Protecting His Princess. C.J. Miller

across her skin. Harris had never mentioned what he did for a living, and she had never told him that she was the emir’s sister. A stab of betrayal pierced her. She’d expected the American government to monitor her, but she hadn’t expected Harris to be the one doing it.

      Had danger traveled from Qamsar to find her in America? “Why do you think I’m in danger?” Her nerves tightened in her stomach and exhaustion fled to the corners of her mind.

      “Please trust me. I don’t mean you any harm,” Harris said. He slid his badge into his pocket and held his hands out, palms facing her. “Let’s talk for a few minutes without me shouting through the glass.”

      Laila unlocked the door and allowed Harris inside. “Is my family safe?” Her mother’s safety was at the foremost of her thoughts.

      “At the present the data I have on the situation indicates they are not hurt or directly in danger.”

      Which was not the same as saying they were safe. People in public positions during social upheaval were never completely safe. Since her father had died two years ago, her brother Mikhail had taken over as emir, and the shift of power had caused political and social rumblings that had only grown louder with time. “Then why do you think I’m in danger?” Laila asked. She liked Harris. Whenever he’d come to the counter to place his order, he had spoken to her and listened to her responses. His demeanor tonight was different than it had been in weeks past. His shoulders were tight; his carefree, flirtatious smile was missing and tension pulsed off him in waves.

      “We’ve received intel that someone wants to hurt you,” Harris said. The tension she’d sensed was pent up in his words.

      Laila forced her heart to remain calm. Growing up in Qamsar, political enemies of her father had often threatened her and her family. Threats weren’t anything new. “The situation at home isn’t good, and someone always gets the bright idea to intimidate my family and me in the heat of emotion. I don’t take those threats seriously.”

      His brows drew together and his blue eyes sharpened. “You need to take this one seriously.”

      Laila wouldn’t allow an American man—no matter how attracted she was to him—to scare her. Americans didn’t understand the Qamsarian culture, and they didn’t understand her family. “We can talk about this another time. I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow. My uncle will be expecting me, and he’ll be worried if I arrive home too late.”

      Harris waited while she locked up and followed her to her car. “Please, Laila. I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t feel the threats against you were real and pervasive.”

      Laila pulled her car keys from her handbag and pressed the unlock button. The lights on her car flashed.

      “No!”

      Harris’s shout echoed in her ears, followed by the sound of an explosion and the sensation of her body being slammed into gravel. She slid, the backs of her legs and her arms burning. Harris was on top of her, his body covering hers. Laila gasped for air, the heaviness of him stifling. She struggled to sit up. As he rolled to the side, pulling his phone from his pocket, she caught sight of her car. It was now consumed in flames.

      Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected this. Not while she was living in America. Car bombings didn’t happen in suburban America. People were safe here, weren’t they?

      Who wanted to kill her bad enough to follow her to America?

      * * *

      Harris scanned the area, looking for anyone out of place. A bystander who might have seen something or even the bomber lingering to watch the fallout of his attack. No one except law enforcement and the first medical responders were on the scene.

      Laila sat on the curb in the parking lot, a blanket wrapped around her. He’d had someone on his team call her aunt and uncle to let them know Laila was fine, painting the explosion as a car accident. The truth was more grim: a car bomb had been planted in Laila’s car. If Harris hadn’t recognized the high frequency whine of an explosive’s timer engaging, she would be dead. The intel the FBI had gathered on the situation had predicted Laila and members of the royal family of Qamsar were in danger, though it was difficult to predict how or if an attack might occur.

      The FBI’s list of bombing suspects was short, mostly made up of members of the Holy Light Brotherhood, a terrorist organization that wanted Qamsar to remain isolated from “infidel influences.” Those “infidel influences” included America as a whole, and with the emir negotiating a trade agreement, a female member of the royal family studying in America became an obvious target to anyone wanting to send a message.

      Harris sat on the curb next to Laila. “How are you holding up?”

      Laila watched him with tired, soulful brown eyes. “I’m in shock. I’ve read about bombings. I’ve seen it reported on the news, but nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

      The profile the FBI and CIA had created for Laila indicated she had lived a sheltered life. Living in America with her uncle and aunt, her mother’s sister, was the first time Laila had been away from Qamsar and her life as a royal princess. After her father, the former emir, had died, Laila had come to America on a student visa and had enrolled in the University of Colorado in Denver. From what Harris had gathered, her brother was not happy about Laila living in America, but he hadn’t outright forbidden it. “We’ll make sure nothing like this happens again to you.”

      Harris had connected with Laila from the first day he’d met her. She went about her job quietly and efficiently, and she had intelligent, alert eyes. If she wasn’t his assignment, he might have asked her on a date, and gotten a chance to know her better and uncover the passion he saw simmering below the surface. Then again it was better for him to keep his distance. His track record with women was embarrassing, and he wasn’t ready to add another name to the list of failed relationships. When he was working a difficult case, those women were targets of his enemies, and none had proven able to handle the pressure or remain loyal when money changed hands.

      Laila pulled the fleece blanket Harris had given her tighter around her body. Harris read the gesture as less from cold and more from discomfort. Was his presence making her uncomfortable because he was male? He and Laila weren’t alone. The parking lot was filled with people: FBI agents and CIA investigators, along with local law enforcement. The FBI and CIA had teamed up to create a joint task force to shut down the Holy Light Brotherhood, starting with the head of the organization, Ahmad Al-Adel. When it became apparent Al-Adel had potential ties to the Qamsarian ruling family, the task force had become interested in Laila and how she could help find Al-Adel.

      His CIA contacts had told him that, as a Qamsarian woman, Laila had had a conservative upbringing. Not conservative the way an American defined it. Conservative as in limited contact with men, chaperones when appropriate and never being alone or having physical contact with any male apart from family. Harris was doing his best to respect those boundaries, but the extrovert in him found it difficult not to touch her, not to let his gaze linger on her and not to overtly flirt with her. Laila was a beautiful woman. She spoke with a tentative formality, her accent light and pleasing to his ears. She was sensual and feminine, even if she tried to hide it behind loose and concealing clothing.

      He moved a few more inches away to give her more personal space.

      “No one can promise this won’t happen again,” Laila said.

      Sadness drew a frown across her face and everything in him urged him to take action to erase her unhappiness. Seeing her upset affected him. He wanted to do something, say something, but he didn’t have the words to make this better for her.

      Tyler Morgan, Harris’s CIA counterpart on the task force, arrived on the scene. He strode to Harris and glanced between him and Laila. “Is this the Princess of Qamsar?”

      Laila flinched, and Harris gathered she didn’t like being called a princess. He’d gotten the sense she was trying to blend with the Americans around her, and her Qamsarian title didn’t help that effort. “Yes, this is Laila bin Jassim Al Sharani.”