Free The Sheik's Command by Loreth Anne White Page A

movement would cause the knife to slice into her skin. And slowly it dawned on her—it was the long edge of a kukri blade that was being held at her throat.
    Gradually the man eased pressure of the blade, came around to face her, a finger on his lips reminding her to remain silent. Shock raced through her as she recognized Zakir’s lead Gurkha. Tenzing Gelu.
    “Listen carefully,” he said, blade still under her throat. Sweat began to prickle over her lip.
    “You’ll be the only one with his Royal Highness for the next two days, possibly more,” he said quietly, in perfect English. “You will watch the king’s every move and report back to me when you return. I need to know exactly what the king says to the Berbers, what promises he makes them. I want toknow the names of the men he talks to. I want to know what those men tell the king of their alliances with other tribes in the region. Everything. And you will not breathe one word of this to him.”
    “What on earth makes you think I will agree to do this?” she whispered.
    “If you don’t, your children will die.”
    She quieted, glancing at the tent entrance, a new kind of fear rising in her.
    “If I even think you have breathed a word of this to the king, not even he will be able to protect your orphans.”
    “I don’t believe you,” she hissed.
    Sand whipped the tent flap, sending it clapping against the side panel.
    He bent close, his breath bitter, the kukri pressing tighter against her throat.
    “Are you ready to gamble with their lives—the fourteen-year-old’s in particular? Because I will start with her.”
    She swallowed, bitter bile and hatred rising in her throat. She glared at the man’s eyes and saw no emotion at all. How did he know about Samira? Then it hit her—he’d been one of the guards who dragged her from Zakir’s chambers. He’d have heard Nikki’s desperate plea to the king. He knew just how much Samira meant to her.
    “Why are you doing this? You’re not even from Al Na’Jar,” she said, voice low, eyes crackling, fear racing with growing rage. “This is not your country. This is not your political battle. What’s in this for you?”
    He smiled, one side of his mouth curving a little higher. His teeth were in a perfect white row, small. “I’m a mercenary, Ms. Hunt. I work for the highest bidder.”
    “Who is that bidder?”
    He laughed softly, but with no light in his eyes. And she was scared.
    “I’ll expect that report when you return.”
    Nikki glared at him, shaking inside. The man removed the blade from her throat and backed out of her tent.
     
    Zakir handed Nikki a camel rope. She took it with her right hand, where he’d noticed the calluses. Clucking her tongue, she coaxed the animal to lower itself to the ground and climbed expertly into the saddle, clicking her tongue again. The camel protested, pulling back its lips and showing yellowed teeth, yet she managed to make it rise like a complaining wobbly leviathan. Zakir repressed a small smile.
    He felt a grudging admiration for the way she’d stuck to her guns in arguing with him.
    He also liked the way she’d felt under him. But he quashed that thought. “Ready?” he called to her over the wind.
    She nodded, looking a little pale.
    Zakir frowned. Every now and then he felt in his gut she was telling the truth. But then there were signs that once again made him nervous. He’d have to watch her carefully.
    He mounted his own camel and flicked his tasseled whip, calling his dogs to heel behind him, and they began to move in a small convoy. Zakir allowed Nikki to take the lead so he could watch her back. A third camel, roped to his, took up the rear with the medical supplies and gifts for the Berbers, along with ropes and tent equipment.
    The wind grew harsh as they neared the Rock of Swords. Zakir wound his kaffiyeh over his nose and mouth to keep the dust out. His eyes were hidden behind shades. He looked like an ordinary Berber dressed in plain