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

  John’s hearty chuckle filtered through the phone. “Yes, I am.”

  “And modest too,” Candace fired back, reaching up and fidgeting with her dangling diamond earring. “Bridezilla is a mild word when dealing with time tables, checklists, and nervous brides.”

  “I’d certainly never qualify for such hazardous duty. They scare the hell out of me.” The seriousness of John’s words shocked her. John, an ex-Navy SEAL, feared nothing.

  “Yeah, right.” She smirked as she maneuvered an elegant serving set from the edge of the desk back into the middle by the engraved napkins.

  “I’m dead serious. Women who are about to get married are a dangerous breed. If we could incorporate their ferocity, we’d win this war on terror hands down.”

  Candace laughed out loud. “You crack me up. Afraid of a bride? Really?”

  In a flash, John’s modulation took a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. “On a more serious note, we’ve got an elevated amount of chatter about a group called the Black Scorpions. As of yet, we’re not sure whether they’re friend or foe.”

  “Fan . . . tastic. Do we know anything about them?”

  She visualized John shaking his head as he answered, “Not enough. They’re extremely well-trained—martial arts, intelligence, comparable to our SEALs. We’ll need in-depth intel on them.”

  A hint of recognition furrowed her brows, “I remember hearing something about them around the time Steve Forbes lost his life. He apparently gathered data on them. But he never shared that knowledge with Bobby or me. Who’s the mastermind behind the group?” She inquired, brushing the remnants of material off her desk.

  Without missing a beat, John replied, “We haven’t been able to get a handle on that yet. We do know every member of the elite team carries the tattoo of a black scorpion.”

  “Interesting.” Once again, Candace clutched the whimsical veil to her chest. “I’ll get eyes on them as soon as I’m on site.”

  “Good. I’d appreciate any info you can dig up. We need unfettered access to this group. They may hold the key to saving the king’s life.”

  Candace glanced outside and caught a glimpse of a group of women laughing as they drifted in and out of the surrounding high-end boutique stores. Colorful shopping bags of their newly acquired treasures dangled from their fingers. They giggled and joked with each other, none of them aware of the sacrifice the men and woman of the CIA were prepared to give in order to secure their way of life. Determination raised her chin. “I’ll get what we need.” Whoa, careful. that sounds cocky, and cocky gets you killed.

  “I know you will.” John’s statement slid over her like a hot, soothing shower after a frantic day.

  The silence between them strained into an uncomfortable minute. “Agent Danvers, I don’t have to tell you how dangerous this mission is. You, better than most, know the dire ramifications.”

  Yes, I know all about ramifications. I live with the ramifications every minute of every day, the stark reality of being a widow in my twenties. “I’m well aware of the drawbacks, sir. Well aware.” People get killed. People you love.

  John reaffirmed his earlier statement. “Take it slow and easy. Report in when you have information. As usual, watch your six. We’ve already lost agents in this quest to keep B’Quara safe. We don’t need another—”

  “I’ll be careful, sir.” Candace interrupted, before John spoke the words that would launch her into a self-lacerating whirlwind, not allowing him to dredge up the misfortune that complicated her last mission. The one that met with disaster . . . the one that took her husband’s life.

  A single tear tracked her cheek, and she hastily swiped it away. Would she ever be able to think about Bobby without getting so emotional? And what about Steve Forbes? Who mourned him? Anyone?

  Obviously noting the pause in her words, John asked, “Are you up for this? It hasn’t been all that long since—”

  Her free hand clenched into a tight fist at her side, her fingernails digging half-moons into her palm. This was a full-blown litmus test to prove she’d recovered from the horror of her husband dying in her arms. “I’m good.”

  “If you have even the slightest inkling this is too much for you or too soon, I need to know. Yes, you have the most experience in this country, but I can’t afford to lose you as well.”

  “I’m good, sir.”

  “Well . . . you know your limits, so I’ll take your word on that,” his speech once again devoid of emotion. “Got another call. Keep me informed.”

