Ransomed for the Sheikh_A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel Page 2

  The deferential, almost humble way Morris called him Sheikh made Imraan pause again. The desperation was indeed real. Without asking, Imraan could tell that Morris believed his daughter was a dead woman if he didn’t pay up. But still, Morris did well. Certainly he was a millionaire after years of steady work, albeit within the confines of his chosen criminal enterprise.

  “You’ve done well enough over the years,” Imraan said. “And if I remember right, you were always careful with your money. That’s what made you so good at what you did. Have you blown it all on fancy cars and mansions over the years, old man?”

  “I can come up with twelve million in cash,” said the old man. “That is everything I have.”

  The Sheikh blinked when he heard the number. Who in Allah’s name would ask a small-time bookie for more than twelve million in ransom? Were they insane? Stupid? Or was there something else in play here?

  “And twelve million is not enough? How much do they want?”

  “Forty-nine million dollars,” said Morris, his voice almost breaking as if he’d lost hope.

  Imraan paused and took a breath. Who the hell demands a forty-nine million dollar ransom?! If they’d targeted Morris and his daughter, surely they’d also know he couldn’t pay it! Did they want to wipe him out, put him in debt to someone else? Or did they want to simply put him in a hopeless position, powerless to save his own daughter? Ya Allah, the Sheikh thought as a dark satisfaction rolled through him. It is almost something I might have come up with myself!

  “Just so I am understanding you correctly,” Imraan said. “You are asking me for a thirty-seven million dollar loan?”

  “Yes,” was the only response, the desperation heightened even in the single word. Then another word: “Please.”

  Imraan laughed. “Please?! Is that it? By God, both of us know you can never pay back that loan, Morris! It has taken an entire lifetime for you to squirrel away twelve million—and even that is quite impressive for a street-level bookie and loan-shark. Why in God’s name would you even think about asking me for the money?”

  “Because there is no one else I can ask. You know that, Imraan. Even big-time druglords and mafia outfits aren’t going to be able to come up with that kind of cash in three days, let alone be willing to lend it to me! There’s no one else I know who can . . . Imraan, this is Maddy. Little Maddy. You remember her. The two of you were—”

  “Do not insult me by trying to play on emotions that do not exist, Morris,” the Sheikh snapped, a switch flipping in him as he blocked out the few memories he had of that little girl he used to play with two decades ago. He could almost reach those memories, but it was like they were behind a wall, a wall someone else had erected. It was a sickening, strange feeling, something he’d experienced on and off for most of his life—so often that he was almost used to it. “I should hang up the phone right now and leave you and your family to your fate.”

  “You do that and Maddy comes back to me in a body bag, in pieces,” said Morris, his voice cracking as he spoke. Any suspicion Imraan had that this was a ruse to extract cash from him was gone when he heard the hardened old gangster begin to sob into the phone. The man had broken. Imraan was his last resort. Whoever had taken her was serious, and she was dead if Imraan hung up this phone.

  The Sheikh sighed as he considered his options. Thirty-seven million was a significant amount of money in absolute terms, but it was a raindrop in the ocean when it came to his net worth. He would make that much this week just from oil revenues. Add in interest, investment income, revenues from the new solar projects . . . yes, the money was meaningless. But the opportunity . . . the opportunity was priceless.

  “All right, Morris. All right. Here is what I will do. I will not let your daughter die. You have my word on that,” the Sheikh finally said. Then he took a breath. “But you will never see her again.”

  Imraan could sense the shock on the other end of the phone line. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

  “The money is not a loan, because you will never be able to pay me back. The money is a fee. A bounty. A purchase price.”

  “A price for what?”

  “For her. For Maddy Morris. I pay the ransom, and I own her.”

  “That’s fucking insane. You can’t be serious. Imraan, listen to me. I’ll find a way to pay you back. I’ll make a move into something else. Drugs. Hits. Whatever it takes. I’ll do what I need to do. I swear it. Give me time, and I can—”

  “You are not understanding me, Morris,” the Sheikh said quietly as his determination solidified. “I am turning you down for the loan. This is my only offer. I pay the ransom, and I own your daughter. I give you my word I will not kill her, which is one better than what the kidnappers are offering, yes?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Why?” came the response finally. “Why, Imraan?”

