“Hey, Johnny Boy,” said the one on the left. “You hear about that little gal who came into town asking questions?”

  “You know, now that you mention it, I think I did hear something about some girl asking about things that don’t concern her,” the one on the right replied. He was stroking his bearded face as Morgan kept her gaze on her drink, preparing to pull out her gun if necessary.

  The men took deep drinks of their beers.

  “I’d hate to see what would happen to someone like that. Bad men ‘round these parts. All kinds of maniacs roaming about. The things they could do to a defenseless young woman, well, I can’t even say them out loud,” Johnny Boy said, and Morgan could hear the grin in his voice.

  They were threatening her, torturously.

  Her gun felt heavy tucked against her calf, strapped in tight. She would have to be quick. She didn’t believe they would do anything in public, but she couldn’t bank on that guess, either. Morgan felt a cool breeze dance along her back, and realized the bar area had gone noticeably silent.

  As the dancers in the corner laughed on and the mechanical bull took on a new rider, Morgan finally looked up to one of the meatheads, and found him staring with a frosty expression at the door. She turned then, and there he was.

  Hassan.

  He was unmistakable. He had aged since the picture was taken, but maybe it just appeared that way because of the dark stubble clinging to his strong jaw. His eyes were dark and hooded as he glared at the men either side of her.

  Everyone else in the bar immediately found a strong interest in their drinks, keeping their gazes down.

  Hassan grinned then, and Morgan’s heart did a little flip.

  “Alex. Johnny Boy. Long time no see,” he said, his voice holding only a small trace of his native accent. His tone was deep and masculine, exactly as Morgan had imagined it.

  The men on either side of her chugged the last of their beers before they rose and turned to face Hassan.

  “Sheikh,” Alex said. He cracked his knuckles as he approached, but Hassan continued to stare him and Johnny Boy down.

  Morgan watched in wonder as the men spit on the ground at his feet, then made their exit out the front door.

  Hassan stared ahead, and Morgan could tell he was listening for their exit. She watched through the window as their car pulled out of the lot, and Hassan took a breath and made his way over to the bar.

  The frightened bartender reappeared to take the empty glasses from the counter.

  “Did they pay you, Josh?” Hassan asked, not unkindly.

  The bartender shrugged and took a deep breath. “Nah, but it’s all right. I gave ‘em the cheap stuff,” he grinned.

  Her gaze focused intently on her soda, Morgan felt rather than saw Hassan turn to look down at her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gentle.

  She looked up at him, into those deep brown eyes she had examined so many times in that picture, and saw that there was so much more in them than could be captured in a photograph.

  She let out a shaky breath that she hadn’t known she was holding on to. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “I’m Hassan,” he said with a nod.

  “Morgan,” she replied with a small smile.

  “Those aren’t the kind of dudes you want to get caught up with, Morgan,” he said, and Morgan raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I’d gathered as much. You think I asked for their attention?”

  Hassan relented quickly. “Of course not, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that.”

  An awkward silence followed, and even though the music was blaring and people were laughing all around them again, the growl of Morgan’s stomach could still be heard. She blushed, taking a drink in an attempt to quiet it down.

  Hassan looked back at the bartender. “Hey, Josh, can we get a couple of menus over here?”

  Josh reached for a pair of crusty paper menus behind the counter and slid them in front of Hassan and Morgan.

  Taking a look at the offerings, Morgan quickly ordered a burger and fries, and Hassan ordered a steak.

  “So, what brings a city girl like you all the way out here?”

  Morgan lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m from the city?”

  Hassan laughed. It was a warm sound—the kind one could never tire of.

  “Your clothes, for starters. No one this side of Waco is that trendy.”

  Morgan glanced down at her simple outfit—a blouse and a pair of pants wide enough to hide the gun that rested against her calf. Nothing special. Still, as she glanced around the room it became obvious that she did indeed stand out. Everyone was wearing some version of plaid and jeans, some paired with boots and a cowboy hat. Compared that that, Morgan was basically in a ball gown.

  She grinned. “I guess you’re right,” she said, not answering his question.

  Hassan didn’t miss a beat. “Why are you here, Morgan?” he asked again. His gaze was direct, like he could see right through her.

  She smiled her most winning smile. “Just passing through. Wanted to see what life was like on the outskirts of New Mexico,” she lied, failing to hide her excitement as their food arrived in front of them.

  Morgan didn’t care how unladylike it was—she was starving. She pounced on her French fries, smothering them in ketchup before taking bite after glorious bite. Like her father, Morgan had always had a weakness for junk food. It was why she worked out as much as she did.

  “I can’t say that I’m finding it terribly exciting,” she blurted out between mouthfuls.

