The Sheikh’s Ransomed Bride

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Once again—thank you, Karen, especially for

those long discussions on the mystique of the

fsheikh story. What an inspiration they were.

Thanks as well to Heather, Judy and Kez for

the comments, and to Mary, Tan, Lisa and most

especially Lea for your enthusiasm. No hero

could have a better welcoming committee!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

BELLE clasped her hands tight together and concentrated on not being scared.

The rough floor was hard beneath her weary body, making her wish she wore something more than a swimsuit. The unforgiving rasp of iron around the chafed skin of her wrists and ankles was bearable if she didn’t move.

But she couldn’t dispel the acrid taste of fear on her tongue. Or the brutal images of violence that replayed in her mind.

Shivering, she looked down at Duncan. Her colleague was pale, but mercifully asleep on the narrow pallet. She’d splinted his leg as best she could, and the bleeding had stopped. There wasn’t anything more she could do for him.

Except pray.

She’d done little else for thirty hours. Since their kidnappers had dumped them here: not merely isolated in this ramshackle hut, but the only people on the whole blisteringly hot islet.

Yesterday she’d explored, scouring it for anything they could use to summon help or to escape. She couldn’t have missed anything. She’d had to crawl on her hands and knees since the heavy shackles had kept tripping her up.

If she’d been able to walk properly she’d have circled the island in five minutes. A bare atoll: sand, a couple of palm trees and this ruined hut. No help. No supplies.

Unwillingly she let her gaze stray to the single large water bottle their captors had left behind. She hadn’t tasted water since sunrise, knowing Duncan needed it more. Now the bottle was perilously close to empty. Her tongue was thick and swollen from dehydration. Had they been left to die? Her empty stomach cramped savagely at the thought.

None of this made sense. Not the abduction from their dive-boat nor their abandonment. She and Duncan weren’t typical kidnap victims. They weren’t rich or powerful. They hadn’t offended local sensibilities with their survey of a sunken first-century trading ship. Everyone in Q’aroum had been so friendly and helpful.

Belle chewed her lip, trying not to dwell on the possibility that two marine archaeologists might die of thirst before they could be rescued. The Arabian Sea was vast, and this island so tiny it wouldn’t be on a map.

Would they be back, those brutal men who’d looked as if they’d enjoy nothing better than slitting her throat?

Even with masks hiding their faces, she’d known they wouldn’t hesitate to kill. There’d been callous excitement in their hard, glittering eyes. Sadistic enjoyment of their victims’ desperate fear.

Belle shuddered and blinked her gritty eyes against scalding tears of fury and fright. She would not give in to panic. Her only hope, hers and Duncan’s, was to be strong. To concentrate on staying alive. No matter what the odds.

Deliberately she turned her thoughts to her family in Australia. She drew strength from the knowledge that, if she survived this ordeal, her mum and sister would be waiting for her.

When, she reminded herself, not if she escaped.

Belle pressed her palms to her aching eyes, ignoring the burn of unshed tears against her lids. She hadn’t slept and exhaustion sapped her strength. She couldn’t stop shaking. She slumped, fighting the despair that welled up inside her, clogging her throat and weighting her heart.

Gingerly she settled herself on the floor. She wouldn’t sleep, but she needed to recruit her strength.

Reluctantly she closed her eyes.

The noise woke her. A yowling wail that tore through the air and made the roof groan. They were in for a storm.

Belle opened her eyes and realised where she was. And that they weren’t alone any more.

Her heart thudded frantically, the sound of it swelling to a deafening roar in her ears. Her parched throat closed as she watched a man bend over Duncan. A torch propped on the floor illuminated the puckered scar that lined the man’s cheek and ran up to his short grizzled hair. A large gun was slung over his shoulder, and on the floor beside his boot she saw a long, curved blade. The Middle Eastern version of a Bowie-knife.

He reached out a hand towards Duncan’s throat, and Belle knew with terrified certainty that she had to act fast. Her colleague was in no state to save himself.

And yet she had to force herself to move. Dread was a physical weight pushing down on her. She knew she had no hope against the stranger.

Her stiff muscles screamed in protest as she shifted, centimetre by centimetre, till her fingers closed on the knife handle. It was heavy, smooth and well worn. Her arm wobbled as she lifted its deadly weight in her damp hands.

The intruder grabbed Duncan’s neck, and in that instant Belle struggled to her knees, unsteady but determined. Her clumsy movement took their gaoler by surprise, and she thrust the wicked blade against his neck. He froze.

‘Move and you’re dead,’ she snarled, her voice a raw, broken whisper.

For a moment there was stillness.

Then out of the darkness a large hand clamped onto hers. Fingers strong as a vice closed on her, shutting off the circulation till her hands throbbed.

But she wouldn’t let go. The knife was all she had to protect them.

‘Quiet, little tigress.’ The voice came out of the gloom, deep and mellifluous. ‘We’re friends: here to help.’

Turning her head towards the voice, she saw the gleam of eyes close to hers. Now she felt the heat of his body too. She shivered at the sensation of power that emanated from him.

The pressure of his fingers strengthened just a fraction and she cried out. The knife clattered to the floor as stars exploded across her vision.

Immediately he released his grip, and blood pounded agonisingly into her fingers. She bit down on her lip, cradling her hands against her chest as she blinked back scalding tears of pain and fear and frustration.

There was a scraping noise, and the man who’d threatened Duncan scuttled out of reach, taking the knife.

The man at her side grabbed the torch, and she winced as light dazzled her. The beam swung down to illuminate her hands. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from across the room. And from beside her came the soft sound of swearing, furious and unmistakable, in unintelligible Arabic.

The light moved on, flicking over her briefly but comprehensively. Then, mercifully, he put the torch on the floor, tilted once more towards Duncan, who still slept.

‘It’s all right, Ms Winters.’ The man with the deep voice spoke again. Now she detected the hint of a lilting accent in his precise tones. ‘We’re here to rescue you.’

Rescue! Her head spun and she slumped back on her heels. Could it be true? She struggled to take it in.

A hand, large and warm, settled on her arm.

‘You’ll be all right while we look after your friend?’

She nodded. ‘I’m OK,’ she croaked.

He said something to his companion, who returned to squat beside the pallet, reaching out to Duncan. Now she realised he was searching for a pulse. A flood of relief washed over her as she realised it was true. These strangers were here to rescue them.

‘Drink this.’ The man who appeared to be the leader of the pair held a canteen to her dry lips, tilting it so she could swallow a welcome trickle. Greedily she raised her hands to the canteen, tipping it further. Sweet water filled her mouth, ran down her burning throat.

‘Steady,’ he warned. ‘Too much and you’ll be sick.’

She knew he was right. But she was desperate for more. It was only his unbreakable hold on the water bottle that prevented her from guzzling.

‘That’s enough.’ His low voice burred near her ear.

If she’d had the strength she might have complained about his high-handedness. But her attack on his companion had used her last reserves of strength. She swayed drunkenly to one side.

Immediately the stranger put his big hands on her shoulders to steady her. Calluses scraped her bare sunburnt flesh and she flinched. He cursed again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m a bit unsteady.’

‘It’s a wonder you’re even conscious.’ His voice was harsh but his hands were gentle. ‘Here.’ He pulled her towards him, taking her weight easily.

She had a brief impression of heat and strength. A tantalising awareness of some unfamiliar scent: sun and salt and man. Then he lowered her onto a cotton blanket. ‘Lie still while we see how Mr MacDonald is.’

‘You know our names?’ she whispered.

