
Contents
'Seduction on the Cards'---now available on Amazon
Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter...
TAKEN BY THE SHEIKH
Kris Pearson
Kindle Edition
ISBN 978-0-473-20519-5
For more information about this author, visit:
Love and thanks to Philip for the covers and the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling. And to my friend Kendra---whose sharp eyes and quick brain make her a great critique partner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Kris Pearson
Cover design © by Philip Pearson
Cover photograph dreamstimes.com
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
Free first chapter of Kris's novel, 'Seduction on the Cards', at the end of this book.
Laurel de Courcey stared at the cliff in dismay. After her exhausting trek through the desert she had to climb that?
The unexpected barrier at the end of the gully rose up steep and crumbling. The tiny stream she'd been following seeped out from under the daunting rock-face. What was on the other side? Rafiq hadn't warned her about this---simply ordered her to walk, and said she'd find 'a house'.
Well, there was no house in sight. And did she trust him anyway? He might be all taut muscles and flashing eyes, but she had to remember he was only the lesser of two evils. The other men in his group? Her body convulsed in a sudden shudder just thinking about them.
She tried to banish the hideous memory and gulped the last of her water, refilled the bottle from the life-saving trickle, clenched her teeth, and attempted the hazardous scramble up out of her temporary hiding place. How she wished she had his strength and endurance!
Long minutes later she hauled herself over the top and lay panting. Black spots whirled across her vision. She squeezed her eyes closed, and still the spots flickered and jumped. Finally she raised her head.
Indeed there was a house---or some sort of half-concealed building anyway. A high plastered wall hid much of it, but an arched gateway, softened by cascades of pink blossom from a gnarled tree, looked inviting.
She rose wearily and staggered onward. Palm-fronds and other lush greenery came into focus as she limped nearer, and she feared the unexpected oasis might be a mirage after the endless inhospitable miles of sand and rock.
But no---the gate was real. She stood in the dancing shade of the blossoms and tugged the bell-rope. Within seconds a small wrinkled woman appeared, bustling toward her with colorful long skirts fluttering around her legs.
Laurel pulled Rafiq's note from her jeans pocket and smoothed it out. Would this be the woman she was supposed to give it to? She held it forward.
The impassive dark face lit up. The gate swung open. The little woman whisked the note from her fingers and became extremely animated, urging her in and rattling away with great enthusiasm.
"Laurel," Laurel said, tapping her chest with a finger.
"Yasmina," the woman replied, thumping her own.
"Yasmina," Laurel tried. This brought nods and smiles.
"Rafiq?" she asked. More nods and smiles, but also an unmistakable gesture of 'not here now'.
Oh darn.
Yasmina re-read the note with close attention, all the while chattering in her own language, and drew Laurel along the path and in through the doorway of a turreted old house with thick stone walls. The blinding light outside made the interior seem dim and restful, and the relative coolness washed over her skin like a blessing.
After progressing through a long hallway, they arrived in a high-ceilinged bedroom. Yasmina threw open a further door, and Laurel stood amazed as the servant started water gushing into a marble bath from an ornate gold spout. She must look desperately hot and dirty if this was how she was welcomed!
The little woman emerged---smiling and gesturing that Laurel was to treat the room as her own. She trotted off, and Laurel sank down on the bed before her legs gave way under her. What on earth would happen next?
The bath looked blissful once she managed to rise to her weary feet again. Yasmina had thrown a handful of fresh rose-petals into it. Laurel assumed she'd been tidying up full-blown blooms as they proceeded up the path together, but plainly the flowers had been intended for this. Fragrant foam grew ever deeper in the water as the bath filled. A selection of French soaps spilled from a basket at one end of the huge tub. It all seemed way over the top for a semi-deserted relic so far from civilization.
She stripped and bathed, shampooing the gritty sand from her long fair hair and letting the delicious warm scented water soothe away her aches. When she returned to the bedroom she found all her clothes had disappeared and a gauzy mauve robe had been laid on the bed. She slipped it on, admired its bands of amazing gold embroidery, stretched out on the bed to consider the strange turn her life had taken, and plummeted into an exhausted asleep.
At once the nightmare hit again. The wind from the desert moaned eerily. Palm-fronds clattered, but otherwise very little moved as the small seaside resort of Kalal drowsed in the afternoon heat.
A solitary vehicle coasted to a halt just behind her.
Laurel half-turned when she heard the door creak open, but she had only a split second to register the fast-moving dark shape of a man before brutal hands dragged a bag down over her face. As fast as that, she'd been trapped.
A scalding cascade of horrendous possibilities flooded her brain. Terrified, she screamed at top volume, dropped her sketching pad, and kicked backwards with every ounce of her considerable determination. The heel of her shoe connected with what she hoped was her captor's shin.
It caused a guttural male voice to let loose a vicious curse in the local language and she enjoyed a fleeting flash of triumph. But then an iron-hard hand closed over her face, pressing her lips painfully back against her teeth. And a steely arm wrapped around her waist and heaved her forward and face-down.
Her scrabbling fingers told her she'd landed on a slab of foam rubber on a hard floor.
Doors banged, a motor revved, and she jerked backward as the vehicle took off at high speed.
Shudders of panic took over then. Huge fluttery tremors ran up and down her spine.
She was blind. Cruel hands had yanked a drawstring tightly around her neck so the bag was closed, and cut off any vestige of light...any hope of seeing where she was being taken.
She struggled and kicked in the swaying vehicle, and suffered the further insult of a warm weight moving to pin her down to the no-doubt filthy mattress.
"Be still!" a man's deep voice growled close against her ear.
She was so astounded to hear accented but obvious English she momentarily froze before resuming her frenzied bucking and struggling. But she had no hope of escaping from under his strong body.
Hard hands grabbed her wrists, and she heard the snick of handcuffs and felt the smooth hard metal against her skin. Her whirling brain registered she was now one step more helpless.
Fingers trailed from her wrists to her elbows and back to her useless hands. It was almost a caress. Her heart thudded even more rapidly as the implication sank in.
"Be still," he muttered again. "We do not mean to hurt you as long as you cooperate."
With her shoulders flattened down under his chest, Laurel's breasts were squashed against the floor. The man's hips were exactly above hers. His bony pelvis ground against her bottom as the vehicle swayed and braked. A long hard thigh clamped either side of her own, pinning her down, holding her captive.
And between those impressive thighs the firm masculine bulge felt all too obvious. Desolation engulfed her then.
"Lie still and it will go easier for you," he growled, lifting his upper torso off her which at least gave her poor breasts some relief.
But the shift in weight drove his hips even more firmly into hers, and there was no escaping the intimate press of his body. She willed her legs to weld together as shattering images exploded across her brain.
What did they want from her? One minute she'd been wandering happily in the sun, thinking of the children she was caring for, and inventing a family of her own. In an instant, future imaginings had been ripped away and replaced with the desperate danger of the present moment, and this cruel man, and not nearly enough air.
Blind and half-deaf, she used the senses she had left to get some sort of fix on her situation. There was him---who was strong and muscular because he now had her firmly confined. There was the driver. And there seemed to be another hoarse voice in the front seat, too. Presumably that was the man who'd grabbed her in the street and pushed her in to be held down by this one?
So three of them at least. Awful odds. She didn't stand a chance.
Absolute terror engulfed her as she tried to drag big gulps of dead air into her laboring lungs.
"I can't breathe," she shrieked in a panic---almost more scared of suffocating than of any other eventual fate.
Hands slid around her neck, probing until they located the drawstring holding the bag fastened. She shuddered to feel callused fingers on her exposed nape...on the tender skin under her jaw. Her heart thudded with a fast panicked beat.
"Not another sound," the man grated. But at least he'd loosened the drawstring and let in a little light and some much fresher air.
Laurel lay there gasping like a stranded fish, gulping in oxygen---oxygen laced with the oily smell of the vehicle and a soft spiciness from the man who pinned her down on the mattress.
She heard a hoarse and somehow dirty comment from the front seat. Her captor chuckled above her. The vibrations from his body travelled down into hers, setting her nerves even further on edge if that was possible.
"What?" she snapped, with little hope of a translation.
"He says I have the best job," came the unexpected reply in that deep husky voice. "But only as long as you remain sensible. I don't want to hurt you, but if you struggle I may have to."
To her horror a terrified moan escaped from her throat, and a cackle of laughter erupted from the man in the front.
The vehicle---some sort of van, she assumed---continued to career along, swaying from side to side, bumping into hollows, grinding up slopes and tipping down again. They'd left the dusty level streets of Kalal miles behind, and must be out in the desert country by now.
The endless empty inhospitable desert country---where it would be very hard to find her.
The man eased his weight away to one side, which provided a small increase in comfort.
"Thank-you," she muttered. For surely she should cooperate as fully as possible to ensure her eventual safety?
"My pleasure," his voice murmured right beside her ear.
His pleasure to move to a more comfortable position for himself? Or to have enjoyed the proximity of her body to his?
Pig! she thought. Utter pig. Disgusting criminal kidnapping terrorist pig.
She tensed as his hands slipped around her neck again, sliding in under her jaw and up over her mouth. The temptation to bite his hateful fingers was almost beyond her conscious control.
But somehow she held still and was rewarded by her suffocating blindfold being eased upward until the air flooded in and her face was in daylight at last. Her red cap---or rather Maddie's red cap---had been knocked askew when the bag was forced down over her head. Finally she nudged it back up into position so the stiffened peak no longer rasped at her nose.
She turned and glared at her captor.
He was so close it was difficult to focus, and she wrenched her face away again---but not before she'd registered a pair of very dark eyes under determined straight black brows, and tobacco-brown skin stretched over high cheekbones.
A cruel imperious face---ancient, proud, and unyielding. It could have been carved from stone for all the softness it showed.
Laurel's heart shrank. It truly seemed to shrivel inside her ribs. There was no compassion evident on his harsh features...no hint she was in anything but the most dire danger.
And then his hand started stroking her hair, and she shuddered.
"So pale," he growled. "Not like the women of my country." He tugged gently at the long blonde tail she'd threaded through the gap at the back of the cap to keep the heat off her neck.
"Leave it!" she snapped, pushed to her limit by his unwelcome attention. Sudden tears spilled down her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes closed and burrowed her face down into the mattress to hide her fear.
The mattress, she noticed in her few seconds of proper vision, appeared to be perfectly clean---probably brand new and bought for the job. At least that was better than being held helpless on something filthy and vermin-ridden. She felt almost willing to be grateful for such a small mercy. But oh, she didn't want to cry and let him know how terrified she was.
His hand continued to move over her hair as if it might soothe her, and Laurel had no fight left to repel him.
Would she ever see Mrs Daniels and the children again? Ever walk once more on New Zealand's green grass under tall trees? Or would this be the end of her life---in a strange dry foreign land, far away from everything she'd grown up with?
She trembled and shivered as the three men began a rapid conversation in a language she couldn't hope to comprehend. The faint spicy fragrance continued to waft past her nose, just discernible over the oily smell of the vehicle. At least her captor was civilized enough to use soap or cologne.
After what seemed like forever the vehicle changed to a lower gear, ground up a slope, slowed and braked. The engine coughed and died.
"We're here. It's time to get out."
Laurel's heart increased its frantic hammering. Where was 'here'? And what were they planning to do to her? She raised her head and gazed around, knowing her eyes must be wide with fear.
The van looked hard-used, the backs of the seats scuffed and pocked. The mattress only partly covered a bare metal floor. And the windows were heavily tinted, giving the sky an odd greenish tinge.
She heard a rattle and a clunk. Behind her, the van's doors swung open on squealing hinges.
"Out," her jailer repeated, rearing above her and clamping his hands around her waist. He lifted her without apparent effort, and twisted to set her down with her feet dangling only inches above the sand.
And the blinding desert stretched for miles. She saw nothing but pale rocks and golden sand under harsh sunlight, all the way to the hazy horizon. Undulating dunes and higher hillocks rose up occasionally, but no signs of civilization at all.
Laurel scrunched up her eyes and stared aghast at the short thick-set man who'd opened the doors. Roughly-dressed, he cradled a huge black automatic weapon in his arms. Fabric swathed his face to hide his features. Only his keen cruel eyes were visible. Presumably he was the street-grabber? She hoped his shin ached like fury.
He jabbed the black monstrosity viciously higher as a signal she needed to stand.
Laurel shrank back against the man who had, until now, been so terrifying. His whipcord body and husky voice were infinitely preferable to the alternative outside.
He grasped her elbows and pushed her up and out.
"Careful," he snapped, releasing her. She stepped unsteadily away, and turned to survey the rest of her surroundings. Nothing apart from the white van and the animal with the gun. What in the world were they planning? They could do anything to her in this unobserved place.
The driver's door swung open and the other occupant slid out, also dressed as roughly as the gunman---coarse-spun trousers tucked into heavy boots, the long shirt/coat garment all the local men wore, and a head-dress arranged to hide most of his features. This third man threw a few amused words in her direction and earned what sounded like a sharp rebuke from the one who'd pinned her down for the terrifying ride.
A hand grasped her long tail of hair to prevent her moving further away and yanked her head back so she almost lost her balance. Another hand fastened about her upper arm and she was turned, very much against her will, to stand nearer to mattress-man.
"Stay close," he insisted, fixing her with intense black eyes.
She managed a hopeless grim half-smile. "To you?"
"Yes, if you value your life."
"You've made me feel really safe so far." Tough if she offended him. How much worse could her situation possibly be?
"I'm a better bet than the others." His voice sank softly into her ear, and his warm breath stirred the tiny hairs on her neck. "Watch," he added.
And Laurel did watch---amazed---as the other two started to drag a sand-colored cover aside to reveal steps down to a buried building.
"How on earth do you find it?" she gasped.
"I know it well," came the enigmatic reply.
Then she looked properly at his face for the first time. If she'd seen him in a foreign movie---or at a diplomatic reception, or perhaps a less-formal social gathering---she'd have thought him a wildly exotic and handsome man.
He was several inches taller than the other two. Laurel stood a bare five-four; he must be six-two, six-three? He moved with a flexible grace that put her in mind of a gymnast or professional dancer.
Unlike the others he wore nothing over his face, unless you counted the short well-kept black beard which lay close to his lean jaw. The other men appeared to have much bushier efforts just visible beneath the folds of their head-dresses.
His hooded dark eyes bored into hers, inspecting with clinical coldness.
Still a cruel face, she thought. Still primitive and proud and unyielding. The face of a hard disciplined soldier who'll deal unswervingly with the task at hand.
A soldier? Maybe not, but he was wearing khaki trousers with lots of pockets and zips, and well-worn boots. He seemed somehow military, and right now she knew with bitter certainty she was his task at hand.
"Fayez!" he called.
One of his henchmen jumped to attention. A rapid stream of instructions followed. The man unloaded a box of supplies from the van and carried it down the steps and into the underground lair.
"And now we go," her captor insisted, steering her firmly by wrists and pony-tail towards the hidden prison.
Laurel had no option but to obey. She stumbled down the rough steps to a low doorway, ducked her head when he tugged on her hair, and entered. A smelly lantern burned fitfully. Its light dispelled the gloom a little, but hardly made the bunker an attractive prison. She stared around, appalled. Spooky caverns in Indiana Jones movies came to mind.
"Nazim!" More curt instructions were issued. The third man dragged the mattress down the stairs, forced it through the doorway, and stood there leering.
Fayez and Nazim, she thought, trying to lodge the names in her memory in case she ever got free of this hell and had the chance to tell anyone. So who was he?
"Rafiq," he said, as though reading her mind. "I'll see that as little harm as possible befalls you while you are here."
He pulled a hard wooden chair from under a rough table, set it close to the wall, and eased her down onto it. Apart from the mattress and a couple of crates, this seemed to be the bunker's only furniture.
Rafiq, she thought. Handsome vicious Rafiq. I won't forget your face if I ever get out of here.
He lifted a handy-cam from one of the boxes and set it on the table. It was the last thing she'd been expecting.
Pornographic movies flashed through her brain, and then, more menacingly, snuff movies. Dear God, surely not
She sat there bewildered and terrified, held helpless by the handcuffs, and desperate for a pee after the long bouncing trip on the van floor.
"And now," Rafiq said, "we will video our little American and see what she is worth."
"America!" echoed Nazim, spitting on the floor beside her feet.
Laurel tensed at his vicious tone, and then her whirling brain registered what they were saying.
"Not American," she insisted. "Kiwi. New Zealand."
Rafiq took no notice. Simply pushed the red cap further back so her face was in view and kept recording. She glared first at the evil dark eye of the lens and then up at him.
"I am not," she repeated. "Who the hell do you think I am? Someone you can use to bargain with?"
Rafiq stopped her by reaching out, tightening his hand around her jaw, and tipping her face back toward the camera.
"Quiet!" he roared.
She would have continued arguing, but the man with the automatic weapon took up station beside her, pressed the muzzle against her head and began a hoarse taunt of "America, America," for the benefit of the camera. She prickled all over as certain death looked her in the face, and time ground to a halt.
"Good," Rafiq said a few second later. He rewound, checked the picture, ejected the Mini DV and slotted another into the handy-cam.
Laurel stayed speechless and frozen until the gun was removed.
"I am not American," she quavered. "I'm from New Zealand. I'm a nanny. I'm working for an American diplomatic family but I am not American."
"You are Madison Daniels."
"I'm Laurel de Courcey."
Rafiq shook his head, eyes icy. "Don't lie."
"I'm Laurel de Courcey," she insisted. Born in Wellington, New Zealand. I'm twenty-three. This is my first time overseas. I'm the nanny for the younger Daniels children."
"You are Madsion Daniels. Blue jeans, white shirt, long blonde hair, red baseball cap. You have been watched."
"I'm Laurel de Courcey!"
There was no-one around to hear, but letting loose with more volume felt wonderful. "Blue jeans, white shirt, long blonde hair and Maddie's baseball cap. She loaned it to me---my sunhat wouldn't stay on in the wind."
They glared at each other. Rafiq reached over and twitched the Cincinnati Reds cap from her head. Her pony-tail slid easily through the hole in the cap's back.
"You are a western woman," he snarled. "You will do." He followed this pronouncement with a long and incomprehensible rant in the direction of one of the other men. Laurel wondered if he was being reprimanded for kidnapping the wrong woman.
Whatever, Rafiq was not deterred. He pulled a rattling handful of chain from one of the crates and began to wind it around her wrists until the handcuffs were obscured. She flinched as the links pressed against bones. Then he reached behind her.
She twisted, and saw he was unhooking a large clock from the wall, altering the time by several hours, and replacing it.
"Take two," he said with no apparent irony. He resumed his place behind the camera.
"You have to believe me," she insisted. "I am Laurel de Courcey."
"So you're intent on talking? Tell us more."
"Pig!" she spat back. "I'll tell you nothing if you're too stupid to even kidnap the right woman."
Rafiq's big hand clamped around her face again. "Be careful who you insult, little one," he said with silky menace. "It's unwise to speak like that in your current position."
She sat there glaring at the camera, willing herself not to dissolve into tears.
Again he checked his picture, ejected the little cassette and inserted another. He barked an instruction and one of the other men took the clock down and altered the time.
But it was Rafiq who busied himself with her hair, gently removing the elastic tie that held the long glistening strands together, and combing them through with his fingers to arrange it over her shoulders in a pale tousled waterfall. Laurel shivered as he touched her. Even here in the burning desert he sent cold tremors right down her spine.
He unwound the heavy chain from her wrists and then unlocked the handcuffs. She chafed at her skin to bring some feeling back after the constriction of the chains. But her relief was short-lived. He crouched in front of her, unwound a length of bright orange polyester rope, and tied it around each of her wrists, leaving perhaps two feet of it between her hands.
"Hold very still," he instructed, producing a cigarette lighter from one of his trouser pockets, and proceeding to weld the knots together by melting the rope into hard unyielding lumps. Her relief at being freed ebbed away. The flame licked against her flesh, although he was careful not to burn her. He tied a much longer length to the first one and handed it to Fayez or Nazim---she still couldn't tell them apart.
"Forgive me this," Rafiq said, brushing his fingers along the dusty floor and spreading grimy smears onto Laurel's face and the front of her high-necked long-sleeved white shirt. His fingers felt hot through the thin cotton fabric, and she shrank away from his touch on her breasts.
"We need to make it look as though several days have gone by. As though you are now dirty and desperate. Fayez?"
Fayez grasped the rope in one brown hand as though she was a poor sad mongrel on a lead and stood impassively beside her.
Rafiq began recording again and then muttered something. Suddenly Laurel's head was dragged backwards and a huge curved knife pressed against her throat. She screamed in total terror.
"No, please! Please don't! I'm not who you think I am!" At last she burst into the tears that had never been far away.
"America..." Fayez sneered as he allowed her to slump forward in a sobbing heap.
"Good, it's all done," Rafiq confirmed in a businesslike tone, checking his work and ejecting the final little cassette. He let her cry for several more minutes and then asked, "Are you thirsty? We have Coca Cola or orange juice, both quite cold."
She raised her ruined face and stared at him in disbelief. "You think you can put me through that and then act all hospitable?"
He shrugged. "It's hot. You need to drink."
"You're a maniac. You're all maniacs. What the hell was that filming charade all about?"
"Dear young lady---whoever you are---you are the currency we will bargain with. The first recording will let the authorities know we have you, safe and alive. The second, which they will receive in a few days' time, will show them you are still alive but in grave danger. The third---that your plight is now desperate." He shrugged again. "It's the way we achieve what we need."
"Is this religious or political?"
"One is tied so closely to the other."
"In this part of the world, yes," she sneered. "I thought it would be exotic and beautiful and cultural when Mrs Daniels said they'd been posted to Al Sounam."
"We are undoubtedly exotic and beautiful and cultural, as you say."
"Not from where I'm looking." She stared around the bunker in panic. One wall appeared to be made of huge boulders. She assumed it was disguised as a rocky outcrop on the outside.
Slivers of light shone through in places, so at least she wouldn't run out of fresh air. "How long are you keeping me here?"
"For as long as it takes for certain people to see sense."
"But what about...plumbing," she asked in a very small voice, feeling the blush spread up her neck and over her face.
"We have that most admirable invention, the Porta-Pottie." He pointed to the far corner and she suddenly realized what the other boxy object was.
"And decadent American Coca Cola," she muttered.
"As you say."
She was almost certain there was a tiny quirk at one end of his stern mouth.
Rafiq tied the longer piece of tough orange rope around one of the heavy table legs so she was tethered, dissolved the knot together, and motioned the other men to leave. "We will give you some privacy for a few minutes. We have important things to arrange outside."
She stayed sitting, acutely embarrassed, until his long legs disappeared from view, then she crept across to the corner.
Minutes later, she knew she was never going to be able to unpick the melted-together knots. She'd worried at them unceasingly since the men had retreated outside, and all she'd achieved were very sore fingertips and one broken nail. Finally she gave in, fixed her hair back into its pony-tail again, and reclaimed the red cap.
She heaved a deep sigh. Almost anything would be better than this. She'd settle for the noisy hostel, or her dump of a flat, or even the Gorridge's awful foster-home in preference to her current situation. If life had seemed bad before, it was infinitely worse now.
Snatches of conversation drifted down the steps. She had no idea what was being discussed because her grasp of the local language was restricted to the most basic words yet.
The wind still sounded high. It whistled over the dunes and sent a sifting of sand down the stairs. She heard the van engine fire up, and then the vehicle ground away, leaving eerie silence. She trembled with fear and disbelief. Surely they hadn't abandoned her here, albeit with toilet facilities, Coca Cola, orange juice, and possibly some sort of food if there was drink? There was no way she could bear to be confined in the dismal bunker all alone for heaven knows how many days. She eyed the foam mattress warily. It seemed a very real possibility.
And then terror engulfed her again as she detected footsteps on the stairs, followed by one masculine silhouette against the rectangle of daylight. Which of them had returned?
It was the pig.
"Up," Rafiq urged, grasping her wrists and helping her to stand on trembling legs. He produced small clippers from one of his pockets and severed the tough rope. Laurel rubbed at her sore skin and watched numbly as he fashioned new loops to make it look as though she'd somehow slipped free.
"Quickly." He grabbed two bottles of orange juice in one big hand and her arm in the other and hustled her up the stairs.
"The wind should shift enough sand to cover our tracks before they get back from delivering the first tape. Walk exactly in my footprints so it looks like one person's feet, just in case."
The sudden turn of events confused her so thoroughly that Laurel became like a mechanical toy. She followed without protest, fitting her trainers into the dents made by his boots, plodding across the endless sand in the whistling stinging wind.
"Are you okay?" he called back after a time.
"Yes!" she yelled, panting hard. He'd set a blistering pace.
After twenty mind-numbing minutes they reached a deep hidden gully. Rafiq picked his way down the crumbling side, turning to offer his hand so she could negotiate the steepest parts. She trembled as she touched him, but knew she was likely to fall if she spurned his help. She still felt his fingers in her hair, on her neck, on her breasts. She burned with confusion and fear, but resigned herself to following him and hoping for better than the hideous bunker.
It was more sheltered on the gully floor, and a tiny unexpected trickling stream ran through amongst large stones and rocks. He retrieved the original piece of rope from his pocket, heaved one of the rocks up, and concealed the rope beneath it. Then he quickly scooped up a few handfuls of water and drank.
"You must take this," he said, wiping his hands roughly on his trousers and producing a pen and notepad. He wrote instructions to someone unknown, and Laurel watched, mesmerized, as the pen raced over the paper in a strange curling script. He handed her the little page, then ripped several more off as well, tore them into small shreds and set them to float away in the water before returning the pad to his pocket.
"Walk only on the stones so you leave no prints. An hour's walk from here you'll find a house and servants. Give this to the woman."
"Why?" she asked, still confused and in shock.
"Because you were not safe with Fayez and Nazim. They are thugs and murderers."
"And you're not?"
"Not as they are," he said grimly. He glanced at his watch and thrust the bottles of orange juice towards her. "Start moving. I need to get back and make arrangements."
And as lithely as a cat he spun about and ascended the near-vertical cliff-face.
Laurel stood stunned, paper in one hand, bottles of juice held against her overheated body by the other. At least the gully was out of the stinging sandy wind, but that meant the temperature seemed even higher.
She squinted up as he deserted her. He climbed with deceptive ease, hauling himself from one hand-hold to the next. She had no idea how she'd managed to scramble down the steep barely-formed track. From here it looked impossible.
As he gained the top, he turned and stared down at her.
"Drink!" he commanded, and stood with his hands on his hips until she stowed the precious note in her jeans pocket and wrenched the top off one of the bottles of juice. He waited a few more moments until he was satisfied she'd obeyed, then disappeared.
She picked her way from stone to rock to boulder, being careful to leave no footprints on the sand between. Her breathing calmed as she walked. Progress was much slower here. Another hour of this? Could she walk for so long? She tipped the bottle up again, savoring the tart golden juice. Nothing had ever tasted as good. She swished it around her teeth to moisten her dry mouth, and then let it trickle over her tongue and down her parched throat.
She was thirsty beyond belief---and surely he must be, too? But he'd left both bottles with her. A tiny unwilling flicker of gratitude and admiration crept into her brain.
She presumed he intended to repeat his long march back to the bunker. He might be a man of the desert, but he still needed more than a few handfuls of liquid.
She shook her head sharply. He was a disgusting kidnapping terrorist pig she reminded herself, sneering at the sudden moment of concern she'd spared him.
He had manhandled her and handcuffed her and held her captive against her will. He'd rubbed himself up against her and touched her breasts. He'd scared her half to death with the video routine. His well-being was not worth considering. Had he considered hers?
She lost her train of thought for a moment as she concentrated on a tricky patch of rocks. She jumped across a larger-than-usual gap and yelped with alarm as she dropped the second bottle of orange juice and it ricocheted down from one hard surface to the next. Happily the bottle was plastic. She'd be able to retrieve it, and almost more importantly, not leave any tell-tale pile of broken glass to give her route away.
Her thoughts returned to Rafiq. Yes, he had manhandled her, but he hadn't been too rough. A few bruises maybe, but no broken bones or blood. He'd somehow prevented the other two men from mistreating her, although the gun and the knife had been terrifying.
And he had---maybe---led her toward some sort of safety. Either that or he'd stranded her alone and lost in the burning hot desert, to flounder onwards until she dropped from exhaustion and died from heat and thirst. Perhaps he'd simply disposed of her? He and his men had achieved their kidnap of a western woman and had the recordings they wanted; if she was now surplus to requirements this would save them the bother of killing her.
But...the second bottle of orange juice gave her a glimmer of hope. Why had he given her two? Why did he not drink the other one himself? It seemed he intended she should live.
She'd long-ago drained the last mouthful from the first bottle and followed his example of the rope; crushed it under her shoe, screwed the lid back on to keep it flat, and concealed it under a rock.
She glanced at her watch. Nearly 3.45. The Daniels family was holidaying at the seaside resort of Kalal---which was why she'd been free to go sketching on her own. Any other week she'd have been collecting eight-year-old Oscar and Jefferson from school in the capital of Al-Dubriz, or transporting six-year-old Mindy to dancing lessons. Had anyone noticed their nanny was missing yet? Probably not.
An unexpected sob wracked her body. No-one would even be looking for her yet! It might be several more hours before anyone did. The trail would be truly cold by then, and the tire tracks in the desert obliterated by the constantly moving sand. Maybe no-one would even think to look until someone saw the video. The 'take one' version---where she still had Maddie's red cap on and the metal handcuffs that had been snapped around her wrists in the van.
She levered herself down between the rocks and managed to catch up the bottle of juice she'd dropped. She squealed as a brilliant blue-green spiny lizard scuttled away from the small patch of shadow the bottle had cast. How could anything live in this unrelenting heat? And what on earth did it eat? Sure, there was the small trickle of water on the gully floor, but no plants or insects were visible.
"And that's a stupid camouflage job," she yelled at the iridescent creature as it vanished from view between two rocks. Anything to distract her from her desperate situation...anything to make it seem like she wasn't so alone in the world.
From rock to boulder to stone. From stone to rock to boulder. Laurel pushed endlessly on, grateful for the odd few seconds when she was close enough to the overhanging bank to be out of the sun's furious glare.
She twisted her wrist to check her watch again. 4.07. How long had she been struggling through the wretched gully? He'd said 'an hour's walk'. At his own desert-devouring speed or at her slow stagger? Thank goodness she'd been wearing trainers instead of her new backless sandals. That thought cheered her up until 4.11, and then she sank onto a large rock beside the tiny stream and looked longingly at the second bottle of juice.
She knew she should hoard it for later, but she quivered with thirst and heat and exertion. Rafiq had drunk from the tiny stream---perhaps it was safe for her too? She dipped a hand into the tepid water and cupped up a small amount.
She sniffed. Nothing. She tasted. Nothing. She swallowed. Bliss! She dipped and swallowed several more times, then opened the bottle and chugged the juice down in a greedy torrent. When the bottle was empty she refilled it from the shining trickle, screwed the lid on, and resumed her trek feeling totally triumphant.
Yasmina peered around the bedroom door again, noting that her unexpected guest finally rested quietly. Poor girl---she was obviously exhausted. How far had she walked? Where had the master found her? And how much longer before he arrived to explain the delicious mystery?
As Laurel slept and dreamed, Rafiq lay exhausted and dehydrated in the bunker. He remembered turning away from the cliff-top once he'd seen the girl stow his note in her jeans pocket. She'd opened the first bottle of juice and raised it to her mouth. The harsh sun had highlighted the movements of her ivory throat as she drank. He'd imagined brushing his lips down that creamy soft skin. Cupping his hands around her plump little breasts.
But not yet. For now he'd done all he could, and she was free.
He'd cast about for a suitable stone. Something fist-sized and jagged, hoping it would do its work swiftly.
As he resumed his long march back across the burning sand, he willed his mind to become blank and feel no pain, his body to keep moving and ignore its screaming need for something more to drink.
Something wet and cool and refreshing.
Something which would dilute the thudding ache bouncing from ear to ear, and which would only get worse in the foreseeable future.
He counted the times his boots bit into the sand. With every twentieth pace he clenched his teeth and struck the sharp edge of the stone against the same piece of his brow until blood flowed.
His head pounded. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His legs moved on automatic. But at last, once he bled, he could stop his self-induced torture. He licked the stone clean, grimacing at the metallic taste of his own blood, slipped it into a pocket, and continued striding at the same merciless pace.
Finally the bunker appeared. A huge wave of relief swept through him---the van had not yet arrived back.
He fingered his brow. The blood had dried in the fierce heat. He retrieved the stone from his pocket and ground it against the same tender place until the crust burst apart and it was bloodied again. Then he bent and buried the stone and his clippers deep in the sand. He smoothed the hole over---the wind would finish the concealment in a few minutes.
With a silent prayer of thanks, he lurched the last dozen paces and staggered into the shade of the bunker. He overturned the wooden chair, dabbled his fingers against his brow, and smeared a patch of blood onto one of the legs.
Hopefully that will fool them.
He checked the melted knots in the orange rope and transferred a little blood onto them as well.
Make it look as though she somehow struggled free.
He collapsed onto the mattress and waited, desperate to drink, but knowing he must appear dazed and disoriented if his ruse was to be successful. Nazim and Fayez were wily and experienced campaigners; not easy to fool.
An indeterminate time later he heard the van slide to a halt. He tensed as boots thudded down the steps. He had no idea how bad his head-wound looked; bad enough to be convincing, he hoped.
Nazim was first to enter.
