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At that point, it all rather went to shit.
He’d thought it might.
He found himself disarmed and hustled into the kitchen by two of the goons who had remained in the house with them.
From the screams and occasional shout from the outer room, he assumed the others were all being herded into the grand hall to join Philipa.
He heard a sudden shot, and to their credit the goons jumped as much as he did. They all stayed very still, almost like chummy co-conspirators. Then one of them poked his head out, asked in Arabic what had happened, and Aleksey heard, “Fucking dog. He tried to bite me,” shouted back.
He twitched his nose and toed the flagstone at his feet.
He now owed the universe one dog’s life.
If he survived this night, it was an obligation he would fulfil.
One of the bodyguards decided to earn his pay and punched him. Presumably for fucking up what would have been a pretty cushy evening for him—down to somewhere called Devon, extraction of a prisoner, nice bit of torture to round things off. Now, things were out of control, and he didn’t understand what was happening. Aleksey didn’t blame him. He wasn’t too sure either.
The Iraqi had clearly had more experience at hitting people than the Prince, and Aleksey wondered if his nose was now broken. For a mild-mannered civil servant who had only wanted to give everyone a pleasant New Year it all seemed a little unfair.
Fortunately, neither of the brothers appeared to have clocked who their short aggressive houseguest was. He could hear muttering and whispered discussion as they came through the kitchen door, which presumably they thought he didn’t understand. To them, these new arrivals were nothing more than a bunch of badly dressed inconveniences.
Upon reflection, Aleksey thought the storming in and batteringhimhad been a good thing. You didn’t expect that sort of behaviour from the heir to any throne, after all, but especially not to the British one. Aleksey wasn’t about to tell them who he was either. His nose hurt, but even he wasn’t willing to unpack the ramifications of that discovery should it be made. There was amusement and fun, and then there was being psychotic—which thought nicely brought him back to remembering that Usama Allouni had, after all, had his own nephew murdered, a fact which Aleksey then reminded the man of with a meaningful glare.
Usama clearly took the hint, rallied, and stopped the flunky punching Aleksey. He ordered the goon to the back of the kitchen, told him to stand guard, and pushed Aleksey back into a kitchen chair.
“We have your woman now. Hostage for you call Ben Rider here. Real Ben Riderthird time lucky. Better be real Ben Rider or no lucky for you or woman. Tell him nice party here. We all friends, no?’
This suggestion was absolutely intriguing.
Aleksey had never had any intention of Ben being involved in these events. Obviously. This whole situation was taking place expressly so he could rid himself of the entanglements that might impede something better happening with Ben.
Aleksey thought back to the last time he’d seen the other man, a week ago on Christmas Eve—in another kitchen, ironically, although that one had been a foul, disused one on Dartmoor. Ben, illuminated only by a torch, had been in considerable pain. And confused and conflicted. Almost as much as he’d been, he remembered ruefully.
Like little girls pulling petals off daisies to find answers they desperately sought, so they had been circling each other since that fatal kiss.Does he love me?He’d wanted to tell Ben—had tried to for that whole badger week—that’s not the question either of us should be asking. It should becanhe love me? Ben imploring him; him begging Ben.
And suddenly, Aleksey divined a chink of light in this current darkness. These men anticipated only Ben Rider being summoned. Six of them, one British operative. Pretty obvious outcome to that little scenario in their minds.
But they had overlooked a rather critical factor in their planning.
They had overlooked him.
They thought, like the rest of the unobservant world, that he was a slightly effete civil servant called Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen. Hell, Usama had only recently witnessed this faux character he mimicked for real in Ben’s cottage. He’d stood utterly useless and preoccupied as the Iraqi had been forced to kill the carpenter on his own, and then he’d managed to blow up the entire place. Stupid and useless.
But in reality, he was neither of these things. He could, if he wished, take all six of these fuckers off the face of the Earth without Ben’s assistance.
But Aleksey had suddenly envisaged him and Bentogetherfor the first time. He suspected most normal men would save that orgasmic revelation for more horizontal activities, but he’d seen himself, his shadow identity peeled away,fighting alongside Ben Rider. It gave a whole new definition to orgasmic.
And hewantedit.
He could not tell Ben who he was, could not have Ben call him by his name, but he couldshowhim.
And, besides, he hated for a good plan to go to waste—extinction level event was back on the cards.
He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Yes, of course. Give me my phone, please.”
“You no warn him. I listen. My English very good. Party nice New Year only. Ben Rider come.”
Aleksey gravely nodded his head. “Ben. Yes, absolutely.”