‘It’s not often we have kidnappings in Q’aroum. Much less the abduction of two foreign nationals. Of course we know who you are.’ His voice was grim. ‘There’s been a co-ordinated air and sea search for the pair of you ever since your boatman reported the abduction.’

He brushed her tangled hair back from her face and she shut her eyes, feeling absurdly close to tears at the tender gesture.

‘Rest now,’ he murmured, and she sensed him move away.

She ached in every joint, and her throat was as painfully dry as the hot wind that swooped south towards them off the Arabian Peninsula. Her head pounded and she knew she’d reached the limit of her endurance.

But there was soft fabric against her cheek and under her body. And the caress of that big callused hand had invested her with hope again. Hope and reassurance. She recalled his voice, low and velvety. Her body had tingled into feminine awareness at the sound of it, despite the extremity of her situation.

If this was a hallucination she didn’t want it to end. She could drift off happily now, resigned to her fate.

She may even have dozed. The low murmur from the two men as they investigated Duncan’s injuries was as soothing as the sound of waves lapping on a beach.

She frowned, registering through the muddled haze of her thoughts that the wind was still picking up. Palm fronds slapped against the roof and there was a dull roar in the distance, like a freight train heading towards them.

Opening her eyes, she looked blearily at the strangers. A second powerful torch added light to the scene. She recognised the pattern of desert-coloured camouflage gear and heavy boots. Army? Or perhaps mercenaries? Right now she didn’t care, as long as they were here to rescue them. Then the guy with the grey hair moved to one side, and she sucked in an astonished breath as she saw the second man in the light for the first time.

She’d been rescued by a pirate!

Belle shut her eyes, realising it was some trick of the light and her tired brain. But when she opened them to stare again there was no mistake.

His black hair was combed back ruthlessly, revealing a fighter’s grim face: one of stark, slashing lines. Despite its severity his was one of the most breathtaking faces she’d ever seen. Every inch was hard and uncompromising, from his long, commanding nose to his solid jaw and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth. Every inch except for that mouth, which in repose spoke of sensual knowledge.

The angle of the torch highlighted the fanning lines at the corners of his eyes: the telltale sign of a man who spent his hours outdoors in this hot climate.

But, despite his army issue gear, the man deftly bandaging Duncan’s leg to a professional-looking splint was definitely in no one’s army. A heavy-looking hoop of gold caught the light at one earlobe as he moved. And behind his head she glimpsed hair pulled back in a ponytail. Absolutely not army regulation.

Abruptly he raised his face to meet her gaze, and she sucked in a stunned breath. For a long moment they watched each other. Long enough for her to imagine a pulse of something hot and knowing in his eyes.

He looked like a buccaneer who’d just spied a trophy ship.

She swallowed at the frisson of something very like fear, staring back into his ruthless face.

Abruptly he gave an order to his companion, who moved immediately to her side, holding out the canteen. It was only as she reached gratefully for it that the leader of the pair looked away, and she felt the tension that had spun tight round her dissipate.

She propped herself up on an elbow and drank, careful this time to take it slowly. The man with the scarred face nodded approvingly and murmured something encouraging. He too looked as if he belonged on a tall-masted ship where the rules of civilised society didn’t apply.

Hell! She must be weaker than she’d thought. Maybe heat and stress and lack of water were making her delusional.

One of her rescuers looked like a typecast villain, and the other as if he’d stepped out of some swashbuckling fantasy. It had to be a trick of the poor light.

Reluctantly she handed back the water bottle, then let her head sink to the cushioning blanket. Soon, perhaps in a few hours, she’d be back in the Kingdom of Q’aroum, receiving the best of modern medical attention.

The two men packed their medical supplies. And still Duncan slept. ‘Is he all right?’ There was a telltale quiver of fear in her voice that brought the buccaneer’s gaze up to meet hers.

‘It’s a bad fracture,’ he replied. ‘And he’s lost a lot of blood. But he should recover quickly once we get him to hospital.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘He doesn’t seem to be dehydrated. You’ve done a good job looking after him.’

And not such a good job looking after yourself, his stare seemed to say. But what else could she have done? Drunk all the water and left Duncan in need?

‘He’s still asleep,’ she said. ‘Or unconscious?’ Surely the pain of bandaging his leg should have woken him?

‘I’ve given your colleague a strong painkiller that’s knocked him out for the moment. It’s best if he doesn’t wake while we move him.’

Belle nodded, knowing he was right. But she’d be relieved to see Duncan conscious again. He’d drifted in and out of delirium for too long now.

She watched, heavy-eyed, as the men conferred in Arabic. The older one, with the scar, pointed to Duncan and herself. And all the while the wind gusted and swirled, making the shack’s walls creak and the roof shudder. Then the conversation was over. The younger man spoke once, decisively, and it seemed they were in agreement.

They turned to the hut’s rough wooden door, working together: the older one heavy-set and methodical, the younger man lithe but broad-shouldered and strong. It only took a few minutes to get the door off. Then they laid it beside the pallet, ignoring the whirling gusts that hurled sand through the gaping doorway.

Of course. It was a makeshift stretcher for Duncan.

Time she got ready. Carefully Belle inched herself up, wincing as she scraped her chafed ankles. By the time she had manoeuvred herself to her knees, ready to rise, she was breathless, and pain thrummed in her hands and feet.

‘What are you doing?’ That deep voice was dangerously low, sending a thread of renewed tension spidering up her backbone. She looked up as he loomed over her, a tall pirate. In the shadows she could see his sensuous mouth was a taut line. His brow furrowed.

‘I’m getting ready to leave.’ Obviously.

‘Not yet.’

‘But I—’

‘It will take two of us to get Mr MacDonald to the boat. I can’t look after you and carry him.’

‘I don’t need looking after!’ She’d survived this long virtually alone. She could make it to the boat by herself. All she wanted was to get off this godforsaken island. After what she’d been through, scrambling to the shore would be a doddle. She wouldn’t feel completely safe till she’d left this prison behind.

He hunkered down in front of her, blocking off the torchlight so she couldn’t read his features. But she felt his warm breath on her face. Inhaled the spicy scent of his skin.

Somewhere low in her abdomen a quiver of excitement flared.

‘You’re hurt, Ms Winters.’ His tone was patient. Almost. ‘You’ve done everything you could in the circumstances. Now it’s time to let us take care of you.’

It made sense. Even to someone as desperate to escape as she was. Reluctantly she nodded.

‘Good.’ He reached for the blanket and draped it over her shoulders, pulling it round her as protection against the grit laden wind. She winced at the abrasion of cloth against tender skin.

‘I’ll leave a torch,’ he said, placing it so its light shone towards the door. ‘And I’ll be back soon.’

Then they disappeared into the howling darkness, carrying Duncan. Leaving her to wonder who they were.

Or, more precisely, who he was. The man with a voice like a caress. If it weren’t for that hint of an accent she’d have thought him English. Well-educated English. But he was probably local. His deep olive complexion was the norm in the Arab world.

Not that Q’aroum was a typical Arab country. As a fiercely independent island nation in the Arabian Sea, it had been home for centuries to adventurers and buccaneers from the Middle East, Africa and beyond.

The proud tilt of his head, the way he walked, as if he owed allegiance to no man, made her think of long ago princes. Or pirates.

She really had to find a new fantasy, she decided wearily as she pulled the blanket closer, huddling into its comfort. If only it could block out the lashing sand and the sound of the rising storm. Experience told her this was no minor gale. This was seriously nasty weather. And she wanted to be back on the main island when it hit.

It took a moment for her to realise he was back, his approach hidden by the storm. She raised her eyes from his boots all the way up to his face as he stood in the doorway.

His expression was unreadable, but his watchfulness and the way he obviously masked his thoughts made her shiver.