"How was the American bitch? Is it worth us taking a turn?" His eyes darted swiftly around the half-dark bunker. "She got free?"
"Free but dead," Rafiq croaked. "She can't survive out there."
"You were too kind with your knots."
"I wanted her responsive---able to move for me a little."
"But she escaped?"
"And hit me with that."
Fayez righted the chair, noting the dark blood.
He bent and touched Rafiq's wound. "Not too deep," he said with little sympathy. He dropped his hands lower and ran them over Rafiq's body, ostensibly to check for other injuries. Rafiq knew he was being searched.
"Drink..." he groaned.
Nazim handed him an orange juice but didn't bother unscrewing it for him. Icy suspicion glittered in his eyes.
"She grabbed a couple of bottles and ran for it," Rafiq muttered. "Towards Akajar. I followed her prints for a while once I could. She'll never make it. She's dead for sure."
Fayez checked the drinks crate. Three juices now missing, the Coca Cola untouched. The numbers tallied.
Rafiq struggled with the screw-cap. Fayez took pity on him and opened it. Rafiq practically inhaled the juice. Fayez handed him another.
"The first tape is at the TV station?" Rafiq asked once he could speak more easily.
"Into the drop-box, and the bell was rung as you instructed."
"Then we've succeeded. Now, all we have to do is wait for them to comply."
"And if we can't produce the girl?"
"You know they'll take their time and try to negotiate. It'll be a fortnight at least before we have to worry. It hasn't been a problem before." He smiled---blazing white teeth against dark skin. "Load the gear. We stay apart for the time being. Let's go home. I want to see the TV news tonight."
Laurel jerked awake in full darkness to the solid thumping of an approaching helicopter. She struggled to a sitting position, and sat blinking and confused on a bed that wasn't hers. The unfamiliar room was dimly lit from light that spilled in from the adjoining bathroom.
Damn---not a weird dream then! I'm still here...
A knock thudded on her planked door. Yasmina's thin arm snaked in from the hallway and switched on the black iron chandelier.
"Rafiq," she said, coming further in and pointing to the sky.
Laurel plainly still looked half-asleep because Yasmina whirled one hand to simulate helicopter rotors, and said again "Rafiq."
"Rafiq," Laurel agreed, nodding furiously. She struggled off the bed and did her best to indicate she required her jeans and T-shirt. No way was she meeting the pig in a see-through robe and nothing else.
Yasmina shook her head and mimed wringing out washing with her bony brown fists.
Laurel clapped a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. Well, she could add her trainers and the baseball cap to the robe, but that was it. Not a good look! It seemed even her bra and panties had been dealt to by her unexpected personal maid.
She drew the all-too-transparent robe around her body, hoping to manage a double layer of fabric at least over her breasts and groin. There were no other clothes visible in the shady room; the chandelier gave out only fitful light. Yasmina had scuttled off---plainly she'd provide no further help.
The helicopter's thudding was now deafening. Its swishing rotors chopped at the air; it sounded to be landing very close to the house. A couple of minutes later eerie silence fell, disturbed only by the distant screeching of wakened birds.
Laurel thrust her feet into her trainers, struggling to lace them up with fingers that seemed all thumbs. Then she combed her fingers through the long strands of her newly-washed hair. She was as ready as she would ever be, and she was going to deliver the tirade of her life.
She strode with false bravado down the hallway to where the lights shone brighter and the air smelled of delicious cooking aromas.
"Ah, you have arrived safely, Miss Kiwi," a husky voice said. She whirled around and found herself being inspected by piercing dark eyes. Eyes which had no doubt been enjoying an excellent view of her bottom under only one layer of flimsy fabric.
"No thanks to you," she retorted, feeling a hot blush rushing up her neck and over her face.
"You think not?" The query was soft, but she sensed steel behind it.
"Leaving me there on my own to walk all that way? In such disgusting heat?"
"Spiriting you away from two dangerous animals? Oh please..." His eyelids drooped. "You'd rather I'd left you to defend yourself? I'm sure you would have done it so well, a big strong girl like you."
Laurel drew herself up to her full five-feet-four and clenched her fists.
"I see they got the better of you anyway," she said with satisfaction, indicating the clotted bruising above his eye.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He seemed unruffled by her jibe.
Yasmina bustled towards him with a bowl of water, antiseptic and a sponge. The tiny woman dumped her equipment down with little regard for the table-top, tugged Rafiq onto one of the dining chairs with even less ceremony, draped a small towel over his shoulder, and attacked his wound with tender dabs and much clicking of her tongue and ai-ai-ai-ing.
Rafiq suffered this attention without comment, and his intent dark gaze pinned an embarrassed and furious Laurel where she stood. She clutched the robe even more tightly around her and crossed her arms over her breasts. She'd be damned if she'd turn away and display her butt again...
Why on earth had she pulled her sporty shoes on? They must look ridiculous under the pretty robe with its borders of sensuous gold embroidery. The floors were smooth stone strewn with soft patterned rugs---she'd had no need for tough rubber soles.
The pig looked amused, damn him. As though he positively enjoyed her unease. After everything he'd subjected her to that afternoon, he now thought it fair to laugh?
Having subdued her and held her down with his disgusting masculine body?
And handcuffed her, and played with her hair?
And manhandled her into the hideous bunker by grabbing her by the pony-tail?
Filmed her without permission, and put her through the hell of having those weapons thrust in her face?
Snarled at her to impress his friends?
She knew she could go on and on, piling accusation upon accusation.
"I hope that hurts," she said, eyeing Yasmina's efforts.
"Quite a lot, thank-you."
"Good. Excellent. It serves you right. At least you can take me back to Kalal in the helicopter now---except she's washed my clothes and I've nothing to wear."
He nodded, and intensified his gaze, travelling without hurry from the top of her head down to her ankles and the incongruous shoes.
"Yes, I can see you are wearing nothing," he finally agreed. "They suit you very well, these non-existent clothes. You're a pleasant diversion from Yasmina's torture."
Laurel seethed, but managed somehow to hold her tongue and not react to his taunting. Right now she needed his flying skills more than she needed to defend her own pride.
Yasmina heard her name spoken and gave Rafiq a fond pat on the cheek. He threw a few soft words in her direction and then returned his attention to Laurel.
"Well you can't go travelling if you've nothing to wear, can you Miss Kiwi? The International Aviation Federation forbids it on grounds that pilots may be distracted and rendered unsafe to fly."
"What!?" Her eyes blazed at his insolence.
His own much darker ones stared her down. Surely he had his tongue tucked into his cheek and was trying to annoy her?
"And anyway, this pilot is hungry. He needs feeding and resting before he's fit to fly again." He turned his attention back to Yasmina, leaving Laurel stunned and silent.
"What have you cooked for us?"
"Lamb stew with cumin and tomatoes, My Lord Rafiq. Ripe apricots to follow with your coffee."
She gave his forehead a final close inspection and appeared as pleased as she was ever going to be.
"She has made us lamb stew, my old nurse and nanny. We can't just fly off and disappoint her." He grinned at Laurel's outraged expression. "We'll eat and then we'll see."
"We'll eat and then we'll fly."
"Perhaps." His eyes continued to roam around her body, stopping now at her small hands with their pearly pink nails, next on her pale throat which had so drawn him as she gulped at the orange juice after their frantic march across the swirling sand, then down to the crossover neckline of the robe where her breasts were pushed together by her arms holding the fabric tight.
She was not sport for the likes of Nazim and Fayez. He knew all too well what her fate would have been if he'd not intervened; she'd been disposable the moment the recordings were complete.
And he would have had to let them have her because so much time and planning had gone into the mission, and so many other lives were at risk because of it. The scene his mind insisted on summoning curdled his blood. She was a pretty thing---soft and young, feisty but unsophisticated. She wouldn't have stood a chance.
"I can't eat dinner wearing only this," she objected, glaring down at the fabric.
Rafiq dragged his brain back from rape and murder to the tiny problem of the see-through robe.
"Yasmina has very few clothes, and she would be embarrassed for you to borrow any of them."
"But...this isn't decent."
"Poor Miss Kiwi. I held you underneath me this afternoon for many minutes so I'm well-acquainted with your body. Why should you be worried after that?"
"You're disgusting!"
"I'm realistic. There are no other ladies' garments in the lodge. Although..."
He pushed back the chair, unfolded to his full height, and placed the hand-towel on the table-top.
He enjoyed her disbelieving stare as he pulled his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. He slipped the topmost button undone, then moved down to the next, and the next. His eyes sent her a mischievous challenge as he progressed downwards. As he'd hoped, Laurel found it impossible to look away. She swallowed.
He saw the small convulsive movement, and something gave a kick deep in his gut. So he was turning her on a little? Not as much as her compact curves in that transparent confection were affecting him!
He drew the unbuttoned shirt-fronts apart and stopped, his torso still shadowed by the fabric, but now on display for her from neck to navel.
Laurel swallowed again and cleared her throat. Surely he was made of milk chocolate, smoothly molded and glossy? The lamplight shone on his hard-muscled dark-nippled chest and the warm sweep of taut flesh below. She let her eyes slide down to his narrow hips and back up again to his face.
Half a smile caressed his lips.
Damn you. You know I'm enjoying the view...
"Yes, you would be more concealed in my shirt," he said. "It's clean. I showered and changed before I flew out here." He shrugged the cinnamon-colored garment off and held it to his nose.
She was disappointed to find it hid quite a lot of his body like that, but she'd gained the view of his broad shoulders and the smooth length of his muscular arms in return. Reasonable compensation, she decided after a few electric seconds.
"I think your pretty robe may have been left here"---he punctuated the sentence with a telling pause---"by a friend." Did one dark eyebrow twitch?
A girl-friend! Suddenly Laurel couldn't wait to rip it off. She grabbed the cinnamon shirt from him and dashed back to her room to change.
Rafiq's gut swooped again at the sight of her soft peach of a bottom under the mauve gauze. Two beautiful handfuls. Or should that be hands-full, he wondered? What the hell did it matter, as long as they were his hands that were full?
Soon would be good.
Soon would be so good. Today's mission had gone well, but it had been nerve-wracking and physically draining. He'd worked hard with his brain and even harder with his body. The danger of being discovered had been constant. The danger to Laurel had been horrendous.
His body needed release.
He doubted Laurel would be the one to supply the release in her current mood. She didn't know it yet but she'd be sleeping in the deep desert tonight, and he'd be the one to decide when she left the lodge.
She'd be staying, however much she might wish to leave. And that wouldn't improve her mood one little bit.
Laurel glared at herself in the long, ornately-framed mirror. He'd known---of course he had. The pig's chivalry extended only so far. She might now be concealed from neck to mid-thigh but the lowest button on his shirt sat barely level with her crotch. And her cotton bikini panties were unavailable, undoubtedly still wet, and unable to be worn yet.
Rafiq had a lean and streamlined build, and his shirt was cut to follow the lines of his body. Laurel's feminine curves pushed the garment to its limits. She was no better off. She was worse off! Now she'd have to clutch and tug at the shirt-tails whenever she was in his presence, and be very careful what she sat on.
She smelled again his faint spicy fragrance on the shirt. Not exactly spice, but something exotic and eastern. She turned her face sideways and sniffed at the fabric. The terrifying swaying van-ride thundered back into her brain. Once again she felt his body holding her confined, and heard the hoarse comments and laughter from the men in the front seat. Rough, hard-living men, all three of them.
A bubble of suspicion rose in her brain. Why was a filthy terrorist now dressed in a shirt like this? She ran her fingers along the sleeve, admiring the soft, close weave of the fabric and the meticulous tailoring. Earlier, his homespun shirt had been abrasive as he ground against her. But this one sat smoothly on her naked skin---even if it was nowhere near long enough.
So he fancied himself as a man of fashion?
Spoil his fun Laurel, she muttered to herself. She prowled around her bedroom, wondering how she could do it, peering into the empty wardrobe and the drawers of a carved timber chest, and finding nothing the least bit useful.
But there were towels in the adjoining bathroom. Large and luxurious ones. Why hadn't she thought of them earlier? With great delight she wrapped one around her hips and tucked the overlap in to make an instant skirt.
She sashayed back to the big kitchen, new-found confidence improving her mood no end.
"A perfect fit," she said. "Thank you."
She enjoyed the way Rafiq narrowed his eyes and glowered at her. Well, she was resourceful! If he'd been expecting to see her bare legs and maybe a scoop of her bottom below the hem of his shirt, he was out of luck. Now they were swathed in thick toweling, and she'd done every shirt button up. Her only worry was that her breasts might be visible through the fine linen.
She gazed at him as he sat bare-chested at the table, a tall glass of fruit juice in front of him. Her turn to enjoy the view. His body might be relaxed and no doubt weary, but he was still well worth inspecting.
I'll give you a taste of the same, she vowed, sending her eyes wandering all over him just as his had wandered over her. He looked fighting fit. Long hours in a gym? Or did the terrorist cell he belonged to insist their men trained hard? His desert-march had seemed second nature to him. He'd barely raised a sweat by the time he'd led her down into the twisting rock-filled gully.
"As you can see I'm now decent enough to be flown back to Kalal," she announced, sitting and taking a sip of her own juice.
"As you can see, I'm far from ready to fly you anywhere yet."
"So when?"
"Later."
"After dinner then?"
"We'll see."
"Yes, we certainly will."
His black eyes held shadows of fatigue, but surely after resting for a while and having a meal he'd be okay?
"Be quiet, Miss Kiwi," he muttered.
"Miss de Courcey," she corrected. "Laurel de Courcey."
She continued her enjoyable inspection of his body.
He had scars! A small puckered lump on one shoulder. Long jagged lines down his left arm. The longer she looked, the more scars she found. A skin-graft on the side of his throat. Well-healed but definite slashes over his chest. Was this why he'd only partly opened his shirt and then held it to conceal his body while he pretended to sniff at it? Was he embarrassed by his appearance?
Well he had no need to be in her reluctant opinion. If he'd been hairier, many of the scars would have been hidden. But he was wondrously smooth and supple-looking. Only the tiniest dusting of glossy black hair bisected his flat belly and disappeared down into his trousers.
Suddenly she wanted to treat him like one of the children, and trail her fingers over his dusky skin to soothe the wounds that must have caused him unimaginable pain. How absurd! But when and how had he become so injured?
"Was that a bullet?" she demanded, trying to hide her concern, and pointing at the lump on his shoulder.
He heaved a sigh and straightened somewhat.
"That one, yes."
She knew her eyes must be wide with shock.
"And the others?"
"No."
"Then how did you get so hurt?"
"As you saw today, I lead an active life."
"Well that's a lot of injuries to get from your job."
"It would have been---yes." His face closed up and he turned aside to avoid her questioning. Laurel fumed at his insolence.
"Yasmina," he called, indicating he was ready to eat.
Instantly the obedient nanny arrived with woven placemats and dinner plates, followed by a casserole of spicy-smelling stew. Then she brought a rice dish with nuts, and a green salad which Laurel soon discovered had a bitter but refreshing flavor. She'd eaten nothing in almost nine hours and did full justice to the food.
Rafiq watched her with amusement, grateful for the diversion the meal provided. He had no wish to explain his battered body to her.
"Yasmina will be pleased by your appetite."
The girl looked up from her food for a moment. "Was she really your nanny?"
"Of course---from my birth until I was seventeen."
"Seventeen's a bit old to have a nanny."
"She'll be mine for my whole life. It's the way of our people."
"So what happened at seventeen?"
Rafiq compressed his lips. He really didn't want to answer that.
"You ask a lot of questions, Miss Kiwi."
"Laurel."
"Laurel," he repeated, nodding.
"So what happened?"
Hell she was determined! Should he explain? He needed a measure of cooperation from her or the whole mission might yet fail. He had no desire to keep her in handcuffs for the next two weeks.
He remained silent for a short time, tapping his fork against his thumbnail.
"My parents were assassinated, and I had to go into hiding," he finally rasped.
The shocking words sliced across at her. She sat unblinking, staring back at him.
"For real?" Her voice had fallen to a croaky whisper.
"For real." His own was husky with memory and sorrow.
"So who are you? Someone quite important?"
He drew a deep breath.
"I am the rightful King."
She wrinkled her pert little nose.
"Pull the other one," she said.
Ash Winthrop gazed down as the sun crept over the piece of rolling green New Zealand countryside he owned. He checked the time on his scratched gold Rolex, sighed and stretched his stiff shoulders. The early morning news bulletin would be on TV in eight or nine minutes---he always liked to be sitting in his favorite chair with a cuppa by then. It made a peaceful start to the day.
He pushed away from the fence and quickened his pace along the sweeping asphalt driveway of Trinity Stud, sniffing with satisfaction at the scents of hay and horse-dung that floated on the slight breeze.
He kicked at one of the potholes that needed patching. Grimaced at part of the fence overdue for painting. The barns and yards were all starting to look a little run-down. He knew he should sell up now, while things were still just in good-enough repair.
But it was home. And it had been home for almost forty-five years. He couldn't picture himself in a compact new townhouse or high-rise apartment in the city. No lawns to mow maybe, but not much of anything else either as far as he could see. He was used to plenty of space after seventy-four years of being a country boy.
He'd poured all his money and energy into the stud. It had been his entire life until Marion had passed three years ago. Somehow the lights had dimmed after she'd gone and nothing seemed quite so important any more. He'd be a wealthy man if he sold up, but until then the maintenance and running costs of the thoroughbred stud were appalling.
Ash climbed the steps to the wide front terrace of the homestead, ambled inside, and switched on the electric kettle. The preheated water boiled again in no time; he poured it over his tea-bag and lowered himself into his favorite blue La-Z-Boy chair. The News headlines blared out as soon as he clicked the remote.
"Rioting as fuel grows scarce in Nigeria; a man falls to his death on an Auckland building site; All Black injuries a worry for the coach; and a young New Zealand woman held hostage by terrorists in the Middle East. Good morning, I'm Benedict Martin."
Ash took a sip of his tea. Nothing great there...
"We begin this morning's coverage with breaking news from the small oil-rich Kingdom of Al Sounam. Laurel de Courcey, New Zealand-born nanny to an American diplomatic family, has been captured by members of a previously unknown group calling themselves Soldiers of the Ninth Crusade. The group supplied the following recording, with the warning that Miss de Courcey will be killed unless seven named terrorists are released from prison.
Ash clapped a hand to his chest and stared in disbelief as the face of his long-lost daughter appeared on the screen. The tea slopped unheeded down the front of his hairy tan jersey.
"Not American," Debs insisted. A dark-skinned hand appeared and pushed her red cap further back so Ash saw her anguished face more clearly.
"Kiwi. New Zealand," she insisted. She glared straight at Ash and said, "I am not American. Who the hell do you think I am? Someone you can bargain with?"
Again the hand on her face, this time with a barked instruction of "Quiet!"
And to Ash's horror, a rough-looking man with an AK47 entered the frame, pressed the muzzle against her head, and began chanting "America, America."
The screen went dead.
The newsreader continued smoothly. "Twenty-three-year-old Laurel de Courcey was born in Wellington, according to the passport supplied by her American employers. She has not been seen since one o'clock, Al Sounam time."
Ash heard no more. Who was this Laurel? It had been Debs---his lovely lost daughter, Debs. Debs who had disappeared after her eighteenth birthday, twenty-four years ago.
De Courcey? The name danced and jiggled at the back of his brain.
It took some time for the shock to wear off and for him to do the math. If not Debs, then it must be her own daughter. His granddaughter. His twenty-three-year-old unknown granddaughter, in danger of dying before he ever met her.
He finally found the presence of mind to press the one-touch-record button in case there was a recap later in the bulletin. It was imperative he saw her again.
He brushed at the spilled tea on his clothing and set his cup down. There were photos of Debs in the main bedroom---on Marion's dresser. They'd been there like a small sad shrine for almost a quarter of a century. Feeling very old, yet curiously energized, he stumped off to collect them.
Far too early he did the infuriating rounds of the Government answer-phones. "For immigration, press one. For visitor information, press four."
What number did you press for 'hostage status'? He drummed his fingers on the sideboard with ever-growing irritation. A little later he thought to phone the main Auckland TV newsroom and all hell broke loose.
Laurel watched as Rafiq shrugged his broad scarred shoulders.
"Life is interesting, is it not, Miss Kiwi? Who knows what will happen on any given day?"
She sat in a kind of trance while his words sank in.
The rightful King? I've been kidnapped by the King?
Finally she cleared her throat.
"Not funny. Kings don't go kidnapping people and holding them hostage. Kings don't have the sort of disgusting friends you do."
She edged away from the table a little to distance herself from him, annoyed she'd been feeling sorry for him because of all his scars. Assassination indeed! "And they don't live in creepy isolated houses like this one either," she added. "Who are you really?"
"The only surviving son of the late Sheikh Abu Ali al-Husayn bin Khalid. This was my father's hunting lodge."
She tossed a disbelieving laugh across the table.
"You're kidding. There's nothing to hunt. Nothing lives here. Camels and lizards maybe. What did he think he was going to find?"
Rafiq's dark eyes left her face and drifted to somewhere else far away.
"Solitude and peace," he said into the quiet night.
Such an unexpected answer made Laurel feel almost inclined to believe him. She let his words wash over her as she considered how wonderful it would be to have to search for solitude. She'd had far too much of it. No-one had ever really wanted her or had time for her. She'd been fostered in various houses, and there'd been bedlam in some of them, but she'd never felt a true part of the families.
Later, the hostel they'd sent her to had teemed with girls---squealing, borrowing clothes and make-up, playing music until lights-out, and then giggling and gossiping in loud whispers---but she'd still been intensely lonely there.
Sharing a flat had been better, but the girls all had their own families and boyfriends, and moved on so fast she'd never really had a best mate. She'd take herself off for a walk on the beach at Oriental Bay or a quiet read in Waitangi Park or a wander through the shops of Lambton Quay and Willis Street to get away from the places where everyone seemed to belong except her.
Certainly no-one had ever sought her company. The only time she'd ever been the centre of attention was when a group of noisy children all demanded different and equally impossible things of their hired and none-too-well-paid nanny. She was well-used to solitude.
"So I suppose he had a busy life?" she needled, thinking of all the magazine articles she'd seen about royalty and their myriad social activities.
"He worked impossible hours. He was devoted to his people. My people now."
Laurel stayed silent for a while before asking anything else. Rafiq had 'people'? He seemed to be serious. But why should she believe his outrageous claim?
"Is Rafiq your real name?"
"One of them. I have many."
"Are you fighting to get the throne back? Is that why I was kidnapped? Am I a hostage so they'll re-instate you?"
Despite looking so tired, he roared with laughter.
"What?"
His chuckles subsided. "I wish it was that simple."
"Don't just laugh at me," she snapped. "I'll have to let Mrs. Daniels know where I am. She'll be horribly worried by now. Is there a phone?"
He shook his dark head.
"Do you have a mobile then?"
"There's no reception way out here."
"I've got to let her know somehow."
"Not a chance, Miss Kiwi. No-one must know where you are---for your own safely as well as my own. You've ended up as the meat in a most unpleasant sandwich. Not your fault in the least. But for now you must stay out of sight and out of contact with the rest of the world. It's necessary that certain people think you are dead."
"I'm not the least important."
"As Laurel the nanny, possibly not. But as Laurel the hostage you're vital to the success of my current mission. And many other lives hang in the balance because of you."
She drew her brows together. "But how? Why?"
"Just believe that it's so. I can't tell you everything. It should be enough you have a King's word."
She blew out an exasperated breath. "Prove you're a King, then. I don't know why you expect I'll go along with that fantasy."
"Would you recognize my parents, the late King and Queen, if I showed you their photographs here in this house?"
She shrugged. "I doubt it."
"Then I have no other way of convincing you right now. You'll be well looked after but you'll be staying here, out of sight and out of contact."
He spoke over the top of her next question. "The world won't stop turning without you. Leave it for tonight. We'll talk more in the morning. Yasmina!" He gestured for coffee.
Laurel stayed poised with her mouth open, ready to object to such cavalier treatment. How dare he just cut her off like that? He'd stolen her freedom and apparently had no intention of giving it back. Taken her away from everything familiar and safe. A furious burn started at the back of her throat. She willed herself not to give in to tears.
The servant hurried across with the coffee pot and poured two small cups of aromatic liquid almost thick enough to stand the spoons in. A brass bowl of fresh apricots followed.
"Thank-you Yasmina. Good-night."
"Good-night My Lord Rafiq."
She tipped his injured forehead to the light, inspected the dressing one last time, and sniffed her disapproval before leaving them alone.
"What did she call you?"
"What she has always called me."
"And what's that?"
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. "Do you wish to call me the same, Laurel?"
"I doubt it," she said with spirit, somehow sensing from the unnerving gleam in his eyes that she didn't.
"I doubt it too," he agreed. "Yasmina has always addressed me as 'My Lord Rafiq'."
"How absolutely feudal."
Rafiq watched as she reached for an apricot and bit into the golden fruit. A savage bite. Her even white teeth sank into its softness and he imagined himself doing the same to her delicious flesh. A nip on her shoulder, a nibble on her earlobe, a sustained assault on her luscious lips. He would be much gentler with her than she was being with the unfortunate apricot. He would scrape and tease and torment her long and thoroughly to punish her for calling him 'feudal'...for laughing at the possibility he was the rightful heir to Al Sounam's throne.
She owed him her life, and he hoped she'd realize that very soon and start behaving in a suitably grateful manner.
He sipped his coffee, considering what he needed to do next day. Buy her some clothes. Some books perhaps. He wouldn't keep her at the lodge for long. A fortnight at most. Perhaps if he showed her who was boss---a very accommodating and accomplished boss---she might soften like honey in sunshine and melt into his arms?
He'd be kind to her. Kind and generous. He would flirt gently, flatter her, let her know he found her desirable. That should be enough? She was a pretty thing and would make a pleasant diversion. He had nothing urgent to do for the next little while. He'd deliver the second demand to the TV station at the end of the week and buy some more time. Every passing minute would bring greater possibilities of success---for his undercover mission as well as his new-found personal one.
"Shall we take a second cup of coffee somewhere more comfortable?" he asked a few minutes later when she'd finished another apricot.
Her lashes flicked up and her startling blue eyes flashed across at him, full of suspicion.
"Where did you have in mind?"
"The armchairs in the salon. I consider it rather too soon yet to invite you to my bed."
How am I ever going to keep my face straight?
Laurel snatched a deep breath, which caused her perky breasts to thrust forward, giving him further tempting targets for his pleasurable contemplation.
"And you needn't think you're sneaking along to mine," she snapped.
"There's a lock on your door. You'll be quite safe from me. I won't be recruiting you for my harem tonight."
She sent him a withering look.
"Right," she said. "Absolutely right."
Rafiq worked hard to keep his grin from showing.
He poured another two fragrant coffees from the small beaten-copper pot, and stood.
"This way." He added a slight jerk of his head in the direction of his mother's favorite room.
Laurel rose more slowly, having her somewhat precarious bath-towel to contend with. Her gaze slid up and down over Rafiq's shoulders and back as he strolled along the central hallway of the house balancing the two steaming gold-edged cups. Although the magnificent old lodge held plenty else to fascinate her, she couldn't keep her eyes off him.
His trousers sat low on his narrow hips. He looked as lean and muscular as a panther; so much more electrifying than any of the pale flabby men she'd seen socializing around the Daniels' noisy swimming pool. And he was criss-crossed everywhere with faint jagged scars which spoke of terrible mistreatment in the past, or devastating injuries.
Her fingers prickled again with the need to touch his dark-gold skin.
Not her nanny's fingers, well-used to comforting small children, but her woman's fingers---as yet untried on naked male flesh. He was unexpectedly beautiful, despite having stolen her freedom.
Rafiq turned, and entered a much larger room. He transferred both cups to one hand and reached for the wall-switch. Suddenly a huge chandelier cast beams of warm light in every direction.
Laurel's eyes swiveled from his sinuous body to the magnificent draperies at the windows, the faded splendor of several velvet couches well-piled with fringed and embroidered cushions, and the carved tables and screens which dotted the generous space.
The soft light reflected off gilded picture frames and the jeweled lids of a collection of golden boxes clustered together on a marble-topped credenza. Two deep-buttoned leather chairs flanked the tall fireplace.
Laurel had been over-awed by the Daniels' reception rooms in the capital of Al-Dubriz. They were expensively appointed with furniture brought from America, and swagged with curtains in the same heavy upholstery fabrics.
But this lodge way out in the desert felt much more impressive---real, historic and treasured.
She touched a finger to one of the golden boxes.
"You chose my favorite---the emeralds." He set the coffees down.
She pulled her hand away as though trespassing.
"Admire them---they're beautiful," he urged. "My father commissioned Al Sounam's top goldsmiths to design one every year for my mother's birthday. Like the Czar and his Faberge eggs for his Czarina. No-one sees them now."
She reached towards the box again, running a finger over the concentric rings of glittering stones. When she lifted it for a closer view its weight astounded her.
"Solid gold," he said, no doubt amused by her horrified expression. "And in every box there was a brooch or a necklace or a pair of spectacular earrings. He loved my mother greatly. The whole country loved her."
"Someone obviously didn't if she was assassinated?"
Rafiq's chest rose and fell in a sigh so full of regret it almost broke her heart. "Anti-monarchists. 'Republicans' I suppose you would call them in your country."
"And they killed to get their way?"
"They did not get their way."
"But they killed."
"And were killed in return. Al Sounam's security service is always well-informed."
She shivered at that. "Not well-enough to stop it from happening, though."
"As you say... But they were only hours away from arresting the plotters. My father chose to bring us out here at short notice. Too short. We were attacked after we passed the city's edge and left for dead. He and my mother, my two brothers and me."
Laurel gave a soft gasp of distress. She could almost taste the sorrow that surrounded him. How had he mentally survived something as horrendous as this? Even if his body had slowly healed, his mind must have been terribly messed-with.
"And you were the only one left alive?" she dared to ask.
"Miraculously." His hand swept a graceful path through the air in front of his chest and belly as though to stroke his very life-force. Her eyes followed---past smooth skin and taut muscles until she guiltily dragged her gaze up to his face again.
Rafiq didn't react---simply passed her a coffee and sat on one of the leather armchairs, hitching a long leg up so his foot rested on his opposite knee. He leaned back as though he'd told her nothing more outrageous than the week's movie gossip.
How could he put something like that behind him with such apparent ease? And now work in espionage himself? Was it espionage, she wondered? To judge by today's situation, he took part in horribly dangerous missions with little regard for his own safety.
She set the emerald box down again and sat in the other big chair.
"So was that how you got shot?" she asked, indicating his shoulder.
"That time, no. That was Army training."
"That time?" she gasped. "How many more times? No---I don't want to know. How did you get shot in the Army?"
"Not quite the Army." He turned his attention to his coffee, causing her to regard him with extreme suspicion.
"Some sort of Special Services thing I suppose. SAS---that kind of stuff?"
"Near enough. It was a long time ago."
"How long?"
"You want a lot of details, Miss Kiwi. Are you sure you're not one of the insurgents yourself?"
"Bad joke after today," she snapped.
Instantly he was on his feet and had bent to grasp the hand not holding her coffee. He raised it and kissed her fingers.
"My apologies, Laurel," he murmured. "You're right of course. My life has made me a hard and thoughtless man." He sank down into his chair again, leaving her so sensitized by his lips it was like an instant drug reaction. She tingled. She sparkled and pulsed. A delicious feeling, but very distracting. She shook her head to clear it. Her hair swayed from side to side and she noticed the way his eyes fastened on it as he sat unspeaking for the next little time.
"Eleven years ago," he eventually continued. "They had no expectation I would live. Everyone else died. The limo was ambushed. Our escort vehicle then hit the King's car from behind. I was...badly damaged."
He retreated into silence and sipped his coffee again. Laurel did the same, desperate to know more, but not liking to ask.
His whole family---dead in one instant? She couldn't think of a single other thing to say that wouldn't sound nosy or intrusive.
Eventually he stood, leaving his empty coffee cup on the small table beside his chair and reaching for hers to place beside it.
"Enough," he said. "I'll give you bad dreams." He stretched out an arm. Laurel rose as well, very slowly, apprehensive about what might happen next.
He switched off the chandelier and the comforting spangles of light disappeared.
Now the lodge was dim and full of shadows. He guided her along the side-passage to where her sleeping quarters were.
"Sleep well, Miss Kiwi."
She stood, uncertain, beside her bedroom door. He wouldn't try anything, would he? No more suggestive jokes about adding her to his harem?
"So you'll take me back to Kalal first thing tomorrow morning?"
"You must trust me in this, Laurel. I am not a safe person to be seen with. I shall see what I can arrange."
She frowned with annoyance and then drifted into her room. He locked the door behind her. The unexpected noise of the key clicked sharp and loud in the quiet night.
"Hey!"
"Sleep, Miss Kiwi," he called through the door.
"You've locked me in..."
"I said your door could be locked to keep you safe from my unwelcome advances."
"But you've got the key."
"Indeed I have, Laurel---and you will be safe, I promise. I wouldn't want you sleepwalking out into the desert and getting lost."
"I've never sleepwalked in my life. Unlock the door."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll scream for Yasmina."
"Yasmina's apartment is quite separate from the lodge. She'll never hear you. And anyway, she's a little deaf these days."
Flutters of panic danced up her spine. A cold and horribly clammy sweat broke out over her chest. "Unlock this wretched door, Rafiq!" she yelled, kicking at the planks and exclaiming with the pain of it.
"You can't kick your way out. The timbers are old and strong. You'll only hurt yourself. You're safe for the night, Laurel. Go to bed. You've had a day no woman should have had to live through."
