Desire In The Desert - Ryshia Kennie Mills & Boon e-Book Collections

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flying in the night in a small plane made her.

      She’d never said, but she wasn’t letting go of his hand, either. After that there was only the roar of the engine, the dark heaviness of the mountains as they seemed to close in, and the small river of lights that acted as landing lights.

      “Despite how I first reacted when I picked you up at the airport,” Emir said glancing at her as the plane rolled to a stop, “I couldn’t have a calmer, more analytical thinker by my side.”

      Kate’s hand dropped from the seat belt she’d been clutching as the plane rolled along the narrow runway, startled by the unexpected compliment. “Thank you,” she said softly.

      “More beautiful, either,” he added as he brought the plane to a stop.

      She wasn’t sure if he’d really said that or if she’d just imagined it, rather like the earlier kiss. None of it seemed like the in-charge man she knew, and yet, if she were to profile him...she wouldn’t. Instead she enjoyed the instinctive rush of pleasure the compliment gave her and, just as quickly, pulled her mind back to reality. There was no time for such thoughts. Instead, there was silence as they quickly disembarked.

      A slight, dark-haired man, whose gray hair glinted in the lights, waved to them as he hurried down the runway.

      “Right on time,” he said in heavily accented English.

      “You’ve been waiting?” Emir asked.

      The words, spoken in Berber, reminded Kate of what she had read about Emir. She knew Berber was a language he had learned as a boy. His father had ensured that he and his siblings were fluent in each of the languages of Morocco. As a result, Emir spoke Arabic, Berber, English and French. The English, he spoke flawlessly, with a hint of American colloquialism. She knew, too, that he’d gone to university in Wyoming where he’d been into all things American. Adam had told her that, along with the fact that Emir was comfortable straddling the Moroccan and American cultures, easily diving into one or the other and enjoying both depending on which country he was in. What nothing had told her was that he was a man she could not only admire but desire in a situation when all of that information was completely inappropriate.

      “Good to meet you.” Emir reached out a hand to Yuften, who took it with hesitation. Kate guessed the ritual was foreign to the smaller man.

      Yuften took a step back, his hands linked behind the back of his navy blue windbreaker. He didn’t look at Kate.

      She took a step forward, ahead of Emir.

      “Kate,” she said and didn’t offer her hand, knowing it would be an affront to what he believed.

      He nodded and turned almost immediately as Emir took her hand and squeezed it before letting her go.

      Yuften spoke, his back to them. “Follow me. My wife will show you where your sleeping mats are later. In the meantime, I believe you have questions,” he said in English and in the precise tones of someone unused to using the language. He began to walk away, leaving them to follow as his jacket and matching blue, baggy pants flapped in the light breeze and he almost immediately seemed to fade into the night.

      “I’m glad you made it when you did.”

      They could hear his voice but now he was only an outline in the darkness.

      Kate looked at Emir. “What does he mean?” she whispered.

      Before Emir could reply, their host answered the question for her.

      “Their type isn’t welcome here. Killers and the lot.”

      Time seemed to stand still and only one word echoed between them.

      Killers.

      Kate shook her head as she looked at Emir.

      His hand went to his gun. “Whoever is responsible will die,” he said through gritted teeth.

      And she knew without question he spoke of Tara’s kidnappers and that it was a promise he planned to keep.

       Chapter Eleven

      Five minutes later, as Emir and Kate followed their host, they found themselves climbing three sets of rough-hewn stairs that were surface-smooth and worn, and made more treacherous by the darkness. The steps ran between small box-like houses that looked very similar. Light, flickering from the entranceways of houses that seemed to close in on them, appeared to come from a candle or kerosene lantern, for it only faintly illuminated patches of the path.

      To their left, an older man in a desert-sand-colored aselham, also called a djellaba, and the traditional, Berber, long-sleeved robe, led a donkey through a narrow alleyway that wound amid the squat houses and looked to go upward into the foothills and beyond.

      It was pushing close to eleven o’clock and the hours before daylight stretched in front of them. The path became more narrow and steep. They navigated another set of primitive stairs as they moved higher, the darkness seeming to deepen and her breath catching as if it had become difficult to breathe. They stopped in front of one house. It was a sandstone-colored building, squat like the rest they’d passed in the last few minutes.

      “Here,” Yuften said as he stepped through the arched doorway. He motioned with a flick of his right hand that they should follow. Inside, the room was small with soft blue plastered walls and an arched ceiling that made the area feel slightly less cramped.

      Three children stared at them. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, their legs stretched out and their backs pressed to the wall. Kate doubted if the oldest could have been more than six. She guessed that they had been commanded to sit there, for it seemed too formal for a child. She also guessed that only the excitement of strangers visiting had them up this late.

      A woman stood quietly just to the right of the doorway. Her hair was covered by a pink, embroidered veil that matched the gray and pink of her traditional robe. A strand of dark hair escaped the veil and her hands were clasped in front of her as she smiled, not looking at anyone but Yuften.

      Yuften nodded to her, turned to Emir and said, “My wife, Saffiya.” Then he gestured with a sweep of his arm to a solid mahogany table with stubby legs that raised it only a few feet off the floor. He took a place on one side, sitting on a thick emerald-green rug that covered much of the floor. It was clear that they were to follow.

      In the corner Kate could see just one chair, a rocking chair, painted orange. She wondered how that cultural anomaly had come to be or how the clash of colors seemed vibrant rather than odd. She turned her attention quickly away, for none of that had any relevance to what they needed to know now. What they needed was information that would bring them to Tara before it was too late.

      “You had questions,” Yuften said, again in English.

      Before they could answer, Saffiya entered the room with a silver teapot and poured them each a cup of tea.

      The children giggled.

      Yuften raised a hand in a flagging movement without turning around and the children were silent. On a ledge on either side of one wall, a trio of thick candles flickered, throwing shadows across the room.

      “Atrar Tashfin—the man you asked about.” Yuften looked at them. “He was killed at the Marrakech airport? I can’t believe one of ours could be involved.” He shook his head. “Of course, he’d been gone a long time, but his father...” He put his teacup down. “How did it happen?”

      “A gunfight with the authorities,” Emir said.

      The explanation was a bit of a stretch, but they were here to get information not give it.

      Yuften shook his head, a frown worrying his brow. “It’s too bad.” He looked at Emir. “Unless he was involved in your sister’s kidnapping. Then he had it coming.”

      “Did you know him?” Emir asked.

      Yuften

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