  “You know why. You destroyed my family twenty years ago. And now I’m going to destroy yours. Choose, Morris. Say yes and your daughter lives, but she is my property. Say no and . . . well, perhaps you can ask Georgia Mutual Credit Union for a thirty-million dollar loan. Or simply call the FBI and tell them you are a criminal and your criminal daughter has been kidnapped by some other criminals. I am sure they will bring all available resources to bear to help you out before the deadline.”

  Another long silence, and then Morris answered. But this time his voice was stronger, a strange confidence in his tone, almost a manic amusement. “There’s no choice, and you fucking know it,” he said hoarsely. “All right. Pay those mother-fuckers, save Maddy, and she’s . . . she’s yours.” Morris took a rasping breath over the phone, and the Sheikh wondered if the old man was chuckling. “Oh, and Imraan . . .”

  The Sheikh waited for Morris to finish the sentence, but the old man did not. “And what, Morris?”

  “And . . . good luck.”

  3

  Maddy gripped the bars of the cage and pulled with all her considerable strength, but they barely rattled, let alone bent. She squinted in the dim light of the airplane’s underbelly, trying to see if it was an old-fashioned padlock that she could snap open with a hairpin. Not that she had a hairpin, but perhaps she could find a nail or something on the floor.

  She blinked as she felt the plane hit some turbulence, and she grabbed the bars of her cage to steady herself. The cage had been strapped to the siderails of the holding area, which seemed to be heated and pressurized. It also smelled vaguely primal, as if it really was used to transport animals. What the hell was happening? Who the hell was this guy? What the hell was that crap about “getting to know him better” and the “rest of their lives”? Was he implying that she’d be dead soon? Or that she was going to spend the rest of her life in a cage?

  She took deep breaths and tried to relax. She wasn’t breaking out of this cage, and there was no point using up energy trying to bend metal bars with her bare hands. She needed to save her strength for when she’d get another shot at escape, another shot at this guy who’d taken her.

  For a moment Maddy thought she smelled him, the man who’d overpowered her so easily when she’d gone for him down in that basement. Yes, she’d been in there for three days and was weak and disoriented, but that was no excuse. He was quick, strong, confident. And God, he smelled nice, didn’t he? Not like those first guys who’d taken her! This guy smelled clean, groomed, like he took care of himself and cared about his body.

  Maddy almost laughed as she slammed her strong back against the back of the cage. She’d long since recognized that connection between adrenaline and arousal, and she knew that some of it was just her dumb body making connections that perhaps were relevant two million years ago when sex was nothing more than a man holding a woman down and taking what he wanted. She’d had sex that came close to that line before, but it had been years since a man had gotten her blood flowing like this. Maddy laughed again
at the madness of where her thoughts were going in the darkness, and then she tilted her head back and screamed in the emptiness of the cargo hold. It was just to clear her head—in fact, one of her early fight instructors had told her it was a good move to scream your damn head off when you were fighting: it forced fresh oxygen into your lungs, got your adrenaline pumping, and it also had the effect of freaking the hell out of your opponent—always an advantage!

  “Are you in pain or is that how you summon the flight attendant?” came his voice from the shadows, and Maddy whipped around in the darkness as his scent came to her before she even saw him emerge. “Did I hurt your delicate body when I shut down your feeble attempt to attack me? An ill-advised attempt, considering I saved your life.”

  “Why don’t you unlock this cage and then we’ll see who’s delicate and feeble,” Maddy snarled, gripping the bars of the cage and feeling her blood rise again. She knew she shouldn’t waste energy on anger, but something about this guy’s coolness got her mad. She wanted to fight him, hurt him, let herself go, let it all out.

