She Who Dares Wins

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. She Who Dares Wins Copyright © 2009 Samantha Gail ISBN: 978-1-55487-310-4 Cover art by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books Look for us online at: www.extasybooks.com

She Who Dares Wins By Samantha Gai

Dedication To Valerie Plame for her years of service and understandable anger at being “outed”.



Prologue sabelle Archer exhaled slowly and forced herself

Ito breathe through the irritating oxygen cannula

in her nose. The vibration and noise of the C-130 as it crawled to altitude was almost soothing. In a few brief moments all that security would disappear. Through the window, aircraft flew in arrowhead formation like a flock of migrating geese. Their dark hulls sparkled in the bright morning sun. On the bench beside her, a dozen skydivers hid behind bravado. She could smell their fear, their excitement. Half of them were sporting erections. She closed her eyes, gathered up all the discomfort and pushed it into a small compartment in the back of her mind. Images flowed by in perfect synchrony as she visualized the part she was about to play. The world record skydiving formation. Hundreds of bodies hurtling through the atmosphere at hurricane speeds, each diver 1

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responsible for a precise slot in a specific formation. One wrong move and the delicate balance would be destroyed. One careless turn and injury or death could result. She envisioned her jump from the airplane, angling her freefall to enter the formation at the exact time and place. Too soon or too late and the entire formation would be disrupted. No second chances—no substitute for perfection. Cameramen were situated above and below, filming everyone’s performance. One screw-up and the group would be forced to abort. This was a lifetime achievement. Only professional skydivers were invited, the best of the best. Isabelle glanced toward the front of the plane and saw the standby skydivers. Their faces told her what she already knew. They would give anything to jump in her stead. A sharp tap on the shoulder. She looked up at a weathered face and nodded her readiness. Seconds later, the enormous hydraulic door of the C-130 levered open and the signal to assemble for debarkation came. Isabelle stood and stretched her legs. The plane was a blur of motion. Goggles were donned. Last minute gear checks made. There were smiles all around, ritual good luck hand gestures and high-fives while fifty skydivers lined 2

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up in two rows, compressed into a solid mass. Isabelle took her place at the front of a line and waited for instructions. A coach yelled above the deafening wind. “Ready, set, GO!” She took three steps and was out of the plane, transitioning from biped to bird of flight. The noise of relative wind sent her thoughts into hyperdrive. “Look left, look right, up, down.” “Bend at the waist. Now dive, dive, dive!” She searched the sky below for the color zone of red jumpsuits she was to build her own geometric formation from. Her heart raced. She spotted her slot and angled toward it. Two dozen jumpers followed her lead. “Look left, look right. Don’t cut anybody off. Be careful. Be patient. Relax.” She reached out and snagged one of the red jumpsuit grippers of the skydiver in front of her and held on tight. “Okay, I’m in my slot. Head up, back arched.” She felt someone tug the gripper on the right leg of her jumpsuit. “Good, that’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. Look ahead, look around. All clear. Sweet! Relax and fly the formation.” Isabelle was a natural flyer, always had been. No freefall struggle, no panic when rigging 3

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equipment malfunctioned. She soared effortlessly, relished the adrenaline high. The powerful endorphin release was something she’d never experienced in any other sport. With every grip complete, the symmetrical formation resembled a giant saucer with octagonal tentacles. International rules determined the formation must hold together for eight full seconds. Isabelle glanced at her altimeter. Although she couldn’t see all of it, she knew her section of the group was perfect. A break-off signal was given, legs waggled. Everyone turned to fly away from one another. This was the most dangerous time of the entire jump. Isabelle watched closely for traffic. A midair collision with another jumper could cost their lives. She waved her arms, a signal to all of her intentions, reached back and pulled the pilot chute that deployed the main parachute. One hundred twenty feet of rainbow colored Z-P fabric arced above her head in a textbook deployment. She dragged in a long breath, enjoyed the view as her parachute slowly lowered her to Oahu’s north shore amidst whistles and whoops of joy. Isabelle spotted the landing zone. In a few minutes it would be crowded down there. She looked all around and veered in that direction. A few tight spirals to lose altitude, a tug on her left 4

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steering toggle, and she swooped in, touching the ground as gently as stepping off a curb. Skydivers rushed toward one of the giant hangars, bundled parachutes draped over their shoulders. Isabelle quickly gathered her gear and headed that way, weaving through the Technicolor rain of descending jumpers. Champagne corks popped. “Yo, Izzy!” a jumper named Derek, who’d been doing his best to seduce her for weeks, yelled from across the open hangar. “The camera dudes are playing the video on the big screen outside.” She gave him a flirty smile and strolled to her locker. “Does the video confirm it?” It had been weeks since she’d last had sex. The urge to wrap around Derek thrummed low in her belly. He licked his lips and moved toward her. “Sure does. Let’s grab some bubbly and PAR-TY!” Isabelle clicked her locker open with a metallic thud. “Three hundred and fifty people plummeting to the ground at terminal velocity with expert precision? That is definitely something to party about.” Her voice purred with sensual intent. “Let me stow my gear and I’ll join with you.” When Derek moved from line of sight, she quickly retrieved her purse. She’d been out of touch for several hours and needed reassurance that they hadn’t tried to contact her. She had 5

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notified them of her plans to take the day off. In reality, that meant nothing. If they summoned, she came. Isabelle dug around and pulled out a small black pager. A demanding series of numbers, punctuated by three stars, scrolled repeatedly across the display. She let out a sigh. There would be no sex and games on the flight line tonight.

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Chapter One Herriman stepped through the carved Quinton arch threshold, braced against any emotion his face might betray. Neutral. Impassive. It was an exercise he’d grown far too common with lately. Lord Desmond Montgomery, lanky and gray, loped around the corner and extended a wrinkled hand. “Welcome, lad! So glad you could come.” Quinton gave his hand a firm shake. “Please, come in and sit down.” He gestured toward a seat. “Care for a spot of tea?” “Yes, thank you.” Lord Desmond reached across a sterling tea service and deftly poured them both a cup. “How was your flight?” “Turbulent.” Desmond nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that. The crosswinds around this island can be formidable.” The older man relaxed back in an overstuffed chair that Quinton guessed was worth twice his 7

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own yearly salary. He had done some research on the Montgomery family but found nothing to give insight into the diplomat’s abilities. Quinton assumed the bloke was simply another ambassador bestowed a cush government position due to his connections and favors. Lord Desmond stirred his tea, switching from pleasantries to officiousness in the blink of an eye. “Let me come right to the point. It is common knowledge in Muldahar that an elite force of the Australian military does VIP protection around the globe. I have asked for assistance from the Special Air Services Regiment at the behest of His Majesty, the Sultan.” Lord Desmond paused to take a sip. “Quite frankly, at the time I made the request from your superiors, I was under the impression that it was one of the Sultan’s own children who needed protection. With three wives and concubines too numerous to count, it would have been a logical assumption. I have since learned differently.” Quinton quirked a pale blonde eyebrow and glanced around the room. Family pictures, a buxom wife and three long-jawed sons, dotted every table surface. Lord Desmond continued to speak as if he stood before an auditorium of bored politicians. Quinton fought the urge to yawn. “As you know, Muldahar is a tiny, yet diverse, country. A 8

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monarchy ruled by a Muslim Sultan who is also the highest religious authority in the land. There has been a resident advisor, such as myself, to assist His Majesty with external affairs since Muldahar gained its independence from the United Kingdom.” Quinton drank his tea and waited patiently for Lord Desmond to get to the crux of the problem. His legs ached from too many cramped hours in an airplane. He longed for a walkabout and hoped the briefing would be brief. Desmond continued to spout facts and figures. “Muldahar has one of the highest standards of living in the developing world. Its citizens pay no taxes and enjoy many benefits thanks to the abundant oil and gas fields of this country. Education and healthcare are extremely advanced.” “Sounds like paradise,” Quinton spoke softly. He knew he wouldn’t be there now if that was really the case. A ripple of disquiet ran through the room. Desmond gestured toward a spacious window. A dozen busy workers tended the lush green lawn that bordered the British advisor’s property. “Muldahar is a tightly controlled country. The same family has ruled for nearly seven generations. The population has an equal mix of Buddhist, Christian and Islamic followers. 9

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Although religious freedom is allowed and encouraged, His Majesty frowns upon internal dissent. In the past six months, disturbing reports have filtered into my office from sources at the Batang palace.” “Disturbing?” Quinton asked. “Disappearances,” he answered. “All members of the royal family under the age of twelve.” “Kidnap victims held for ransom?” “Not that I am aware of.” “Religious fanatics?” Lord Desmond shook his head. Quinton frowned. “How many have disappeared?” “I am not entirely certain. Three, perhaps four. These disappearances are an internal matter and I am not privy to the results of any investigation His Majesty might be in the midst of.” Lord Desmond absently tapped the rim of his porcelain cup. “I feel he must be getting desperate or he would never have asked me for help.” Quinton eyed the older man. “Why am I here, sir?” “You are to safeguard Prince Mustafa. He is the son of the Sultan’s youngest sister, Adara.” Lord Desmond cleared his throat. “The Sultan believes his nephew will be the next to go missing.” “Did the Sultan give you any reason why he thinks that?” 10

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“None.” Lord Desmond refilled their cups. His clear blue eyes clouded for a moment and he began to speak. “The royal palace is home to the Sultan and his extended family, including his closest friend, Prime Minister Fariq. His Majesty is an extremely private individual. Few outsiders are allowed entry beyond the formal offices. Tour guides are restricted to very limited areas and are under constant observation by palace security.” Quinton wondered where all that tight security had been when the boys went missing. Lord Desmond reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a small manila envelope. “Here are your entry papers. They will allow you direct and immediate access. I have transportation waiting outside to take you to the palace.” Quinton palmed the envelope and downed the last warm dregs from his cup. “I appreciate the offer of a ride, sir. I’d prefer to stretch my legs and walk to the palace.” Lord Desmond seemed surprised. “Are you certain? It’s quite a jaunt.” “Yes, sir.” “As you wish,” he acquiesced. “Here is my card. I have written down a number for you to use should you need any assistance from my office. Feel free to call day or night.” Quinton felt the harpies of patriotic obligation 11

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flex their claws in his back. He knew what was coming next. He’d heard it before, yet wanted the older man to voice it aloud, anyway. “Sir, it sounds as though any assistance I might need will come from the Sultan’s own security forces.” Lord Desmond skimmed over Quinton with a knowing stare, then let it fall. He took a long sip of tea. “Nevertheless, please use the number should you feel it necessary to apprise me of your progress. There are many sights you will be privy to that might be of interest to Her Majesty’s secret intelligence service.” MI-6. Quinton gave him a lazy smile. “Understood,” he answered. Lord Desmond rose and once again extended his hand. Quinton towered over the diplomat. “Congratulations and the best of luck, my boy. This assignment may well be one of the sentinel events of your career.”

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Chapter Two he Batang souk was people-watchers nirvana. A noisy, colorful, rambling maze of tents with hundreds of stalls to browse and spicy things to eat. Isabelle closed her eyes and inhaled the mélange of smells. A smile creased her lips. The day was liberating, sunny and warm. She weaved through the crowds with Prince Mustafa in tow. The young boy, dressed casually in loose khaki trousers, white kamis and iridescent sunglasses, clung tightly to her hand. He wasn’t accustomed to being out in public. Isabelle glanced down at him and grinned. His oversized sunglasses made him look like a bug. They also served to disguise him. Several yards behind them, a palace guard kept tabs on their progress and attempted to remain inconspicuous. Getting away had taken a great deal of maneuvering. She was an outsider. Despite superb credentials as language tutor and nanny, she

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would never be trusted to keep the Prince safe.. In the end, it was the child’s incessant pleading that convinced his powerful uncle to allow their excursion. Isabelle picked up the pace and ducked behind a row of tropical fruits. She spoke in hushed Arabic, repeating her phrases in English to train her young student to the sound of foreign vowels. “You have an interesting nickname. Jumah translates into born on Friday. Were you really born on Friday?” The little prince looked up and mimicked her grin. He was in a joyous mood, happy to be free of the palace walls. “I don’t know. Amtullah always calls me that.” “Who is Amtullah?” “The keeper of my uncle’s harem.” “I understand.” Isabelle stopped and ran her fingers through his soft mane of hair. “Do you like the nickname she gave you?” “Very much.” A hawker called loudly to them. Isabelle glanced over. Her arctic blue eyes swept over his stock of Persian carpets, hand sewn silks and ornately carved swords. She shook her head no and moved along. Although she had been in Muldahar for only a week, Isabelle had forged strong bonds with Jumah. He was a fast learner, eager to please and 14

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responsive to the kudos she heaped upon him during their lessons. She profiled the boy as a small, stoic child in desperate need of a friend. Discouraged by his uncle from playing with children his own age, Jumah spent his life in a super-regulated environment. He rarely left the palace gates, except for yearly festivals. Not that that was such a bad thing, Isabelle thought. The royal palace was a marvel of architecture. Exotic gardens, jeweled staircases, magnificent spouting fountains and crystal blue pools spilled around every corner. Living there was no hardship. In total, there were sixteen hundred rooms in the palace, along with a staff of two hundred servants, all equipped with walkie-talkies and their own search-and-rescue unit, in case anyone got lost. Isabelle had seen the architectural specs, memorized them, and read every scrap of information she could find on Muldahar, before leaving the United States. The word around the palace was that Jumah was the chosen one, being groomed to lead the country. A perplexing fact if true. The Sultan had plenty of offspring to heap that daunting responsibility upon. Why would he decide on his frail young nephew as next in line of succession? Jumah tugged on her sleeve. “Look,” he pointed to an Arabian pony being led along by its owner. “My uncle says that one day when I am 15

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stronger, I will be able to have my own horse and I want one exactly like him.” Isabelle smiled. “I hope that day will come soon,” she replied softly. His voice held a trace of sadness. “Me, too.” Isabelle gave his hand a squeeze. Anomalies shrouded Jumah. From day one she had been instructed to never administer any medication of any sort to him without first calling the royal physician for permission. Doctor Habibi would seek her out daily, eager for updates on Jumah’s diet and activities. One morning, the doctor arrived with a plastic cup and demanded she obtain a stool specimen from the child. Isabelle politely declined. Once a week, she took Jumah to the palace infirmary where a port-a-cath device located beneath his right collarbone was accessed to draw blood for lab work and infuse some sort of drug Isabelle had yet to identify. The behavior of technicians working the infirmary was oddly quiet, strained. Even more curious were his daily fevers. Jumah would become listless in late afternoon and require sleep to rejuvenate. Isabelle noticed the trend after their second full day together and began to plot his temperature spikes. At approximately the same time each day, he would run a high fever lasting almost an hour, leaving 16

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him confused and shaky afterward. When she questioned Doctor Habibi about Jumah’s health issues, he made vague reference to an autoimmune disorder she’d never heard of. For now, there was little she could do except keep the child hydrated and arrange their evening meal much later than normal in order to give his appetite a chance to return. Equally bizarre was the total absence of Jumah’s biological mother. Through eavesdropping, Isabelle heard the name Adara whispered almost reverently. Yet no sign of her could be found in Jumah’s daily life. Isabelle had never met the woman and Jumah reluctantly confessed that he rarely saw her. He couldn’t explain why. Isabelle shook her head, reminded herself that tutoring Jumah was only a cover story. If the Sultan had any idea why she was really there, he wouldn’t allow her within fifty paces of the child. Angry shouts snapped her to attention. She pulled Jumah in close. Two Malaysian shopkeepers were in the midst of heated disagreement. A broken vase lay in sharp pieces on the ground between them. The men gestured wildly, hurling insults at one another. Isabelle backed up a pace. A split second later the men sprang at each other. An impressive right hook splattered nearby 17

