Dark Horses: (Blood Brothers #5) Read online

  “I’m Jasim,” I tell her. She can’t have failed to have noticed my olive coloured skin, so much darker than her own. Though paler that it used to, be since I no longer spend time in my home country. As she holds out her hand to shake, I take it, again noticing how cold she is. As the room is on the warm side, it must be shock.

  Seeing me staring, she lowers her eyes, and the Dominant inside me twitches. This is no time for that though, and anyway, she’s far too young. I concentrate on the signs I should be looking for. Her memory of her attack seems clear, no gaps and nothing forgotten. Her speech isn’t slurred, and her answers to my questions have come fast and are coherent. But that possible brief loss of consciousness still worries me.

  I ask about the symptoms I can’t see, “Have you got a headache? Feel nauseous? Dizzy? Any ringing in your ears? Tiredness?”

  “It’s two in the morning. I’ve had a long day, so yes, I’m tired,” she replies with a self-deprecating smile, one side of her mouth turning up. The rearrangement of her features shows she’s quite pretty, though not in classical way, a model’s face, one with character, rather than beauty. “And my head’s thumping, but then, I did hit it hard.”

  Tilting my head to one side, I consider her answers. Enough to worry me. Pushing back my hair that’s flopped down over my forehead, I ask, “Is there anyone I can call to come to get you?”

  “No.” She answers too quickly.

  Taking her apparent youth into account, I wonder whether she’s got family who could be worried about her, “Your parents?”

  The look she gives me is comical. “I’m twenty-two, and if I did still have parents, I’m a bit old to have a curfew, don’t you think?”

  She’s the same age as my little sister, and I’d worry about Aiza if she was out alone on the streets of London in the early hours of the morning. But what do I know? Except, while she’s not quite as young as I’d expected, she’s still eleven years younger than me. Meanwhile, the medic in me is concerned. Having run through her symptoms, I don’t like the idea of her being left alone tonight, As I’m wondering how to phrase it without causing undue concern, I’m saved by Bates walking in through the door carrying a bottle of water.

  “Sorry I took so long. There was a problem on the floor that I needed to sort out. Here, pet, do you want this?”

  While she gives him a grateful look, I delve back into the first aid kit and find paracetamol at the bottom. I take two from the bottle. “Take these, they’ll help with your head.”

  As she washes down the tablets with a mouthful of water, my eyes are drawn to the way her throat works and the sleek slenderness of her neck.

  “What’s the verdict, Sheikh?” As Bates gives me my title, her eyes open wide and she sinks back on the chair, making me wish he hadn’t given away my rank. Her reaction shows she seems in awe of it, and the camaraderie we’ve just been building disappears in a flash.

  I answer his question, trying to ignore both the effect the designation had provoked, and the flutter of unexpected disappointment inside me, “She’s got a cut on her head, but it’s not serious. However, young Janna here might have concussion.” I emphasis her age in part to remind myself. “You got anyone at home who can watch over you?” The latter I address toward her, while wondering whether there’s a boyfriend in the wings, even though she’d indicated there was no one to call.

  She shakes her head, then gives a little groan, causing me to suspect her headache is worse than she’d admitted. As does the way her fingers go up to rub her temples, carefully avoiding the bump. “No, I live alone.” Her eyes flick sideways, and I suspect she’s told me a lie. Why? “It’s alright, I’ll get a cab and go back. I’ll be fine. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” Then her face twists as though she’s remembering her money’s been stolen.

  Before I can speak, it’s Bates’ turn to discourage her. “I had Al go look in the alley. He found these.” He passes her a handbag and a discarded coat and his eyes flit to me.

  Ignoring the coat for the moment, she takes the bag from him with a pleased smile, and rummages inside, her face falling as she does so. “He’s taken my purse, keys. And my phone. Everything.” She looks again, opening side pockets and examining them, then shakes out the empty bag as though to see if there’s anything he could have missed. A lonely tampon falls out. With a flush of red, she pushes it back in.

  “Was there anything in there with your address on it?”

