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Lynn Raye Harris
Chapter One
DR. GENEVA GRAY was asleep in her tent when the ruckus outside awoke her. Last night she’d fallen into bed so exhausted that she’d not undressed. Consequently she had nothing to pull on except her shoes before she stumbled outside in the pre-dawn darkness to see what the commotion was.
A group of riders in traditional desert garb whirled their mounts through the encampment, poking into bags and boxes and upending all the work the team had done in the last several days. Genie cried out as a box broke open and precious artifacts spilled onto the sand.
One of the men on horseback looked up sharply at her cry. A moment later he spurred his horse forward. Genie was riveted to the spot as the horse pounded toward her. It was like a dream, where she was being chased by a huge monster and couldn’t seem to move. Her heart thudded, her brain screamed for her to run, but her feet wouldn’t work.
Until he was nearly upon her.
Her feet came unglued and she spun to dash behind one of the tents. Behind her, the horse’s hooves churned up the sand, coming closer and closer. She managed to duck under a tent flap, then stood and listened carefully for any movement outside. The horse circled the tent. Genie crossed to the other side and waited until she could hear the horse opposite before she made a run for it.
People were screaming and yelling in the night—male voices speaking English, Arabic and Egyptian. If she could just get to one of the Land Rovers she’d be safe. The keys were usually inside—who would steal a Land Rover in the middle of the desert?—and if she could start one up she could use it as a weapon against these intruders. At the very least she could help some of her team to escape.
She could see the cars glinting in the increasing light as she ran.
Almost there, almost there…
Genie had her fingers on the door handle when she was ripped backward and hauled up against a wiry body. Sharp, warm steel rested in the hollow of her throat, and a man spoke in an Arab dialect that it took her a moment to place.
When she did, the pain of bittersweet memories and regret flooded her. She barely had time to remember before everything went black.
She did not know how far they had traveled, or how long she had been unconscious, but when Genie awoke she was surrounded by sound. Soft, lilting sound that grew more excited as she opened her eyes and blinked. A face came into view, hovering over her. And then another.
Women, she realized, with a profound sense of relief.
The women urged her up, then took her to a basin filled with fragrant water. Despite her protests, they undressed and washed her, then refused to let her put her own clothes back on. Instead, they produced a sky blue robe and veil made of silk and tissue and embroidered with gold thread. Genie gave up and pulled the garments on, since hers seemed to have disappeared in the interim. She was thankful, at least in some respects, for the soft material against her skin instead of the coarse cotton of her work clothes.
“Where am I?” she asked, once she’d finished.
But the women could only shake their heads and speak in the dialect she’d earlier recognized as Bah’sharan.
Could she be in Bah’shar? That thought terrified her—and not because she was a prisoner here and had no idea when or how she would escape.
No, it terrified her because of a man. A man whose memory she’d been running from for the past ten years.
The women gave her food and water and left her. By the time they returned at least an hour had passed. They formed a phalanx around her and herded her toward a big goat-hair tent in the center of the cluster. She had no choice but to pass inside. The tent was large, with ornate carpets blanketing the floors and walls. Men in traditional desert garb reclined on the floor, lounging against tufted cushions. A servant moved between them, filling cups from a hammered copper pot.
One of the men began to speak as they walked in. Genie’s attention was riveted on him, because he seemed to be talking about her. He was old, with stained teeth and graying hair, and he addressed another man who sat a little higher, and whose place seemed more ornate than the others surrounding him.
Genie followed the old man’s hand gestures from her to the other man—
Her heart stopped. Time stood still. The man on the dais gazed at her indifferently, his black eyes and handsome face so cold and hard that she might not have recognized him if she hadn’t known him so well.
Used to know him, Genie.
She hadn’t seen him since college. She blinked, wondering if her eyes were fooling her—but no, it was Zafir.
He was still as exotic and compelling as that last day she’d seen him. The day he’d shattered her heart with the truth. She took a halting step forward. Could she possibly face him again?
She had to. Her freedom—maybe even her life—depended on it.
She took another step, but one of the women grabbed her robe from behind and held it fast.
Desperation drove Genie forward. Zafir was her salvation, her hope. He would not harm her—not again. He no longer had the power to hurt her the way he had years ago. For that she would need to love him. And she most definitely did not.
Genie ripped the veil from her head.
King Zafir bin Rashid al-Khalifa did not care for surprises. He especially didn’t care for surprises like this. Many of the desert chieftains still clung to the old ways—he expected that, and he expected to be given gifts they deemed worthy of his station as their king. He’d even expected to be given women, though he did not desire to start a harem. And he’d always known how he would deal with it since to refuse would cause insult.
Later, he might not care whether he caused insult or not. But right now, with his reign so new, he needed these sheikhs to stop feuding and unite behind him. The future of Bah’shar depended upon it.
Yes, he’d expected women. And he’d expected he would take them back to the royal palace and give them jobs in his household. What he had not expected was a woman who clearly did not belong here. A woman who made the past crash down on him like an imploding building.
He blinked, but she did not fade away. She stood with her chin thrust up defiantly, her veil clutched in one hand while the other women melted away.
Genie Gray—here in the flesh. The one woman he’d thought understood him.
She hadn’t, of course. He’d been taken by her beauty and intelligence, and by the life he’d led for a brief time in an American university. He’d let himself forget that he was a prince of the desert. She had never forgotten.
His gaze slid over her. Her hair, which had always been the color of new copper, was now cropped shockingly short. A memory of him winding it around his fist while he made love to her in his apartment came to him. He shoved it away.
Surprisingly, the short hair suited her—made her seem more feminine rather than less. Heat uncoiled inside him, but he ruthlessly stamped it down. They’d said all they’d needed to say ten years ago.
Sheikh Daud Abu Bakr didn’t seem to realize at first that his prize had removed her veil. When he did, however, he began to lumber to his feet.
Zafir stopped him with a word. He wanted them all gone before he confronted this particular djinn. “I accept your gift, Sheikh