Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,69
thud that it forced him to spin round. The look on his face was ferocious, eyes icy cold. He unsheathed his panga, grabbed a nearby branch and hacked it from the tree. He lopped off the pieces of frayed wood on the end, then he thrust the stick at her.
“Use it to keep balance.” He was breathing hard, body glistening with sweat, the sun shining gold on his hair.
“You have to stay focused and move. We need to find a vehicle now, before those guys get over the cliff, or we’re both as good as dead, because we’ll be outgunned and outmanned.”
About another mile out and Dalilah could no longer breathe. She bent over, bracing her good hand on her knees, hyperventilating as she strained to catch her breath, drenched in sweat.
“I said keep up, stay right behind me!”
“I’m trying,” she snapped.
He stopped, wiped sweat from his brow, frustration burning in his features.
“My boots are too big. You have a longer stride. You’re fitter, trained.” Emotion filled her eyes, her fear of Amal, her desperation over what was happening between them, her physical inability to match his pace—it was all overwhelming her.
He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, she said, “And don’t think I’m whining. I’m not—I’m just saying it like it is. Those are the facts in front of you—so deal with it!”
“Deal with it?”
She lifted her head, met his eyes. “Yeah—deal with it.”
“The fact you’ve signed your life away to a man you have no desire to sleep with? Deal with the fact I’m trying to save you—that you’ve saved yourself—for that? So your brothers can benefit?”
Slowly, angrily, she pushed herself back to an upright position, dizziness swirling. “You really are an ass.”
He snorted. “I’m a simple guy. I boil things down to the basics, and those are the basics.” He paused. “Aren’t they? I’m saving you from Amal’s murderous animals for what? So you can marry some other tyrant?”
“Haroun is not like that! I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
Dalilah’s pulse pounded.
He muttered a curse and thrust the water pouch at her. She swigged, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shoved it back at him.
“I don’t expect you to understand!”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“And why the hell not?”
“I thought you said—” He stared at her. “Look, drop it. Now is not the time.”
She looked daggers at him, her cheeks hot.
He glanced at the sun, then his watch, irritability and tension rolling off his body. “You ready?”
“I need to rest another minute. I can’t go on like this.” She began to sit down on a rock, but his hand shot out and he grabbed her good arm, yanking her away from the rock. Shock, rage, sliced through Dalilah and she shook him off. “What the—”
He jerked his chin to where she’d been about to sit. A scorpion, translucent brown, scuttled, sideways, tail curved high in warning. She stared at it, then started to tremble, her head pounding in pain as she fought the emotion threatening to suddenly overwhelm her.
He was watching her intently.
“Okay,” he said. “Sit. Five minutes—that’s it.” His tone was softer, but underlying it she heard the frustration, the urgency. Amal was gaining. Her life was unraveling.
He fiddled with his GPS while she rested on the rock. Sun pressed down relentlessly, no shade anywhere for respite.
Brandt hooked the GPS back onto his belt, then as if he couldn’t hold it in, “It’s just—” He stopped himself.
“Just what?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it, Brandt. You owe it to me.”
He glanced away, struggling with something. Then he said, “You just don’t seem the type to go through with an arranged marriage, Dalilah.”
“Oh, and what type might that be?”
He rubbed his brow. He seemed to be fighting the need to go there, but it was eating at him nevertheless.
“You’re liberated, strong, independent...Jesus, Dalilah, you have more assets than...” He swallowed. “All those things you forced on me about yourself—your job, being an investment consultant, buying your own penthouse, having good friends, doing volunteer work that satisfies you. You shoot like an ace. You’re strong...and goddamn beautiful.” His voice hitched, going thick. “You’re desirable enough to make a man weep.”
Her eyes gleamed.
“And no matter how you package it to me, or to yourself, you’re throwing it away because some man signed you over to an Arabian prince when you were five.”
“Not some man, Brandt. My father. A king.”
“Doesn’t change what it is.”
“It does. I’m a royal. I have obligations. This is bigger