Lord of the Desert (21 page)

“She didn't arouse you?” she asked, aghast. “But you loved her!”

“Did I?” He brought her hand to his lips and searched her eyes. “She was kind to me, at a time when I desperately needed kindness. But you build fires in me. I am alive with you, as I never was before, even when I was whole. You are part of the fabric of my life. I must have you, or I can never be truly happy.”

Her eyes lit up. “You're sure?”

His hand reached down and touched her belly tenderly. “I'm sure.” He smiled wickedly. “One of the specialists who told me I was sterile practices in Paris. We must invite him to the christening.”

“An engraved invitation,” she agreed wholeheartedly, grinning.

His eyes adored her and he sighed. “And I thought I would go through life alone and incomplete. Those miracles we spoke of—I think I believe in them now.”

“I always did,” she said simply, and she reached up to kiss him.

 

They walked out into the living room together, disheveled, and several heads turned enquiringly.

“Are you ready to leave, sir?” Russell, the Georgia member of the Secret Service asked politely.

Philippe shook his head. “Not until tomorrow. I'm sure that my wife has loose ends to tie up before we leave the country again.” He pursed his lips and smiled amusedly at the uncomfortable-looking men in suits. “Surely a night on a real Texas ranch will not trouble you?”

“I'm from the Bronx,” one of the suited men said miserably. “I hate cattle.”

“And I'm from Los Angeles,” another one added. “Horses scare me to death.”

“Sissies,” the Georgia agent scoffed.

“Oh, yeah?” the Bronx agent retorted. “Well, I didn't notice you rushing out to stop that Bahama bull that damned near trampled the Soviet premier at the president's summer home near Fort Worth, Russell!”

The Georgia man roared. “Brahma, you idiot, not Bahama!”

“If that Texas Ranger hadn't rushed in, we'd have had World War III for sure!”

“It wasn't a bull, either, it was a milk cow,” the taller agent scoffed. “It was just playing with him!”

“Took ten stitches and the president had to buy him a new pair of trousers,” the third agent remarked. “And we heard the next day, they sent you to the Okefenokee Swamp to guard the vice president when he was on holiday.”

The Georgia agent glared at him. “I asked for that assignment! I like swamps!”

The Bronx agent chuckled. “Sure you did.”

“You can all sleep in the bunkhouse,” Gretchen said, interrupting them.

“No, we can't, ma'am,” the Bronx agent debated. “We have to be where His Highness is.”

“In the bedroom?” she exclaimed, horrified.

“Ma'am!” he exclaimed, and blushed. “It's not that kind of agency!”

Philippe laughed heartily. “He means that they have to be within shouting distance,” he said. “We can have cots delivered for the living room, surely.”

“Of course,” she said, placated.

“My bodyguards will sleep in front of the door, with Hassan,” Philippe continued, watching her blush. He chuckled. “We should be quite safe.”

“Speak for yourself,” she murmured, watching the other men. “They've all got guns.”

Russell, the Georgia agent grinned. “It's okay, ma'am, they only let us have one bullet apiece, and we have to keep it separate from our guns.”

The Bronx agent hit him. “They'd never be stupid enough to give
you
a bullet. Let's go out and scout the perimeter.”

“Suits me.”

They left, and Philippe motioned his own bodyguard to follow. That left “Elvis,” who grinned from ear to ear at Gretchen.

“You never said a word about being able to speak English,” she muttered at him.

“You never asked,” he drawled smugly and, bowing politely, stalked out behind the others.

Philippe drew Gretchen into his arms and held her close. “Alone at last,” he murmured.

He was kissing her enthusiastically when the sound of a car arriving was followed by a loud commotion outside.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” came a furious, and very familiar, voice from the front yard.

There was a commotion. Gretchen rushed out on the porch just in time to see the Secret Service trying to wrestle her big, angry brother to the ground. He was giving them hell on the half-shell, holding his own against all of them in a free-for-all punctuated by grunts and cries of pain and thuds.

“Marc!” she exclaimed.

He lifted his head, diverted just long enough for the Secret Service to get his hands behind him and handcuff him. He started cursing and one of the men backed up.

Gretchen ran ahead of Philippe down the steps and right up to the Secret Service agent from Georgia. “You can't do that!” she exclaimed. “He's my brother! He lives here!”

“We just did it,” the Bronx agent said coldly, mopping a cut on his cheek with his handkerchief. “And he's going up before a judge for assault on a federal agent!”

“You'll be sitting right beside me, you son of a bitch!” Marc told the man. “I'm FBI!”

“No,” the Georgia guy drawled slowly as he began to connect the name and the state. “Oh, no. No, you couldn't be
that
Brannon!”

Marc's gray eyes narrowed in his lean, tanned face, and his wavy blond-streaked brown hair seemed to stand on end as he glared at the other man. “The hell I couldn't be. I am! And you're really going to get it this time, Russell.” He held up his big fists and shook the handcuffs binding them together. “Get these damned things off me!”

Russell swallowed. “You'd better do it,” he told the Bronx man. “He's related to the state attorney general, two United States senators, and the vice president.”

The other man grimaced as he dug for the handcuff key. “Well, how was I to know? He didn't even introduce himself properly!”

“Introduce myself, the devil!” Marc exploded as he jerked off the unlocked handcuffs and threw them at the Secret Service agent. “You tackled me the minute I got out of my damned car!”

“He was a Texas Ranger for ten years,” Russell said uncomfortably. “And the last agent who handcuffed him was transferred to the Okefenokee Swamp to guard the vice president on a camping trip.”

