For the Sheik's Pleasure (Sheiks in Love Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  FOR THE SHEIK’S PLEASURE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  FOR THE SHEIK’S PLEASURE

  Sheiks In Love

  MARY JO SPRINGER

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  FOR THE SHEIK’S PLEASURE

  Copyright©2018

  MARY JO SPRINGER

  Cover Design by Leah Kaye Suttle

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-774-9

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  To my family for their unwavering support.

  Chapter 1

  Candace Danvers glanced at her phone, vibrating against her desk amid the chaos that constantly ruled her office. Damn! Just the sight of that particular number on her call screen sent her blood rushing through her veins and hammering against her temples. Glaring at it, she contemplated opening her desk drawer and throwing it inside, or better yet, what if she pitched the damned thing into the ocean?

  Anxiety bubbled in her stomach like the spaghetti sauce she’d fixed the night before.

  Yes, she knew exactly who that particular number belonged to.

  Her superior, John Grey, the CIA’s godlike answer to covert operations. Her boss. The special agent in charge of her newest assignment, Operation Dragon Slayer. As members of the Special Activities Program, they’d spent the past five years running a counter terrorism program with her husband out of Istanbul.

  Until . . . that night.

  That momentous night when Jon Grey witnessed her mental breakdown. A collapse so intense, she’d put the entire intelligence agency in jeopardy. Tears coated her eyelashes, blurring her vision. But when your beloved husband’s blood streams out of his body and drains onto the floor, the foundation of your entire world implodes.

  So much blood. So much agony. She blew out a huge breath. The past year had flown by and still she grieved. Stupid, stupid, phone.

  John Grey had observed all the turmoil of the tragedy.

  The corridors of her brain narrowed into dark passages as her mind struggled with the events of that fateful night. Guilt over her behavior and the men and women she’d put at risk overwhelmed her - drained every ounce of her energy as she flashed back to the present and that persistent and oh-so-irritating ringing phone. Not now, she mouthed, peering at the ceiling of her office. Please not today. I can’t handle it today. Then, as an acute sense of duty and purpose rolled over her, she straightened her spine. Buck up! You’ve got a job to do. A job you trained years for. People are depending on you. Tons of people. Maybe the entire world.

  A theatrical groan spilled from her lips. Shrugging off the tsunami of regret, she summoned every ounce of courage she possessed and grabbed the phone.

  “Someone just blew the hell out of B’Quara’s northern oil fields. The entire infrastructure is on fire,” John Grey’s authoritative and commanding voice belted out.

  The stark, vivid sense of fear demolished her hard-won composure. Collapsing, she braced her hand on her desktop, hoping to stabilize her wavering legs. Her other hand pressed the white wedding veil to her chest, over her heart, as a curtain of foreboding increased her breathing to panting.

  She knew B’Quara like the back of her hand. Along with a multitude of Texas oil men, she’d trained B’Quarians to operate the largest oil field in the world. Multiple times she’d completed covert operations. Now this . . . this was a catastrophe, a disaster . . . on so many levels. Everything they’d worked for, gone in an instant.

  She bent her head, “Hang on a sec,” she whispered into the phone as she skirted the corner of her desk, halting within inches of her office door. Sheer determination plastered a smile on her face. With a nod of her head, she gestured to her friend and boss, Jasmine Goyer, the owner of White Lace and Promises.

  For the past six months, she’d arranged the most exclusive weddings for the world’s elite while working undercover, slowly expanding her reputation for excellence in the wedding sector. All of her expertise boiled down to this moment. With a distinct click, she closed the door to her office, her mind feverish with scenarios of explosions and death.

  “Okay. Let’s have it. Tell me what you know.”

  “Here’s the thing . . . our details are sketchy at best. The attack occurred about thirty minutes ago. We’re not sure who the culprits are, but my money is on The National Resistance Group.”

  Yep, that would be her speculation also. They’d been a pain in her butt for the last year. She struggled to excise the ghastly images of broken bodies, billowing black smoke, and yellow-orange flames spewing into the sky. The frenzied high-pitched screams of mutilated bodies, begging, desperately pleading, to live. Overcome by emotions, she choked on her next words. “Details. Give me the details.”

  She laid the phone on her desk, pressed the speaker button, and reduced the volume as she clung to the bridal veil, tugging it inward like a two-year-old with a favorite blanket. She sought security, but she found none. “Casualties?” The lump in her throat grew to mountain size.

  “Yes.”

  “Americans?” There were hundreds of Americans working in those fields, people she’d encountered while gathering intelligence in B’Quara. Were they all dead?