  Her face goes blank, as though she’s mentally cataloguing what she had with her. Her eyes widen, “Yes, I had a letter from my bank.”

  “Well then, you can’t go home. He knows where you live and has your keys.” I spell it out for her, in case she hasn’t put two and two together. “You’ll have to stay with a friend. That would be better anyway. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, not with the bump you’ve had. If you give me an address, I’ll drive you there and explain what care you need. Just in case.”

  Another shake of her head, “Not possible.” She might only be twenty-two, but there’s a presence about her, an independence at odds with her age. Does she mean she’s got no friends, or none she wishes to impose on?

  “What about the friends you were with tonight?”

  A slight quirk of her mouth. “From the way they were behaving I think they’ll be otherwise engaged tonight.”

  At last I stand, stretching as muscles protest the crouched position I’d held for too long. I pace the room, my hand brushing back my hair as I think. I can’t let her go home, not when her attacker has her address. I could pay for her to stay in a hotel, but then she’d be all alone. Now it’s me who glances Bates’ way, but know he’ll be no help at all. And I’m not at all sure I’d want to leave her with him.

  It’s late, I’m tired. And there’s only one solution I can come up with. “You’ll have to come home with me, then. I’ll watch over you, make sure you don’t have concussion, and tomorrow I’ll get you back home. You’ll need to get your locks changed, but you’re in no state to get that sorted tonight.” And, despite the fact she doesn’t want to report it, I’ll have a quiet word with my friends in the police to make sure they include wherever it is she lives on their rounds.

  Chapter 2

  Janna

  This man, this Sheikh, is suggesting I go home with him? Aren’t sheikhs super mega rich or something? And haven’t they a reputation for kidnapping any woman they want? Or have I just been reading too many romance novels? While he’s been studying me, in the same detached way as anyone in the medical profession would, I’ve been examining him too. And shit, is he handsome. He’s got an aquiline nose, slightly pointed chin covered in designer stubble, dark hair well styled, but long, just touching his shoulders. And his eyes, well, all at once I understand the saying, a girl could easily drown in them.

  Now I come to think of it, his suit does smack of money. As he stands, I’m able to see it fits as though it was made for him—it can’t be off the rack—and outlines a figure I suspect is well muscled. His shoulders are broad, his jacket tailored to show a trim waist. A stark contrast to the other man beside him who carries a middle-aged spread and who’s giving off a vibe I’m not certain I like. Now if it was him offering to give me a bed for the night, I’d turn him down without a second thought.

  But Jasim? Sheikh Jasim? He’s got trust and integrity written all over him, or is that wishful thinking? Was that blow to my head harder than I thought? Could it be screwing up my sense of self-preservation? I don’t know him from Adam, but I’m tired and sore, and I just want a bed. Can I take a chance and accept his kind offer? Can I be certain there’s no ulterior motive? While it’s not something I’d normally even contemplate, I know at least one of my friends will probably be ending up in a stranger’s bed tonight. Where’s the difference?

  I’ve precious little alternative. I can’t go home, being in no state to face the inevitable interrogation tonight. Maybe by morning I’ll have concocted some credible story about how I’ve ended
up with a head injury. I can’t imagine telling them what actually happened. Christ, they’d have a field day with that. My first taste of freedom, and just look at how it ended. They’d never let me forget it.

  Telling Jasim there was no one to look after me wasn’t the first untruth I’ve told tonight. Even before I’d left the house I’d used manipulation to get my own way, and gotten hurt as a result. God, I’ll have provided them with enough ammunition to keep me grounded me for another six years. The longer I can delay letting them know, the better it will be. And maybe, with luck, the lump on my forehead will have gone down by morning, and they’ll never have to know.

  That I find the intriguing sheikh attractive is probably what influences me most, and the words come out of my mouth before I’ve seriously considered all the implications. If I wasn’t so shaky after being attacked and groped, if my head wasn’t hurting so much or fatigue threatening to overwhelm me, maybe I’d have thought twice before saying to a perfect stranger, “Sheikh, that’s a generous offer. If you really think it’s necessary and you’ve a spare bed, I’d like to take you up on it.”