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onlookers with a thin stream of blood. Isabelle shielded Jumah with her own body as the antagonists scrabbled, knocking merchandise and tents to the ground in a fury of pummeling. Screams and shouts from the crowd only seemed to cheer them on. Isabelle looked out over the melee and let years of training take over. She watched the fight with dispassionate coolness. Assessing. Calculating. The palace security guard was caught behind a solid wall of humanity. He pushed and shoved to clear the crowd with little effect. As the violence moved their way, Jumah tucked himself behind her legs and peered out, his face pinched with anxiety. Isabelle widened her stance. Close combat was her specialty. Showing those skills to half the population of Muldahar, however, was not something she wanted to do just yet. The mission was still fresh. Too many unanswered questions remained. “Relax,” she calmed the boy in Arabic. “I will protect you.” “Promise?” “I promise.” The brawl suddenly turned in the opposite direction, spread out in an arc of destruction. Baskets of brass trinkets clattered to the ground. A rack of burkas were shredded underfoot. Fruits and vegetables were pulverized to pulpy juice. A 18

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frightened woman clutched her baby, paralyzed, as the destruction came her way. Isabelle cursed under her breath and scanned the crowd for the security guard. “Too far away,” she whispered. He would never reach them in time to help. She had to act quickly. Isabelle was scanning for a safe place to hide Jumah when she saw an incredible sight. Adonis emerged from the crowd. Aphrodite’s favored himself. Alive and drop-dead gorgeous, standing not ten meters away. Isabelle blinked. A shiver of excitement, the achy anticipation of hot sex, slithered down her spine. He rose above the surrounding mortals, all sculpted muscle, sun-bleached hair and an aura of pure gold. Isabelle squinted in astonishment. Along with the strikingly visceral good looks that caused instant arousal, she saw a strong measure of focused concentration. Isabelle knew that look. She had seen it on the faces of others she’d worked with, herself included. The look spelled danger. In a burst of movement almost too rapid for the eye to discern, he grabbed each of the merchants by the collar and heaved them together. Their faces registered an instant of surprise before the sickening crunch of colliding heads. He lowered them both to the ground. 19

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The fight was finished. As was her brief morning of freedom with Jumah. The palace guard shoved his way through to them and gave the curt order to leave. Isabelle lifted Jumah into her arms and turned for one last glance over her shoulder. Adonis was gone.

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Chapter Three eated on a seven hundred year old, jewelencrusted throne glazed with crimson and gold pigments, Sultan Muhammed Malik Husma al Din motioned across the expansive marble-floored throne room to his nephew. “Come forward, Mustafa, and bring the lovely Miss Archer with you.” Quinton turned from the conversation he was having with Prime Minister Fariq to see a young boy being ushered through triple arched doors. Prince Mustafa and the woman halted a few feet away, giving him a perfect view of an impressive pair of breasts downplayed in layers of beige silk. “Good afternoon, Uncle.” The little prince spoke in perfect English, his attention riveted on Quinton. Soft brown eyes lit up as the Sultan made introductions. “Mustafa, this is Captain Herriman from the Australian Special Air Service Regiment.” “I know you! You were the man at the market,

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weren’t you? I saw what you did to those men. You are very strong.” Quinton smiled. “Mustafa,” the Sultan interrupted in Arabic. “Sayid informed me of what transpired today. It is precisely such an incident that gives me cause for great worry. Such a thing must never be repeated. I’ve taken steps to ensure that no harm comes to you.” Mustafa’s happy mouth slammed shut. The Sultan cocked a bushy black eyebrow at him and continued to speak, in English, this time. “Until further notice, you are to go nowhere without first consulting Captain Herriman. He is to be your personal bodyguard. Do you understand?” “Yes, Uncle.” “I expect your complete obedience on this matter.” “Yes, Uncle.” Mustafa’s face screwed up into a question mark and he asked in Arabic, “How long will he be staying with me?” “Every moment of every day until all danger is past.” Mustafa balked. Any possibility of having freedom to roam outside the palace walls was gone. “I am deeply sorry Mustafa. We both know 22

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your tendency to get into trouble and I do not want you to disappear as your cousins have. Captain Herriman is here to keep you safe.” “It wasn’t my fault those men started fighting this morning. Besides, Isabelle promised to take care of me.” “Nevertheless, you will obey my orders.” “Uncle, how will I know when the danger is past?” Imperious eyebrows arched again. “The danger will be past when I tell you it is so.” Mustafa wasn’t intimidated. “How long will that be?” **** Quinton listened closely to the dialogue, spoken and unspoken, between the Sultan and his nephew. Arabic was the universal language of Muslims, yet only fifteen percent of the world’s Muslims actually spoke it, except when reciting the Qur’an. Unknown to anyone in the room, Quinton could both speak, and read, Arabic. Not even his Regiment commander knew of his little hobby and Quinton was not about to divulge it to anyone in Muldahar. The Sultan set firm boundaries. While Mustafa showed respect, he was still a boy inclined to test his limits — a boy in need of concrete answers. 23

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Quinton glanced over at the woman and swallowed hard. She was a twelve on a ten scale. Her beauty stunned him like a taser. She had an odd stillness that he had only seen in the athlete and soldier. Her coal black hair hung in a thick braid down the center of her back. High cheekbones and a flawless olive complexion gave her a sultry Mediterranean look, except for those unreadable ice blue eyes that seemed to see right through anything they fixed on. At the moment, they were glued on him. If the room wasn’t already so warm, Quinton would have sworn he’d just broken out in goosebumps. Something flickered behind her masked expression. Quinton glanced away. The Sultan’s Cambridge educated accent broke the weird spell. “Captain, this is the American language tutor I was telling you about. Miss Archer came to us very highly recommended.” Quinton nodded to her. She responded with the slightest inclination of her angular chin. “Good tutors are hard to find. Although her methods are sometimes a bit unorthodox, my nephew has made great progress under her tutelage.” A scraping noise echoed through the air. All conversation stopped as a small entourage entered, unannounced, through a partially concealed door of mosaic tile. Two men, both 24

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wearing white lab coats, stood under the domed ceiling and waited patiently. Armed palace guards flanked them. The Sultan’s bottomless brown eyes never blinked. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Captain, feel free to accompany my nephew to his suite. If there is anything you need to perform your duties, contact Prime Minister Fariq.” The Sultan gave his nephew a stern look then glanced back at Quinton. “I am entrusting you with Mustafa’s welfare. Please let me know if you encounter any resistance.” “Thank you for your time, Your Majesty.” Quinton stepped down from the dais and closed the distance between himself and his young assignment in three long strides. The tutor held her ground, impassive stare locked with his. She seemed to study his face a few moments before quietly saying, “You put on quite a performance this morning.” Her voice was warm silk and honey and the sound of it wobbled Quinton off balance. She had the scary kind of beauty and bearing that could skid him into insecurity and bring back memories he never wished to revisit. There should be a law against tutors being so damned voluptuous! She’d be lousy in bed. The gorgeous ones always were. Yet, he couldn’t help wondering what her story was and why such a looker wasn’t 25

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married, with a houseful of her own kids. On the heels of sexual attraction came a familiar burst of animosity. He bent down and whispered so only she could hear. “Exposing Mustafa to those two idiots was a stupid stunt. It won’t happen on my watch. All of your little field trips will be cleared by me from now on, understood?” “Completely.” He could feel her bristling and knew he’d crossed the line with his rudeness act. No regrets, although his job wouldn’t be any easier with an angry tutor. It was obvious the kid was attached to her. He’d only been on the island for a few hours and his gut growled something was very wrong. Prime Minister Fariq seethed hostility. And after speaking with the palace detectives, Quinton had more questions than ever. Suspicion was a quality that kept him alive. The lack of straight answers sent up a red flag. Even the Sultan was strangely evasive when it came to details about the missing children. If no one else, he’d best befriend the boy. “Prince Mustafa, I think your uncle just dismissed us.” He winked conspiratorially and added, “I heard a rumor that you have an impressive paintball gun collection. Care to try your luck against me?” The child’s face lit up. “Now?” 26

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“Is now a problem?” Quinton replied. Mustafa smiled at him. “I love to play paintball and nobody ever wants to play it with me!” “Why don’t you show me your best?” “You can call me Jumah,” he blurted. Quinton stretched out his hand, palm up. “Lead the way, Jumah.” The boy took off across the sparkling floor at a run. Quinton glanced over and caught the tutor’s reflection in a hallway mirror. For a moment, he thought she smiled.

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Chapter Four ature rarely bestowed such a gift on humankind. His hot breath had stung her ear with an insult floated on a rumbling voice of pure sin. She trembled just thinking about him. Did the sexy Aussie bodyguard have any notion of how he’d been blessed? Probably not. Any man with Quinton Herriman’s chiseled good looks took the fact for granted and went about conquering one woman after another, leaving a wake of heartbreak behind. Isabelle gazed out the window of her second floor bedroom. The mosque towers, with their bubble-shaped roofs, glinted in the afternoon sun. The bodyguard’s presence put a nasty wrinkle in her assignment. How she chose to deal with him could mean the difference between quick success and sloppy failure. He would think her an obstacle that impeded his protection duties. For as long as the man took

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good care of Jumah, she’d assume whatever role necessary to get the job done. She had her own assignment. She adored the little prince, but her mission, her country, came first. The National Security Agency wanted answers. Why had two of the world’s premiere genetic researchers pulled up stakes and headed to this small sub-tropical island? Muldahar was no mecca of scientific discovery. What would cause two middle-aged geniuses to simultaneously uproot their families and establish residency in southeast Asia for any reason other than money? The NSA monitored everything from cellular phone conversations and radio wave broadcasts, to internet chat rooms. They knew that a hefty, seven digit sum had been paid upfront to each of the scientists. What they didn’t know was why. Isabelle sighed. Did the answer have anything to do with the riddle of Jumah’s illness? Were the scientists working on some amazing new cure for the little boy? Isabelle smoothed her hands down her silk pants and stared across a hundred meters of manicured lawn and gardens to swaying palm trees that bordered the palace grounds. She could see the motion sensors hidden all along the tree line and wondered who was on the monitoring end of them. Her money was on Asim. Fariq’s 29

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second was reportedly feared even by the unflappable palace detectives. Time was running out. This case demanded hard evidence. Her new boss at the agency wasn’t a particularly patient man. Isabelle needed something solid to give him. She took a deep, cleansing breath. Discovery was much the same with each assignment. In the beginning there were questions and confusion. Eventually, if she looked in the right place, she found the answers that slid the entire puzzle into place. The Sultan’s study was the logical next step. Any important papers would be kept there. When Captain Tall, Blonde and Nasty Attitude got back from his silly attempt at male bonding, she would try to slip away and get the necessary intel. She had to find out what those scientists were up to. A loud voice interrupted her thoughts. “Yo, tutor!” “I’m in here.” Quinton Herriman burst through a set of double doors, hand carved from the finest Caribbean mahogany. He was covered head to toe in a kaleidoscope of color, carrying the listless prince in his arms. Isabelle glanced down at her watch, surprised to see how late it was. Jumah had begun his cycle of afternoon fever. 30

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“So,” she asked nonchalantly. “Who won?” Sharp blue eyes slashed her. “We must’ve overdone it,” he answered through clenched teeth. “He was fine one moment, the next he was burning up.” She motioned and slid up beside them. “Set him down on my bed.” Herriman’s sultry male odor teased her senses. A fleeting fantasy tempted her. The bodyguard, hot and naked beneath her, writhing while she took her pleasure from his overly worthy body. “Jumah will be fine in a couple of hours.” “What?” he growled. “How would you know that?” She found a digital thermometer in the bedside table, slid a protective plastic cover over the tip. “Open wide, kiddo.” Jumah stuck his tongue out at her and parted his mouth on a silly smile. “The fever will run its course. He only needs to rest.” Jumah gave her a thumbs-up. The big Aussie eyed them both with suspicion. “I asked you a question, tutor. How do you know he’ll be okay?” “Relax, Herriman. He goes through this every day at the same time.” “That’s not normal.” “He’s not a normal child. He’s special.” She 31

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winked at Jumah. “Should I call the palace physician?” “Don’t bother. The cranky old bastard will only tell you what he told me the first time I called him in a panic.” “And what was that?” “Jumah has an auto-immune disorder. Once a week he is taken to the palace clinic and lab work is done. Unless the fevers get substantially worse, I’ve been instructed not to worry.” “What about his mother? Should I call for her?” Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t they tell you anything in orientation?” Herriman clamped his mouth shut. “I know,” she smoothed. “I don’t like it either but there’s not much to do about it.” She reached down and brushed a stray lock of Jumah’s curly hair from his forehead. “He’ll be fine. Just make sure he gets plenty of fluids when he awakens.” As an afterthought, “I’m sure they told you to never administer any medication to him without first consulting the physician?” “At least a dozen times.” Isabelle nodded. She glanced at the results on the thermometer. “One-zero-three point two. The same as always,” she spoke quietly. Jumah’s voice was sudden and frail. “Don’t worry. I’ll get better. Someday I won’t ever get fevers again. My uncle promised me. Everybody 32

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promises me.” She looked up in time to watch a variety of emotions play across the bodyguard’s stern face before he pushed them down. He cleared his throat and bent down to pat Jumah gently on the shoulder. “Right you are, mate.” The boy closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Isabelle felt her stomach clench. There were a few moments of silence before Herriman whispered, “How long did you say the fever lasts?” “A couple of hours. He’ll sleep until it breaks. He won’t have his usual energy until later in the evening. I normally call for our meal around eight, although snacks are available anytime. If you’re hungry now, dial twenty-six for the kitchen. They’ll make you anything you want, anytime you want it.” Afternoon light drifted in from large bay windows and illuminated the bodyguard’s face in an angelic way she’d never seen before. Isabelle forced herself to look away. Her husky voice leaked the hint of a sexy thought. “I’ll stay with Jumah if you’d like to get cleaned up.” He gave her a pointed look. “My room is between his suite and yours. The door will be open. If there are any problems, come get me.” Isabelle felt a strange shiver glide across her skin. “I know where your room is.” “Don’t leave him until I return.” 33

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“I wouldn’t think of it.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. He rose, hands clenched, and stalked away. She spoke to his back. “Why don’t you give it a rest, man? We’re on the same side.” “Is that so?” The door closed quietly behind him. Isabelle pursed her lips and let out a soft whistle. “Bodyguards aren’t supposed to be that gorgeous.”

