This morning, I wanted to share a military romance with you! Check out The General's Daughter, read a quick excerpt from the book, and learn about author Caryn Hacker-Buechel.
Military Romance
Date Published: January 23, 2025
Publisher: MindStir Media
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Cara is almost fifty, and nearly penniless. She needs a fresh start and when a unique job falls in her lap, she moves to Saudi Arabia to work for the royal family, never dreaming the change would quickly spiral into a nightmare. Cara is alone and powerless, trapped in the crosshairs of a human trafficking ring.
Meanwhile, the kidnapping of a young, American female triggers a risky military rescue with General Sam Kennedy leading the Special Forces team into Riyadh, throwing Cara and Sam into the same chaos. Cara is now enmeshed in the spinning wheels of this deadly conflict, managed from the White House Situation Room, and exploding in real time within the opulent Royal palace.
Unravel the threads of survival, courage, and unexpected love in this gripping tale of resilience against the odds.
About the Author
Caryn Hacker-Buechel keeps her computer nearby, often writing in coffee shops, on beaches, and in her own Naples, Florida, backyard. After thirty years as a master-degreed psychotherapist and relationship expert in the public and private sector, she finally retired and turned her attention to completing the novel she had worked on for ten years.
The General's Princess is her debut novel and second book. The award-winning first book, A Bully Grows Up: Erik Meets the Wizard, was written for children. In both, Caryn creates characters rich in dramatic, realistic traits, portraying psychological and behavioral depth, utilizing the knowledge she gained as an observer of human behavior and emotional trauma. The concepts will touch your life.
Her journey through love, marriage, children, divorce, travel, stepchildren, and grandchildren is reflected in her writing. The adventure can be intense but also emotionally healing. She hopes you enjoy the ride.
Read an Excerpt
P r ol o g u e
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
January 3, 2005
“MISS HART,” THE DRIVER BEGAN, speaking slowly, rubbing his chin with one hand and
shifting the car into park with the other. “Mr. Assad say you no have burka. I bring for you.” The man stared, face for-ward, while he spoke although he pointed over his shoulder to the limo’s back seat. “Put it on.”
Sitting behind and to the driver’s right, Cara watched his muscles move at the hollow of his
cheek. “Excuse me,” she said gently. “Mr. Tawfik? I don’t understand. What do you want me to do? Put what on?” She heard him huff in response. “Anyway, why have we stopped?” Her
anxiety was growing, along with uncertainty regarding her decision to travel so far from home.
She looked out the sedan’s window to an enormous building, a sidewalk leading to a glass
revolving door. Then she twisted toward a busy road on her left, searching for an escape route,
and shook her head, hearing the warnings from her adult children, Nick and Vicki, plead-ing with her to stay in Florida and not take that job in Saudi Arabia. “Crazy,” they called it. “Dangerous.” Cara swallowed hard and forcefully exhaled. She remembered her excitement when she signed the employ-ment contract, packed her clothes, and finally boarded the plane. The driver muttered in Arabic. Cara heard disgust on his tongue, and she breathed slowly to steady herself.
Forty minutes ago, Mr. Tawfik quickly introduced himself at the Riyadh International Airport. “I drive for the royal family,” he had said, tucking the sign with her name on it into a folder. “Mr. Assad sent me.
This way, please.” Tawfik took the handles of her two suitcases and pointed toward the exit with his bearded chin. She followed behind, struggling to catch up. Her athletic shoes shushed
against the tile, sounding as if she were jogging.
The man was slender, perhaps twenty years old, like Nick, Cara thought, remembering the tiny
apartment she had shared with her son out of necessity in Florida. At that moment, Cara
questioned why she had left her children—again.
Tawfik harrumphed, and she looked at the man behind the steering wheel, head covered in
white cotton, a black circular band securing the cascading fabric. Cara leaned slightly forward.
“Please tell me again what you want me to do. I’ve never worn a burka.”
“Cover yourself.”
Cara’s eyes grew wide. Her open hand floated to the front of her black short-sleeved
top. Carumba! I’m here an hour, and already in trouble! She thought of the women at the airport coffee shop and how they were confined under black burkas, their heads completely covered except for their eyes. She pressed her lips together and chastised herself, remember-ing the athletic jacket in her handbag, which she forgot to put on while hurrying through the crowds to find her luggage. After reading that New York Times article which described Riyadh as a modern bustling city that welcomed Westerners, she presumed yoga pants, a t-shirt, and sneakers would be fine. How foolish of me. Her initial excitement faded, and she began to second-guess every decision that led to this trip.
