Bodyguard Confessions. Donna Young

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СКАЧАТЬ dozen doors stood between them, six on each side. Each door potentially hiding more Al Asheera.

      Quamar studied the doors, looking for any jarred open or for fresh foot tracks by their thresholds.

      Anna shifted behind him but otherwise remained silent. The woman was astute and learned quickly. That simple fact might save her life, he thought grimly.

      In the stream of light, Quamar placed his forefinger to his lips, then pointed to Anna’s feet. “Stay,” he mouthed.

      One short nod told him she understood, but her frown told him, once again, she wasn’t pleased about it.

      Soundlessly, Quamar crept down the hall, picking up the light scent of polish, the stronger scent of sweat and tobacco.

      The guard’s eyes flickered, then opened. But when he caught sight of Quamar, he scrambled to his feet rather than firing his rifle. A fatal mistake.

      Quamar’s knife hit, sinking into the guard’s forehead, his surprised features a death mask as he slumped to the floor.

      Expertly, the giant searched the man. Finding nothing, he shoved the body into a nearby utility closet, grabbed his knife and the rifle, then waved Anna forward.

      Quamar tapped on the door.

      Seconds ticked by. Quamar tapped again.

      “Who is it?”

      Quamar spoke too low for Anna to hear, but after a few words, the door opened.

      A woman, no more than thirty, petite with feathered black hair just past her shoulders, waved them in.

      “Quamar.” Relief underlined his name.

      Quamar placed a finger to her lips, gave her one of the rifles. With silent steps, he made his way through the apartment, searching the adjoining rooms. A few moments later, he returned and motioned Anna into the apartment.

      Tentatively, she glanced around. Luxurious by any standard, the apartment still managed a homey appearance. Muted, jeweled colors of sapphire, emerald and ruby draped the walls, covered the floors. A balanced blend of patterns and solids, mixed with the darker mahogany of the furniture, did more than relax—it soothed the senses.

      “Your mother will be out in a moment,” Quamar said, before placing both rifles on a nearby dining table. “I caught her by surprise.”

      For the first time, Anna took a good look at her rescuer.

      Oh, he was tall, she’d known that. Even in the hospital bed, the blankets and bandages hadn’t been able to hide the height of the man. But they certainly hid the massive strength beneath.

      The romantic in her recognized his stance as that of a warrior—taut, tense but poised. To protect, to rescue those he stood guard over—those he deemed defenseless. Her. Rashid.

      Broad shoulders and bulging muscles were well defined under the flow of his black robe. Bare-chested, his rich, bronzed skin glistened with sweat and golden undertones where his robe parted into a V, framing the rigid abdominal muscles. He wore his dark pants loose and low on lean hips. But the cotton did little to conceal the firm, tight-muscled thighs beneath.

      The woman in her took him in with one, slow stroke of her eye, recognizing instantly the attraction that fluttered in her stomach.

      He’d taken off the turban, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. Dark eyebrows framed onyx eyes and long, thick lashes. Their arch, concealed now with a frown, she imagined appeared with a vengeance once his humor surfaced. If he had one.

      He kept his head and face clean-shaven, adding a smooth texture to otherwise masculine features. His jaw was chiseled with a slight cleft in his chin—cut from the same stone that carved his high cheekbones, the straight slant of his nose.

      His mouth, beautifully sculptured from the Greek gods—hard and sexy, with just enough give to hint at something softer beneath.

      “Miss Cambridge, are you all right?”

      Startled, Anna looked up to catch Quamar studying her. The black deepened enough to indicate he’d been watching her awhile.

      “I’m sorry.” Heat flushed her cheeks. “Yes, I’m all right.”

      “How about you, Quamar?” the woman asked, frowning as she glanced between the couple.

      “I am fine, Sandra.” Quamar’s half smile only brought a raised eyebrow from his friend. He bent down and kissed the woman’s lips. A brief kiss, one of reassurance. Not passion.

      Sandra’s leather-brown irises narrowed with concern. “I’ll just make sure you all are. If you don’t mind.” She walked across the room and grabbed a large black bag.

      “Anna, this is Doctor Sandra Haddad,” Quamar stated when the woman returned. “Her father, Omar, is the physician to the royal family. Sandra is Taer’s coroner.”

      “My father? Is he…” Sandra paused, unable to go further.

      “The Al Asheera won’t harm your father, Sandra.” An older woman stepped from a nearby hallway. Her accent placed her as British. Older by at least thirty years, her skin showed little of her age. She was trim and petite, barely passing Anna’s shoulder. A glance from mother to daughter showed they had the same hairline, the same brown eyes. “He is too valuable. There is need of him.” And, Anna noted, the same stubborn line in their brow.

      The woman paused long enough to caress the top of the baby’s head.

      When Anna took an instinctive step back, the older woman smiled. “I’m Elizabeth Haddad. A friend.”

      Before Anna could answer, Elizabeth addressed Quamar. “Prince Rashid is not safe here. Nor is Miss Cambridge.”

      “The baby, he has slept through everything?” Sandra asked, already reaching for her flashlight.

      “Yes,” Anna answered, trying to keep her concern at a minimum. “His nanny drugged him.”

      “How long has he been out?” Sandra asked, checking the baby’s pupils.

      “Over three hours now.” Anna’s arm tightened, protecting.

      “Not the best way, but it served its purpose.” Sandra opened the sling and snagged the bottle from the baby’s lap. She unscrewed the lid and smelled. “Passiflora Incarnata. Not harmful but concentrated. When he wakes, he’s not going to wake happy. She had to give him quite a bit to keep him out this long. He might even have a slight headache, not all that different to a hangover.”

      “But he’ll be fine?” Anna asked.

      “Yes. He’s fine.” Sandra stroked Rashid’s forehead.

      “But you aren’t.” Elizabeth’s gaze took in Anna’s mud-caked clothes, her bare feet. “You’ve been injured.”

      With a frown, Anna followed Elizabeth’s gaze to the floor. For the first time, she noticed the blood-smeared footprints behind her.

      “You are bleeding?” СКАЧАТЬ