"And this is the worst bit," she shouted. "Rafiq---unlock the door---I can't stand it. Years ago I used to be locked in my room, night after night. You're terrifying me." Tears ran from her eyes in a blinding rush. Her voice had become high and panicked. "Rafiq..." Her long wavering scream sliced through the night.
She bent over double, sobbing hopelessly, fearing she'd vomit with fright. Everything from 165 Washington Street rushed back; the always-fraught atmosphere, the thrift-shop clothes, the endless meals of stew and over-boiled vegetables Liz Gorridge cooked to eke out the money allotted by the authorities to feed her ever-changing foster-children.
And worse than anything, disgusting Gary Gorridge.
"Rafeek!!!" he heard her scream with ear-splitting intensity. Her anguished sobbing was all too audible. Laurel was no longer his feisty little captive, prepared to spit invective at the camera. Now she sounded like a scared child, bullied, sent to her room, locked in as punishment.
Rafiq compressed his lips. His whole face tightened as he concentrated on the sounds she made. Low moans and sniffling sobs. His own name---repeated and repeated in a desperate breathless chant. If she was an actress she'd be entirely convincing.
Cursing, he wrenched the key around and pushed the door part-way open. Laurel yelped as it hit her on the ankles. She lay curled in a ball on the floor, arms up over her face and around her head, mewing like a terrified kitten.
He eased the door further ajar until he could slip inside the room. Then he knelt and gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest, surrounding her with his warmth.
"Be calm Laurel, be calm," he soothed, rocking her like a baby, burying his face in her hair as though physical closeness would comfort her. He had no idea what else to do---none of his anti-terrorist skills were useful for this.
It took several minutes before she became anywhere near calm again. Rafiq's compressed knees burned with knife-stabs of pain. He slid into a sitting position, braced his back against the wall, and settled Laurel onto his lap instead. She smelled of the French soap from her bathroom. Her sobbing breaths were fragrant with coffee, and the dark lashes on her tightly-closed eyes shone with tears. He rested his face against her scented hair, rubbing his cheek to and fro as much for his own pleasure as her comfort.
"Better?" he whispered.
She let out a huge pent-up sigh. "You're not the only one with bad times to remember," she muttered. "Please don't lock me in again. I couldn't stand it."
It didn't seem the right time to dig for details in case he fractured her fragile composure, but he itched to know more.
He closed his eyes with resignation before he spoke again---no way was this going to please her. "Laurel---I can offer you this choice: I lock you in here on your own or you sleep in my room, tied to me."
He felt her jerk with surprise.
"No funny business, I promise," he added hastily.
Not yet, anyway.
"Right now I'm responsible for your safety. I'm not letting you out of my care. You have no idea how important you are, or what danger you're in. So---this room or mine?"
Laurel began to tremble again. He drew her more tightly into his arms, surprised when she didn't attempt a break for freedom. What had scared her so badly?
"Yours." The word was only just audible.
His? He hadn't bargained on that...
She clamped her teeth down hard on her bottom lip, trying to stifle her crying. Anything would be preferable to staying locked up helpless and alone. It had been bad enough in the bunker earlier that afternoon, but then she'd been so much in shock only part of her brain was working. Now she was fully aware. And being imprisoned again would destroy her.
She turned her head and buried her face against his chest for a few seconds...closed her eyes, used the solid thumping of his heart to centre herself. His skin burned hot and smooth against her cheek, cinnamon-brown, gently spicy.
Then she pushed herself abruptly away. He was the enemy. The jailer. The one who had handcuffed her and now threatened to tie her up again. With a determined grimace she struggled free of his lap and allowed Rafiq to set her on her feet.
They walked a few paces further along the dimly-lit side-passage. He opened another planked door---larger and more imposing than hers.
She gazed around in awe as she entered his huge and overwhelmingly masculine room. A vast bed dominated the space. Black iron framing suspended thick hangings above it. There were weapons displayed on the walls---vicious knives and guns and mean-looking clubs.
"My mother exercised her taste in the other rooms; my father dominated their bedroom---as a man should in an Arab home."
Laurel didn't want to think about that. She definitely didn't want any dominating going on tonight.
"Virtually nothing has changed since they last slept here," he added. "A new mattress, a bigger TV, but little else." He waved a hand across to the en suite. "The bathroom, Miss Kiwi?"
She dashed across to it and slammed the door behind her. Could she do this? Share a room with him? Worse---share a bed with him---even with his guarantee of 'no funny business'? She didn't seem to have any option now.
She leaned her elbows on a marble-tiled bench and buried her face in her hands in a futile attempt to block out the real world. Things seemed far from real. She was locked in a bedroom---voluntarily---with a man she'd never seen before today. A Sheikh who claimed to be the rightful King of Al Sounam.
She had no clothes, no way of getting in touch with the rest of the world, and probably no job when she got free. Oh, she just had to escape from him. But how?
She raised her eyes to her reflection in the mirror. What a ridiculous sight she made in his shirt and the swaddling bath-towel. No wonder he felt no attraction for her and could treat her with indifference in his bed.
Why was there nothing else to wear? Surely someone lived in this huge house other than little Yasmina?
For now she'd play along with his peculiar game and keep focused on ways to escape. Whatever he said, there was no way she was the least bit important.
But unbeknown to Laurel, the first of the ransom-demand tapes had been played earlier that evening on the prime-time TV news bulletin. Rafiq had watched her in his apartment in the capital as he toweled the moisture off his long lean body after his shower.
'What a little spitfire,' he'd thought as she faced him down through the camera. Memorable for her exotic fair hair and bright blue eyes---and her feisty reaction to being held captive. It was imperative he kept her hidden, and out of harm's way; she'd be recognizable to many of the viewers, and all-too-familiar to Fayez and Nazim.
No way would he let her fall into their hands again.
"Right," he muttered to himself, wondering how he was going to arrange his strangest-ever assignment. Between them they had one shirt, one flimsy robe, his silk boxers and a pair of trousers.
Well, the robe was less than useless; he could see right through it, and it had no buttons to keep it fastened around her. Far too tempting a prospect for any red-blooded male. Anyway, he'd decided he'd use its sash to bind her to him for the night.
But his shirt left her exposed right where she needed to be covered. He knew the chances of keeping his hands off her were slim if he nudged against her naked body as he slept. With stimulus like that, some things just came naturally to a man! So she'd better have his silk boxers as well.
He'd sleep commando in his trousers. He'd slept in worse while they'd been put through hell in the elite training camp at Wadi Bakbar a couple of years ago.
Decision made, he fingered the pretty sash.
Laurel found toothpaste and a toothbrush beside the big marble basin, but no other signs of occupation. She ran the brush under very hot water for a while, decided no bugs could have withstood the heat, and brushed her teeth. She combed her fingers through her hair, used the toilet, and crept out to join him---trying for an air of casual insouciance she was far from feeling.
He stood on a carved wooden stool removing weapons from the walls.
"You mistrust me that much?" she gasped.
"In my line of business, you take every precaution."
"That would be the King business or the terrorist business?" she asked in a snide little voice.
"Both." He kept his expression hard, and continued to prize the lowest knives and guns off their hooks. He stepped down only once he was satisfied she couldn't reach anything higher up. He opened the door, placed the stool and the weapons in the passageway, closed the door, locked it, and pushed the key into his trouser pocket.
"Please don't lock it," she begged.
She clutched at her pounding head with one hand, and covered her belly with the other as her stomach churned with nausea.
"You're not alone in here, Laurel. If the lodge catches fire during the night, I'll get you out safely." He reached across and ran his fingers down her cheek, and she jerked her face aside from him.
"Although I doubt it will be a problem," he added. "The lodge is stone, and we've not had the least whiff of fire in all these years. Take that silly towel off and slip into bed while I use the bathroom.
"But---"
"Take the damned towel off. You'll fry in it. I'll give you my boxers to wear so you're decent."
She raised her chin and shot blue sparks across the space between them. "That doesn't leave you very decent."
"I'll sleep in my trousers. I've done it before."
"Hmmph!"
He grinned at her reaction. "Disappointed, Laurel?"
"In your dreams."
But she had to admit she was. Somehow. A bit.
She turned back the sheet and sat. Bounced a couple of times.
Yes, it was a very nice bed indeed. But now she felt so alert, so wide-awake. Two strong coffees and her nap in the other bedroom had her curiously energized.
Unless it was the prospect of spending the whole night sharing the bed of a man who had a body to rival anything in Hollywood? A man who'd promised to behave with honor, but who still teased her as though he mightn't.
As soon as he left her alone, she unwound the towel and tossed it onto the floor, pulled her shirt down, held it closed for dear life, twitched up the bedcover and tried to relax.
Rafiq was not long returning. He reached for the sash of the robe.
"Give me your wrist, Laurel, if you please."
She drew her hand most unwillingly from under the sheet and thrust it out at him. He passed one end of the sash around it, pulled it firm and double-tied it.
"Not too tight?"
"Bearable."
He laughed, switched on a shaded lamp beside the bed, then turned off the main light. The ambiance of the room became much softer, warmer, and sexier, making all sorts of trembles and tremors run over her skin. Hot one moment. Shivery-cold the next.
"I can't do this," she said in a small defeated voice.
He sent her a sharp affronted glare. "You're in my care. I promise you'll be safe."
He sat. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and she drew a sharp breath. Rafiq pulled the covers up and settled his shoulders back into the pillows stacked against the carved and leather-paneled headboard.
Laurel glanced sideways. The sight of all that smooth dark skin against the pale bed-linen shocked her. He looked entirely naked.
"So," he said, lowering his hands to his trousers.
She flinched as she heard the zipper scraping down, and turned horrified eyes up to his. "Didn't you do the swap-over in the bathroom?"
"Never thought of it," he said. "Oh well..."
He eased the trousers down his legs, wriggling to get them past his butt. The covers slid southwards, and she glimpsed his flat coffee-colored belly with its stripe of fine hair. And then much more hair. She wrenched her eyes away again, having no wish to see more.
He continued to heave and toss around until he was able to draw his trousers from under the sheet and throw them out onto the bedcover.
"Stage one complete," he said. "Now for stage two."
Beside him Laurel knew she must look petrified.
"No need to panic. I'm sure you've seen a naked man before," he added.
Yes, she had---but only one, and those experiences had been shocking and degrading. She had no wish to see another naked man ever again.
She managed to shrug as though such a thing meant nothing to her, but deep inside all the old dread boiled up.
Rafiq resumed his wriggling routine. The covers dropped lower. She grabbed them back. His legs slid against hers as he worked the boxers down towards his feet. His knee was warm and hard, his calf silky with hair.
And then he pushed the thin shorts right off and swept them up across her unseen thighs.
Laurel almost died, knowing she was now in bed with a man wearing nothing but a sexy grin.
"Not quite the way I expected today to end," he said, looking far too amused as she grabbed for the shorts and tried to decide where her legs were supposed to fit. She wasn't going to lift the bedcover up so she could see. Or he could see.
She felt around his warm soft shorts, distracted again by the scent of his skin. He smelled delicious across the tiny distance now separating them. Freshly showered, freshly dressed. If he'd been anyone else she might have wanted to bury her nose right against him and just enjoy.
Her overloaded brain insisted on wondering if he'd like her scent in return. Real rose-petals and exotic soap had to be better than nervous perspiration and the bone-deep fear that must have pumped off her in the van as he held her beneath him.
Not that it mattered in the least, of course. She was certainly not trying to attract him. The absolute opposite in fact. She wanted nothing to do with a man who behaved as brutally as he did.
Was that a leg-hole? She pushed a foot through. It felt okay. After further poking about, both her feet seemed to be in the right places. She tugged the shorts up and breathed out the big gulp of air she found she'd been holding in.
Much better. Except now her most intimate part was caressed by silk that had been pressed against his most intimate part just moments before. It felt absolutely thrilling and unnerving to know that.
And his most intimate part was now lolling at ease only an arm's length away. Or maybe it was standing to attention like disgusting Gary Gorridge's used to? She closed her eyes and willed those hateful scenes away.
Too much time ticked by. Her nerves screamed. Did she have to beg Rafiq to put his trousers back on? He'd made no immediate move to.
"You'll have to help me with this."
Her eyes snapped open again. Help him with what?
Not on your life, pig.
But to her considerable relief he meant the other end of the sash. He held out his arm. She reached over with fumbling fingers and tied it around his wrist, double-knotting it as he had around hers.
And at last he grabbed the trousers from on top of the cover and pushed them down into the bed.
"This is impossible," he complained after thrashing about for a while and apparently achieving nothing. Laurel shook with silent giggles until he reached out and switched off the lamp. Then her giggles died, and she watched in horror as he stood silhouetted beside the bed in the faint glow of the moon. He stepped into the pants. A huge spike of flesh reared out in front of him, and all the terrible memories of Gary Gorridge returned to swamp her brain again.
Somehow Rafiq managed to stuff his hugeness away and haul the zipper up.
So now she wasn't in bed with a naked man---instead he was a dangerously-aroused one. She wondered which was worse as she scrambled to her far edge of the bed and lay stock-still, as distant from him as she could be without tumbling out onto the floor. How was she ever going to sleep?
Twenty minutes slid by. Laurel had never felt more awake. As she lay there beside him in the darkness, every sense became acute. The soft old bed-linen smelled of lavender. Palm-fronds swished about in the breeze, sounding quite close to the bedroom window. The glimmer of light from outside sometimes dimmed as clouds floated across the moon but she could always see Rafiq's dark outline against the pale linen, and hear his quiet breathing. To her great relief he kept his word about making no move in her direction.
She'd never shared a bed with a man before. This was new territory. Not that this was 'sharing a bed' in any accepted sense, she decided. She was being held captive. Against her will. By a man who had done terrible things to her only hours earlier.
Terrible things like treating her gently. Helping her to escape. Providing her with something to drink and directions to safety.
The thoughts buzzed around in her head like blowflies in a bottle, and she found it difficult to keep up her resentment towards the man who had---perhaps---acted more chivalrously towards her than anyone else in her life.
But really, what a ridiculous position he'd put her in. Insisting she share his bed. Tying her up as though she couldn't be trusted. Lying beside her in the pulsing darkness and taking no notice of her.
She flinched at the last strange idea her brain had conjured up.
Of course she wanted him to leave her alone! But although he'd left her body alone, her mind was another matter. There he kept intruding outrageously, and Laurel had the sneaking suspicion it was far more her fault than his.
Even without touching him, her skin detected his heat flowing across towards hers. And he'd not fallen asleep either; his breathing sounded deep and regular, but somehow not quite deep and regular enough to assure her he'd dozed off. He wasn't snoring or snuffling in the least---just lying there breathing.
Spicy cologne drifted from his skin and crisp dark hair. Sometimes it overcame the faint lavender fragrance on the sheets. She'd hated the smell of him in the van, but maybe his scent was tied so closely to that terrifying situation, and the bag and the handcuffs and his strong dominating body, that nothing would have smelled good then. Now she found it exotic and right for him.
Although, she had to remind herself yet again, he was still a disgusting terrorist who kidnapped women and held them against their will. She was not in the least attracted to him. Of course she wasn't. How could she even be thinking such ridiculous thoughts!
She found the shadowy bedroom well lit by moonlight once her eyes had accustomed themselves to the night. It was a hard, terrifying, masculine room. Who'd want guns and knives on their bedroom walls? The vague silhouettes of the highest ones were visible where he'd left them. Just as visible as his silhouette against the pale pillow if she turned her head again. She sighed and rolled over; yes---there he was.
"Not asleep, Miss Kiwi?" His voice washed over her like a husky caress in the intimate darkness.
"Are you surprised?"
"Relax and drift off, Laurel. After what you went through today you need to rest and recover."
"It was you who put me through it." She drew a deep angry breath. "Do you seriously think I can just forget an experience like that?"
"Fayez identified the wrong woman."
Laurel puffed the breath out in a sharp sound of disapproval. "And just as well. Poor Maddie would have been terrified. She's barely eighteen. Still living at home."
"And you're so much older?" She could hear the taunt in his voice, but chose to ignore it.
"Twenty-three. And I've had to be much more independent than she has."
"You left home early?"
Left home? Where was home...?
"My mother died when I was five," she said, still feeling the hurt those words always stirred up. "She wasn't married so I became a foster-child. Moved on several times. You get harder after situations like that."
"Yes..."
She heard the sorrow in his voice, and realized that he, too, had lost his home and family. But why should she sympathize? He'd kept her here against her will. He had no right to---no matter how often he claimed her life was in danger, and that other people's safety also depended on her remaining out of sight. He'd given her precious few details as to why.
"So who brought you up?" he asked, breaking into her fractured thoughts.
"I wasn't brought up, I was dragged up," she muttered. "In other people's homes, paid for by the Government. Given food and clothes. Sent to school." She fell silent, and it was some time before she spoke again. "I think my mother was ill. I have memories of her being often in bed. And in hospital before she died."
"And your father? De Courcey sounds like a French name?"
"He was a sailor, or so she said. Maybe already married to someone else. Perhaps he never existed. It's just the name on my birth certificate; I don't remember him. She might have made him up---she didn't seem to have a proper family."
Laurel could still remember the shame of it at school. No 'real' parents to attend sports days or end-of-year prize-giving evenings. No Granny and Grandpa to go and visit at weekends and talk about with school-friends on Mondays.
She tossed restlessly and felt a gentle tug on the sash that joined them.
"Sorry," she said. "Anyway, I stayed longest at the last home. Mr and Mrs Gorridge. That's why I can't stand being locked up. They locked me up all the time."
Rafiq heard the tremble in her voice. Fury? Pain? He found he wanted very much to enfold her in his arms again and comfort her, but in the intimacy of his bed this was no longer possible. On the floor, with her in tears, it had seemed permissible---indeed, necessary. But now? No way in hell!
"And no-one came to rescue you?"
"It was for my own good. No-one knew besides them."
"Locked up why? What had you done?"
"Nothing. Grown up. Got a bit prettier, I suppose. They locked me up because of their son, Gary." She moved restlessly in the bed, and again the sash tugged tight between their wrists. "I was fourteen. Not very confident."
A wave of protectiveness rushed through him, swamping every other emotion. "And the son did what exactly for you to deserve this?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm.
"He was big. Mr Gorridge was big, too. Big and fat."
Rafiq could feel she was shuddering; the mattress shook.
"Gary was out of control," she added a few seconds later, once she'd apparently gathered her courage up again. "Full of teenage hormones on the rampage. Wanted sex. Wanted sex all the time, with me. So they locked me up to keep me safe."
Rafiq stayed silent for long moments as he battled with his outrage.
"They should have locked him up," he finally grated.
"They did. He smashed his bedroom door down. Twice. They couldn't let that happen all the time. I could see that. So locking me up was the second-best option."
"Not for you."
"No," she agreed in a small sad voice.
"Every day?"
"Mostly. Unless he had football practice."
Rafiq swore under his breath.
"But what was worse..." she added after a thrumming silence. "He used...to knock on my window while I was locked in. Lots of times. And I had to look out through the glass to stop him knocking because it made Mrs Gorridge angry if she heard him banging and banging."
She turned away from Rafiq, feeling ashamed, even though she knew full well the shame should not be hers.
"And when I looked out, he would be...playing with himself," she concluded in a strangled mutter. "His 'thing' was huge and red and ugly. So you see..."
Her voice was the merest whisper now. The voice of a frightened child. "When you held me down this afternoon, it brought memories back. Being helpless and frightened. Being in a nightmare that happened again and again. I hated having to watch him, but if I didn't he'd be smashing at the window and I was frightened the glass would break and his mother would blame me for that as well as the broken door."
She sighed, and he heard the weight of huge sorrow in the soft sound.
"The thought of being locked up again tonight was just too much to bear," she added. "I'm sorry I lost it."
He reached out and found her hand. Curled his fingers around hers in friendship. And wondered what he could ever do to make amends.
The tiny movements had been going on for some time now. He'd woken instantly and lain there, alert and primed for action, even though he'd been careful to give no sign of this. He kept his eyes closed down to the merest slits in case Laurel caught their gleam in the darkness.
He watched as she slowly sat up. With infinite caution she pushed back the bedcover and rose from the bed.
He launched himself across at her like a heat-seeking missile at a bonfire, yanking her down again as she screamed with terror.
"Where the hell do you think you're going, Miss Kiwi?" he growled in fury.
He stretched one arm sideways and snapped on the lamp. The sash trailed from his wrist, but no longer from Laurel's.
She lay panting beneath him, breasts heaving, eyes huge and panicked.
"To the bathroom," she gasped. "I didn't want to wake you, but I must have had too much of that nice juice with dinner. Let me up or you'll be sorry."
His eyes bored down into hers, trying to gauge her true intentions. Was she inventing this? Grudgingly he moved aside, granting her freedom but still regarding her with extreme suspicion.
She rose with a display of hurt dignity and padded across to the bathroom. His eyes followed her slim legs all the way up to the hems of his black silk shorts.
She crept back in beside him a little later.
"You'd better tie me up again," she said, proffering the end of the sash.
"You got out of it easily enough last time."
"Yes, so I did," she said, sending him a grin that looked far from contrite. "But you don't trust me, Rafiq. Tie me up again please."
Would this work? She was certain she'd had his sympathy after telling him about Gary. He'd held her hand with such warmth and tenderness then. And somehow she hadn't felt quite so scared any longer. Now she was thrilled to hear him reply, "No Laurel, I'm sure there's no need. It was a stupid idea."
She stretched and yawned, secretly enjoying the way his eyes zoomed straight to the taut fabric of his shirt as it outlined her breasts. "That's what I thought in the first place, but you went all macho on me." She made a small show of checking her watch "Only 1.45? It's a long night, isn't it..."
She snuggled down just a fraction closer to him. She'd undone the top buttons of the shirt in the bathroom and wondered if he'd noticed. She needed to distract him, somehow put him off his guard. He'd kept glancing at her breasts during dinner. Maybe a little skin was the price she'd have to pay to divert his attention. She surely had nothing else she could bargain with, and he hadn't switched the lamp off yet.
Once again she lay there pretending obedience. He was being a well-mannered pig she had to admit, but there was no way she was willing to be kept prisoner like this. How was she going to get free?
"Tell me about your parents and your brothers," she asked. "Unless it's too painful of course." She waited, wondering if he would.
Rafiq didn't reply immediately, but after a minute or two he sighed and said "It was a long time in the past, Laurel. Time does not heal, but at least it dulls."
"Mmmm." It hadn't dulled her memories of disgusting Gary, displaying himself so close to her bedroom window.
"My father was a good man," he continued. "Firm but fair. Al Sounam prospered under his rule. The oil-fields were productive, we had excellent contracts with America and Great Britain, and there was food for everyone."
"And your mother?"
"Beautiful. Much loved. I will show you her photograph. You shall see our whole family, the way we used to be."
"You as well?"
"Of course. But you won't recognize me."
"You were seventeen---quite grown up. Of course I'll recognize you."
"I have been rebuilt," he murmured. "No-one recognizes me. That's why I can do the work I now choose to. No-one knows I'm the King's son, except a very select few. Two doctors. My uncle---who is my father's twin brother. His wife. Yasmina of course. And several men very high in the Security Service."
"And me."
"Yes---I shall have to kill you now I suppose." He lunged at her in the bed, laughing and nipping at her neck.
Laurel threw out a hand to fend him off, terrified by his unthinking proximity, and connected with the big key through his trouser pocket. It had slid backward; almost slipped onto the sheet between them. If he moved a little more...?
"You wouldn't kill me, you rescued me," she said, trying hard to keep her voice neutral. Although she was ultra-wary of men and what they might do to her, she'd started to feel safe with Rafiq now several hours had passed with no sexual attack. But the fear was so ingrained she doubted she could let her guard down completely, even if she wanted to.
"True, Laurel. I wasn't certain I was going to be able to rescue you, but things went well." He sighed and tucked an arm around her. After flinching a little, she managed to relax against his warm chest.
"It was unwise of me to tell you who I really am. I need your promise of secrecy. Although I guess no-one would believe you if you claimed to know me anyway. I no longer exist officially."
"Everyone thinks you're dead?"
"I very nearly was. The merest spark of life. I had incredible luck with my doctors. Incredible luck with the accident, I suppose. I was the only one thrown free by the explosion before the escort vehicle hit my father's car. All the others burned." His voice had become far from steady. He tightened his arm around her, sighed again, and fell silent.
"So then you were King?"
"Sadly, no Laurel. Then I was a patient, not expected to live. Or if I lived, not expected to function. I was worked on for nearly two years. There were bones to be reset and pinned, flesh re-shaped, my face to put back together. There was unending physio, clever dentistry, skin-grafts and many subsequent operations. But I was young and strong."
"And very determined."
"As you say, Laurel. I was always a determined boy. After all, I was being educated and trained to rule."
"So why are you not King by now?"
He chuckled at that. "You think my uncle stole my birthright? There's plenty of birthright to go around. That little emerald-encrusted box you were admiring would buy a reasonable city apartment."
She gasped. "And it just sits out here in the desert?"
"Where else? My mother loved it here. She could be herself, away from the constant pressures of the palace."
"So your uncle is now the King?"
"He was heir after my father's sons. He would have been King himself if my father had not given him a kick while they were together in my grandmother's womb and made him arrive second---or so he says!"
She let loose a small laugh at that.
"My uncle is a clever man," he continued. "There was so little certainty I would ever re-join the human race that he let it be known I'd died with the others. Can you imagine the constitutional problems if the nation found they still had a legal heir who was a dribbling imbecile?"
"Difficult, I suppose."
"Impossible."
"But didn't you mind?"
"I was in no state to object. And once I was on the way to mending, I could see the sense of his decision."
Laurel moved against him restlessly, turning slightly in his arms. "Your scars are visible if I look closely," she said. "But you're in amazing shape for a man who went through so much." She reached up and stroked his chest. In the warm lamplight he shone tautly muscular---hard-honed and tough. She traced her finger across a long scar as far as his nipple, thrilling at the feel of his skin.
"Aubergine," she said. "Just the right color to describe this little bit. What a contrast to my pasty fingers." She scraped her fingernail to and fro across the little mound, watching with fascination as his flesh puckered and rose up in a tiny peak.
"Your ivory fingers," he corrected in a tight voice. He glanced at his watch and eased his arm away from her shoulder. "It's nearly two, Laurel. We both need to sleep. There's no way I'll tie you up again." He snapped off the lamp.
She smiled in the darkness with secret triumph. Step One had been achieved.
He wasn't snoring, but she felt he was definitely breathing as though he was asleep now.
She tried a little stretch and murmur to see if he'd react. Nothing. Her fingers wandered towards him. There was no sign the key had fallen from his pocket yet. Softly, slowly, she investigated. Touched his trousers. Located the edge of his pocket.
He heaved out a deeper breath than usual and Laurel froze. He relaxed again and so did she. She counted out sixty long seconds before she dared to start moving again.
So lightly along his thigh.
So cautiously over the trouser fabric.
So softly along the pocket edge.
She slid a finger inside, seeking, seeking. She felt the thin split-ring the key hung from, inserted her sneaky finger through it and started to draw it free.
She got the key into the keyhole before he reared up from the bed with a torrent of husky curses, hurtled across the room, pinned her hard against the timber door with his hips, and wrapped both hands around her throat. They stood welded together, lips a heartbeat apart, both gasping with fright and frustration.
"I should strangle you," he ground out.
"Then do it," she unwisely challenged. "If you think being locked into a bedroom with you is such a great treat, it's one I can live without."
"You have no idea what you're putting in jeopardy. You have no inkling of your silliness. You can't possibly escape from here without my help." He gave a hard thrust of his hips to emphasize his words. "And if you knew what was at stake, you wouldn't try. Your life, Laurel. My life. The lives of many others."
He held her immobile, clasp far from friendly, body vibrating with fury. And then, without warning, he kissed her, hard and hungrily, before he jerked the key from the door with another rattling volley of Sounamese and strode across the room.
From that safer distance, he said "You will not stay alive in the desert, Laurel. Just because you managed to get here along the watercourse with my directions doesn't mean you'll find your own way to anywhere else with ease. If you retrace those steps you'll be going further and further from civilization. You'll have no idea which way to take in the dark. I trust you were not planning to steal the helicopter?"
She stood there astounded, reliving the sensation of his mouth on hers. The heat, the passion, the incredible surge of liquid fluttering deep in her belly.
"Why did you kiss me?" she demanded.
"What?" he asked, apparently thrown by her abrupt change of subject.
"Why did you kiss me? Just then."
"What does it matter? A man sometimes does stupid things when he's with a woman. I did a stupid thing---maybe because I've spent several frustrating hours sharing a bed with you with no prospect of further pleasure."
"Further pleasure?" she queried faintly. "Further than what?" Her lips were a hundred times more sensitized by his kiss than her fingers had been in the salon.
"Further than being able to see you, and smell you, and feel you moving about so close to me. Further than having you caress my chest as though it was nothing, and play with my nipple without thinking how arousing that can feel. Further than having you wear clothing against your skin which has been against my skin. And knowing my honor forbids me from getting closer to you."
"Lust," she sneered, flushing hot all over after hearing some of the exact things she'd been thinking herself. "All men are the same."
He dropped his flashing eyes from hers and bent to rummage in a leather briefcase which she'd not noticed until that moment. He produced the rest of the reel of thin orange polyester rope and the cigarette lighter.
"No," she gasped.
"Yes," he insisted. "Come here. Plainly I can't trust you, so we'll take care of things this way. Hold out your hand."
"Never. You can't make me."
"It would be easy Laurel. Perhaps I should stretch your arm along the floor and sit on it. No matter if I dislocated your pretty shoulder or broke your delicate wrist or burned your soft flesh. I have trained for things you're better not to think about. This is nothing."
She heard his cruel words and quailed. Yes, with a body as strong as his, such things would be possible. Meekly she held out her hand. Once again he knotted the hateful rope around her wrist and melted the ends together with care.
She watched his sculpted chest rising and falling with every fierce breath he took. He was still just in control of his anger, but she'd obviously pushed him close to his limit. Such a thought was thrilling, and raised her own heartbeat. She shouldn't be feeling so excited---so strange, so curiously powerful---even as he tied her up and stole her freedom again, but for sure the feelings were there.
She'd taken care never to be alone with a boy since Gary Gorridge had so effectively demonstrated how out-of-control a male animal was. She'd joined in the groups her flat-mates assembled for parties and movies and clubbing, but had avoided solo dates as though her life depended on it.
Now she was as solo as it was possible to be with a man---and in his room, and expected back in his bed---and tied up so she couldn't escape from him no matter how much she wanted to.
She stood close, feeling the heat radiating from him as he made a second loop on the last few inches of the rope and melted that knot. Then he moved aside to heave up a corner of the huge bed and tethered her by slipping the loop around the bed-leg. She was as helpless again as she had been in the terrifying bunker that afternoon.
She continued to stand as he lounged back on the pillows again, implacable.
"There's enough length there so you can go to the bathroom or sit at the far end of the room and sulk. Do as you please, Laurel. Or you can come back to bed with me."
"Why would I want to do that?" She spat the words at him, hating him. Hating herself for enjoying his kiss. Hating that she wanted to spin silly fantasies of how it might be if she was right there beside him and being kissed again.
"Because it is now three-fifteen and I need some sleep," he said wearily. "I have to pilot that helicopter safely at dawn. Come back to bed." He held out an arm.
With great reluctance she crept closer, seething, not trusting him or herself.
"Is the rope long enough for me to reach those knives outside the door?"
"Probably," he said with a sigh of exasperation. "Come back to bed." He made a grab and reeled her in until she was obliged to scramble up beside him.
He hauled her down against his chest and held her there, tucked her head under his chin, and dropped a small kiss onto her hair. She wriggled with annoyance.
"You're spending the rest of the night right there. And stay still or you'll find you have a most uncomfortable lump to contend with."
He snapped off the lamp.
She lay in the darkness, heart pounding, her face cradled against his shoulder. Her arm had settled around his waist. He'd twisted to wedge one of his long thighs between hers, holding her down, pressing against the silk boxers that covered her groin. She felt a fast pulse there ---his or hers?
"Rafiq," she groaned. "Let me go."
"Let you go where, Laurel? I've got you just where I want you now. If you try to escape again I'll feel you moving, never fear."
"You're disgusting."
He laughed harshly in the darkness. "I'm working on a very tough undercover mission, and you got in the way. You have no idea how difficult tonight is for me. Harder than infiltrating the insurgents. Harder that pretending to be rough with you in the van. Harder than putting you through that video circus."
"Harder than walking all that way through the desert with nothing to drink for yourself?"
She felt his slight twitch of surprise.
"You noticed, did you? Yes, probably harder than that, too."
"Why didn't you drink?"
After a short silence, he said, "I had to make it look like you'd hit me with the chair and escaped. As though only your two bottles were missing."
"As though I hit you? However was I supposed to do that?"
"A moment's inattention on my part. Long enough cord on your part. Bam." He took her hand and raised it to his brow, running her fingers over the dressing that Yasmina had so lovingly applied.
"And Nazim and Fayez hit you because I escaped?"
"I hit me. So it would look as though you had. Go to sleep Laurel. Behave this time. Please..."
He'd reduced her to shocked silence. She started to shake and finally to sob. Hot tears leaked down onto his bare chest.
"Thank-you," she whispered. "Thank-you, Rafiq." She rubbed her face against him, kissed his skin, tried to lick up her tears, and drove him mad. What was a man to do except kiss her to stop the torment of her tickling tongue? He tipped her face up and searched until he found her soft lips with his own.