  “Jasim,” he corrects, before pulling out a business card. “I know you don’t want to bother your family or friends for a bed, but please, give them a call or text and let them know where you’ll be staying. My motivation is simply to make sure you’ve not got any lasting complications from your injury, but you don’t know me at all. Bates here will vouch for me, of course.”

  Bates seems bewildered by the direction the night has now headed, and offers up another suggestion, “Perhaps one of the girls here could take you home with them?”

  And impose on a complete stranger? I open my mouth to tell them I don’t want to do that, then close it, realising that’s exactly what I’m proposing to do. My hand touches the bump on my head as though I could tell it’s responsible for my lack of inhibition tonight. I’m normally more careful that this. Strike that, correction, I’m never allowed to be anything but.

  The thought that my protectors would be horrified I was going home with a strange man decides me. My one chance of freedom, and I’ll take it. And if I end up in his bed, well, I know enough to understand it certainly wouldn’t be rape. He intrigues me; this man with his faintest of accents, his title, and the darker shades of his skin tone. If I walked away from him now, I would never know what I might have missed.

  “I’ll text my friend, if I can borrow your phone.” My decision is made. And oh, yeah, Mara would be over the moon to know I’d gone home with a man. Hell, she’ll laugh her head off, it’s so unlike me. And she’s probably in God knows whose bed at the moment herself, and won’t even read my message until morning. But soon enough, if I disappear off the face of the earth. Don’t sheikhs keep women as slaves? Heaven help me, but that idea carries no revulsion, just ignites a tingling between my thighs. Shit, Janna, you’re in trouble here, girl.

  I send a quick text to a memorised number while Jasim finishes up the conversation which I’d interrupted with my entrance, a series of ‘I’ll be in touch’ from him and a half-hearted, ‘I’ll think on what you’ve suggested’ from his companion. Then, seeing they’re saying their goodbyes, I get to my feet. A wave of dizziness goes through me, and I sway. A strong arm comes around me, holding me up.

  “Sorry.” Is it tiredness, or have I really hit my head too hard?

  Sharp eyes scrutinise me, then with a last look at Bates, Jasim draws me along with him, “Let’s get you home.”

  As he leads me to the door and down the stairway, I lean on him for support, but inwardly admit I’m enjoying the comfort of his muscular arm around me. Instead of taking me out of the main entrance that I’d come in by, he takes me to another door and we descend a set of stairs leading down to a basement carpark and then he directs me across toward an expensive looking car, a four-door saloon. Opening the passenger side, he helps me into a soft leather seat and I’m encased by the luxury. Leaning my head back, I close my tired eyes.

  After hearing the driver’s door shut, the car starts to move so silently I hadn’t noticed the engine starting, only realising we’re on our way when I feel the slight vibration as we leave the garage.

  “Quiet car,” I comment, already half asleep, lulled by the movement.

  “It’s electric,” he replies. My last conscious thought is to idly wonder whether he drives it because he cares about the environment.

  It’s probably very stupid and naïve of me, but I’m completely unaware of my surroundings or where he’s taking me as we drive through the quiet of the late night, or more to the point, early morning London streets. I’ll likely look back on my actions tonight with a more critical eye and blame my out of character actions on the fact I’d banged my head. At the moment though, our brief interaction, the way he cared for me so gently and competently, is making me trust him, and I believe he’s got nothing but my best interests at heart.

  The smooth movement of the car, and the silence of the man beside me lulls me into a deep sleep, and I don’t wake until we’re pulling up in another underground car park, and he’s opening my door.

  “We’re here.”

  Opening bleary eyes, it takes me a moment to remember who he is, and what’s happened tonight. And it’s only now, for the first time, I get a sense of unease. Where am I? He could have brought me anywhere. Wherever it is, I’m not going to find out sat in the car. I swing out my legs and strong arms are quickly there to help me to my feet; it’s lucky there’s someone to hold me, still half asleep, I’m feeling a bit weak.

