Guarding the Princess Read Online Free

missing from his hip. Must’ve lost them in the tussle. No time to worry about it now. His only goal right now was to reach his Cessna, get up into the air and over the border before the weather—or Ghaffar—hit.
    Something told Brandt he was not going to make it.

Chapter 2
    F irst there was only blackness, pain. Then as consciousness filtered back, Dalilah realized her head was hanging down, hair swinging, blood filling her cheeks, her body rhythmically bumping against something...
    She was being carried over a man’s shoulders.
    A twig sliced across her brow as her abductor began to descend a steep hill, stones clattering ahead of him. She tried to pull her vision into focus. It was night—dark, apart from moon and starlight. She could see the ground below, parts of her abductor’s body. His legs, boots. He was wearing safari shorts, thick socks, a machete at his hip.
    Panic struck like a hatchet as memory slammed into her—the attack at the lodge. Men in hoods. Shooting, blood, screams. Barked Arabic commands. The delegate lying under the table, blood spurting from a gunshot wound in his neck. She realized with horror her fingers were still sticky with the man’s blood.
    Leave him. He’s gone— the fierce whisper of her attacker, his ice-blue eyes drilling into hers. Eyes so pale and luminous against his darkly tanned face it had frightened her. She’d tried to stab him with a carving knife, but he’d grabbed her around the neck, and her world had gone black.
    He’d taken her!
    Dalilah squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather herself. Fight? Flee? But where to? She opened her eyes again and tried to carefully lift her head in order to assess more of her surroundings, but he felt her body stiffen because he said, “Don’t even try it. Don’t move. Fighting me will make it worse.”
    His voice was rough, deep, and he spoke English with the flat, guttural accent of an Afrikaner. She knew the sound well—had spent several months in the country and had worked with an Afrikaans-speaking South African in New York.
    “What do you want with me?” Her voice came out hoarse, her throat hurting where he’d strangled her.
    “Hold still. My Cessna is just down there, on the plain.”
    Fear spurted afresh through her, and she struggled wildly against his grip. “Who are you? Where are you taking me? If it’s ransom you want, I can—”
    “Jesus, woman. I don’t want to hurt you—”
    But she kicked at him hard, grabbing a handful of his short hair, twisting. He cursed viciously, swinging her forward and tossing her to the ground with a thud. Stones stabbed sharply into her back as breath whooshed out of her lungs with the impact. Dalilah’s eyes watered, pain sparking through her ribs.
    “You bastard!” she hissed as soon as she managed a breath. “What do you want with me?”
    “My name is Stryker—Brandt Stryker. Your brother sent me to get you.” He bent forward, hands on knees, struggling to catch his own breath. He was big. Well over six feet. Even in the milky starlight she could see he was fair. Square-jawed, broad-shouldered. Built. A rifle was strapped across his chest. His pale khaki shirt was dark with sweat, his sleeves ripped off at the shoulders, and she saw blood smeared down his arm.
    Something in Dalilah stilled.
    “My brother?” she asked quietly.
    “Omair.”
    “You know Omair?”
    “Yes. I owe the damn sheik. Come on, get up. They’re going to be here any second.”
    “Who!”
    “Amal Ghaffar. Bloody one-armed jackal and his wild pack of dogs.”
    Ice slid through her veins. “Amal?” Her voice came out a whisper. “The Moor’s son—he’s alive? ”
    Her assailant threw her an odd look and was silent for a beat.
    “You didn’t know?”
    Dalilah stared at him, thinking of the Arabic words she’d heard back at the lapa.
    He gave a snort. “Figures your brothers might keep that from you. Amal Ghaffar has been hiding in Africa for the past two years, ever since your