There was something wrong. She could feel it.

‘What is it?’ she whispered as fear clawed its way back up her throat, drying her mouth once more.

The torchlight cast heavy shadows on his face, emphasising the compelling personality she sensed in him. This time it didn’t reassure.

He moved into the room, pacing slowly towards her in a way that made her shrink back a little under her covering. He stopped, folded his legs beneath him and, in a single supple motion, sat cross-legged in front of her.

‘There’s a complication to our plans,’ he said.

Belle swallowed hard as apprehension shivered through her. She didn’t want to hear this. She looked into his gleaming eyes and tried to draw on his strength. She wasn’t alone any more. Whatever it was, she would cope.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Dawud and I came over on an inflatable,’ he explained. ‘It’s a small boat.’

She nodded impatiently. She knew inflatables.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean this one is small. Too small for all four of us now that Mr MacDonald is strapped across the length of it.’

‘I see.’ The disappointment was so strong she felt like weeping. Ridiculous, since all she had to do was wait for Dawud to come back to collect them.

Patience, Belle. Just a little longer.

‘Well, we’ll just have to wait for Dawud to return.’

He paused for a second before shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

She really had a bad feeling about this now. Foreboding sliced through her. She hunched lower under the protection of her blanket.

‘There’s a storm coming this way. A cyclone.’ His voice was steady, unemotional.

Her heart plunged and her hands clamped, white-knuckled with effort as she willed herself not to shake.

‘Dawud’s left. He should just have time to reach port before it becomes too dangerous. But it would be suicide for him or anyone else to return tonight.’ The buccaneer scrutinised her, as if watching for signs of weakness. ‘We’ll be stranded here until the storm passes. Maybe for another twenty-four hours.’

Twenty-four hours. It sounded like a lifetime.

And, if the cyclone hit head-on, time enough to die.

She felt sick with disappointment after the certainty she’d been rescued. Nausea welled and she swallowed hard, oblivious now to the raw abrasiveness of her throat.

At least Duncan had got away safely.

Belle stared at the man before her. His gaze was impenetrable and his utter stillness gave nothing away. Neither urgency nor the fear that would be natural in the circumstances. The fear that froze her own limbs right now.

But something about the set of his shoulders, the casual grace of his hands resting at his folded knees, told her he was ready for anything, even a hysterical woman.

She gnawed at her lip, willing the trembling to subside. She’d seen tropical cyclones as a kid on the Great Barrier Reef coast. She knew how devastating they were. Involuntarily she looked up at the barely-there roof. It shifted and groaned in the gale. ‘How can we prepare?’

He inclined his head and the waiting stillness left his body. As if she’d passed some test. He’d expected her to panic, had braced himself to handle a distraught woman.

He gestured to her blanket. ‘If you’ll permit?’ When she nodded he folded it back to reveal her bare feet. She shuddered as the torchlight illuminated her, and she felt a ridiculous urge to tuck her feet back out of sight.

They were filthy with sand and dried blood. Each ankle ringed with red welts where the shackles had bitten into her skin as she moved.

In the gloom his face was impassive. Yet she read tension in his clamped jaw as he surveyed her injuries. And the air between them was electric, charged with some fierce emotion that radiated from him in waves.

Anger? Or frustration that he had this to deal with as well as the approaching storm?

She shrank further under her cotton wrap as she felt his eyes on her face. She wished she could read his expression. Instinct warned her to be wary of this man. It was crazy. She had to trust him. He was risking his life for her, a stranger. What danger could she be in from him?

Despite the fine, dusty sand swirling around them Belle could identify what had to be his own natural scent: clean male skin with a slight salt tang. She shivered.

‘Shouldn’t you release my hands first?’ Then she could help strengthen the shelter. And she’d be less dependent on him. She’d feel better if she could help herself.

‘Later. It’s important that your legs are free.’

Why? They had nowhere to go. And with the sea churning in the strong winds the surface of their atoll could only get smaller. It was only a couple of metres above sea level—that was nothing if the cyclone hit them full-force.

The truth was sudden and horrifying.

He must have sensed the immediate tension in her. He looked up, his eyes darkly gleaming. ‘Are you all right?’

Oh, she was just dandy. Wearily she inclined her head. Now she understood his reasoning. ‘It’ll be easier to swim with the shackles off,’ she said. ‘If we get swamped.’

He shifted, and the torchlight glanced off his strongly honed features. It revealed a calm certainty and a strength that, beyond all reason, reassured.

‘I will look after you,’ he said slowly. ‘I promise you.’ It sounded like a pledge. In that moment she had no doubt he’d give his all to save her.

But would that be enough to preserve either of them?

‘Have faith, Ms Winters,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘I will see you through this. The eye of the storm is predicted to track further west. It will be unpleasant here, but we will survive it—together. Now, sit still while I do my best with the lock.’

He spread a small packet of tools beside him. Then one large, warm hand cupped her heel and she sucked in a stunned breath as her reeling senses reacted to his touch. It was impersonal, she assured herself, merely steadying her foot to give him better access to the heavy shackles.

But she couldn’t ignore the tiny, trembling waves of awareness that spread up her leg. Reaction to her ordeal. That was what it was. No man, no matter how starkly sexy, had the power to generate electricity with his bare hands.

She shut her eyes to block out the image of his dark head bent low over her, the light gilding the aristocratic ridge of his cheekbone and glinting on the barbaric-looking ring at his ear.

The gale roared around their refuge and the air swirled, heavy with grit, presaging the devastation fast approaching. Yet tucked in this corner, her world limited to the scope of a torch beam, she felt cocooned in a fragile, dream-like world. Protected by this remarkable man.

Remarkable? She didn’t know anything about him except for his extraordinary good looks. And his palpable aura of authority. The sense that he would cope: not just survive, but triumph, no matter what the odds.

A jarring movement broke her reverie and she opened her eyes. He’d attempted to pick the lock. Blood covered his wrist from a long gash—his hold must have slipped.

‘Are you all right?’

He raised his head and she could have sworn she saw a flash of humour lurking in his eyes. But he didn’t laugh at the absurdity of her, trussed before him like a sacrificial victim, worrying about his injury. ‘I’ll live.’

The chain at her feet jolted, then blessedly gave way. Relief washed through her. Without the shackles wearing her down she had a slim chance of staying afloat.

Now he did smile. A dazzling grin that lit the uncompromising angles of his face into a less austere, but still riveting male beauty. Dazed, Belle’s eyes widened. She’d thought him sexy before. Now he was simply stunning.

No real-life pirate had ever looked that good!

‘Your patience has been rewarded,’ he said, dropping the metal to the floor. ‘And just in time.’ The rain had arrived, a thunderous downpour that swept in through the door and gushed through the holes in the roof. Belle shivered as her covering grew wet. The wind was notching up too. Soon they wouldn’t be able to hear each other.

‘My hands…’ He shook his head and held up the discarded lock. The tool he’d used had broken, jammed in the rusty metal.

Hope died in her breast, flattened by the solid weight of despair. Would she ever escape this nightmare? It grew worse and worse by the hour.

‘No time,’ he said as he hefted the torch, directing its beam upwards. It played over the roof that heaved like a living thing. And then the bulging walls.

She heard a whisper of a curse from the man before her. Then he was on his feet, shouldering his backpack.

He loomed before her, big and solid. She caught a glimpse of his determined face before he bent and the light went out. Then his hands were on her, pulling her up. ‘Lift your arms,’ he said in her ear.

