Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (6 page)

“OK, Hunter. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

He tilts my head up and looks into my eyes as if measuring the sincerity he sees there. What he sees must satisfy him.

“Keep in touch, Cara. If anything unusual happens, let me know. I might have to go away for a while, but I’ll get someone in the office to keep you informed of anything we find. And, pet, please stay out of the Amahadian systems!”

I give him a gentle thump on the arm to show my frustration. I’ve given him my word I’ll be careful; that should be enough. With a fond smile, he gives me a hug, pecks me on the cheek, and then takes his leave. He turns at the front door, and throws back at me that trademark self-deprecating grin which makes him look even younger and more boyish. When I see it, I can understand the effect of that expression on other women. They all but fall at his feet, especially when he starts speaking with a touch of that American accent he still hasn’t lost completely.

Left alone, I move over to the sofa and take the seat recently vacated by Hunter. It still feels warm and I find it comforting. He’s a good friend; my
only
friend, if I’m honest, my rock when I needed it, watching my back for over ten years now. He’s normally a man who keeps his cool in all types of situations, so why was he acting out of character today? What was all that rubbish about Amahad? And why does he seem so worried about my connection with Joseph Benting? Does he know something I don’t? How could he?

Feeling perplexed, I decide he’s overreacting. In any event, I’m safe locked away in command central and I won’t be leaving here any time soon, for any reason. Remembering my promise I go to secure the front door, check the window locks and engage the state-of-the-art security system. I’ll have to remember to disarm it before the courier arrives tomorrow, or else I’ll have half of Grade A appearing on my doorstep.
Hunter, you’re a bastard
, I curse under my breath. I was quite happy and content before our conversation, and now he’s put me on edge I’ll probably jump at the sound of the central heating boiler firing up.

Heaving a deep sigh, I force myself to park any worries about Amahad for the moment, and return to the couch, picking up my e-reader instead, ready to leave the real world for a while. As the page I’m currently reading appears, I’m unable to suppress a quick chuckle at the thought of how glad I am that Hunter only saw the tree books. If he’d seen the ones on here, well …

Picking up where I left off, I get lost in my book.

Nijad

The Palace of Amahad hasn’t changed at all after three years. Fuck, it probably hasn’t changed in the thousand-and-odd years that it’s been standing. It still feels as damn oppressive, with the same stifling atmosphere it had when I was a kid. How happy I was, leaving to receive my education in Europe. Until, that is, I was called home to spend the obligatory two years in the military. Then, free at last to live my life as I wanted, I split my residence between the United Kingdom and France, considering myself more European than Amahadian. At least until the events in Paris shook me to the fucking core, and I no longer knew who or what I was. I savaged a woman,
my
woman, Chantelle. I could have killed her if she hadn’t summoned up the strength, or the luck, to defend herself, and landed me unconscious in hospital for two days. It was the least I deserved.
But I have no memory of attacking her.
I thump my fist against the stone wall in frustration.

My penance is banishment to the southern desert, to head the army in protecting the border from jihadists who threaten the Amahadian way of life. To lead the soldiers from the desert tribes, their primitive attitude a far cry from the multicultural, multiracial populace that lives in the more civilised capital, Al Qur’ah, and the other larger cities in the north of Amahad. But I welcome my punishment. So what if a stray bullet stops my heart, or the vicious blade of a scimitar separates my head from my body?
Who is this man that I’ve become, this vicious abuser of women?
Do I even deserve to live?

Coming back to the palace today is bringing it all back like a scab ripped off a barely healed wound, causing it to start bleeding all over again. Not that I can ever really forget; the best I can do is to put it to the back of my mind for a while. Feeling bleak and depressed, I make my way through the hallways of the palace but pull back momentarily into a vestibule, not wanting to draw attention to myself, when I hear heavy, determined footsteps approaching. I’ve only been back a few hours, but that’s long enough to know that even after three years I’m still something of a novelty. People can’t hide their curiosity about the savage sheikh, who brought such shame to the family and the country. Three dry years in every sense of the word. Most of the desert tribes are strictly Muslim, meaning no alcohol – not good for the times I’ve just wanted to drink myself into oblivion. With such a high price put on virginity I’ve not had the chance to dip my wick, not that I have any inclination to do so. The thought of the hidden violence inside me makes me avoid women like the fucking plague. My hand and a tube of lube have become my new best friends over the last thirty-six months.

The footsteps draw closer. As they pass, I see they belong to Kadar, my eldest brother and heir designate, who sweeps through the corridors of the palace, his robes flowing out behind him, muttering under his breath, ignoring the servants who salaam, bowing almost to the floor as he passes. His demeanour shows he’s not in the best of moods, and I share his concerns. The emir should be concentrating on shoring up the diminishing finances of our small emirate state, not drawing up ridiculous plans to kidnap an innocent British citizen as retribution for a crime committed against our nation. His priorities and the means to achieve his ends are, as we both agree, illegal and immoral. But he’s the ruler, the absolute monarch. He can fucking do what he fucking likes.

I know Kadar’s destination is the same as my own, but something makes me want to delay the inevitable confrontation. To give Kadar time to get ahead I wait a few seconds before stepping out of my hidey-hole and start walking again, following the direction he has taken, ignoring the guards stationed along the corridors of the royal quarters. Their presence has been a way of life as long as I can remember, and so have become little more than part of the furniture, serving only to remind me how much I detest the formality of the main palace.

Eventually arriving at the small, secure conference room reserved for the immediate royals, I halt before turning the handle to open the door, taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose myself. Sheikh Rushdi is ruler first, father second, and I need no reminder of that. He has complete control of life and death over all his subjects. And that includes his sons. Arranging my features to show the requisite measure of respect, I step inside and make a deep bow before taking my allocated seat at the table set for four. My brothers Jasim and Kadar have already taken their places.