“How
was
the camping trip, Russell?” Marc asked with flashing silvery eyes and a mocking smile.

“I had a wonderful time, sir,” Russell said with a grimace. “I never knew snake roasted over a campfire could taste so good. If you see the vice president, you might tell him that,” he added hopefully.

Gretchen laughed with pure glee and ran to hug her brother. He swung her up in his hard arms and kissed her soundly, his expression changing to one of affectionate delight as he put her back down.

“How are you?” he asked softly. “And why aren't you in Qawi doing your job?” he added with a frown, glancing at the tall, obviously foreign man standing close to her.

“She's pregnant,” Philippe said with twinkling eyes.

Marc scowled. “Pregnant?” His expression softened even more as he looked down at his sister. “I'm going to be an uncle?”

“Very definitely,” she said dreamily. “He's a miracle baby.”

“Excuse me?”

Philippe's long arms drew her back against his chest and he smiled at Marc over the top of her blond head. “I was told that I couldn't produce children, among other things,” he said easily. “Gretchen has changed my life. I adore her.”

“Who are you?” Marc asked. “Her boss?”

“Her husband,” Philippe corrected.

“His Highness is the ruling Sheikh of Qawi,” the Georgia agent, Russell, said.

Marc's eyebrows arched. He glanced at Gretchen. “You're married?”

She glared at him. “Of course I'm married!” she said indignantly. “Why else would I be pregnant?”

His expression was enigmatic as he studied the other man curiously. “Weren't you on the evening news a couple of years ago? Your country was invaded, I believe.”

Philippe nodded. “Invaded and captured, in fact. Some influential friends helped me drive out the mercenaries. But their leader is out of prison and causing trouble.”

“Brauer,” Marc said unexpectedly. He glared at the Secret Service. “Now I understand all the security around here. Surely he wouldn't try anything on American soil?”

“We can't guarantee that,” the Bronx agent said. “That's why we're here.”

Marc lifted his chin. “Haven't you caught him?”

“He's over the border from my country, in Salid,” Philippe said. “We have an elite military force trying to contain him even now.” His black eyes narrowed. “There must be a state wedding,” he added. “Gretchen carries the heir to my throne. A simple service such as we had several weeks ago is insufficient for stability in the region. We must fly back tomorrow. It would be good if you came with us,” he added surprisingly.

“I'll request a leave of absence,” Marc said at once, to Gretchen's delight.

“I'll request it for you,” Philippe replied. “Considering the extent of our newfound oil reserves, and our favored nation status with your government, I expect I have more political pull than even you do at the moment,” he added with a grin. The grin faded. “I also want to invite some old friends along who have experience of dealing with international terrorists.”

Marc raised an eyebrow. “Micah Steele?”

“No. I understand that he's in the middle of something. I was thinking of one from Montana, and a couple more,” he agreed.

Russell scowled. “Look here, Your Highness, you can't start exporting mercs to foreign countries!”

“Private citizens,” Philippe assured them, drawing Gretchen closer. “Wedding guests,” he added with a smile.

Marc looked at the Secret Service. “I could call the vice president if you have a problem with that.”

“I don't have a problem in the world,” Russell said immediately. “How about you guys?”

“Not us,” they chorused.

Marc moved toward the porch. “In that case, we might get Katie to fix some lunch. I'm starved!”

 

They sat around talking until late. The next morning, the cowboys were gathered at the corral to look over a new stallion Marc had bought while he was in Austin at Texas Ranger headquarters, reapplying for his old job.

“Nice, isn't he?” he asked Gretchen and Philippe, both wearing denims and cotton shirts—Philippe was of a size comparable to Marc and had borrowed some leisure wear.

“Very nice,” Philippe mused.

“Purty, ain't he?” one of the cowboys drawled with a speaking glance at Philippe, who looked elegant even in denim. “Don't suppose Miss Gretchen's husband would like to ride him?”

Russell stepped forward. “Now, listen here,” he began.

“Yes, I would enjoy that,” Philippe said with a wicked grin, and climbed nimbly over the corral fence.

“Your Highness!” the Bronx agent exclaimed in protest.

“It's all right,” Gretchen told him, and Marc, who was looking worried. “Trust me.”

“He may buck a bit, mister, and you might get mussed up,” the cowboy said with a vicious little grin. “Think you can stay on him, or do you even want to try?”

“I will…try,” Philippe said with a returned smile.

He took the reins, stroked the horse gently and spoke into its ear, feeling its fear, its faint tremor. He turned the horse's face into the morning sun and suddenly vaulted onto his back and held on. The stallion bucked like a mad thing, but Philippe looked as if he'd been glued right into the saddle. He laughed with obvious enjoyment as the horse leaped and bucked around the wide corral several times before his soft voice and slow stroking gentled it. He smoothed its mane and whispered in its ear, and then rode it elegantly around the ring several times before he dismounted gracefully and gave the reins to the shocked cowboy who'd challenged him to ride it.

“I breed thoroughbred Arabians,” Philippe told him. “I break them myself. This is a good horse, but he lacks stamina. If you intend breeding him, that should be taken into account.”

He climbed out of the corral and dropped to his feet in the dirt. Marc chuckled.

“I should have known better. But you did look a little like a city wimp yesterday,” he murmured dryly.

Philippe grinned back. “So your sister thought, at first, until she saw me ride.” He held out an arm and Gretchen went eagerly to his side. “One day I must tell you the story of how she came riding to save me with a single action Colt .45 in her hands.”

“It wouldn't surprise me,” Marc admitted. “She's quite a girl.”