She felt the brush of his hair against her arms. He pulled her wrists so that she strained up against him, her arms encircling his head. Then he lifted her in a single easy movement, tucking her close. A wall of solid muscle supported her, warmed her. Strong arms bound her and she sank gratefully into him, finding comfort in his strength and the steady, calming rhythm of his heart.

Despite the roar of the storm, the living pulse of the waves smashing on the shore, she could almost believe nothing bad would happen while she was with him.

‘It’s not safe here,’ he shouted over the screeching wind. ‘Hold on tight.’ He turned and strode out through the door.

And then the storm swallowed them.

CHAPTER TWO

THE maelstrom buffeted them, almost knocking him to the ground. How he managed to steer a course for whatever shelter he’d found, she couldn’t imagine. But his arms held her in a grip of steel as if he’d never let her go.

She buried her head into the base of his neck, shielding herself from the stinging sand. His skin was wet, slick, and scented with something she suspected was unique to him. The heavy thump of his heart, regular and strong, tempered the fear that crowded in on her.

He lowered her on her back into what felt like a hollow in the sand. As she settled in the dip he lay down above her. He was taller, broader, more solid than she. He covered her completely, a barrier against the terrifying wind that roared through the night. It was difficult to draw breath with him pressing down on her. Sand clogged her nostrils and her breathing came in rapid pants. She had to calm herself, slow her breathing.

She had to get free. She moved to slide her hands over his head. Immediately one large hand clamped hers.

‘Leave them.’ His lips brushed her ear. ‘Less likely to be separated.’

The wind escalated to a scream, and through the din she thought she heard another sound, a heavy thud beside them.

The man above her flinched and sagged onto her, heavier than before. For a moment he was limp, squashing her down into the sand. Then he gathered himself and lifted his torso just enough so she could breathe again.

‘Are you all right?’ she yelled in his ear.

‘Just hold on tight, Ms Winters.’

The formality was absurd in the circumstances. He was all that stood between her and possible death. This stranger who’d appeared when she was at her weakest: injured, desperate and almost despairing. He’d shared his strength, giving her hope when she most needed it.

And now, wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a pair of manacles, she lay as close to him as any lover. His bulk pressed down on her—a shield against the storm’s savage fury. In the process she was discovering the unique imprint of his body, learning the impressively hard planes and lean muscles of this superbly built stranger.

And she didn’t even know who he was.

She opened her mouth to ask his name, then shut it. He wouldn’t be able to hear her over the tumult.

Instead she did what little she could for the man who risked his life for her. She spread her fingers over the back of his head, hoping to protect him from flying debris. Then she turned her face towards his, finding primitive comfort in the haze of his breath against her skin.

Rafiq felt the moment she surrendered to the inevitable and lay quiet beneath him. The rapid beat of her heart slowed to something closer to normal and her fierce rigidity lessened. But she didn’t relax her hold. Her hands splayed protectively over his skull, as if to ward off hurt.

His lips twisted at the absurdity of the gesture.

Ms Isabelle Margaret Winters, twenty-five, of Cairns, Australia, was a remarkable woman. A fighter, determined to push herself beyond the limits of normal endurance if she had to. She didn’t give up, no matter what the odds.

She’d even tackled Dawud with his own knife!

He smiled at the memory. If they got out of this alive he’d enjoy using that piece of information.

Dawud was an old friend, but sometimes he forgot that he couldn’t make Rafiq’s decisions. He’d even tried to argue that he should stay behind with Isabelle Winters. Dawud should have known better. Rafiq was responsible for her. He knew his duty. He’d learned early to shoulder his responsibilities and face every challenge head-on.

He shifted his weight, trying to ease the searing pain in his shoulder where something had sheared through the air and slammed into him. The movement only made him more aware of her soft body cushioning him. With her arms over his shoulders, her high breasts tilted against him. Her hips cradled him in a way that made him think of bedroom pleasures. The intimate touch of her lips against his chin made him wonder what her kisses would be like.

He was aware of her with every sense. Could feel her femininity against his hardness. Despite the grit in his nostrils, he inhaled the intriguing scent of her skin. Could imagine the taste of her on his tongue.

And he could sense her confusion and desperate fear.

He dragged his brain back to their predicament, furious at his weakness. To be distracted by a beautiful woman now, in this extremity! It was beyond all logic.

Would flying debris be the worst they’d have to endure? Or would the atoll be washed away?

It was in the hands of destiny.

The thought made him recall his grandfather. The old man had firmly believed in the force of destiny. Even when he’d lost his son, Rafiq’s father, he’d remained as proud and stiff-necked as ever, saying that his son’s fate had been written and blaming no one for the accident.

If the old man were alive, he’d say it was Rafiq’s fate to be on this outlying isle with Isabelle Winters.

After all, she wouldn’t be here but for Rafiq. He’d made it his business to approve personally the members of the marine survey expedition, expediting visa arrangements. Without his agreement she wouldn’t be in his country.

And now this. Guilt seared him. She was an innocent pawn in a political scheme of which she knew nothing.

The storm would delay Dawud’s return to the main island. He wouldn’t arrive before the deadline for payment of the kidnap ransom. And Dawud couldn’t send a message ahead from the inflatable with news. The radio was dead. A malfunction due to the storm or to sabotage?

Without word that the captives were safe, no one would dare countermand Rafiq’s initial order to pay the ransom if the hostages weren’t found in time.

Much as it had galled him to give in to the demand, Rafiq had known immediately that Isabelle Winters and her companion were in great peril. He knew who was behind the kidnapping. And he knew that without the ransom one or both hostages would be killed.

He refused to have that on his conscience.

He’d bring the ringleader to justice. But it would be too late to save the kidnap victims. So he’d bargained for time. Q’aroum didn’t need the international notoriety that the kidnap and execution of foreign nationals would bring. His country had a reputation for stability, for being a place where it was safe to do business. That couldn’t be jeopardised.

So right about now, according to his instructions, the outrageous ransom demand was being paid. And there’d be no keeping it secret. Not in a place like Q’aroum, where news spread with the speed and inevitability of the desert wind.

By morning the whole island nation would know that the Peacock’s Eye, the most revered and coveted family heirloom in the world, and one of his country’s national treasures, had been paid for the life of the woman in his arms.

Belle woke to the dull pounding of the surf.

So. She was alive.

Experimentally she shifted her legs, gritting her teeth as abrasive sand scratched the raw skin of her ankles. Fiery circlets of pain ringed her feet, throbbing in time with her pulse.

At least she had a pulse. Last night she’d wondered if she’d see another dawn.

If it hadn’t been for him she might not have survived. He’d protected her with his body as the cyclone tore the night apart. The din had stunned her, and nothing had existed beyond the barrage of sound and his weight on her. And the steady beat of his heart that had kept her hope alive.

Who was he? Where was he?

She squinted up through gritty eyes. A stab of bright sunlight blinded her and the ache in her head ignited into a flame of agony that kept time with the pulse of pain in her legs. Tentatively she moved her hands. Sharp pins and needles shot through her. She’d spent the night with her arms wrapped around his head. Now her shoulders had set.

Belle clenched her jaw as she dragged down protesting arms, rolled over and levered herself up onto her knees. Her bones had surely calcified, unwilling to permit movement. She braced herself on her hands and opened her eyes again. Blearily she focussed on the ugly manacles.

She remembered the hulking brute who’d locked them round her wrists. His satisfaction as he’d watched her struggle against their unforgiving weight.

Suddenly she understood with nauseating certainty that lack of funds hadn’t prevented the kidnappers using modern, lightweight handcuffs. Those men had bristled with an arsenal of automatic weapons. The manacles had been a deliberately sadistic choice. Anger surged through her. Searing fury at her helpless sense of violation.

But they hadn’t won. She hadn’t given up fighting.