Laurel murmured her surprise---a small breathy sound which served only to inflame him further.
"You should not," he murmured between lingering glides across her sweet mouth, "taste my skin unless you're willing for me to sample yours in return."
He sensed she was on the very point of pulling away. Her whole body quivered. Her heart thumped against his, and he felt her brace her hands to push herself up.
Something kept her from moving though. His mind raced with speculation as she continued to accept his slow drugging kisses and the slide of his fingers over her nape and into her hair. Finally, almost imperceptibly, she started to move her own lips against his, and a wave of sweet elation washed over him.
Only through the most rigid restraint did he pull away and settle her down against him again.
"Is that all you want?" she murmured, sounding confused. His very obvious erection now pressed hard against her hip. She undoubtedly knew what that meant.
"All I want for now, Laurel. We're both dead tired. We've looked death in the face today. We'll see what tomorrow brings."
And there's no way in hell I can make love to you while you've disgusting pictures of the fat Kiwi boy in your mind. I want you clear-headed and so turned-on that you see only me.
She lay resting close against him. Somehow, because it was Rafiq, she didn't feel so threatened any more. Worse, her body thought making love might not be so bad. There were delicious little flutters happening deep in her belly...a sweet ache in her pelvis and breasts. She closed her eyes and imagined how it would feel if he wanted to kiss her with real passion...to push himself inside her and slide and slide until he was gasping and grunting and went out of control like Gary Gorridge always had.
And, exhausted, dreamy, and trustingly wrapped in his arms, she fell deep asleep.
Rafiq's inbuilt alarm clock woke him just before dawn, and he tried to slide away from her.
Laurel lurched awake, gasped, and blinked in the faint light.
"What?" she gasped, rearing away, and then recognizing him. "It's too early. "What's the time?"
Rafiq pushed back the covers and stood, wincing as he stretched compressed muscles and aching joints. "Time I was going. I have to get the helicopter out of here before anyone sees it. I intended only to call by very fast last night, check if you were safe, and take the chopper back."
Laurel surveyed him with narrowed eyes. "So that's why you had no spare clothes? Why don't you keep some here?"
"The King's son doesn't live here. He doesn't exist. There must be nothing of mine here for anyone to find---just in case. I move in strange circles these days." He reached out and switched on the bedside lamp.
"I'll see if my clothes are dry, then," she said, levering herself up on one elbow and squinting at the sudden brightness.
"Forget it---you're not coming with me. Not today. I'll be back this evening with some clothes for you."
Laurel pouted at that, but he sounded very determined, and the bed was beautifully comfortable, especially now she didn't have to share it.
"Let Mrs. Daniels know I'm okay when you collect them?"
"You've missed the point, Laurel. Not your clothes. You've disappeared. You need to stay out of sight to buy us some more time yet. That's why I made three video clips. One now, one later, one after that."
Her breath hitched as the possible time-frame sank in.
"I have a life, Rafiq. I want to live it, thank-you!"
"You'd have no life today without me---think on that," he snapped back.
She clapped a hand across her mouth, remembering.
"You think they'd have killed me?"
"After they'd had their filthy way with you. I couldn't have prevented that without blowing my cover. The only choice I had was to get you right away from them." He rose from bed. "Wait there," he threw over his shoulder as he prowled barefoot from the room.
Despite having spent hours in his arms she was still unprepared for the sleek, hard masculinity of his body. Her drowsy eyes slid down the sinuous line of his spine, past the waistband of his crumpled trousers and on down his long legs as he moved away from her. He did not, she noticed, bother to lock the bedroom door after himself once he'd opened it.
Had their filthy way with me?
His blunt description suddenly sank in, and she collapsed back against the pillows with shock. They'd have raped her? And Rafiq had known this and got her away from them? He'd worried more about her safety than his own, and for that she was infinitely grateful. Huge shudders kept running through her as she thought of what might have happened had he not intervened and rescued her.
He returned moments later with one of Yasmina's kitchen knives and hacked carefully through the rope around her shaking wrist.
"You're safe now Laurel," he said more gently, bending to kiss her skin where the rope had left its plaited imprint. "They can't get you. And by now some of our people have probably got them."
"Where are your dinky little clippers?" she quavered.
"I buried them so Nazim and Fayez wouldn't find them when they searched me."
"Searched you?" Her eyes shot wide open.
"Of course. They weren't stupid. They saw me using them when I cut up the rope to bind you. They would have wondered if I'd cut you free as well. Hopefully they thought you took them."
It was that more than anything else which finally convinced her he was serious. She nodded her acceptance and dropped her eyes from his.
He saw the change in her. Perhaps now she would give him a measure of her cooperation?
"Eat, Laurel. Rest. Don't go wandering in the desert. Can I trust you that far?"
Her lips twitched. "Yes, My Lord Rafiq."
She said it with resignation, but at least she said it. He felt a delighted smile tug at his lips.
"Hang some of those up to pass the time once I've gone," he suggested, jerking his head at the small pile of guns and knives outside the bedroom door.
"Hang the nasty things yourself," she said. "And," she added naughtily, "surely you'll need your shirt? You said there were regulations about flying half-naked."
She knelt up in the bed and started to slip the buttons through the buttonholes as slowly as he'd done the evening before.
His eyes followed every movement of her small hands as they dropped lower and lower to reveal the valley between her breasts and then her narrow waist.
Finally she lost her nerve and turned her back on him. He pulled the shirt down her arms in a long soft caress, pushed her blonde hair aside, and dropped a chaste kiss between her shoulder-blades. She never knew what it cost him to keep his hands off her curvy bottom, so tautly displayed in his black silk shorts, as she bent away from him to hide her breasts.
Ash Winthrop, his 74-year-old face unused to anything except Brut aftershave and occasionally-remembered smears of sunscreen, eyed the make-up girl's collection with horror. A rampant stallion was nowhere near as terrifying as a big soft brush full of face powder. He'd choose flailing haunches and steel-shod hooves over 'colorless' lipstick any day.
But if this was the way to possibly track down Debs and get to meet his unsuspected granddaughter then he'd endure the process somehow. Heaven knows what poor little Laurel was enduring, handcuffed and hot and helpless.
"There---that's just evened out your skin-tones a little and disguised the odd worry-line," the make-up girl said as she removed the tissues she'd tucked into his collar to protect his shirt. "You'll be fine."
He peered into the mirror one last suspicious time and rose from the chair.
"Thank-you," he said. My granddaughter would be about your age. That's what all this bother is about."
"I'm sure you'll help find her. Best of luck."
A bossy young man with an alarming haircut led him through to the green room and eventually the studio. Ash stopped, thunderstruck, as the reality of what he'd lost wrenched at his heart. They'd enlarged one of his photos of Debs and projected it so it filled half the wall behind the interview chairs. On the other half was a shot of Laurel from the ransom demand---matching in every way except for the red cap. Apart from the graininess of the older shot they could have been the same young woman.
He clutched at his chest, breathless for a moment. The world had stolen both his darling daughter and his unknown granddaughter, but hopefully not for much longer. He squared his shoulders for the ordeal ahead. He was going to get his girls.
Yasmina knocked on the bedroom door and waited for Laurel to invite her in. The master had sometimes brought his ladies out to the lodge to swim or ride, but never before had he invited one to stay the night.
He was a handsome and powerful man with an undoubtedly healthy libido. There were certainly women in his life, so his old nanny presumed he confined his lovemaking to the city apartment. He'd granted this foreign girl very special treatment though. Yasmina was mightily intrigued.
"Yes?" came a small voice.
She pushed the door open to find Laurel reclining against the pillows with the sheets pulled high around her neck.
Yasmina carried in the beautifully-set tray and lowered it onto a chest beside the bed. She'd prepared Earl Grey tea in the Queen's favorite Royal Doulton teapot, small sugar-crusted ball-shaped biscuits, and spicy nut-filled envelopes of crisp pastry. How long it seemed since she'd last done this for her old mistress.
She gathered up a stray bath-towel from the floor and took it out to the laundry, returning with Laurel's washed and iron jeans, T-shirt and underwear. She placed the pile of neatly-folded garments on the end of the bed next to the beautiful embroidered robe---her most prized possession.
What a shame the master's lady didn't speak Sounamese! Yasmina itched to know why and how she'd arrived out of thin air. And why she wore such plain and practical clothing, too. Her own daughter and granddaughter had much prettier things.
She'd brought her precious souvenir from the Queen across to the lodge so Laurel would have something to wear while her clothes were drying. How many times had she seen Her Majesty in that beautiful gauzy robe? It brought back floods of wrenching memories of the happy family she'd served with eager obedience until eleven years ago. The huge tragedy of their deaths still hung in the air all around her. Only the young master remained, and that was a miracle she often thanked her God for.
Last night he'd been in the mood for games; he'd covered his lady up with his own shirt, and then she'd hidden her legs with the towel. Hopefully they'd enjoyed removing them later in privacy...
Somewhere in the late afternoon Laurel heard a powerful vehicle swoosh to a halt outside the wall. Should she be frightened?
A door slammed shut and Rafiq strode through the gate, impatience and anticipation in every line of his tall body.
"Laurel," he bellowed.
She stood from where she was resting, half-hidden in the shade of the feathery Casuarina tree. Yasmina had kept her well-supplied with food and juice. Her husband Malik had produced a pile of ancient magazines, including several very old French Vogues which surely must date well back into Rafiq's mother's time. She'd found them curiously absorbing. The glamorous people portrayed in the glossy pages were far removed from anyone she'd ever met...any life she'd ever lived.
She saw Rafiq visibly relax when he noticed her in the shadows.
"I rejoice you're here," he said, taking her by the elbows and pulling her up hard against him. He dropped his dark head and nipped her bottom lip.
She gasped. On her indrawn breath she could taste his musky dangerous masculinity, his absolute possession. Somehow, late in the strange magic night his kisses had been permissible, but she'd expected daylight would evaporate the dream to dust. His mouth wandered to her top lip, enclosed it, sucked gently, slid softly away. Every one of her nerve-ends purred.
"So you have seen sense and not tried to escape again."
"I've been biding my time and hatching a plan," she countered, still overcome by his sudden presence.
He drew back from her, his imperious face like thunder. His dark brows pulled down in a ferocious frown. His long nose flared with a very equine snort. His black eyes scorched her. He was once again close to the man who'd scared her witless in the bunker and she didn't like it.
She poked him in the ribs. "Only kidding," she said, hoping he'd lighten up.
"Not a subject for jokes." He allowed her a very slight smile.
"So where's your helicopter?"
"I gave it back. I bought another car the same as Malik's so any surveillance will show nothing untoward."
"You bought another one to match?"
He shrugged as though it was of no importance.
"I bought you clothes as well. Come and see." He led her out to the big white SUV and its cargo of bags and boxes.
"How long do you think you're keeping me here?" she wailed as the sheer quantity of his purchases sank in.
"Two weeks?"
"Two weeks! What am I supposed to do in this godforsaken place for a fortnight?"
He straightened and drew an affronted breath. "It's a lovely place, a peaceful place. And I bought you books in English," he added, unloading a small carton of the latest releases and thrusting them in front of her to inspect. "We can ride, and swim. And relax," he added in a softer voice.
"In the desert?"
"In my oasis. So you really have been a good girl and not gone exploring?"
She shook her head. "I was a bit too tired."
"Too much desert marching and cliff-climbing?"
"Not enough sleep!"
"And whose fault was that?"
"Yours, absolutely. Locking me up like that, and then tying me up and...unsettling me." She dropped her eyes from his, knowing she'd be pink with an unwanted blush in a few seconds. Already she could feel the heat rushing up her neck.
Rafiq set the books down and cradled her face in his hands so he could tilt it up toward his.
"Unsettling you?" he murmured. "You can't begin to imagine how 'unsettled' I was, Laurel. Holding you in my arms all night...telling you personal things I've told no-one else...needing to justify my behavior to you." He heaved a deep sigh. "Entrusting you with secrets I should not have let slip. My life is now in your hands."
"I won't tell anybody."
"No---because you'll be hidden away here, and I shall accompany you all the time until it's safe for you to leave Al Sounam."
"But my job? I love it---I can't just walk out on Mrs. Daniels and the children."
"You'll be compensated." His voice was flat and unemotional. "It's far too dangerous for you to stay in Al Sounam. Your face has been on our top TV channel's main news bulletin. People will remember you. It was quite a performance you gave---you were no meek little captive. You spat like a hellcat, and you were wonderfully photogenic."
"I was terribly annoyed."
He collapsed into laughter and pulled her against his chest, turning her head so it lay just under his chin. He tugged gently at her pony-tail.
"Terribly annoyed," he repeated. His hands smoothed down over her back, stroking and soothing her. "Laurel, I have seen other people in the same situation. They are petrified, and silent, and shocked---and they try to be cooperative and conciliatory. You fought us with no thought for your safety. You were magnificently angry."
"I suppose I was very silly."
"I suppose you were too...but you made great TV. And that's one of the reasons why you must leave my country. You're too identifiable. You're now a target for the insurgents. They hope you're dead, but if you're seen, and heaven forbid, captured again---they'll make you talk."
"No!"
"Yes. Easily. And that will lead them to me and to our other undercover operatives. We've put nearly two years of work into this particular cell. Long, slow, careful work. We're so close. If your freedom has to be curtailed for a few weeks and you get deported to the other side of the world afterwards, that's a very small price to pay."
She glanced up at him, her vivid blue eyes intent on his for long seconds.
"Are you in danger too?"
"That's my choice, and I'm trained for it."
"So how much longer will you do this awful work?"
"It's not awful, little one---it's vitally important to my country. And I shall probably do it until I'm dead, or until they are."
"The Nazims and the Fayezes and all their friends?"
"They kill and they maim and they destroy order. Car-bombs...land-mines...you have no idea in your peaceful homeland how bad it can be in this part of the world. We don't want them hiding in Al Sounam while they regroup to do more evil in the neighboring lands."
Suddenly he twisted his head back to stare at the sky, and listened, alert as a wild animal.
"They're looking for you," he said, tugging her in through the gate and under the dark Casuarina tree again.
Seconds later she sensed it too---the faint beat of helicopter rotors in the distance.
"Have you heard this before?" he demanded. His fingers gripped her arms hard enough to bruise them.
She shook her head, trying not to flinch. Surely he was exaggerating? But as they listened, the engine note changed as though the machine had altered direction.
"You're sure, Laurel?"
"Absolutely sure. Of course I'm sure---I would have thought it was you coming back here. I'd have noticed that."
"Stay right here. Out of sight." He released her and made a dive towards the vehicle again. She watched as he pushed the bags down between the seats and threw a travel rug over them.
"They'll never see those," she scoffed. "And what if they do?"
He strode the few steps back to her and pulled her against him again. She could feel the steady thumping of his heart through the hard wall of his chest and the thin fabric of his shirt.
"You know the power of military binoculars do you Laurel? Their magnification and range? Yasmina's no fashion plate---those boutique bags are a total giveaway there's a guest at the lodge---a woman needing clothes. If they come nearer, those bags have to be out of sight."
He stared up through the feathery foliage, angling his head to hear more clearly. Again it seemed there was a change in the faraway sound.
"One machine. Grid-search. Not going to be close for a few minutes. Let's get you and those bags inside. Then you can see all the pretty things I've bought you."
"How do you know they're going to fit?" she demanded, wriggling out of his arms, pulling the car door open and dragging several of the shiny bags into the sunshine. He gathered up the rest and shepherded her inside the lodge and through to her bedroom.
"I phoned Yasmina to find out the sizes on your clothes."
He watched her eyes as if waiting for the explosion.
"You said there was no phone! No reception!"
"I lied. Forgive me." He looked so amused that no forgiveness was anywhere in sight. "Excuse me for just one moment Laurel."
She stood watching as he keyed a code into his rapidly-produced phone and began a short intense conversation in melodious Sounamese. From his alert expression and no-nonsense manner she concluded he was sending orders or requesting instant action on something.
"Of course we have a satellite phone," he said after concluding his conversation. "And solar power for the lighting and hot water. We may be miles from civilization but we're not in the dark ages."
"And I suppose there was a car here last night too---Malik's car? He could have driven me back to Kalal."
"I chose that he did not."
"Because it didn't suit your war-games?"
"Hardly games, Laurel---as you can hear from that search going on. But yes, it didn't suit me."
"So you dragged me into bed with you."
"I have never 'dragged' a woman into my bed."
She stared at him for a few seconds. At his midnight eyes and proud bearing and undeniable aura of power. No---he would never need to drag them. They'd probably form an orderly queue...
She didn't want to think too much about them, either. No doubt they were the exotic beauties from the capital, or further afield in the Middle East and Europe. He might spare her an occasional kiss or caress, but Laurel knew he was just softening her up to keep her obedient to his wishes. She had no illusions she was anything but a girl who'd ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She was a nanny, a foreigner, with no known family or impressive pedigree. Rafiq would never have looked twice at her if she'd not been mistaken for Maddie and he'd been forced to make the best of her for his filming charade.
He'd been aroused in bed the night before, but not interested enough to respond to her tentative invitation after setting her alight with his kisses.
She knew what men wanted, and they wanted it as often as they could get it, to judge by Gary Gorrige's repulsive example. Rafiq could plainly pick and choose---and he hadn't chosen her, even when she'd almost been willing and he'd very definitely been able.
She sighed, cast her eyes down and followed him into the lodge. Moments later she drew a tissue-wrapped nightdress from one of the glossy bags.
"I didn't need this," she exclaimed. She held it up by its tiny spaghetti-thin straps to reveal cinnamon-colored silk with swirls of matching lace at the hem.
"You looked so good in my shirt last night I thought I'd find you something the same shade." His voice flowed warm and husky now---such a contrast to his recent phone-call. "You prefer to sleep naked?" He didn't seem to be joking.
She shook her head, worried he'd picture her nude, doubly-worried about how much he seemed to have spent. Was money really of no importance to him? Surely money was always important, even if you had plenty. The nightdress danced in the slight breeze from the open window, mocking her concern. She folded it up again with reverence.
He reached for another of the bags and tipped the contents out onto the bed.
"Unpacking first, or coffee?"
For Laurel, who'd never shopped on this scale, it was no contest. "Unpacking please, extravagant Lord Rafiq." She didn't try to hide her cheeky smile as she gently mocked his title. And then, because she simply couldn't help herself, she asked, "Did you really buy a whole new car?"
"You're not thinking of trying to steal the keys, I hope?"
"Nooooo..." she murmured, thinking exactly that.
"I shall put them where you'll never find them. And I have instructed Malik to do the same with his. So---unpack and tell me what you think."
She blew out a frustrated breath. There seemed to be entirely too much clothing, but she felt thrilled to have something new, and relieved to have anything else to change into at all. What had he chosen for her---or had he handed that boring task to a saleswoman or a female friend? Not a close female friend, she hoped.
She was astonished when Rafiq sat on her bed, ankle over knee, as though expecting to enjoy a fashion parade.
"I'm not trying everything on for you," she objected.
He waved a languid hand as if it was of no concern, and then surprised her by asking, "Do you swim in a bikini or a one-piece? I got both, not knowing."
"Swim?" she queried. "Here?"
"The stream you followed is fed by underground springs which created a small private lake. It was the reason my grandfather chose this site for the lodge."
She thought about slipping into clear cool water with Rafiq, imagining him wearing only swimming briefs while she was barely clad as well, and she turned away in pink confusion.
"Either," she muttered. "Whatever fits."
She'd expected perhaps another pair of jeans and some T-shirts and new trainers. When she opened the bags it was to find a profusion of flowing ankle-length skirts and wide-legged trousers and graceful eastern-style tunics. The exotic fabrics and colors were straight from top designer boutiques. She ran her fingers over the glowing garments with disbelief. This was all for her?
She also discovered cobweb-fine lace underwear the like of which she'd never imagined owning, another silk nightgown, and several pairs of jeweled sandals. Then riding boots and a black-and-white polka-dotted bikini and a sleek blue swimsuit.
She turned to Rafiq in consternation as she held the swimsuit against herself.
"To match your eyes," he said.
"You've bought far too much."
He rose and crossed to the window, listening intently.
"They're somewhere this side of Akajar by the sound of things. And getting closer."
Laurel still felt far too overcome by the magnitude of his purchases to be worried about the helicopter.
"I thought you meant some new T-shirts," she muttered. "Where am I supposed to wear all these things?"
"In the King's house---where else? I'll enjoy seeing you looking beautiful."
She scuffed her foot against the floor and then angled her head up as the helicopter's noise grew more distinct.
"You really expect they're looking for me?"
He nodded grimly. "Someone has been sent to search for you. Think, Laurel. Have you left anything outside---anything that might indicate you're here?"
"Magazines, maybe---but they're under the tree."
"Close these shutters to be safe. I'll be back in a few minutes." He spun away from the window and strode from the room, calling for Yasmina.
Laurel did as he'd asked and started to stow her new clothes away, listening all the time to the distant thudding of the rotors as they thwacked through the burning air above the desert. It was all too easy to picture her body, sunburned and peeling, dead of dehydration, sprawled alone in the empty vastness.
The monotonous muttering continued in the background, changing note every minute or so. She imagined the machine sweeping backwards and forwards with the sun glinting and flashing off it as it turned, steadied, continuing its inexorable progress over the sand and rocks.
Rafiq's rapid steps broke her train of thought.
"Come," he invited, thrusting out his hand. It seemed she had no option but to follow---along the hall, around a bend, and up an unexpected staircase concealed by a heavy fringed curtain.
He urged her up the narrow steps, suddenly all business.
"Keep back from the glass," he cautioned as she headed towards the view.
They'd reached a lookout tower---a round room big enough to contain several rattan chairs and a great many books. At least a dozen long windows pierced the thick walls, shielded by curtains sheer enough to admit soft light.
Stand here," he added more gently, drawing her back against his chest and angling her so she could peek though the tiny opening beside the fabric. The desert stretched harsh and inhospitable to the horizon, pale under the baking sun. Below them, Yasmina hung out washing in the courtyard garden.
"Won't they see her?" Laurel asked.
"If they get close enough to inspect the lodge in detail it would be entirely appropriate to see a servant at work; one who gazes upwards at their noise," Rafiq murmured. "If she was not there, it would be much more suspicious." He dropped a soft kiss onto Laurel's hair. "Can you see it?" he whispered close against her ear.
She felt his warm breath on her skin, then his long fingers brushing her hair aside and his teeth nipping at the nape of her neck. An exquisite tremor of sensation washed the length of her body.
"Not if you keep doing that," she objected---hearing the giveaway quaver in her voice.
He chuckled behind her, and drew the curtain fractionally further aside.
"There---low against the horizon."
The sun flashed on the dancing helicopter as it changed direction in the shimmering air.
"I've arranged a little surprise for our trespassers," Rafiq said. "One you might find exciting."
His hands slid around her waist and his thighs pressed against the backs of hers.
"Trespassers?"
"They're over private land."
She was momentarily distracted from his body's intimate pressure.
"But who would want it? It's so bare and rubbishy. Nothing will ever grow on it." The myriad lush greens of New Zealand swam through her brain like a mirage.
"I would want it, Laurel. It's my land. Its riches lie underneath."
"Oil?" How silly she'd not thought of something so obvious.
"As you say. The geological surveys are all done, but the Royal Estates will be the last areas of the Kingdom to be put into production."
"How much land is yours?"
"How much land can you see?"
She closed her eyes and nodded slowly. No wonder a duplicate car and a few new clothes meant nothing.
"And somewhere out there they hope to find you," he murmured. "To establish I was telling them the truth---that you escaped into the desert to die of heat and thirst."
"But they won't find me," she said in sudden panic. "And that puts you in danger, doesn't it!" She twisted in his arms, eyes wide.
"Watch and listen," he soothed. "They've no doubt over-paid some unscrupulous contractor to fly where he knows he has no right to. He'll be given a lesson that will dissuade him from doing so again, long before he can cover all the area he needs to. Do you hear my surprise yet?"
His dark eyes fixed on hers. One eyebrow quirked up in inquiry. And an instant later the combined assault of a trio of low-flying jet fighters pulverized the drowsy peace of the tower. Laurel screamed in panic and threw herself against Rafiq's chest as the whole lodge reverberated with the intensity of it.
The thunderous roar surrounded them for only a few seconds before it rolled on out into the desert toward the hapless helicopter. In disbelief she pushed herself away from Rafiq and peered through her narrow spy-gap again. The dark needle-nosed planes shot across the sky in close formation, dipped, turned, circled, and surrounded the intruder.
"You'll be the least of their worries now," he said with satisfaction.
"You did this?"
"Nice toys to have at my disposal?"
She glanced back over her shoulder. His grin was as carefree as a small boy's.
"Now that annoyance is out of the way, we'll go riding," he said a few minutes later as he led her back down the stairs to her bedroom. "Your jeans will be fine for that."
He plucked up the new boots.
"Riding?" she quavered. "Horses? I've never been on one. I don't know how."
"If you can face down a gang of terrorists you can certainly ride my mother's placid old mare. It was one of the chief pleasures my parents had---coming here and riding free and unobserved like ordinary citizens."
And with that Rafiq swept her outside again, through the gate, past another much smaller house which she'd discovered was Yasmina and Malik's, and to the block of stables and garages.
They walked in from the blinding sun to a half-dark world scented with hay and leather and dust
The horses whickered in greeting. To Laurel they looked enormous.
"Do they live here all the time?"
"For many years. It has been their home forever. This beautiful black gelding was my father's." He drew close, patted the gleaming muscled neck and murmured endearments in Sounamese. "And this is Azizah, my mother's mare. Come, Laurel. Let her know you." He took her hand and laid it on the mare's warm flank.
"Azizah" she repeated, trying to appear much braver than she felt.
"It means 'precious'. She was very precious to my mother. And he is Muzaffar, which you would translate as...'victorious'."
"Black for the King, white for the queen?"
"Azizah is a grey. Grey horses grow whiter as they age. Yes, she's almost completely white now," he added, keeping Laurel's hand under his own and rubbing it to and fro over the mare. "Yasmina and Malik exercise them every day if I can't. We all wear the same robes, so even to a trained observer the riders appear identical. If anyone is watching, they'll see nothing different."
"Do you really need to be so careful?"
"I choose to be," he said in a tone that didn't invite further discussion.
Malik had already saddled both mounts. Rafiq helped Laurel into her boots.
"Wear this," he said, unhooking a traditional robe from a line of pegs and enveloping her in it.
"You said there was nothing I could wear last night," she accused. "This would have covered me."
"It smells of horse. I would not have taken you to my bed in this."
"You wouldn't have had to take me to your bed at all if you'd been kind and reasonable and not tried to lock me in the other room."
"Kind and reasonable?"
She took an involuntary step backwards at his softly threatening tone.
"Kind and reasonable," she repeated, chin up in defiance.
"Rescuing you from those thugs and directing you to the safety of the lodge was not kind? Ensuring you did not wander again into the hostile desert was not reasonable?"
"Telling me nothing wasn't kind."
"I told you everything. I told you much more than I should have---more than I've ever told anyone."
She tipped her head on one side and glared at him.
"Making me stay in your bed wasn't reasonable. I got no sleep at all."
"And I got even less, worrying the whole night you would slip from my arms and try something stupid with one of the guns. They're not loaded, by the way."
She huffed out an annoyed breath.
"I had a knife in mind for you. A nice sharp little knife, just about here." She prodded his chest.
He grasped her small hand and moved it. "Here. Here's where you need to stab me. Remember that so you get it right. I'd rather not be abandoned half-dead."
His face was impassive, but she caught the sexy twinkle in his eyes. Without warning he dipped his head and gave her a small swift kiss on her surprised lips.
"What a delicious temptation you are, Miss Kiwi. I need to cover your pretty mouth up so I'm not always looking at it and thinking of doing this." He bent again; for a softer more languid assault, and Laurel's legs turned to jelly as he explored her lips with the tip of his tongue. Instinctively, she rose up on her toes, clung to his shoulders, and began to seek his tongue with her own. The thrilling sensations intensified as she found it. Their flesh slid together, and her previously quiescent body tingled and flamed into a dazzling firestorm.
So men can be like this?
In her limited experience they were bullies or fools or animals. Disgusting Gary's exhibitions had turned her off sex more surely than any lecture by a well-meaning doctor or social worker could have done, but Rafiq...?
He finally drew away with a rueful smile and a sigh.
"You might just make me forget we're here to go riding," he said, voice husky.
Laurel jerked back, embarrassed. How could she have forgotten she was his captive, and that he refused to set her free? She'd fallen into his arms so easily---totally inappropriate behavior for a prisoner to show her jailer. She wrinkled her nose and turned away from his gorgeous eyes.
Get your act together Laurel!
Rafiq reached for her head-cloth and showed her how to adjust it so it protected as much of her face as possible.
"That'll keep you safe from me, you blue-eyed blonde temptress," he said. But her still-quivering nerves told her safety was a long way distant, and anyway she was no longer sure she wanted to be safe from his potent sexuality.
She watched with fascination as he donned his own robe and head-cloth. He left his face uncovered.
"You can wear yours like this now you're out of my reach," he said. "You won't be galloping today."
He led the horses out and helped her to mount, apparently enjoying the excuse this gave him to touch her again. Laurel flinched as his hands cupped her bottom to boost her up. He adjusted her stirrups and showed her how to hold the reins.
"Your feet, Laurel," he said, gripping her around an ankle, "go like this." He pushed her heel lower than her toe. "Hold your legs securely around her, but don't squeeze---and move with her, not against her. If you want her to move forward, then you squeeze with your lower legs."
"Squeeze for forwards," she repeated.
"If you need her to stop, pull gently on the reins and she'll know what you mean. To turn, swivel your upper body in the direction you want and this will send your signal down the reins to her." He swung up onto Muzaffar and they left the stable-yard at a sedate walk.
She found the first few minutes terrifying. Azizah seemed so high, so huge, so unsteady. Laurel got joggled backward and forward, although the gentle horse was only sauntering along. Even Azizah seemed surprised by her squeaks of dismay. She swung her big head around and glanced back with her luminous fringed eyes.
"Hold tighter. Don't let her turn," Rafiq reminded.
They walked the horses out across the sand and down through a grove of palms to a sparkling rush-edged lake. Two white birds flapped out of the greenery and honked their disapproval at being disturbed. Azizah danced a step or two sideways, and Laurel leaned lower and clung on.
"I'm getting better," she called with delight once the mare was steady again.
Rafiq looked across at her, enjoying her reaction. How long since he'd felt so carefree? When had he last seen such a mixture of trepidation and excitement as he now saw in her vivid blue eyes?
Suddenly his undercover work seemed just a little less important, and the constant adrenalin high he'd lived for the last several years revealed itself as a weary necessity rather than an exhilarating rush.
But he knew his desire for vengeance still burned deep and hot.
He turned the horses back towards the stables after twenty minutes or so.
"Already?" she asked.
"I'll put you in Malik's good care," he said. "He taught me to ride---now he can help you. His English is adequate for such instruction."
Laurel's spirits fell a little. She'd been enjoying the time so much so didn't want to stop. Malik had been kind to her earlier, bringing her the magazines, and showing her to the comfortable lounger under the Casuarina tree---but his face was so savage, his nose as curved as an eagle's beak, his silver beard bristling---that she'd felt far from at ease with him.
"And what are you going to do?"
"Ride like the wind."
Rafiq's white teeth gleamed in his dark face, and she could sense his anticipation. Her breath hitched as he adjusted the head-cover over his face and transformed himself to a man from ancient times---mysterious and fierce. Now she could see only the hard glint of his eyes.
He was thrilling.
A few seconds later he whirled the gleaming black horse around, and with an exultant and spine-tingling yell galloped off at high speed. Laurel watched until he was a dot in the distance and then she became Malik's obedient pupil.
That evening, dressing for dinner presented more of a challenge. Laurel had stowed away all her beautiful new clothes once the riding lesson was over. She'd queried why the light-level in her bedroom was lower than Rafiq's, and felt unsophisticated when he twirled a dimmer switch and corrected the problem. But how the fabrics glowed under the brighter lights!
Underwear was easy---the sheer black half-cup bra and tiny matching panties with bows of pale pink ribbon had made her catch her breath the moment she'd unwrapped them. She checked her reflection in the big mirror. Yikes---she needed a bit more than half a cup, but half a cup was all that existed. My cups runneth over, she thought with a giggle. So---something more concealing on top...
Eventually she settled for a long tiered peacock-blue skirt with little strings and fringes of iridescent beads that swished and swung as she moved, and a matching tunic top with a modest v-neck and beaded buttons down the front.
There were backless gold sandals, and she'd discovered a velvet bag containing a generous heavy handful of chains and other baubles which she feared were the real thing. She sorted through them and chose a pair of glittering drop earrings.
Definitely more suitable for the King's house than last night's shirt and bath-towel ensemble.
She finger-combed her newly-washed hair and investigated the expensive travel kit of cosmetics and perfumes she'd found in one of the bags. Shyly she made her way out towards the kitchen.
Yasmina became extremely voluble at Laurel's renovated appearance. There was much broad smiling and eye-rolling and ai-ai-ai-ing, and then she dashed away and returned with a hairbrush. She motioned Laurel to sit and proceeded to brush out her hair.
Rafiq's deep voice intruded only seconds later.
"The ideal job for me," he said, directing a few more words at Yasmina and taking over. "I thought your hair was beautiful the moment I saw it. So long and pale---so different from mine. How could I forget to buy you a hairbrush?"
