and coated his forehead and face in a wide, crimson mask.
She hit the release button on her seat belt and slid to the space between their seats. Vertigo hit her in waves. She stopped, caught her breath, calmed the nausea.
At sixty, Ramon had three decades on her. But with a forthcoming smile and easy banter, the pilot formed an instant rapport with her on their flight from Morocco.
She scooted forward and placed her fingers against his neck.
His pulse was weak and fluttery. Still, he had one.
Carefully, she pulled him back into his seat. Blood soaked his polo shirt, turning the navy blue a crimson black. A shard of glass, the size of her forearm, protruded from his chest. Sarah’s gut tightened in protest over the bits of bone and jagged skin that clung to its toothed edges.
The sun beat down on the plane, thickening the air to a rancid oven heat. Sweat stung her eyes. Impatiently she wiped it away, then glanced around for something to stem the flow of his blood.
Fear tightened her chest, forcing her to exhale in a long, shaky breath. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ramon,” she threatened, hoping her words would jar the injured man awake.
She’d dressed in cream-colored cotton pants, a matching long-sleeved blouse and—aware of convention in a foreign country—a camisole beneath for modesty sake.
Quickly, she unbuttoned her blouse, slipped it off, then ripped the material down the back and into two pieces.
She placed the first half under his head and pressed the second against the flow of blood from his chest.
“Don’t touch it.” The command was weak and raspy with pain.
But her relief came swift, making her voice tremble enough to draw the pilot’s gaze. “Don’t talk,” she warned, while her fingers probed lightly, judging the depth of his chest wound. “Save your strength.”
Ramon struggled to keep his leather-brown eyes on her. Blood ran from his mouth, dripped from his chin. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she snapped, the harshness more from fear than irritation or anger. “I just need to stop the bleeding—”
“It’s too late.” The words struggled past the moist rattle that filled his chest.
Ramon’s hand slid to his side. He pulled his gun from its holster. “Take this. Protect yourself,” he gasped. He shoved it at her until she took the pistol. “Grab the survival kit. Run.”
“Run from who?”
“Roldo.” He grasped at her arm. Blood made his fingers slick, while the loss of blood made his grip weak. “Go now.”
“I can’t leave—”
“Tell the king I’m sorry.”
Before Sarah could answer him, Ramon’s hand fell to the floor, limp.
Sarah had seen death before. Many times. But always behind yellow crime scene tape with a microphone in her hand and a camera over her shoulder.
Her fingers fluttered over his cheek, then closed his eyes.
Never had death brushed this close, or been this personal. The finality left her cold and empty.
Sarah swore and pressed her fingers into her eyes, averting the prick of tears, easing the throb of pain.
Suddenly, a horse whinnied to the right of the plane.
Sarah grabbed the gun and thumbed the safety off.
“Ramon.”
She aimed the pistol at the door. “Come through that door and it will be the last thing you do,” Sarah yelled.
“Don’t shoot, damn it. It’s Jarek, Sarah.” The sharp voice came from the outside—a command not a question. Only one man had a voice like that—the deep, haunting timbre, the edges clipped with a hint of a British accent.
When the passenger door slammed open, she was already lowering the pistol. “Your Majesty, this is a surprise.”
Coal-black eyes swept over her, taking in her slender frame, the pale skin.
She knew what he was thinking. Delicate. Reserved. Harmless. That’s what most people thought.
What he’d thought all those years ago. Before he got to know her.
“Are you injured?” He nodded toward the blood-soaked camisole.
“No.” She lied without qualm, her eyes studying the man. He hadn’t changed much over the past eight years. Leaner, more rigid, maybe. He dressed casually in tan riding breeches, a white linen shirt and black riding boots. The clothes were tailored and fit snugly over his broad shoulders, lean hips and long, masculine legs.
He certainly had the look of a desert king: an indigo scarf wrapped around his head, his sharp angled features, his skin bronzed from the sun and slightly grooved from the elements.
His eyes narrowed as they met hers.
Something shifted inside her. Fear? Relief? “Ramon is dead.”
Jarek glanced over at the pilot, but the king’s features remained stiff, emotionless. Only the slight tightening of his jaw gave away the fury beneath the indifference. Sarah realized she would have missed it if she hadn’t been studying his features so intently.
Then quickly, before she could react, he caught her chin, turned her head and examined her wound. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No,” she lied again, resisting the urge to touch her temple. Telling Jarek about her headache wouldn’t change the situation.
She looked beyond his shoulder and through the door to the empty desert. “Any others coming?”
“No.” He released her. “Just myself. And Rashid.”
“Rashid?” Sarah repeated, surprised. “The prince is here?”
“Yes.” His mouth flattened to a hard, almost bitter line. A mouth, she remembered, that heated with passion or curved wickedly with humor.
“We have very little time. I didn’t see any jeeps with the Al Asheera. Only horses. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have them,” Jarek added. He took Ramon’s gun from her grip, then pulled her from between the seats.
“Behind you is the survival kit. Water, rations, first aid. On the floor…” he pointed under the seats “…flares.”
“Got it,” she answered, but the first thing she snagged was her purse—a brown, leather hobo bag that had seen better days.
“Forget your purse. Take what’s important. Water first.”
“My purse is important. It won’t get in the way.” Quickly, she slipped it over her neck and one shoulder. She grabbed the survival kit and the extra
