The Sheikh's Secret Son by Kasey Michaels Page A

leaning forward, trying to look past the limousine’s headlights. “Is there something wrong? An animal on the road?”
    â€œNo, sir,” the driver said as Ben heard car doors closing behind him and Haskim opened the back door of the limousine, poked his head inside to check on his prince.
    â€œNot an animal,” the driver went on. “A child. I caught a glimpse of him as the headlights hit the side of the road when we turned that last corner.Over there, sir, in that small clump of brush. I think he’s hiding out.”
    â€œA child? Are you sure? It is past nine o’clock, and dark. What would a child be doing out here this late at night? Haskim, you will approach the child, slowly and carefully, so as not to frighten it, and bring it to me. No, wait, I will go with you. After all, it is not as if I cannot do things for myself.”
    â€œI’ll back up a little once you get out, sir,” the driver said. “That way the headlights will make it easier for you to see him if he tries to run away. That’s what’s wrong with the world today, sir, you know. Parents letting little kids run wild, all times of the day and night. The child didn’t look to be any taller than my boy, Sam Houston, and he’s only seven. You get him, sir, and we’ll put a little fear into him, teach him not to go running wild.”
    â€œYes, thank you,” Ben said, rolling his eyes as he looked up at Haskim, then levered himself out of the limousine, stepping into the tall grass beside the roadway, allowing Haskim to lead the way forward, toward the clump of what the American driver had called brush.
    â€œI hope the child knows his name, Haskim,” he said as they walked along, trying to see in the dim light of the headlights. “There must be dozens of families living within the large confines of this splendid ranch. Now, go slowly, Haskim. We do notwant him to bolt and try to escape us, for he could be hurt running into the darkness.”
    â€œYes, Your Highness,” Haskim answered, holding his right hand quite near his hip.
    Ben took hold of his left elbow and pulled him to a halt. “Haskim, I am assuming that there is a pistol beneath your kibr, am I right? And if I am, do you seriously believe it will be necessary to protect your prince by shooting a young boy?”
    â€œNo, Your Highness,” Haskim said, bowing his head. “I am ashamed, Your Highness, and beg your forgiveness.”
    â€œGranted,” Ben said, grinning. “Unless the kid shoots me, of course.”
    â€œYour Highness?”
    â€œOh, relax, Haskim. I think you are watching too many American television shows. Not everyone in America carries a weapon. Now, stay here. I think I see him. He may be less frightened by my presence if you and your kibr and kaffiyeh are not so much in evidence. You look like Casper’s cousin, the Not So Friendly Ghost, standing out here.”
    â€œYour Highness?”
    Leaving Haskim where he stood, a bright white beacon of flowing cotton in a dark night, Ben slowly approached the clump of brush, holding out his hand, a smile on his face. “Do not be afraid, little one. I mean no harm. Come, I will take you home.”
    â€œI’m never afraid,” a small voice answered him. “And if I want to go home, I know how. I came out to see my mom, who’s still up at the main house, even though she knows it’s bedtime and she has to tuck me in. So,” the small voice continued, with just the hint of apprehension finally coloring the quite grown-up confidence he had been articulating, “you can go away now.”
    â€œBut I am afraid,” Ben answered, taking a few more careful steps toward the small, dark outline visible between the twisting branches of brush. “I am afraid that I have lost my way, and I would only hope that you might help me find the home of Mr. Ryan Fortune, who I am to see tonight. Can you help me,