“I am sorry if I upset you,” she said. “I can put on a jacket. I have one in my handbag. Could you make the air conditioning colder?”
When he didn’t answer, Cara sighed, lifted both hands and pushed her long, dark hair behind
her ears. She looked out the window to the bustling sidewalk filled with pedestrians in white
robes, headdresses, and black burkas. Only rarely did someone in Western clothes walk past
the sedan.
She surveyed several of the massive storefront windows. The clos-est displayed mannequins of both sexes in exquisite robes, their hands positioned toward each other as if in conversation.
The signage stated: Harvey Nichols Department Store, and next to that was Louis Vuitton, and
then the Saudi Fragrance House. Cara remembered a short snip of an article about this famous
shop, which opened in 1932 and knownfor its exotic blends. She silently promised to pay it a
visit at some point. But then wondered why they had stopped here now? This isn’t where I’m
supposed to go! “Mr. Tawfik,” Cara began as her heartbeat quickened. “I wonder…”
“No!” he bellowed, interrupting her. “Air is cold.”
“Um, Mr. Assad said I would go directly to the palace.”
Tawfik muttered under his breath. “Next to you. Burka and scarf are in bag.” This time, he glanced into the rearview mirror. “Cover your arms and hair. Put on now! We wait.”
Cara shook her head and glanced at the seat to her left. She picked up the waiting leather tote
and peeked inside. Her trembling fingers reached in and pulled an array of black wrinkled fabric into the light. She caught a glimpse of the driver’s dark eyes, still focused on her from the rearview mirror above a small bouquet of hanging white flowers.
Raising the clumped material so the driver would see that she intended to follow his instructions, Cara paused, letting the fabric lay on her thighs. In response, the man turned his body and reached his arm over the seatback, startling her.
Tawfik shoved a piece of folded ivory paper toward Cara. Repeatedly, he waved the note close
to her sweat-moistened face. The tiny waft of air caused by the driver’s frenzied movements
pushed two seconds of relief toward Cara’s perspiration-covered and exposed arms and
shoulders. There was barely any air conditioning in the vehicle, and despite the perfumed
flowers hanging from the rearview mirror, a stench floated on the air.
Week-old cheese and BO, she thought, then tried to force her face to relax, remembering he
was staring at her. She did not want to offend, not any more than she already had.
“Madam,” his tone was flat and cautionary. “Take letter. It is from boss, Mr. Assad.”
Through pursed lips, Cara took a stabilizing breath. She reached her bare arm toward Tawfik,
took the stationery, and unfolded the note with trembling fingers. Seeing the royal family’s raised crest, crossed palm trees, and swords calmed her. She read every word, satisfied that the note was authentic, and stuffed it into her purse.
Cara moved the burka to the leather backseat and laid the scarf beside it. Following Mr. Assad’s letter and instructions, she unzipped the front.
“Everything will be fine,” Assad had promised in the note. “Follow my requests, and I will see
you later.”
Cara pulled one black placket behind her back and slid her hands into the sleeves before pulling the fabric onto her shoulders. The connect-ing length of material clung to the perspiration that ran down her spine and dotted her shoulders. The remainder of the cloth pooled on the seat behind her. She tugged at the two front panels until they met between her breasts, and her fitted top and yoga pants disappeared under yards of black. Dragging the matching scarf over her hair, she looked out the car’s window for possible instruction.
Spotting several women on the sidewalk, she pulled the scarf against her head, mimicking the
passersby whose hair was covered. Then Cara shrugged, grabbed both fabric ends, wrapped
them under her chin and around her neck, tied them together at the back, and let the rest fall.
She offered a half-smile to the driver, hoping for reassurance, but only saw the back of his
covered head.
Lifting her bottom from the leather seat, Cara pulled the burka into place. She hoped the long
‘zip’ would signify she was adequately concealed. Following the sound, the driver glanced at her again from the rearview mirror, his dark eyes still radiating heavy disapproval.
“Lady, tuck in hair,” he huffed. “Only show eyes, nothing else. It is haram. Forbidden.”
Cara batted away tears while adjusting the gathered fabric under her chin until only a tiny fabric-less window surrounded her eyes.
“Now, my job done,” Tawfik said flatly.
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