"Our hair is black and white, like the horses," Laurel said.
"So you are Azizah, and definitely 'precious'. But will I, Muzaffar, be 'victorious'?" came his query from behind her.
"I didn't mean that," she protested. "You know I didn't."
"But perhaps I did?" She heard the amusement in his voice as he continued to run the brush through her hair, lifting the long strands to dry in the warm air. "I stroked your beautiful hair in the van so you might feel soothed," he confessed, "but it was for my own pleasure, too."
"It didn't soothe me," she murmured. "It scared me witless. I had no idea what plans you had for me. And you kept touching me and touching me---my hair, my arm."
"I always had your best interests at heart, Laurel. You were like a small scared animal I planned to somehow rescue."
"And you did. I owe you my life."
The brush continued to run over her scalp and down through her hair in dreamy strokes. It felt utterly luxurious and cosseting. No-one had ever brushed her hair like this. Foster parents had sometimes given it a rough toweling when she was young. Hairdressers waved a dryer at it when she had her ends trimmed. But this sensuous pleasure was seriously arousing. Her whole body became super-aware of his attention; of his hands, of his supple torso so close behind her, of his spicy cologne and husky voice.
"What a shame," he said, "that your hair will get wet again when we swim tonight."
So he really means it? He expects me to put on that bikini or the swimsuit and go down to the lake with him?
"I could tie it up," she said, managing to find a nonchalant tone from heaven-knows-where.
"Or I could brush it dry again for you...?"
"I suppose you could," she replied, knowing that her voice was going to become a great deal less steady if she thought of his body half-naked and his hands in her hair---or more likely on her skin.
As though reading her mind, he lifted her long tresses with the brush and pressed a soft kiss onto her nape. The touch of his lips sent shivers of anticipation rocketing down her spine.
Her indrawn breath made him smile and close his eyes. She'd be delicious if coaxed gently and surely to abandon herself to him. Already she'd demonstrated she was a truly sensual being---her response to his kiss in the stables had been instinctive and generous, and now she was sighing with pleasure as he brushed her beautiful hair.
As compensation for the hideous kidnapping and the horrible exhibitions by her foster-brother, Rafiq was willing to proceed with infinite restraint, melting her caution, allaying her suspicions, drawing her ever closer to desiring him. He pictured craving and confusion warring in her vivid blue eyes...until the craving won and he advanced another step.
She was exquisite---a true test of his manhood because of her vulnerability and desperately low expectations. Taking a woman to his bed was pleasurable, yes---but withholding his own pleasure to give and give and give to her until she screamed for him; that was the ultimate challenge---and his ultimate reward as well.
"Perhaps the swimming's not a good idea?" she asked.
He felt his dream puncture...his plan shatter.
"The swimming," he murmured, bending to kiss her nape a second time, "is an excellent idea. The moon will be full, the water in the lake has been warmed by a long day's sun, and we can take all the time we want to enjoy ourselves. There's no need for an early start tomorrow."
He kissed her a third time---brushing his lips a little lower to where her neck met her tunic collar---and was rewarded by definite trembling. His spirits rose. Taking her by storm would be easy, but taking her by stealth would be sensational.
He swept the brush through her hair several more times, and laid it aside as Yasmina approached.
"I have set two places at the big dining table, My Lord Rafiq."
"Thank-you, Yasmina. Will you serve in five minutes?"
"I will, My Lord. And your lady is very beautiful in her new clothes."
He inclined his head and smiled.
"Come," he said to Laurel, holding out a hand for hers. "Yasmina's decided we look fit for the formal dining room tonight."
"We certainly didn't last night," she replied. "Me in your shirt, you in no shirt." She rose to stand, and he pulled back the chair for her. As she turned, she got her first proper look at him and her mouth fell open. Black tuxedo, snowy white dress shirt, velvet bow tie.
"Rafiq!"
"Laurel..." His eyes danced with merriment as he enjoyed her surprise. "The Lodge deserves a little grandeur." He surveyed her slowly from top to toe, noting her touches of make-up, her long drift of hair against the regal clothes he'd provided, her small feet in the jeweled golden sandals.
The desire to possess her streaked through him sharp as a sword. Smokey hunger flared in his eyes, replacing the merriment in a split second. His former resolution slipped a notch or two; she was so bewitching he wanted her on any terms at all. Could he bear to wait?
He enclosed her hand in his and led her through the house to the softly-lit dining room.
"Yasmina is match-making," he said, amused, as he surveyed the romantic table setting with its bowl of fragrant red roses and flickering candles.
"Between the jailer and his captive?" Laurel queried, trying to put some distance between them. If she'd thought him gorgeous the night before, now he was magnificent. The candle-light cast dramatic shadows over his imperious face. His eyes were blacker than ever, and the mouth she'd initially thought so cruel looked softer now, and warm. He tugged her hand and unbalanced her---she thudded against his chest and into his arms.
"You are not my captive," he grated. "But if that's what you want to think, then consider it this way." His mouth descended upon hers and she felt exactly how soft, exactly how warm his lips were.
He kissed her with ravishing thoroughness---slowly and deeply. She had no idea quite when she parted her lips for him, or when she welcomed his tongue to answer her explicit invitation to slide against her own, or how her hands came to be clenched in his hair, pulling him down greedily so she could sink deeper and deeper into the passion sweeping right through her.
His hands smoothed down over her back and away.
"Now who is the captive?" he demanded against her lips. And Laurel was devastated to find his arms were held wide open, and it was she who was holding him, clinging to him, demanding and desperate...wanting their embrace to last long enough for her to sample all his flavors and textures, all his strength and fiery determination, all his pride and tradition and potent male magic.
Gasping, she pushed away. He wrapped his arms back around her instantly, pulled her hard against him and then fisted his hands in her hair.
"I am not your jailer---you come to me of your own free will," he whispered beside her ear. His hot breath scorched her neck. Then he set his teeth delicately into her earlobe and sucked at the earring threaded there. The combined assault of teeth and tongue had her entire nervous system re-ignited in an instant.
"Let me go!" she exclaimed, not wanting him to release her in the slightest. She'd never felt like this before. The previous night in his bed seemed tame by comparison. Last night there'd been the pretence of keeping her safe, but this embrace flamed with long fiery banners of danger. It was as if she was surrounded by heat and light; as though her senses were being rearranged into one long stream of wanting.
He chuckled and let his lips slide away from her ear. "Let you go? Only for now, Laurel," he murmured. "Only for now."
He drew out a dining chair and waited for her to seat herself, then shook one of the starched napkins from its folds and laid it across her lap as though he was an attentive waiter. His fingers caressed her thigh as he moved the white damask into place.
He seated himself at the head of the table---at right angles to her. Yasmina had set the two places at one end of the polished expanse of timber. His long legs stretched out and locked around one of her ankles.
"Mine again," he said.
And she could not protest or struggle free because Yasmina arrived at that instant with the first of several delicious courses.
"Tell me about your home," he suggested once they were alone again and eating. He forced himself to turn down the pressure so his seduction could proceed in tiny increments, building with infinite slowness until he'd made the very air around them start to hum with breathless wanting.
"My home? I don't have one," she said with a defensive little shrug. "I was fostered with different families and did my childcare training as soon as I was eligible."
She cast her eyes down to the tablecloth and he saw the spiky shadows of her long lashes on her cheeks. She'd tinted her eyelids a gentle shade of aqua. Make-up, or her own delicate blue veins?
"They arranged for me to live in a student hostel for a while, and then I went flatting with three other girls and worked in different homes in Wellington. Which is a beautiful city---built on hills all around a circular harbor with two quite big islands. But the harbor entrance can be dangerous for shipping when there's a gale blowing---and there often is." Her face softened, remembering. "I mostly tied my hair back, out of the wind."
"I like it loose---as you have it tonight."
He reached over and curled his fingers around and around one of the strands until she had either to lean close to him, or complain he was hurting. He kissed her softly on her cheekbone and released her just as slowly by letting her hair slide back through his fingers. Laurel drew away with a small sideways glance at him, confused as to whether she was supposed to stay close.
"And New Zealand?" he asked, as though the devastating caress had never happened. "I hear it's very fertile."
"A lot of grass," she agreed faintly. "Millions of sheep. Lots of cows. Butter and cheese. Nothing like here at all. No sandy desert."
Her descriptions came in the briefest bursts as she stumbled to find suitable words to describe her homeland. "Lovely beaches," she added. "More coastline I think than anywhere else in the world."
"But it is not a big country, surely?"
"Small. But long and thin. It must be 'more coastline for its land area', or something. Stop doing that..."
"Stop doing what? I'm doing nothing." He set down his fork and looked innocently at his empty hands.
"Rubbing my ankle."
"Like this?" he asked, increasing the pressure of his legs around hers.
"Yes. Stop it."
"But you like it."
"Yes. No. Not while I'm eating."
"But you're hardly eating at all, Laurel." His voice was soft and amused.
"Because you're doing that to my leg. It's very distracting."
"Rubbing your ankle is distracting?" His eyebrows lifted with a brief suggestive twitch. "What if I was rubbing you here?" One of his hands disappeared below the splendid table-top. "No!" she gasped, before his fingers had even made contact.
"Where did you have in mind?"
"Nowhere. Nowhere at all."
"But that was such a definite 'no', you must have been imagining somewhere?"
She sat frozen, staring at him like an animal caught and held in a car's headlights. His hand finally settled warmly on her knee, and his finger and thumb started making small circles through the slippery fabric of her skirt.
"No!" she groaned.
"Not there?" He licked the corner of his mouth. "Not good? Perhaps there's too much of this in the way?" He started to draw her skirt upwards, gathering it slowly, slowly, into his palm.
Yasmina's soft footfall approached down the hallway and he laughed at Laurel's horrified expression and finally released the fabric.
The servant set down the next course and took their entree plates away.
What must she have thought, Laurel agonized? Surely she'd seen, even in the soft candle-light, that Rafiq's arm had not been decently on top of the table? That it was most indecently underneath, doing heaven-knows-what? But maybe Yasmina was used to him bringing women here so he could flirt and make love to them in privacy?
She was already so warm and flushed that it didn't seem possible to blush any hotter at that thought. And then his strong fingers resumed their slow circular massage---this time against her bare skin.
She forked up some pilaf from the plate in front of her, determined to show him his caresses were having no effect. No effect apart from causing her ears to buzz, and her eyes to glaze over, and her brain to turn to mush... No effect except raising the tiny hairs on her arms and neck so they quivered and prickled as though inviting his hands to smooth them down again...
He forked up some pilaf of his own and chewed, returning his eyes to hers as he ate.
"It's good?" he asked.
"Delicious," she confirmed, hoping he meant the food and fearing he did not.
His slight smile came again. His fork descended into his dinner and his fingers crept a short distance up her thigh and then down to her knee.
She almost grabbed them back.
"Please... don't..." she said in a choked voice.
"But you said it was delicious?"
"Yasmina's cooking..."
"Not what your body's telling me, Laurel." He licked the tines of his fork clean and reached across to scrape them gently over her nearest nipple---her very prominent aroused nipple which was all too visible through the flimsy lace of her half-cup bra and the shining blue fabric of her modestly-cut tunic.
She gave an involuntary gasp and squeezed her eyes shut. When she dared to open them, his smile was huge, and his hand had deserted her leg.
She watched in disbelief as he picked up his knife to cut through some meat. Her other nipple was feeling way left out of the game. And he was eating, unconcerned, as though it was all he'd ever had in mind.
Rafiq chewed and considered. Oh yes, she was a responsive little thing. He could make this very good for her---and therefore very good for himself as well. He'd give her a couple of minutes to wind down, and then he'd enjoy winding her up again. Winding her tighter this time. Winding her as tight as he was.
He watched as she dropped her gaze and made an effort with the food.
"Yasmina always prepares my favorite dishes when I visit", he said. "We should reward such devotion with clean plates."
Laurel nodded until she managed to swallow. "How often do you visit the lodge?" she asked, desperate to escape from the seductive cloud he'd created around them. "Where do you live otherwise?" Her legs still quaked and her peaked nipples still felt super-sensitive and wouldn't be subsiding any time soon, but she was pleased she could at least talk some sort of sense.
"I have an apartment in the capital---Ai-Dubriz. I often work away from the city. Right out of Al Sounam, in fact. So I need somewhere that's easy to come and go from."
She tried to look as though this was fascinating news.
"I get to the lodge perhaps a day or two each month. Not often enough. But it's a haven for me, as it was for my parents."
She speared a cube of eggplant. "And you always pack a bag to bring here as though you're a visitor? Surely you didn't need to bring evening clothes."
"I think I did. It makes an occasion of dinner. I knew you would be beautifully dressed. Undo some buttons for me, Laurel."
It took a moment for her to register his lightning-fast change of subject.
"What?" she gasped.
"Undo some of the buttons. I want to see more of you."
She sat, knife and fork in hand, unmoving.
"That one," he said, reaching across and releasing the first button. "And that one." The second one popped open. "And this." The third button came free. He pushed the fabric aside so the tops of her breasts were displayed, and then returned to his meal.
She glanced down in consternation. She was not entirely exposed, but she was not very covered now, either. The edge of the low-cut black bra was almost visible. A tiny pink bow glimmered in the candle-light.
He sent her a smile that was almost brotherly. "Very pretty," he said.
She loaded her fork again and raised it to her lips. He was playing again? She chewed, having no idea if she would ever be able to swallow. And then his legs snaked back around her ankle.
They continued to eat, although not a lot of food disappeared. The air swirled thickly around the table, enclosing them both in a haze of desire. They laid down their cutlery within seconds of each other.
Yasmina's soft footsteps approached. Laurel yanked the edges of her tunic together and rested her chin on her hands to disguise her state of undress.
Rafiq passed compliments on the food, Yasmina served dessert and coffee and was then dismissed for the night. They were now quite alone.
His hand slid under the table-top again and came to rest on her thigh. Her breath rushed out and then in. It sounded harsh and dangerous in the now-silent house.
"So where were we?" he asked, slowly gathering up her skirt fabric again, handful by languid handful.
"About there," she stammered, as she felt his long clever fingers starting to stroke against her super-heated skin.
"About there," he repeated, circling softly. "Undo the rest of your buttons for me, please Laurel."
This time his request sank in faster.
"No."
He stopped circling. "Yes," he said. He waited. She blushed even pinker if that was possible, and eventually slipped one more from its buttonhole. His hidden fingers started their skin-dance again.
"No more," she said, trying to sound firm and hoping he hadn't heard the breathy little hitch in her voice.
"But I shall see a great deal more of you in that pretty bikini."
She closed her eyes and tried to find some self-control or self-possession---or something.
Every time a man had made suggestive remarks to her in the past it had seemed dirty and degrading, but Rafiq's quiet voice, and hypnotic eyes, and warm fingers on her skin combined to make her crave more of his attention, not less. He was simply patting her knee, for heaven's sake. Well, not exactly patting, and maybe not quite her knee any more either, she acknowledged as his fingers caressed a little higher. Why didn't she bat his hand away?
"Because you're enjoying it, Laurel," her body told her. "You're liking the way he's making you feel---all fluttery inside, and hot and bothered."
"The bikini's different---that's for swimming," she finally said. "I'm not getting undressed at the dinner table."
"And how is the bikini different?" he asked, mock innocence in his dark gaze.
"Because you can't see through it!"
"So I'd be able to see you through this charming lacy lingerie, would I?"
She was astonished to find the hand not dancing over her thigh was now investigating her neckline, popping more buttons undone, pushing the tunic further aside so half of one white breast was exposed. His thumb brushed over her just-hidden nipple, once, twice, as she sat there breathless.
And then he stopped.
"Indeed I can, Laurel," he said. "Right through. You'd better go and put the bikini on so I can't see you, or who knows what ideas I might get?"
He stood, plucked two fat grapes from the platter of fruit that Yasmina had brought in, and put one into his mouth.
"They're very good," he said, holding the other one to her astounded lips. Nonplussed, she opened her mouth for him, and instead of feeding her he bent and kissed her, taking full advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss into absolute possession.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Showers of sparkling stars might well have been cascading from the dining room ceiling. Nothing had ever come close to the sensations he incited in her as he drew her up from the chair and pulled her hard against himself and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.
He tasted of grapes; he smelled of man, and the smooth cloth of his jacket covered a body that felt like paradise. She let out a muffled moan of frustration.
Rafiq pushed the tunic off her shoulders and down her arms. Her breasts strained towards him, barely covered by the cobweb-fine lace.
She let the tunic fall and stood there panting.
She saw Rafiq exhale very slowly. Were they ever going to get as far as the lake? She was now his to command, but unusually she felt as though she had power over him, too.
"I knew you'd be beautiful," he said hoarsely. "I could feel your body was very feminine when I first held you."
Laurel sensed the balance had definitely tipped a little. His eyes, which had been amused and playful throughout dinner, were now huge and hungry...his voice deeper, edgier, more foreign. He looked every inch a Sheikh, powerful and potent.
And he looked like her Sheikh. The flirting had given way to something altogether denser and darker, and she knew there was now every probability they were going to make love. The long-held fear that had started with Gary Gorridge's frightening exhibitions was losing its grasp on her. At last she desired to know a man---this man---because he made her feel so thoroughly womanly.
She drew a deeper breath and exulted as he watched her breasts rise and fall. She expected he'd grab for her and try to wrestle off her clothing. Men in the past had done that, and she'd struggled away, fearful and embarrassed. Amazingly, she wanted Rafiq's hands on her, wanted to please him, wanted more of the strange wonderful sensations flooding her body.
Yes, it would end in heartache---she knew that. He'd said she would stay only a fortnight, and would then be forcibly returned to New Zealand. But when would she ever again meet such a fascinating man? When would she find another lover with a body so lithe and supple that she wanted quite desperately to touch it? A lover with such power over her that anything might be permissible?
Never. It was as simple as that.
She stood stock-still as his eyes roamed.
As his hands settled on her hipbones, caging her slim waist.
As he nodded and quietly repeated "Beautiful."
"Shall I go and change into the bikini?" she asked in a very small voice.
"So I can see more of you? By my moonlit lake?"
"If you want."
"You know I want, Laurel. You know I want to take this off, too," he said thickly, raising one hand to run a finger along the line of tiny pink bows that edged the black lace.
Still he didn't grab. But he did press her backwards onto the dining table, bend his dark head to her breasts and suckle through the lace. He tugged on each nipple deeply as she leaned there, astounded, painfully sensitive--- but what sweet pain it was.
She couldn't stop the gasp of surprise and pleasure each time his mouth enclosed her flesh, and he smiled as he drew back, leaving her desperate for more.
Ten minutes later they bumped over the sand in the big white SUV. Rafiq took the same two-hundred-yard route they'd followed on horseback. The sun had retreated, leaving a spectacular golden horizon, and he drove without lights, not wanting to spoil the serene atmosphere of the desert. The dark outlines of the palms against the deepening sky were guide enough to his destination.
Laurel could scarcely breathe as she sat in the luxurious leather seat beside him. She wore the blue tunic-top unbuttoned over her black and white polka dotted bikini, and she'd bundled her hair up to keep it out of the water.
He was bare-chested. She presumed he had swimming trunks under his jeans. She would have given anything to touch him, to stroke him, but she felt curiously shy after the torrid intimacy of the dining room.
She had carried, at his suggestion, the almost-untouched platter of fresh fruits Yasmina had provided for dessert. The aromas of apricots and grapes and figs drifted sweetly through the car.
He found the place he wanted and drew to a halt.
"My family always swam right here," he said. "This part of the lake is only a few feet deep. Come."
Laurel pushed the door open and levered herself out, balancing the fruit. Rafiq was beside her in seconds, took the platter with one hand, slid it onto the vehicle's roof, and drew her towards him with the other.
'Now', her nerves screamed. 'Touch me now.'
She leaned toward him, hands running up over his hard chest to settle around his neck, tenderly smoothing the warm skin she'd been craving to know. Her fingertips registered the scars, many more than she'd thought. She lowered her head and laid her cheek briefly over his heart.
"They hurt you," she said fiercely, fingering the place on his shoulder where the bullet had wounded him.
"A long time ago," he murmured, cupping her bottom and pulling her into the cradle of his hips. He was hugely aroused and made no effort to hide it. "We humans forget pain, and just as well or no woman would ever bear a second child."
She sighed, and buried her face against his throat, inhaling his scent. He was as dark as the night, exotic, desirable, perfect.
Rafiq held her close. Bare skin moved over bare skin as his other arm slid around her waist.
"I found the big old fur throw my family picnicked on all those years ago," he said after several luscious kisses. "Swim with me first and then I'll wrap you in fur and feed you dessert, piece by piece. It gets cold in the desert surprisingly fast."
He smoothed his cheek along her brow and released her from his embrace. She watched as he gathered up a huge bundle from the rear seat and spread it out on the shore.
Why did he often remind himself of the family he had so tragically lost? Why did he chase the past like this? Surely it could bring him only pain? She slipped off her tunic and removed her watch and sandals, and placed them on one corner of the luxurious throw.
Everything about her sparked and burned now. She wanted his skin. Wanted to see him, touch him and hold him. Perhaps be totally possessed by him.
Her breath caught in her throat as he sloughed his jeans off and tossed them aside. The full moon glanced off his long lean torso and hard-muscled legs. He looked cast in bronze and too perfect to be real.
He held out one hand---much more a command than an invitation. She stepped across to where he stood, and gave a surprised laugh as she found herself swept up in his arms and carried into the lake. Slowly they submerged until he was chest-deep in the tepid water.
"Miss Kiwi, I've been imagining this all day, he said huskily. "You've no idea how much I wanted to have you in my arms again---and for you not to be afraid of me or angry with me."
He dropped a tiny kiss on the tip of her nose, and allowed her body to drift down beside his. The wonderful privacy of the desert night began to work its sorcery; they twined sinuously around and against each other, splashing gently. Time drifted by with each ardent embrace. Soon he untied her bikini top and tossed it up onto the shore.
Laurel caught her breath as he lifted her and wrapped her legs around his waist. She bobbed almost weightless in the water, pressed against his aroused body, and with her breasts now caressed by the evening air and the moonlight. As his lips closed first over one nipple and then the other, sucking and biting gently, she gasped and moaned and ground herself against his hardness.
She trembled on the edge of something wonderful. His body both frightened and fascinated her; she longed to touch. Explore. But right now he was totally occupied with her instead---shifting his attention from one bared breast to the other, sending devastating waves of sensation through her so she could hardly think past the magic his lips and tongue and teeth created.
Rafiq closed his eyes and sank deeper into the pleasure of seduction. Laurel was so lush and feminine. Her full breasts drew his mouth towards them unerringly. Suckling her up-tilted nipples was like seeking nectar from sweet exotic flowers.
And finally she craved him in return. She breathed hard now, murmuring his name and rolling her head from side to side in fierce paroxysms of rapture.
He rocked his hips against hers in a slow chafing rhythm---and knew from her sudden gasp when he'd contacted more than just fabric.
He deserted her nipple and took her lips in a passionate open-mouthed kiss. She welcomed his tongue and began to suck on it with the same pulsing beat he was using against her clitoris. In seconds he had her on the very brink of her orgasm.
Her breathing grew even more erratic. Then she moaned and stiffened as her ecstasy hit, and he triumphed as the glorious contractions ripped through her. Her cries floated out over the softly-lapping water and were swallowed by the silence of the desert.
He held her close until she was quiet again. She'd buried her face against his neck and refused to look at him, apparently embarrassed by her uninhibited display.
He murmured to her in rapid Sounamese, telling her she was beautiful, desirable, a woman of passion and emotion.
That she made him feel strong and potent and powerful in his masculinity.
That he was blessed to be able to share such intimacy and joy with her.
Laurel heard his husky compliments and sensed he wasn't disappointed. But she was overwhelmed and confused by the fierce and unsuspected frenzy he'd unleashed in her. All the years of holding back, of avoiding sex, had sharpened her hunger. Now the things she'd never before experienced filled her with wonder.
He had awakened her. A deep longing for more flooded her whole body. She sensed a lack of completion...the possibility of even richer treasures...wanted to return the pleasure which had been given to her so freely...yearned to explore his body and find out what would thrill him in return.
"Let me---please let me," she whispered, relaxing her fierce hold on him so her legs slid down against his. She started to back out of the water, tugging at his hand, hoping he'd follow her to the shore. "I want to see you, not just feel," she insisted. "I want the moon on your skin so I can discover everything about you. Lie down for me, Rafiq."
He was soon sprawled flat on his back with Laurel pinning him down so her small hands could strip off his trunks and wander where they wanted.
She sat naked astride his thighs and gazed down at him in the dim light, not quite believing she'd found the courage to do this. She ran a finger along the slim stripe of hair on his belly and he growled with barely suppressed passion as her hand finally curled around his hard length.
She stroked and squeezed, enchanted by his smoothness and the way the loose skin slid over the solid core of him.
"He's like a cat," she whispered. "I can feel the muscles under his coat."
She hadn't expected that. Not the soft velvet surface or the thrilling inner hardness, or the way he flexed in her hand as she explored. He was beautiful. Suddenly her long-held fears seemed childish. She wanted to become a woman---and it had to be with this man.
Rafiq groaned when she changed her position and started to slide wetly and deliciously against him.
"Condoms," he rasped. "Let me up."
"No---I want you just like this so I'm in charge."
He toppled her over sideways and wrapped her in his arms and legs.
"So who's in charge?" he demanded, smile brilliant. "I'm not taking the chance of sending you home pregnant." He pushed himself to his feet and strode the few steps to the car, not seeing she'd slumped down looking devastated until he turned back to her.
"Laurel?" he asked, finding eyes downcast. He tipped her chin up with his hand. "What's wrong, Miss Kiwi?"
She shook her head. "Nothing," she sighed. "Just---you said you were sending me home."
"Of course you have to go home. I'm simply keeping you safe for a while. You must see that?" He kissed her softly. "Safe in every way," he murmured, pressing the condom into her hand and lying back on the fur throw again so she could continue her tantalizing game.
He presumed she knew the theory, but soon found the practical side of sheathing a man was entirely new to her.
He threw his head back and clenched his teeth. The sensation of her soft fingers! She was devil and angel combined. Who'd have thought a shy little foreigner could have such an effect on him?
"Is it right?" she asked dubiously.
Rafiq swallowed and nodded, trying to keep a tight rein on his self-control as she straddled his hips again and sank slowly and experimentally against him. The slippery heat of her body invited him in, but then he lost the glorious sensation as she rose up again. He grasped her hips and pulled her down. Once more she checked his progress. He stifled his frustration and let her control things as she wished. There was plenty of time, and the sight of her above him, all pale skin and fair tousled hair, was erotic beyond belief. She continued to rock gently backwards and forwards, almost taking him in and then retreating, leaning over so long blonde tendrils slid softly over his chest.
He reached up to her and buried his hands in spun-gold, combing with his fingers so the full length of her hair cascaded down, lustrous in the moonlight. Then he pulled her face close to his for a deep savage kiss.
Laurel caught her breath, and after a moment's hesitation she pressed down until he plunged through her hymen.
He grunted with shock and sudden understanding. A flood of elation and primal possession roared through him. He was at once proud and humble, sorrowful and delighted. She'd been a virgin and had chosen him to be her first lover. He could find no English to express his emotions adequately; instead he whispered to her in husky Sounamese as she continue her cautious advance-and-retreat. Finally she had him buried deep and hot to the hilt.
He closed his eyes and abandoned himself to sensation. How long since he'd lost himself so completely?
There'd been many women---women who saw a handsome man, or a rich one. Sophisticated socialites who played him at his own game, trading pleasure for pleasure, company for company.
But this little girl seemed to have no such expectations.
He urged her to lean down toward him, and reached up to sift his fingers through her pale moonlit hair again.
"Laurel," he breathed, "Come lower." He cradled her soft breasts in his hands and fastened his mouth around each nipple in turn as she hung above him and he drove up into her.
Laurel sighed as the sudden shimmering sparkle of sensation spread from her breasts to her womb. Now everything was a hundred times more intense, more blissful.
Yes, it hurt a little, and there was such a strange feeling of fullness each time he thrust deep inside her. But the slippery glide and slide was magic once she became more used to him. And his mouth on her breasts! "More Rafiq, please. Harder," she begged, surprising herself with the demand.
"Harder?" he queried. "Like this?" He bucked beneath her with steely strength, invading with masterful possession. Then his teeth fastened around a nipple, and he scraped and bit tenderly until she couldn't hold back her incoherent moans.
The pleasure swept through her in a blinding rush, pulsing and flickering, ecstasy flowing sweet and thick to where their bodies thrust together with ever-increasing slickness. She trembled and gasped as she clenched around him again and again, and she ground out his name with every sensuous shudder.
Finally he pulled her down and wrapped her tightly in his arms so her head lay pillowed against his shoulder and her hair cascaded across his chest. Minutes ticked by, and her heart-rate gradually slowed to somewhere near normal.
"I never thought it would be so beautiful," she murmured.
Rafiq was assaulted by the twin emotions of smug masculine pride and searing hate for any other man who might try to enjoy her body in the future.
Or any other man who even thinks of touching her.
"Let me make it happen again," he whispered. "Again and again---just as good." He rolled until he lay above her, looking down at her glowing face and tousled hair, and began the delicious journey towards his own release.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, minutes later.
"Tell you what?" she murmured, eyes flicking open to lock with his.
She looked gorgeously cozy, wrapped in his arms, surrounded by the huge fur throw.
He'd been right about the desert cooling rapidly once the sun went down. Their breaths now made tiny white puffs on the chilly air.
"Why didn't you tell me I'd be your first man?"
"Oh that," she said, closing her eyes again.
"That," he said, "was important. I might have hurt you."
"But you didn't. Well---only for a moment." She slid a hand out from under the fur and traced a fingertip along each of his dark eyebrows.
"This was the first piece of you I saw when you pulled the bag off me," she said.
"My eyebrows?"
"And your eyes. So fierce and foreign."
"And now you've seen all of me, which piece do you like best?" he teased.
The rising sun sent fingers of gold over the big bed next morning.
"Rafiq?" she murmured. "That thing you do with your tongue?"
Sudden shyness appeared to assail her.
He smiled drowsily.
"Yes Laurel?"
"Umm---it was nice."
"I'm pleased. I meant it to be." He waited, stroking a hand over her bare rump as she lay half-across his chest.
"Rafiq?"
"Yes, Laurel?"
"Would you like to do it again...?"
He laughed, rich and deep, at her plaintive tone. Satisfaction flooded the length of his body, and he pinched her bottom. "I would be honored to do it again, Laurel, but first---what are we going to do about this?" He moved her hand to enclose his morning erection. "He always wakes up before me, the devil."
"Always?" Her eyes were huge.
"It seems that way, Laurel. Perhaps we should deal to him first and then, after our bath, I could do that thing with my tongue...?"
Ash Winthrop stretched as far as the cramped seating allowed. It had been a long tiring trip, and they'd changed planes twice---first from the international jumbo to a noisy old 747, and then to this smaller and smarter commuter craft. Beside him, reporter Barry Marsh snored softly, having enjoyed an unholy amount of free airline alcohol on the first long flight.
Ash's brain still spun from the speed of things. After the first TV News item it seemed every journalist in New Zealand (and several from Australia) had besieged Trinity Stud hoping for interviews.
He wasn't playing ball. The TV channel had promised to fly him to Al Sounam at their expense if he let them have exclusive rights to the story. He'd intended to somehow get there under his own steam so this suited him fine; the airfare he didn't have to fork out for, and the extra payment they'd offered, would take care of a lot of work around the stud.
The address system crackled on with a message from the pilot. The language was incomprehensible---to Ash's ears it sounded full of clicks and throat-clearings. He was relieved to have it repeated in curiously correct English.
"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. In twenty minutes we will be landing in Al-Dubriz, the capital city of Al Sounam. The weather is fine, with a light breeze from the south, and the temperature there is thirty-eight degrees Celsius---or around a hundred and four for those of you more familiar with the Fahrenheit scale. We expect no significant turbulence between here and our destination."
Ash settled back in the seat again, unable to suppress his very definite feelings of excitement. In twenty minutes he'd be on the same ground as his granddaughter, and then the real work would begin.
His movements were enough to shake Barry Marsh from his doze. Barry gazed around blearily.
"On the ground in twenty minutes," Ash said with satisfaction. "It's a hundred and four."
The rumpled reporter cursed, heaved himself upright, and glanced at his watch. "Do we need to go over this once more?" he asked. "We're here as visitors---no mention of TV or your granddaughter---and we're travelling home in a week?"
"Fine, fine," Ash said evenly. In fact he seethed at the young reporter's somewhat high-handed treatment---as though he was some old codger in his dotage instead of the well-respected owner of a very fine thoroughbred stud, even if its reputation was now somewhat on the wane. But Ash was wily enough to keep any resentment well-hidden until he'd achieved everything he could. After all, this young pup was currently his best chance of meeting Laurel, and possibly tracking down Debs as well.
"No mention of TV," Ash repeated, nodding.
They were to be met by a local journalist known to Barry through other overseas assignments, then transported straight to the TV studios where Ash would be subjected to yet another interview. Barry had explained in far too much detail why it was best not to draw attention to themselves 'in this part of the world'. Hence they'd negotiated to make use of local TV facilities instead of bringing their own crew. The story was advantageous to both networks---some sort of split/share arrangement had obviously been worked out.
"Don't let the heat faze you," Barry said. "The cars all have air conditioning. Ditto the buildings. You won't be out in it for long."
