Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,30

up your boots.”

She put her feet up and he tied her bootlaces, his jaw tight, his movements brusque, tension still rolling off him. He yanked the laces tight. Too tight.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound it. He loosened the lace, tried again.

“Is it Haroun’s wealth, his power that you don’t like?” she said irritably. “Or you don’t respect tradition or what? Or just the Sa’uds and their power?” She was pushing. She knew it, but now she needed to know, maybe because she was struggling trying to justify it all to herself.

“I guess I’m wondering where Haroun is right now,” he said. “And why Omair, not your fiancé, is paying me to save your royal tush.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a dark whisper. “And you know what else is worrying me, Dalilah? It’s what Haroun might do if he finds out you like to kiss strange men—because Sa’ud sheiks seem to have a bad reputation handling that sort of thing.”

Blood drained from her head. “Brandt, it’s not what—”

He held up his big hand, stopping her dead. “Forget it, Dalilah. I don’t want to know.”

“You lie,” she said softly. “Or you wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You owe it to me to allow me to explai—”

“Here.” He abruptly peeled the top off the can of ravioli in his hands and stuck the fork end of his army knife into it. “Get this into you.”

Frustration burned through her. “I told you, I’m vegetarian.”

“Not on my watch you’re not,” he snapped. “I’m getting you out of the bush alive, whether you like it or not. We have no idea how long this will take. And when the jeep’s fuel runs out, we could be trekking on foot for days. You need energy to survive and there’s precious little lettuce or tofu you’re going to get out here, so you’d better adjust.” He took the half-eaten apple from her hand and replaced it with the tin.

“Eat.”

Defiance set her mouth and she glared stubbornly ahead.

He grabbed the rifle, flung open the door and went to stand on the riverbank, a dark silhouette against the fading glow of bushfire.

She glanced at the tin. In spite of herself hunger was gnawing into the acid burn of whiskey and sour apple in her stomach. Dalilah carefully tested a mouthful of cold beef ravioli. It didn’t taste half-bad. She tried to put her principles aside and took another mouthful.

Brandt began to pace along the bank, rifle in hand, staying close enough to ensure she was eating. And she did eat, suddenly overcome by ravenous hunger. The last time she’d had food, she realized, was part of a green salad at lunch yesterday. Finishing the contents of the small tin, she set it on the dash and within minutes, was asleep on the front seat.

Brandt glanced up to the vehicle. Under the faint bluish-white glow of the Petzl, Dalilah was slumped, head to the side, her dark, muddy hair splayed across the top of the seat. He blew out a heavy breath of air and stood for a while longer on the bank.

A predawn cold descended on him as the fire across the river began to die down to embers. He stared at the twisted black silhouettes rising out of the glowing coals, the carnage they’d escaped. Dawn was imminent, and with first light would come Amal. Brandt figured he’d let Princess sleep for maybe thirty more minutes, then they needed to move.

He returned to the vehicle, untied the sleeping bag from the bottom of the pack and, unzipping it, he draped it gently over her, tucking in the edges.

Unable to stop himself, he carefully studied her face in repose, taking time now to note the arch of her lips, the density of her impossibly long, black lashes, the angle of her cheekbones. Brandt’s skin heated as he thought of her kiss, her taste, her hunger, how he’d acted completely apart from logic.

Hell, he still wanted her—physically. Which went against the grain. His idea of commitment these past ten years was staying the whole night.

But this woman was in another league.

And she was promised to a man soon to be king, a sheik richer than the bloody queen of England. This knowledge had starkly redefined the boundaries of his mission. And yeah, maybe it was jealousy in part that made him feel a little bitter, that had made him attack the Sa’ud royal family like that, but there was something darker at play here. Haroun Hassan and the House