  Disconnecting, Candace sank into her desk chair. Glancing down at her watch, she marked the time. In less than an hour, she had a critical meeting with King Eijaz. She rolled her shoulders. She could do this. She had to do this. Shaking off a torrent of doubt, Candace pulled the computer monitor closer. Gripping the mouse, she read, King Eijaz el Hajjar of B’Quara. First meeting. Daughter Nina’s royal wedding. Crowne Plaza Beverly Hills. Clicking the down arrow, Candace rapidly perused the information and etiquette. Flipping her wrist over, she once again noted the time.

  Twelve-fifteen.

  Forty-five minutes.

  Rubbing the stiffness from her neck, Candace concentrated on drawing a tranquil breath —fsst! Like that ever worked! The excitement of the meeting weighed heavily on her. A confluence of emotions rocked her. If she caved under the pressure, there wasn’t any purgatorial exemption—she was out! Period. The CIA didn’t need an agent who couldn’t complete an objective . . . or screwed it up! Lives depended on her doing her job.

  Candace swept her shoulder-length blond hair over her shoulder as she clicked on the file marked KING EIJAZ OF B’QUARA. Popping the top on her Diet Coke, she gulped nearly half of the ice-cold liquid before plunging in.

  Thirty-five minutes later, she rooted through her purse for her desk keys. Unlocking the drawer, Candace withdrew her badge along with her Beretta. Slamming the magazine into place, she pumped a bullet into the chamber before concealing it within the holster in her purse.

  With ten minutes to spare, she grabbed her designer briefcase and purse and climbed into the plush interior of the white Rolls Royce at the curb. Apprehension clung to her like heavy dew on a leaf.

  The uniformed chauffeur flipped the door closed. Removing his cap, he slipped into the driver’s seat. The melodious sound of his ringtone distracted her, and he glanced up, snaring her attention in the rear-view mirror. Judging by the grimace on his face, she’d swear he’d just received news of the tragedy rocking his country.

  He swiveled in his seat to face her. “A crisis has developed in B’Quara, requiring the king’s immediate attention. He apologizes for his last-minute cancellation, but he’s taken the liberty of arranging a meeting with his eldest son, His Royal Highness, Prince Diyari el Hajjar.”

  What? Oh no, oh no, no, no . . .

  She scooted to the edge of the leather seat. “Prince Diyari?” she questioned, knowing astonishment must be mirrored on her face. Who the hell was Prince Diyari? All her research and ground work, and never once had his name popped up. Why? “I’m . . . I’m sure that will be fine.” She humbly replied as her brain slammed into operative mode.

  Great, right out of the gate and already she’d hit a staggering complication.

  The chauffeur nodded, then switched to his native tongue, unaware of her fluency in Arabic.

  Damn! She abhorred last minute changes, they always, always, brewed trouble. Her knowledge of Prince Diyari was nil. Nada. Zilch. Yes, she was aware Princess Nina, the bride, had brothers. Four to be exact. Beyond that, she didn’t know a damn thing about His Royal Highness. All the time she’d spent in B’Quara and never once did she inquire about the royal household other than the king. Big mistake. Huge. Hell, Prince Diyari could be the chauffeur, for all she knew.

  Her fingers slid over the buttons on the ela
borate console, raising the privacy shield.

  Shaking two more antacids into her palm, she chucked them into her mouth as she dialed the CIA regional office. She whispered a silent prayer her research analyst hadn’t left for her lunchbreak. Sally, her go to girl in these situations, performed wonders with a computer. She implemented sources reporters only dreamt about.

  Pick up . . . pick up! Tapping her heel, Candace waited for the connection to go through.

  She checked her watch. Damn! Time was running out.

  On the third ring, Sally picked up.

  “Sally,” Candace blurted out, “I need help. It’s critical I obtain information on His Royal Highness, Prince Diyari of B’Quara.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood as Candace documented the overlong pause. The wait stretched into a full minute. What the heck was going on?

  “Prince Diyari?” Sally questioned with a small yelp before lapsing into a spastic coughing fit.