"I'm not averse to a bit of heat," Ash snapped. "I worked a few years on an Australian cattle station back in the sixties to get the money together to start the stud. A hundred was nothing there. You young people have it soft."
Barry's cocky grin said otherwise. "Right," he agreed.
Yasmina nodded with approval when Laurel arrived in the kitchen wearing a hip-length knitted silk top. The warm pink tone brought a soft flush to the girl's pale cheeks. The slippery fabric revealed her womanly curves for the master. It was a shame about the faded old jeans, but if they were riding the horses then it wouldn't matter. The master often wore jeans himself when he rode.
Why had Lord Rafiq not brought his woman proper riding trousers? Using the excuse of turning down Laurel's bed, she'd made a quick inspection of Rafiq's purchases the evening before---admiring the colors and fabrics of the swirling skirts and fitted tops. She'd pursed her lips as she turned back the sheets; the proper formalities must be observed, even if there was very little chance the girl would be sleeping there.
That morning Rafiq had directed her to take the tea-tray to his bedroom, and she'd found the girl sitting in bed, looking slightly embarrassed but thoroughly at home.
Now, after a second night at the lodge, her position seemed even more secure.
Yasmina paid careful attention as Rafiq arrived in the kitchen. His eyes roamed possessively over his house-guest, and he took a few small white flowers from the vase on the table and threaded them into Laurel's hair.
The master did not do this kind of thing. Yasmina turned away to hide her smile.
Once again Muzaffar and Azizah whickered their welcome. This time Laurel leaned against Azizah's warm side without being coaxed, patting her neck and whispering endearments in her ear.
"Do they like to run?" she asked Rafiq.
"They're Arabians---the fastest in the world. They're bred to run."
He turned aside to gather up their robes.
"But do they like to run?"
"They need the exercise. I won't have them growing fat and lazy. They have no choice but to run if I command it, just as I have no choice about the work I do. It is necessary."
"And you are commanded?"
"Commanded by me."
"Because of your lost family or your royal position?"
He smiled grimly. "My family. I have no position right now, Laurel. That's why I can work undercover. I'm not known. I barely exist."
"But you still have the resources of the royal family behind you?"
"I have my own family's personal fortune. And I have the encouragement of my uncle, the King. I also have the motivation I need. To lose your whole family...to very nearly lose your own life...those are powerful incentives."
Laurel bit her bottom lip and wondered if she should ask the next question. "So you'll be the King one day? Will you enjoy that?"
He gave another small grim smile and passed one of the robes to her.
"My uncle would not stand in my way. I'm heir to the throne, and have all the evidence I need to prove it. If I choose, then yes, I would be King."
It wasn't exactly the answer she sought.
"So will you enjoy being King?" she asked again.
"Not the ceremonial occasions," he admitted. "My uncle and aunt are wonderful figureheads. He loves the limelight and she adores the clothes."
He pulled a wry face and donned his robe before continuing. "My uncle's not the King my father was. That's not just a fond son speaking. My father instituted many reforms. They were mostly complete by the time my uncle assumed the throne. And eleven more years have passed since then. Democratic changes mean the government has the power now and the King is much more of a symbol than my father ever was. I don't see myself rubber-stamping other people's plans."
"So you enjoy what you currently do?"
"I enjoy the results of what I do. We track terrorist cells and gather information. We trace and dispose of unfriendly agents who choose to hide in Al Sounam while they plot harm elsewhere. We prevent much death and suffering."
"And no-one ever knows."
"It's the way it has to be."
Laurel sighed and fixed her eyes on his. "I'll hate thinking about your work when I get home to New Zealand. Never knowing if you're safe." Her heart gave a lurch of absolute terror, and she turned away to press her forehead against Azizah's warm neck so no tears would show.
"I think they like to run," she said in a small voice. "When I watched you on Muzaffar yesterday he took off so fast and just kept going and going. I could feel Azizah wanted to follow."
And I wanted to follow, too. I wanted to be that free. I wanted to forget you're sending me home like an unwanted parcel.
"It'll be many more lessons before you can gallop like that."
She shrugged and walked outside, leading the gentle mare. She didn't trust herself to speak again for several minutes.
They rode, and returned to the lodge.
Rafiq led her to his father's study and showed her family photographs as promised. She could see a slight likeness to his grandfather but none to his father. She had to agree the soft-faced Rafiq of seventeen bore no resemblance to the imperious man of twenty-eight.
They ate a light but delicious lunch, then lay in the shade of the Casuarina tree and read. And midway through the afternoon Rafiq took a phone-call which turned his face to thunder.
"Laurel, I need to be away tonight. I wouldn't leave you alone unless it was truly important. Can I trust you to stay here where you'll be safe? No more trying to escape?" His black eyes drilled into hers.
Panic struggled up her throat and she pushed it down again with steely determination. He was going into danger again for sure. He might never return.
She could do at least this for him; take away the worry that she was a liability. She leaned over and kissed his fingers.
"Yes, you can trust me, Rafiq. I know what the odds are now. Very small that I could escape anyway, and very large if you or I get caught. I'll be here when you come back."
She waited for his smile of approval---needed his smile of approval to make the rest of the day bearable.
Rafiq simply closed his eyes and nodded.
His gut churned. He would put Malik on twenty-four-hour guard, although he prayed he wouldn't need to be away for so long. This little girl was precious now in more ways than one, but he could never let her know that.
"Come and help me pack, Miss Kiwi," he said, hoping to dispel the intensity of the moment. He pulled her to her feet and laced his fingers through hers. "We've time for one more cuddle." He raised a dark eyebrow and finally managed the smile that had refused to appear before.
"Just a cuddle?" she queried, sounding unworried and flirty.
"You think I could manage more after all the hard work you expected from me last night and this morning?"
"I think you could manage a whole heap more if you tried."
"Then I'll try. I wouldn't want to disappoint a lusty woman like you."
She poked his chest and laughed. "I'm not lusty."
"You're very hungry," he said with satisfaction.
"Hungry for you. I've never been offered such a feast before. I need to make the most of my banquet while I've still got you."
And as fast as that the levity disappeared. Without caring if his servants saw, Rafiq pulled her against him and branded her mouth with a savage kiss of ownership. She wrapped her arms around his back and ground her hips against his.
"I'll be back here again tomorrow," he grated when they finally drew apart.
"See that you are," she shot back.
The lodge felt horribly empty without him. Laurel amused herself for a while by trying on the rest of her new clothes, but there was no joy in them without Rafiq's dark eyes approving...his husky voice passing comment.
She untangled the chains and necklaces---more beautiful than she'd ever expected to wear---and laid them out one by one on top of the big chest under her window.
She took her book back to the shady seat under the tree, and still she couldn't settle. What was he doing? Was he with Nazim and Fayez again? Were they giving him another grilling about her apparent escape? It would be two to one if they decided to get rough, and however fit and well-trained he was, two to one were bad odds. Her stomach roiled with apprehension.
In desperation she wandered into the kitchen where Yasmina was kneading and shaping dough into small rolls. Perhaps having company would help? She attempted to read again, but her eyes ran over and over the same page until finally she set the book aside and sat staring into space.
Yasmina glanced across to where Laurel sat.
Love-sick of course, she thought. Her own two daughters had gone through the same sad dreamy routine before they were safely married. The old nanny knew there was nothing like an unobtainable man to set a woman's heart yearning, and scatter all sensible thoughts from her head.
The master's work allowed little spare time for women. Laurel had had two nights in his bed at the lodge, and now he might be gone for several weeks---he often was, even though he'd said this time it would be only one day. She'd heard that before! The poor girl might be on her own for ages.
She tipped boiling water onto tea-leaves and took the pot and a cup and saucer across to where Laurel sat brooding.
"TV?" she suggested. It was about all the English she knew. She turned on the set facing the casual dining area. The early-evening news would be on in a few moments, and perhaps Laurel might be distracted by some of the international items, even though she didn't speak Sounamese.
The set sprang to life. The news theme blared through the room. Yasmina adjusted the volume down a little in deference to her guest.
More trouble in Baghdad...more oil riots in Nigeria...the Queen of England being presented with a magnificent bay stallion by a well-known Sheikh...a girl in a red cap screaming in a language Yasmina couldn't follow...
And Laurel suddenly sitting bolt upright, dropping her tea so the cup smashed on the stone floor, gasping and clawing wide-eyed towards the TV set.
Yasmina had no doubt the girl on the screen was the girl sitting right there in her kitchen. She listened intently as the newsreader returned. Laurel continued to make distressed noises and clutch her face in her hands.
The picture on the screen changed again---to a split shot of Laurel and another young woman who looked remarkably like her. Laurel gave an incoherent cry and abruptly became silent. Her eyes froze on the screen image. The newsreader appeared once more with a brief announcement, and then the shot dissolved to a journalist interviewing an elderly man whose replies always started with a couple of words in English and were then translated into Sounamese. Behind the elderly man were the blown-up shots of Laurel and the other young woman.
"Mom!" Laurel screamed. "Mom!"
Even Yasmina understood that. She cupped a hand around her ear to indicate she was still listening, and padded across to rest a comforting arm around Laurel's shoulders.
The two women watched the rest of the short item in stunned silence. A football game appeared.
"What was it? What did they say?" Laurel begged.
Yasmina made baby-rocking motions with her arms and looked intently at her guest.
"Yes! My mother! And who was the man?"
"He is your mother's father. Your grandfather. He has come to find you because your picture was on the TV in New Zealand."
Laurel could make nothing of the rapid rattle of unfamiliar language. She wrapped her arms around her body and sat there swaying backwards and forwards in huge distress, eyes imploring Yasmina to somehow switch to fluent English.
"Who was the man?" she demanded again, more slowly in case it helped. "Why was my mother on TV in Al Sounam?"
"Malik!" Yasmina decided, and bustled off to find her husband.
Malik's English wasn't good, but it was better than nothing. Yasmina gabbled away and he valiantly attempted to translate.
"Laurel-mother-father," he tried, lifting his hand in the air to indicate three steps.
"Laurel, mother, father," Laurel repeated. Nothing would come clear in her brain. "Laurel," she said, pointing to herself.
They nodded.
"Mother. Mother of Laurel---yes. Dead a long time."
Malik translated this back to Yasmina who clutched her breast and went into a keening string of ai-ai-ais.
"Father?" she asked blankly. Her father? The never-seen de Courcey?
"Mother-father," Malik insisted.
Slowly the truth dawned on her. "Grand-father? Father of my mother?"
"Yes!" he beamed. "Father of mother. He look in Al Sounam for you."
Laurel was suddenly wracked by huge trembles as the shock hit her. She had a grandfather?
Yasmina enfolded her shivering house-guest in a motherly hug. The master was going to have to sort this out, even though he'd made it very plain they were never to interrupt him while he was working.
"Bring the telephone," she ordered Malik.
He shook his head, shocked.
"Bring the telephone," she repeated. "Emergency, Malik!" She suddenly managed to look very stern for someone who was only four-feet-ten.
He brought the phone, sighing mightily and gnawing his lower lip.
Yasmina dialed and handed it to Laurel.
Someone answered with one sharp word.
"My Lord Rafiq---"
The line went abruptly dead.
Yasmina re-keyed the number.
He didn't answer a second time.
"No-one of importance," Rafiq said, re-pocketing the phone and praying as hard as he ever had that Nazim and Fayez and the two other men present had not heard the voice---or his title. Currently the odds were a great deal worse than Laurel's previously-calculated two to one.
"We continue as we planned---the grandfather turning up makes no difference at all. Let them spend their money on airfares and television broadcasts if they wish. She's undoubtedly dead, but no-one knows that except us. We need to put more pressure on. I'll release the second tape tomorrow. Yes?"
Hard eyes surveyed him. Hands fingered guns.
One cold bead of sweat started its slow journey down Rafiq's long spine.
"You handled it like a pro," Barry Marsh said. "If a sob-story like that doesn't find her, nothing will."
He and Ash were having a late dinner at their hotel. Barry was alternating between preening at having another international item for his skite-reel and bemoaning the lack of alcohol.
Ash still shook. He'd put everything he had into imploring the terrorists to return his beloved but never-seen granddaughter. And he'd begged the people of Al Sounam to be alert for any unexpected glimpse of the young woman with the long blonde pony-tail.
He'd been pleasantly pleased when he saw the item played back in the viewing booth. He hadn't looked as nervous as he had on TV in New Zealand. But would it help locate Debs or bring Laurel safely back? He could only wait and hope now.
It was well after midnight when Rafiq finally pulled up at the lodge. Malik greeted him with relief.
"You're back earlier than you thought, My Lord."
"How is she?"
"Bad, poor young lady. A terrible shock for her."
"She's still here?"
"Of course. Yasmina has given her something to help her sleep."
He hurried to his room. The big bed was empty. A cold panic washed through him. Had she made another stupid attempt to escape---this time to find her grandfather? Was she even now wandering dangerously lost, somewhere out in the vast sandy space beyond the lodge?
Or---and this was so offensive to his manhood---had she simply deserted his bed, and therefore him as well. Could she do that so easily? Did she really sense nothing of the bond that he felt burning so hotly between them? He strode down the hallway, and without knocking shoved open the door to her room.
Her eyes glittered in the near-darkness.
He gave a silent prayer of thanks and felt the cold panic ebb away a little. At least she was still in his care.
"Why aren't you sleeping, Laurel?"
"I didn't take her pill. How can you expect me to sleep, given what I've just found out? I suppose you knew the whole time?"
"I had no idea. That phone-call I received this afternoon was from a friendly contact. By the time I knew what was happening I couldn't even get word to the lodge to warn you. Not until much too late."
"Yeah, right! Why would I believe a lie like that, you horrible pig?"
Rafiq compressed his lips in irritation. At least her anger seemed to be caused by the grandfather shock and was not aimed at him personally. He could work on changing her 'horrible pig' image of him. He was willing to bet she'd thought worse than that after being thrown into the van two days ago, handcuffed, insulted and threatened.
He drew a very deep careful breath and planned how best to explain the situation.
"He came into the country as a private citizen, Laurel, not as part of a TV crew. No-one had any idea it was him. We didn't even know his name."
"So what is it?"
"Ash Winthrop. Ashley Randal Winthrop, according to his passport. He's seventy-four. That's all we currently know."
She considered for a few seconds.
"Winthrop," she repeated, trying the name for size. "Have you brought him back? Where is he?"
"In Al-Dubriz, in his hotel. This has complicated everything."
"What?" Her scathing tone almost flayed the skin off him. "Is that all you can think of---your bloody intelligence work?"
"And your safety." He started to sit on the bed beside her and she reared up in fury.
"I don't give a stuff about my safety right now. I had no family, no background, no history forever---and now suddenly, maybe I have. I want to meet him."
"And you shall---as soon as I work out how it can be done."
"It can be done by driving me to his hotel first thing in the morning," she snapped.
"It can be done once I have put some sensible thought into it," he said wearily. "Everything is different now. Yes---I'll find a way for you to meet him. Of course I will. But he has a journalist with him who's sniffing for a story. That's another factor to consider."
She left a small thrumming silence.
"What's my grandfather like?" she asked in a much less aggressive voice.
"I've no idea, Laurel. I haven't met him. I managed to get a recording of the interview so you can see him again. I'll play it early tomorrow for you. Will you come to bed?"
"I am in bed."
"To my bed---our bed."
Her reply was a furious snort before she flounced over, turned her back on him and dragged the cover up over her head.
Not willingly, he thought, gathering her up complete with the top layer of bedclothes and carrying her, protesting furiously, to his room.
"I suppose you're going to tie me up again?" she challenged, sitting on the bed and glaring at him.
"I was hoping I wouldn't need to this time." His tone was mild but his grip had been steely.
"You can't just make off with me like this!"
"And who will stop me, Laurel? Not Yasmina. Not Malik. They will never hear us, even if you scream loudly. And I was hoping you'd you scream softly. Just for me."
"Dream on, Your Lordship. Not everything happens just because you want it to. Take me to my grandfather and then I'll think about it."
"I may not take you there at all---
"Rafiq!" she protested.
"---because it might be better to bring him here instead. We could be private here."
"That would be okay," she allowed.
"And I need to keep you hidden. Perhaps it is better you stay here. Your grandfather's broadcast will have half of Al Sounam on the lookout for long-haired blondes."
"I want to meet him as soon as possible. If he's seventy-four, anything could happen to him. A stroke or a heart attack. It's too hot here for elderly men."
He gave her an amused smile. "Nonsense Laurel, there are thousands of elderly men all leading perfectly healthy lives in my country."
"He looked nice...I got such a quick look at him because I was so shocked. I'd like..." She took a deep breath and knelt up towards him.
"Please, Rafiq," she begged. "I want to see him again right now and not wait until morning."
"It's already morning, Laurel. It's a quarter to one. Have pity on me---you kept me up all last night and now you seem determined to do the same again."
But even as he said it, he was moving towards the electronic gear in the corner of the bedroom and preparing to play the interview for her.
"I suppose you wish me to translate as well?" A black eyebrow lifted in mock exasperation.
Laurel smiled reluctantly at his teasing. "I didn't understand a word, and that was so frustrating. I saw my mother's photograph and just lost it. Yasmina tried to explain things but... It wasn't until she got Malik I understood anything at all, and even then, not much."
"You're the image of your mother. I can see why Ash presumed you must be his granddaughter. He's not mistaken?"
She shook her head, and her hair rippled in the lamplight.
"I have this little old locket with exactly the photo they showed..." She fingered the gold trinket at her throat, and then caught her breath as the big flat screen sprang to life and the newsreader appeared.
"A further development," Rafiq translated "in the unfolding hostage story. Footage of New Zealander Laurel de Courcey was shown in her homeland and has brought a surprising response. Seventy-four-year-old Ash Winthrop's daughter Deborah disappeared twenty-four years ago when she was eighteen. Mr. Winthrop---"
Rafiq froze the image on the screen as it changed to Laurel, handcuffed and yelling at the camera.
"Look how fierce you were," he said. "You took my breath away with your anger."
Laurel couldn't believe what she was seeing. That was her on TV---on both sides of the world---utterly furious, disheveled and terrified. What a way to impress her grandfather.
He restarted the machine. "---recognized that twenty-three-year-old Laurel must be his daughter Deborah's child. The physical resemblance is quite startling. He has come to Al Sounam in the hope of meeting her when---if---she is released."
Rafiq paused the image again.
Laurel gazed raptly at the screen. Any second now she would see her grandfather being interviewed.
"So my mother ran away from home at eighteen, ashamed because she was pregnant?" Her eyes brimmed suddenly with unshed tears. "I wrecked her life."
Rafiq, who'd moved to stand beside her, placed both hands on her arms and rubbed gently to and fro.
"You've made a huge assumption there Laurel. The truth may be very far from that."
"No," she insisted, shuddering beneath his hands. "I wrecked her life. I must have." She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "Can I see more please?"
He continued to caress her with one hand as he allowed the recording to run on. Ash appeared. Rafiq immediately froze the shot again and watched with compassion as Laurel rose from where she knelt on the bed and approached the TV. She crouched in front of it, as though it might be possible to climb through and meet the man on the other side of the screen. The yearning hunger radiating from her shocked him.
After giving her her a few seconds to gaze, he let the interview portion run through without translating anything further. Her eyes followed every move Ash made---each wave of his hands, each shake of his head. Unconsciously she mirrored his movements; tipping her head on one side as he did, wagging a finger as he wagged his. Rafiq, who had extensive training in body language, watched in awe as Laurel tuned in to her grandfather.
He rewound and ran the interview again, this time translating Ash's wording in its entirety.
"He really wants to meet me," she said, turning back to him with tears in her eyes. Her lips had softly parted in astonishment and anticipation.
"Of course he wants to meet you. You're his flesh and blood. All he has left, by the sound of it. You're quite sure your mother's not still alive?"
He hunkered down beside her and searched her face as she shook her head slightly.
He ran his thumb along her drooping bottom lip.
Lowered his head to ravage her sweet hot mouth yet again. And was rewarded by her turning, leaning into his embrace, and kissing him back with much more passion than he'd expected.
"Thank you!" she gasped between kisses. "Thank you so much, Rafiq. Thank-you for bringing me my grandfather." She pressed closer to him, causing him to lose his balance and collapse backwards onto the rug so they landed together in a breathless heap.
She wriggled so she was sitting astride him, laughing at her superior position. There was such life in her eyes now. Even though there were tears on her lashes, there was genuine joy in their sparkling blue depths. At least he'd been able to give her that.
"I want to watch him again and again," she insisted. "He looks lovely. Such a kind face, and with crinkles beside his eyes, and not with awful big ears the way some old men have." he bent and stroked Rafiq's small neat ears and inspected them closely. "You won't have big awful ears either. Or a horrible bulgy nose." he cupped a hand carefully over the dressing on his brow. "And hopefully no scar from this."
"It won't show among all the others."
Suddenly the hectic gaiety deserted her and she stared down at his face with tender concern.
"But this one would be caused by me. And I'd never want to hurt you after the wonderful thing you've done."
It seemed as though the beating of his heart skidded to a halt somewhere deep inside his chest. If he could have said then 'stay with me, never leave me, let's make a whole new secret life,' he would have.
But dreams were dreams, and there wasn't a hope in hell of that being possible. She had to leave. There was no freedom here for her. No safety for him if she stayed.
She had the chance now of a future and a family. Knowing he'd made that possible for her would be all he could take from the situation.
"Poor Ash will never see his daughter again," she murmured, remembering what they'd been discussing before they'd landed on the rug in such a tangle. "My mother died in Wellington hospital nearly twenty years ago. I suppose she can be traced through the system. He'll finally have closure on that, anyway."
"How could she just disappear? Surely she was searched for? New Zealand's not large."
Laurel shrugged. "I've been wondering about that too. I suppose they looked for Deborah Marie Winthrop but I thought she was called Marie de Courcey." She sighed and closed her eyes as though trying to picture her mother more clearly. "She must have dyed her hair as a disguise because I don't remember her being anywhere near as blonde as the old photo. And there were lots of sheep and no other houses when I was little---we might have been way out on a farm somewhere. Until she got so sick."
Rafiq reached up and buried his hands in her hair. He pulled her down slowly for another deep kiss.
"Let me up, Miss Kiwi," he sighed when he released her. "I need a bath before I make love to you again." He handed her the remote. "Replay your grandfather to your heart's content, and then I'll join you, hmmm?"
"You have such a lovely body," Laurel said as she knelt behind him, soaping and sponging and rinsing his long back. "I can see all your muscles working when you move."
"I'm a patchwork quilt," he protested.
"Yes," she agreed happily, running her tongue along the scar that snaked down towards his shoulder blade. "I like your patchwork. No-one else has anything like it. It makes you unique."
"One of a kind," he agreed dryly. "Who would ever want a second?"
"If I had a sister?" she suggested, giving him an affectionate nip on the neck.
"Another woman as cheeky as you? Who has no respect for my title or my money? Who dares to share the future King's bath without asking permission?" He caught his breath as her hands went wandering under the water. "Who touches his private parts as though they are just any man's."
"Do I need written consent for this?" she teased, closing her hand around his long erection and massaging him firmly. "Your Royal Hardness?" she giggled. "I may not respect your title or money but I have enormous respect for this friend of yours. He makes me feel very special."
Rafiq smiled, enjoying her taunting. When he'd returned to the lodge half an hour earlier, he'd been tense and tired. Now he was relaxed and very alive again.
"Your King commands you to stand up, Laurel. In front of him, to beg his forgiveness." He waited while she complied, squeezing around to face him in the huge tub. "He intends to give you a good tongue-lashing for molesting him."
She stood there, far from contrite, rosy and wet and curvaceous. Rafiq gave a throaty chuckle as he grasped her hips and buried his face between her thighs, seeking the slippery little peak he loved to suckle and tease.
Laurel drew a sharp breath and pushed her fingers into his hair to anchor herself.
Much later, drowsy and very well-loved, she lay sprawled across his chest in bed.
"So have you thought yet how you'll get him here?" she asked, idly licking one of his nipples and blowing on it.
"If you keep doing that, I won't be able to think of getting him here at all," he growled. "I don't want to share you with another man yet. I think we'll let him go home and I'll keep you here to play with."
She gave the nipple a carefully-considered little bite.
"Don't even think of joking. Why don't you just kidnap him---you're very good at that."
Rafiq's inventive brain went into overdrive, even as he stroked her hair and ran his fingertips lightly across her sensational skin. Would it be possible to kidnap them? And how?
And that was why the vehicle collecting Ash Winthrop and Barry Marsh from the TV studios late next morning was not the one they'd arrived in. Neither man thought to question this until it became clear they weren't being taken back to their central-city hotel. As the business district gave way to suburbs, and the suburbs gave way to desert, Barry's complaints became louder and more obscene.
Rafiq smiled to himself. He'd had the measure of them after a few minutes. The journalist was young and brash, easily impressed, and with no real substance. He could be bought.
The older man was a great deal more circumspect and harder to read. But Rafiq knew he held the ultimate trump card as far as Ash Winthrop was concerned.
Once they were safely past civilization, he slowed to a halt, removed the borrowed chauffeur's hat, and turned to address them.
"Gentlemen, you will now be accommodated somewhere very special. Al Sounam welcomes visitors, and treats them kindly."
He let Barry curse and bluster for a few seconds and then ignored him.
"I have your granddaughter," he said to Ash. She's safe and well, and waiting to meet you."
The older man's expression changed instantly from mild exasperation to disbelief...hope...then hunger.
"This better not be some sort of stunt," he barked.
"No stunt at all," Rafiq replied, and then added, "And none of that," as he spotted Barry slipping the black mini-recorder from his pocket. "I'll tell you the full story later," he added, "but you can never make it public."
"Says who?"
"Says a hundred thousand American dollars---paid personally to you in cash. And half that again for each year I require your silence."
Barry opened his mouth, thought better of it and closed it again. "Two hundred," he suggested a few seconds later.
"Or fifty?" Rafiq said pleasantly. "That's still a better offer than a bullet in the back."
He turned to Ash and ignored the gaping journalist. "She's another hour's drive away. Looking forward to meeting you immensely. Probably choosing what to wear to impress you. I bought her some clothes."
"And you say she's well?"
"Full of energy." Rafiq let his mind drift back to exactly how energetic Laurel had been as dawn broke that morning. As he turned away to resume driving, a slight smile danced across his face.
"How...has this happened?" Ash asked, leaning forward so he could talk more easily. "Dammit man, let me get in the front with you."
Once again Rafiq slowed the big car. Ash heaved himself out of the rear seat and resettled himself to his satisfaction.
"Is there any news of my daughter?" he demanded.
Rafiq shook his head. "Not good news, I'm afraid. Laurel said her mother died. When she was only four or five."
Ash bowed his head and then stared deliberately out across the desert as the powerful vehicle picked up speed.
"She was always a willful girl," he said eventually. "Hard to control. Rather like young Laurel seems to be, to judge by that recording of her."
"You should have seen the live performance."
Ash's indrawn breath came as no surprise.
"You were there?" he demanded, pinning Rafiq with a furious glare.
"I shot it. Three different set-ups. There'll be another one shown tonight."
Ash twisted back against the door and regarded Rafiq with extreme distaste.
"How the hell can I trust you after you've told me something like that? You're one of them?"
Rafiq shook his head and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Barry was fiddling with the mini-recorder again.
"The hundred thou I offered comes down by ten each time I see you with that from now on," he threw over his shoulder. "The bullet option happens at eighty. Your choice."
Barry met his eyes in the mirror and grimaced. He shoved the recorder out of sight again.
Rafiq enjoyed a brief taste of satisfaction and turned back to Ash. "I work in security at the highest level. Al Sounam is a peaceful country, and we prefer to keep it that way. You do realize if you ever repeat this to anyone you're in line for a bullet as well?"
Ash managed a wheezy chuckle at that.
"Best offer I've had in ages," he said. "Tell me more about Debs and Laurel. I'm not very interested in you."
Rafiq grinned at such dry humor.
"Laurel was captured by mistake, as it happens. She's much the same build and coloring as the daughter of the American family she's been working for. She'd borrowed the other girl's baseball cap because her own sunhat wouldn't stay on in the wind. One blonde in a red cap and jeans looks much the same as another from the back. My 'associate' grabbed the wrong girl."
Ash shook his head in disbelief.
"Dear God," he said quietly.
"I'd infiltrated the group and volunteered to be cameraman. Persuaded the two others to take the tape back to the TV studios in Al-Dubriz so I could stage her escape."
"Stage?"
"They're not fools."
The big SUV rocketed on for several minutes while Ash considered that.
"Laurel said she lived with a succession of foster-families," Rafiq continued. "No father, I gather. She's trained as a nanny, and that's really all I can tell you."
Except that she's natural and uncomplicated and affectionate. Inventive in bed and lively out of it. That I'd almost rather shoot you than let you steal her from me.
"Mr. Marsh," he rasped, more abrasively than he intended. "Lean back and grab the blue bag behind you. That's your cash. I'm entirely serious about this story staying under wraps. If I hear the slightest murmur---and I'm in the business of slight murmurs---then you're dead." He glanced into the rear-view mirror when he heard the bag's zipper scraping open. Barry's face became a study in disbelief and avarice. A hundred thousand was a nice pile of greenbacks---even in medium-to-large denominations.
"So we'll all have a pleasant lunch together," Rafiq continued, as though blackmail and death threats were of little consequence. "You'll be taken back to your hotel later to collect your luggage. Laurel and the money stay with me to ensure your enthusiastic return in time for dinner. And then we'll arrange your departure from my beautiful country in the next day or two."
"With Laurel," Ash said firmly.
"With Laurel," Rafiq agreed. "She'll need to be disguised to leave un-noticed. The second video of her will be shown tonight. She'll soon be on the celebrity A-list at this rate."
Laurel was indeed trying on clothes. She'd gone from trousers to skirts and back again. From a metallic-printed crossover top to a high-necked jade-green tunic, and then back to her old jeans and T-shirt. How would her grandfather like her best?
When Rafiq gave three short blasts on the horn to announce their arrival she shot out of the lodge with no idea of what she was currently wearing, and raced barefoot across to the gate. She'd seen Ash again and again in the interview; he was an old friend now. She launched herself into his outstretched arms and collapsed in floods of ecstatic tears. Ash ducked his face to hide the fact that his own eyes were suspiciously moist.
Rafiq drew Barry Marsh aside.
"So do we have a deal?" he demanded. "If the truth of this gets out, a lot of lives are at risk, including Laurel's. And a huge amount of hard and dangerous work will have been wasted for nothing."
"Yes, dammit, we have a deal," Barry muttered, thinking of the uncomfortable mortgage on his new Auckland apartment. A tax-free hundred thou would certainly help, and there might be more in a year's time if this madman kept his word. But what a story to miss out on!
Rafiq's black eyes stayed glued on Laurel across the lunch table. She was, of course, sitting next to her grandfather. The joy on her face was reward enough for the hard work and horrendous risks he'd endured to free her. Being able to produce Ash was something he'd never expected. Just as he'd never expected to lose his heart so completely and confusingly---especially to a foreign woman who'd be deserting him as soon as he could arrange it.
He chafed to be rid of the others so he could be alone with her again. So little time remained.
Once Malik had departed with Ash and Barry to collect their luggage, Rafiq took her by the hand and hustled her through to the bedroom. He peeled off her clothes, swung her up into his arms and laid her down on the bed.
"I don't like sharing you," he murmured as he smoothed his lips over her skin, kissing and nipping to mark his progress, inhaling the sweet fresh scent that was so distinctly her.
"He's my grandfather," she protested.
"He's a man. You kissed him. You hugged him. I'm jealous." He pulled her legs apart and licked a trail up the silky skin from her knee, along her inner thigh, and over her belly as far as her navel and then back down the other thigh.
"You missed a bit," Laurel whispered, addicted now to his mouth on her flesh, his hot breath and soft lips all over her.
"Punishment," he grated.
"For hugging my grandfather?"
"That, and much more. Forcing me to spend time without you while I collected them."
He swiped his tongue exactly where she wanted it and she caught her breath.
"For not sitting next to me at lunch."
Another hot lick.
"For being polite to that fool of a journalist."
A long searing suck that raised her hips off the bedcover and ripped a moan from her throat.
"Enough punishment for now," he said. He stood and gazed down at her as he undid his trouser belt.
Laurel didn't think she'd had nearly enough punishment, but plainly Rafiq had something else in mind. She heard his zipper rasp down as he crossed to the bathroom.
"I've heard the rumor," his husky voice called "that women like a man in a uniform." Seconds later he appeared again---six feet three of fiercely aroused naked man topped with the chauffeur's officious hat.
She lay there shaking with laughter as he strode back to the bed.
"Lie down," she giggled. "It's your turn now."
He lay, but flipped her over so she sat astride his chest.
"More punishment," he murmured, pushing her arms up so she was braced against the headboard. He slid lower, probed with his tongue, settled his lips around her magic little bud and suckled until she screamed.
They assembled in front of the TV to watch the evening's main news bulletin. Rafiq kept the volume low until the hostage story appeared.
Laurel shivered as she saw herself again. The forbidding wall of the bunker...the big clock right behind her...her wrists wrapped in chains.
"You have to believe me," she heard herself insisting. "I am Laurel de Courcey."
"So you're intent on talking? Tell us more," Rafiq's voice taunted.
"Pig!" she spat back. "I'll tell you nothing if you're too stupid to even kidnap the right woman."
Rafiq's big brown hand suddenly clamped around her face. His off-camera voice said "Be careful who you insult, little one. It's unwise to speak like that in your current position."
