Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,3
watched. She glanced up into the branches, saw the glow of a tiny white owl looking down at her.
Slowly Dalilah turned her attention to the armed and silent bodyguards lining the six-foot-high branch fence, watching. The security detail had been provided by the president to watch over the delegates. Her own men stood behind her at a comfortable distance. Yet the chill of foreboding deepened and she shivered.
* * *
Brandt Stryker checked the name attached to a small plate on the bungalow door—Dalilah Al Arif, delegate, ClearWater. He knew about the nonprofit that helped bring fresh water and farming aid to impoverished communities in Africa. They did good work. He hadn’t known the Saharan princess was involved with that work. He knew very little about her other than she was a high-maintenance, high-society player with looks to kill.
The lock was easy enough to pick. Brandt edged open the bungalow door. Inside, the air conditioner hummed, cooling the air. White cotton sheets on the canopy bed had been turned down; a foil-wrapped chocolate nestled on the pillow alongside a miniature bottle of cream liqueur made from the fruit of the African marula tree.
The princess’s cell phone lay atop the covers. It was buzzing.
Brandt went over to the bed, the soles of his boots squeaking slightly on highly polished stone. The buzzing stopped. He picked the phone up. Eight unanswered calls, probably from her brother, Omair, trying to alert Dalilah, let her know that he was coming for her.
Irritated, Brandt tossed her phone back onto the covers. Now the job of convincing her to come peaceably would fall to him.
Using the barrel of his rifle, he edged the muslin drapes aside slightly and peered out the window. Down the pathway, under the branches of huge nyala trees, firelight winked through gaps in the branch fencing surrounding a lapa. He could hear drumming, singing, ululating. The dinner would go on for a while yet, he suspected.
His plan was go down to the lapa and identify his target from the shadows. Once he had confirmation Dalilah was among the guests, he’d head back to this bungalow as festivities began to wrap up, and wait for her here.
He opened her closet. Cocktail dresses in exotic and gauzy fabrics hung in a rainbow of colors. He trailed the muzzle of his gun through sequins, sparkles, shimmering scarves. At the bottom of the closet was a high-end luggage set and five pairs of sandals with ridiculous heels. The princess’s saving grace was a lone pair of sturdy hiking boots, a pair of khaki pants, two T-shirts, a long-sleeved button-down shirt and a sun hat. He tossed those onto the bed. His intention was to gear her up properly before he took her out into the night.
Brandt opened one of her drawers, looking for thick socks—once she returned to the bungalow he didn’t want to waste a second getting her changed and out of here. He stalled suddenly at the sight of a black bra and small pile of G-strings—mere scraps of silk. And he couldn’t help touching them, the fabric snagging on the rough pads of his fingers. He hadn’t seen, or felt, really expensive feminine underwear in years, and the silky sensation of it stirred something in him, a deep rustling of memories. An unspecified longing.
Then he cursed sharply, slamming the drawer shut.
He’d had his fill of women, of deceit. He liked things the way he had them now. He lived solo in the bush for weeks on end, and when his piloting jobs did take him to Gaborone, he found sex. No fuss, no foreplay, no commitment, just pleasure straight up. Until recently he hadn’t felt bad about it either—but lately, even the mindless sex had left him feeling hollow, unsatisfied, uneasy.
He found the princess’s purse, checked the passport picture in her wallet. His heart beat a little faster at the sight of her thick hair, her dark, almond eyes, her exotic features. Her looks alone pushed his buttons. He needed to get this job done fast—this was not a woman he wanted to linger around. She reminded him too much of someone else, of a past he’d worked for ten years to forget, but still couldn’t quite shake.
Brandt’s mind went to the phone call and the man who had coerced him into this mission—Sheik Omair Al Arif.
“I won’t do it,” Brandt had informed Dalilah’s brother. “I’m done kidnapping damsels in distress—you know what happened last time.”