  The muscles across her back tightened into a knotted mass. Oh, this isn’t good.

  “Prince Diyari,” Sally repeated. “I can’t believe it! You’re sure you didn’t misunderstand?”

  From underneath her lashes, she observed the chauffeur, who, even with the privacy shield raised, appeared intently interested in her private conversation.

  “No mistake, that’s definitely his name,” Candace replied, brushing a piece of lint from her skirt. “I have a meeting with the prince in a few minutes.”

  Silence.

  Warning bells blared. “Sally, what’s wrong?” Jerking the ends of her suit lapels across her body, Candace slid the silky material into place.

  “You’ll never believe . . .” Sally’s throaty voice boomed in her ear.

  What on earth . . . Candace crossed, then re-crossed her legs.

  “He’s got quite the reputation for his nefarious pursuits.”

  Sheesh. Seriously.

  “Enlighten me.” Head down, Candace lowered her voice to a whisper. “Exactly what type of pursuits are we talking about?” Probably running guns, drugs, or other illicit programs.

  Recollecting the time, Candace’s head shot up, benchmarking her whereabouts. They’d already turned onto Rodeo Drive. She was out of time.

  The air in her lungs stalled as she anticipated Sally’s reply.

  “Women, fast and expensive cars, horses, a home in St. Moritz, a yacht in Cannes, and obdurate business dealings, to name a few. Very en vogue. You name it, he’s involved in it.” Sally sounded breathless. Star struck. “The tabloids nicknamed him ‘the bad boy sheik.”

  Leaning back into the plushness of the seat, the tension knotting her shoulders eased. So, the prince courted life’s pleasures, a few women, and some expensive toys. At least on the surface, his activities didn’t appear to be criminal.

  He’ll just get in my way.

  Observing her reflection in the window, worry lines creased her forehead. Candace blew out her breath in a long, slow release, allowing her body to relax for the first time since her phone rang that morning.

  But Sally wasn’t finished with her ramblings. “Once he snuck into this heiress’s bedroom, allegedly made love to her all night, and just missed getting discovered by the woman’s father. Someone tipped off the reporters in the area, and the pictures of him half-naked, climbing down her rose trellis, were scandalous and made the front page.”

  Candace’s nervous gaze swept the interior of the car. “I don’t think this is the kind of information I’m searching—”

  But there was no stopping Sally. Exasperated, Candace covered her face with her hand as Sally plowed on, “You should have seen the pictures. They were fabulous. His clothes all in disarray, half on, half off—the pictures blanketed the world press.”

  Her heartburn mushroomed, like an atomic bomb cloud.

  “And get this . . .” Sally continued, “Another time, he apparently invited this princess over to his hotel room.” Sally took a deep breath before chattering on, “and when she arrived, he was lying on the bed, draped only in rose petals. Strategically placed, of course.”

  Now Sally had her attention. “You’re kidding!” Smiling, Candace tucked the phone into the crook of her neck as she ferreted through her purse. Oh, the vital information one missed not reading those scandal magazines. Give me a break.

  “His prowess in the bedroom is legendary—movie stars, royalty, and super-models.” Breathless, Sally forged on. “The bids for him in a bachelor auction last year in Dubai actually funded an entire wing for Dubai’s Children’s Hospital.”

  OMG.

  Candace blinked and snapped out of the erotic daydream she had fallen into with all this knowledge of his sexual exploits. “Enough.” She stared straight ahead, dazed by the amount of ludicrous content she’d learned about the heir to the throne of B’Quara. With these tidbits of information, how would she ever face him without blushing to her toes? She’d heard too much about this man’s sex life and nothing about his affiliations. Even though the information was provocative, she didn’t give a flying flip who he slept with. Seriously? Who gives a damn? These useless facts weren’t imperative to this mission. “Sally, I need you to dig deeper, and get me every organization, charity, anything he supports or belongs to.”

