The Sheikh's Captive American (Zahkim Sheikhs 1)

ved a hand. "The doc's talking surgery. Seems they're trying to get a specialist here but they want the swelling to go down first."

Wheeling herself closer, Tess gripped his hand. "Don't worry. I'm not going to abandon you here."

He frowned. "What about Mumbai and New York?"

"They can wait. You've been on every tour with me. I'm not bailing on you here. Acquisition meeting or not, it's all on hold until we can both travel again."

Phil nodded and closed his eyes.

With a sigh, Tess patted Phil's hand. "Hang in there. We'll make it home." She started to turn the wheelchair, got it caught, and had to have the nurse back her out. That left her irritated, wishing she were on her feet and Phil wasn't waiting for surgery.

In the hall, she found Tarek and the older woman he'd introduced as his grandmother waiting for her.

The woman was tall, but she looked far smaller standing next to Tarek. Why did the guy have to be so dang tall? Tess had always had a thing for guys who could beat her own five-foot-eight. The woman wore the same kind of robe and scarf that had been given to Tess. Somehow, she managed to make the black look stylish, even without any jewelry or ornamentation. Her face was a topographic map of wrinkles, but her dark eyes glittered with intelligence—and was that a little mischief? Tess couldn’t be sure. She found herself warming to the woman.

Amal stepped up and smiled. "I'm delighted to hear you'll be staying with us, my dear. The doctor said you should wait at least a week or two before you travel, and your companion may need a month of recovery."

Tess shifted and tugged at her robes. "I'm a fast healer. So's Phil. As long as I can keep up with my people. I have meetings in India I'll have to reschedule as well as colleagues and friends who need to know what happened."

She was aware of Tarek staring at her, those amber eyes of his intent and focused. She'd never met a man like him. She was used to stares, to fan adoration, but Tarek—there was something about him that tugged at her, and she wasn't sure what it was. Maybe it came from having been rescued by him.

"Ah, so many demands on your time. My grandson and I know that feeling well," Amal said.

Tess thought she meant it as more than simple sympathy, but she couldn't quite grasp the underlying message.

Tarek shifted on his feet, and Tess was suddenly hotly aware of him. She had to look up to see his face—awkward when sitting in a wheelchair. The man wasn't just tall—he was built. Unlike his grandmother, he had on Western clothes: khaki trousers and a shirt that fit as if made for him. The shirt outlined broad shoulders and a slim waist. The strong nose he'd inherited from his grandmother looked better on his face. His mouth pulled down slightly, and Tess found herself wishing he'd flash that smile of his again.

Instead, he said, "You must rest. Heal. I will see that you have what you need for connections. We are not so backwards a country we are without the Internet and phones."

He said the last with a small touch of humor that Tess found charming.

Amal shook her head. "I did not want to worry you, Tarek, but the communications companies now speak of joining the strike."

Eyes narrowing, Tarek turned to his grandmother. A knot formed in Tess's stomach. She wouldn't want him looking at her with that kind of sharp appraisal. "When did this happen, and how do you know about it before me?"

"I only just heard. And you have been so busy today, no one cares to worry you." She smiled at Tess. "Our lines and towers need frequent maintenance, you know, because of the heat and harsh desert."

Tess bit back her irritation and said, "When Phil's able to travel, I'm going to need to charter a plane."

Tarek nodded. "When the time comes, I can put you in touch with a reliable company in Dubai I have used before. Communications strike or not."

Tess massaged her temples, her headache blooming behind her eyes. If all else failed, she'd hire some camels. But not tonight.

Tarek was at once beside her wheelchair, shooing the nurse away, taking control. "We must get you to some rest."

And then he was rolling her down the hall, the whole rest of the entourage trailing after them and out to a set of black SUVs that waited at the curb. The heat hit her at once, even though the sun had set making her wilt in her wheelchair.

Tarek swept her out of the chair and into his arms making her breath catch in her chest.

She grabbed for his shoulders, got a handful of muscle and a scent that held a touch of cedar. He settled her into the back of the SUV as if she were made of glass. She wasn't sure if she was irritated at being treated that way or pleased about it. She stood six feet tall in heels, and she'd grown up working next to the roadies on her father’s concert tours. This—well, it was kind of nice. Tarek was giving orders. His grandmother climbed into another SUV, and Tarek slipped in next to her and took her hand.

"It is not far," he said.

She started to tell him she'd survived worse when it occurred to her this really was the worst thing that had ever happened, short of when her mother had walked out on the family.

And then the scenery caught her.

She stared out the window. Night had fallen, but the city blazed with high-rises and neon signs. It looked urban, but exotic, too, with most of the signs in lovely Arabic scripts. After a few turns, a park opened out in the center of the city. Campfires scented the air with wood smoke. Torches and lanterns cast dancing shadows over swaths of grass. A crowd had gathered, and they were singing, dancing, and sitting around the fires and in front of tents.