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Chapter Five he short hairs on the back of Archie Sullivan’s freckled neck stood straight up as he eased out of the main parking lot of the National Security Agency. He rubbed his sweaty palms together. Fighting traffic at this hour was always a bitch, so he’d asked to leave work an hour early. Departing early wasn’t a problem. Archie had plenty of seniority and a valid excuse. His mother really did have a doctor’s appointment, albeit, not today. Within minutes of clearing Fort Meade’s west entrance, his flashy convertible was racing south on I-295, cutting through the crisp spring air like a bullet from a laser-sited rifle. The cool breeze and rumble of thunder in the distance heightened his jitters. Archie took a deep breath and concentrated on what he would do, say, next. For the first time in years he had stumbled upon something of value to those who funded the worst of his bad habits.

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He’d almost missed it. After returning from two weeks’ vacation on the island of St. Croix, he discovered the ongoing mission. Luck, combined with plenty of ass-kissing and seniority, got him a last minute spot on the team. He reached for his cellular phone and punched speed dial. A deep voice answered after the second ring. “Good afternoon Mister Sullivan.” “Yes, hello there. That’s right, it’s me.” Archie paused to clear his nervous throat. “You wanted to know if anything came up.” “That is correct.” The excitement of treason made Archie’s voice shrill. “I have information for you.“ He swerved to avoid merging traffic. “I, uh, I need to meet with you as soon as possible.” **** Quinton’s mind ran through the tutor’s words in an endless loop while he washed the grime and sweat of the day from his skin. “The fever will run its course.” “He’ll be fine in a couple of hours.” “Didn’t they tell you anything in orientation?” “I know where your room is.” He shook his head. The woman was doubly dangerous, a lethal combination of beauty and 36

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intelligence sufficient to scare the hell out of any reasonable man. Beauty like hers should be outlawed. Quinton’s cock twitched. Visions of various sexual positions assaulted his mind. He felt a sliver of memory. A beautiful woman had almost cost him his soul once. She’d made him feel like the lowest speck of unworthy shit on the planet for no other reason than she could. He had been foxed once and wasn’t inclined to make that same mistake again. Even a casual brush with a beautiful woman left him shaky nowadays, in need of hot, raw sex even as he searched for the closest exit. Conflicted didn’t even begin to describe him. If there was such a thing as pussy-induced PTSD, it had him by the balls. He didn’t need that kind of distraction right now. He had to have a clear head. There was something very wrong with this assignment and his gut said that keeping the boy safe wouldn’t be easy. Quinton was a bodyguard, a soldier. Not a detective. All the same, if the investigation of the missing children was up to him, he’d handle it very differently. Namely, do some investigating. He had tried to speak with two, slippery palace detectives. They weren’t inclined to give him a straight answer for why they believed Jumah 37

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would be the next child to do a disappearing act, or, how the abduction might go down. Quinton could tell when someone held back the truth. What the detectives did tell him was mostly bullshit. During their paintball game, Jumah confessed that he’d never been questioned about his missing cousins, even though he’d been playing with one of them only hours before he went missing. The whole damned investigation was crazy. And, as he was reminded several times by the detectives during their brief conversation, it also wasn’t his problem. Quinton’s only concern was the boy. He didn’t intend to let him out of his sight. A clean pair of khakis and fresh shirt later, Quinton strode back to the tutor’s suite and pushed open the door just in time to catch her exiting the bathroom. He scowled, glanced over at the bed. Jumah was still asleep. “I thought I made it clear that you were to stay with him.” Color rose to her cheeks. “I can see Jumah perfectly well from the toilet seat. He wasn’t going anywhere.” Quinton met her glare. Her amazing ice-blue eyes were sparking with fury, yet she kept her voice measured and calm when she spoke. “Tell me something, bodyguard. Why did the SASR 38

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pick you?” “What?” “What are your qualifications? Other than allegiance to the Regiment’s motto of He Who Dares Wins, of course.” The snobbish undertones in her voice rankled him. “They’re on my resume,” he growled. “And my resume is none of your fecking business, tutor.” For a second, he thought she grinned. Or maybe it was a grimace. “I asked what your qualifications were, not where they are located.” “Like I told you, tutor. It’s not your concern.” A moment of stillness passed between them. “I will leave you to your business, Captain Herriman.” Her long legs pivoted sharply as she turned to the door. “Jumah and I have our evening meal at eight,” she added. “If you care to join us, we will be in the small dining room off the east kitchen.” Quinton could feel the tips of his ears stinging. She was halfway across the thick rug, divine ass swaying with each step, before he realized she wasn’t going to argue any further. “Where are you going?” She spun and shot him an incredulous look. “You are his bodyguard, not mine. Where I go is none of your fecking business.” 39

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Quinton stared at her back. Her right hand hung close to her side, tensed, clenched around something thin and shiny. Familiar. All the locked rooms in the palace used a coded keypad mechanism. Why did she have a lockpicking device in her hand? A dark thought struck him like a thunderclap. He took a step backward. Did Isabelle Archer have anything to do with the missing children? Her position as a respected, well credentialed tutor would certainly place her in proximity to some of the wealthiest kids in the world. Quinton glanced over at Jumah again. She had not been happy to hear of his arrival on Muldahar and the duties he’d been assigned. Quinton had seen it, read the stiff posture, the slight thinning of lush red lips he’d love to nibble, when the Sultan introduced him as Jumah’s bodyguard. She didn’t want him there, interfering with things. Why? Did it impact her plans for Jumah? What was her end game? How many royal children did she plan on kidnapping before finally dropping the ransom note in the Sultan’s lap? For the second time since meeting her, Quinton found himself both hot and cold at the same time. He cursed under his breath. Frowning, he stalked over to Jumah and felt his forehead with the back of his hand. Cool and damp. The fever had broken 40

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as the tutor predicted. Jumah snored softly and whimpered in his sleep. “Damned women,” Quinton groused. Thoughts of the tutor as sublime mastermind behind the palace disappearances came back to plague him. Isabelle Archer was perfectly positioned and had every opportunity. Yet something about the idea didn’t sit well with him. Quinton looked around the room. Now was his chance. While Jumah slept, he could poke around. If she was up to mischief, he was sure to find evidence. Careful not to leave a trace, he went through the scarce contents of her dresser and nightstand, finding nothing except dainty articles of underclothing and a few English/Arabic textbooks made for children. A large walk-in closet, adjacent to the bathroom, beckoned. Quinton found one piece of rolling luggage tucked neatly in a corner. A matching, smaller version lay on the closet floor, invitingly open. Several dresses, simple and elegant, hung from hangers. She didn’t dress lavishly, although the designer labels belied their true cost. He had Julia to thank for that expensive lesson. His meticulous search continued. In the lining of her toiletries bag, a small leather pouch contained an assortment of tiny metal objects, some of which he recognized. Others were a 41

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complete mystery. Each piece had a dedicated indentation marking its spot in the pouch. One piece was gone. “Bingo.”

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Chapter Six he had pissed him off royally! No doubt the bodyguard thought she was the biggest bitch this side of the southern hemisphere. Enthralled by his sexy looks, that hateful personality he wore like another layer of skin only served to intrigue her. And turn her on. Normally impervious to what others might think of her, Isabelle felt oddly guilty. Herriman didn’t understand. Nor was she in any position to tell him. There was work to be done. Softly, she whispered to herself. “Put your big girl panties on and deal with it.” She slipped around a tight corner and tucked herself behind a variegated marble column. A few feet to her left, a horseshoe arch marked the entrance to the Sultan’s private study. Ground zero for whatever was going on. Isabelle took a deep, focused breath. Since her arrival, she’d made a habit of

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choosing a daily walking path that led her past the study. On rare occasions, she had seen Prime Minister Fariq and his solemn deputy Asim come and go. Fariq would give her a slight nod of his turbaned head, while Asim glared straight ahead. Rumor around the palace was that Asim had once been a company commander in Northern Afghanistan, part of the Mujahidin battling the Russians. If it was true or not, Isabelle didn’t really care. The man creeped her out. She did her best to avoid him. She had swept the area for video monitors earlier in the week. The place was clean. Either the Sultan was overconfident or didn’t want a video record of his comings and goings. Isabelle hoped for the former. Around the far corridor, a set of stairs led to an inner courtyard and on to an alternate entrance into the Sultan’s study. Her NSA team had perused the blueprints closely before leaving the States. There could be no other reason for the tiny, closet-sized anteroom except as an escape route. She took the jeweled staircase quietly and sauntered into a rectangular courtyard. Late afternoon sun blessed the open patio with warm, diffuse rays. Geometric motifs decorated the walls and floors, every carved stucco arch with breathtakingly intricate designs. Fruit trees, 44

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arranged in orderly rows parallel to a small watercourse, spread their leaves to the sky. She took two steps forward and stopped cold. Someone else was nearby. Isabelle tensed. Amtullah, keeper of the palace harem, stood a few feet away, her wrinkled face twisted in habitual scowl. Isabelle kept her own expression cool. “What are you doing here?” Amtullah’s voice was scratchy from decades of barking orders. “Taking my afternoon walk.” “You shouldn’t be here.” Isabelle straightened up to tower above the older woman. “I always take my walk through this beautiful place. You are the first to complain.” Hawkish brown eyes, unaccustomed to being challenged by another woman, speared her. “There are other places for you to wander.” Isabelle knew the game of dominance might backfire, yet decided on playing it anyway. She detested Amtullah for the way she treated Jumah. “I prefer this place.” “This courtyard is for his Sultan’s enjoyment. Outsiders are not welcome here.” Isabelle peered down at her through narrowed eyes. “The Sultan is well aware of my walks and where they take me. You seem to be the only person to take offense.” She stood her ground, hands on hips. Amtullah considered in silence for a few 45

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moments before speaking. “You are an arrogant American woman.” Isabelle let a slow, predatory smile crawl across her face. “Until the Sultan tells me this area is off limits, I intend to continue my daily walks through this courtyard. If you have a problem with that, take it up with him.” She spun and walked away, leaving Amtullah to glare at her back. Damn! A myriad of four letter words crossed her mind in an angry blast of frustration. Another day lost. The area was too hot right now to double-back and get into the study. She would have to wait for another opportunity. Perhaps tomorrow.

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Chapter Seven froze, only a tight muscle in his cheek Quinton betrayed the depth of his fury. He took a breath, shoved his hands in his pockets and paced the floor. The tutor had been gone less than an hour. Each minute she was out of his sight wore down his usual, infinite patience until Quinton was grinding his teeth. Was she a kidnapper? Maybe. Evidence revealed her hobbies included more than playing language games with a ten year old. The kidnappings were an inside job. Isabelle Archer, if that even was her real name, was hiding something. It didn’t make sense, though. She hadn’t been in the Batang Palace long enough to have any direct contact with the missing children. What possible part in the disappearances could she have played? Quinton shuddered. He hadn’t felt such off47

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balance anger since Julia dumped him five years ago. The only sure thing he knew was that the tutor unnerved him, pissed him off, and he wanted the coming confrontation over, done with, pronto. He’d turn her over to the Sultan’s people for further questioning and let the bungling palace detectives have a go at her. The door clicked open. He quit pacing and stared, mesmerized. Silky black hair that would feel buttery soft around his fingers or resting against his bare chest, swayed with each graceful movement she took. Desire curled in the pit of his stomach. He imagined her tight body easing down on his straining cock, riding him slowly, taking her pleasure. Quinton couldn’t look away. The tutor quietly shut the door, turned and speared him with her haunting blue eyes. The impact of her beauty slammed him so hard in the chest that he flinched. “Where’s Jumah?” Her voice was lilting, spellbinding, terrifying. “Locked in my room where you can’t get to him.” “Why would you do that?” Quinton held his hand up in challenge, waved the packet of tools in the air. “Explain this.” Her eyes narrowed for a split-second. She stepped closer. “I found it hidden in your toiletries bag,” he 48

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announced. “And you assume it is mine?” “Are you denying that it is?” After a long silence, “Of course it’s mine.” Her honesty came as a complete surprise. Quinton felt like he’d been rebooted. “What use would a tutor have for a directional sound amplifier?” He steeled himself against the urge to either back away or pull her close and pointed to another instrument. “How about this little goodie? Are you any good at picking tumbler locks?” He wanted to strip her naked and fuck the truth out of her. “That depends.” “On what?” “On who you ask.” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “My grandfather thought I was pretty good and he was an excellent locksmith.” “Who the hell are you?” “Isabelle Archer.” He held up his free hand. “Stop.” Quinton shook his head, lost in memory of another who had lied to him. Sinister theories of conspiracy swirled in his head. “Don’t play games with me.” “I assure you, Captain, this is no game.” “This is not idle speculation, either.” Quinton shook the packet. “Why do you have this?” “I’ve carried the packet with me for years. I never know when it might come in handy.” 49

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Quinton huffed in exasperation, cut to the question burning on his mind. “Do you have anything to do with the missing children?” The shock on her face rang true. “Absolutely not!” She took another step closer to him. “What gave you that idea?” Quinton took a step back. “Let’s just say I have trouble distinguishing friend from foe. I’ve never known a tutor who carried around this sort of hardware.” “Really? And precisely how many tutors have you known?” The sexual connotation was not lost on him. “Plenty,” he answered with a tight smile. “And none owned high quality tools like these.” He waved the packet again, just out of her reach. “This is the stuff of criminals and the rare government employee,” he taunted. “Which one are you?” He watched her pupils dilate a fraction of a second before going pinpoint. He’d struck home. “You have a vivid imagination.” “Answer the question.” She blew out a long breath. “I can’t.” “Can’t or won’t.” “I am not the bad guy. I did not abduct those other children and I have no intention of ever harming Jumah. That’s not why I’m here.” “And I should take your word on that? I don’t 50

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know what you’re capable of or why you’re really here, lady.” “My word is all I can offer you right now.” The look on her face caused Quinton to strike the idea of turning her over to the palace authorities. Whatever else the mysterious Isabelle Archer was, she was also telling him the truth. She was not a kidnapper. Not a criminal. He let out a long sigh. “Alright,” he acquiesced. “But I’m going to keep your little bag of tricks for now.” She nodded. Quinton sidestepped around her and headed for the door. At the last moment, he turned to face her. “I’ll see you at dinner.” “You will, indeed.” “Wear your blue dress.” Her surprised look bolstered his spirits. “And no panties.” The door slammed behind him.

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Chapter Eight na laa afham!” Jumah’s face wrinkled in confusion. “I know you don’t understand,” Isabelle answered calmly. She had pushed him too far during their impromptu dinner lesson. Some praise was in order. “Inta betettallam.” His knowledge of the world was limited to palace intrigue and every book he could get his hands on. Within the sphere of worldly experience, Jumah knew virtually nothing. Isabelle stayed composed. Global warming was fact, not fiction. If Jumah was destined to lead Muldahar, he needed the rudiments of the science behind the devastating climate changes that faced the world. “You’re coming on too strong for him, tutor,” Quinton interjected from across the table. His voice was a low growl, but his dimple was showing and a teasing smile creased his full lips. Isabelle wanted to lick the smirk right off his face.