She forced herself to stand, ignoring the silent scream of protesting muscles. For a moment she swayed. Then she planted her feet wide, found her balance and straightened. She narrowed her eyes against the glare. A black bank of cloud marked the distant horizon, but overhead the grey was broken by patches of bright light.

The sea was high, rough and threatening. The island wasn’t familiar any more. Its boundaries had changed in the night, reshaped by the gouging sea. Slowly she turned. During the night the force of the wind and water had eaten into the island, carving a sheltered, almost enclosed inlet at its centre.

There! Was that where the hut had stood? She shuddered as she saw the remnants. It had collapsed, a death trap of tumbled walls that would have crushed anyone inside.

Her next desperate breath bruised her lungs. Her eyes swam and she stumbled. Frantically she scanned the debris for any shape that looked human.

Something dropped hard in the pit of her stomach at the possibility he might be injured. Or worse.

Slowly she turned.

And there he was.

Her unsteady legs gave way and she collapsed abruptly onto the sun-warmed sand. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

He rose like some bronzed deity from the water. Naked. Elementally masculine. Potently desirable.

Her pulse thumped a rapid tattoo in her throat and a spiral of feminine excitement coiled tight within her, making her gasp at its intensity. Thank goodness he had his back to her and couldn’t read her stunned reaction.

She’d watched him in the wavering torchlight. She’d spent the night clasped in his arms, learning at first hand the tough masculine planes and bunched muscles that comprised his body. But still she hadn’t been prepared.

His wide shoulders tapered through a strong torso to a lean waist. Slick jet-black hair splayed down over his neck and reached his shoulders. His skin was smooth and glistening. Belle’s fingers clenched into tight fists.

Her gaze strayed lower. The curve of tight, round buttocks. The weight of muscled thighs. Innate strength and endurance. He stretched his arms out and she stared, mesmerised, at the movement of muscles in his back.

He dropped his hands to his sides and shook his head, flicking diamond droplets of water from his hair. He was about to move. And here she was, playing voyeur!

Belle stumbled to her feet and turned away. He’d looked so…elemental. An embodiment of masculine power that would both thrill and frighten any woman.

A sudden blast of need rocked her. Melting awareness. Choking heat. The desire to have those strong arms shelter her again. But this time his body would warm her in different ways and his hands would caress her.

She shook her head. This was absurd. She’d survived the ordeal of a lifetime: violence and pain, threat and terror. How could she even think about sexual attraction?

Had something fused in her brain? Or was this a primitive reaction to her near-fatal experience?

The urge to escape, to be alone with her confused emotions, was overwhelming. But there was nowhere to go. She was a prisoner here with her buccaneer.

Rafiq yanked the trousers up his wet legs and watched her stare out to sea, seeking some sign of rescue.

She looked lost and alone, her slender body held upright only by the steely determination he’d seen in her. Her hair was a matted nimbus around her head, not like the sleek style in her passport photo. Rings of bruised, bloody skin marked her ankles where the irons had bitten.

She should look pathetic, an object of sympathy, he told himself as he hauled his shirt on and strode towards her. Yet he saw only the streamlined perfection of her toned body. The inviting flare of her hips that had cradled him through the night till he’d thought he’d go mad, resisting urges that were nigh on irresistible. He read tensile strength in the set of her shoulders, in her wide-planted, honey-tanned legs.

He thrust aside the subtle voice of temptation.

‘Ms Winters.’ He saw her tense, but she didn’t turn. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

‘Glad to be alive.’ She half turned her head. ‘And you?’ There was strain in her profile, at odds with her determined chin and the strength of her neat, straight nose.

‘All in one piece,’ he responded, injecting a lightness into his tone that he didn’t feel. ‘We’ve had a lucky escape. Your colleague, Mr MacDonald, will be glad to see you.’

She nodded. Despite his better judgement, he allowed his gaze to slip down over her azure swimsuit. Her slim, perfect body dried his mouth. Sweat prickled his palms.

He wanted to erase the memory of last night—of her terror—in the simplest, most effective way. With pleasure. Carnal pleasure.

But eventually her rigid stillness penetrated his racing brain. Realisation hit and guilt flooded him.

No wonder she wouldn’t turn to look at him! She was embarrassed, wearing a skintight swimsuit in front of a man she barely knew. That explained the high set of her shoulders, the tension humming through her every muscle.

She could only feel vulnerable after what she’d been through. Who knew what trauma she’d experienced?

A leaden weight settled in his belly as he thought of her, alone with a band of kidnapping thugs. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. But that would be a mistake.

As if to confirm it, she shifted, edging away.

‘A rescue team will be on its way as soon as possible,’ he assured her.

She nodded, but stood aloof. She looked as fragile as spun glass. It wouldn’t take much to shatter her.

A ray of sunlight illuminated her golden hair and limned her sleekly curved body. Something caught at his breath, deep down in his chest. He frowned. He’d known more beautiful women. Had more beautiful women. Gorgeous, consciously seductive women. But Isabelle Winters stirred his blood in a way he’d never experienced.

Was it her incredible inner strength? Her bravery? Or the way she carried herself—like royalty—despite the barbarous manacles and her state of undress?

Or perhaps it was because she was the only woman he’d ever lain with all night and not made love to.

She swayed and he bit back an oath, registering her trembling knees and the stress lines that tightened her lips. Pain and reaction were finally taking their toll.

Rafiq grabbed her upper arms, tempering his hold to a gentle, sustaining pressure. He ignored the frisson of awareness that skimmed his palms at the contact, the skirl of heat that ignited in his gut.

Carefully, touching her as lightly as possible, he helped her to sit. Bending down close, he saw the pupils dilate in her wide blue eyes. She was in shock.

‘You need to get warm.’ Already he was unbuttoning his shirt. Her jaw was set as if against a chill, and her hands were clenched, white-knuckled together. He saw a tremor ripple right through her.

Her nipples pebbled against the thin blue fabric. And his lower body tightened in a telltale response that made him grit his teeth.

‘I’m not cold,’ she protested. ‘We’re in the tropics!’

‘Nevertheless.’ He dragged the shirt off his shoulders and draped it round her. She smelt warm and enticingly female. Awareness of her vulnerability tugged at his senses and he straightened, stepping away from her.

‘You’re hurt!’ She’d seen his shoulder. Something had smashed into him last night and gashed him.

She raised her hands, pointing, and he sucked in his breath. She looked like a suppliant, kneeling at his feet. Ultra-feminine in his oversized shirt, breasts tilted up towards him by the movement of her arms.

She could have been some sexy modern-day slave, begging.

And in that instant, staring down at her, he felt a hot, primitive force surge in him. The instinct to reach out and grab. His blood quickened, his body hardened at the sensual image. At the idea of making her his. At the ruthless need to conquer and possess.

Generations of al Akhtar blood ran in his veins. Generations of fighters, leaders of men, pirates. His ancestors had been renowned for their rapacious passion and the single-minded pursuit of what they wanted.

Who could fight centuries of conditioning?

Already he could taste her sweetness like a drug on his tongue. Every muscle tensed like iron and his pulse drummed hard in anticipation. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the combination of softness and strength, and knew she’d be perfect for him.

He only had to reach out. To take.

And then he registered her wide stare, the confusion in her eyes. Reality crashed upon him. He shook his head, trying to clear the miasma that fogged his brain.

‘You’re injured,’ she said again.

‘It’s nothing.’ His voice was brusque.

Her hands dropped to her knees, her clear bright gaze slid from his.

He was the worst kind of savage. Ill-tempered because compassion, the rules of civilised society, his sense of responsibility, all proclaimed she wasn’t for him. He shouldn’t want her. Not so elementally, so viscerally.

