The Sheikh's Guarded Heart

Hanif had left Zahir in Rumaillah to make enquiries about his guest and now he roused himself to join him in the sitting room of the guest suite.

‘Miss Forrester is still sleeping.’

‘It’s the best thing.’

‘Perhaps.’ She’d been fighting it—disturbed, dreaming perhaps, crying out in her sleep. It was only the sedatives prescribed by the hospital keeping her under, he suspected. ‘What did you discover in Rumaillah? Was the embassy helpful?’

‘I thought it better to make my own enquiries, find out what I could about her movements before I went to the embassy. If you want my opinion, there’s something not quite right about all this.’

‘Which is, no doubt, why you tried to dissuade me from bringing her here,’ Hanif replied, without inviting it.

‘It is my duty—’

‘It is your duty to keep me from brooding, Zahir. To drag me out on hunting expeditions. Tell my father when I’m ready to resume public life.’

‘He worries about you.’

‘Which is why I allow you to stay. Now, tell me about Lucy Forrester.’

‘She arrived yesterday morning on the early flight from London. The immigration officer on duty remembered her vividly. Her hair attracted a good deal of notice.’

He didn’t doubt it. Pale as cream, hanging to her waist, any man would notice it.

Realising that Zahir was waiting, he said, ‘Yes, yes! Get on with it!’

‘Her entry form gave her address in England so I checked the telephone number and put through a call.’

‘Did I ask you to do that?’

‘No, sir, but I thought—’

He dismissed Zahir’s thoughts with an irritated gesture. ‘And?’ he demanded.

‘There was no reply.’ He waited for a moment, but when Hanif made no comment he continued. ‘She gave her address in Ramal Hamrah as the Gedimah Hotel but, although she had made a booking, she never checked in.’

‘Did someone pick her up from the airport, or did she take a taxi?’

‘I’m waiting for the airport security people to come back to me on that one.’

‘And what about the vehicle she was driving? Have you had a chance to look at it? Salvage anything that might be useful?’

‘No, sir. I sent out a tow truck from Rumaillah, but when it arrived at the scene, the 4x4 had gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘It wasn’t there.’

‘It can’t have vanished into thin air, Zahir.’

‘No, sir.’

Hanif frowned. ‘No one else knew about it, other than the woman at Bouheira Tours. What did you tell her?’

‘Only that one of their vehicles had been in an accident and was burnt out in the desert. She was clearly shaken, asked me to describe it, the exact location. Once I had done that she said that I must be mistaken. That the vehicle could not belong to them. Then I asked her if Miss Forrester was a staff member or a traveller booked with them and she replied that she’d never heard of her.’

‘She didn’t want to check her records?’

‘She was quite adamant.’

‘Did you tell her that Miss Forrester had been injured?’

‘She didn’t ask what had happened to her and I didn’t volunteer any information.’

‘Leave it that way. Meanwhile, find out more about this tour company and the people who run it. And Zahir, be discreet.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE room was cool, quiet, the light filtering softly through rich coloured glass—lapis blue and emerald, with tiny pieces of jewel-bright red that gave Lucy the impression of lying in some undersea grotto. A grotto in which the bed was soft and enfolding.

A dream, then.

Lucy drifted away, back into the dark, and the next time she woke the light was brighter but the colours were still there and, although she found it difficult to open her eyes more than a crack, she could see that it was streaming through an intricately pieced stained glass window, throwing spangles of colour over the white sheets.

It was beautiful but strange and, uneasy, she tried to sit up, look around.

If the tiny explosions of pain from every part of her body were not sufficiently convincing, the hand at her shoulder, a low voice that was becoming a familiar backdrop to these moments of consciousness, assured her that she was awake.

‘Be still, Lucy Forrester. You’re safe.’

Safe? What had happened? Where was she? Lucy struggled to look up at the tall figure leaning over her. A surgical collar restricted her movement and one eye still refused to open more than a crack, but she did not need two good eyes to know who he was.

Knife in his hand, he’d told her to be still before. She swallowed. Her throat, mouth were as dry as dust.

‘You remember?’ he asked. ‘The accident?’

‘I remember you,’ she said. Even without the keffiyeh wound about his face she knew the dark fierce eyes, chiselled cheekbones, the hawkish, autocratic nose that had figured so vividly in her dreams.

Now she could see that his hair was long, thick, tied back at the nape with a dark cord, that only his voice was soft, although the savage she’d glimpsed before she’d passed out appeared to be under control.

But she knew, with every part of her that was female, vulnerable, that the man who’d washed her as she lay bloody and dusty on a hospital couch was far more dangerous.

‘You are Hanif al-Khatib,’ she said. ‘You saved my life and took me from the hospital.’

‘Good. You remember.’

Not that good, she thought. A touch of amnesia would have been very welcome right now.

‘You are feeling rested?’