Desert Rose (Book #1 - Warrior Series) Read online



  DESERT ROSE

  Book 1: Warrior Series

  by

  LAURA TAYLOR

  Copyright ©2013 by Laura Taylor

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9893204-0-5

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book, regardless of its format, may be duplicated or transmitted without prior written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©1994 by Laura Taylor

  This romance novel is an updated edition of Desert Rose, Bantam Loveswept #555.

  Cover Art Design: Rebecca Swift

  eBook Formatting Services: https://design.lkcampbell.com/

  “Laura Taylor writes with the power and sensuality that characterizes the best authors in the romance genre.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  About the Author

  Laura Taylor’s romance writing awards include 6 Lifetime Achievement, Reviewer’s Choice, and Career Achievement Awards and Certificates from ROMANTIC TIMES, 2 MAGGIE Awards from GRW/RWA, a Golden Rose Award from the Gold Coast Chapter of RWA, an RWA Golden Heart Series Romance Finalist Award, and an RWA RITA Finalist Award.

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  ROMANTIC TIMES BOOK REVIEW

  “…a firecracker of a book from Laura Taylor! In the beautifully written DESERT ROSE, a downed pilot imprisoned in the Middle East learns the true meaning of love when a lovely humanitarian relief worker is thrown into the next cell. Ms. Taylor brings more than one tear to the eye as she brilliantly depicts the very high price sometimes asked of individuals in the name of higher causes. But it is the joy of her lovers’ triumph over their adversity that will linger with you always.”

  Awards for Laura Taylor & DESERT ROSE

  Reviewer’s Choice Certificate of Excellence for Best Series Romance Novel – Romantic Times

  Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Bantam Loveswept Novel of the Year – Romantic Times

  Reader Praise for DESERT ROSE

  “I absolutely loved this book!”

  “If you like patriotic, tough as nails military guys with a sensitive side, read this!”

  “Loved the book … I look forward to reading more from Laura Taylor!”

  “Great writing style by the author.”

  “Compelling!”

  “I loved this story!”

  “Yet another winner by Laura Taylor!”

  “They found true love in the most terrifying place.”

  “I love everything Laura Taylor writes.”

  DEDICATION

  For dear friends, thriller writer Andrew Peterson

  and his beautiful Carla — with much love. LT

  PROLOGUE

  DAVID WINSLOW dreamed with all of his senses engaged. He craved the heat and willingness of a sensual woman, a rare steak, and a six-pack of ice-cold American beer – just a few of the pleasures he’d been denied during the endless days and nights of isolation, hunger, and torture that he’d endured since his captivity and imprisonment.

  Sprawled on his back atop a rank-smelling pallet that failed to accommodate his large-framed body, he shifted restlessly. He groaned in his sleep, the ache in his empty belly nearly as severe as the ache in his loins.

  Reaching out, David sought comfort where none existed in his nightmares. He found nothing more substantial than air. Disappointment and frustration made him groan a second time. A volley of rifle shots suddenly exploded in the courtyard adjacent to his cellblock.

  He jerked upright into a seated position. He crossed his arms in front of his face and upper torso, an instinctive defensive posture against any and all threats. His chest heaved, the air raging in and out of his body scalding his lungs even as he scanned the shadowed corners of his small cell through narrowed eyes.

  David scowled and brought himself under control. He stilled his body, and he slowed his breathing as he listened for the subtlest hint that he might no longer be the sole occupant of the cellblock.

  Several tense minutes passed.

  Finally convinced that he was still alone, he pushed himself up to his feet and prowled the cell like the caged animal he knew he’d become. He remained in motion for nearly an hour, the exercise tiring but also an integral part of his morning ritual.

  David eventually paused in front of his makeshift calendar. He simmered with renewed fury as he stared at the grooves he’d already made in the wall with a metal tab removed from a zipper on his flight suit. Digging into his pocket, he fingered the sharpened tab and resigned himself to making the fifty-seventh mark.

  Fighting the despair that fought for dominance in his mind as he completed his task, David returned to his pallet. As he sat, spine rigid and fists clenched so tightly that they began to ache, he fought for a mental state somewhere between self-pity and hopefulness.

  He longed for the luxury of companionship and conversation, just as he craved decent food, a hot shower, and clean clothes. He whispered a prayer for freedom, but he couldn’t keep himself from wondering if anyone even knew he was alive and if they would ever respond to his fervent entreaty.

  David closed his eyes, bowed his head, and massaged the back of his neck. He calmed himself with steadying breaths. And in the silence of his cell, he once again vowed to survive this Middle East hellhole in spite of the odds stacked against him.

  An objective observer would understand and empathize with his frustration, his loneliness, and his constant fear of being executed without a trial. But his captors would never permit an observer, not even one from the International Red Cross. The Geneva Convention meant nothing here.

  Instead, David Winslow, a defiantly stubborn thirty-five year-old aviator, American citizen, and officer in the United States Marine Corps – the same man who refused to succumb to starvation or to surrender to the other acts of violence inflicted upon him by his guards – consciously and steadfastly endured.

  An unexpected sound jarred him from his thoughts. He surged to his feet and moved into the shadowed corner of his cell. Tension tightened every muscle in his body when he heard more than one set of footsteps rushing down the cellblock’s center aisle.

  Squaring his shoulders, David worked at mastering his anxiety over the prospect of yet another torture session with his interrogators. He counted each second that passed. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his face, and he grimaced as he recalled the beatings he’d experienced during two long months of captivity.

  Raking a hand through his dark hair, David froze when the barred door of the cell next to his was shoved open. One of the guards shouted in an Arabic dialect, his ire evident. David took a shallow breath, then another.

  Another prisoner? he wondered.

  The shouting continued, and then something – or someone – landed on the cell floor. The barred door slammed closed, the squealing resistance of the rusty tracks a lingering punctuation mark in the otherwise silent cellblock. The guards quickly departed without even glancing in his direction.

  Bewildered, he gave into his curiosity and cautiously emerged from the shadowed corner. He slid along the wall, but the sound of sobbing brought him up short. He exhaled as compassion and comprehension blunted his surprise.

  Understanding the man’s need for privacy, he remained silent as he stood there. He would give his fellow prisoner time to compose himself, time to come to terms with the shock and horror he felt. David le
aned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and wondered if they spoke a common language.

  “This cannot be happening.”

  David stiffened, unable to believe his ears.

  “This is not happening to me,” the female voice groaned again through her weeping.

  A woman? An English-speaking woman?

  He shook his head in denial. He was losing it, he realized. He’d dreamed nightly about the soft, welcoming embrace of a woman, and he’d finally been reduced to fantasizing that one now occupied the adjacent cell.

  He tried to speak, tried to verify her existence, but each time he opened his mouth, words failed him. Disgusted with his own uncertainty and afraid that he’d manufactured a companion out of desperation, he retreated to his pallet.

  Her sobbing eventually abated, and he welcomed the respite from her shattered emotions. His own emotions, he realized, were unsettled enough. Still, disbelief and doubt lingered within him, and he felt compelled to make certain that he hadn’t imagined her.

  “Are you alright?” David Winslow asked in a voice ragged from lack of use.

  CHAPTER 1