Guarding the Princess(83)

After contacting Omair, Brandt had also spent a full day with the Botswana police and military. The Botswana army had rounded up Amal’s remaining four horsemen and had been in contact with Interpol and the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. A most-wanted terrorist had been killed. The hunt for Amal Ghaffar, son of the infamous Aban Ghaffar—aka the Moor—was finally over.

While Dalilah had shopped for clothes and rested in a suite at Gaborone’s top hotel, Brandt had printed the photographs he’d shot of Dalilah. His favorite image of the bunch he’d had enlarged. It was now wrapped and ready to go up on his bedroom wall. He’d then deleted the files from the camera, packaged it up with the wallet and mailed it to the driver’s-license address in Germany, along with a substantial check to cover any other expenses incurred for their losses. Omair could reimburse him later.

Meanwhile, a pilot colleague of Brandt’s was on standby with a chopper at Madikwe Safari Lodge about thirty klicks outside Gaborone. Brandt had left Jock at the lodge with the pilot. When Jacob was ready to leave hospital, he’d have both Jacob and the dog flown up to his place together. Money was no object—Omair had wired a small fortune into Brandt’s account, and he had no qualms accepting it. He’d paid his debt to the sheik. He’d done the job. And he was going to need a new plane.

The hard part—telling Omair about his feelings for Dalilah—was yet to come.

Brandt pulled up outside the hotel, a low, functional-looking building with a nice pool outside. Gaborone was a small town by city standards, and this was what passed as the top hotel.

Nerves washed through him as he gathered a bouquet of flowers off the passenger seat. He still hadn’t slept and he felt a little rough around the edges, but he’d bought flowers and was dressed in new khaki shorts and a fresh white shirt. He’d shaved and had his hair cut. Brandt rubbed his smooth jaw now as he strode across the baking-hot parking lot, feeling naked without his usual stubble.

He hadn’t seen Dalilah since she’d had her arm reset at the hospital, and nerves bit deeper as he entered the hotel lobby. He felt like a teen on a first date.

Another wave of anxiety washed through Brandt as he started down the long corridor to her room. He wondered suddenly if this was foolish, if she might have had a change of heart—if her words had all been in the heat of battle, and now that things were settling, she’d go back to her duty.

To Haroun.

To being the princess—the real Arabian queen—she was born to be.

What on earth made him think she’d actually want to stay at his farm in the remote bush? Would she really be that interested in what he wanted to show her on his land, on getting to know him better?

He nodded to the security detail he’d had posted outside her door, then paused, perspiration pricking over his body, his hand fisting around the bouquet of flowers. He should back out now. Call it quits. Save face, make it easier on both of them.

In spite of his anxiety, he raised his hand, rapped once on the door.

Silence.

Heart pounding, he glanced back down the corridor. Then suddenly he heard her voice inside and the door swung wide open.

Freshly showered, hair wet, wearing nothing but the hotel’s white terry robe and her new fiberglass cast, Dalilah stood with a cell phone pressed to her ear. She was in the midst of conversation with someone and beckoned to him to come in, mouthing, “Omair.”

“I’ll come back later,” Brandt said, hesitating.

She frowned, shook her head and reached for his hand, pulling him inside her room. As Brandt closed the door behind him, he caught the scent of soap and shampoo. Desire rushed through him.

She pointed to the bar as she walked over to the window, saying something in Arabic into the phone. Brandt felt tense—Omair was not going to be pleased when he learned that Brandt had not only saved Dalilah’s life, but now planned on keeping his sister for the rest of his life. If she’d have him.

Was this really possible? he thought for the gazillionth time.

There was a freshly brewed pot of coffee on the counter, and a bottle of whiskey. Setting the flowers down, he poured a mug of coffee and sipped, watching her talk by the window.

She’d painted her nails—fresh red. So feminine, he thought, yet she was made of stronger stuff than many men he knew.

Dalilah pushed a lock of damp hair back from her brow, glanced at him and smiled as she listened to her brother speaking. And he suddenly loved her wholly, so completely, it was overwhelming. It brought emotion sharply to his eyes and made him feel so incredibly vulnerable. This woman could kill him.

She was as rare as that Argyle diamond she’d so blithely given away.