Yet it was so.

The first time he’d looked into her eyes sizzling fire had blasted through him. It scorched him still.

But he had an obligation to protect her.

‘Let me see how badly you’re hurt.’ His voice was low, brushing across her sensitive nerves like the stroke of plush fur on bare skin. Belle darted a look up and found him still watching her.

Instead of dark eyes to match his black-as-night hair, his eyes were a deep, clear green. An exact match for the enticing crystal water where she’d dived this past week.

She stared, enthralled by a flicker of heat in those cool, sexy eyes.

Yet his face was hard, its strong lines set with disapproval. Had he guessed her secret thoughts? Recognised the delicious thrill that shivered through her as he towered over her? Or her rush of excitement as he’d stripped off his shirt to reveal that powerful, muscular chest?

It took all her will-power to keep her gaze fixed on his face, not follow the arrowing line of dark, masculine hair that invited her attention down his belly.

With his superb fitness, his air of supreme competence and control, he must belong to some élite rescue squad. The sort called in when things got really tough.

And with those looks he probably had adoring women throwing themselves at him with monotonous regularity.

No doubt he was hoping the wreck of a woman he’d just saved wouldn’t follow suit.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she watched his mouth firm into a narrow line. He knew what she felt, all right, but he was gentleman enough to ignore her weakness. If she was lucky he’d dismiss it as a product of post-traumatic stress. As she intended to.

‘Ms Winters.’ In one supple move he sat before her and reached out one hand, palm up. ‘Let me see your wrists.’

Wordlessly she complied, sucking in a long, calming breath as he took her hands in his and concentrated his attention on her torn, bruised skin. She already knew the touch of those long, capable fingers, the brush of calluses against her flesh. But familiarity didn’t prevent the melting sensation that spread through her.

‘It’s Belle,’ she said at last, her voice uneven.

‘Belle.’ He paused, her name on his tongue, and fire shot down to the centre of her being. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. ‘And you must call me Rafiq.’

She nodded. ‘Rafiq.’ She should have guessed even his name would be sexy.

‘Your hands are knocked about, but with antibiotics to ward off infection they should heal.’ He opened his hands and she slid hers out of his hold.

‘Let me see your ankles now.’ He reached down and lifted her foot in one hand, gently brushing the sand away.

‘Not too bad, considering,’ he said finally, after a close inspection. ‘If you’re lucky you’ll only have minimal scarring.’

Belle nodded, relieved when he released her. His nearness, even the whisper of his warm breath against her skin, set her senses reeling. She was so utterly attuned to him she was sure he could read the longing in her gaze.

‘Do you have any other injuries?’ Was that a thread of tension she detected in his tone?

She turned from her contemplation of the empty ocean to find his attention fixed on her thigh. A large, multicoloured bruise marred her leg—unmistakably the mark of a massive hand.

Belle shuddered as she remembered getting that bruise. Heavy, thickset men, rank with the smell of sour sweat and excitement. Cruel eyes that told her they’d enjoyed maiming Duncan, would enjoy hurting her. For an instant she was sucked back into the nightmare, confused and fighting the choking panic that threatened to take hold.

She blinked, forcing herself to put aside the memory. There were more sore spots round her waist. Tentatively she touched them and winced.

‘A couple of bruises,’ she said, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone and failing. ‘They’ll heal in time.’

A burst of guttural Arabic, savage and uncompromising, broke across her words. Startled, she raised her eyes to see a look of such fierce emotion on Rafiq’s face that she flinched. It was as if he’d transformed into a stranger. An intense, deadly stranger.

Then his eyes met hers and the impression was dispelled, his face smoothing out into the familiar mask of cool control.

‘Forgive me, MsWinters—Belle.’ He paused, and she noticed the rapid tic of his pulse at the base of his throat. Not so calm, then.

He gestured abruptly to the livid bruise on her leg. ‘This is untenable. That my countrymen have treated you in this way—’ He bit off the words and drew in a breath that made his broad chest heave. ‘Apologies are insufficient for such a crime. But, for what it’s worth, you have mine.’

She shook her head, bemused. ‘It’s not your fault, Rafiq. You rescued us. Put yourself in danger to help.’

A single slashing movement of his hand cut her off.

‘It sickens me that you have suffered violence at the hands of these men. Abduction and harm. When you are on the mainland, have no fear, you will be given the best of medical service. Counselling—whatever is appropriate.’

She watched him stretch out his fingers in a deliberate movement of forced relaxation. It was totally at odds with the tension in his big frame.

‘And while you recuperate your attackers will be brought to justice. They will not long escape their punishment.’ The stormy light in his eyes sent a thrill of apprehension skittering down her spine.

He paused. ‘We have extremely competent female doctors who can take care of you and discuss your…experiences.’

He turned his gaze from her as if to give her privacy. And in that moment she realised why he’d been so outraged at the sight of her injuries. Embarrassment warred with relief and the need to reassure him.

‘Rafiq,’ she said, reaching out to touch his hand before she could change her mind. His fingers curled round hers and a jolt of blazing energy shot through her.

‘They didn’t…’She hesitated. ‘They only hurt me to get me to move, to obey them. They didn’t…’

‘Rape you?’ His voice was a husky murmur.

‘No.’

She was fine. Really. She’d survived. Her injuries were minor. So why did the recollection of her kidnappers’ avid eyes upset her? Why did she choke on the bitter taste of tears that blocked her throat and prickled her eyes?

‘Habibti,’ Rafiq murmured, touching her cheek in a feather-light caress that loosened her hold on her welling emotions even further. ‘You’ve been through so much. There’s no need to fight yourself as well. There is no shame in feeling upset.’

She responded to the sound of his voice, rich and warm, as much as to his words. Blindly she nodded, instinctively leaning towards the comfort of his solid frame. His hands closed round her arms and her rigid control slipped another notch. She felt as if she were unravelling, the very core of her loosening, unwinding, fraying. The dam that held her emotions in check splintered. Relief and remembered terror roiled within her in great, sickening waves.

For a long moment he held her at a distance, his hands supportive, bracing. The first sob rose in her throat, raw and wretched. And with one decisive movement of superb strength he lifted her, pulling her into his arms to cradle her against his torso.

His lips moved against her hair, whispering words of reassurance as she cried out her pain. He rocked her slowly. The heat of his body seeped into the chill of hers and the scent of him, of sea and musk, banished the lingering taste of rancid horror from her mouth. His heart was steady beneath her ear, calming, powerful.

Finally the storm of grief and pain eased.

Belle felt herself float, boneless and weightless, in his embrace. She hiccoughed, and the tears eventually subsided, and still he held her, murmuring in that magnificent velvety voice that filled her senses.

She never wanted to move again. She could stay here for ever.

Then she heard it. The rhythmic thud in the distance. The swell of unmistakable sound as a helicopter approached. Safe in Rafiq’s arms, she listened to the noise grow louder and closer, knowing it meant rescue but strangely feeling neither relief nor exhilaration.

Now the roar was directly overhead. Swirling sand bit into her bare legs. She struggled to raise her heavy head, to pull herself out of Rafiq’s arms. But he held her close.

‘Shh, little one. No need to move yet.’

And it was easier to subside against him. She felt as if every ounce of strength she’d ever had, even the dogged determination that had kept her going through the last terrifying days, had drained away.

The chopper blades cut out into a silence that reverberated with their echo. Rafiq straightened against her, though still he held her close.

She should move. Reluctantly she lifted her head, peering through slitted, puffy eyes into the glare.