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Instead, she shot him a piquant look. As thankful as she was that he hadn’t reported her to the palace detectives, she had no intention of dumbing herself down for anyone. No matter how sexy he was. It was time to push a few of Quinton’s buttons and see what came of it. She cleared her throat and said slowly, “Strong women should be admired, not feared.” “I’m not afraid of you, tutor.” “If that’s true then why don’t you start calling me by my name?” She passed a bowl of hummus to Jumah and sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. The boy alternated his gaze between Quinton and herself, trying to judge the seriousness of their banter. Quinton straightened in his chair. “As you wish, Miss Archer.” She reached out and cupped her hands over Jumah’s ears long enough to drown her next words. “Call me Isabelle. Unless bitch was more what you had in mind.” Quinton’s mouth dropped open. He started to chuckle, stopped and reached up to rub the back of his neck. “That is not what I have in mind.” The large muscles in his chest and forearm flexed and rippled with strength. The effect on Isabelle’s senses was instant and profound. A low ache, her pelvic muscles clenching and unclenching, broke her out in a sweat. Her weakness for accents, 53

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along with his unnaturally harmonic voice, caught her up in a hailstorm of wicked fantasy. He was hers for the night. She had shackled him to the sturdy bed. Those powerful, thick arms, helpless to stop her, strained against the bonds while she set about exploring every inch of him. She kissed and nibbled, licked and fondled, until he begged her for mercy. Only then did she climb astride him. Lowering herself ever so slowly upon his turgid cock, dripping with pre-cum. Isabelle took the entire, delicious length inside until she was filled, stretched almost beyond the bounds of comfort. Someone in the room tapped on the table. Startled, she blinked back the lurid daydream and met Quinton’s mocking gaze, her game face intact once again. His lusty voice almost shattered her. “So, Isabelle?” Steely blue eyes raked her up and down. “Where did you drift off to?” Isabelle was certain that he not only had a damned good idea, but he also didn’t mind one bit. She knew the ways of the sexual predator. She kept silent and stared him down, absorbing every nuance of his behavior. Categorizing. Formulating. When he asked, “What time does Jumah go to bed for the night?”, she kept her expression blank despite her body’s moist betrayal. 54

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The boy piped up, “Anytime I want!” “Nice try, mate.” Isabelle’s skin tingled, white noise droned in her ears. Quinton’s hot gaze never left her. An arrogant smile that promised paradise, raked her up and down until her clit throbbed in anticipation. She licked her lips, husky-voiced when she answered. “He gets an hour of recreational time after dinner and then I read him a bedtime story.” “I’m usually asleep by eleven.” Quinton nodded his head and smiled. “So, mate. What are we going to do before Isabelle reads us that bedtime story?” “Do you like computer games?” “I like all sorts of games.” Isabelle glided soundlessly to her feet. The silk of her dress clung for the second it took her to reach down and straighten it out. Pooled moistness trickled down her thigh in a glistening rivulet of arousal. She bit the inside of her lip in stark surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d responded so intensely to the presence of a man. What was it about Quinton Herriman that brought out the sexual beast in her? For God’s sake! He hadn’t touched her. The man didn’t even like her. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. Thankfully, he had stopped 55

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short in his search of her belongings earlier that day. If he’d continued, he would have discovered not only her secondary set of tools, but her favorite dildo, as well. She’d been too busy to use her battery-operated boyfriend since arriving in Muldahar. Hopefully the double A’s weren’t dead. She needed some relief — tonight! Jumah jumped to his feet and ran around the table. “Come on, Quinton. Let’s go.” Without warning, she reached out and touched Quinton gently on the arm. His sharp intake of breath startled them both. Something hot and viscous flowed between them. “Put a time limit on him. Otherwise he’ll have you up all night.” The pupils of Quinton’s eyes were enormous. Sensual mockery laced his voice. “Staying up all night isn’t such a bad thing.” Isabelle swallowed hard. Her nostrils flared, pulling in the scent of him. “Not always,” she whispered. “In the right circumstance it can be highly desirable.” Quinton’s mouth peeled back in the sexiest grin she’d ever seen. His voice dropped an octave. “I’ll be back in time for your bedtime story.”

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Chapter Nine sim detested flying almost as much as he hated Americans. Seated in the first class section, he looked out the oval window and prayed to Allah for the strength to get through this day. Years of hard work were fast approaching an end. He took comfort knowing that his place at the right hand of God would soon be earned. The moment the seatbelt light went off, Asim was on his feet, a small carry-on bag clutched to his chest. He crowded into the aisle, surged forward and was down the skywalk and cleared through BWI Customs before the airplane’s luggage had been unloaded. If he worked rapidly, he would be back in the air and on his way home before midnight. The NSA infidel had been instructed to meet him on the top deck of the parking structure opposite the airport. Whatever information the diseased creature possessed, Prime Minister Fariq thought it important enough to send Asim

A

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personally to retrieve it. Grinding his teeth in disgust, Asim glanced about and noticed the salacious looks women gave him. Tall and fair-skinned for his race, he was impeccable in a pin-striped suit tailored specifically to his lean frame. Asim looked the part of a classic European. Fariq demanded he appear distinguished when in public, claimed it “eased things”. Asim grudgingly admitted he was correct. Dashing looks were rewarded with open doors and fewer questions, even though the idea sickened him. Asim would much rather be dressed in a loose kaftan, wearing sandals and wielding a large, sickled sword. He was a warrior for Allah — not a businessman! Spine ramrod straight, he held his head high and marched through the busy airport terminal. As promised, Archie Sullivan was waiting for him. Asim recognized the man’s garish vehicle amidst the tidy row of cars in short-term parking. It was sunny outside and the roof of his convertible was down. Sullivan’s nappy red hair stuck straight up. Asim bit down his revulsion and forced back the memories of things Fariq had asked him to do in the name of loyalty. He slid into the car seat beside him. “Thank you for coming,” Sullivan stammered. “It’s been a long time.” 58

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Asim stared straight ahead, tracking the progress of a wide-bodied jet preparing to land. “You said you have information for us.” “Yes, I do.” He fumbled a manila folder from his jacket and handed it to Asim. “I would have notified you sooner had I known about it in time. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a heads-up.” Asim slowly thumbed through the document stamped Top Secret. His fury rose with each page. He gave Sullivan a vacant look, resisting the urge to reach out and snap his neck. “You are certain this is all she has reported to your superiors?” “Her reports are sent by coded electronic mail and I’ve intercepted all of them. She hasn’t found any concrete evidence so far.” “When is the next report due?” “Within the next forty-eight hours.” “My country pays you well for information, Mister Sullivan. Is there anything further you need to tell me before I leave?” “Ah, no, I guess not,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way. You can understand why I didn’t want to risk an intercepted telephone or internet message, can’t you?” “I understand completely, Mister Sullivan.” There was a long moment of silence before Sullivan spoke again. Hope flickered in his eyes. Bile rose to the back of Asim’s throat. “I’m glad they sent you,” he whispered. “I’ve 59

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missed you.” Asim’s expression remained deathly flat. Soundlessly, he opened the car door and stepped out. As he walked from the parking structure, Asim gave no notice to the homeless man pushing his belongings along in a cart. Nor did he see the binoculars and digital zoom-lens camera nestled in a plastic bag inside the same bulging cart. His thoughts were elsewhere, trapped in an irresistible place he was terrified to return to.

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Chapter Ten cock stirred with excitement. Sitting Quinton’s still and quiet in the chair a few feet from Jumah’s bed, he listened while Isabelle put the kid to sleep with the same classic tale he used to recite for his little brothers. He was enthralled by the rich, sexy drawl of her voice, filling, warming the room. Normally, her speech lacked any indication of southern roots. The accent she used while reading the book, suited the story perfectly. Quinton fidgeted, his body’s grumble of need growing louder. His gaze drifted over every visible inch of her. The woman was so beautiful it made his balls ache. When she bent over and kissed the slumbering Jumah goodnight, Quinton thought he’d been speared to the chair. She hesitated a moment before she turned to give him a look of raw desire. His cock flew to full attention. She crooked her finger at him and smiled. In the murk that had become his personal life, 61

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he was strictly into sex for pleasure. And despite his aversion to women of her beauty caliber, Quinton was ready for some pleasure. Quinton was going fuck this woman with the singleminded intensity of a man with one night left to live. He was on his feet, following right behind her as she exited the room. The moment the door closed, his hand wrapped around her head, fingers entwined in her hair. His mouth came down on hers and his tongue pushed its way inside. Her arms flew up to clutch and dig at his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his thigh. She was hot and ready for him. He reached down and pressed firmly against her mons. She moaned softly and spread herself for easier access. Without a word, Quinton eased the dress up to her waist. To his delight, there was nothing but flesh beneath. Her skin was insanely soft. His fingers teased her swollen folds. “That feels so good,” she whispered when his thumb grazed her clit and dipped inside her vagina. His hand was bathed with her juices, and the pleading little sounds she made nearly drove him over the edge. He could barely keep his libido in check long enough to murmur, “Hard and fast, or soft and slow?” He already knew the answer. Her body was speaking to him and he’d always been a 62

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damned good listener, especially when pussy was involved. “Fast,” she gasped and tugged at his zipper. “I want to taste you.” His thick cock surged into her slender hand. Quinton’s entire universe became the head of his cock and the animalistic urge to thrust. “Suck me. Suck me, now!” Isabelle dropped to her knees and took him as far down her throat as humanly possible. It wasn’t enough. His hips shifted forward, wanting more. Her hand kept him in control, deciding how far he could go. Her tongue swirled and teased the juicy head of his cock. Quinton briefly fucked her mouth before pulling her to her feet. “Spread your legs.” He caught an intoxicating whiff of her cream, lifted her high and lowered her onto his engorged shaft. She took him all the way to his balls. Silken tightness enveloped him like a glove. The primal urge to fuck overshadowed all else. She clenched and released her inner muscles and Quinton nearly lost it. He leaned her shoulders against the wall and gained the added leverage he needed to work her slippery channel. His ears were ringing. Her tight little pussy was wrecking him, but he was determined she would climax first. Quinton drove into her relentlessly, his cock claiming her in primitive fever, as his 63

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hands kneaded her ass, her breasts. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. The scent of sex and sweat wafted up to fuel his lust. He felt her tension build. “More,” she gasped. Hard tremors rolled over her body and slithered through his. Inner muscles clamped down on his rod. Her fingers dug into his back and he knew she was close. His fingers fanned through her hair and pulled her head back so he could see those wicked blues of hers. Her breath came in explosive gasps. “Open your eyes. Look at me when you cum.” He braced her firmly, in case her knees buckled. She tried to stay quiet, biting her lip to keep the little sobs of pleasure from leaking out. Quinton sensed her true nature. Isabelle was a screamer. He twisted the angle of his hips and forced himself even deeper. She flew over the edge, convulsing around him until he couldn’t take it any longer. With a moan, he let himself go, hot semen blasting her cervix.

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Chapter Eleven er gaze drifted around the room, taking in everything at once and settled on the desk. Most specifically, on the shiny new computer perched next to a priceless brass lamp. Apparently, the Sultan had a penchant for eighteenth century French furniture. Ornate shelves of solid carved walnut, stuffed with thousands of books, lined every wall. She ran her gloved hands over the intricate floral motifs on his antique desk, and shifting her weight soundlessly, carefully inspected each drawer, then inventoried the contents. It had been an hour since Quinton turned her insides out. After their hot collision of sex, she’d stumbled off to her room - alone. Quinton was a big man. All over. He made her ache in all the right places and relaxing in the Jacuzzi tub was the perfect precautionary soreness fix. Her muscles went slack beneath the pummeling of warm bubbles, yet her mind had

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raced at full steam. Isabelle always listened to her instincts. They yelled that Quinton was a dangerous distraction. She wasn’t in Muldahar to indulge her carnal appetite. Having sex with a man who held such powerful fascination for her, was risky. She needed to get back on task. Isabelle smiled in the dark when she found it. Nestled in the bottom drawer of the desk was a spiral-bound notebook, scribbled in the Sultan’s distinctive penmanship. Isabelle took a micro camera from the folds of her vest and primed the low light, high-resolution, device. She thumbed through each page, taking pictures. Later, when she had plenty of private time in her room, she could meticulously comb through every picture, hunting for any detail shedding light on the Sultan’s dealings. When she finished with the book, Isabelle snapped photos of several other pieces of correspondence. Aromas of vanilla pipe tobacco mingled with the odor of leather-bound books. The smell was reminiscent of her father’s den. Isabelle took a deep breath. Months had passed since she last visited her parents. As soon as this assignment was over, she promised herself to make amends for that slight. There was a whisper of movement, a creaking noise. A whoosh of air, barely perceptible, sent all 66

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her senses into high alert. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She froze in place and listened. A long minute dragged by, viscous and silent. Only the Sultan and a handful of his trusted cronies would have known about the secret study entrance. Anyone using that portal at this time of night had no more business there than she had. Someone stepped into the bathroom off the study. Isabelle sprang into action. Unable to leave the way she came and avoid detection, her only other choice was through the front door leading to the courtyard. She’d have to take the chance that nobody was around to see her this time of night. She slid across the study, noiseless, light and agile on her feet. Reaching out, her hand was on the doorknob when a beefy fist closed around her mouth. Her reaction was instinctive. She slammed her elbow into her captor’s solar plexus and twisted an exposed thumb at a painful angle. She heard a loud pop, and a surprised grunt, yet the grip around her mouth held fast. In an effort to break the hold, she flexed both her knees at once, feigning collapse. The arm around her waist tightened and yanked her up to her toes. An angry Australian voice mumbled in her ear. “Stop fighting me.” Isabelle’s heart sank. Quinton’s hold loosened long enough to spin her around to face him. 67

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Whatever injury she had inflicted was not enough to override his anger. She braced herself for a fight. “You still claim to be one of the good guys?” In the low light, the way he glared down at her almost made Isabelle bite her tongue. Her face burned when she answered. “Yes, I am.” “Prove it.” A million scenarios ran through her mind at once. What happened next would boil down to that all important five-letter word she had such a bitch of a time believing in. Trust. If she refused to tell him the truth, he would blow her cover. If she agreed, he still might blow it. She had no idea what Quinton would do with the information. Her insides were still creamy with his semen, yet Isabelle knew that sex meant nothing when it came down to alliances. Quinton Herriman might well turn her over to the Sultan anyway. Either way, she was caught. She took a resigned breath and announced evenly, “I was sent by the National Security Agency.” Even in the dark shadows of the study, she could see his pale eyebrows curve up in disbelief. “I’m a spy.”