  An element of defiance crept into John Grey’s voice as he hissed, “Five Americans, two hundred and sixty B’Quarians.”

  “Oh. My. God!” She winced, her unsteady fingers releasing her grip on the exquisite veil. The dainty material floated like a misplaced cloud to the floor, siphoning the last of her composure.

  Her eyes closed as she concentrated on her next words, “Who’s claiming responsibility?” Expelling a waft of breath, her mind reassessed the current facts. Terrorists, oil, catastrophe . . . death, the words scarred her brain.

  “No one yet, but we have our ears to the ground and are monitoring all our sources. Operation Dragon Slayer is now operational.”

 
Breathe . . . simply breathe. This can’t be happening, not yet, not with her so ill prepared to combat the fallout.

  Had it really been a year? Or a lifetime? Internal doubt bombarded her, but her covert training kicked in. She labored to implement that conditioning, to empty her mind of everything but the facts.

  But the last of her pent-up breath whooshed out as the memories of that apocalyptic night roared back in super clarity. The shooting orange flame of muzzle fire. An arm shoving her to the concrete floor. The grunt of her husband behind her. The sickening thud of the bullet lacerating his upper body. The curses and shout of, “I’m hit, I’m hit!” His legs buckling as he fell to the floor. Her high-pitched scream, prolonged and loud, slicing through the night. Without hesitation, she’d rolled, palmed his weapon and fired, killing the assailants. Then all her efforts focused on saving Bobby as she screamed, “Agent down! Agent down!” into her satellite phone.

  Blood, crimson colored, spurted from the gaping gunshot wound in her husband’s chest. Ripping her T-shirt over her head, she wadded the cloth into a tight ball, and utilized the material as a compression bandage. Blood drenched the material in a matter of seconds, gushing out on the concrete floor of the giant warehouse in the middle of nowhere. She was losing him . . . her love . . . her entire world. No!

  Using hand over hand technique as if doing CPR, she pressed as hard as she could.

  The compressions barely slowed the flow.

  Not a damn bit of improvement. Useless. She was useless. She swore out loud, cursing the fates. The potent and metallic scent of blood coated her nostrils, covered her from head to toe, as the ever-widening pool of blood enlarged.

  A loud moan escaped her husband’s lips as he groped blindly for her fingers, entwining his with hers. His fingers already cold.

  He knew.

  His fingers shook, hell, so did hers. He stared at her, his blue eyes overly wide, and she witnessed the terror within the murky depths. She was petrified.

  “Did you get the bastards?”

  “Hell yes, I did,” she replied, pulling him more snugly into her arms, cradling his head to her chest. Tears streamed down her face, the drops falling onto his cheek.

  “Good girl,” he replied, a blue tinge spreading across his lips. “One more thing . . .”

  He gripped her hand tighter and brought it up to his chest. But it was too late. Her Bobby, her beloved husband, the CIA’s best agent, whispered his final, “I love you,” as his eyes closed for the last time.

  No, no, no!

  All their dreams . . . their hopes for the future . . . bulldozed by the roar of a gun.

  Hundreds of people swore over and over that time heals all wounds. Ha! She had news for them. Nothing . . . nothing could relieve the titanic sadness crushing her heart.

  “It’s vital to our interests that I have you on a plane to B’Quara within twenty-four hours.” John Grey’s voice ripped through her brain and snapped her back to the present. “I’ve already deployed a surveillance team. They’ll monitor shipping and air traffic into and out of B’Quara. You’ll assume lead position when you’re on the ground.”

  So, she was going back. Back to the place that deprived her of the only man she’d ever loved. The man who shaped her into the woman she was today.

  Fake bravado lowered her voice an entire octave. “Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll be there.”

  With difficulty, she swallowed the knot of apprehension clogging her throat. She raised her chin. So, it was time.

  Time to put aside her emotional baggage and slip into professional mode. Time to do her job. A new beginning, a chance to validate her professionalism. Demonstrate she hadn’t suffered a career-ending blow, that she could still perform as an intelligence official. That she was in no way compromised. Soon she’d be knee-deep in guns, body armor, and enough electronics to make her steganography communications with the farm lightning fast.

  Was she ready? Ready for the challenge, ready to get into the fight?

  Yes, she adamantly confirmed, nodding her head. She’d been idle, stagnant, for way too long, living in the fantasy world of weddings and happily-ever-afters.

  John’s tight voice continued, “FYI . . .There’s been a heightened amount of chatter about an assassination attempt on King Eijaz, a coup. This is going to make gathering intelligence a thousand times more difficult. His death would be detrimental to our economic plans for the area. The set-up of an unfriendly regime could affect the entire world’s oil supply.”