A group of men strode towards them from the huge helicopter. Two of them she recognised. Dawud, looking even more villainous than he had last night, with his burgeoning grey-flecked stubble and piercing dark eyes. And a younger man in pale trousers and a jacket. The British Consul to Q’aroum. She’d met him when she’d arrived.

There was no Australian Consul on the islands. But Duncan was British, and his government had supported the international marine expedition, eager for closer ties with the small oil-rich nation.

Dawud spoke rapidly in Arabic. She read urgency in his gestures, felt the answering tension in Rafiq’s muscled frame. He barked out a query, and another, then was silent.

Finally David Gillham, the Consul, stepped forward. ‘Your Highness, may I express—?’

‘Highness?’ Belle’s interjection was muffled within Rafiq’s embrace.

David Gillham paused, eyes serious. ‘Ms Winters, you remember me?’

She nodded, struggling to sit upright in Rafiq’s hold. His arms were like solid metal, binding her close.

‘I remember you, Mr Gillham.’ At last Rafiq’s arms relaxed and she sat straighter. Immediately she wished she hadn’t, feeling every man’s gaze on her.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ she said.

‘And you, Ms Winters. It’s a great relief to see you safe and sound.’ His gaze slid from hers to Rafiq’s.

‘Er, it seems a little formality may be called for?’ He watched her companion, as if seeking approval.

Rafiq nodded once, sharply.

David Gillham cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to introduce you, Ms Winters, to Sheikh Rafiq Kamil Ibn Makram al Akhtar, Sovereign Prince of Q’aroum.’

CHAPTER THREE

RAFIQ nodded to the guard posted outside Belle’s hospital room.

‘Your Highness.’ A doctor hurried forward. ‘I’m afraid Ms Winters is sleeping now. You may wish to return later.’

‘Then it will be a short visit,’ Rafiq replied, moving forward as the guard opened the door.

He didn’t pause to analyse this compulsion to see her.

All day he’d done his duty. Touring sites on the outer islands hit by the cyclone. Organising the deployment of resources for disaster relief. Meeting with the Cabinet and national security advisors to assess the political fall-out from the kidnappings and receive briefings on the search for those responsible. Each meeting, each need, more urgent than the last.

Now he did something purely for himself. Something he’d wanted to do ever since he’d relinquished Belle Winters into the charge of the medics on the helicopter. He breathed deeply and entered her room.

Shutters softened the late-afternoon light, reinforcing the quiet. Immediately his gaze fixed on the narrow, hospital regulation bed in the centre of one wall. Bright blonde hair framed a face that was far too pale. Her eyes were closed and she lay unmoving under the white cotton sheet.

Rafiq’s heart thudded hard against his ribcage. Surely she was too still? He couldn’t discern any movement, not even her breathing.

He strode across the room as the doctor murmured from behind him, ‘She’s been asleep for hours, Highness. She may not wake until tomorrow. We can contact you when she does.’

Rafiq stopped at the bedside, hands clasped tight behind his back. It was a gesture he’d learned years ago from his grandfather. There were times when a man needed to take action. But a royal sheikh must always appear calm, unmoved.

So Rafiq schooled his expression as he stood looking down at her, skimming his gaze over the form that seemed so fragile, so unprotected, beneath the starched sheet. Finally he discerned the gentle rise of her chest as she inhaled, and the tension gripping him eased a fraction.

Of course she was alive. What had he thought? That the medical staff didn’t know their jobs? Exhaustion, they’d said. Exposure and dehydration. But not severe enough to be life-threatening.

She’d been lucky.

Rafiq considered the bandages on her wrists, the blistered skin of her shoulders, the drip attached to her arm, the vulnerability of her slight form.

His hands clenched into tight fists as a surge of adrenaline flooded him. Hot fury twisted low in his belly as he contemplated the men who’d done this to her.

Lucky!

She was indeed lucky to be alive. Lucky her captors hadn’t returned to the island for a little sport. Lucky they’d decided to let their victims die an ugly, lingering death from thirst rather than finish them off with a blade to the throat. Or worse.

Lucky the gang’s ringleader hadn’t taken part in the kidnapping personally. Selim al Murnah was a connoisseur of cruelty. A man who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to indulge his sick whims on such a lovely woman.

The idea of Belle at Selim’s mercy was revolting. The bitter taste of bile rose in Rafiq’s throat as he recognised how narrowly she’d escaped death and torture.

His gaze roved her features, so familiar after such a short time. Her golden hair, her straight, determined nose, the sculpted, bone-deep beauty of her face. Her lips: cracked and dry, but undeniably seductive. A mouth created to please a man. A courtesan’s mouth. A mouth that had tempted him, haunted him, since he’d first seen her in the glare of the torchlight—half naked, beyond exhausted, and heartbreakingly brave.

‘Highness?’ The murmured word made him start. He turned his head to meet the worried frown of the doctor.

‘Very well.’ Rafiq inclined his head. ‘I see you’re doing all you can for Ms Winters. Be assured of my gratitude. She and Mr MacDonald are important guests. Keep me informed of their progress.’

The doctor nodded. ‘Of course, Highness.’

As Rafiq turned to leave something caught his eye. A tentative movement against the stark sheet. He looked across to see her brow pucker, her eyes slowly open. Something caught at his throat, restricting his breathing, as he watched recognition spark in her gaze, her eyes widen.

‘You came,’ she whispered, her voice a hoarse whisper. At the sound of it some of the stiffness across his neck and shoulders melted.

He reached down and took her hand in his, squeezing gently, as if he could transfer some of his strength to her. Her hand was slim, cool, frighteningly limp within his grasp.

‘Of course I came, little one. You didn’t think I’d abandon you?’

She didn’t answer, just stared up at him from those mesmerising azure eyes. The impact of that look struck him in the solar plexus, sending a jolt of sizzling sensation through him. Then her eyelids flickered shut and her hand went lax in his.

‘If I may, Highness?’

Reluctantly Rafiq relinquished Belle’s hand to the doctor, and stepped back while he took her pulse.

‘She’s fine,’ the doctor said after a moment, answering his unspoken question. ‘Merely sleeping.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps she will rest better after seeing Your Highness? She seemed to take comfort from your presence.’

There was the faintest trace of speculation in his well-modulated tones. But Rafiq knew enough about his people and the power of speculation to be prepared.

‘I was one of the team who found Mr MacDonald and Ms Winters,’ he explained. ‘I’d be surprised if they didn’t recognise us.’

‘As you say.’ The doctor gestured for Rafiq to precede him out of the room. ‘It would be remarkable indeed.’

Rafiq resisted the urge to turn, to look again at Belle. Instead he followed the doctor out into the corridor.

Duncan McDonald’s room was identical to Belle’s, but the shutters were open, letting in late-afternoon sun that lit his red hair to flame. His leg was in traction, his arm connected to a drip and his chest bandaged. He’d been injured while trying to protect Belle Winters from the abductors.

A brave man. So why was Rafiq reluctant to meet him?

He crossed the room and waited while the doctor performed the introductions.

‘Mr MacDonald, it’s gratifying to see you looking so much better.’

‘Your Highness.’ Duncan paused, as so many Westerners did over the title. ‘I must thank you. I understand you were responsible for our rescue?’

‘There’s no need for thanks, Mr MacDonald. We are simply glad you and Ms Winters are now safe.’

‘Belle! How is she?’ There was no mistaking the desperate edge in the other man’s voice.

‘Ms Winters is sleeping. The doctor assures me she will recover completely.’

Duncan slumped back against the pillows and sighed. ‘I feel responsible for her.’

