For the moment she was free.
Ironic laughter bubbled up inside her. If she was so free, how come she was hiding out in a rustic old cottage in the middle of nowhere, spooning the tasteless powder the Logans called coffee into a thick ceramic mug? In her apartments at her father’s palace, servants would be doing this, and the heavenly aroma of real coffee would envelope her before she took her first sip out of a china cup so fine it was practically translucent.
Stop it, she ordered herself. When she had dealt with Jamal, she could return home to her good coffee and her own fine china. They were trifles. Her thoughts were a disservice to the kindness Des Logan and his family had extended to her.
Stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into the steaming coffee to disguise the taste, she carried the mug to the couch where a ceiling fan churned the air, making little impact on the stifling afternoon heat.
Forcing herself not to sigh for the air-conditioning back home was as useless as trying to convince herself the coffee was delicious. Or keeping her thoughts from returning to Tom McCullough.
“You can’t stay there by yourself,” he’d insisted when she’d asked him to drive her to the cottage after dinner with his foster father.
In his own way Tom was as forceful as Jamal, but she hadn’t resented his attitude, aware that Tom spoke out of concern for her, not out of a desire to control her.
He would have more subtle means of getting his own way. A shudder of possibility shook her as her imagination worked overtime. In her country, women had a saying about men—stillness cloaks the tiger within. Where Jamal’s inner tiger was a rampaging beast, seldom cloaked, Tom’s was leashed but, she sensed, immensely more powerful for that.
What would his tiger be like, once unleashed?
She rubbed her calf absently, having had a glimpse when his friend threw the spear at her. Only a slight ache reminded her of where the point had penetrated her flesh. A lesser man would have allowed Wandarra to punish her, and she would have suffered more as a result. Tom’s bold action had saved her. A desert warrior indeed.
Irritated with herself for letting him dominate her thoughts, she reached for her notebook. In case she was unable to retrieve the tape of Jamal’s meeting, she had decided to reconstruct what she could remember. The task would take her mind off everything, including Tom.
On impulse she got up again and fetched the loaded rifle he had left with her when he couldn’t persuade her to remain at the homestead. She had assured him she knew how to use a firearm, having been taught to shoot in Q’aresh, although she had never targeted a living creature. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to. But she felt better having the weapon near at hand.
How long would she have to endure this hunted existence? If Judy’s prediction proved true and their neighbor gained control of this land, Diamond Downs might not provide a sanctuary for much longer. What would she do then? What would all of the Logans do?
Their connection with this place evidently ran as deep as hers to her native country. She wished there was something she could do to help them.
Some time later she closed the notebook with a feeling of dissatisfaction. She had a reasonably clear account of the plans Jamal and his cronies had talked about, but it still wasn’t enough to convince her father. To do that she had to get hold of the tape hidden aboard the plane. Easier said than done, she was sure.
Taking a sip of now-tepid coffee, she lifted her chin. Where there was a will, there was a way, as her Australian-born grandmother had told her often enough.
A fierce longing for her grandmother gripped Shara. In spite of her love of Australia, Noni was fiercely loyal to her adopted country. But having her close by even for a short time would have made the cottage feel more like home to Shara.
The sound of a car pulling up outside made her pulse spike. Jamal? If it was him, he was in for a shock. She hadn’t come this far to let him win now. Dragging the rifle across her knees, she aimed it at the door and waited.
When the door creaked open and a bulky male shape filled the opening, she lifted the rifle. “Take one step closer and I’ll shoot.”
Chapter 5
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said a husky voice.
“Tom?”
He lowered the hands he’d raised to shoulder height and came to take the gun from her. He had to pry it from her tense fingers. “You would have used it, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded, blinking hard, letting anger chase away tears. “You’d better believe it. Why didn’t you call out to let me know it was you?”
“Everything was so quiet that I thought you must be resting.” Or gone, he’d thought but didn’t add. His heart had started to race at this possibility.
She massaged her eyes as if they were tired. When she lowered her hands, he saw the fear in her liquid gaze. He eased on the safety catch and propped the rifle against the couch before grasping her hands and bringing her to her feet. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
A tremor shook her. “I thought you were Jamal.”
“If you’re this worried about what he might do, why insist on staying here alone?”
She looked away. “Haven’t you ever wanted to prove something to yourself?”
He pressed one finger under her chin, making her look at him. “You got yourself out of a bad situation that could only have gotten worse. What else do you need to prove?”
“That I’m not a total coward.”
Her husky voice purred through him, warm as molasses. With her hands trapped in his and less than a heatbeat of space between them, his breathing caught. Under different circumstances, he’d have accepted the invitation of her parted lips without hesitation.
Feeling another tremor ripple through her strengthened his resistance, for now anyway. A man could resist temptation only so long. He looked pointedly at the rifle. “You’re not a coward. In another second you’d have put a bullet in me.”
She tossed her head, spilling a river of raven strands over his fingers. “Anyone can be brave with a gun in their hands. Forcing my father to listen to my concerns about Jamal would have shown greater courage.”
“Without proof, you’d only have gotten yourself locked up in the palace for the rest of your life.” His tone rejected the waste.
“It might not have been forever.”
“The other night you said the king meant to lock you away until you agreed to his marriage plans for you. Parole hardly sounds likely.”
Her sigh whispered between them. “No, it doesn’t. But this isn’t freedom, either.”
Her bleak tone made Tom remember a time, many years ago, when he’d felt as if his life was over, too. With his mother dead and his father in prison for her murder, he hadn’t been able to imagine drawing a whole breath again. The muscles used for smiling and laughing had frozen forever, or so he’d believed.
He suspected Shara was staring into a similar abyss now.
Without thinking, he bent his head and brushed his lips over hers. The kiss was meant as reassurance, to tell her she wasn’t alone and that somebody cared. The somebody being him.
She steadied herself by placing her hands on his waist, accepting the touch of his mouth without returning the pressure.
As a result, the kiss was chaste, brotherly and completely one-sided. But the contact sent liquid fire searing along his veins. He made an effort to even his breathing, and took a step back. Her hands dropped away but she didn’t move. “We have to get you out of here,” he said, annoyed with himself for delaying. The arousal he felt told him the time hadn’t been wasted, but that was beside the point.
She ran her tongue over her lips as