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**** Quinton stared at her for a long moment before speaking. He recognized the look of defiance in her eyes, the belief in something larger than her own wellbeing. “You’re going to tell me everything.” He tugged her along, keeping a firm grasp on her arm in case she decided to bolt. His chest ached from the blow he took and he was fairly certain she’d dislocated his thumb. Pain was a relative thing. Quinton knew that this minor discomfort was nothing compared to what the Sultan’s people would do if they were discovered. He urged her along the smooth marble floors. She never made a sound, never struggled. At one point they had to dodge behind a rippled wall when one of the serving staff rambled along with a noisy cart. Quinton could hear the musical notes of an oud as a door opened and the pungent odor of hashish wafted through the air. When they reached her room, Quinton stopped abruptly. Her gaze remained downcast. “Punch in the code,” he ordered when she hesitated. Once they were inside, Quinton shoved her away. She headed straight for her laptop computer. He sat down on the edge of her sofa and massaged his chest. Her elbow had slammed 69

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him so hard he thought he’d sustained a cardiac contusion. Whoever trained her had done a damned fine job. “You’re good at close combat,” he grumbled. “Apparently not good enough.” She ran a hand through her dark hair. “Why did you follow me, Quinton?” “Why didn’t you come to my bed, Isabelle? That is your real name, isn’t it?” “You thought we weren’t done having sex?” The idea didn’t seem to have occurred to her. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he snapped. “And answer my question about your real name.” “Isabelle Annemarie Archer is my full name and I did not return to your bed because I knew I’d be sore without a soak in the tub for awhile. You’ve got the biggest penis I’ve ever had inside me.” “Most women want a drink or cigarette after sex.” He hid the self-satisfied smile threatening to come forth. “They don’t get the urge to do a little breaking and entering.” “I am not most women.” “No argument there.” She went back to studying her laptop. Quinton watched her profile carefully for any subtle changes that might indicate she was lying. It was time to get all the answers from enigmatic Isabelle Annemarie Archer. 70

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“Why did the NSA send you?” “For this.” She pulled something from her vest pocket, waved it in the air briefly and plugged it into her computer. “What is that?” “If I’m lucky, it’s the answer to a lot of questions.” Quinton took a pained breath. “Name a few.” She turned to look at him a moment, her voice pitched low when she replied, “The United States doesn’t like losing its scientific geniuses to other countries who pay millions of dollars for their services. When that sort of thing happens, the National Security Agency sends people like myself to find out why. It’s called HUMINT. Human Intelligence.” “What are those scientific geniuses working on?” “Their specialty is genetics.” Quinton thought on that a moment, remembering Jumah’s weekly trips to the infirmary and the boy’s mysterious illness. “Are they trying to find a cure for Jumah?” “That was my first guess, too. But when we looked further, we found this wasn’t the first time that Muldahar has spent a fortune on foreign scientists. Also, a few details about Jumah’s situation don’t make sense to me.” “How so?” 71

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“Thirteen years ago, the Sultan wrote a blank check to a Canadian virologist named Hanson. Like the others, the man brought his entire family and lived here until his death last spring.” “How did he die?” “Natural causes, according to the report. He just clutched his chest and fell over. Adios Amigo.” “You don’t believe it.” Isabelle shrugged. “Viruses. Genetics. They’re tied together somehow. I need the hard proof.” “How does Jumah figure into all of this? What is it about him that doesn’t make sense to you?” “For starters, he’s not of the usual lineage of Muldahar rulers. The throne has never been passed on to the child of one of the Sultan’s siblings. It breaks precedent.” “I was wondering about that myself,” he interjected. “The Sultan has four sons and three daughters by his first wife. All of them are healthy. Why is he grooming his sickly nephew for the throne?” “Which brings me to anomaly number two. With the exception of his afternoon fevers, Jumah has never been sick a day in his life. Not even a sniffle. Rather odd for a child with a reported auto-immune disorder, don’t you think?” “How do you know that?” “I overheard one of the scientists speaking with 72

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Jumah’s physician last week. And Jumah confirmed it. He’s never had so much as the common cold.” “That’s bloody strange!” Photographs of handwriting popped up on her laptop screen. “Maybe something here can tell us why.” Quinton nodded in wry acknowledgement and relaxed back on the sofa to observe. The crooked angle of his left thumb demanded treatment. He gave it a fast yank. The crack resounded through the room. Isabelle’s head spun in his direction. “Are you okay?” “Feeling guilty?” “Not in the least. However, I would splint it for you. There are supplies in my medicine cabinet and a first aid kit under the sink.” “I know what’s in there.” They stared at one another for a moment, each assessing the other. She broke eye contact first and turned around, gaze riveted on the laptop. Quinton felt a trembler all the way to his groin. From his vantage point, he could see the Arabic words flowing across the screen. At the rate she was scrolling the pages, Isabelle was a very fast reader. Once again, he marveled at her unnatural stillness. Except for her precise hand movements, she seemed a statue, carved from the same rare 73

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marble as the palace columns. Julia could never have sat still for that long. Quinton blinked, wondered where that crazy thought had come from. Isabelle was more intelligent than Julia had ever faked. The two women were nothing alike! Julia was all hard angles, obsessed with keeping in prime physical shape. Isabelle’s beauty seemed effortless, natural. “Quinton?” He glanced over. For a moment, he imagined her wearing a gossamer dress and dancing in the forest like some fey creature. Until, of course, something or someone pissed her off and she smacked them hard enough to break bone. “Yes?” “I think I found something.” He jumped to his feet and strode up beside her. “What is it?” “A genealogical algorhythm.” Isabelle turned to look up at him. He felt the power, the strength of will, behind her amazing blue eyes. “According to this, the Sultan’s unmarried sister, Adara, is not only the mother of Jumah, she is also the mother of every boy who has gone missing.” “A busy lady.” Quinton leaned in to the screen, his head dipping close to hers. He could smell his aftershave in her hair. Taking a fast look at the symbols to confirm the story she was telling him, Quinton found only the truth. “They weren’t his 74

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true cousins, afterall?” “Not according to this. And it gets worse.” She scrolled to the next page. Her mouth screwed up in brace yourself disgust. “The Sultan is the biological father.” Quinton let out a low whistle. “If that’s true, it would explain a lot of craziness going on around this palace.” “Not all of it. There are references scattered through the text about a grand experiment that Jumah seems to be part of.” “Grand experiment? Like some sort of human guinea pig?” “Possibly.” Her lips pursed in a way that made him want to eat them up. “I’ve got a few more pages left to study. Hopefully, they’ll shed some light.” “How are you going to get this information to your people?” Suspicion crossed her features. He could clearly see her battling with just how much to tell him. “My laptop has special encryption software. This entire file can be sent through the usual electronic mail process and not be deciphered.” He looked incredulous. “How the hell does it do that?” “P.F.M.” “Huh?” “Pure Fucking Magic.” She flashed a wicked 75

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smile. “What about the camera you took the pictures with?” “I’ll destroy it as soon as I’m done.” Quinton shook his head. “Keep reading. I want to know everything you learn.” He wandered away toward the bathroom in search of tape and something rigid to splint his throbbing finger. Things were starting to get really strange. In Quinton’s world, strange usually came right before danger. If what Isabelle had discovered was real, they would need Lord Desmond’s assistance. **** She’d lied when she told him she didn’t feel guilty for the injuries she inflicted upon him. She did. What Isabelle couldn’t understand was why. Such remorse over a well placed, and certainly deserved, punch had never bothered her before. Besides, nobody ever died from a dislocated thumb. Isabelle hit send and powered off her computer. She yawned, stood and stretched. Deputy Director Locke could stew over the information she sent. Tomorrow, she would start a new search for the answers surrounding Adara and her offspring. Tonight, an ache of a deeper sort than mere muscle strain, begged for attention. 76

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Her body needed to run wild. Peeling off clothes too constrictive, she glided into the bathroom on bare feet and stopped, breathless. His shirt was off, revealing a tantalizing view of his perfectly sculpted back. Her gaze traveled all the way down to the crack of his exquisite ass. Wide shoulders, hard chest, rippling abs. Isabelle’s mouth went dry. Twin cords of muscle cut his lower stomach and disappeared into his pants, beckoning her eyes to follow. He was a hottie. Precisely the type of man she did her best to shun. And that sinfully musical voice of his? Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. The gorgeous ones effortlessly broke a woman’s heart. She had to keep emotional distance. Eye candy had nearly destroyed her mentor at the Agency. Isabelle wouldn’t make the same mistake. This crazy thing with Quinton was all about sex, she reminded herself. He was not the kind of man to fall for. Tonight would be sport fucking, plain and simple, the solution for an overcharged sex drive. She stood in the entryway and watched him fumble with a roll of tape. “May I offer my services?” He spun around, eyes wide at her nudity. Isabelle slid up close and reached out for the tape. “Let me.” She was vibrating, heady from the 77

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smell of him. “Dislocated, no fracture. I’ll buddytape it to the palm of your hand for protection.” “When was x-ray vision added to your list of spy toys?” She didn’t take the bait. Fighting was not on her agenda. She tore off a long strip of tape and wrapped it around his wrist. With slow, seductive movements, she gently pulled his thumb up to her mouth. Quinton’s pupils dilated until the blue had all but disappeared. Snaking her tongue out, she pulled his thumb deep into her oral cavity and laved it with warm saliva. She watched his nostrils flare. “Better?” He grunted something noncommittal. “I know of something else that helps the healing process.” “What?” With her free hand, Isabelle reached down between her legs and dipped deep. With two wet fingers, she rubbed her juices in a circular pattern across his solar plexus. His rough voice shook the room. “It’s a start. You can do better than that.” Twisting her fingers around his belt, Isabelle gave him a gentle shove and walked slowly into the bedroom. She backed him against the raised bed platform. “Take off your pants.” 78

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His blue eyes glittered with lust. She couldn’t remember seeing any man undress so quickly. Chuckling, she pushed him down to the mattress and climbed up, straddled his lean hips. “I am sorry for hurting you here.” She hovered above his chest a moment, then bent, kissed and licked his ribs. “And here.” She ran her lips across his bandaged thumb. His body shivered with arousal. He bit back a moan. Reaching down, she stroked his balls lightly with her nails. “Your cock is beautiful, Quinton.” Where her hands went, her mouth followed. She sucked and flicked and rolled his scrotal sac, deliberately ignoring his turgid shaft. His whole body shivered with arousal. He tensed and dipped, maneuvering his hips to get his cock in her mouth. “You’re killing me.” He arched his back, rigid shaft searching for her mouth. Isabelle used her forehead to push and hold him down. “Not yet.” Her fingertips did not meet where they encircled his wide girth. She smoothed her thumb over the crown and spread a syrupy drop of precum around his prominent ridge. His fists clenched in the sheets. “Interesting,” she whispered. “I hadn’t noticed before. You shave your genitals.” 79

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“Makes it clean,” he rasped. “Better for your mouth.” She pulled gently on his ball sac with her teeth. “Is it more sensitive?” “Oh, yeah.” She drew slow circles around his anus with her fingertip, teasing the fine, baby hair so delightfully smooth to the touch. “Do you like the way I’m touching you?” His chest rose and fell rapidly as he writhed under her erotic assault. His skin shined with perspiration. “I’d be dead if I didn’t.” She inhaled deeply, savoring the clean, male scent of him. “You’re not dead. Although you might be crazy before I’m done with you.” She moved further down the petting tree, sticking just the tip of her middle finger into his sphincter. He groaned and closed his eyes. In her mind, Isabelle knew exactly where she wanted to take him - to a place that would wring a smile from his lips whenever daydreaming floated him back to this particular moment in time. She wanted the memory seared into his brain. Isabelle did not want him to forget her. With patience and finesse, she worked her slender finger into his canal. He tensed, relaxed, tensed again before submitting to the sensation. She gently massaged his prostate until he 80

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trembled on the verge of climax. “Cum for me, Quinton.” On a strangled moan, hot semen shot in an upward arc that splattered her backside. She kissed his inner thigh. “You’ll last longer now.” Knowing he was still hypersensitive from orgasm, Isabelle carefully centered him below her swollen vagina. “Open your eyes and watch me fuck you, Quinton.” Lowering slowly, she forced him up and up and stopped, seating herself completely, relishing the delicious intrusion. She allowed herself a moment of pure sensation. Her body pulled at Quinton’s cock, internal muscles milking him of their own accord. Suddenly, he grabbed her hips and thrust upward. Her body arched in response. “Oh my God!” Grinding her pelvis into him, she could feel an orgasm start to slither down her spine. Beneath her, Quinton felt it too and murmured encouragement. Isabelle stared at his beautiful face, lost in the sacred moment they shared. In a burst of movement, he flipped her, pinned her to the bed. “Hey, that’s not fair! It was my turn.” “Deal with it, baby.” 81

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He fucked her hard, pounding into her without restraint. She concentrated on the feel of him moving inside her. It was so good she was close to howling. “You’re incredible.” His voice catapulted her over the edge. She bit her tongue to keep from screaming and left new scratches on his back to add to the ensemble of aches and pains she’d already subjected him to. Neither seemed to give a damn. Their juices co-mingled with mutual climax. Short gasps escaped them as the breath hitched in their throats. Isabelle couldn’t remember any act of sex being so intense. Quinton had raised the bar to celestial new heights.

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Chapter Twelve ultan Mohammed Malik Husma al Din, descendant of seven generations of royalty, felt drained. Physically. Emotionally. Financially. The last several months had taken a grim toll. He intertwined his fingers and folded his hands on his lap. “You are absolutely certain of this?” “Yes, Your Eminence. He has been in our employ for several years. This is the first tangible information he has provided.” Fariq waited patiently for his leader to speak. The Sultan cocked a bushy eyebrow. “You have checked on the veracity of his information yourself?” Fariq nodded. “Asim has just returned from the United States and confirms the threat.” The Sultan’s mouth thinned to a cruel slash.

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“Tell me about him, Fariq. Who is this paid informant within America’s National Security Agency and why am I only now hearing about him?” “He is one of their senior Signals Intelligence technicians and has access to much of their accumulated data and ongoing spy campaigns.” The Sultan exhaled on a sigh. “His data indicates we have a spy in our midst. You are certain of this?” Fariq nodded grimly. “Why such interest in our little country, Fariq?” “The Americans are interested in everything, Your Highness. It is their way to meddle in the affairs of countries worldwide.” “True.” The Sultan ran a hand over his eyes. “It is exactly such meddling curiosity that has forced me to accept the services of the Australian captain.” Fariq gave him a wry grin. “A necessary window decoration, Your Highness. He will give those who watch us too closely, reason to think we are doing everything in our power to keep our children safe.” The Sultan rubbed his eyes. “Fariq, it does not please me to have these foreigners in my home.” “I understand, Your Highness. Their tenure here will be short-lived.” The Sultan nodded resignedly. “Tell me what 84

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sort of bargain was made with this senior technician at the National Security Agency?” “His mother is elderly and in poor health. We are paying to keep her in a nursing facility.” “You mean I am paying.” “Yes, Your Highness.” The Sultan was quiet for a moment while digesting the information Fariq had given him. “How did this man come to be under my employ?” “Asim found him in one of Washington’s homosexual night clubs.” “And what was Asim doing in such a club?” “Searching for someone with a weakness we could exploit.” “I see.” A slow smile spread across his wrinkled dark face. “Remind me to give Asim an extra bonus.” “Asim serves us well, Your Eminence. When we first embarked upon our quest, I was concerned that the Americans would get wind of it and attempt to thwart our plans.” The Sultan interrupted. “This informant watches our back?” “Yes, Highness.” “Are there others in foreign countries who are likewise employed?” “No, Your Highness.” The four spires of the palace mosque reflected 85

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gold and ivory in the late afternoon sun. The Sultan blinked against the glare. “What is his name, this paid informant?” “Archibald Sullivan.” The Sultan’s voice echoed across the expanse of the room. “We have come too far to scuttle this project, Fariq. Our continued existence depends on success. Muldahar is running out of time. We cannot fail.” “I understand, Your Eminence.” “We must find out exactly what this spy has discovered and how much of it has been reported.” “Yes, Your Highness.” The Sultan took a deep breath. “My old friend, what are we going to do with the treacherous Miss Archer?” Fariq’s mouth upturned into a tight smile. “Highness, I have a plan.”