  “In time,” said the man thoughtfully as he stepped into a sliver of light coming through one of the small windows of the plane’s far wall. He was tall, massively broad, with shoulders that seemed to extend forever. His chest looked like two slabs of chiseled granite pushing against his fitted white shirt, and Maddy couldn’t help but follow the cut of his cloth down along the masculine V of his body, past the heavy gold buckle of his leather belt, to where his linen trousers hugged his tight hips like a second skin. “You do not remember me, do you, little Maddy?”

  Maddy blinked and cocked her head as she studied the man’s face. It was angular, perfectly proportioned, with sharp, exotic features that were clearly Middle Eastern. High cheekbones, a bold jawline that was highlighted by contoured stubble. His olive skin was smooth and perfect, even though she could tell the man was a few years older. Did she know him? A former client? He didn’t seem the type. Too well-put-together. This man didn’t make bets—or if he did, he certainly didn’t lose them, it seemed. No way had she ever knocked on this man’s door to collect. She’d remember. And the accent made it clear he wasn’t American, though there was a hint that he’d spent some time in the West.

  And then the man took a step closer and she looked into his eyes. Green eyes, dark and deep like the waters of a faraway ocean. She blinked as she met his gaze, and as their eyes locked she felt a shift somewhere deep inside her swirling mind, the shift of memories sorting themselves out, old memories, buried deep, memories of a boy with green eyes and olive skin, from a time that seemed like it was another life.

  Then the man blinked, and suddenly the memories were gone before they’d ever made themselves clear. Now his green eyes seemed cold, narrow, like something inside him had shifted as well, but in the other direction. A shift away from familiarity and towards oblivion, emptiness, silence. She felt a chill as she watched him slowly circle her cage, and for a moment Maddy wasn’t sure which one of them was the animal. The one in the cage, or the one outside it.

  He’s in a cage too, came the thought out of nowhere as Maddy studied his face again. I see it. I feel it. I smell it. Why? Who put him there? And who’s going to let him out?

  A shiver passed through her as she wondered why those questions had come to her out of the blue. “Who are you?” she whispered through her bars. “And why the fuck—”

  “Silence!” he snapped, those green eyes still cold, perhaps even colder now, like he hadn’t wanted to reveal himself, like he was angry at himself. “I ask the questions. Do not mistake what is happening here.”

  “I’m in a goddamn cage on an airplane,” Maddy said through gritted teeth, her blood rising to where she knew that if the cage weren’t there, she’d be at his throat, ready to rip it out. “It’s hard to mistake what’s happening here. And even my father doesn’t call me little Maddy, so that reference is . . .”

  And then it came back to her in a flash of image and splinter of sound: an older boy teasing her, calling her a little girl as they faced off with clenched fists, the sun beating down on them from above, the dry desert air swirling around her bare legs, the grains of golden sand coarse between her toes. There were fountains in the background, the domes and towers of a sandstone palace surrounding them. The memories were faint and fleeting, but they were associated with emotions that Maddy could sense were powerful . . . powerful enough to be denied and buried.

  “You,” she finally said, blinking as she tried to think back to that time. The memories were still fleeting and fragmented, but she could pick up hints of that sickening feeling from back then, when her world was turned upside down, her family ripped apart for a reason she didn’t understand. She saw an image of a woman, an older woman, with smiling brown eyes and an easy laugh. Maddy had seen that woman in her mind’s eye before. Her mother. But was it memory or imagination? Perhaps she’d never seen her at all. Perhaps it was just a manufactured memory, put together by a little girl who lost her mother at an early age and filled the void with the stories her drunk, angry father would tell her on those hot Georgia nights, when he’d get home with bruised fists and his pockets full of blood-stained cash. Those were hard days, hot days, angry days, and they were all tied together in her mind, connected to those equally hot days under a dry desert sky, with fountains gurgling in the background, a tall, strong, green-eyed boy in the foreground.

  “You,” she said again, but now the memory of an older man in flowing robes washed over her, and suddenly she felt a burning hatred, almost uncontrollable, a hatred directed at everything and everyone. Somehow she knew that the man was the boy’s father. And she knew that she hated him. She hated both of them.

