The Desert Virgin. Sandra Marton

      But she’d never been a coward.

      If she had to, she’d die proving it.

      CHAPTER TWO

      CAM had seen a lot of places in upheaval.

      Baslaam wasn’t in upheaval. It was in collapse. It didn’t take training as a spy to see that.

      No people. No vehicles. A gray sky, filled with plumes of smoke. And the vultures, scores of them, circling overhead.

      Things were not going well in the sultanate, he thought grimly.

      Adair offered no explanations. Cam, nobody’s fool, didn’t request any. All he kept thinking was that the pistol he’d secreted in his briefcase might end up being useful.

      The sultan was waiting for him in a marble hall with ceilings easily twenty feet high. He sat on a gold throne elevated on a silver platform, and he sure as hell wasn’t the man Avery had described.

      The sultan, his father had told him, was in his eighties. Small. Wiry. Hard-eyed and determined.

      The man on the throne was in his forties. He was big. Huge, really, a mass of muscle just starting to turn to fat. The only resemblance between the picture Avery had painted and this behemoth were the eyes, but the hardness in them spoke more of cruelty than determination.

      Had there been a coup? That would explain a lot of things, including the disappearance of his father’s representative. It was a good guess the poor bastard was one of the unlucky souls attracting the attention of the vultures.

      Cam had only one real question. Why hadn’t he been disposed of, too? The man on the throne must want something of him. What? He had to find out, and do it without giving away the game.

      Adair made the introductions. “Excellency, this is Mr. Cameron Knight. Mr. Knight, this is our beloved sultan, Abdul Asaad.”

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Knight.”

      “Excellency.” Cam smiled politely. “I expected you to be older.”

      “Ah, yes. You thought you would meet my uncle. Unfortunately, Uncle passed away most unexpectedly a week ago.”

      “You have my sympathy.”

      “Thank you. We all miss him. I had similar expectations about you, Mr. Knight. I thought the man who owns Knight Oil would be much older.”

      “My father owns the company. I’m his emissary.”

      “Indeed. And what brings you to our humble nation?”

      “My father thought the sultan—I should say he thought that you,” Cam said, with a polite smile, “might prefer to discuss the final details of the contract with me instead of his usual negotiator.”

      “And why would I wish that?”

      Why, indeed? “Because I have his full authority. I can come to agreement on his behalf.” Cam offered a just-between-us smile. “No middleman, as it were, to slow the process.”

      The sultan nodded. “An excellent suggestion. As it is, your predecessor and I have had some areas of disagreement. He wanted to make changes in the wording your father and I had already agreed upon.”

      Bull, Cam thought coldly, but he smiled again. “In that case, it’s a good thing I’ve come, Excellency.”

      “I am sure Adair explained that the gentleman in question has gone to visit the plains beyond the Blue Mountains.”

      “He mentioned it.”

      “It was my suggestion. I thought it might do him good to get away from the city for a while. Take a break, I think you would call it. The plains are very beautiful, this time of year.”

      The lie bore no resemblance to what Adair had said, and ended any last hope that his father’s representative might still be alive. The desire to leap onto the platform and grab the sultan by the throat was fierce.

      Cam forced a polite smile. “A fine idea. I’m sure he’s enjoying himself.”

      “Oh, I can promise that he’s getting a good rest.”

      The son of a bitch grinned from ear to ear at the double entendre. Once more, Cam fought back the desire to go for him. Outnumbered, he’d be dead before he got within ten feet.

      “While he rests,” Asaad said, “you and I can finalize things.” The sultan clapped his hands. Adair hurried forward with a pen and a sheaf of papers that Cam instantly recognized. “All it takes is your signature, Mr. Knight. So, if you would be so kind…?”

      Bingo. This was why the negotiator was dead—and why Cam was still alive. Asaad needed a signature on the dotted line to move forward with the deal.

      “Of course,” Cam said smoothly. “First, though, I’d like to get some rest. It was a long journey.”

      “Signing a document is not difficult.”

      “You’re right, it isn’t—which is why, surely, it can wait until tomorrow.”

      Asaad’s eyes narrowed but his tone remained smooth. “In that case, permit me to ease the stress of your journey. I have arranged a small celebration of welcome.”

      “I appreciate the gesture, sir, but really—”

      “Surely you will not disappoint me by turning down my hospitality.”

      The sultan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Was the so-called celebration part of a plan to lure Cam into compliance, or was it for more sinister reasons? Either way, Cam was trapped. The sultan had planned a party. There was no way out.

      “Mr. Knight? What do you say? Will you be my guest?”

      Cam inclined his head. “Thank you, Excellency. I would be delighted.”

      Three hours later, the festivities were finally drawing to a close.

      The evening had started with a feast. Platters of grilled meats, sweets, pastries…and bowls of other things, easily identified and grotesque, eaten by custom in decades long past.

      The first time such a course appeared, Cam felt his stomach roll. He managed a polite smile, began to shake his head—and realized that a hush had fallen over the several dozen armed men seated at the long table.

      Every eye was on him.

      The sultan raised his eyebrows.

      “This is a great delicacy, Mr. Knight—but we will understand if you are not prepared to partake of it. Not all men can be like the men of Baslaam.”

      Hell. Was this going to be a pissing contest? A Baslaamic version of “I’m tougher than you are”? If so, Cam couldn’t afford to lose. He smiled, leaned forward and scooped a ladleful of the quivering mess on his plate.

      “A delicacy, Excellency? In that case, I can’t pass it up.”

      He ate quickly, tasting slime and something even worse on his tongue, keeping his gut from rebelling by reminding himself that he’d eaten things as bad in other places. A soldier in the field couldn’t be choosy. Bugs, lizards, snakes… Protein, he told himself, that’s all this was.

      There was a perceptible murmur when he swallowed the last of the stuff. Cam smiled. Asaad didn’t smile back. His expression was ugly. The bastard had lost the first round and he didn’t like it.

      “Delicious,” Cam said politely.

      Asaad clapped his hands. A servant scurried in, carrying an oversize urn. “Since you enjoyed that so much, perhaps you would like to sample another of our delicacies. A drink, made from… Well, I won’t tell you the ingredients but I assure you, it is more potent than anything you’ve had before.” At his nod, the servant filled two cups with a brown liquid. Asaad took one, handed Cam the other. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not?”