  Once again holding me close to his side, he leads me over to where there’s a lift waiting. Inside, he takes out a card and swipes it. The lift begins to rise, the motion making me lean on him even more. I’m so close I can smell the expensive aftershave he uses, and underneath that, a masculine perfume all his own. It must be intoxicating, as it makes me feel lightheaded.

  With a slight jolt, the lift arrives at its destination, and when the doors open, I find myself in the foyer of an apartment bigger than any I’ve ever been in before. Without wasting a moment, he presses his hand to my back, and encourages me into a well-appointed sitting room, floor to ceiling windows revealing a view extending for miles. Realising this must be the penthouse suite, I feel overwhelmed by its ostentatiousness, but don’t have long to admire the luxurious furnishings or comfortable looking sofas, before he takes me through and down a hallway, and into a bedroom.

  It’s immediately clear that it must be his. The dark leather-bound bed, covered in black satin sheets, screams masculinity. A comfortable wingback chair sits under a window, with a book lying open on the seat. Clothes are already set out, hanging on a vast wardrobe door doubtless in preparation for the morning.

  My senses return to me. I fancy this man, felt the attraction almost from the moment I stole my first real look at him, but that doesn’t mean I have any intention of sharing his bed. It had been a nice fantasy, not a real desire.

  “Um.” At a loss for words, I point at the bed, knowing my body has gone stiff.

  “I’ll sleep on the chair,” he explains, understanding the reason for my hesitation immediately. “I need to stay close, to keep an eye on you.” In a gesture I’ve already noticed must be one of his characteristics, he brushes back his hair, “My housekeeper’s spring cleaning, and the guest rooms are all stripped. I don’t feel like making up another bed tonight.”

  The housekeeper? How the other half live! It must be wonderful to not have to clean your own room. I must still be out of it, when the most ridiculous thing comes out of my mouth, “It’s not spring.”

  He laughs, the first time I’ve heard his amusement, it’s a deep throated chuckle, and one which sends tingles down my spine, “Spring, autumn. I just let her get on with whatever she wants. When she decides it’s time to do a deep clean, there’s no stopping her.” He turns me to face him. “The bathroom’s through there.” Indicating an open door, he continues. “Make yourself comfortable and get into bed. I’ll lea
ve out one of my shirts for you to wear. Unless you want to keep that on?”

  That being my skimpy dress I wore not for comfort, but for a night out with the girls. With its tight bodice, it would be awkward to sleep in. “Thank you. A shirt would be great.”

  “Right, you get yourself sorted, and I’ll go into the lounge for a while.”

  With that he leaves me alone. I do the necessary, and finding the shirt he’d left out, take it back and change in the bathroom. He’s got a selection of new tooth brushes, and a range of soaps and feminine creams and face wipes, suggesting I’m not the first female visitor he’s had in his flat, and I don’t understand why that thought disappoints me. Staring at my reflexion in the mirror, I gently brush at the strips over my wound. Even pulling down my fringe doesn’t hide them. Shit. I’d hoped to conceal it. Sighing, knowing I’m unlikely to get away without any explanation, I briefly think of the trouble I’ll be in come morning. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. They’re going to flip.

  At last I return to the bedroom, and with only a slight hesitation, slide underneath the smooth silk covers. The bed’s comfy, the pillow cradles my head perfectly, and I’m almost asleep before I finish the thought that I’ll not be able to sleep in a strange room.

  A hand is shaking me. “Janna, wake up.”

  Bloody hell! Is it already morning? I don’t feel I’ve slept very long.

  “How you feeling? Is your headache worse or better? Can you look at me, pet?”

  The events of the night before come rushing back to me, along with the realisation I’m in a sheikh’s bed. The thought makes me want to giggle, but I suppress my mirth, restricting myself to a simple reply. “My head’s feeling better.”

  “No double vision or dizziness?”

  Huh! He’s just woken me from a deep sleep, what does he expect? “No, I’m fine.”