Sheikh Rushdi nods, acknowledging my entrance, but it’s Jasim who draws my attention. He looks out of place. Kadar and I – and, of course, the emir – are dressed in traditional robes but Jasim, typically, wears a Western-style Armani suit. He looks uncomfortable in his chair, as if he’s wishing to be anywhere but here, and I sympathise, realising he’s feeling weighed down by the restrictions and outmoded customs of our small Arabic state that have caused his summons back to Amahad today.

He doesn’t greet or acknowledge me. I’m not surprised, although disappointment still floods through me. He has barely spoken to me since the events in Paris and I wonder how long it will be before he forgives me – if ever. He’ll be leaving for the West again soon, where he’s made his home, and I can’t help but envy him, especially in the light of the decisions I’m anticipating will be determined here today.

The room teems with testosterone; four dominant men who haven’t felt the influence of a woman’s presence in the palace – except for my younger and totally spoiled sister Aiza, currently away at finishing school in Switzerland – since my mother died during Aiza’s birth. My father has never brought another woman here, and I can only assume he has his appetites catered for discreetly on his many trips abroad. Would we be here today had my mother lived? The question occurs to me as I glance at the man who sired me. He raised us fairly, I have to admit, but with an iron will and a wooden rod. As I watch him, I see no weakening from the man who damn-near flayed the skin off my back when I rode his prized horse without permission the day after my seventh birthday.

Control and power roll off him in waves; as emir he cannot afford to show any weakness. The only visible sign that three years have passed since I last saw him is the receding hairline reaching almost to the top of his head now, and the observation causes me to run my hand unconsciously through my overlong hair, hoping I have escaped inheriting that particular gene.

We don’t bother with polite conversation or exchange platitudes and pleasantries; today’s meeting is far too serious for that. A servant enters and serves us with coffee but I sit detached, lost in my thoughts. Everything that has happened to me since Paris seems surreal, as though it’s happening to somebody else and I’m on the outside, looking in.

After casting a careful look my way, Sheikh Rushdi breaks the silence.

“I have met again with the tribal leaders, the desert sheikhs.”

I notice Kadar exchanging a flicker of concern with Jasim, and can see they’re both dreading the inevitable outcome that, at this precise moment, I’m feeling reasonably confident I’m resigned to.

“They want revenge. Nothing will satisfy them other than the blood of their enemy who conned them out of their hard-earned money. They are adamant they will not accept financial compensation. As we are all aware I have already achieved their reluctant agreement to honour the alternative proposal I put before them, but only if it happens fast. Any delays and they will take matters into their own hands. They have become weary with what they see as our procrastination.”

He pauses as if waiting for comment. When none of us offer any contribution, he continues, “The marriage will go ahead.” Keeping his gaze on us, the ruler’s broad brow furrows, turning his face stern, a monarch’s face, one that would accept no dispute. “You will put your plans into action, Kadar. I want her here in Amahad tomorrow.”

I suddenly find it difficult to breathe, as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. What had been hypothetical is now fast becoming a horrifying reality, and I realise I’m not nearly as ready as I’d hoped. These plans are about
me
. I suddenly become conscious of the implications.
My future. My life
. I’m a monster and now I’m to be used as a tool of vengeance.

“No!”

I’m only vaguely aware of Jasim thumping the table, drawing a look of reprimand from the emir. “This isn’t right. The man is dead and that’s the end of it. They must accept they can’t take their revenge and leave it at that. The Treasury will recompense their losses …” He glances around the table, looking for support.

Kadar leans back in his seat, steepling his hands and tapping his fingers against his lips as he glances towards our father, who nods, giving him permission to speak.

“Jasim, you’ve been out of the loop in London. Let me remind you of the history. Three years ago Amahad negotiated a contract with Benting International. It was a blue-chip company at the time; we were satisfied with the terms, and with its financial stability.”

“I’m aware of that.” Jasim shifts in his seat impatiently and gives a short, humourless laugh. “England is no backwater, and the newspapers made sure to cover Benting’s actions. The gossip rags had some particularly juicy, er, facts. His mistress introduced him to a new lifestyle that he couldn’t afford. An intelligent man, apparently, but with a lack of common sense. His legitimate business wasn’t providing enough easy money to fund his drug and gambling habits. So he started elaborate cons.”

Raising his eyes he throws a quick glance first at Kadar, and then the emir, wanting to see their reaction and confirmation that he was on the right track. He avoids looking my way.

“And he conned Amahad!” The heir to the throne almost spits out the words, the depth of his displeasure obvious. “Benting International Holdings stole millions from our country. We paid for surveys to see if there was oil under the sands of the southern desert. Benting provided reports that there was indeed liquid gold there. Hell, we even had the results from the test wells. We engaged Benting to begin developing the oilfields and paid a hefty sum for the privilege. Half the money was put up by a consortium of desert tribes. And half put up by the state.” He glances at his brother. “You know the tribes, Jasim. They live hand to mouth. Pride in their homeland made them want to take ownership of the project. They found the money, but that required sacrifices they can ill afford. Now it’s come to light there is no oil in the desert, they have nothing to show for it. That same pride demands recompense. The tribespeople want revenge.”

Jasim nods, sadness in his eyes. “And you’re sure the obvious route has failed? You offered them money from the state?”

The emir takes over with a nod. “I have, Jasim. They will not accept charity from the Crown. If they cannot take revenge on the man himself, someone of his bloodline will have to do. And there is only one who carries his blood. Vengeance will be satisfied when his daughter marries the savage sheikh.” He glares at me as if throwing a challenge, expecting me to refute the title. “They would have preferred her dead for her father’s crimes. At least I talked them down from that. For the time being.”