His gaze swept over her face, in spite of himself. It had been awhile since he’d seen her. A lifetime since he tasted her, felt her give beneath him.
Since then, Sarah Kwong had become a household name—less here than in America—but recognizable nonetheless. At thirty, she was the most recent rising star in the news correspondence business.
Unaware of the adult tension, the little boy grew excited over the topic. “I’ve never seen the shale burn like that before, right, Papa?”
Jarek gave Rashid a reassuring squeeze but didn’t answer him. He wasn’t about to have any kind of personal conversation with his son while a reporter looked on.
“But you’ve seen it burn before?” Sarah asked, with a hint of a smile.
Her lips were full, her mouth just short of wide, but with enough curve to leave one wondering if she understood some hidden secret. A secret that reached the feminine arch of her brows, the deep green of her irises.
Heat curled deep in his gut, stroked the base of his spine.
Jarek recognized the sensation for what it was, cursed it for what it meant.
“Many times—”
“Here in the desert, you can’t always find brush or wood for a fire, so people use the shale for heat and cooking,” Jarek interrupted his son.
Undeterred, Rashid continued, “They also use camel dung. I’ve seen Grandpa Bari’s people use it.”
“Do you mean Sheik Bari Al Asadi?”
“Yes,” his son replied. “He isn’t my real grandpa, but I call him that, anyway. My real grandpa died before I was born.”
“Do you visit him often—”
“Is this an interview, Miss Kwong?” Jarek interrupted.
“No,” she answered slowly, her tone cold enough to blast the heat from his words. “It’s a conversation with a little boy.”
“I didn’t realize with reporters there was a difference,” Jarek responded, his words sharp with warning. Rashid tensed against him, but in confusion, not fear, Jarek was sure.
“There is, Your Majesty. Maybe when we have time, I can explain the difference,” she answered, impressing him with how she controlled the edge of sarcasm in her voice.
“I look forward to it.” Jarek deliberately took the sting from his words for Rashid’s sake. Still, he took some male satisfaction in the momentary confusion that flashed across Sarah’s features and the sudden awareness that widened her eyes.
“Once the palace realizes your plane went down and that I’m missing, they’ll send out a search party.”
“How long will that take?”
Absently, she brushed a thick lock of black hair back over a bare shoulder. Pink flushed the tips of her shoulders, spotted the soft curve of her cheeks.
Around her neck, she wore a simple jade pendant, the same deep green of her eyes. Its shape oval, the chain, a fine gold rope. A gift, she’d told him once, from her grandmother. A kindred spirit.
The white camisole did little to protect her from the elements and only emphasized the slender bones, the delicate, almost fragile, frame.
But it was the blood, a long streak that had crusted from her temple to her earlobe, that had sniped at him since they’d left the plane.
Jarek bit back a curse. Delicate or not, she had hung on, with a fierce determination that hiked her chin, set her spine ramrod straight. No tears. No hysteria. Plenty of courage.
He pulled a long, white scarf from his saddle bag and handed it to her. “Put this over your head. The scarf will keep you from burning.”
She put the scarf over the top of her head, crisscrossed it at the front of her throat before placing the ends back over her shoulders.
Years of need and longing tightened inside him, threatening to snap his control. He remembered the way she’d softened in his arms. Warm. Pliable. The brazen boldness that always gave way in a shudder of sweet surrender.
“Did Ramon radio a distress call?” Jarek asked, more to divert his thoughts, since he already suspected her answer.
“No. We had no time.”
“Then the rescue will not happen before tomorrow. We’ll need to find shelter for tonight.”
THE SAHARA WAS DRY AND SPITEFUL. The wind slapped at them, its edges sharp with grit and heat.
“We’ll stop here and rest the horses,” Jarek ordered, and dismounted Taaj with Rashid.
Sarah grimaced and swung down from Ping, her movements jerky and stiff. They’d left the shale field hours earlier, heading farther west through scrub and rock.
“If you are sore, stretch out your legs or they’ll cramp,” Jarek suggested, his tone rigid.
“I’ll just do that,” Sarah answered, noting that Jarek had already walked away.
He was tall with the arrogrant stance of a warrior, and with it, the confidence that comes with royal blood.
“I thought camels were the preferred mode of transportation here,” Sarah murmured. The man walked in long, steady strides. His breeding set every muscle, every bone, every motion.
The wind whipped the end of her scarf against her face. Giving into impulse, she rubbed the soft cotton against her cheek and inhaled the scents of spice and saddle leather.
“Camel riding would make you no less sore,” Rashid whispered as he maneuvered under Ping’s neck. “You’re just out of shape.”
Sarah smiled at the boy’s candor. “All that money I spent at the gym has gone to waste.”
“You should buy a horse like Ping.” Rashid stroked the mare’s nose.
“No, thank you, sport. I’ll keep my membership at the gym, even if it isn’t helping.”
Rashid grinned, dimples flashing. “My Aunt Anna calls me ‘sport,’ also.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t mean—”
“That’s all right. You have my permission to do so in private. I like the name. It’s very American.” He glanced around Ping’s neck and spotted Jarek watering Taaj. “Just don’t use the name around my father. It will be our secret.”
“Our secret,” Sarah agreed, unable to resist the young boy’s charm. She just wondered how much that secret was going to cost her in the future.
No more than she’d paid in the past, she mused and wondered if they guillotined their enemies in Taer.
Sarah hated small planes, hated job restrictions more, but she would have flown the whole three thousand miles in a cardboard box—with dozens of hoops to jump through—for a chance at this interview. A chance to see Jarek and put the past to rest.
There were rules attached, of course. No cell phone. No cameras. No personal questions about his son, or his late wife or any other family member for that matter.
In consideration of his requests she hadn’t brought much with her. Jarek had allowed nothing more than a miniature recorder for interview notes. Which meant only questions about Taer, now that Taer had agreed to deal with the United States over the small country’s crude oil supply.
The picture restriction, she could handle. Even the cell phone restriction.
The personal questions were going to be tough.
No fuss, no obstacles. In and out before their Annual Independence Ball, Jarek had insisted.
Or no admittance.
“Sarah,