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Chapter Thirteen umah skipped along as Quinton led him through the southwest exit and across an inner courtyard to the prodigious royal garage. “Where’s Isabelle?” “She’ll be here shortly, mate. We’ve got a surprise for you.” And a whole lot of questions. “A surprise?” Quinton waved his hand in the direction of the garage. “Pick a vehicle.” Jumah’s dark eyes grew large. “Are we going on a trip?” “Could be.” “Where?” “That’s the surprise.” Jumah contemplated for a few seconds. “Can I choose any auto that I want?” “You can always choose. The final decision rests with me.” “Most excellent!” He bolted ahead.

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Quinton rubbed the scar on his thigh and frowned. “No motorcycles,” he yelled in afterthought. It was early in the day and already the heat was soaring. Rows of verdant green shrubs rimmed the walls along the courtyard. Fine mists of water spray, set on a timed water delivery system, kept thirsty plants sated. Birdsong pierced the morning stillness. A thin trickle of sweat traced down his cheek and hung on his chin. Despite spending most of the night buried deep inside Isabelle, he felt strangely energized. Loose muscled and calm. Government spy or not, he wasn’t about to let the palace detectives get their filthy hands on her. Especially not now. There was so much weird shit going on, he needed every ally he could muster. If Jumah was a biological experiment, they needed confirmation. Hard evidence. The situation could get dicey. Quinton could count on Isabelle doing whatever it took to keep the boy safe from harm. Isabelle. Ice blue eyes that warmed the soul. She was like no other woman he’d ever known. And to his everlasting dismay, he was hopelessly bound up, infatuated beyond reason with her. For the outside world, his lover played the role of refined, classical beauty and gentle purveyor of culture. 88

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Quinton knew better. The woman was sheer animal in bed. Expressive. Demanding. Wild and hot. Bucking beneath him like a crazed animal. She enjoyed sex and wasn’t afraid of demonstrating that fact. A lilting voice pierced his erotic daydream. “Do I dare ask what you’re thinking?” Quinton hadn’t heard her sneak up behind him. He turned to gaze down at her bare feet and perfectly manicured red toenails. Shapely legs, hidden under white gauze pants that fluttered in the morning breeze, made his throat go dry. She was twirling a pair of sandals on her index finger. Her guileless face touched him with a rush of sensations he hadn’t felt in years. An unexpected voice inside him said, mine. Quinton nearly staggered. He held his breath and forced down feelings that bordered on terrifying. His stomach did a violent flip-flop. Instantly reverting to survival mode, he steeled himself behind a mask of hostility. “You can always ask,” he snapped. It took several seconds for his head to stop whirling. Isabelle watched him, no doubt probing for clues to his sudden behavior change. He had no plans to tell her. “Hmmm, I see.” She bent down and slipped on her sandals. Quinton wondered if it would be wise to 89

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apologize, but couldn’t form the words. She spoke before he could. “Tell me about her.” “Who?” “The one who made you so bitter against women.” Quinton blinked. He wasn’t able to look her in the eye. “Not women,” he corrected. “Beautiful women.” “Yep, those bitches can be a real health hazard,” she teased. “So, what is her name?” “Julia.” From the depths of the garage, Jumah’s reedy voice resonated with excitement. “Quinton? Isabelle? I found the one I want!” Isabelle cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t think you’re off the hook.” She purred in a way that made his balls retract. “We’re going to re-visit this topic later.” Quinton didn’t answer, merely watched while she sauntered past and offered up a great view of her luscious heart-shaped ass. **** The white beaches of Muldahar’s northern coast were known as some of the most spectacular and coveted in the world. Long stretches of coconut palms framed pristine sands in a visual barrage of exquisite inlets and rolling bays that beckoned 90

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humans to come and play. The scarcity of traffic was not lost on Quinton. He expected to find more people frolicking over the vast recreational park. What good was affluence without the spare time to enjoy it? On the seat beside him, Isabelle rode shotgun. Dark wisps of thick hair whipped around the aqua scarf she wore. Her body posture was more relaxed than he’d seen in days. Getting out of the palace confines seemed to agree with her. They raced down secondary gravel roads in a vintage, mint condition, two-door, convertible Land Rover. Despite the clear skies and beauty of the countryside, Quinton couldn’t kick the gnawing in his gut. “Herriman ESP” his brothers used to call it. His internal warning system that shouted trouble was coming down the pipe. In light of Isabelle’s confession, paying a surprise visit to Lord Desmond before heading back to the palace, would be prudent. He wasn’t about to consult Isabelle on that little inspiration, however. He had a pretty good idea she would nix his plan in a hurry. Jumah, strapped tight in the back seat, was busy trying to look everywhere at once. He yelled above the road noise. “Can I go swimming?” “That depends, mate.” “On what?” “On whether or not you know how to swim.” 91

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Quinton saw the flash of Isabelle’s smile from the corner of his eye. “Of course I can swim!” Quinton swerved to miss a pothole. “Have you ever gone swimming in an ocean?” “No.” “It’s different than paddling a few laps in a wading pool. There are certain rules you have to follow in order to keep safe. Number one is that you never go in unless I’m with you. Understood?” “Yes, sir.” Isabelle jumped in the midst of conversation. “Jumah, has your father ever taken you to the coast?” There was a moment of silence. Quinton glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw a look of confusion on the boy’s nut brown face. “I don’t think so,” he answered. Isabelle continued to coax. “You should ask him. I’m sure he would enjoy spending time with you.” Jumah shook his head. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “No one has ever told me who he is.” “Have you asked your uncle?” Jumah shrugged. “What does that mean, mate? Did you ask him, or not?” 92

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“He said it wasn’t important and that I should never bring up the subject again.” They drove on in silence for a few more minutes before Jumah became talkative. “Isabelle, do you have a nickname?” She turned and gave his knee a playful slap. “Izzy.” “Izzy?” Jumah’s nose wrinkled. “That sounds like a boy’s name.” Quinton couldn’t stop a belly laugh. “She’s no boy!” “What about you, Quinton? Do you have a nickname?” “Yep.” “What is it?” “Voice.” Isabelle blew out a rude noise sounding like a cross between a snort and a sneeze. Jumah went into a paroxysm of laughter. “That’s plenty enough from you two wankers.” Isabelle let out another loud snort. “Voice? It’s perfect. I should have guessed!” “Izzy,” Jumah giggled. “I didn’t think ladies made noises like rooting pigs.” “She makes plenty of unladylike noises, mate. Just get her in the right mood.” Isabelle reached over and smacked Quinton on the thigh. “Keep it up, funny boy, and you’ll be sporting a few more bruises for your collection.” 93

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“I’ve no doubt of that.” In the back seat, Jumah had grown silent again. “Hey, mate, how are you feeling?” “I’m fine.” “You’re not getting sick, are you?” “I don’t get sick.” “No? What do you call that routine you go through every afternoon?” “It’s just a phase.” “A phase? Says who?” “The Prime Minister.” Quinton met Isabelle’s poignant stare. Jumah was verifying everything they’d discovered in the Sultan’s notebook. He slowed the Land Rover and made a left hand turn down a narrow trail. “We’re here. Let’s go have some fun.”

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Chapter Fourteen he lights were low amperage, angled to deflect shadows off the hundreds of computer screens that seemed to stretch into infinity. A constant background hum of soft voices and mechanical static, dampened by soundproofed walls, served to heighten the sense of importance around the work being done. Archie Sullivan gnawed his lower lip and stared at the message scrolling across his screen. His hands shook, whether from fear or excitement, he wasn’t sure. He rubbed moist palms down his pant leg, yanked off his headset and scattered the incoming message into the cyber-abyss of the forever deleted that only an MIT genius of computer programming could assure. It wouldn’t be long before Agent Archer’s lack of communication would be notice and investigated by the Deputy Director. Orders would roll downhill. Among them, ‘establish contact immediately or sever all connections’.

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someone asks why I’m at your console?” “They’re in a meeting. Don’t worry,” Archie reassured. “I’ll let Director Locke know what’s going on before I leave.” He stood up and motioned to his chair. Mark slid cautiously into it. “Thanks. I owe you.” Archie patted him on the back. “I’ll be back inside an hour. Save any scrambled comms and I’ll take care of them when I get back.” Archie dashed out the nearest exit, jumped into his car and drove off the parking lot in record time. Cradling the cellular phone in his free hand, he punched speed dial and waited to hear the voice of his beautiful Asim. **** “He’s finally asleep,” Isabelle whispered and tugged the blanket up to Jumah’s slack chin. No encouragement needed, Quinton was already on his feet. He gave her hand a tug. There were issues at play that left him in a dark disposition. Although his infatuation with her was not among them, they needed to get a few things straight. The warning klaxon in his head had been deafening since his visit with Lord Desmond. He could feel trouble coming. Unavoidable, getting closer. Once behind the locked door, he looked her 97

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squarely in the eye. “We need to talk.” Isabelle’s long black eyelashes fluttered in what he recognized as suspicion. She pulled back and stood facing him a few feet away. “What did you tell Lord Desmond?” Her continued lack of trust really raised his hackles. “That we suspect Jumah is some sort of biological guinea pig and although we don’t have the hard evidence to explain what the scientists are working on, we might need his assistance at some point. He’s willing to help.” “And the missing children?” “Desmond agrees with us that they are probably dead.” “Murdered,” she corrected. Quinton nodded. “I don’t know what sort of experiments they are running on Jumah.” He scratched his jaw and sighed. “My gut tells me that they’re doing something, could be good or bad, to an otherwise healthy kid. It’s all related somehow and we need to find out — fast.” Isabelle stared out the window in contemplation. The afternoon light framed her in a halo. “The Sultan spent a great deal of money to bring those genetic researchers here. They are world renowned, the best in their field of study.” “Have you heard back from your people at the 98

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NSA?” “Not a word.” “Is that S.O.P.?” Isabelle gave a noncommittal shrug. “Explain.” “It’s standard operating procedure only if they didn’t find what they wanted within the data I sent. Under those circumstances, they’d expect me to stay and continue digging for answers.” She paused to clear her throat. “When they consider my work completed, I’ll receive egress instructions.” “What’s the timeline on their data extrapolation?” “Twenty four hours max.” “It’s been three times that.” “Then they want me to stay put and keep searching.” Quinton exhaled. “We have to get into the lab.” “Agreed.” “Lord Desmond thinks this is all about finances.” “A fair bet. Religion aside, money is almost always the prime motivator.” She twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. “What did you tell Desmond about me?” “Enough to satisfy his curiosity.” Her eyes narrowed. Spies detested being outed, yet they both knew he had no choice except to tell 99

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Desmond the truth about her. Quinton quickly changed the touchy subject. “Desmond has been researching data on Muldahar’s oil reserves.” Isabelle leaned forward. “Let me guess, they’re dwindling.” “If his figures are correct, Muldahar will be in a negative cash flow situation by the end of this decade.” She gave him a shocked look. “An extreme prediction. The Agency’s records don’t indicate such hardship.” “They have no way of gauging Muldahar’s oil production. Lord Desmond, on the other hand, lives here. He has first hand knowledge.” Isabelle rocked back on her heels. “If true, that would be reason for desperate measures.” Quinton found himself absorbed in her mouth as she spoke. “I wonder what sort of genetic experiments would be worth such an enormous investment in cash and lives?” He met her gaze and proposed, “A cure for cancer?” She couldn’t hide the mockery in her voice. “A toughie. History hasn’t shown mankind to have much luck with that one.” “How about AIDS?” She pursed her lips, tilted her head to the side. 100

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“Eradicating either of those would bring billions into Muldahar’s coffers.”̘ Quinton observed her closely. With lips pressed tight, a frown creasing her brow, she was every bit as luscious while engaged in serious contemplation, as in the throes of a particularly strong orgasm. It was no surprise when his cock began to stir. “Come here.” She moved stiffly. Quinton reached out and pulled her in for a long, tight hug. “The moment we find the hard evidence you need, we’re out of here.” He bent to kiss the top of her head. “I won’t betray you and I won’t leave you behind. That’s a promise.” “I believe you.” “You should.” He tilted her chin up and planted a soft kiss on her lips. “What else is on your mind?” “Jumah.” “I thought so.” “I’m concerned about his welfare. If he’s being used for experimental purposes, who’s to say he won’t be destroyed once they have what they need?” Quinton had been wrestling with those same thoughts all afternoon. “There’s no guarantee at all. In fact, I suspect that Jumah is the closest to success they’ve come so far. Yet that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be sacrificed if he became a liability.” 101

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Isabelle shook her head. Her voice took on a faraway quality, lost in memory. “I was an only child, Quinton. Shy and incredibly lonely, just like him. My parents were very wealthy. Growing up, everything was given to me before I could even form a request. Private schools. No real friends. When I wanted to learn the violin, dad bought me a Stradivarius. Believe it or not, I didn’t like being rich. In any social situation, I felt as out of place as a duck in a dog show.” Quinton listened quietly, not wanting to spoil the moment, pleased she was opening up with personal information. “I saw the way people struggled to provide for their loved ones, to feed them. Basic human needs. I empathized with that misery, even though it never touched my pampered life.” She cleared her throat. “When I announced to my parents that I wanted to attend a public university, they had a collective seizure. My mother was so beside herself, she ended up on high blood pressure medicine.” Isabelle paused to chuckle and shook her head. “I’m stubborn. I stuck to my decision.” A secret smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “I’ve always had a knack for languages. I hear patterns in speech that make them easy to learn.” “Someone took notice?” She nodded. “A man representing the NSA approached me during my sophomore year and 102

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pitched hard for recruitment.” She leaned in and rested her head against his chest. “I made him sweat awhile before I gave my final answer.” “Are your parents still alive?” “Yes.” “Do they know who you work for?” “In a vague, limited way.” Quinton inhaled the floral scent of her hair. A sudden, overwhelming mixture of apprehension and exhilaration threatened to drop him to his knees. He was smitten. Obsessed in a way he’d never been with any other woman. How the hell did this happen? What was he going to do about it? A commanding inner voice said hold on to her for all he was worth. Her voice broke the frightening spell. “Working for the NSA has given me an internal sense of worth that no amount of money could ever provide.” “The spoiled, rich brat making a difference in the world?” She grinned. “I’d work for free in order to keep that connection. But don’t tell them that.” “No worries, babe. My lips are sealed.” To punctuate the statement, Quinton leaned down and pressed his closed mouth to hers. Her arms flew up to embrace him, pupils dilated with passion. 103

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“Quinton?” “What?” “Take me to bed. Make long, slow love to me.” He sincerely wanted that lazy feeling of connection, yet the heady smell, the feel of her, always intoxicated him into brute, hard fucking. When it came to Isabelle, he seemed incapable of doing slow. When his lips grazed the back of her neck, the little noise she made stirred a reckless part of him. Only sheer determination and self-control forced it down. Trembling, he slid the clothes from her body and then removed his own. She eased down onto the bed and spread herself wide for his visual enjoyment. He gave a low whistle. “I take it you like what you see?” Her nude body gleamed in the low light of the room. On his knees before her, Quinton bent forward to give her a mix of soft kisses and long, velvety strokes up the inside of her thighs. He flicked his tongue over the swollen bud nestled in her glistening folds. He felt her shudder all the way to her toes. With a hand between her legs, his fingers probed her dampness, slipping and sliding, pressing inward and upward in exploration. Isabelle writhed under the onslaught. “I need you inside me,” she begged. 104

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“Not yet.” “Please!” He curled one powerful arm around her shoulders, the other around her ass. “Put your legs around my hips.” She did. “Lock your ankles.” She obeyed. Seconds clicked by as he pushed deeper and deeper, taking her slowly, listening to her helpless gasps. He filled her with excruciating leisure, withdrew, advanced inch by inch until she gripped the mattress in thick handfuls. She struggled to arch against him, take more, to keep him inside her longer. “Please!” He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered in an erotic voice, “Do you feel like you can’t live another moment without me inside you?” “Yes.” Good. His lips came down on hers while he continued the steady thrusting. Heavy testicles slapped against her hot skin. He broke contact for an instant, looking into her eyes. He varied the pressure, the angle, whipping the tension upward until her body suddenly exploded around him. He followed her over, convulsing, ejaculating deep inside her. Quinton sighed and pushed the 105

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hair out of her eyes. Nestled against her quivering cervix, he stayed there, unable to move and break contact. They snuggled, two spoons in a utensil drawer, while he rubbed her long, elegant back. “What is it about you, Quinton? I want you every second of every day. I think I’m turning into a nymphomaniac.” “It’s just sex, baby. Great sex.” The words, once out of his mouth, sounded superficial. Fake. He kissed her deeply and settled back on a pillow. His hand spanned the soft flesh he craved like an addict, until they both fell into sated sleep.

