Sheikh's Bed (Complete)

Chapter 1

The Sahara

He was her father's friend; wouldn't that give her some leverage?

Three hours earlier, Karen Wexler and four colleagues from Travel magazine were in a jeep taking photographs near the Libya border. The next thing they knew, twenty armed men were ambushing them. They were yanked from the vehicle and ushered into separate tents like livestock. In the melee, she'd heard one of the men say his name: Sheikh Tamir Rahman.

Weariness hunched her shoulders. Sweat caused her clothes to stick to her body. Her hands were tied behind her back, and the thick rope cut into her wrists.

A scream was in the back of her throat, but she held on to it.

Not in this part of the world.

She needed to keep her mouth shut.

At least her legs weren't tied. Likely due to the armed guard standing a few feet away.

Karen wasn't planning on testing him.

It was a bad idea to venture out of the city. Of course, she only realized this in hindsight; she'd been hopping at the bit to roll over the desert dunes in their rented jeep. Not really considering the war-torn country nearby.

Her father had been the U.S. Ambassador to Morocco ten years ago, but that didn't give her any clout here.

Would she be allowed to plead her case?

The rustling of fabric behind her signaled someone else had entered the tent. When the man next to her moved, it took every ounce of her resolve not to scream and beg for her life.

He spoke to the other man in Arabic, and she vaguely recognized the word "yes" as she strained pointlessly to hear their rapid exchange.

Karen squeezed her eyes shut, vowing if given the opportunity, she would never do anything like this again. The colorful rug beneath her shifted several times to the thump of her heartbeat as someone closed in on her.

Head bowed more from fright than custom, she watched as a pair of shining brown boots appeared in front of her. Licking dry lips, she refused to look up from them.

"American."

Her stomach sank; he was not pleased, and she wasn't sure if he'd made a statement or asked a question. Karen went with instinct and kept her mouth shut.

"Constantly testing your boundaries." Each word was clipped as though he was seething with anger.

She couldn't seem to catch her breath, despite the tent being surprisingly cool compared to the hundred-degree temperatures that sweltered over the sands outside. It was still stifling. Her mouth was parched, her thoughts erratic.

Her camera dropped to the ground, hitting her exposed knee against the bone, making her wince. The exposed negatives of her film came next, hitting the other knee.

For a moment, she felt her lips tremble as two months of work was destroyed right in front of her. Karen bit down on her tongue, to the point tears threatened to moisten her lashes.

"You are a reporter?"

"Yes," she answered reluctantly.

"And how has that been working out for you?"

Karen looked up, and her scowl could have deflated the tent. Her eyes met the dark, glittering irises of Sheikh Tamir Rahman.

He was her father's friend.