Laurel continued to glare at the camera until the shot ended.
Ash was first to react. "Good God, my dear girl," he barked. "I suspect I'm very lucky I ever got you back. Didn't it occur to you to be polite to them?"
"They weren't being very polite to me," she said in a small voice. "Were you?" she demanded, looking across at Rafiq.
"I had to make it look good," he said, shrugging. "The other two are hard men. Not easily fooled."
"And then you did the third scene where you messed my hair up and put dusty smudges all over my shirt. As if I'd been locked up for ages. Will that ever get shown?"
"If we need to buy more time, then yes. Hopefully though, another day or two should see the end of this particular group."
"It can't happen fast enough," Ash agreed. "But I suppose if Laurel had never been kidnapped, I wouldn't have known she existed or ever met her. I'll be very pleased to get her safely home to New Zealand."
Rafiq steeled himself to be strong.
You're doing this for Laurel.
"And I'll be relieved to get rid of such a liability," he said. "She could lead them to me, and inadvertently to our other intelligence personnel. The sooner she's on the other side of the world, the better."
He couldn't look at her as he spoke the cold words. Knew her blue eyes would darken with pain at his apparent indifference. Could almost feel the shock rolling off her to where he sat on the other side of Ash.
But it had to be done. Somehow he had to wrench her out of his heart so he could continue with the work. And he felt it would help her to settle into her new life if he provoked her into disliking him...gave her reasons not to look backwards to their desert idyll as though it had meant anything significant.
Laurel almost fainted at his cruelty. Surely she'd been more than a bit of fun to him? She'd known there'd have to be an end to their intense and joyful union, but suddenly he sounded so casual and uncaring. Yes, it had been brief, but it had been a brilliant shining jewel to remember for the rest of her life---not something worthless to be ground under his heel until it was a smear of nothing.
How could he dismiss it so lightly? Or---and this gave her only the slightest comfort---was he putting on some sort of macho act for Ash and Barry? Pretending there was nothing between himself and her? That he was a man as hard as Fayez and Nazim, who had no need of a woman in his life?
"I can't wait to be home again," she managed to say with only the slightest quaver. "Out of this barbaric country. Away from the awful heat."
"As soon as you can arrange it then," Ash confirmed to Rafiq. "I want to make up for some of those lost years."
And Laurel sat there trembling, thinking of the endless future where she would never know if her Sheikh was still alive.
Yasmina served dinner in the big dining room.
This time there were no romantic red roses or flickering candles. Instead, she'd put on a show of wealth to impress her visitors. The chandeliers sparkled...the cutlery was gold-plated...course after course of exotic food appeared on the finest antique china.
"Tomorrow I'll show you my horse," Laurel told Ash. "My temporary horse," she added, not daring to glance across to where Rafiq sat opposite her.
"She's called Azizah and she used to be the---"
She stopped short to avoid mentioning any royal connections. "She used to be grey, but now she's nearly white," she amended. "How many horses do you have at Trinity Stud?"
"Not as many as we used to. I've let things slide a bit if I'm honest. Your granny died a couple of years ago, and that makes a difference to a man." He smiled crookedly. "It's time I replaced several of the broodmares. I'm thinking of buying another stallion to bring some new blood into the Trinity line. Tossing up whether I should do that or sell the place, really."
"But you love it. It's your home."
"It's been my whole life."
She saw the truth of that in his twinkling blue eyes and the determined jut of his chin.
"Could I have a horse of my own if I lived with you?"
"You can have as many as you like, my dear."
"Just one," she said softly. "One living thing that's really mine. I want to learn to gallop."
"Then you shall. But you'll find it fairly quiet living with your old granddad. You'll need a bit of social life, a boyfriend and so on? You'll have to go into town for that. There's no-one young and single at Trinity."
She shrugged and tried for a smile.
Rafiq slid lower in his chair. Laurel might be acting bright and brave but she had to be feeling as bad as he did. If he stretched just a little further maybe he could capture one of her ankles between his and show her he ached to be holding her.
He pushed forward---just as she swiveled out of reach to allow Yasmina to pour coffee.
Laurel was planning a new life without him. As she had to. But picturing her with someone else hurt more than he'd imagined possible. The prospect of banishing her killed him, but he knew all he could do for her now was spirit her safely out of Al Sounam to the far side of the world.
The meal concluded. He checked his watch. It was barely nine. "Anyone for a game of pool?"
"Are you a betting man?" Barry queried, probably keen to add to his haul in the blue bag.
Rafiq's smile blazed very white.
Laurel sat watching for half an hour or so. All the light in the billiard room was concentrated low over the immense table. The men moved slowly in the shadows, lit only when they bent over their cues to pot the balls. Ash had taken both younger men to the cleaners, to his obvious delight.
Her eyes roamed over Rafiq's long back as he stretched to take aim. One thigh lay along the table edge. The tautly bunched muscles of his shoulders and butt were thrown into delicious relief. His attention on the game was absolute.
He does everything with passion. No wonder he's such a skilled lover. I'm so lucky I ever met him.
Once he'd taken the shot and she was sure she wouldn't distract him, she stood and excused herself for the night.
A nod to Barry, the smallest-possible nod to Rafiq, a quick hug for Ash and she hurried away.
She'd be sleeping in 'her own' room. It would hardly do for her new-found grandfather to discover she'd fallen so rapidly into bed with her kidnapper, and she certainly wasn't going to risk being seen flitting from one bedroom to another---especially in the sexy nightdresses he'd provided.
But the real kicker was this; Rafiq no longer wanted her. Had no further use for her. Considered her a nuisance and a risk to have around. She'd take herself willingly out of his presence if that was how he felt.
She bathed, and settled into her bed with one of the books he'd bought her. To her huge annoyance her eyelids refused to droop closed and her brain became crystal-clear instead of drowsier. Her hearing sharpened every time she heard a door closing, water running, a footfall.
Was that him? And what would she do if it was? His hateful description of her as 'a liability' still churned around in her mind. Could he really not wait to be rid of her?
She had her answer just before midnight when he pushed her door open, stepped silently into the room, and latched the door behind him.
"My Laurel," he murmured. "I can't leave it like this between us." He approached the bed. Her hands lost their grip on the book and it started to slide to the floor. He caught it deftly and placed it on a nearby chest.
"You have to leave my country. You're in danger here. But however much I insist upon that, I can't bear the thought of you hating me for turning you away."
She gave a slight shrug and waited.
"You have your grandfather now. You have a new life ahead of you."
He sat beside her on the bed. His white toweling robe slid aside to reveal a slice of muscular thigh. Her eyes settled there---anywhere but on his face.
She clenched her fists until her nails scored painful crescents into her palms, barely able to stop her fingers from reaching out to stroke his beloved skin.
"Don't," she said, anguished.
"I have to. My life is far removed from yours; there can be no contact between us. But I wish you to know I've enjoyed this time together. That I'm not sending you away because I want you to go."
Something tore inside her chest---as sharp and agonizing as lightning.
Finally she raised her eyes to his. Tears trembled on her lower lashes. He sighed then, and cupped her face in his long hands. His thumbs smoothed the tears over her cheeks as they rolled down.
"I have come to say a private goodbye, my Azizah. Tomorrow night you'll stay in my city apartment, and plans are under way for you to fly out the next morning."
Laurel gave a small helpless moan and scrunched her eyes closed as though she could block out such a prospect.
"We won't have the same privacy there," he continued relentlessly. "It's a big apartment, but very open. There are no secret corners or long hallways to hide in. Look at me," he coaxed.
Her wounded blue eyes opened and meshed with his intense dark gaze. His mouth quirked. "This old lodge was the ideal hiding place for you, and a wonderful retreat from the troubled world. I hope you'll remember it, and me, with affection?"
She attempted a smile, but it was very small and very sad. She gave a shaky sigh.
"I'll remember you always, Rafiq. And yes, with affection. I owe you my life, after all."
Helpless to resist him, she started to draw back the covers.
He stood and sloughed off the robe. The soft golden light from the bedside lamp gleamed on skin and scars and his long hard sex.
"I see you've both come to say goodbye," she said, attempting severity and failing totally as her slight smile blossomed into a tremulous grin.
"We need to be close one last time. Lie in my arms tonight, Laurel. Let me hold you and treasure you while we still have the chance."
He slipped into bed behind her, and once again she found herself surrounded by his warmth and the scent of his skin as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest. She wriggled to settle her bottom against his groin, and he gave a husky moan as he smoothed her long hair aside and nipped her shoulder.
"So beautiful," he whispered. "So small, yet such a woman."
One hand found a breast and cupped it. "Such a woman," he repeated. "And some pieces are not so small." He rubbed her nipple gently. "These memories of you will be so very dear to me. There's no way you can stay, and my life and duty are here, so what are we to do but enjoy each other while we can?"
"That sounds very Arabic."
"We can't escape our fate."
"My fate was probably death, but I escaped from Fayez and Nazim with your help, so it is possible. I'll always remember you for saving my life."
"And hopefully for more than that," he whispered, tempted beyond reason by her suggestive wriggling against him. He drew back the covers and quickly sheathed himself. Then he pulled her backward until she knelt near the edge of the bed, pushed her thighs apart, and entered her with one long slow deliberate thrust.
"Remember me for this, too," he insisted. "Remember me for the pleasure we shared."
He held her helpless beneath him, not moving, to give her body time to accustom itself to his sudden entry. Then he smoothed her hair forward and began to drop kisses along her spine with fierce passion before reaching around to find her clitoris.
Laurel bit the back of her hand to avoid crying out. His desperate invasion had both shocked and thrilled her. The strange unmoving penetration felt so possessive, so right. He was invisible behind her, pressed hard against her thighs but nowhere else---except where his lips touched and lifted, again and again, and his fingers stroked and teased between her thighs.
She began to tremble uncontrollably. The unrelenting pressure of him buried deep inside her felt almost painful, but the sense of his occupation was such a turn-on that tiny flutters and quivers arrived as if by magic to caress his length.
"Yes!" he groaned with elation as she began to spasm around him with breathy little cries. Then at last he moved, rapidly and deeply, transporting them both to dark hot paradise.
Laurel woke in his arms near dawn. His lips roamed her face, kissing her eyelids, the sensitive edge of her jaw, the tip of her nose.
As she stirred, he started to nibble and nip at her mouth---drawing her to full consciousness with tender regretful kisses. For long minutes they lay entwined, mouth on mouth, giving and taking pleasure.
Finally he sighed and drew away.
"I must go, Laurel. I have so much to do today, and another long drive to Al-Dubriz and back. I'll see you this afternoon."
He rose from the ravaged bed and looked down at her as she sprawled, nude and replete.
"The perfect picture to carry with me always," he said.
Rafiq left the lodge soon afterward, and returned hours later. Barry was still trying to beat Ash at pool. The click of the heavy balls echoed in the quiet room. Laurel sat reading at a nearby window. She looked up, pale and distracted, as he approached her.
"So now we make arrangements for your escape," he said, attempting to sound considerably calmer and more businesslike than he felt.
He handed her a designer suitcase and matching cabin bag, then opened his briefcase and produced a folder, from which he drew a counterfeit passport.
"So I'm to be called Amanda Holloway," she said, inspecting it. "But there's no photograph, and as you say, I can easily be identified in Al Sounam."
"My God," Barry said as he crossed the room, curious to be part of what was happening. "You really are Intelligence---or whatever."
"As you see," Rafiq said. "And not one word of this gets written down or recorded in any way. We've reached agreement on that---yes?" His eyes bored into the hapless journalist.
Barry nodded and grimaced. "Just my luck to get the scoop of the year and not be able to use it."
"As long as you remember that."
"I have a reasonable reminder."
"So we need to make you look very different from your beautiful self," Rafiq said, turning to Laurel and lifting a vivid red-gold wig from the cabin-bag.
"Red!" she exclaimed. "Won't that make me stand out like a beacon?"
"A wealthy first-class rich-bitch beacon," he agreed. "Not a blonde fugitive beacon. Sometimes the safest disguise is to look as though you're not trying to hide at all."
"But what about a photograph?"
"We'll soon take care of that. Put your wig on, and lots of make-up and jewelry. I'll photograph you and send the result back to headquarters. They'll work a little magic by the time we need the real thing."
"It's as easy as that?" Barry asked as Laurel departed for her room.
"With the proper resources, it's possible. Bad fakes are getting easier to spot all the time. I want nothing, nothing, to get in the way of Laurel's safe departure. Her passport must be perfect."
He eyed the men.
"You two were flying out together?"
Barry nodded.
"I've got Ash onto a flight tomorrow with Laurel. The sooner she's gone the better. You'll be okay with your existing booking? You need clearance for the currency?"
Barry shrugged, relieved the topic had been raised.
"That'd be helpful. Thanks."
"Ash---you'll wear local clothing until you're on the plane. Just in case someone recognizes you. Good thing you're well-tanned."
"Anything to keep Laurel safe."
Rafiq opened the suitcase and shook out a white robe and head-cloth.
"Then we're agreed."
Fifteen minutes later Laurel returned, looking nothing like herself. Rafiq positioned her against the wall, took a series of shots, and downloaded the images onto his laptop.
"Done," he said as he sent them into cyberspace.
They packed. Laurel spent a few minutes with Azizah while Ash was made familiar with his unexpected garments. There were heartfelt farewells to Yasmina and Malik. The bags and passengers were loaded into the SUV and they departed.
"You're a whole new person," Rafiq said, reaching across to touch the vivid chin-length wig. In sophisticated clothing and heavier make-up Laurel had been transformed into someone else entirely. A hard young socialite---the very kind of woman he'd often spent time with and never really fallen for. He so much preferred her young and soft in the old jeans and T-shirt, but maybe it was easier saying farewell to this glossy stranger?
He drove fast across the rough desert route, glancing constantly to left and right and checking the rear-view mirror. So far, so good. Not until he reached the outskirts of Al-Dubriz did he cut his speed back.
He deposited Barry and his bag at his hotel, and drove Ash and Laurel further across the city and through security gates into a basement parking garage. He hustled them into an elevator which rose seventeen floors to his penthouse apartment. Only then did he relax his vigilance.
Laurel crossed to the huge glass frontage and peered the dizzying distance down across the city of Al-Dubriz.
"Rafiq, it's amazing!"
"You like my view?"
"The view, the décor, everything," she said, turning to survey the expanse of pale marble, sand-toned leather and chrome. "It's such a contrast to the lodge. Thank-you for bringing us here. Now I have somewhere else to picture you when I'm gone."
"And where am I to picture you?"
"I don't know," she faltered. "What's my new home like?" she asked, turning to Ash.
"That sounds so good," Ash said. "Home. My little girl's coming home." He drew a deep reflective breath. "Well, Trinity's quite a way from anywhere. Out towards the coast from Hamilton---you can see the ocean in the distance."
He smiled, thinking of having company there again at last. "The house is a rambling old thing. We'll have to paint up a room for you so it's the way you like it. Get you some new furniture too, I suppose?"
"How many staff?" Rafiq asked abruptly. "Can you keep her out of sight for a while?"
"No-one lives in the house now except me. The Stud Office is in one of the outbuildings, so that won't be a problem. I have a house-cleaning lady once a week. How long are we talking here?"
"As long as you can manage. A month?"
"I'm not wearing this hot wig for a month," Laurel declared. "I'd rather color my hair and cut it back to the same length as this." She fingered the bright strands with distaste.
"Don't you dare!" Rafiq snapped. "Keep your lovely long hair, Laurel. But the more time you can give me, the more I can accomplish here. Tie it up under a scarf or something."
"Sooner or later someone will discover it's me. What happens after that?"
"By then I'll have a nice little story sorted out. Amnesia? Your brain will decide to forget the whole awful captive thing. Most of your 'memory' will just return very slowly. You'll be so un-newsworthy no-one will be interested any longer."
"I can't live like that forever."
"Just a few weeks, Laurel. For me?"
She sent him a sad smile and nodded assent. "For you, Rafiq, yes---anything to keep you safe. And anything to get them."
He turned away. "I'll show you to your rooms, then." He reached for her expensive new wheeled suitcase, and hefted Ash's bag.
"And so we say goodbye," he said next morning as he lined the luggage up beside the elevator door. Only by staying businesslike and focused could he survive this parting. His mouth was dry, his head felt ready to explode, and he could barely speak the words he had to.
"Your bodyguard and driver will be here any moment now to collect you for the airport," he continued stiffly. "They have all the other documentation you need. My people will guide you through embarkation to a private jet where there are no prying eyes. You'll join a commercial flight at Athens. I hope your flight is smooth and you enjoy your new life together."
He opened the door.
"I won't compromise your safely by being seen with you again," he added. "Goodbye, Ash. Look after her well." He reached out and clasped Ash's gnarled hand.
"And goodbye Miss Kiwi---I shall think of you."
Laurel felt as though her heart had burst, her joints had all been wrenched apart, her skin flayed and peeled away. How could he banish her so calmly? She tottered a few steps in her expensive new shoes---far from steady, ready to faint, to collapse at his feet. She couldn't imagine surviving without him.
Somehow she rose on tiptoe and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek as he stood there, cold and unmoving.
And then, as the elevator bell chimed to announce its arrival, something gave her the courage to sketch a curtsey and murmur for his ears only, "Goodbye, my darling King."
She'd wept most of the night, tossed unceasingly in the beautiful bed, and gained only the most fitful sleep. She was so emotional and exhausted that the luxury of the limousine and the drive across Al Dubriz to the private jet barely registered. She was free, but her heart and her thoughts lingered far behind with Rafiq.
Before they boarded the big jumbo in Athens, Ash dispensed with his white robe and head-cloth, and her familiar old grandfather re-appeared. They were directed to the comfort of First Class.
She sat there in total misery. So what if the seats were huge and luxurious and the vintage champagne was on offer forever? Why should she care if the flight attendants addressed her by name and insisted nothing was too much trouble? If the food was glorious? If the movies were the latest releases? If the perfume on the steaming hot hand-towels was the most exclusive from Paris? She'd willingly have swapped it all for five more minutes with Rafiq. Even for another five terrifying minutes in the bunker with him, she thought wildly.
The words on the page of her book kept running together. Her eyes swam with unshed tears as she tried to hide her dejection from Ash. She would never see Rafiq again.
Never know if he was safe.
Or happy.
Or worse still, happy with someone else.
She sighed and fidgeted and sipped her champagne.
Ash reached over and patted her hand. "Remembering your desert Sheikh?" he asked.
"No, not at all," she said too sharply.
The myriad greens of the New Zealand countryside stretched out in a fantastic rumpled patchwork as the big jet floated ever lower. Laurel leaned her brow against the window and peered down.
"I'd almost forgotten the colors of home," she said, turning to Ash. "Al Sounam was so pale. All that sand. All those white buildings to reflect the heat. And the white robes."
"We'll be down in a few minutes, then you'll really be home."
"I'll never go away again."
His bushy eyebrows waggled with disbelief.
"Of course you will, my girl. It's a wonderful world. Just because you've had a bad experience in one country doesn't mean you have to miss out on the rest. I'll take you to the Melbourne Cup and the races in Hong Kong later this year---you won't believe the atmosphere there. Talk about exciting!"
Once they'd disembarked Laurel sensed a new spirit in her grandfather. An added twinkle in his faded blue eyes. An extra air of determination. A slightly jauntier angle to his checked tweed cap. He was happy to be home, thrilled to have found her. She needed to somehow throw off her despondency and not spoil his happiness, but it wouldn't be easy. Not with Rafiq constantly on her mind.
Is he safe? Is he missing me?
More than two hours later they drove through the big iron gates of Trinity Stud. Laurel's eyes grew wide and hungry. This is where her mother had grown up. Where her grandmother had lived. Where she herself would live for as long as she chose.
In the half-light of early summer dusk the stud looked magical. Big leafy trees stood silhouetted against the golden sky. The slight shabbiness of the fences and buildings was softened and almost hidden.
The rambling old timber house sat at the end of a long shrub-bordered lawn. In the near distance the ocean twinkled, beating against rocky outcrops on a wild coastline. Her spirits lifted a little.
Ash escorted her to a guest-room and set down her case.
"Not as fancy as Rafiq's apartment," he said gruffly.
"It doesn't have to be," she insisted, glancing around the gracious old room with pleasure. "I'll need to buy some everyday clothes though. My real ones are still with Mr. and Mrs. Daniels. I could do with some T-shirts and jeans."
"Anything you like," he assured her. "I've got twenty-three years of birthday and Christmas presents to make up for. We'll start with some early ones for this Christmas---it's only a month away."
He turned, and called over his shoulder, "I'll put the kettle on. The bathroom's just over the hall."
Laurel set her case on the bed and started to lift out her new clothes to stow them away. Her hand hit something solid. Solid and silky.
Mystified, she pulled out a fist-sized bundle wrapped in fabric. Her fingers tangled in the silk and she smiled sadly---it was pair of Rafiq's black boxer shorts---something to remind her of their first ridiculous tied-together night in bed.
Then she stopped smiling and could barely breathe.
Wrapped inside was the Queen's box---the emerald-encrusted solid gold love-token she'd admired so much at the lodge.
This was no accident. It had been wrapped and hidden---probably just before he carried their luggage to the elevator. He'd brought it all the way from the grand old sitting-room and kept it out of sight until he could conceal it in her bag.
Her knees lost their strength and she sat down quite suddenly on the bed.
Oh Rafiq, she lamented. You've given me this beautiful thing and I had nothing for you.
She turned it around in her hands. The gold was cool to touch and the emeralds glittered like sunshine on deep salty water. There were dozens of exquisite stones banding the sides of the box in close-packed rows. In the centre of the round lid one huge gem sparkled on a heart-shaped cushion of gold, and around it more emeralds marched in concentric circles. As a love-token it was sublime.
She had no inkling she was crying until the first fat tear splashed onto the edge of the central stone. With a small exclamation of distress she wiped it away with a finger; then lifted the lid to blot it dry on her shirt.
Inside the priceless box she found a small sheet of paper, folded in upon itself. She picked it up, smoothed it flat, and read his words with an aching heart.
The time and circumstances were wrong, Azizah, but never doubt that you and I were right. Always, Rafiq.
And underneath there was another line in the same curious curling script he'd used for Yasmina's note.
She stared at it as her brain absorbed his words.
You and I were right.
She drew a deep trembling breath. She'd known they were right with every fiber of her being, but yes, the timing had been atrocious and the circumstances impossible.
She let the breath out in a hopeless sigh, refolded the note very precisely, placed it back in the box, set the lid on again, and pushed it under her pillow.
Then she buried her face in the soft feather filling and howled like a wounded animal, hoping it would absorb enough of the noise so Ash wasn't disturbed.
Misery rolled over her in huge engulfing waves as she lay, face-down, sobbing. She snatched off the bright wig and flung it across the room, toed off her pretty shoes and let them fall with two thumps onto the carpet, and kicked at the mattress like a two-year-old having a tantrum. When she finally subsided into small hiccupping sobs she felt utterly drained and no better at all.
Her fingers crept under the pillow and found the emerald box again. She ran her fingers over the bumpy gems and along the smooth golden edges.
He had touched this. His hands had cradled it and wrapped it and hidden it for her to find once she was far away from him. Abruptly she sat up and rummaged for the silk boxers. Would they smell like his skin? Would there be a trace of his spicy cologne left on them?
No---however hard she sniffed she could detect only laundry detergent and fresh fabric. But they were not brand new. They must have caressed his body.
How absurd I'd rather have a pair of his old underpants than a box so precious it's almost beyond price!
But best of all was his note. She retrieved it and unfolded it again. The writing was strong and spare like him---an arrogant scrawl with no fancy flourishes or attempts to pretty it up.
Was he hurting when he wrote this? Was he feeling anywhere near as wretched as she was now? She traced a finger over the wonderful words, knowing quite well that her heartbeat quickened as she did.
You and I were right. He'd called her 'Azizah'---precious. That was going to have to console her through all the long days and even longer nights stretching ahead.
She put the box back under her pillow again, and slipped her shoes on. Across the hall in the old-fashioned bathroom, she splashed cold water on her burning eyes and gave her hair a swift brushing. Then she went out to join Ash.
"Do you have photos of my mother and grandmother?" she asked after he'd poured her a cup of tea.
He produced several old-fashioned albums from the sitting-room bookcase and set them on the dining table. Laurel started to search for her unknown past while her grandfather took two microwave dinners from a stack in the freezer and set them to heat.
He pulled out the chair beside her and pointed to one of the older photos. "Marion, pregnant with your mother, Deborah," he said. "The only child we were blessed with. That's why we called the stud 'Trinity'. For the three of us."
"So I've no uncles or aunties?"
Ash shook his head. "Great-uncles---look, here's my brother Bruce. Your great-uncle Bruce, and his wife Helen. And their twins Stephanie and Peter, when they were little. Steph has a daughter about your age---Angela. What does that make her? Some sort of cousin? You'll find her in one of the newer albums."
"And that's my mother?"
"That's your mother."
Together they regarded the small blonde girl clutching a treasured doll.
He turned the pages, naming people and places, charting Deborah's progress through school, at gymkhanas, and in her first ball-gown.
"She was seventeen there," he said. "That dress is still hanging at the back of Marion's wardrobe."
Laurel touched a finger to the photo. "I'm absolutely her again, aren't I? No wonder you recognized me on the TV."
"She went soon after that was taken," he said.
"She left because of me I suppose? Because she got pregnant?"
"She left because of a married man," Ash corrected. "Anthony de Courcey. He was on the staff here at Trinity. He somehow got her as far as Sydney and then they disappeared."
"I don't remember him. Nothing about him at all. Maybe they weren't together for long?"
"Par for the course," Ash grated. "He was a charmer, a womanizer. She couldn't see it, young and headstrong as she was. We have to assume she found out the hard way. You won't find him there," Ash added as an afterthought.
He pushed himself up from the chair and busied himself with the dinners to disguise his emotions. Laurel continued turning the album pages, lost in the past.
"Is this what you've been living on?" she asked as he set a ready-plated dinner in front of her. "I'd love to do some cooking for you. In fact I could do all sorts of housekeeper-type things and keep out of sight for a while. Would that be okay?"
"I've been looking after myself perfectly well," Ash said, bristling a little. "I've had a cleaner in once a week. I'm not living in squalor."
"No, of course you're not, but I've never had a house to play with."
He saw the longing in her eyes.
"Do anything you like then. Let me know if there's much money involved because Trinity needs a bit spent on it---and now I've got you to bequeath it to I'd better get on with the maintenance."
And so she cooked and cleaned and polished, doing a considerably better job than the previous woman. Rearranged furniture and rugs and pictures in the main sitting room. And gathered bunches of foliage and old-fashioned flowers for the vases when the staff were out of sight in the evenings.
Ash took her riding then, too---on a white mare he bought a few days after she arrived at Trinity. Laurel renamed her Yasmina.
Four weeks after she'd arrived she took a phone-call from Barry.
"That mad Arab has asked me to arrange a follow-up TV interview," he crowed.
"Have you got his address?" she demanded, almost sick with anxiety.
"Nah, he got me through the office. Said to tell you your memory's coming back. That we should do a little item to show you're home safely and you don't remember a thing. Or not much, anyway. How about Thursday morning?"
"Did he say anything else?"
Oh please, please let there be a message?
"Your baddies are dead and the horses are well."
She squeezed her eyes closed. "He was successful then. Thank God for that."
She saw the white birds flying up into the desert air the first time she'd ridden Azizah by the lake. Her spirits soared with them.
He's alive. He's still safe.
It was like being released from prison. Much as she hated the attention, she stumbled through the interview with Barry, claiming she could remember wandering through desert country, being intensely thirsty, and having scrapes on her wrists---presumably from being tied up. She proffered her now-unmarked hands to the camera.
..."I just want to live quietly and never really recall what happened."
..."It's wonderful to find I have an unexpected grandfather. It was so nice flying home with him. We talked all the way."
..."Yes, I've watched those pictures of me again and again but I can't remember that room or those men."
"Magic," Barry said, winking.
She politely declined any further interviews with magazines or radio stations, and emerged from hiding to take her rightful place at the stud. Living so far out in the countryside on a big private property had its advantages. The media eventually lost interest.
Ash had arranged for the big curved driveway to be re-asphalted, and Laurel made it her personal project to repaint all the post-and-rail fencing close to the house, and to tidy up the gardens. Little by little Trinity started to look loved again.
While she was weeding around an old Forsythia bush just after Christmas, a long black limo swept up the driveway and disgorged a dark-skinned man in traditional Arab dress. Laurel half-rose from her grubby knees in disbelief. It was him?
But no---this man was too short, too stocky, obviously used to being fawned over. She sank back onto the lawn, heart hammering.
That night she dreamed of the desert, and the lake, and the first time Rafiq had taken her into his arms to truly make love. She awoke aching and sobbing and lonely---snapping on the bedside light so she could once again read the little note in the Queen's emerald box to convince herself he'd been real.
At breakfast next morning she said shakily, "I saw someone who reminded me of Rafiq yesterday."
Ash shot her a keen glance.
"Sheikh Ahmed? He's very keen on his horses. I'll stake mine against any in the Middle East. He likes to check out the thoroughbreds we've got destined for the yearling sales."
"It was only the white robes," she murmured. "They're nothing the same otherwise."
She bit her lip and stared unseeing out of the window.
"You'll no doubt spot a few more of our customers from the same part of the world. Don't get your hopes up too high, darling girl."
"No," she agreed vaguely.
He reached across the sunny table and laid a hand over Laurel's. Her pain and yearning had been obvious ever since they'd left Al Sounam.
Ash was right with his predictions. Twice more in the next few weeks men from the Middle East arrived to talk with Don Charleston the stud manager; to run expert eyes over the broodmares with Libby Westmore; to conduct long discussions about bloodlines with Ash.
Both times Laurel's heart lurched behind her ribs until she was close enough to see they were not Rafiq.
On the last day of February---a hot sultry day with thunderclouds massing inland---she waded barefoot in Trinity's big lily pond, pulling out rotting leaves, hacking back overgrown rushes and cutting off slimy old lily stems.
Suddenly a throbbing roar filled the humid air, and a throaty Ducati motorcycle swooped up the long driveway, slowed, and then sped across the lawn to where Laurel was working.
She stood and pushed her hair out of her eyes with a dripping hand.
The rider swung a long leg over the seat, kicked the stand out and rested the bike on it. He made short work of removing his black leather jacket and crash helmet, then strode the few steps towards the pond.
He held out his arms to her.
"Are you coming out or am I coming in?" he challenged.
"Rafiq?" she whispered.
After a stunned second or two she surged through the water, churning up plants and scattering sleepy goldfish from their basking.
"Rafeeeek!"
Soaked and slimy, she launched herself into his embrace.
He held her close, pulling her head in under his chin, smoothing her tangled hair and dropping kisses anywhere he could. Laurel pressed her face against his hard chest and inhaled the beloved scent of him.
"I smell like a swamp," she wailed.
"A memorable greeting," he said gravely. "I will treasure it always."
He tipped her appalled face up to his and kissed her---softly at first and then with unrestrained passion.
"We've had," she gasped between kisses "all these Arab men, and each time I hoped it was you."
"All these Arab men?" he growled, pulling her even closer. "What did you do with them?"
"Nothing, because they weren't."
"Weren't what?"
"Weren't you."
"This is me," he murmured against her mouth.
"Yes, I know," she said, pulling back from him and drinking in the sight of the glorious lover she'd never expected to see again. "You've shaved some of your beard off," she added, running her hands down his face.
"I'm a new man, a different man."
"Kiss me some more and I'll think what to say next."
She smoothed her fingers again over the sexy dark stubble and ruffled his hair up from where the helmet had flattened it.
Rafiq grinned at her. "Kiss you some more?" he teased. "Like this?"
Time swirled by in hot moist ecstasy as lips and tongues met and parted and stroked and slid.
Finally, with that first fierce appetite assuaged, they drew back from each other, breathless.
"Come and sit," he said, indicating the old lichen-covered bench under a nearby tree. "There are things I must know. How is Ash? Are you well? Are you happy?"
And after a slight pause---"do you have a new boyfriend?"
Laurel couldn't keep the smile off her face. He'd come halfway around the world to see her. He was safe and alive and even more gorgeous than she'd remembered. She pressed close beside him on the seat.
"Ash is well," she said, nodding. "I'm well---although not looking too great right at this moment." She picked a strand of pond-weed off her bare leg. "Yes, I'm happy. I have a home and some family at last. I'm useful here and that feels good. What was the last question?" She turned very innocent blue eyes up to his.
"You know very well what it was, you little she-devil! Is there anyone else?" His eyes burned down into hers. "Because if there is, I shall have to kill him," he added. "Strangle him." He placed his hands gently around her neck. "Shoot him." He drew one hand higher and mimed shooting her between the eyes with two fingers. "Poison him, run him over with my splendid new machine..."
Laurel gazed up at him with such intensity he lost track of his threats. "Kiss you to death," he added huskily, once more ravaging her willing mouth.
Every part of her rioted with rapture. Her earlobes tingled, her lips felt swollen and hungry, and her skin caught fire wherever he touched it. Her breasts grew heavy and hot, and her groin flickered and pulsed as though he was already pleasuring her.
"No-one...else," she gasped between kisses. "It would take me...longer than three months...to recover from you."
He laughed then, and let her settle back against the bench. They sat hand-in-hand for a few silent moments.
"I like your bike," Laurel said suddenly. "But where's your luggage? I presume you have some?"
"I left it in Auckland at the motorcycle shop. They promised me they'd courier the bags here by tonight."
