Gail Barrett - Seduced by His Target

The answering warmth in her body shocked her. Appalled, she hugged her arms.

“What do you want?” he asked in English. Flawless, American English.

“You’re American?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate, but she angled her head, studying him with even more interest now. Few nonnative speakers had an accent that perfect. He must have spent time in the States—which might make him sympathize with them.

“Listen,” she began. “I don’t know who you were after, but you must have made a mistake. I’m a doctor. So is Henry, the man I’m with. You must have confused us with someone else.”

He folded his arms, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his muscled chest. “We didn’t make a mistake.”

Taken aback, she tried to recoup. “If you’re after a ransom—”

“We’re not.”

Her heart skipped. They had to be. Ignoring his answer, she tried again. “I can get the money. I have a friend, a photographer. She can come up with whatever you want. Just take us to a town where I can contact her.”

His black eyes continued to hold her. Firelight danced on his swarthy skin, emphasizing the harsh hollows of his granite face. “I told you. We don’t want your money.”

“But then...” She glanced at the other men. Their fixed stares further unnerved her, and she tightened her grip on her arms. And suddenly, visions spun through her mind of terrified captives paraded across the television screen, pleading desperately for their lives—and then slain. Did these men intend to kill them?

No. She quashed a burst of dread. She couldn’t start imagining the worst. They probably planned to negotiate a prisoner swap, to force the Peruvian or American government to free a jailed criminal in exchange for them. FARC had used that tactic in Colombia for years. Maybe these men were doing the same.

But that brought dangers of its own. She couldn’t risk the public exposure, no matter how much she wanted to get free. She’d spent too many years on the run, always moving, always changing her identity, carefully staying out of the limelight to evade the enemies dogging her. Not only was her powerful family hunting her down, but she had a gang executioner on her trail, a man who needed to ensure her silence after she’d chanced upon his crime. And if he ever figured out who she was, he wouldn’t just go after her. He’d pursue the other two witnesses, her closest friends.

But as much as she wanted to bolt she couldn’t worry about herself right now. She had to think of Henry, and get him to a hospital fast. She’d plot her own escape later, once she made sure he was safe.

She lifted her gaze to her kidnapper’s, wishing she could read the thoughts behind those impenetrable black eyes. “Is there a reason you need two doctors? Does someone need medical help?”

“No.”

“Because Henry’s hurt. He has a concussion. Altitude sickness, too. He needs urgent medical care. We need to get him down the mountain to a hospital before his condition gets any worse.”

His brows snapped into a frown. He glanced toward the cave behind her, a hint of uncertainty flitting through his eyes. Or had she imagined that? Just because he spoke English like a native didn’t mean he had a heart.

But whether he sympathized with them or not didn’t matter. She had to convince him to let Henry go.

“Henry has HACE,” she continued. “High altitude cerebral edema. His brain is swelling, and the concussion is making it worse. If we don’t get him to a lower altitude immediately, he could die.”

The white-turbaned man by the campfire rose. Her kidnapper glanced his way, and suddenly, a shutter fell over his face, every trace of sympathy vanishing from his eyes. “Get back in the cave,” he told her and turned away.

But she leaped out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

He stopped. He slowly turned to face her, his gaze trained on hers. An electric jolt sizzled through her, the iron feel of his bulging biceps scorching her palm like a red-hot brand. Startled, she released her grip. What was that? Shaken at her odd reaction, she stepped back.

“Please.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Henry and I... We’re not important. No one cares if we disappear or not. And the organization we’re with, Medical Help International, won’t negotiate with you. We signed an agreement. They’re not responsible for rescuing us if anything goes wrong.”

“I told you, we don’t want your money.”

“Then what do you want?”

He didn’t answer, and she tried again. “There’s no point in keeping Henry. You can’t possibly need him. He’s too sick. You have to let him go.”

The white-turbaned man approached, fingering his gun. Nadine sucked in a breath, determined not to show any fear. But this man’s dead eyes made her insides crawl.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her kidnapper in Arabic, and her heart stopped cold. Oh, God. These men were Middle Eastern.

What were they doing here?

Her kidnapper turned to the turbaned man. “The man in the cave is hurt. She wants us to let him go.”

Her lungs seized up. Dizziness barreled through her, and she feared she was going to heave. They weren’t only speaking Arabic, but Jaziirastani, a dialect spoken only in her father’s country.

The father who wanted her dead.

The man’s hate-filled eyes burned into hers. “He’s staying with us. Now shut up and get back in the cave.”

Nausea roiled inside her. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. But she had to stay calm, think and get Henry out of this mess—before he ended up dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said in English, trying her best to look confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak your language.”

“The hell you don’t, Nadira al Kahtani. Now get back in the cave or I’ll shoot your friend.”

Her knees went weak. Shocked speechless, she staggered backward, then stumbled into the cave. She wobbled over to Henry and collapsed on the ground beside him, her carefully built world crashing apart.

“What happened?” he asked.

Too overwhelmed to answer, she pulled her legs to her chest, her entire body starting to shake.

They knew her name. They knew who she really was.

“Did you find out what they want?” he asked again.

She’d found out, all right. They wanted her.

After fifteen years on the run, her past had caught up with her. And this time it looked as if there was no way out.

Chapter 3

Rasheed couldn’t believe it. Their captive was Nadira al Kahtani, the daughter of his prime suspect. The daughter of the man who’d murdered his wife.

Still struggling to process that bombshell, he adjusted the cinch on his gelding’s saddle as the terrorists prepared to ride out. He’d known she was Middle Eastern. And he could see her as a member of the Jaziirastani royal family with her regal, spirited air. But Nadira al Kahtani? The daughter of the banker financing this terrorist mission? It didn’t make any sense.

Incredulous at the revelation, he shuffled through his memories, trying to reconcile this stunning development with what he knew of the secretive clan. Yousef al Kahtani was a wealthy Jaziirastani banker who resided in Washington, D.C. The intelligence community had long suspected him of funneling money to the Rising Light terrorists and funding jihadist activity worldwide. But thanks to his generous campaign contributions, he also had power. And every time they got close to unraveling his murky activities, some high-level politician ran interference, stopping the investigation in its tracks.

Al Kahtani’s wife had died over a decade ago. Aside from a son, Sultan, he had a daughter, Nadira, rumored to be both brilliant and beautiful, who’d disappeared shortly after her mother’s death. In fact, she’d dropped off the grid so completely the CIA assumed she’d returned to her father’s native country, where she’d either married or died.