Rafiq knew how he felt. At least MacDonald had the solace of knowing he’d done his best to protect her. It was for Rafiq to feel the full weight of guilt, since he was the ultimate cause of their danger. That realisation was like a canker, eating at his peace.

‘On behalf of all Q’aroumis, may I express our deep regret at this terrible incident? Our security forces are scouring the country even now in search of your kidnappers.’

‘They’ll be tried?’

‘Of course.’ Rafiq’s smile was grim. ‘We no longer administer rough justice in Q’aroum. You can look forward to testifying at the legal proceedings against them.’

Duncan MacDonald nodded. ‘If you catch them.’

‘Oh, they’ll be caught.’ He’d see to it personally. Selim and his followers would be hunted down like rabid dogs. They wouldn’t escape justice after what they’d done.

Rafiq stifled the urge to pace. Political dissent was one thing. But violent plots couldn’t be tolerated. The kidnapping was part of Selim’s wider scheme to destabilise Q’aroum’s democratic system. He hid behind extremist ideology but sought only personal power.

‘If you hadn’t turned up when you did—’ Duncan MacDonald began, but Rafiq cut him off with an impatient gesture. He didn’t want MacDonald’s thanks.

‘You’d have survived. I’m sure Ms Winters would have seen to it. She’s a remarkable woman.’

Yet he knew how close the search had come to missing that one small atoll. Just as well he’d insisted on taking a personal role in the operation. His inside knowledge of Selim, his second cousin, had helped concentrate the search in the right area. If it hadn’t been for that…

‘Tell me,’ he said, focussing again on the man before him. ‘Is there anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable?’

‘Well, there is one thing.’ Duncan MacDonald hesitated. ‘My girlfriend doesn’t have a visa for Q’aroum, and I know they take weeks to process.’

Rafiq felt his facial muscles stretch wide as he smiled. His first genuine smile since this business began. So MacDonald had a girlfriend back home in Britain.

‘I’ll have it organised immediately.’ He paused, as if considering. ‘We must ask Ms Winters when she wakes whether she has a similar request.’

Duncan MacDonald shook his head. ‘No need. Belle doesn’t have a boyfriend waiting at home for her.’

Ah. Now, that was interesting.

Belle sank back gratefully against the limousine’s soft leather seat. At last she was on her way.

After three days in hospital she’d been climbing the walls with impatience. But the medical staff had been insistent: she mustn’t leave until they were sure there were no complications, until she’d recovered her strength. Anyone would think they’d had orders to keep her immured there. It had only been when she’d threatened to leave without a formal discharge that the doctor had agreed to release her.

And now this. She surveyed the sumptuous interior of the vehicle with a frown. Surely an ordinary taxi would have done? She wasn’t a VIP.

She stared out of the window as the engine purred into life and they swept out of the hospital forecourt. She should be excited at the prospect of returning to her lodgings. Of resuming work again. After all, she’d made marine archaeology the centre of her life for years now—was just starting to build a modest reputation as an up-and-coming researcher in her field.

There was so much to catch up on. She’d call the maritime archaeology centre and discuss a replacement for Duncan. And she’d better check the wreck site to see if the cyclone had damaged the ship or covered it again. It had been in remarkable condition for a vessel that had been underwater for two millennia. She couldn’t bear the thought of it being destroyed just as they found it.

And tonight she’d make another long call home, to reassure her mum. Then a hot, soothing bath. Bliss!

She shifted on the padded seat. Why wasn’t she more excited to be on her way? There was a niggle of tension in the pit of her stomach that she’d tried to ignore ever since she’d left her hospital room. A niggle that had grown alarmingly into a tight, hard knot of fear.

Fear that alone in the expedition team’s house she might not be safe. That masked men might burst in, brandishing guns.

She’d relived the nightmare of abduction so often that she could barely believe it was over. Surely it was over? The doctor had spoken of political strife, had implied she and Duncan had been merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet still the anxiety lingered.

Belle wondered if she’d ever lose it.

She stared out at the brightly lit streets, finding some comfort in the quaint and vibrant old city. They passed a huge square where the colourful night markets were in full swing. She loved the medieval town, with its maze of streets and its unexpected open spaces.

The car took a sharp corner and Belle looked up to see the palace, illuminated like a fairytale castle. It reminded her of long-buried fantasies. Of Arabian nights and genies and magic carpets. On two sides, facing the sea, it was a brooding fortress, its centuries-old walls a solid bastion against invaders’ cannon. But from this side the royal buildings were an Arabian fantasy: gardens and fountains, pavilions, gilt domes, arches, and screens adorned with delicate carved tracery.

‘Hey, you can’t go in here!’ Belle scooted forward on her seat as the car turned into the private palace road.

The driver ignored her, pulling to a halt at the ornate iron gates barring their way. A man in uniform stepped out of the shadows and spoke briefly to the chauffeur. Then, to Belle’s amazement, he waved them on as the gates slid open.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was husky with disbelief. ‘This isn’t where I’m going.’

The driver’s voice was calm. ‘I was told to bring you here, ma’am. There’s no mistake.’

She sank back in her seat, her heart thudding as the car proceeded towards the palace. As the lights grew closer, and her pulse raced faster, Belle forced herself to face the only logical explanation: she’d been brought here to meet him. The man she’d known as Rafiq. Who had turned out to be a royal prince, ruler of Q’aroum.

The man she’d spent the last few days trying to forget.

The man who’d seen her at her weakest, who’d recognised her despair and comforted her with his body and his soothing words. Who knew her vulnerability and her needs almost better than she did. Who’d read the raw, physical hunger in her eyes when she’d looked at him and had been repelled by it.

She swallowed. Did she have any hope of avoiding this interview?

Of course she didn’t.

The car slid to a halt and a man in long pale robes came forward to open the door for her. Quickly she smoothed her hair, ignoring the fine tremor in her hands. She was hardly dressed for a royal interview—but then, what was new? At least this time she was dressed. She tilted her chin up, hoping bravado would overcome embarrassment.

Rafiq al Akhtar had saved her life, and she owed him her thanks. It would be humiliating, facing him, reading the knowledge in his eyes, but it would soon be over. And then she’d never have to see him again.

‘Masa’a alkair, Ms Winters. Good evening. You are welcome.’ It was Dawud, the man who’d brought Duncan back to safety. He looked different, in flowing robes and a turban. She wondered if he wore his knife concealed beneath the swathed cotton.

‘Masa’a alkair, Dawud.’

He smiled at her, a twist of the lips that tugged at his scar, and her tension eased fractionally.

‘It’s good to see you, Dawud.’

‘And you, Miss Winters. Please, this way.’ He gestured to the huge bossed wooden doors and ushered her inside. A pair of servants stood silent just inside the foyer.

As she accompanied him across the wide marble floor, the enormous double doors closed with a reverberating thud behind them. The sound made her falter. It was like the slam of a cell door: final and forbidding.

Belle straightened her shoulders, cursing her over-active imagination. She was no prisoner. This would be a short, formal audience. Nothing to panic about.

They crossed a reception room the size of an auditorium. Thank goodness Rafiq hadn’t decided to see her here, where the elaborate raised dais with its gilt canopy would reinforce the power and pomp of his royal status. She already dreaded this interview. She didn’t need a reminder of the yawning chasm between them.

Eventually Dawud knocked on a pair of carved doors.

‘Come.’

The hair stood up on the back of Belle’s neck as she recognised Rafiq’s voice. It had haunted her dreams for three days. Sometimes its honeyed tones had lulled her with the lyrical, comforting flow of foreign words. But just as often that voice had thrilled her with its deep, masculine promise, till she woke edgy and aroused, unable to sleep again for the knowledge of her own desperate weakness.

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