  “So you remember me,” said the man, raising an eyebrow. “Very good. It cannot be very much you remember, though. Even my memories of that time are scanty, and I am older than you.”

  Maddy took a breath as she tried to control her breathing. “I remember . . .” she started to say, closing her eyes and gripping the bars of the cage. “I remember . . .” she said again, and then her eyes flicked open. “Your father. I remember your father, and I remember that I hate him. He destroyed my family.” She blinked, almost in shock as the words came before even the memories did. “He killed my mother.”

  The man’s green eyes widened, his handsome face almost draining of blood as Maddy said the words. Then the darkness returned to those eyes, and he shook his head, his face twisting into a deep frown.

  “That is curious,” he said taking a step until he was up against the metal bars of the cage, so close she could smell him again. “Because the way I remember it, it was your father who killed my mother. And now both of you are going to pay the price.”

  4

  The Sheikh’s mind felt like a whirlpool as he heard the anger in her words, saw the hatred in her eyes. She couldn’t be remembering things clearly, he told himself as he fought to get some clarity on what had happened back then. But his own memories were messy, and Imraan knew enough about psychology to know that memories had their own lives, that memories twisted and turned, evolved and changed over the years.

  But the emotions are real, are they not, he thought as he slowly paced around her cage, watching her turn along with him, her brown eyes narrow and focused, watching him. She barely blinked, barely breathed, her body coiled like a spring. Although she was several inches shorter than him, she was not a small woman, Imraan noted. From her stance he could see her legs were thick and muscular, her buttocks firm and round. Her curves were pronounced, and he almost smiled when he thought of what she might look like in a tight black dress, the cloth hugging her strong hourglass figure, showing off the contours of her breasts. When old man Morris called him out of the blue and this opportunity presented itself, the Sheikh had never stopped to consider what that little girl who was barely an afterthought back then might look like twenty years later. He’d never considered that she
might actually be attractive.

  “Good luck,” Morris had told her after agreeing to trade his daughter for thirty-seven million in ransom money. “Good luck with her, Sheikh Imraan.”

  Yes, she is attractive, he thought as he finished his circle and stopped in front of her. He glanced at the heavy titanium combination lock dangling on the gate of her cage, and he cocked his head and looked into her eyes. Strong, attractive, with fire in her eyes and anger in her heart for something she believes happened twenty years ago. Something that could not have happened, of course. My father did not kill anyone, certainly not a woman. Of course, what I said is not quite accurate either—old man Morris did not kill my mother. She killed herself, but Morris was somehow involved. Somehow both Morris and his daughter were a part of that tragedy that ripped apart the Royal House of Wahaad two decades ago.

  Imraan took several more deep breaths as he took one last circle around Maddy’s cage and stopped. He rubbed his chin, flexed his shoulders, moved his neck as he felt a strange tension building in his muscles. Something about what she’d said had gotten to him, even though it couldn’t be true. He had no memory of Maddy’s mother—indeed, he had no idea who she was. As far as he remembered, Maddy and her father had been in Wahaad on their own, just the two of them. But then again he felt that pain at the back of his head, like the memories were locked away, pushed behind a wall that someone else had put there. Of course he knew Maddy’s mother . . . he knew her better than he knew his own mother. Why couldn’t he remember it all?! It was so close, so close . . . but yet . . .

  “Who was your mother?” the Sheikh asked, blinking in confusion as he felt that wall in his psyche shake, knowing that just by asking the question he might be taking the bait, getting drawn into a negotiation, letting this woman get inside his head. After all, he knew nothing about her, did he? Nothing about how she’d handled herself both physically and mentally in the criminal underworld of Atlanta for the past two decades. She must be in her late twenties, not yet thirty, but she had scars on her forearms and knuckles, faint lines on her forehead and around her eyes . . . eyes that had a startling depth behind them. This was not some sheltered child of a rich American gangster. This was a woman who wasn’t going to back down, who wasn’t going to break—not easily, at least.