Free Hostage of the Hawk by Sandra Marton

to acknowledge the truth.
    Khalil had stolen her away from the world she knew. What happened to her next was not in the hands of fate but in the hands of this man, this bandit—and he didn’t give a damn for the laws of his country or of civilisation.
    â€˜Joanna.’
    She looked up. He was standing at the open door of the plane, his face like granite.
    â€˜Come,’ he said.
    Come. As if she were a slave, or a dog. Joanna’s jaw clenched. That was what he wanted, to reduce her to some sub-human status, to stress his domination over her and make her cower beneath it. In some ways, he’d already succeeded. She had let him see her fear when he’d first abducted her, let him see it again when she’d pleaded with him to release her.
    She drew a deep, deep breath. And her fear had been painfully obvious when he’d kissed her and she’d yielded herself so shamelessly in his arms. It was nothing but fear that had caused her to react to him that way. She knew it, and he did, too.
    But his ugly scheme could only work if she let it—and she would not. She would never, ever let him see her fear again.
    â€˜Joanna!’ Her head came up. He was waiting for her, his hands on his hips, his legs apart, looking as fierce as the predatory bird whose name he bore. ‘Are you waiting for me to come and get you?’
    She rose, head high, spine straight. He didn’t move as she made her way slowly towards him, but she saw his gaze sweep over her, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening, and she knew he must be once again telling himself that only a woman who wanted to seduce a man would dress in such a way.
    It was laughable, really. Her dress was fashionable and expensive, but it was basically modest and would not have raised an eyebrow anywhere but here or the Vatican. For a second, she wished she’d gone with her first instinct and worn a business suit, but then she thought no, let him have to look at her for the next hours—which was surely only as long as he would keep her here—let him look at her and be reminded constantly that she was of the West, that he could not treat her as he would one of his women, that she was Sam Bennett’s daughter and he’d damned well better not forget it.
    â€˜You are not dressed properly.’
    Joanna smiled coolly. He was as transparent as glass.
    â€˜I am dressed quite properly.’ She gave him an assessing look, taking in the long, white robe he wore, and then she smiled again. ‘It is you who are not dressed properly. Men stopped wearing skirts a long time ago.’
    To her surprise, he laughed. ‘Try telling that to some of my kinsmen.’ With a swift movement, he shrugged off his white robe. Beneath it, he wore a white tunic and pale grey, clinging trousers tucked into high leather boots. ‘You are not dressed for these mountains.’ Briskly, as if she were a package that needed wrapping, Khalil dropped the robe over her shoulders and enfolded her in it. ‘We have a climate like that of the desert. By day, it is warm—but when the sun drops from the sky the air turns cold.’
    She wanted to protest, to tell him she didn’t need anything from him, but it was too late. He had already drawn the robe snugly around her and anyway, he was right. There was a bone-numbing chill drifting in through the open door. Joanna drew the robe more closely around her. It was still warm from Khalil’s body and held a faint, clean scent that she knew must be his. A tremor went through her again, although there was no reason for it.
    â€˜Thank you,’ she said politely. ‘Your concern for my welfare is touching. I’ll be sure and mention it to my father so he’ll know that my abductor was a gentle—hey! What are you doing? Put me down, dammit! I’m perfectly capable of walking.’
    â€˜In those shoes?’ He laughed as he lifted her into his arms. ‘It was the ancient