"So you bought this dangerous monster just to travel to Trinity?"
"It seemed the fastest way to get here."
"You're hopeless," she said. "You're not normal. Why didn't you hire a car?"
"Because I've not ridden Muzaffar for too long. I miss the speed. It makes me feel alive."
Laurel saw the flare of excitement in his dark eyes and knew it was true. He was used to thrills, to living on the edge, to pitting himself against the odds. A small jolt of unease ran through her.
So what's he doing here with me? I'm not fast or exciting or glamorous.
"Oh well," she said, shrugging, trying to sound casual, "if your bags don't arrive in time, at least I've got the underpants you wrapped around the Queen's emerald box. And we can always hit Ash up for a T-shirt."
He stretched and smiled. "It's not the Queen's box, Laurel---it's yours. I was pleased to have such a pretty thing to give you."
"Pretty!" she exclaimed. "It's more than pretty, Rafiq. I could probably get arrested because of it."
"It was a gift, willingly given. To remind you of our time at the lodge."
Again Laurel felt that faint wash of unease. Somehow he'd just made their time at the lodge sound rather firmly in the past. Did this mean she was firmly in the past, despite his teasing enquiries about possible boyfriends? She looked away, not daring to ask.
"So tell me more about your life," he invited.
"Things are good, Rafiq," she said, dragging her composure back around her like a cloak. "I think Ash is enjoying having me here. I've started some on-line courses. The stud's an exciting place to live. I have my own horse." She tried to suppress a smile and failed. "I've called her Yasmina---she has the same lovely kind eyes."
"Shall I tell this to Yasmina when I next see her?"
Laurel felt more of her happiness evaporate like the morning mists which sometimes swirled around Trinity's lower slopes. He was leaving her and returning to Al Sounam!
How could you give me such hope? she screamed silently.
How could you kiss me as though everything was the same, and pretend you couldn't wait to see me, and then leave?
"Are Yasmina and Malik well?" She forced her suddenly-hot eyes to retain the tears that were threatening to spill down her face.
"Very well when I last saw them. The lodge is...not the same...without you."
Well, that was some sort of compliment anyway. Taking courage from it asked, "How long are you here for?"
He looked down at her very strangely.
"For as long as it takes to arrange certain things."
He released her hand and stood to retrieve his crash helmet.
Rafiq stayed silent for several seconds. Tremors of uncertainty punctured his euphoria. Did Laurel not want him here after all? Had her warmly enthusiastic welcome been no more than relief he was safe?
This was a problem he hadn't foreseen.
"Will you take me to Ash?" He patted the pillion seat, hoping she'd accompany him to find her grandfather and smooth the crucial meeting between them.
He watched as Laurel cast around for her discarded sandals. He bent to help her work the straps up over her damp feet. Such pretty little feet that he couldn't resist lifting one and kissing her muddy ankle.
Don't," she implored. "I'm so dirty." She squinted up at the sky. "Ash will probably be in the stud office. What time is it? I left my watch in the house, knowing I was going to be sloshing about down here."
"Nearly one-thirty," Rafiq said, glancing at his wrist.
"And I'll bet he's got so wrapped up in things he's forgotten about his lunch."
Laurel knew she sounded annoyed. She hadn't meant to speak so sharply, but she couldn't help wondering what she should sound like in this unreal situation.
Rafiq was back in her life! Or was Rafiq back in her life? She had no idea, and wasn't going to repeat her mistake of asking how long he was here for. He'd given her such a weird look, and muttered something about having things to arrange, and going back to see Yasmina.
God---to lose him once was bad enough. To lose him twice would kill her. She needed to be on her guard every second. To lock her heart down safe and cold and steely so she could never be hurt like that again.
She climbed up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, loving the closeness but fearing it would be only a transitory pleasure.
He punched the Ducati into snarling life, roared up the slope of the lawn and swept onto the driveway again. Laurel raised her face to capture his scent, still dark and spicy and exotic. Under her hands his body felt just as good, just as taut, flexing slightly as he controlled the powerful motor cycle. It was heaven, but for how long?
She pointed past the big old house to the stud office, and half a minute later they drew to a halt. She quickly dismounted and searched out her grandfather.
"We have a visitor you won't believe," she told him, trying to keep her voice light. "Someone who's really going to surprise you."
Ash pushed his spectacles down his nose so he could see further than his paper-work, and lurched to his feet with alarm as Rafiq's tall silhouette appeared in the doorway.
On one hand he was elated for Laurel. She'd been moping around for the past three long months---never as animated as he'd seen her in Al Sounam. Maybe now she'd regain her sparkle?
On the other hand, had Rafiq come to steal his precious granddaughter away again? He felt the sudden surge of protectiveness flash through him. Over his dead body! He emerged from behind his desk and extended a cautious hand.
"I never expected to see you again, my boy," he said. "Come to see some real horses, have you?"
Rafiq threw back his head and laughed. "The two you saw at the lodge weren't as young as they used to be. I could show you horses in my homeland that would astound you."
"And I could show you the same here."
Laurel glanced from one man to the other. If they were going to indulge in some sort of ridiculous masculine 'mine's bigger than yours' ritual, she was out of there.
"Lunch," she said. "Cold lamb and salad. Five minutes." She turned and left them to it.
By two-thirty they were all on horseback, and Ash was giving Rafiq the grand tour.
As though he's a prospective customer, Laurel thought stonily as she tagged along behind them on gentle Yasmina. She wanted Rafiq all to herself, but how could she spoil her grandfather's obvious enjoyment?
And when she thought about the situation carefully, did she want to risk being alone with Rafiq again when he still had such a hold over her heart? Dared she tempt herself with his dazzling company when he'd probably disappear in a few days, leaving her more bereft than ever? She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth and worried away at it as she turned her thoughts around and around.
She was pleased Trinity looked so impressive. It was the height of summer. The earlier thunderclouds had dispersed, and the sun now shone on pastures studded with pregnant mares and capering foals. A skylark's song cascaded down over Ash's patch of paradise, and the distant sparkle of the ocean flashed blue and blinding.
Eventually Laurel excused herself and left them to it. Although Rafiq had been careful to include her in the conversation, and often directed an enquiring glance or broad smile in her direction, she felt his concentration was really on Ash's commentary.
"I'm going to tidy the pond rubbish," she called. "There's still quite a lot of mess to clean up. I'll see you both at dinnertime." She wheeled Yasmina around and cantered back towards the stables, wondering about the real purpose of his visit, and sleeping arrangements, and whether his luggage had arrived yet.
To her great relief the non-arrival of one delayed the allocation of the other. She escaped into the garden again and lost herself in knee-deep water and soggy vegetation. Her brain seemed as liquid as the sun-dappled pond, swirling with unanswered questions and strange currents.
As she waded through the water carrying yet another armful of rubbish, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Ash and Rafiq ambling down the lawn. Ash carried a bottle of champagne and Rafiq had three of her grandmother's Waterford crystal flutes by their stems. Both men were grinning fit to bust; what had happened?
Laurel stilled, and her eyes narrowed as she watched them approach. Then she grasped the long brown arm that Rafiq offered, and allowed herself to be hauled up out of the water.
"What?" she demanded, eyes darting from Ash's twinkling blue eyes to Rafiq's unfathomable dark ones.
Ash nodded to Rafiq to set the glasses down on the old lichen-covered seat, and uncorked the bottle.
"We have a partnership to drink to," he beamed. "This young fellow of yours has flung a few bucks my way and become part-owner of Trinity. We can really get moving now."
Laurel felt all sensible comment desert her. She stood open-mouthed; it had been the last thing she expected. For sure he was fond of horses, but to invest money on the other side of the world? Was he taking pity on them? Had he noticed the slightly down-at-heel condition of the stud and decided to help bail them out with a tiny fraction of his wealth? She couldn't bear the thought of that. Nor could she endure having a tenuous link to him for years to come. Oh, it was too cruel!
Rafiq seemed to sense her disquiet. He held a tall fizzing flute towards her and spoke with intense passion.
"I hope we have two partnerships to drink to, Laurel. The way you greeted me before lunch gave me hope, so I've asked Ash's permission to court you---properly this time."
They stood, fingers touching as she reached for the champagne and he refused to relinquish it. He wrapped his other hand over hers to bind them together.
He raised the champagne to her lips. "To us?" he asked.
Laurel's eyes never left his. She took a tiny sip as he tilted the glass, swallowed, and nodded.
"You really mean it?" she asked in a small choked voice.
"For as long as you'll have me, Azizah. Do you not want me now?" He pulled her close and stroked her hair. "It's taken me all this time to extricate myself from the security projects and to slide away. To speak with my uncle the King and rearrange my life so I could share it with you."
He really wants me!
She poked him in the chest and said "Not one message, Rafiq! Not one little word that I should keep hoping."
"My Azizah, you turned me inside-out. I hardly dared think this would be possible. My life was all planned---service to my people, my country. The probability I would take over as King one day if I survived the security work; if I gave up my new identity and returned to my old one. That was what I expected."
He shook his head, frustrated. "And then you appeared. From the very first moment I wanted you to stay in my life. I was desperate to rescue you---would have tried to kill Fayez and Nazim with my bare hands if that had been necessary."
He set the champagne flute down on the seat again and cupped her indignant face in his long fingers.
Neither of them registered that Ash had quietly retreated.
"I had so little to offer you," he continued in a softer voice. "No family, no certainty I would even be alive the next day. No life worth sharing."
"You told Ash I was a liability," she accused.
"And so you were. I needed to get you away to safety. Anyway, you called my country 'barbaric' and said the heat was unbearable."
A small smile lit her face. "Tit for tat," she said. "I was getting used to the heat by then."
"You knew I loved you."
"I knew no such thing! How would I? You never told me once."
He took a deep affronted breath. "It's a very hard thing to say when it matters so much. That's why I wrote it down so you'd find it in the emerald box and have it to keep until I could come to you."
Recognition finally dawned. "Not the loopy-doopy-curvy-whoop-de-doo bit? The line I couldn't read because it wasn't in English?"
"Loopy-doopy-curvy...?" His straight black eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "I did that? In Sounamese? Well, that tells you how serious I was if I wrote it in the most beautiful script in the world. Loopy-doopy-curvy indeed..."
She found herself even more tightly held in his arms.
"Miss Kiwi, I love you. Is that plain enough?" He gazed down into her eyes and then smiled at the startled expression on her muddy face. "I have told my uncle that the throne of Al Sounam is now rightfully his. His sons can succeed him. The royal role for which I was destined can't compare to the world of love I found with you."
He kissed her gently. "You made my hard heart beat softly at last. So here I am in your very green country to ask you to share my life. To build a new life. To beg your grandfather to allow this. I have money, and a good brain, and ambition."
"And a very nice body and funny handwriting."
"Always the last word, you infuriating little woman."
He was silent for a moment. "You like my body? Even with all my scars?"
"You have one more because of me." She reached up to touch the mark on his brow where he'd wounded himself to make her desert escape appear real to the other men.
"Worth every twinge," he declared. "I'd do anything for you, my lovely Laurel---even hold you in my arms while you smell like a swamp."
She smelled nothing like a swamp two months later as the wedding march burst from the wheezy old organ in the sunlit country church.
Laurel tucked her arm through Ash's, and they started up the carpeted aisle together.
"I never expected to have a lovely granddaughter to give away," he said. His eyes were suspiciously moist.
She squeezed his arm and smiled.
"I never expected to have a grandfather to give me away---or to meet a wonderful man who'd want me as much as Rafiq seems to," she whispered back.
Later, in the huge marquee on Trinity's lawn, and after a sumptuous wedding breakfast, Rafiq stood to make his speech.
"Dear friends," he said. "You have made us so happy by joining us today. Laurel and I thank you for all your good wishes, and your wonderful gifts, and most of all for your company. This is the start of many good things. Not just a new life for me and my lovely bride."
He raised her hand and pressed a kiss onto her fingers.
"As you know, Laurel has no immediate family apart from Ash, and she has been acquainted with her grandfather only for the last few months. What you may not know is this; we're a matching pair. I lost my own family--- many years ago now."
A shocked murmur filled the marquee, then slowly died away.
"These people from my homeland are not my parents and my brothers as you've probably assumed."
He turned and bowed to the contingent from Al Sounam. "They are my King and Queen, and...members of their household staff." He hoped that was a diplomatic description of the bodyguards.
There was an audible gasp from many of the guests.
"I'm honored they could join us today. Like us, they're also setting out on a happy new future. It will give me the greatest pleasure to take my lovely new wife back to visit them from time to time."
Dropping his eyes to Laurel's, he murmured so only she could hear, "and Azizah and Muzaffar, too?" She sent him back a smile of pure delight.
"We also welcome two other special people---our dear friends Yasmina and Malik who traveled halfway around the world to be with us today."
He looked across to his old nanny and repeated his words in Sounamese. Yasmina sat taller and twitched her beautiful embroidered scarf up, obviously thrilled and embarrassed.
He turned in Ash's direction. "Trinity Stud is truly well-named because the ownership is shared three ways again---by Laurel, her grandfather, and myself. Together we plan to make it the finest establishment of its kind in the whole country. Already you'll see the improvements to the sand training track, and the foundations for the new indoor arena. You'll know we've just purchased two magnificent stallions---Robert the Bruce and Charleston Star."
"Enough of the advertising," Laurel protested.
Guests at the nearest tables started to chuckle.
"When will I ever have the attention of so many prospective customers again?" he asked her, mouth quirking and an expression of wicked innocence in his eyes.
The rest of the guests joined in the merriment.
"I met Laurel under the oddest circumstances you can imagine," he continued once the laughter had subsided. He cleared his throat. "She was found wandering in the desert. I was assigned to hide her from the terrorists who had captured her---until they could in turn be captured themselves. Romantic old hideaway, two young people with little to occupy them---you get the picture?" Again he provided a rapid translation in Sounamese.
"Nosy old nanny and sharp-eyed chauffeur," Laurel added, sending Yasmina and Malik a grin.
The guests smirked with delight.
"Something about this cheeky woman," Rafiq said, slipping an arm around her shoulders, "totally captivated me. She was brave, she was beautiful, and she showed me life could be fun again. Laurel and I plan to have a lot of fun together, and to create our own family."
"Enough for a polo match?" she suggested.
His eyebrows rose in mock-alarm. "You expect me to do it that many times, wife?"
"My Lord Rafiq---I expect you to do it whenever I flutter my eyelashes at you or crook my little finger in your direction."
He smiled broadly as the whole wedding erupted into laughter.
"Hen-pecked already," he said, bending to drop a fond kiss on her lips.
THE END
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'Seduction on the Cards'---now available for Kindle.
Kerrigan Lush felt the ripple of unease start on her scalp, tingle down her neck, trickle along her spine...and then slide down each leg until her toes curled in her scarlet stilettos.
Get a grip, Kerri, she snapped at herself. It's only a building. You're here to interview the man who donated it to Gamblers Anonymous---not because you've a little gambling problem yourself.
She patted her pocket. Yes, the mini-recorder was safely there. She checked her watch. Jiggled her keys. And still those scarlet shoes weren't willing to cross the street.
Finally, she took a deep breath, tossed her dark hair, clenched her fingers around her briefcase handle, and stepped out.
Bet I get right across before that taxi draws level.
Bet Alexander Beaufort will be about seventy-five with a bristling white mustache and a comb-over.
She flashed her press ID at the forty-something receptionist. "Kerri Lush, to interview Alexander Beaufort about his very impressive gift."
Her pulse lurched to a hectic rhythm as she caught sight of the 'Gambling wrecks lives' poster on the wall. Could the woman see Kerri's own life was a mess?
She climbed the half-flight of stairs to where glasses clinked and voices brayed in animated conversation. A local TV crew had set up their gear. Other familiar media faces were in evidence. Maybe this was a bigger deal than she'd thought?
She lifted a white wine from a passing tray and sipped with caution
in case it was Chateau Cardboard. To her surprise, it tasted crisp and dry and delicious. More brownie-points to Alexander Beaufort.
And was there food? She'd missed lunch because of a tight deadline and the sudden re-assignment of this job. A little something to nibble would be wise in view of the wine's attractions.
She sauntered to a serving table and found the other guests had already made fast and loose with the goodies.
One lonely cracker with a sliver of avocado and a couple of shrimps sat amongst a tide of parsley sprigs, empty kebab sticks, and crumbs. Kerri grabbed it before anyone else could, swallowed her remaining half-glass of wine, and claimed a refill.
Seconds later the woman at the reception desk approached the podium and the noise-level ebbed away.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," she began. "I'm Addictions Councilor Lydia Herbert, and I'd like to welcome you all here today to view our wonderful new facility. A safe financial future for Gamblers Anonymous New Zealand is possible because of the generosity and far-sightedness of one man. Please welcome Monsieur Alexandre Beaufort."
Enthusiastic applause broke out.
Kerri's eyes roamed over the assembled males, seeking a suitable old johnnie with a big moustache and a gleaming pate. Alexandre? Not Alexander then---so much for her boss's haphazard keyboard skills.
And he was French? She took an appreciative swig from her second glass of wine and washed a lingering cracker-crumb down the wrong way.
Spluttering, bent double, furiously embarrassed, she missed the tall dark man who strode in from a rear doorway brandishing a mobile phone.
But she heard him.
"Apologies, mes amis, technology is taking over our lives, no?" he said in a voice so husky it caressed her skin like a fine sprinkling of toasted hazelnuts settling over ice-cream.
Despite his sexy accent raising every hair on Kerri's body she continued to cough and snort. Wine slopped over the edge of her lurching glass and onto the new taupe carpet. God---this was all she needed on an already-bad day!
So far out of breath that her face almost matched her scarlet shoes, and half-blinded by the sting of running mascara, she registered faces staring in her direction, wondering who the unfortunate fool was.
She prayed for a distraction.
Nothing happened.
No-one spoke.
His speech did not begin.
When she regained her composure, she found herself being inspected by a riveting pair of dark blue eyes. Alexandre Beaufort was not in his dotage as she'd assumed. Not bald. Not mustached, although he did have a most attractive dusting of dark stubble on his determined chin and top lip. Neither was he in a suit like most of the assembled men. He wore motorcycle leathers.
Kerri hiccupped with surprise and clapped a hand across her mouth. The addictions councilor bustled up with a big glass of water---surely for the coughing and not the newly arrived hiccups? And Monsieur Beaufort smiled and said in the voice that had Kerri all on edge, "Young lady, you 'ave stolen my thunder."
If she could have sunk through her patch of wine-spotted carpet, she would have. This not being an option, she took a grateful sip of water, swallowed, cleared her throat in the deafening silence, and gave another huge hiccup.
"Some more?" Lydia Herbert suggested.
Kerri obeyed.
"Sorry!" she gasped in Alexandre Beaufort's direction. "Please ignore me if you can. Perhaps I'd better leave?"
"Good heavens, no," Lydia Herbert murmured, placing a restraining hand on Kerri's arm. "You're here to interview Monsieur. Do stay."
Kerri nodded, and hiccupped again, managing to hold the sound inside her rather better this time.
"I bet my mascara's running," she whispered.
"Hardly at all," Lydia soothed.
"How much?" Kerri enquired, emitting an ear-splitting hiccup on the 'how'.
Some of the audience had now given in to helpless laughter, and Alexandre Beaufort had still not started his speech. Indeed, he'd left the podium to stride toward her like a darkly dangerous road warrior, all sneer and scowl and quietly creaking leather.
Merde! she muttered. It was the only French curse she knew, and it summed up his disturbing effect on her perfectly.
The nearer he prowled, the taller he seemed. Way taller than her five foot three. Way more impressive than any other man in the room, despite his casual clothing.
She looked up into his heavy-lidded dark blue eyes and felt a delicious shimmer of danger thread itself through her embarrassment. Those eyes seemed to be suggesting all sorts of very private things they could do together.
Private things she'd never had much interest in until now. Private things that would require her to undo those sexy silver zippers in the black leather until she'd stripped him down to his no-doubt beautifully-tanned skin...
"My grandmere had a foolproof cure for hiccups," he said, taking the glass of water from her and dragging her back to reality. "You drink it---like this." He bent over and demonstrated.
"I'll spill it," she objected, as her skin-and-zippers fantasy went up in smoke.
"No more than the wine," he suggested, placing a large hand on her nape and pressing so she was obliged to bend double. Being too out of breath to battle his insistence, Kerri found herself almost buried in his snug leather trousers. Hastily she began to drink the water.
"Swallow hard," Alexandre Beaufort ordered.
Kerri didn't see how she could swallow any other way with her head upside-down. Anyhow, her brain seemed to have gone on holiday, and she sensed that meek compliance was probably all that would get her through such a ridiculous situation. She managed half a dozen strangled gulps, which emptied the glass.
His hand slid to her shoulder and patted, in a way she found totally condescending. He allowed her to stand up again, and swept those all-seeing eyes over her hot and bothered face.
She seethed at being made to appear even more of a fool, and held her breath. The hiccups did not return.
"Good old Granny. Thank-you," she finally snapped. Their eyes remained locked for a few extra electric seconds.
Bet it would feel good kissing that curly French-looking mouth...
A smattering of applause erupted from the rest of the room as the road warrior swept back to his microphone.
Kerri stared with resentment at his broad shoulders and very long legs as he walked away from her. The soft leather flexed around a powerful body that escaped being bulky because of his height.
God---those shoulders...that accent...those eyes...
She trembled all over but had no idea if it was from anger or suddenly wakened lust.
Kerri didn't do lust. Had never met a man who affected her like this one so inconveniently did.
She tried to cut him down to size in her fevered brain. He was only someone she'd been sent to interview. Full of himself, obviously. Arrogant enough to make her teeth curl.
What kind of man attended a formal occasion dressed this way? How did he expect anyone to take him seriously in head-to-toe biker gear?
But as Alexandre Beaufort turned to his audience Kerri saw he was deadly serious. His sapphire eyes roved around the room until he had total attention. The silence became absolute.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "We have now had three examples of how easily life can be disrupted. First, the Wellington arrival of your inter-island ferry was unexpectedly delayed. I've been touring your beautiful South Island by motorcycle, and have had no time to change my clothing for this auspicious occasion. I am literally 'off the boat'."
He ripped the long front zipper of his jacket open and spread his arms wide to indicate his embarrassment. There was a murmur of understanding and forgiveness from his audience. As the leather swung apart, Kerri's eyes zeroed in on the white T-shirt stretched over his beautifully defined chest.
Bet he does lots of weight training.
"Second, I received a most important phone-call only seconds before I was to speak. Happily I can return to that in a few minutes."
The crowd chuckled and nodded.
"And third, our proceedings were delayed by a charming young lady whose ticklish throat decided to misbehave at the wrong moment."
You bastard! I've only just got myself together and you're poking insults at me again.
She dropped her gaze to the floor as everyone's eyes once more swiveled in her direction as though she'd just smashed a killer forehand on Wimbledon's centre court.
So he'd picked her out to make fun of? She really didn't need that. She was tired, horribly broke, unfed apart from that one fateful cracker-biscuit, and filling in for someone else anyway. The last thing she wanted was any more agro.
"But each of these is a small disruption indeed compared to the upheaval families suffer when gambling gets out of hand," Alexandre continued. "Kiwis are willing to bet on anything. Slot machines whirr and jangle constantly in the gaming rooms of bars. Your casinos attract both international and local punters to their blackjack tables and roulette wheels. You can legally place bets on horses and greyhounds and the outcomes of any number of sports events. There are card-games and lotteries and various other activities that are dangerously addictive to many people."
He paused a second or two. And then with consummate effect added, "My New Zealand-born mother, Isabelle, was among those unfortunate souls."
There were some gasps at this, and Kerri's wide brown eyes raced back to lock with his dark blue ones. That was quite an admission he'd just made---and an excellent angle for the article she'd been so hurriedly assigned to write.
"You can have no idea," he continued, "how difficult it was being the son of a compulsive gambler. Sometimes there was money for dinner, and sometimes not. When her luck was in, my mother was the happiest woman in the world. When her luck ran out, and the money ran out, she was among the most desolate."
With those few devastating words he'd snared the sympathy of the whole room. Kerri tried to imagine such a big confident man as a scared and hungry little boy. It was impossible.
Her attention drifted away from his message. As he continued to speak all she noticed was the movement of his throat, the gleam of his dark hair, the fervor in his eyes and the proud angle of his head. Even though she was still furious at being singled out as a target, she had to concede he was beautiful. She could have watched him for hours.
She jerked from her daydream as a camera flashed. Apparently his speech had ended because everyone was applauding. She clapped along with the others, hoping she could slip off somewhere to repair her makeup before it was time to interview hunky, bossy Monsieur Beaufort with the know-it-all granny. For sure she wasn't going to let him see her up close again looking like this.
Lydia seemed a helpful sort. Kerri tracked her down and was directed to the ladies powder-room. And yes, darn it, the damage was considerable.
She tidied her long dark hair and splashed cold water onto her flushed face, then got rid of the worst of the mascara smudges with a paper towel and a dribble of liquid soap.
Bet this isn't doing my skin any good.
Sighing, she resorted to the old mineral-powder compact in her briefcase to calm down the hectic color that remained stubbornly in her face even after the cold-water treatment.
Lip-gloss and another coat of mascara helped, but she still felt as though she'd been through the wringer---and worse, looked as though she had.
As her hand reached for the door knob, another trickle of unease rippled all the way down to her toes.
Get a grip, Kerri, she snapped at herself. It's only a building. You're here to work. After this you'll never have to see him again.
She took three deep breaths, sensed no hint of returning hiccups, and went out to face the Frenchman.
Alexandre leaned back in the swivel chair and hiked an ankle up over his opposite knee. He swung the chair back and forth. Where had his hiccupping journalist got to?
Lydia had been adamant about keeping to a tight schedule. Time for drinks, time for speeches, time for photographs, time for interviews. If the ferry had docked on schedule things would have run perfectly. That he'd had to appear in his travelling clothes was a minor glitch in the bigger scheme of things. His invited guests had still listened, the TV crew had still recorded, and the building had still been admired.
Indeed, perhaps the road-trip could be turned to his advantage? Maybe people would like to know that he'd enjoyed exploring the amazing New Zealand countryside up close and personal? He certainly didn't want to be seen as a moneyed fat-cat ensconced in limousined luxury. Yes, Miss Hiccups might be persuaded to mention his trip...
Someone knocked on the half-open door.
"Oiu?" Alexandre stopped his swiveling and placed both booted feet on the floor.
Miss Hiccups walked toward him in her seductive scarlet stilettos. She thrust out her hand. He noticed it was a very small and delicate hand; the shoes transformed her into a much taller woman than she really was.
Deciding a dash of French charm was called for he stood and enclosed her little hand in his own much larger one, raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers.
"I bet you do that to all the women," she said.
"Not the very ugly ones." He arched a dark eyebrow for good measure.
Miss Hiccups grabbed her hand back, produced her business card and took a deep breath. Alexandre's eyes zeroed in on the pale upper slopes of her breasts, framed by the lapels of her black suit jacket. His groin buzzed.
No blouse. A silky camisole maybe? A lacy scrap of a bra? Anything at all?
He cleared his throat, averted his gaze, and eased the little card from her outstretched fingers.
"I'm very pleased to see you've made a full recovery, Miss...Kerrigan Lush."
"It takes more than a coughing fit to wipe me out," she said, dredging up a business-interview smile.
"And those extraordinary hiccups? Quite the most impressive I've ever seen or heard."
"Are you trying to wind me up?" she demanded, smile waning. "I'm here to write a nice flattering story about you, but if you want a nasty one I can always oblige."
Alexandre suppressed his answering grin and waved her into the other chair.
"As fierce as a tiger," he said, shaking his head.
She drew another sharp breath, which gave him the pleasure of her breasts rising between the black lapels again. Then she slapped the mini-recorder down just a little too hard on his desktop.
"Please, not until I've finished complimenting you," he said, eyeing the small machine.
"If that's your idea of being polite, you're on the wrong track."
"You look more a tiger than a meek little pussy cat."
"Damn right! You're a control-freak. I don't like being bossed around in front of other people. Who said you could grab my neck and force my head down when I had the hiccups? I almost overbalanced."
"In shoes like those, I imagine it would be easy..." He cast an admiring glance down to her ankles.
"Try being five-foot-three. I bet you wouldn't like it," she said, running her scorching gaze down his very long legs in return.
Alexandre imagined he felt the leather burn and crisp around his thighs, his knees, his calves, and ankles in turn. Did those gorgeous big brown eyes have built-in lasers?
"Miss Lush," he began.
"Ms."
"Ms Lush. I was perhaps hoping you were single?"
She rolled her eyes at that. "I just bet you were."
"You do a lot of betting, Ms Lush. In less than sixty seconds you've bet I kiss the hand of every woman I meet...that I wouldn't like being five-foot-three, and that I was hoping you were single."
Another sharp breath. Another delightful lift of her outraged breasts.
"No, I wasn't betting you hoped I was single. I was being...facetious."
He hid a further smile. "But you're still a betting woman?"
"I like a little flutter," she allowed. "A few dollars each way on the horses, a lottery ticket now and then. Normal Kiwi stuff."
"And that's where the danger lies," he couldn't help inserting. "So many people get swept up in the excitement of gambling they take ever more unwise chances. You're not one of these unwise people, Ms Lush?"
"Oh for God's sake, call me Kerri. Ms Lush sounds like an old-fashioned school-teacher."
Alex leaned back in his chair and finally allowed his grin to show. "A very curvaceous one, possibly. So you prefer Kerri to Kerrigan? And yet Kerrigan is pretty and most unusual."
"My mother's maiden name. Her surname. I was supposed to be a boy."
"Which would have robbed the world of a beautiful woman."
"Oh puh-lease..." She reached out and clicked the little recorder on.
"So the flirting really is done and now it's on to business?" he asked, enjoying the faint flush staining her cheeks. Enjoying more than that, if he was honest. Kerri Lush looked like a firecracker about to explode. Small but delightfully dangerous. Her eyes sparkled with intense tawny fire. Her hair swirled around her head in a bouncing dark cloud. It appeared to have very fine bright streaks running through it at least as red as her sexy shoes.
"Yes, business," she snapped. "This is scheduled to appear in the Saturday morning paper. We run a lift-out called 'People'---feel-good stories and so on."
"And I'm a feel-good story?"
"Well, you've donated a whole building to a very worthy cause. I presume you didn't do it only because there'd be tax advantages to the deal?"
Alex tucked his tongue into his cheek at such candor.
"Are there?" he asked, with the most innocent expression he could manage.
Kerri sent him a look of disbelief.
"Well, perhaps there are, but it was more to honor my mother's memory."
"The Isabelle Beaufort Centre---I'm sure she'd be pleased. You said she was a compulsive gambler, so I presume you didn't have much money to start with?"
He nodded, and waited for her next question.
"So how did you get it?" She bit her lip and managed to look curiously contrite. "I'm sorry---that sounds terrible. I'm afraid I don't know much about you yet."
Alex wondered how he could deflect her interest. That was the question he had no intention of answering. But the prickle of unease shimmied away as she added, "The journalist who was supposed to be doing this interview went into premature labor at lunchtime and your story was re-assigned to me in a hurry. I'll bet she's not having a great time of it right now."
"You're making bets again, Ms Kerrigan Lush."
"For heaven's sake, it's only a figure of speech!"
"Touchy," he teased. "Positively defensive." Relieved the initial source of his wealth had been glossed over, he hoped it would stay that way.
"I'm not trying to hide the fact I gamble a little. Everyone gambles on something. I don't gamble on stupid stuff."
"So what odds do you consider acceptable?"
She narrowed her eyes, and Alexandre could have sworn he felt them cutting right into his flesh. He was enjoying their sharp exchange more than he'd enjoyed anything in months. Something about her was so alive.
"Not Russian Roulette---six to one is beyond a joke."
"Ten to one?"
"Getting better. Still not good."
"For example?" He leaned further forward in the chair, pleased with the excuse to watch her animated face a little longer before they got back to the interview.
"Well..." She pushed her hair back from her eyes and gazed upwards for a moment, thinking apparently of her friend who'd just been rushed to hospital. "The chances of getting a woman pregnant are about ten to one, I suppose. She's only really fertile for about three days in every month. That's one instance."
"On those days the chances are a lot higher."
"Right into Russian Roulette territory," Kerri agreed. "Much more than that. But there are other factors---her age, her fertility, his fertility... And you have to know when those dangerous days are. She might not tell you. Could be you'd waste all that effort with huge odds against you."
"I've never considered making love a wasted effort."
"Maybe your 'odds' aren't all that huge, either," she said with a naughty grin.
Alexandre exploded with laughter. "My 'odds' have never been found wanting," he shot back.
"So you claim."
He watched as the expression of mischief faded from her lively face.
"Dammit," she said, and took a deep breath. "This is terrible. We need to get back to the interview. I can't write about your huge---er---odds, although our readers might be absolutely fascinated."
His laughter escaped again. Somehow, he felt freer on this far side of the world, away from the ever-increasing weight of his responsibilities in Europe.
"Dinner, Ms Lush? I sense the conversation could be great fun. Are you free tonight, by any miracle?"
"What do you think the chances are?"
"About a hundred to one, but I'm asking anyway."
She smiled, and kept him waiting a little longer.
"That could be very pleasant, Monsieur Beaufort. As long as you don't keep grilling me about my bad habits, of course. They're not so very bad, you know."
"And as long as I don't try to get you pregnant, I suppose?"
Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter
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Table of Contents
'Seduction on the Cards'---now available on Amazon
Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter...

