Dana Marton - The Black Sheep Sheik

“Efraim said… The phone gave out before he could explain. No police.”

“Fine. Then we find a phone and you can call this Efraim again.”

“Yes. That would be best. My friends will send a team for us. We’ll be safe at the resort. Once the royal physician arrives, he’ll take you to Jamala under guard. I might have to stay here for a day or two. There are international relations to consider. I might have duties left still with things we came here to accomplish.”

She wasn’t thrilled at the idea of his security staff arriving and taking control of her. “Or, how about this? Why wait for anyone? With armed madmen looking for us out there, I’m thinking time is of the essence. I can take you to Wind River and your friends. Then we part ways. I’ll drop you off at the gate.”

“We must not fight about this. Stress is not good for you or my son. You should be reasonable.” He had the gall to reproach her.

Enough steam gathered in her head to fill the steam bath at the resort’s fancy spa. She gave Amir her sweetest smile. “If you don’t like my plan, you can always get out of the car right here.”

He didn’t have the chance to respond. The black van appeared at the other end of the alley, flying toward them, motor roaring.

No room to turn the SUV around.

No time to inch out of the narrow alley backward, slowly.

They were trapped.

BEFORE ANY BULLETS could fly, Amir bolted from the car, Isabella right next to him. He hated, absolutely hated, that he’d brought danger to her. He couldn’t believe she had the wherewithal to grab her purse first, but she had it with her as they busted in through the back door of the nearest house. They ran through a small, empty kitchen, then a living room, a half-dozen cats scattering from their path and giving them dirty looks.

“Is that you, Brian?” a woman called from upstairs, hardwood floor creaking as she moved around. “Where have you been?”

They burst through the front door without answering, then scrambled across the road, into a crowded bar that smelled like smoke and beer, the Jukebox blaring a country song he wasn’t familiar with. They slowed to make their way to the back without drawing too much attention. In seconds they were in another alley. His muscles were shaking; his breathing was heavy. He cursed his weak legs, which slowed them both.

“You made it this far. You can do it.” Isabelle took him by the hand to pull him after her.

Male pride said he should pull away and make his way unaided. But her small hands felt incredible around his fingers, the feel of her warm skin giving him a jolt, bringing back memories. He left his hand in hers and ignored his screaming muscles.

The faces of their pursuers danced in his mind. This time, he’d made a point of taking a good look. He didn’t recognize any of them. They didn’t look Jamalan. They looked American.

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