“What do you want, Dr. Junayd Saif-Ad-Din?”
He breathed in her mesmeric voice and slowly turned toward the trunk of the tree, captivated by the tantalizing scent of oranges and vanilla washing over his senses. His breath hissed when she stepped into a sliver of moonlight filtering through the barren branches of the old oak.
A dark red scarf covered the lower half of her face. Only her almond-shaped eyes and her forehead were visible. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were a dark rich chocolate color framed by long black lashes that looked incredibly soft. Her hair was black with a blue sheen. It fell in thick waves down her back and over her shoulder, barely restrained in a simple low ponytail.
She was dressed all in black, her clothes form-fitting. His eyes moved to the black tonfa in a sheath at her waist. The smooth wood with a perpendicular handle a third of the way down the length was known for its ability to incapacitate an opponent with a single, well-placed blow. It was an unusual weapon for an American.
He would bet his best Arabian stallion that she had more than that on her, but it was her eyes that had his full attention as she walked toward him. Her steps were so quiet that he couldn’t hear them above the sound of traffic and the wind.
He knew very few people who were as fluid as she was when she moved. She circled him, staying just out of his reach, and he was mesmerized.
“How do you know who I am?” he asked.
Her soft chuckle fanned the flames within him. Desire unlike anything he had ever known coursed through him—raw, primitive, and shockingly possessive. He wanted to capture her, drag her to the ground, and claim her right under the moonlit sky.
“‘Yes, sire,’” she mimicked Ashar’s voice, though her rendition held far more amusement than the original had. “There is only one sheikh who would carry himself like a doctor. The AMA could reprimand you for refusing poor Oliver medical assistance, but don’t worry, I won’t tell them,” she teased.
He remained still as she circled him again. She was drawing closer with each pass. He could only wonder if she knew the effect she was having on him.
“I don’t follow your American Medical Association’s rules—all the time,” he said.
His eyelids lowered when he felt her hand slide across his lower back. His need surged, and he gritted his teeth. She paused as if she sensed the tidal wave of lust she was playing with.
“What rules do you follow, Junayd?” she murmured.
Two
Minutes earlier:
From the large barren oak tree, Midnight watched the scene unfold below. Sitting still along the limb, anyone looking up would think she was part of the tree. Her reluctance to leave had partly been a duty to make sure that Mandie would not be placed back into the hands of Hilde, but it was also curiosity about the elegant man who had witnessed the assault.
Sheikh Junayd Saif-Ad-Din had surprised her. His focus had been on the battered and shaken girl instead of the wealthy politician who might still become the vice president of one of the world’s most powerful countries. Most of the patrons attending this grand party would have looked the other way at the first sign of trouble.
Midnight sent a quick text to the girl’s parents, giving them her location and letting them know that Mandie was bruised and shaken but she would be alright. Returning her phone to her pocket, she silently studied Junayd. He was breathtakingly handsome with a chiseled jawline and a neatly trimmed beard. His hair was the color of the night, black with a tint of blue in the moonlight. She couldn’t see his eyes very well, but she knew they would be a dark brown like hers.
“Did you see anyone else here?” the officer asked.
“Yes, the person who defended the girl,” Junayd replied.
“Defended?” the police officer exclaimed with an incredulous, angry expression before he schooled himself into neutrality. “Uh—So, you do not believe that the…’defense’ was… excessive… sir,” the police officer carefully asked.
“No more than what Quest deserved,” Junayd mildly retorted.
Midnight smiled. She knew the publicity wheels for the Senator were already turning. Their preferred take would be that Quest was busy defending the girl from a wild vigilante and blame the girl’s attack on the unknown person.
She wasn’t worried. By the time their spin was ready, news of all the other trashy things Quest had done would be speeding through to so many branches of local, state, and federal government, the man wouldn’t be able to go to the bathroom without someone knowing. Bugs would take care of that.
“Can you describe the person who attacked Senator Quest?” the officer asked.
“No,” Junayd replied.
The officer frowned and pressed Junayd, but the sheikh replied with the same monosyllabic response that eventually drove the frustrated officer to close the notepad in his hand with a snap. Her respect for the Jawahir prince went up another notch. The man knew how to handle people.
After everyone left, he remained standing under the tree. Curiosity held her frozen despite the flare of warning lighting up her nerves, and when Junayd spoke, she felt a need to respond. There was something about him that drew her to him on a primitive level. She had a magnetic urge to touch him.
Like a bug to a light, she mused as she circled him.
But she gave in, running her hand along his lower back, watching for his reaction. He was still, following her only with his eyes as if daring her to come closer—and she did.
“What rules do you follow, Junayd?” she asked.
His voice was sultry when he replied, “Those of the desert, raqisat alqamar.”
She tilted her head, stopping in the shadow of a tree-limb instead of in front of him where the moon shone. Dark brown eyes filled with heat locked with hers. She raised her chin at his silent challenge.
“What does raqisat alqamar mean?” she asked.
“Moon dancer,” he replied.
Midnight lifted an eyebrow but didn’t say anything for a moment. They continued weighing each other. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he concerned that she might attack him? She dismissed the thought immediately. His eyes held mirth, not fear or wariness. If anything, she should be the one worrying about him attacking. And worry about enjoying it too much if he did.
“Why didn’t you tell the police what they wanted to hear?” she asked.
“Truth is important,” he replied, sounding surprised that he had to state the obvious. “Especially when it is not convenient. The policeman wanted to know who attacked Senator Quest, implying he was the victim. You did not attack him, you defended the girl,” he said with an elegant shrug of his shoulders. His gaze brushed against hers. “She deserves justice.”
Midnight laughed with surprise, the sound barely escaping her scarf. “What are the rules of the desert?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to reply when a shout from the house drew his attention. Midnight felt a pang of regret as she silently moved back into the shadows. Mr. Benning was walking across the yard. Her encounter with Junayd had come to an end.
She backed far enough away that neither man would be able to see her and crouched by a large boxwood. Her heartbeat increased when Junayd turned in a slow circle, searching for her. For a second, she wondered if he could see her when his gaze seemed to pause near where she was crouching before he lifted his eyes to the tall oak.