  Hassan cut through his steak and took a bite, chewing for a few moments before he spoke again. “Not that exciting? You were just about to be abducted by two skinheads. I’d say that’s notable, wouldn’t you?”

  Morgan frowned. “I’m sure they were just being bullies, and nothing more,” she said, not sounding entirely convincing, even to herself. Unwilling to meet Hassan’s eye, she focused instead on her burger, doing her best not to shove the whole thing in her mouth at once.

  “Uh huh,” Hassan said, staring at her profile. “So tell me, what do you think about motorcycles?”

  Morgan looked up then, surprised. “Um, I think they’re okay. Why?”

  Hassan grinned. “Ever wanted to ride on the back of one?”

  “Let me get this straight. You tell me I’m on the verge of being kidnapped, then you, a stranger, offer to give me a ride on your bike, with no destination in mind?”

  “Well at least I’m a gentleman—I bought you dinner first, didn’t I?” he replied with a grin, tossing a few bills on the bar.

  Morgan stared at the money, then back at Hassan.

  “I don’t need you to pay for me,” she said, stubborn to the last. In truth, the more of Hassan’s parents’ money she spent, the worse she felt; even though she had found him, there was still no guarantee that she would be able to get him back home.

  Hassan stood. “Of course you don’t, but if you’ll allow me, I think I can show you what the ‘outskirts’ of New Mexico really have to offer. Do you dare?” he asked, his gaze full of challenge.

  He reached out a hand for her to take, and she glanced at it before meeting his eyes again. God, he was handsome. He wore a simple pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, like some Middle-Eastern James Dean.

  Morgan narrowed her eyes, then slid her hand into his. It was warm and dry, the skin somewhat calloused. She liked the way it felt.

  “I do,” she said, rising and following him out of the bar.

  As the Sheikh strode toward a large, wide-handled motorcycle, Morgan cast a glance at her car.

  Following her gaze, Hassan said, “Don’t worry about that. Lots of folks drink too much and leave their cars for the night here. They always just come back to get ‘em in the morning. Not much of a parking problem around here, you know.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Morgan said, trying to ignore the increasingly rapid beating of her heart as they approached the bike.

  She told herself that she was simply doing her job; she had found her missing person and had to stick to him like glue. If she was being honest with herself, though, she was thrilled to be going on an adventure with him.

  They reached the bike and Hassan pulled a helmet off of the handlebars, handing it to Morgan.

  “Here. It might be a bit big, but it should do the trick.”

  Morgan plopped the heavy helmet over her head, shifting it until she could see out of the front. “Don’t you have a helmet?” she asked, her voice muffled behind the mouth piece.

  Hassan grinned. “That’s the only one. I don’t do this all that often, as it goes.”

  “What, give your only helmet to a lady while you seduce her with your wheels?”

  “Who said I was seducing you?” he asked, his grin carving a dimple in his left cheek.

  Morgan wanted to kiss that dimple, and then mentally chided herself for thinking as much. She shrugged her shoulders and said nothing as Hassan mounted the bike and looked over to her.

  “Hop on,” he said, and she straddled her legs around his waist, holding onto the side of the bike. When he turned the engine on, the smell of gasoline and the vibration of the bike was an instant rush. Morgan’s stomach filled with butterflies, and as Hassan pulled out of the lot her arms wrapped around his middle of their own volition.

  Under the full moon, the desert landscape took on an ethereal glow. Morgan breathed in the dry air as the wind blew all around them, encasing them in their own little bubble.

  Hassan drove on the main road for some time, until Morgan saw a mountainscape come into view ahead of them. The Sheikh drove right up one of the hills, curling the bike onto a dirt road and continuing up the hilltop through scattered brush.

  Morgan tried not to feel nervous as Hassan drove them deeper into the woods; his parents were good people, and her instincts told her that Hassan was, too. Still, she could tell he was dangerous—she just wasn’t sure what kind of danger she was in.

  The bike’s lights flashed on an old wooden cabin, nestled within a smattering of trees, and Hassan pulled the motorcycle in front of it, turning the engine off.

  Fighting off a pang of disappointment that the ride was over, Morgan pulled her leg around the back of the bike to dismount. Reluctantly, she slid her arms back from around Hassan’s middle, which was clearly muscular—she could feel his six-pack through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her legs felt stiff from being in the same position for so long, and she stretched as Hassan tended to his bike.

  Removing the helmet, she tried to assemble her hair into something decent, handing it back to Hassan as he turned around.

  “Thanks, Morgan,” he said, taking it. “Now, why don’t we go inside, and you can tell me the truth about why you’re really here.”

  Morgan took a breath, meeting Hassan’s stare head on. There was no point in lying any longer. He’d seen right through her the moment he’d sat at the bar.

  EIGHT

  After a pause, the Sheikh nodded his chin toward the shack, and Morgan followed him inside, still holding her silence.

