know that sometimes she bites the grooms when they handle her.”
Sarah ran her fingers over Ping’s nose, making sure the horse would catch the scent of Jarek’s scarf.
“She likes you,” Rashid commented, obviously impressed. “She doesn’t like anyone except me. And my father, of course.”
“I think she only likes me because you are standing here,” Sarah assured him. “But I’m glad she didn’t bite me.”
Feeling her muscles tighten, Sarah stepped back and bent over sideways to stretch out the stiffness. “Do you ride often, Your Highness?”
“Everyday, if I can. Taaj and Ping are Arabian horses. So they are conditioned for the desert,” Rashid replied, watching Sarah with an idle curiosity. “They enjoy it, too.”
“Do you and your father ride often together?”
“No,” Rashid admitted slowly. “He is far too busy. So I try not to bother him.”
Rashid’s statement came out with a practiced, almost robotic ease.
“Is that what your father told you?”
“No. Not really.” Rashid pretended to straighten Ping’s bridle and didn’t say any more.
Sarah decided to change the subject. “You know, I used to ride a long time ago.” She shifted, then stretched to the opposite side.
“You haven’t forgotten,” Rashid commented with six-year-old diplomacy. “You held your seat well enough.”
“Gee, thanks,” Sarah murmured, then straightened.
Rashid laughed. “You did look funny bouncing around, though, Sarah.” He froze, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure it was funny. And I prefer to be called Sarah,” she replied, winking. “Our secret?”
“Yes.” Rashid tried to wink, but succeeded only in making both eyes flutter.
Jarek approached, effectively cutting off Sarah’s laughter.
“Rashid, water Ping over by Taaj, please.” His words were even and contained no censure, surprising Sarah. He handed his son a feed bag filled with water. “Make sure you drink some water, too, Rashid.”
“Yes, Papa.” Rashid paused, noting the rifle Jarek held in his other hand. “You think the Al Asheera are close?”
“No. But I want to be sure,” Jarek replied, solemnly. “I’m going to the nearest ridge. I want to check our tracks and get my bearings. We cannot risk mistakes.”
Jarek waited until Rashid led his horse away, before he turned to Sarah. “I realize we are caught in unusual circumstances. But don’t think for a moment my demands have changed.”
Sarah’s smile thinned into a tight, angry line. “You mean the big, bad reporter might churn up your son a bit emotionally, just to get some inside information?”
“Exactly. I will not tolerate any infringement upon my son’s privacy,” Jarek remarked.
“You don’t have to worry. I only eat little boys on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she retorted, jabbing at his arrogance. “Today is Thursday, Your Majesty.”
“Be careful, Miss Kwong.” Jarek advanced, crowding her, forcing her head back to meet his eyes. Sarah slapped her hand to his chest, dug her heels into the sand.
The black eyes flickered over her hand, then back to her face, telling her what he thought of her stand against him.
“I eat female reporters every day of the week,” he warned, each syllable a low, husky rasp that sent awareness skittering up her spine.
Pride stopped her fingers from curling into his shirt. But it was the flash of desire in the deepest part of Jarek’s gaze that made them tremble.
Jarek swung away, leaving her to watch him in stunned silence. She crossed her arms over her chest, knowing the self-protective move wouldn’t have helped her one bit if he’d followed through on his threat.
“You shouldn’t make him angry,” Rashid admonished, coming to stand at her side. “It won’t help our situation.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?”
“Six.”
“Sure you’re not thirty?” she commented wryly and watched Jarek crest the dune. If anyone was comfortable in their skin, it was Jarek Al Asadi. His muscles were well-defined and fluid, his stride purposeful.
“My Uncle Quamar said I have an old soul with new bones,” Rashid said, shrugging. “Whatever that means.”
“It means you are smart for your age.” Sarah pulled him to her side for a quick, reassuring hug.
“Sarah, can I tell you something?” Rashid’s tone turned serious.
“Sure, sport.”
“Papa didn’t know I had followed him from the palace into the desert this morning,” Rashid confessed. “I snuck past my guards and the horse handlers.”
“You snuck past…into the desert…” Sarah stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. All the scenarios of what could have happened to the child raced through Sarah’s mind.
“Sweet Lord,” she whispered.
“He didn’t find out until after you and Ramon crashed.” Rashid stepped away from her, his little body stiff, his face set. “So if my father seems angry, it’s because of me. I’m sorry.”
THE ANGER RODE HIGH on Jarek’s shoulders, put the rigidness in his long, quick strides. But it was desire that constricted his gut, left him aroused.
And made him run, damn it. For the second time in one day.
Jarek stopped just short of the ridge top. Anything higher would make him a target.
The Al Asheera were out there. Not far behind them, he was sure.
Scowling, Jarek narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare, peered through the rippling heat waves that floated above the desert floor and shimmered against the sandstone cliffs just beyond.
The wind had died hours before. Sweat trickled from his temples, down his cheeks, itched the scarred skin of his back.
He sat back on his haunches, snatched off his head scarf and hit it against his thigh.
Laughter drifted toward him. Hers. His son’s. Both light, both a little hesitant—as with any budding friendship.
Jarek grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was his son to befriend an ex-lover. Especially a woman reporter with heavy-lidded cat eyes and a smart mouth.
Forcing his frustration back, Jarek studied the terrain. The Sahara was little
