Aimee stared out the passenger side window of Abdal’s car. She and Abdal had opted to retrace their journey. They returned the horses to the farmer and picked up Abdal’s car.
Dallas and Hamlet had disappeared without a trace. Selima traveled back to the capital by helicopter so she could report to her superiors. There was a massive manhunt for Anderson Coldhouse. He was the only one to survive the shootout.
Abdal looked up as a helicopter flew overhead. “They are still looking for the others,” he commented.
Aimee didn’t bother to nod. Abdal sighed. She knew she was being rude, but she didn’t feel like talking. Both Coldhouse brothers had escaped. That meant she would have to go back to her life of obscurity.
“How much farther ‘til we get back to the capital?” she asked.
“Another hour,” he replied.
Aimee nodded. Their trip back had taken longer than the trip there. Abdal had passed out from exhaustion once they reached the farmer’s house and slept for almost forty-eight hours straight. Aimee had been very tempted to take his car. It was a shame that she didn’t know how to drive.
Instead, she had helped the farmer’s wife during the day and stared up at the stars at night. She had picked out a half-dozen of the brighter ones that she would like to visit. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
There was no news on how Qadir was doing. The farmer had no internet, and she had no phone. Even poor Abdal was having withdrawals by the time they left.
Aimee glanced through the dirty windshield and frowned when she saw the line of cars ahead of them on the highway. Abdal slowed to a crawl before stopping completely in the long line of traffic. She sat up, trying to see what the issue was.
“It looks like they are searching the cars,” Abdal commented.
“What for? Do they do that often?” she asked.
Abdal shook his head. “No. It must be extra security precautions since the Coldhouse brothers and their men are still free.”
She frowned. “Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough to come to the capital when they were so close to the border? That would be suicide. I imagine the royal family has enough security around them now that nobody could get within ten miles of them.”
“I don’t know. The line is moving fast. It shouldn’t take us long, which is good. I need petrol soon,” he said, looking at the gas gauge.
Aimee watched as the car in front of them was searched. She felt a little self-conscious about the fact that she had bathed and changed into her American clothes of torn jeans, an oversize green T-shirt with a polka-dot chicken on the front, and her scuffed ankle boots.
“Tahiat sayidi,” Abdal greeted the officer when it was their turn.
“Do you have IDs?” the man asked in Arabic.
“Yes.” Abdal handed over his identification.
Aimee looked down at her hands. She jumped when another officer knocked on the passenger window. She pressed the button.
“Tahiaati lak,” she greeted.
“I need to see your identification,” the man stated in Arabic.
Aimee reached into her bag on the floor, pulled out her passport, and handed it to the man. He looked at the image, then her, and frowned. He stepped away from the car with it and spoke into the radio attached at his shoulder. She leaned forward but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“That was a valid passport, wasn’t it?” Abdal asked in English.
Aimee nodded. “It’s the one I was given,” she replied in the same language.
The officer stepped back to the car and returned her passport. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was putting it away when two other men dressed in military uniforms walked over to the car.
“Ms. Jones, I must ask that you exit the car and come with us,” one of the men said in Arabic.
Aimee looked at them with a confused expression. “Is there a problem? I’m here legally,” she said in the same language.
The man reached for the door. Abdal quickly unlocked it. Aimee shot him a nasty look.
“They have guns—lots of them. We don’t. Go with them. I’ll contact Selima and find out what is going on,” Abdal muttered in English.
Aimee realized he was right. She swung her legs out and stood up, clutching her backpack to her chest. She silently followed the two men to a military style vehicle. Another officer pulled open the back door for her. Aimee paused a moment, looking back toward Abdal before she ducked inside.
The military officer who had requested that she exit the vehicle climbed in beside her. Nobody talked as the vehicle pulled away. Aimee turned and looked behind her. The other three vehicles that had been blocking the road fell in behind them.
She slumped down in her seat, suddenly exhausted from the last week. She had barely eaten or slept, and the cool, dim interior, the silence, and that familiar, depressed apathy she had been carrying the last few years washed through her like molten lead. Leaning her head against the window, she closed her eyes.
Only for a few minutes, she promised herself.
“Why isn’t she waking up?” a deep, rough voice demanded. “You said there was nothing wrong with her!”
“Sire, she is exhausted and has been through a lot. As have you. She will still be here after you have both gotten some badly needed sleep. Her vitals will be monitored for the next few hours as a precaution, as will yours when you go back to bed!”