  Jiggling out two more tablets, she threw them into the back of her throat, grimacing as the chalkiness coated her tongue with their sickeningly sweet taste. When she got the chance, she’d wash them down with some water.

  “I’m . . . I’m on it.” Sally replied.

  “Get me every morsel of information you can find. And I need it ASAP.”

  But Sally wasn’t through spewing her information. “He continuously graces the cover of all the rags,” she added, giggling.

  Candace rolled her eyes.

  “I’m addicted. I buy every issue with him on the cover.”

  Great. Candace dropped her head into her hand, her gold bracelets sliding down to her forearm. Shoot me now!

  So, her organizational meeting pitted her against the Casanova of the desert. Perfect! This was shaping up to be a long day. “Sally, stop and listen to me. I can’t go into this meeting with nothing but how sexually promiscuous he is. I’m counting on you to get the pertinent information I need.” Her shoulders slumped.

  Not only had Candace promised Jasmine she’d handle this monumental royal wedding, after all, they were the wedding planners to the stars, but now she had the weighted complication of an explosive world-wide situation, and instead of dealing with the elderly king, she had to interact with a spoiled prince.

  Jasmine wasn’t aware of her connection with the CIA. Candace divulged only that she and Bobby were employed with an international shipping company the entire time they worked in Istanbul. Keeping secrets from Jasmine broke her heart, but national security dictated covertness. After all, Jasmine was gracious enough to provide her with a job when she’d come begging, secretly maneuvering her position to get close to the royal family. Her timing had proved stellar. She owed Jasmine. Big time. Candace wasn’t about to let her down. This royal wedding would put Jasmine and her business on the front page of every newspaper in the world. Neither was she going to let the CIA down—again.

  “Do you know how lucky you are to be meeting him in person?”

  Candace narrowed her eyes on the back of the chauffer’s headrest. Enough of this nonsense. “Just uncover what I need.”

  “Will do.” Sally guaranteed as she hung up.

  Uncrossing her legs, Candace dropped her phone against her thigh, waiting like a drowning woman for the lifeline of information Sally would throw her. The sting of angst settled into the pit of her stomach.

  ~ ~ ~

  The over-the-top interior of the Crown Plaza flowed around her as Candace navigated her way to the restaurant entrance. She a
dmired the inviting brown leather couches and round four-tops perfect for power lunching. The pungent cedar balm of aromatic, expensive cigars mingled with oak-aged wine, creating a cozy pub atmosphere amid a comfortable, sophisticated setting.

  With the lunch hour in full swing, the foyer throbbed with business executives and aproned servers taking orders. The warm, dark pine walls and polished black marble floors failed to bolster her poise. At this point, even an entire bottle of Macallan whisky wouldn’t do the trick.

  Relax. You got this.

  Pulling her phone from her purse, she checked her messages as she waited for the maître d’. Seconds later, information on Prince Diyari streamed across her screen like an urgent weather bulletin.

  Prince Diyari, eldest son of King Eijaz. Heir to the throne. Age thirty-five. Served in B’Quara’s Special Forces Intelligence Division. Possibly working under the code name: Viper. Polo player. Fencing master. Handsome playboy sheik. Known for his infamous temper and shrewd business sense. Owns Nomadic Investments, number four this year on Forbes’ most successful companies of the twenty-first century. Spends money like water and has an ocean to spend. His net worth is reported to be 53 billion. Loves the best of everything and willing to pay for it. And then there’s one other thing I’m trying to get a handle on. More to follow, Sally.

  Viper. The name teased the corners of her brain, she heard it mentioned several times. But where? In what context?

  “Picture, Sally, I need a picture.” She had no idea what-so-ever what he looked like.

  She unclenched her fists and stretched out her fingers. Dealing with the sixty-two-year-old King suited her better. He understood elegance and grace. He’d be leveled-headed and precise. Instead, she found herself not only dealing with a disaster, but His Royal Highness’s enormous ego. Who had time to pamper an overindulgent prince? Certainly not her, not with the country’s security in her hands and less than twenty-four hours before she left for B’Quara.