dunes in the distance as they sped along the Al Dhinn highway.
His mind flashed up the client sheet that her London-based security firm had provided.
Seraphina Blaise. Twenty-four years old, daughter of a middle-aged Goth frontman who’d been performing live for most of Brad’s own youth and still was today. A punishing and relentless schedule that kept his band, The Ravens, at the top of the charts whenever they released anything. Blaise didn’t really seem old enough to have an adult daughter, but who knew with these rock types—they started their careers young, or made their mistakes early. Whichever.
His daughter’s file was full of labels like ‘ardent’ and ‘rash’ but also ‘committed’ and ‘loyal’. And ‘damaged’. There were screenshots about her very public arrest earlier in the year mixed amongst older citations for volunteering, academic excellence and her talent as a photographer. So which was true? He had citations—a drawer full of them—and they didn’t necessarily make him a better person.
Maybe he’d be better off ignoring what was in Sera’s file and conducting his own assessment.
Her tongue might be a little sharp but it worked for a pretty switched-on brain; not everyone called him out as thoroughly as she had just now. It was hard not to respect a pre-emptive striker even if she was overly cranky. She’d just been detained by one of the toughest and touchiest governments in the world—he’d throw her a bone on that one.
She’d been carved by some kind of post-modern sculptor. A whole bunch of mismatched parts that came together into an intriguingly curious package. Everything about her was long. Her face, her jaw, her nose. Hair. Fingers. Legs. It reminded him of Al Saqr’s best Arab horses but still managed to be feminine. It shouldn’t really work together but somehow it did, leaving her more...striking than classically pretty. She didn’t accessorise with copious amounts of jewellery the way most of her flight had; other than the silver clasps on her flimsy blouse, the treacle-brown hair tumbling down over her bare shoulders was all the decoration she needed.
On the other hand, she’d swanned into a conservative country with her arms and shoulders bare. Ordinarily, he would have chalked that up to cultural ignorance, but in Sera... He found it hard to imagine that she hadn’t read up on the region she was visiting. It was almost as if she was challenging Umm Khoreem to a silent social debate.
Maybe she was. Her file was full of protests and causes and righteous indignation about one thing or another.
For the second time in forty minutes, Brad hit the indicator to change lanes, and he navigated the SUV around and under the highway to reach the start of Al Saqr’s access road. He let the massive vehicle own the road; when the resort was as exclusive and private as Al Saqr, oncoming traffic was rarely an issue.
Sera sat up straighter to see what was ahead. The composed woman he’d seen at the airport was morphing, with every stretch of her long neck, into a different creature. A more excited, engaged, relaxed woman.
Or maybe the desert was just wielding its subtle magic already. It was good like that.
‘Still fifteen minutes,’ Brad murmured, and she slumped back into her seat like an impatient teen. He forced himself not to smile. ‘Is this your first desert?’
‘Not counting ones I’ve flown over? Yes.’
‘Whatever you’re expecting,’ he murmured, ‘you’re wrong.’
Her eyebrows raised, but she didn’t bite. She peered, instead, out the front of the vehicle at the vast...nothing...that was ahead of them.
Five minutes later, he pulled to a halt at Al Saqr’s armed boundary checkpoint. Per the regulations, the guard came out and eyeballed the whole vehicle—including the empty back seats—checking Sera’s name off the sparse guest register before waving them through the raised boom gate. In his periphery, Sera eyed the massive mesh fences stretching out in both directions as far as she could see and the casual way the guard’s high-powered weapon was slung over his shoulder. For the first time, her confidence seemed to wobble. Just a little.
‘Do you get much trouble out here?’
‘The fences are to protect the wildlife,’ he reassured. Though, in truth, they went a long way to making his job easier given the only people allowed past Al Saqr’s checkpoint were registered guests, staff and suppliers. That lessened his field of professional concern from everyone on the Arabian Peninsula to just a comparative handful.
Although something told him that Sera, herself, would be dominating his field of concern for the next few weeks of his life.
That elegant neck started craning again as they left the asphalt and hit the compacted road gouged through the desert. Around them, the geometric shapes carved by wind into the sand and the occasional fire bush dominated. But as they crested a high dune she got her first glimpse of the resort far ahead, nestled in the middle of an enormous expanse of interlocking, golden blonde sand dunes.
Like the oasis it functionally was.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Sera breathed.
Yeah, it was. The resort stretched like a jewelled tiara along the top edge of a massive sand ridge.
Not that the desert needed any gilding.
The date palms that signalled the presence of shallow groundwater started to whizz by, first in singles, then in spikey clusters. Tucked away between small dune rises on their left and right were small, scattered buildings—service sites for the resort and their staff—but the road kept on moving past those, disappointing Sera visibly every time one was not part of the larger resort. Finally, the palm clusters merged into a proper croft and Sidr and Ghaf trees thickened up around them as neat herringbone pavers seemed to emerge from the graded sand like the yellow brick road in Oz.
Just as well, too, or Sera would have run out of seat to climb. He glanced sideways at her and tried hard not to acknowledge that curiosity did good things to her face.
‘Oh, wow!’
He loved this part. The moment that someone saw Al Saqr for the first time. The luxury resort that she would be calling home for the next month.
He scanned the arrivals area ahead as they pulled into the paved circle in front of the resort’s reception despite knowing that no one but authorised personnel and guests could have been inside the fences. Old habits died hard.
‘Standby,’ he instructed, levering his door handle.
Dry heat rushed past him as he climbed out, still scanning for threats, then crossed quickly in front of the SUV to open the passenger side door as two staff emerged from the heavy timber entrance of the resort’s central hub. The shorter of the two was traditionally but comfortably dressed, smiling broadly enough to pop dimples, his hand outstretched. Behind him stood a taller man, ginger haired, dressed in khaki and boots.
They nodded briefly to Brad then stood at attention as he gave Sera his arm down from the high SUV.
She stepped forward enthusiastically as soon as her feet touched earth.
‘Hi!’
Brad closed the SUV door quietly and stood in much the same pose as his colleagues—hands behind him, back straight—as they introduced themselves to Sera. There was little sign of the woman from the airport, now. This Sera had pulled her thick hair back in a desert-friendly ponytail while she was waiting for him to clear the arrivals area and wore undisguised excitement on her face. You had to be a real tough guy to remain unaffected by Al Saqr’s unique beauty.
This Sera was more girl than woman, and the unfamiliar twist in his gut hit him again.
‘Ms Blaise, welcome,’ the shorter of the two men said in impeccable English, pressing an introduction card into her hand for her later reference. ‘I am Aqil, your guest relations coordinator. Anything you need, do not hesitate to ask for me.’
Eric was taller, and he leaned around Aqil to shake Sera’s hand and introduce himself before adding, ‘I’m