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Chapter Fifteen umah assured them he could find his way to the infirmary with his eyes closed. Not one to miss such an opportunity, Isabelle played along. Quinton steered him gently away each time he strayed too close to a wall or veered into a marble pillar. “You’re good at this, Jumah. I bet you could find your way around the infirmary just as easily.” She locked gazes with Quinton and grinned. “Most of it,” he agreed. “Except for the places that are off limits.” “I feel another game coming on, mate.” Isabelle blew Quinton a sappy kiss. “Prove it,” she dared. “Tell us precisely where you would go once you were past the outer lobby and sitting in the exam room that Doctor Habibi prefers for your visits.” Jumah didn’t falter. “I would walk out of the exam room and turn left. There are two procedure rooms on the right and a long hallway that leads

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to the CT scanner and laboratory.” Isabelle felt her excitement growing. The boy was a living map of exactly where she needed to search. “Where would you go next?” “There is delicate equipment in the lab, so I’d have to be careful. I don’t want the doctor angry with me for tipping over his specimens.” “Understandable.” “There are two exits in the laboratory. Both are in the back, beside the centrifuge machine. One is always locked. The door on the left is open. There is a bathroom down that hallway. The doctor’s office is also there, and a lounge with kitchen next to a large conference room. That’s where the doctor takes my uncle when he comes to check on me.” “Indeed? I would have thought that Doctor Habibi might take the Sultan to his office.” “My uncle always brings many strangers with him. Doctor Habibi’s office isn’t big enough to hold everyone.” Quinton ushered Jumah around a tight corner. Three steps later, he stopped directly in front of a large, metallic grey door. Isabelle gave him a hug. “Good job!” “You can open your eyes now, mate. You did it.” Isabelle pushed open the door and nearly collided with a solid mass of flesh equal in height 108

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to Quinton. The scent of curry and hummus shrouded her. Asim, large and looming, glared down. The malevolence in his coal black eyes, startled her. Wishing for a nine millimeter Glock, she managed a weak smile instead, mumbled an apology and stepped around him. Quinton rushed in with Jumah in tow. “What’s going on here, Asim?” “The Prime Minister sent me to inform you that the prince’s appointment has been postponed until next week.” “Why?” “I have been told that the doctor is on a holiday.” Jumah’s confusion rang clear. “He’s not here?” “He is not.” Tension, layered thick, permeated the air. Quinton’s jaw was set so tight, his dimple had disappeared. He maneuvered to block Asim’s access to her and shielded the boy as well. Even Jumah sensed uneasiness in the room. His blanched fingers grasped Quinton’s hand. Isabelle defused the situation. “Then we shall see the doctor next week.” “Inshallah.” She gave Quinton a gentle nudge toward the door, eager to make an exit. Jumah sprinted ahead, happy with the cancelled exam and a week free of blood draws. Isabelle kept her pace a few 109

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meters behind the boy. She could feel Asim’s cold eyes on her back. The moment they rounded a corner, she leaned close to Quinton’s ear. “Something is very wrong.” “I feel it too. As soon as you start your morning lessons with Jumah, I’m going to pay Lord Desmond another visit. Stay in your suite with Jumah, doors locked, until I get back.” Isabelle nodded.

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Chapter Sixteen he’s no traitor.” Quinton struggled to keep his voice low and steady. “I don’t care what your sources told you.” Lord Desmond was quick to apologize. “I have no wish to offend. I’m merely relaying what was reported to me. The NSA claims to have heard nothing from Miss Archer since she arrived in Muldahar. Her superiors assume she’s either been discovered or has gone rogue.” “What do you mean they’ve heard nothing? She’s sent them at least two messages that I know of.” Lord Desmond’s bushy eyebrows twitched. “If that is the case, there is only one logical explanation.” Quinton finished the thought for him. “There’s a mole at the NSA.” “Bloody hell!” Desmond exclaimed. “My sources are reliable. Miss Archer is in terrible danger.” Quinton leaned across the sofa, his voice

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timbered low. “Sir, I need you to do me a favor.” **** Her palms were sweating. Isabelle’s normally keen vision, enhanced now by adrenaline release, absorbed everything within sight in supercharged clarity and color. She had given herself a headache attempting to reason out the cause behind the doctor’s sudden disappearance. No matter how she spun it, all roads led back to her. There was no other answer. The Sultan and Fariq must have discovered who she was. But how? Had the study been bugged? She routinely swept her room for electronics, Jumah and Quinton’s rooms as well. Their personal quarters were always clean. However the disclosure occurred, she felt violence looming closer and options getting fewer by the hour. She would have to make a move, and soon. Through her vantage point at the window, she saw a beautiful thing. Quinton. He strode across the east lawn with the powerful swagger of a caged beast. Fierce determination etched lines on his strikingly handsome, bronzed face. She knew that look. Something, or somebody, had just rocked his world. “Jumah?” 112

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“Yes, Miss Izzy?” “Would you mind terribly if we cut our lessons short today? I have a pounding headache and would like to lie down for awhile.” He mimicked Quinton’s accent. “No problem, mate. I’ve got a new video game to learn.” “Thank you, Jumah. Please stay in your room until Quinton comes for you. It shouldn’t be long.” She paused in thought. “By the way, I want you to know that you are doing an excellent job with your lessons. You have a real gift for languages.” Just like me. He beamed from ear to ear and practically skipped out of the room. “Please wake me up in time for the evening meal.” He waved to her over his shoulder. “Take care, little one.” Three minutes later, Quinton exploded into the room. The relief painting his features shot her paranoia level through the roof. He pulled her close in his arms and kissed her breathless. “How bad is it?” His chin rested on the top of her head. “We're stuffed." Isabelle, how many duty agents are backing you up while you’re on this mission?” “Why?” “I think one of them sold you out.” 113

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“What?” “Desmond’s sources claim the NSA believes you’ve either been turned or you’re dead.” “What are you talking about?” “None of your messages got through to them.” “That’s impossible.” A cold knot of dread twisted tighter in her belly. “I’ve sent continual updates and all the information I could glean.” “I know.” He pulled her close in his arms and kissed her forehead. “Someone covering your mission must have intercepted them.” “I have to get word to Director Locke.” Quinton cleared his throat. “And what if Locke is the one behind it?” Isabelle closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “The man’s an irritating sexist, but I wouldn’t peg him for a traitor to his country.” “Money changes allegiances.” “It certainly does,” her voice drifted off. Quinton’s sharp tone brought her back to their current situation. “We’re getting out of here ASAP. It’s too dangerous for you to stay. Gather whatever you can stuff in a backpack and meet me in my room in ten minutes.” “What’s the plan?” “Desmond is contacting a mate of mine. All we have to do is stay alive until he arrives with a plane to extract us. In the meantime, I need to find 114

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a safe place for you to hide.” “We’re on an island, a sovereign country. There’s no such thing as safe here. I’m better off sticking tight to you here in the palace. Our rooms are defensible and we can make a run for the airport when the time comes.” “You’ll get no argument from me on that.” “My bet is that Asim murdered the children. I doubt that the circle of those involved in the bloodshed is very big. If they come for us, we stand a better chance fighting them together.” “Not only beautiful, she’s smart, too.” Isabelle gave a curtsy. “I’ll pack my supplies and meet you in your quarters.” “Where’s Jumah?” “Playing in his room.” “Okay,” he answered. “We all stay together. And as soon as we figure out how we’re going to explain all this, I’ll go get him.” Quinton planted a long kiss, an invasion of her mouth that left her breathless, and rushed from the room. Isabelle stared at the floor. Her head pounded. Never in all her years with the NSA had her cover been blown so badly. It burned to know the mission was probably compromised from the start. And to be thought a traitor? She gave herself a few moments of self-pity before springing into action. 115

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**** The idea of Isabelle ever being harmed by the Sultan’s decree rolled over Quinton in ballistic waves of fury. Let anyone try and he’d break enough ribs to give the bastard a flail chest. Quinton unlocked the door to his quarters and pushed inside. Asim was on him in a flash of speed and steel. He lunged, missed. Quinton spun toward him and grabbed his knife hand. For a second, all of Asim’s weight rested on his left leg. Quinton kicked it out from under him with an angry grunt. Asim crashed to the floor, dragging Quinton down with him. The blade flew from his hand and ricocheted off the telephone stand. Quinton rolled, punching and kicking, unable to score a solid hit with the force it took to stun. Asim held him pinned in a bear hug of grinding strength. “Are you trying to kiss me or kill me, asshole?” With a roar, Asim pushed away just enough for Quinton to land a vicious head-butt to his nose. The crack echoed in his ears. He scrambled to his feet, braced for another round. Blood ran from Asim’s left nostril. “Infidel,” he coughed and moved slowly to stand. “Before I beat you senseless for murdering 116

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those innocent boys, I want some answers. What the hell are you growing inside Jumah?” Asim’s black eyes opened wide in astonishment. He took a step back, distancing himself. “Allah’s gift.” “Be more specific.” “A cure for the worst of mankind.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “AIDS.” Quinton shook his head in awe. “And Avian flu as well.” Asim’s hand rested loosely at his side. “The scientists are here to confirm our work and find a way to mass produce the antibodies. Inshallah, our people will soon rule your Godless country.” Quinton was stunned by the revelation, even more so when Asim pulled a small caliber revolver from the folds of his smock and took aim at his chest. “Captain, do you have any more foolish questions for me to answer before you die?” His heart sank. No matter which way he dodged, at such close range, the bullet would be deadly. He had failed her. From the open portal, separating foyer from living room, Isabelle appeared - armed and dangerous. 117

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Quinton raised his hand. “Just one more question?” “Speak.” “How the hell are you going to shoot me, drongo, with a blade sticking out of your neck?” The thin knife that Isabelle flung, whizzed through the air with deadly accuracy and lodged deep in Asim’s spinal column, just below the third cervical vertebrae. The whites of his eyes bulged in utter surprise. The gun fell from his flaccid hand. His face went slack a second before his legs followed. Asim collapsed onto the polished wood floor with a loud thud. “What took you so long?” Isabelle glanced from Asim’s crumpled form and back to Quinton. “I thought you needed some male bonding time.” “How much did you hear?” “All of it.” She launched herself into his arms and smothered his face with kisses. “I told you we’d be better off sticking together.” “Come on, gorgeous. Help me clean up the mess you made.” “We can hide his body in the bathtub. That should buy us enough time to get out of here.” Quinton rolled Asim on his back while Isabelle searched his pant pockets. “Our phone lines aren’t secure. Here, use his cellphone to call Desmond. Get an update on your friend’s whereabouts.” 118

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“Iz?” “Yes?” “Thank you.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Anytime, anywhere.”

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Chapter Seventeen he afternoon bled into evening. Isabelle stayed close to their quarters, wary of letting Jumah out of her sight. The boy balked at her decision to tackle their next English lesson before supper, but with the promise of a double hot fudge sundae, quickly acquiesced. She had killed Asim before he’d told them precisely who, besides Quinton, the Sultan wanted disposed of. Although she hoped Jumah would be spared, it was not a chance she was willing to take. The thought of him following the deadly path of his cousins because of her fouled-up assignment was too much to bear. She popped an antacid into her mouth. At the rate her stomach was secreting acid, the organ would eat itself down to the last cell by morning. An oppressive air of expectation hovered over the day. There had been no further visits from homicidal maniacs, no phone calls demanding their immediate presence in the throne room.

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Nothing. They’d become personae non gratae. Isabelle respite was only temporary. Fariq would find out soon enough that Asim had failed in his attempt to kill them. Then the real battle would be on. Who would be sent to finish the job? How many would she and Quinton have to fight in order to get clear of the palace grounds? Five? Ten? She glanced across the room. Quinton was busy cleaning the handgun Asim had tried to kill him with. He looked up, caught her staring, and winked. “As soon as it’s dark, we make a break for the coast. RW will wait for us.” His reassurance was meant to soothe her nerves. It didn’t. “We have to bring Jumah with us. The little mate is living proof of what we’ve discovered here.” A rush of renewed anger threatened to swallow her. Her nerves were completely jangled. “Quinton, I’m going to find out who betrayed me. I swear it. And when I do, I’m going to take the feculent bastard…” “Or bitch.” “Or both,” she managed a tight smile. “Whoever is involved, I’m personally taking them on a high altitude skydive.” “Let me guess, without their parachute?” “Precisely.” 121

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“Skydive, eh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sky goddess.” “You didn’t peg me for a spy, either.” “True,” he chuckled. “Are you any good at it?” “Spying or skydiving?” “Both.” “Yes and yes.” Quinton’s expression got serious. “Which one of us is going to tell Jumah the truth?” A reedy voice startled them. “I already know.” Isabelle’s head snapped around. Jumah, small and distraught, stood just inside the open door. He stared up at them, eyes red and swollen. “Tell us what you know, mate.” Jumah cast a glance to his left. “Ask her.” Amtullah stepped into view. Isabelle heard herself growl. Fists clenched, she could barely keep from throttling the old hag. “I told him the truth of his heritage,” Amtullah jeered. “All that has been hidden from him.” She clutched the arm of a heavily veiled woman, and with a yank, brought her fully into view. Haunting eyes, thick with kohl and fear, darted around the room. Quinton took a step toward them. “State your business, old woman.” Amtullah bristled. “Fariq plans to murder all of you tonight while you sleep.” 122

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“Well, isn’t that original,” Isabelle taunted. “Does he plan on doing it himself this time or is he sending another one of his monkeys?” “What do you think?” Amtullah snapped. Isabelle motioned to Jumah. “Come here, honey.” The boy froze for a second before slowly edging her way. “Are you okay?” The boy gave her a brave thumbs-up. “You must leave my country before other innocents die.” “That’s our plan.” Quinton nodded to the other woman. “Who are you?” “Adara.” “Jumah’s mother?” “She is.” Amtullah pinched Adara’s arm hard enough to make her flinch. “Release her,” Quinton’s voice grew deadly. “Right now.” Amtullah pushed her further into the room and swept her gnarled hand in a broad arc. “All of you must leave at once. I will help you escape if you take this abomination and her offspring with you.” Isabelle checked her watch. The word from Lord Desmond had been promising. Quinton’s friend was on the way, however, his ETA was unknown. “Don’t ever touch her again,” Quinton snarled. 123

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Adara scurried to Jumah’s side. “If this is a trick, you’ll be the first casualty.” He pumped a cartridge into the handgun and switched off the safety. Amtullah seemed unphazed by the threat. “I want nothing more than your absence.” “In that case, let’s get this show on the road.” The room burst into motion. Isabelle grabbed her pack and fell into place at the back of the line. Jumah grabbed his mother by the hand, offering words of comfort. Quinton hovered behind Amtullah. They took off, single-file, moving fast. Amtullah led them straight into Jumah’s bedroom, swept aside a decorative curtain and opened the small door behind it. A door that had been there all along! Quinton let out a foul curse. Isabelle felt the adrenaline flood through her veins. She kept a firm grasp on her knife, expecting a trap at any moment. They had to duck their heads to get through the portal. A dimly lit corridor, just over three meters in width, spidered out in several directions for as far as Isabelle could see. It took fifteen minutes of weaving through the catacomb-like maze before Amtullah pulled up short. Quinton nearly ran her over. Isabelle wished he had. 124

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“We are here.” Quinton flashed the business end of the gun in her face and growled, “Remember my promise.” The secret corridors’ dank existence had not shown on the maps she’d studied before coming to Muldahar. But she could guess what they were used for. And the thought was enough to make her fear the dark. Amtullah’s lips thinned. Isabelle braced herself. This is it. Either freedom or captivity lay beyond. Amtullah rushed through the door. A bright light flickered on. They were in the the royal garage. Alone. Amtullah pointed her crooked finger. “Leave now. Never come back.”