  The wooden walls were bare, with a small ice box and a cot lining one wall and some first aid supplies lining another. That was it.

  On the icebox there was a kerosene lamp, which Hassan lit before pulling two beers from the ice box and handing one to Morgan.

  She twisted the jagged top off and took a deep pull of the beverage, which was a little skunked. Having gone so long without liquor, she had a hard time remembering why she’d ever enjoyed it in the first place.

  Dangling the beer in her hand, she looked around the cabin, not sure what to do next.

  “Please, sit,” Hassan said, gesturing toward the cot.

  Morgan tried not to think of Hassan in the bed she was sitting on as he sank against the wall opposite her, drinking the skunked beer like there was nothing wrong with it. She was about to ask him how long he’d been out there for when Hassan spoke.

  “I thought it strange when I got word that a beautiful woman from the city was asking around after me,” he said, staring at her intently, reading her expression.

  Morgan kept her face neutral, waiting to see just how much he knew.

  “I know our meeting wasn’t a coincidence, Morgan,” he continued. “Would you like to be honest with me now? Honestly, I’d rather we be truthful with each other from the beginning. I find it cuts a lot of unnecessary corners.”

  Morgan sighed, setting her beer down on the floor. She met his gaze and gave him the truth. “I’m a private detective your parents hired to find you,” she said, and almost laughed at Hassan’s shocked expression.

  “Another one? Really? They’ve already sent two!”

  Her grin was rueful. “And you outsmarted them both. Your father guessed that you would be more receptive to a female looking for you,” she added, glancing down.

  Hassan laughed, but the sound rang hollow. “Well I suppose he really does know me then, after all this time,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

  Morgan looked back up from the floor. “They care about you a lot, Hassan. I sat with them and they told me how worried they were, how much they missed you.”

  “And how much did they offer to pay you? More than you’ve seen in years, I bet. More than anyone has seen in a lifetime?”

  Morgan sat back, perturbed by his sudden snide tone.

  Seeing her wary expression, Hassan backed down. “I’m sorry, Morgan. None of this is your fault. You’re just doing your job, trying to make a living for yourself, but my parents are con artists willing to do whatever it takes to get their own way. They may have come off as sincere, but all they want is a son to ensure their money stays in our house. That’s all.”

  “You don’t know that…” Morgan protested.

  “Don’t I? Morgan, they’re my parents. I’ve been under their shadow my whole life, doing what I was told, getting the right education, dressing in the proper clothing, acting the way they wanted me to act. I was a puppet; something they could manipulate to increase their fortune. Nothing will ever be enough for them—no amount of land, no amount of money. It’s never enough!” he cried, throwing his hands up in the air.

  Morgan reached around for her purse, which had been strapped across her body during the drive, and pulled out the insignia ring Almera had given her. She held it out for him to take.

  “Your mother gave this to me. She said no matter what you decide to do, you ought to have it.”

  Hassan stared at the ring in her hand like it was a venomous scorpion. He took it between his finger and thumb, turning it around in his hand, lost in memory.

  Morgan watched him, amazed by this turn of events. Never before had she revealed her status as a detective while undercover…until now. It felt right somehow, with Hassan.

  He rose, then, and walked over to a wide-open window. Taking one last look at the ring, he reached his arm back and threw it out into the brush, wiping his hands of invisible dirt as he turned back to the cabin.

  “I want to show you something. Will you come with me?” he said, holding out his hand to help her up.

  Without hesitation, Morgan placed her hand in his, grateful for the warmth of it.

  They stepped outside into the night, the moonlight peeking in through the trees. Hassan stopped by his bike and pulled a few blankets out of a side pouch, holding them under his arm as he led Morgan up the hilltop and toward a rocky outcrop.

  When they reached the peak, Morgan gasped.

  All around them, the desert was bathed in moonlight. Morgan could see for miles, even in the dark, and the world seemed…peaceful.

  Hassan released her hand and laid out the blankets for them to sit on. He took a seat, staring out at the open desert, and Morgan sat by his side.

  “You want to know why I ran away?” he asked, his gaze penetrating the night. “When you’re rich, people will do anything you want. Like, anything. I got away with so much garbage all the time. Sometimes I would just do stupid shit just to see what I could get away with, and my parents were so wealthy I got away with all of it. To a lot of people that sounds like the life but the truth is, it’s all so damn fake. My friends were fake. People put on a face because they wanted to enjoy the lifestyle I could provide. I didn’t know who to trust, and my parents weren’t any different. They laid into me because I wasn’t acting the way they wanted me to act—like a sheikh. They wanted me to learn how to play politics, and that game requires giving up your soul.”

  Morgan shivered as a breeze rolled by, shifting a little bit closer to his warmth. Hassan didn’t seem to notice.