Carrying the Sheikh's Heir(70)

                And now he missed her. Missed her sweet scent, her sensual body, her soft hands and wicked tongue. He sat through meetings and pictured her naked, and then he shook his head and forced those thoughts away before he embarrassed himself in front of the tribal chieftains.

                At dusk, Rashid returned to the tent they’d set up for him—an opulent tent adorned with the usual beautiful carpets, but also with most of the modern conveniences one would expect in the city, thanks to the generators that hummed efficiently nearby.

                Rashid peeled off his head covering and shrugged out of the long robe, leaving only the light trousers beneath. Maybe he should call Sheridan, see how she was faring. He’d had reports from Mostafa that all was well with her, and the tight knot around his heart had slowly begun to ease.

                He would go back to the palace in four days, and he would no doubt take her to his bed again. But he wouldn’t let himself forget there were consequences to allowing a woman to get too close. Not ever again.

                Yet part of him chafed at that restriction. Finally, he reached for his phone, determined to call her and see how she was doing.

                But it rang right as he was about to dial. He answered to find a very breathless Mostafa on the other end. “Your Majesty,” he said, and Rashid could hear the panic in his voice. The thread of utter chaos running through that familiar baritone.

                Ice water ran in his veins then, flooding him with that familiar calm before the storm. “What is it, Mostafa?”

                “Her Highness,” he began, and Rashid’s gut twisted. “She is gone.”

                Rashid was tempted to take the phone from his head and stare at it, but instead he forced himself to be cool. “What do you mean gone, Mostafa? Has she left the palace to go shopping? Gone to the airport in order to run away? Or is she hiding in the stables, perhaps?”

                “She took a horse, Your Majesty.”

                Rashid blinked. “A horse?” Had Mostafa lost his mind? Had Sheridan? “Where is Daoud?”

                “He is gone, too. When we discovered Her Highness had left on horseback, he went after her.”

                Daoud and Sheridan were on horseback. In the Kyrian Desert. But for what purpose? Why had Sheridan done such a thing? To get his attention? To bring him back to her side? The fear he’d tried to keep at bay broke through his barriers and flooded his system like a swirling tornado of sand. It scoured through him, raked him bare and filled him with utter dread.

                And fury.

                She’d taken a horse. She was pregnant and she’d taken a horse. Climbed on top of its back and rode it into the desert. Why? Why?

                And then realization hit him. Hard. What if she wanted to harm herself? The desert was dangerous and she’d gone into it alone. Had he pushed her to the edge? Was she trying to get his attention—or trying to end her life?

                That thought made the ice in his veins harder than ever—but for a different reason. He couldn’t imagine Sheridan gone from his life. Couldn’t imagine waking up without her in this world, without her smile or her touch or the look in her eyes when he entered her body and then took her with him to paradise.

                She wasn’t Daria but she was...she was Sheridan. And Sheridan meant something to him. She really meant something....

                He was still reeling from the realization that he cared, that he’d not insulated himself from a damn thing by running away from her, that he couldn’t control his emotions as if they had an on/off switch the way he’d always believed, when Mostafa said something that made his gut turn to stone.