Bodyguard Confessions

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?” Quamar noticed the red marks on the floor. “Where are your shoes?”

“Slippers. I lost them running in the tunnel. Going back for them would’ve slowed us down.”

Quamar swore. He opened the door, gave Anna a hard stare, then disappeared into the hallway.

“What was that about?”

Anna sighed. “That’s his ‘Don’t you dare move while I’m gone’ look.”

“Really?” Elizabeth mused. “I’ve known Quamar since he was a child, and I’ve never seen more than a ‘I’m not going to let my feelings show’ look.”

Anna would have laughed, but she couldn’t figure out if Elizabeth was being serious or not.

Before she could ask, Quamar stepped back in and shut the door. “The rug is red, which covered your marks. But the stairs are a different matter. One that worked in our favor. I cleaned them down to the fifth floor.”

He glanced at Sandra. “Who placed the guard outside your door?”

“Hassan,” Elizabeth replied with derision. “At least that’s what the guard said. Under the ruse of protecting us, of course. He is keeping us safe in order to force Omar to help his soldiers.”

“The guard is dead. We have very little time before he is discovered. I had no choice, he saw me. But I took him down to the fifth floor also.”

Sandra nodded toward Anna’s feet. “We’ll clean up our floors, too.”

“All the communication lines are down.” Quamar walked to the bay window, eased the curtain barely an inch and studied the street. “I am taking you to my father’s camp.” He turned back to the women. “But first I need your satellite phone, Sandra.”

“I don’t have it,” Sandra replied. “It’s at my office. I only use it for my field research.”

“Then we go to your office,” Quamar stated. “Right now, I need you both to get ready.”

“No,” Sandra said. “I have a better chance of retrieving the phone if I stay. If people are injured or dead, they are going to need me and I am going to need my office. Just tell me who to call.”

“You are not staying.”

“Yes, Quamar, we are. If they come to our door, I will tell them the guard never reported to us. The worst they will do is assign another man,” Elizabeth argued. “I’m not leaving my husband.”

“Quamar,” Sandra said. “Hassan won’t harm us. He needs us too much.”

Quamar looked at her for a moment. “All right, I will give you the number to an associate. And a message. Memorize both.”

Sandra brought him a pen and paper. Quickly, he wrote the information. “Roman D’Amato. Talk to no one else,” Quamar added.

Anna didn’t recognize the name. “Will your man be able to contact my father?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to say ‘no worries’ when he reaches my father.”

Quamar’s eyebrow arched. “A code?”

“A confirmation.”

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“It’s not like I didn’t mention it on purpose, Quamar,” Anna retorted. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Anna turned to Sandra. “When I refused having a Secret Service detail, my father devised this alternative,” she explained. “It will confirm you are a friend.”

Sandra nodded. “That’s easy enough.”

“Tell us, Quamar, how many have died?” Elizabeth asked.

“Many Taerians. Not near enough of the Al Asheera,” Quamar commented with a chilling finality.

“Your responsibility is to the prince and now, Miss Cambridge. Not revenge, Quamar,” Elizabeth advised.

Quamar’s features hardened. “First one, then the other.”

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