Aimee frowned in her sleep. The first voice sounded as if the man had a sore throat. The second one sounded like Dr. Fuah. The thought of Qadir’s personal physician made her shrink back toward the darkness. It was safe there. It felt as if she were among the stars.
The second time she woke it was dark. There was a heavy weight across her waist, holding her down. She was too tired to move it, so she didn’t try. Sliding her hand down, she thought she felt an arm. She decided she must be dreaming. Not wanting to let the feeling go, she threaded her fingers through the imaginary hand and fell back asleep.
When she woke the third time, she realized two things: she was hungry and she needed to use the bathroom. Sliding out of the bed, she stopped when her toes sank into a plush carpet. A swift scan of the room told her she wasn’t in a hotel—at least not any that she could afford.
The urgent pressure on her bladder forced her to make a beeline straight for the bathroom. Closing the door, she relieved herself, then decided to freshen up. She unwound her hair, grimacing at the grit still in it. It took her longer to shower than normal. The hot water and powerful jets felt good on her sore muscles. She had to wash her hair three times to get all the sand out.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the feel of water on her skin. A frown puckered her brow as she tried to remember how she got here. Her last memory was closing her eyes in the military vehicle. After that, everything was a fuzzy blur of images and sounds. She wasn’t sure what had been real or just a dream.
Her breath caught when a pair of hands slid along the wet skin of her hips. She opened her eyes and stared at the wall when a hard body pressed against her back. Her hands clenched against the wall.
“You had better be Qadir Saif-Ad-Din or I swear you’ll be a dead man,” she muttered, already imagining how she was going to get out of this situation.
“You had better not be a figment of my imagination, 'amirati alkhayalia, or I will wish I was dead all over again,” Qadir’s rough voice murmured near her ear.
A choked sob caught in her throat, and she turned, burying her face against his bare chest. The dark, coarse hair on his chest teased her nose as she rubbed her face against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist. He winced when she squeezed him a little too hard.
“Careful, habibi. I’m still recuperating.” He chuckled.
She loosened her grip immediately, sliding her hands down and cupping his buttocks instead. His low groan and hard shaft indicated that he was feeling good things at the moment. She stroked his ass, enjoying the way his muscles contracted when she caressed him.
“Hi,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
He answered by capturing her lips in a passionate kiss that made the water raining down around them feel cool. She hungrily returned his kiss, devouring him like a dying woman drinking the elixir of life.
It wasn’t until her tongue brushed across the wound on his lip that she ended the kiss. She caressed his cheek, pausing on the bruises and cuts. He let her explore him, avidly watching her expression.
“I was so afraid when I heard you were kidnapped,” she murmured.
He held her tighter. “And you took it upon yourself to return from the dead and rescue me?”
She heard the hesitant note in his voice. She wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes. He groaned and held her against him, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
“I guess I have some explaining to do,” she finally said.
“Yes.”
His short response made her heart clench. He turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and handed it to her before taking a second one for himself. He stepped out of the shower.
A low purr of appreciation slipped from her at the sight of his bare ass. He glanced over his shoulder at her and flexed his butt cheeks. A delicate blush covered her cheeks.
“I missed you so much,” she confessed.
“I will be in the other room,” he replied.
Aimee bit her lip and watched him exit the bathroom. Fear gnawed at her that perhaps he didn’t feel the same way about her as he had before. Three years was a long time—especially when you thought the person had died.
She dried herself and dressed in her clothes. Her nose wiggled when she noticed the chicken on the front of her shirt. A wry smile curved her lips as she pulled it on over her wet hair. She was feeling like a chicken at the moment.
Qadir paced the length of his living room. The last five days had been brutal. His rescue was still a blur in his mind. Anderson had enjoyed using him as a punching bag during his short incarceration. Qadir had no doubt that he would be dead if it hadn’t been for Aimee and her friend Habib.
During Selima Abd Wahhab’s debriefing, she had explained how her cousin in the United States had asked Abdal for an unusual favor. Habib was not aware that Abdal worked for the Royal Intelligence Service or that Abdal was shaken enough to notify Selima who worked in the Jawahir Intelligence under Tarek.
Selima’s immediate supervisor had decided that Selima and Abdal would intercept Aimee and discover how much information she had and whether it was viable. After speaking with her, they had determined that she was not working for Bronislav. She had come on her own.
Her confession to Habib about being placed in the Witness Protection program had been relayed to Abdal, then to Selima, Selima’s supervisor, and finally to Qadir.
Aimee didn’t reach out to me—for three years.
She’d been alive this whole time, and she’d stayed away from him. It was devastating and miraculous and agonizing. If she had loved him the way he loved her, she would have risked anything for them to be together. She should have known he would protect her.