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Chapter Eighteen oger Wayne leaned his long frame against the Cessna Caravan, glanced at his watch and scowled. Under normal circumstances, he wasn’t an impatient man, but when Lord Desmond Montgomery called to personally enlist assistance in spiriting Quinton from Muldahar? RW was in the air, pushing the plane to the max, before his dogs had time to steal his lunch. What kind of trouble had his old friend gotten into? Hell, he hadn’t been in the country much more than a week. The Voice had knack for getting out of sticky problems, not into them! If the situation was bad enough that a British diplomat was forced to place the call for help, he knew it was bloody dangerous. There was no way RW would let the big guy face that kind of trouble alone. He swept a hand through his wind-tousled, sandy brown hair, took a swig of soda and popped a palm full of chocolate candies in his

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mouth. There was one paved road leading to the small airport on Muldahar’s northern border. Used mainly by the elite, the airport housed a plethora of Lear and Falcon jets in its large, air-conditioned hangars. RW knew the area well. He had flown freight over most of the globe for the past twenty years and plenty of it into prosperous Muldahar. The Sultan’s people were excellent consumers and their wealth trickled generously down to him. A ribbon of dust, trailing a vehicle, snapped RW to attention. He grabbed the binoculars off the pilot’s seat. A Land Rover, moving fast. Inside, RW counted three, maybe four, occupants. He scanned the road behind the Rover. Nothing in sight. They weren’t being followed. At least not for the moment. The Cessna was refueled and poised beside the runway for a quick departure. The plane, still hooked up to the APU, required extra power to kick over the engines. As far as RW was concerned, the auxiliary power unit was the only tether between ground and air. His plane was more reliable than an income tax deadline. He whispered to the wind. “Come on, buddy. You’re almost here.” The moment the Land Rover hit the tarmac, he climbed into the cockpit, flipped two switches and 127

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listened to the familiar whine of the turbine fans as they spun up to speed. He watched the RPM dial, fingers poised to initiate the fuel injection igniters. Now. The Caravan’s engine roared to life. Seconds later, Quinton Herriman jumped from the Land Rover. A raven-haired beauty was close behind him. RW waved and motioned them to approach. A young boy scrambled from the backseat, clutching a slender, veiled woman having a hard time keeping her face covered. Quinton sprinted across the few meters separating them and unplugged the Caravan from the external APU. He gave RW a mock salute, mouthed the words ‘thank you’ and hurried back to the plane. RW yelled above the noise. “Welcome aboard! Everybody strap in tight.” Turning to ensure his instructions were being followed, his gaze collided with the veiled woman’s. For just a second, his heart stopped. Enormous, sad eyes peered up at him with gratitude. Yet, there was something more visceral to his response that he didn’t have time to dissect. Another, larger ribbon of dust was speeding toward them. “Time to go!” RW cranked up the power, pushed the forward lever. The powerful Caravan raced down the 128

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runway, quickly picking up speed. He could see the flash of automatic gunfire coming from the direction of the approaching vehicles. Futile. They were too far away and widening that gap every second. In seconds, the Caravan was airborne. **** Four hours and six hundred air miles later, they touched down on a small island that Quinton informed Isabelle belonged solely to RW. She couldn’t hold in a squeal of delight. “He owns his own island? You have got to be kidding me!” She bent in to plant a sloppy kiss on his mouth. “Have I told you lately that you’re a spy’s wet dream?” “Not that I recall. But since you’re in such a happy mood, what will you give me if I tell you he has two German Shepherds and a monster-solid house that I helped him design and build ten years ago?” “Nothing nearly as hot and sweaty as what you’ll get if he also has a secure sat-phone that I can call Baltimore from.” Quinton chuckled. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” She climbed over him to get out. Two sleek and powerful dogs bolted from inside the house, headed their way at a full out run. Jumah made a 129

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beeline for them. Adara refused Quinton’s offer of assistance. Instead, she waited in the open hatch until RW appeared, then offered her hand to him. “Mate, you saved our asses today. I owe you one.” RW’s eyes never left Adara. “You’re wrong there, buddy. I’m still playing catch-up.” Situated far enough from the crude runway to avoid air blown debris, RW’s rectangular, beachfront style house stood on pilings sturdy enough to withstand a cyclone. Isabelle was drawn like a moth toward it. A weird sense of déjà vu disrupted her thoughts. “You designed this?” “I did,” Quinton answered. “You like it?” She couldn’t remember knowing anyone with a similar abode, yet something about the pale grey house struck a familiar chord. “So far,” she answered. “There is large volume storage and a lofted living area that opens onto the covered, wraparound porch.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “You sound like a real estate agent.” “Just a proud contractor.” “How many square feet?” “Three grand.” “How many bedrooms?” 130

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“Four and the master bedroom.” “That’s a lot of bedrooms for a bachelor with two big dogs.” “His request. RW wants a big family someday.” “I see.” Isabelle watched Jumah rolling in the beach grass with the German Shepherds and felt a strange premonition. “Perhaps someday he’ll get exactly that.” **** Amtullah bint Khaldun, descendant from a line of Muldahar’s most trusted royal servants, had been the keeper of the palace harem for nearly three decades. There had been much to stain the patina of her soul in those years. Yet, in all that time, nothing had sickened her so deeply as the evil of recent years. If his atrocities ever became known to the world, it would bring destruction to them all. Sultan Mohammed Malik Husma al Din, once revered to the level of divine by Amtullah herself, had surely lost his mind. Aided by the wicked Fariq, he had perpetrated the most hideous of crimes against those who loved him most. Soraya - the most generous and kindest of women. The Sultan’s first wife. Her beloved Soraya had endured much terrible 131

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shame at the hands of the Sultan. Sweet Soraya, mother of the son who by all rights should be the next ruler of their country. Amtullah had witnessed enough. This day, the many wrongs of the Sultan’s regime would be righted. With courage of conviction, liberally sprinkled with fast acting poison, she arranged an assorted mix of banyan figs and Arbequina olives on a heavy sterling tray - the customary late afternoon snack of the Sultan and his oldest friend.

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Chapter Nineteen his is Archer. Put Locke on the phone.” Time shimmered and stretched thin. Isabelle considered all she could say while she waited. “Locke here.” His voice had the same tone of command as Quinton’s. The similarities ended there. “I’ve been sending you intel since the first week I got to Muldahar.” “I know.” “I’ve been set up.” “I am aware of that.” Isabelle struggled to keep emotion from her speech. Was it possible that Locke really was the mole? “What happened in my absence? Why do the Brits think I’m a traitor?” “Where are you, Archer?” “Somewhere safe. Answer my question.” “If you’re still in Muldahar, you need to get out right now. We have all the info we need. Your assignment is over. I’ve arranged your extraction.” Her composure nearly snapped. “Answer my

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fucking question, Locke.” There was a long moment of silence. “Are you on a secure line?” “I wouldn’t have called you if I weren’t.” “Sullivan was behind your data diversion.” “Archie?” “He’s been on our radar for awhile. We’ve never found proof of our suspicions, until now.” “What happened?” “One of our agents at BWI got lucky. He recognized Sullivan with a Muldahar national, the Prime Minister’s second-hand man.” “Asim.” “Yes. It didn’t take us long to backtrack and find the information Sullivan tried to hide. Computer geniuses are a relative thing. There’s always someone better out there. Sullivan will be behind bars for life.” Isabelle’s head swirled with relief. “Come home, Archer.” “I’ll think about it.” She severed their connection before Locke could answer and turned to find Quinton standing in the doorway, watching her intently. “You’re going back to Baltimore.” Bitterness underscored his words. “I have to.” “What about Jumah and Adara?” “They stay put with RW until I know Locke is 134

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telling me the truth.” “Spies.” Quinton shook his head. “You never trust anyone, do you, Iz?” “Is that a rhetorical question or do you really expect an answer?” His cold blue eyes speared right through her. Isabelle was shocked at the intensity. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” Quickly, she crossed the room, closed the distance between them and stood close enough to feel his harsh breath on her face. She brushed her lips lightly over his. “I don’t want to leave knowing you’re angry with me, Quinton.” Her hands followed the curve of his waist and down to cup his heavy erection. “You’re a good man.” His anger melted beneath her gaze. “I knew you’d have to leave. I just hoped to spend more time with you.” “You mean, quality time, away from homicidal maniacs?” His expression grew sad. “Something like that.” “Fuck me, Quinton.” He closed and locked the door behind them. They fell upon each other in a desperate tangle of fingers and tongues. Isabelle let him lead her to the bed, strip their clothes and gently lower her onto her back. His hot mouth fastened on a nipple, then settled between her legs and slowly, methodically, 135

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worked his way down her body, stopping to kiss the curves of her breasts, the sensitive underside of her upper arms. She jumped, ticklish, when his lips raked her ribs, grew impatient when he took too much time delighting in her navel. “Oh, hurry, please hurry.” “Relax, baby. I’ll give it to you, slow and sweet. But as soon as you cum, it’s all about me. I’m going to fuck you the way I need to.” He moved further down, halted to run his tongue right up the center of her. “Quinton!” “I know.” Just as she feared she would lose her grip on sanity, Quinton rose up over her and slowly pushed his thick erection inside. Isabelle’s body hummed with the intrusion. He started slow, as promised, maneuvering to find her sweet spot. He flicked a finger over her clit. Isabelle’s first orgasm came hard and fast. He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered in a sultry, erotic voice, “My turn.” Quinton pounded her, picking up speed and power until there was nothing left of the world except the sound of their tortured breathing and wet flesh slapping wet flesh. He twined his fingers in her hair, pushed deep and held himself there as he climaxed in geysers of hot cum. Isabelle’s world went nova in streams of color and light. 136

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Epilogue One month later he pub in Perth was different than she remembered. Remodeled, expanded, cold with desperation. Isabelle shivered. She’d been to Australia twice before. Once, on assignment, a second time while on vacation with her parents. The time she’d spent being debriefed at the NSA facility, combined with a subsequent mission to uncover a child slave trade ring in DC, had flung her into such a morose funk that Locke insisted she take some time off “to get closure with that Australian bodyguard and learn how to smile again”. So, here she was. Ready to do exactly that. Scared shitless. Completely at the mercy of love. There was little comfort in knowing that whatever fear of failure she might be experiencing would be nothing compared to the regret of never having the

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courage to try. She took a deep breath and strode purposefully to a small table where a very big man sat watching a rugby game on one of four television screens, his back turned to her. She was in love with Quinton Herriman. Deeply. Madly. Truly. Every minute away from him tore the hole in her heart just a little bit larger. She needed to tell him, face to face. She needed to be near him. She needed him to love her. Until she was certain how he felt, heard it from his own lips, Isabelle remained — unhinged. She approached quietly, judging him oblivious to her presence right up to the second she saw his shoulders tense. His booming voice nearly dropped her. “You’re late again.” He turned and the haunted look that had been in his eyes, disappeared. Isabelle could barely breathe. She collapsed on the bar stool beside him. “You should have called,” he grumbled. “I wanted to surprise you. RW told me about this pub, that you and your brothers own it. He thought you’d be here.” “He did, eh? What else did you wrestle out of him?” “That he’s smitten with Adara and Jumah. They are staying on the island while the U.S. shuttles 138

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scientists and lab equipment back and forth.” “Is Jumah happy?” “By all accounts, he is. RW has taught him how to juggle and ride a unicycle.” Quinton let out a low chuckle. “RW’s teaching Jumah all his bad habits, eh?” Isabelle reached over and took a hearty slug of Quinton’s brew. “I hope RW saves a few bad habits for after Jumah reaches puberty.” “What about the Sultan and Fariq? What will happen to them?” “Oh, I’m sure they’ll get what they deserve.” Quinton took a long swig of his brew. “What else did RW say?” “Well, he told me you were orphaned at sixteen. And that you’ve had to work hard for everything in your life while raising two younger brothers. He confessed that his uncle, Admiral White, has been trying to get you to move to America for years. The Admiral is determined to recruit you into the Coast Guard.” “True enough.” “RW also said that you are loyal, honorable and as frightened about being in love as I am.” Quinton’s mug slipped from his grip and crashed to the table. He cleared his throat. “Sounds like my old mate sang like a canary.” Isabelle was too nervous to appreciate his joke. “So what happens between us now?” 139

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“You mean now that we realize we can’t live without each other? Is that the kind of now that you’re talking about, my beautiful spy?” “I think you’ve summed it up nicely.” Quinton’s mouth pulled up in a genuine smile. “Whatever you want to happen, sweetheart.” He leaned closer and brought his glass up in a toast. “I’m yours. Completely. The truth is, you had me from hello. I was just too thickheaded to admit it.” She shifted on the high stool, the top of her black silk panties riding up above her low-cut jeans. “You know, there’s a drop zone a few kilometers down the road. Any chance you might be up for some naked skydiving with me? We can discuss our wedding plans on the way there.” Quinton jumped to his feet and pulled her into his bulging groin. His roar of laughter turned every head in the pub. “Are you proposing to me, Isabelle Annemarie Archer?” “Certainly sounds that way.” She blinked once and forged ahead. “Are you down with that, Voice?” “Anytime, baby. Anywhere.”

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About the Author Samantha Gail and her husband live in Barrow, Alaska - home to polar bears, Eskimos, snowy owls and arctic foxes, along with amazing northern light shows and plenty of snuggling to keep warm. Samantha can be reached at this email: [email protected] Samantha’s website is located at: http://www.samanthagail.com