  No kidding . . .

  “And don’t forget what happened to Steve Forbes when we sent him on the same mission.” He paused, drilling home the fact that they’d already lost two agents in the last two years on this mission.

  “These terrorists are super-qualified in every aspect. I can’t white-wash this, we’re running out of time, and I fear the worst is yet to come. More attacks, more deaths. Interruption to the world’s oil market and flow. Our country can’t afford to lose the support and affiliation of the biggest nation in the Middle East. B’Quara is a valued asset. Not only for its oil, but for its strategic position on the Arabian Peninsula and its progressive western thinking, along with naval and air bases for our troops.”

  She intercepted the small break in John Grey’s stoic voice.

  Resolve squared her shoulders.

  Coolheaded in the most spine-chilling environment, her boss was never intimidated. John managed to do his job in boot-camp fashion no matter the consequences. No matter the extravagant price extracted.

  She did too, even when her duties extorted a heavy personal toll. She massaged her temples, rotating her fingers to relieve the first throbs of a headache. Her life was just so . . . empty without Bobby.

  Glancing around her sizable office decorated in Victorian decor, her gaze scanned over seating charts, invitations, and gilded gift boxes littering her workspace. Mounds of wispy, optic white veils draped layer upon layer of feminine fluffiness over everything. The mental picture of a toppled wedding cake conceptualized. The tranquil aroma of ‘wedding day’ candles capturing the exotic scent of lilies and roses wafted in from the showroom.

  Shrieks of excitement from the brides and their bridesmaids trying on traditional wedding attire enveloped her, their cheery voices so contradictory to her current conversation, if the situation wasn’t so grave, it would be comical.

  The pressures of her job as wedding planner didn’t begin to compare to her real job.

  Focus, Candace, focus.

  “So, the clock’s ticking,” Candace injected, as her mind surgically dissected the detrimental effects of the news.

  John’s stern baritone reconfirmed, “Yes, this episode knocked our timetable all to hell and back. This whole region is about to implode. We must terminate these threats before they have a chance to become reality. Not only is the security of B’Quara precarious, but our own country as well. Do I make myself clear?”

  Candace held up her hand to block any further explanation. “Yes, sir.” She snapped in military fashion.

  “Our theory is that the attempt on King Eijaz’s life will originate within his country. We have several groups under scrutiny, but we require more surveillance and intelligence.”

  Acidic bile spilled into her throat. “That’s disturbing. I thought the people of B’Quara loved the royal family.”

  “They do,” John’s ragged voice continued, “but we live in dangerous times, and the king’s relationship with the west disturbs a lot of the more zealous populace.”

  “But assassinate him?” Candace’s tongue darted out, licking moisture into her dry lips. A knot of aversion churned the residue of her so-called breakfast into a searing wave of indigestion behind her sternum. Placing her fist over the burning, she pressed hard, praying for relief. Reaching for her bottle of antacids, she shook
a couple of the berry-flavored tablets into her hand, then popped them into her mouth, the chalky taste making her wince as she crunched into them.

  “We need to be preemptive on this.” The visceral tension in John’s voice expressed his unsettledness. “I need you on sight as soon as possible.”

  So you’ve already stated.

  Her heartburn continued to scorch her chest.

  “I’m on it. I’ve brokered a meeting with the king at 1300 hours today at the Beverly Hills Crowne Plaza.”

  “Excellent.” His rich voice complimented.

  She retrieved the veil she’d dropped earlier, smoothing her fingers over the wispy corners before shaking it out to full cathedral length. “What kind of a timeline do I have?”

  John’s no-nonsense voice replied. “None.”

  She flinched like she’d been slapped. “But . . .”

  “No buts. Like I said, I need you on a plane before images of this terror attack hits newspapers around the world.”

  Wonderful.

  Pachelbel’s Canon filtered in from the outer office, startling her, and Candace glanced at her office door. John’s voice yanked her attention back to their discussion.

  “Your cover still intact?”

  For the first time since their conversation began, Candace’s mood lightened. “Very much so. The king’s daughter’s wedding is my route into the royal family’s inner sanctum. I’m learning everything about ribbons, lace, and satin, along with a few things about human nature.”

  “Smart play, Agent Danvers.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Full-toned masculine laughter radiated against her ear like a medicated balm. “And I know how much you like all the frilly stuff.”

  The remaining tension spilled out of her. Staring up at the ceiling, she smiled. “You always were brilliant.”