He stopped pacing as the realization hit him that no, he couldn’t protect her. He looked down at the damp bandages around his wrists. Coldhouse had murdered countless people and almost killed him and his brother even though they had multiple vehicles of trained security men. How could he have kept her safe when he couldn’t even keep himself safe?
A shudder ran through him when he remembered the touch of Aimee’s hand against his face. He had thought he was hallucinating or that Coldhouse was playing some cruel, vicious mind game. He had been half out of his mind with thirst and pain. The vision of her— He closed his eyes as another wave of bittersweet pain swept through him.
“Qadir.”
He turned and faced her. She was standing at the entrance to the living room. Her long damp hair was unbound, and a wide-tooth comb was in her hand. Her expression was uncertain. She looked small and fragile in her tattered jeans and oversized t-shirt. He blinked and tilted his head, staring at her shirt.
“Is that a polka dotted chicken?” he asked.
She pulled the front of her shirt out and looked down at the chicken, which appeared to have a case of rainbow-colored chickenpox. A wry smile curved her lips, and she glanced impishly up at him.
“It’s different,” she said.
He chuckled. “You didn’t cut your hair,” he observed.
She lifted the long, heavy damp strands. “It’s my superpower,” she softly replied.
He held his hand out for the comb and motioned for her to sit on the ottoman. He sat down behind her on a chair and gently combed her hair. There was something soothing in the act, and they remained silent as he worked the tangles out.
“Tell me what happened,” he finally requested.
Her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath. She nervously wound her hands together before she began speaking. He listened to each word, savoring the sound of her lilting voice.
“After you dropped me off at Stanley’s, I began going through the next week’s deliveries. There was an envelope addressed to you. It had blood splattered on it. I knew I shouldn’t have opened it—it was yours, but I opened it anyway. When I saw—the images—” Her breath shuddered at the memory.
He leaned forward and kissed her neck. She leaned back against him. He rubbed his cheek against hers and waited until she was ready.
“I took pictures of the photographs. I knew they were important and was afraid something might happen. There was a map, too. I took it and then I heard the front door’s bell. I knew Stanley wasn’t coming in because he was at an event for his grandson. No one else should have been there, and if they did come, they would have used the employee entrance.”
“It was Coldhouse?” he asked.
“Yeah, Anderson. He was looking for the envelope. Hartley, the FBI agent in charge of my case, told me it must have been tracked to Stanley’s. Anderson didn’t see me, but I was filming him. His partner came in and he—he shot him. Anderson saw me when I tried to sneak out. I thought I had gotten away from him, but he—he came to the warehouse where I was—was living. There was another girl there. Her name was Kylie. She took my coat. I was talking to you when Anderson came in. He must have thought Kylie was me and killed her, then set the building on fire. I was able to escape out the back. There was no way I could go to the police by then. I knew Anderson would have labeled me a cop-killer and I wouldn’t make it through the night if I went there. I hid in an alley until almost midnight, then made my way to the FBI building downtown. Before I knew what happened, I was placed in protective custody. No contact with anyone. Three months into it, one of the U.S. Marshals protecting me was murdered and another one seriously wounded. Somehow Coldhouse or Bronislav discovered I survived the warehouse fire Anderson set after he killed Kylie. He must have known I was still in the warehouse somewhere. Probably because Kylie was wearing my coat. Anyway, Hartley decided that I needed to be placed in the Witness Protection program. They faked my death again, gave me a new identity on the other side of the country, a career, and told me never to contact anyone from my past again if I cared about them because if the Coldhouse brothers or Bronislav found out I was alive, they would use them to get to me and then me to get to you,” she said, bowing her head.
Qadir saw the tear that fell on the back of her hand before she wiped it away with her thumb. He gently turned her around to face him and caressed her cheek with his thumb. She had sacrificed so much to protect him, to save him and his people. The uncertainty in her eyes tore a hole through his heart.
He shook his head, and kissed her. She kissed him back, her hands lightly running along his arms to his shoulders. Her touch was featherlight but it did all kinds of crazy things to him.
“Touch me,” he groaned, kissing her neck.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she replied with a breathless laugh.
He grabbed one of her hands and placed it on his crotch. She cupped him through his loose trousers. He rubbed her hand against him.
“You have no idea how much pain I have been in for the last three years. A pain only you can heal,” he said.
She caressed his smooth stomach before slipping her fingers under the waistband of his trousers. She turned her face to his and parted her lips. He greedily accepted her invitation. It had been too long since he’d held her in his arms.