The Sheikh's Pregnant Prisoner

“Doesn’t mean they don’t deserve medical attention.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Farrah smiled. “Just be careful. Zafir will skin me alive if anything happens to you.” But it was clear that her mind was already on the task in hand. “The moment I’m free, I’ll be at the clinic.”

Adrenaline spurring her into action, Lauren nodded. For the first time in so many weeks, she felt a sense of purpose.

While Farrah made another call, Lauren crammed energy bars and bottles of water, and a loose cardigan into her backpack. Then she changed into a freshly laundered white kaftan and loose cotton trousers, also in white, as it was the best fabric for the heat. She braided her hair tightly and wrapped a silk scarf loosely around her hair and neck. Catching Farrah’s curious gaze, she stilled. “I don’t want to draw attention to myself.” She patted her hand over her not-so-flat tummy. “Do I look—?”

“Yes.” Farrah answered without hesitation. “But pregnant or not, American or not, you’re not average. No wonder Zafir lost his head over you.”

Something in her tone tugged at Lauren.

Within minutes, they were walking out of Zafir’s private quarters, through the marble-tiled corridors. A state-of-the-art elevator brought them to the underground parking lot where a man in uniform was waiting next to a rugged jeep that she only saw in Survivor-type shows.

Checking to see that the medical file Farrah had emailed downloaded onto her phone, she climbed into the jeep.

“No wonder he lost his head over you.” She clutched Farrah’s words to her heart foolishly and waited for the envoy to leave.

* * *

Zafir closed the door to his office, bone-tired after his four-day trip to the United States to discuss a new treaty regarding Behraat’s oil supply to the Western nation.

His first official trip abroad and all he had heard was: stability in their region of the world, and Behraat’s particular lack of it in the past three years. About all the feathers Tariq had ruffled since his father’s coma.

For a blistering cowardly moment, Zafir had indulged in not returning. And just as soon discarded the fanciful notion.

He needed to pick a side in the divisive High Council, needed to pick one of their daughters they paraded like horses under his nose for his bride and be done with it.

Behraat needed it. He as the High Sheikh needed to show stability, his commitment as a ruler to both his people and the outside world.

But all he thought of was Lauren, her soft mouth and her mewling moans and her trembling body. The tears on her proud face, the regret in her expression when she had admitted that she’d been wrong...

The door to his office burst open. He bit back the scathing words that rose to his lips at the sight of Farrah, fear etched into her unlined face. Followed closely by a stone-faced Arif.

Unknown dread fisted his throat.

“Zafir,” Farrah said, “Lauren...she has been kidnapped.”

His chest felt as if there was a vise clamping it. “She...what?” he mumbled, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears. “How?”

“She,” Arif still wouldn’t utter Lauren’s name, “convinced Farrah to let her help the Dahab tribe woman who went into labor just as Farrah was getting ready to attend another woman.”

The mere mention of the Dahab made his heart thud.

“And?” he exploded.

“By the time I got there...” Farrah was distraught. “No one knew where Lauren was. The Dahab woman, her baby, her husband, even Ahmed, were all gone.”

“When was this?”

“Three days ago.”

With a growl, Zafir pushed at his chair.

The revolving chair crashed into the chest behind him, scattering the contents—a flower vase, and a framed photo of his father that fell to the rug with a soft thump.

Lauren’s face swam into his vision, fear stealing his very thoughts. If something happened to her all because he had selfishly involved her in his life...

He ran a hand over his forehead, the headache that had been coming on all day crystallizing into a pounding behind his eyes.

Farrah stepped toward him, her hands clasped together in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Zafir.”

But knowing Lauren’s stubborn will, he couldn’t blame Farrah.

“I sent a message to the Dahab in your name,” Arif said, “but as usual, they have ignored any communication. The palace guard reports them traveling east into the desert.”

Had they taken her because she was carrying his child? As revenge against his father?

Dahab didn’t care for the ways of the outside world including Behraat.

But they had good reason to hate his family. If his father had brought shame on them, Tariq had hunted them across the desert. Every instinct clamored to order his Special Forces Air Team, to use his might to pluck Lauren from their midst.