Dana Marton - The Black Sheep Sheik

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m still not entering into some arranged marriage.”

“Nobody arranged anything for us. We should both choose this marriage because it’s the right thing to do. It is the only honorable course of action. My country and my people expect no less from me.”

“Marrying for protocol’s sake? Living some happy royal farce for the media?”

Her face had been on his mind every day since she’d left him. Her body—sans clothes—had been a major player in his dreams.

“If I married for protocol, according to the wishes of the Council, I would marry for alliance. I would marry a princess for her father’s wealth and influence,” he informed her.

“Sounds good to me. You should try and keep this

Council happy. They sound important.”

“They’ll be happy that I finally secured an heir. This might not be the marriage they had in mind, but they won’t protest it.”

“I protest it. I’m not entering into a fake marriage so you can parade my son around as your heir.”

“Nothing about our marriage would be fake, I promise you that, Isabelle,” he told her before he kissed her.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dana Marton is the author of more than a dozen fast-paced, action-adventure romantic suspense novels and a winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence. She loves writing books of international intrigue, filled with dangerous plots that try her tough-as-nails heroes and the special women they fall in love with. Her books have been published in seven languages in eleven countries around the world. When not writing or reading, she loves to browse antiques shops and enjoys working in her sizable flower garden, where she searches for “bad” bugs with the skills of a superspy and vanquishes them with the agility of a commando soldier. Every day in her garden is a thriller. To find more information on her books, please visit www.danamarton.com. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached via email at DanaMarton@DanaMarton.com.

Amir Khalid —The black sheep sheik of Jamala has just taken on the burden of ruling his country and isn’t looking for additional commitments. But when he finds out that the American woman he could never forget is carrying his child, he needs every weapon at his disposal to convince her to commit to him.

Isabelle Andrews —The stubborn sheik of Jamala who won’t take no for an answer becomes the least of the beautiful doctor’s problems when she’s kidnapped just as she’s about to go into labor.

Darek, Prince of Saruk —His father had been an enemy to Amir, but Darek wants friendship. Or does he?

Jake Wolfe —Sheriff of Wind River County. Although the previous administration had been corrupt, Jake Wolfe seems firmly on the royals’ side. At least Amir hopes he is, since Jake is set on marrying his sister.

Sheik Efraim —Amir’s best friend. He’s frantic with worry when Amir goes missing, then rushes to the rescue when he’s needed.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

He looked up at the wood beams of the rustic cabin’s ceiling and, for one bewildering moment, couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t know how he’d come to be there, in the out-of-place hospital bed, hooked up to machines. He didn’t even know his own name.

All he knew was that he was in danger. And choking.

He yanked out the tubes that obstructed his airway and drew a ragged breath. As he breathed, in great heaving gulps, everything rushed back in a dizzying flood of information. A car explosion. Fire. Somebody trying to kill him.

Then a name: Amir Khalid.

He was Sheik Amir of Jamala, ruler of a small Mediterranean island nation. But this wasn’t home, far from it. He was in Wyoming for a business summit and to find the American doctor who, for months now, had haunted his dreams.

He squinted against the late-afternoon sun that streamed in through the windows, still plenty hot in the middle of summer. Nothing but open land out there and a stand of trees in the distance. If he’d been rescued from the explosion, he would be in a hospital. That he was in the middle of nowhere could mean only one thing.

Kidnapped.

A car door slammed outside.

He tugged off the medical attachments from his chest and arm, then sat up, a wave of dizziness hitting him. He held on to the edge of the bed. Anger swept through him, his hands fisting at the thought of being incapacitated and at the mercy of his enemies.

Get going. Get out.

He put his feet to the floor and pushed to standing, but his legs couldn’t remember how to walk. His knees buckled.

Move. Escape.

He swallowed the bitterness bubbling up his throat. Not that long ago, his first thought wouldn’t have been running. It would have been confronting his enemies, defeating them or going out in a blaze of glory. Now his first priority had to be his safety. The fate of a whole country depended on him; the lives of millions were in his hands. He had to let his security force handle the bastards who had put him in this shape, no matter how much beating a retreat went against his grain.

He needed to switch his hospital gown for real clothes, find a cell phone and a weapon—not necessarily in that order. The one-bedroom cabin held a sofa bed and his hospital bed in the living area, kitchen cabinets lining the far wall, the pots and pans on the shelf interspersed with old golf trophies. Nothing beyond the basic necessities, not even a TV. He noted the two doors, one to the outside, closed, one to a small bathroom, open.

Keep moving.

He dragged himself over to the kitchen counter, leaning against the wall the whole way. His joints had rusted up; his muscles felt as if they’d gone on vacation. His mind was foggy; his thoughts disjointed. Maybe the explosion had given him a concussion. Frustration filled him to the brim, but was pierced by a ray of hope when he spotted the knife in the sink.

He grabbed the meager weapon, then stumbled toward the pegs on the wall by the front door, aiming for the worn rain slicker to cover the hospital gown he was wearing. He had almost reached it when the door opened—the blinding sunlight outlining a dark shape.

Head down, he put whatever strength he had into slamming the bastard into the wall and braced for pain. But instead of an eruption of violence, he nearly folded to the floor. Slim arms reached out to hold him up.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

He looked up into blue eyes that were filled with concern and some other, harder emotion, a familiar face framed with long black hair. A new wave of confusion washed over him. “Isabelle?”

Maybe his concussion was more severe than he’d thought. Maybe he was hallucinating. But no, the woman in front of him was all too real. She took the knife from him as easily as if from a child, tossed it onto the counter and tried to help him back to the hospital bed.

His masculine pride insisted on the sofa, and so did he.

“Okay. For a little while,” said that sensuous voice he hadn’t been able to forget. “How do you feel?”

The same way he’d felt when he’d been thrown by the lead camel at a race a couple of years ago and stomped on by the rest. He wasn’t about to tell her that, not until he got his bearings and figured out what was going on. His voice was rough and rusty as he asked the most basic question, “Where are we?”