Jane Porter - The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

She had the look of a woman who knew her mind, a woman who wasn’t easily influenced or deceived, which made him wonder about her appearance in Ouaha.

“I’m the one to ask the questions. You’re the one to answer. Go now to your tent. I shall speak with you later.” Tair turned and walked away, but not before he saw her jaw drop and the blaze of fury in her eyes.

This woman didn’t like being told what to do. His lips curved as he returned to his men. She’d learn soon to mask her true feelings or she’d simply continue playing into his hand.

TALLY watched the bandit—Tair, he’d said his name was—walk away. She noticed he hadn’t even waited for her to respond. He’d ordered her in and then just walked away knowing she had no choice but to obey.

She clutched the tent flap, and stared at his retreating back, watching his white robe flow behind him.

Tally swore silently. Think, she told herself, do something. But what?

She caught the eye of one of the men cleaning guns and his expression was so disapproving that Tally shivered, and swiftly stepped into the tent.

But once inside, Tally didn’t know what she was supposed to do. The tent was crude. There were few furnishings—just a low futonlike bed, a blanket of sorts, a small chest and a couple of pillows on the bed—and nothing remotely decorative. No wardrobe for clothes (not that she had any!), no chair, no mirror, nothing.

It would have been so easy to panic, but Tally resisted falling apart. There was little point in giving way to hysterics. No one even knew she was gone. No one would know she was missing. As far as her family knew, she’d been missing for years.

Sighing, she rubbed her brow, feeling the grit of sand and dust at her temple, against her scalp. Riding across the desert had been an illuminating experience. She could have sworn she ate more sand and dust than what they’d traveled over thanks to the horses’ flying hooves.

Loosening her ponytail, Tally pulled the elastic from her hair and dragged her fingers through her hair, working the kinks free. What was going to happen now?

What was she supposed to do? Run? Steal a horse? Make vague threats about human rights and government relations?

Lifting the weight of her hair from her neck, she let her nape cool. She felt hot and sticky all over. Hot, sticky and afraid.

Why was she here? Were they going to ransom her? Punish her? What?

What did they want with her?

Reluctantly Tally pictured Tair, the bandit who’d taken her from town, and her stomach did a dramatic free fall all the way to her toes. Tair wasn’t like the others. He was bigger, harder, fiercer. The way he’d held her as they rode today had been possessive, the very way his arm curved around her, his hand against her stomach sent shockwaves of alarm through her. It was as if he’d laid claim to her, a statement of ownership.

But she wasn’t his. She’d never be his.

Her stomach did another nosedive and goose bumps covered her arms. Irritably she rubbed at her arms, trying to ignore the crazy adrenaline ricocheting through her.

He hadn’t let her die in the desert. When she’d had her asthma attack he’d forced air into her lungs and then found her inhaler. He obviously didn’t want her dead. But then what did he want from her? And would anyone back in Seattle care if she never returned?

Don’t be a pessimist, she rebuked herself severely. You’re a freelance photographer, and maybe you’ve never deliberately photographed war, but you knew that life in the desert wasn’t without violence.

For a moment Tally felt calmer, stronger, at least she did until her tent flap snapped open and a dark shadow filled the opening.

Tally’s stomach jumped, her heart plummeted. God help her. The bandit was back.

Dropping her hair, she smoothed her white cotton shirt over the waistband of her khaki slacks and watched as he entered her tent. He had to stoop to get through the covered opening. Once inside he glanced casually around, as if taking stock.

Tally swallowed hard, hands knotted at her sides. “Can you tell me why I’m here?” she asked, trying to sound conversational, not confrontational.

The tent flap swished behind him, allowing in bits of the twilight. He’d changed, and his outer robe hung open over a loose shirt and fitted pants. “You’ve interesting friends,” he said, after a long tense pause.

“I don’t understand. What friends are you talking about?”

“The friends you’ve been traveling with.”

Her forehead furrowed. “I’m on my own. I’ve traveled with no one.”

“You had men with you this morning.”

“Ah.” Her expression cleared. Comprehension, as well as relief swept over her. “Those men worked for me. They’re Barakan. One was my translator. The other a guide.”

He said nothing so she pushed on, praying she sounded confident, reasonable. “I hired them in Atiq and they knew I wanted to visit the kasbahs on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.”

“How much did they pay you?”

Tally felt a prickle behind her eyes, pain that reminded her of the migraines she used to get when she was in college. “They didn’t pay me. I paid them. As I said, I hired them. Their names were given to me by the hotel and they came highly recommended.”

“And did they do what you wanted?”

“Yes. Until this morning there’d been no problem.”

He regarded her for a long silent moment. “Why did you want to come to Ouaha?”

“Is that where I am?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“I am surprised. I hadn’t realized we’d left Baraka. There was no border crossing—”

“A desert separates the countries, Woman.”

She flinched at the “woman” but didn’t contradict him. Instead she took a breath, suppressing her aggravation. “There was no plan to come to Ouaha. I merely told my guides what I wanted and they set the course knowing I needed to be in Casablanca by the first of October.”

“Why the first of October?”

“My visa for Baraka ends and I need to be in Morocco by then.”

His thickly fringed eyes narrowed, his angular jaw thickening yet again. “And so what exactly are you doing here, so far from your home?” His voice had dropped, and it was low, low and deadly.

“Nothing. Just sightseeing.”

“With rebels as your guides?”

Her pulse quickened yet again. She pressed her palms together, the skin damp, sticky. “I don’t know their politics. We never discussed—”

“But you paid them.”

“Yes. I needed them. This part of the world is remote, and often inaccessible for women. I needed experienced guides.”

“You’re sure they didn’t pay you?”

Tally would have laughed if the situation weren’t so precarious. “For what?”

He slowly crouched down in front of the bed until he was eye to eye with her. His dark gaze met hers, held, the set of his mouth anything but gentle. “Why don’t you tell me.”

His eyes were so dark, and the expression so intense that Tally felt her heart stutter, not just with fear, but awareness. She knew men and was comfortable with men but Tair wasn’t like men she’d ever known. There was an untamed element to him, a primitive maleness that made her feel increasingly small, fragile, female. And she didn’t like feeling small or fragile, she just wasn’t. Life had toughened her. She didn’t frighten easily.

Swallowing, Tally gathered her courage. “I have no idea what you want from me. I’m just a tourist—”

“Not just a tourist. You’ve spent two weeks with those men. Two weeks photographing, documenting.” His voice dropped even lower, deeper, and the husky ominous pitch slid down Tally’s spine.