid.

      Roldo, on the other hand, set the trap, added the right bait, then let the prey come to him. He flicked the joint nub into the sand and ground it under his heel.

      Smart.

      Confident, he counted off paces from the jeep to the plane. If he hurried, he’d still have time for a few drinks at the cantina.

      Smiling at the thought, he stepped over the bird and got to work.

      “HOW HAVE YOU BEEN, Sarah?” The question broke through the silence that had filled the cave for the past hour.

      “Good,” she said cautiously, unsure from where the question came. They had just put Rashid down on a makeshift bed of the emergency blanket and Jarek’s robe.

      “And your father and mother, how are they?”

      Slowly, Sarah finished tucking the robe around Rashid’s shoulders and straightened. “They are doing well.

      “My father has retired from the university,” she added. “They are currently traveling in a motor home somewhere in Yellowstone National Park. I get e-mails when they have access to the Internet, and postcards when they don’t.” She paused for a moment. “But I assume you already know that, since the president sent you my file.”

      “He told you?”

      “The first time I met with him over the possibility of flying to Taer, he told me his intentions,” Sarah mused. “Should I be flattered that you took such an interest in me after all these years?”

      “Before I made an agreement with Jon Mercer, I had your background checked.”

      “And you’re telling me this, why?” Sarah asked. “Considering you’re a king and run your own country, I don’t think you need to reach for the intimidation card. So why share this information with me now?”

      “I will not let just anyone into my home, Sarah. Even on the recommendation of a president.”

      “Especially past lovers,” Sarah added. When Jarek didn’t respond—didn’t deny her statement—Sarah brushed the hurt aside.

      “Fair enough,” she said and meant it. After all, she’d researched him, too. “So you’re telling me, I’m on probation.”

      “I’m telling you that just because we are in this situation here, it will not change the situation once we reach the city again.”

      “Okay,” Sarah replied slowly. “I stand warned.”

      “Come sit over here.” Jarek dug into the backpack and retrieved the first aid kit. “We need to clean the cut on your forehead. And your feet. Infection sets in relatively easy in the desert.”

      “I can do it.”

      “How? When I can see it better than you?” he mused, his lips tilting, challenging her reluctance. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

      Of you, yes. “Of a little pain? No,” she retorted, deliberately misunderstanding his question.

      She sat cross-legged on the ground. But when he crouched in front of her, she tensed.

      “Relax,” he murmured, in the same even tone he’d used on the horses.

      While her features remained passive, she could do very little to ease the tension in her shoulders.

      For the first few minutes, Jarek worked in silence, cleaning the cut with an antiseptic wipe.

      “This will sting.”

      Sarah hissed at the sharp slice of pain. “You weren’t kidding.”

      Gently, he blew across the wound, taking the sting away from her temple. “I never realized you had graduated from the University of Nevada.”

      “Forty-eight hours doesn’t allow much time for much personal history.” But was plenty of time to fall in love with a king, she thought.

      “The file said you graduated at the top of your class. Majored in journalism. Minored in history.” Jarek brushed away a few strands of hair, tucked them behind her ear. “That must have made your father happy.”

      “It did.” The brush of his finger against the shell of her ear touched off a ripple of goose bumps down her neck. “But I happen to enjoy history. So it made me happy, too.”

      “You are quite brave, Sarah,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. His fingers worked efficiently. His feather-light touches were gentle, almost soothing as he applied the medicated cream.

      “Not really.” Without realizing it, her voice dipped low to match his. “I’ve had worse injuries.”