The Sheik Who Loved Me (6 page)

Hurt flashed through her eyes. She turned her face away from him. “Yes,” she said softly. “I hope I
will
be gone by then.” She got up and left.

And he let her go.

He cursed silently in Arabic and swigged back the last of his drink, relishing the angry burn down his throat.

It took all Sahar’s control not to run. She walked calmly over the terrace and back into the palace. But once inside, she pressed her back hard up against the cool stone wall and scrunched her eyes tight, willing hot tears of frustration away. She was shaky, an absolute mess of conflicting emotions. She knew
exactly
how David Rashid’s satellite communication system worked. The realization had hit full-blow between her eyes the instant he’d begun to explain it to her. And she’d gone stone-cold. Some remote part of her brain had recognized that how his communications system functioned was somehow vitally important to her.
But why?

She shivered. The more snippets of recollection she got, the more ominous her whole situation seemed. She felt there was something really big she was just not grasping. But the more she tried to grab hold of those elusive feelings, the further it all seemed to retreat into the murky shadows of her mind. It made her feel vulnerable, as if an unidentified enemy prowled in the peripheral darkness of her brain, closing in. And Sahar knew that whoever she was, she
hated
feeling vulnerable.

And on top of it all, she was attracted to the man in the most basic way. He stirred things inside her she didn’t want to begin to think about right now. Not when she didn’t know if he was supposed to be an enemy. But even though David Rashid set off every warning bell in her system, an instinctive female part of her wanted to ease his pain, help him connect with his daughter. And she’d tried to do just that. She’d reached out to help. And she’d been burned by rejection.

Despite Sahar’s best efforts to quash the rising tide of emotions, a sob escaped her. It shuddered up through her body, and the pent-up frustration spilled hot down her cheeks.

David was furious with himself. He shouldn’t have let her go like that. He jerked off his chair, stormed across the terrace, swung into the dining hall. And froze.

She was pressed up against the wall, head back, eyes closed, a shimmering trail of tears down her cheeks.

His throat closed. He’d done this to her.

“Sahar,” he said, his voice thick.

Her eyes flared open. She gasped, tried to turn away. He lunged forward and grabbed her arm. She stilled. He reached up, cupped her jaw, turned her slowly to face him. But she wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

“I…I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she whispered.

“Oh, God, Sahar, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She pulled loose. “Don’t. It’s nothing. It’s me. I’m just tired. I need sleep. I…I guess I get emotional when I’m tired.” She forced a weak smile. “See, I’m learning something about myself.”

“Sahar,” he said firmly.

Those huge green eyes looked into his. Bewitching, mesmerizing eyes, filled with a shimmering ocean of emotion. He felt himself pulled inexorably toward her, he felt his lips move closer to hers. So close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth. It took all his strength to hold back. To not press his lips down on hers. “Sahar.” His voice came out rough and deep. “I meant it when I said thank you…for helping Kamilah.”

She stared silently up at him, her lips parted. The look of hurt and frustration in her eyes tore at his heart. He moved a stray gold tendril of hair from her face, hooked it behind her ear. “In the desert,” he said softly, “rain is a gift directly from the gods. There is nothing more spiritual than rain in the desert. Because it not only brings life, it
is
life.”

He cleared his throat. The look in her eyes had forced him down this track. And he could no longer turn back. “You blew in with the rain, Sahar. And like the rain you brought the life back to my child. You awakened her. And me. That’s the reason behind my choice of name.
Sahar.
It means dawn, to awaken. A time of new beginnings. Of growth. Life. I want you to know that. I want you to know why I chose it.”

Time stretched as she stared up into his eyes, a range of unreadable emotions crossing her face.

“It’s a beautiful name, David,” she said finally, her voice thick and husky. “Thank you.” She looked away. “I wish it really was mine. I mean, to keep…forever.”

And David suddenly felt sick. Because nothing about this woman in front of him could be forever. It was simply a matter of days before she was history. He’d do well to remember that fact. But right now trying to send her away seemed about as logical as trying to stuff the rain back into the clouds, as trying to roll the morning sun back into the night.

“I…I really should go to bed,” she said. “Good night, David. And thank you for your hospitality, for your help.” She turned to go.

He watched the sensuous sway of her hips as she walked the length of the dining hall, her spine held stiff, her chin held high, her luxurious reddish-gold hair rippling across the small of her back. He swallowed against the thickness in his throat. He hadn’t been any damn help at all. He’d been suspicious, resentful and ridiculously turned on by this woman.

He’d been focused only on himself and Kamilah and how this woman was rocking their boat. Not on her anguish, her loss. And he could kick himself for the way things had gone tonight.

“Night, Sahar,” he whispered as she slipped through the doorway into the corridor.

But there was no one to hear him.

O’Reilly peered through the dim blue haze of smoke. He spotted Lancaster at the far end of the bar. He made his way through the crowd, edged in next to him. “You’ll never guess who dropped in on the ambassador’s little soiree this evening.”

“Who?”

O’Reilly glanced over his shoulder, leaned forward and dropped his voice so that it was drowned by the bar racket. “Rashid’s very own Dr. James Watson.”

Lancaster’s body stiffened. “And?”

“They have her. On Shendi Island.”

“Jesus, you’ve got to be joking—she survived the storm?”

“You betcha. And get this, she claims to have amnesia. According to the doctor, she has no idea who she is. Apart from that, she’s fine.”

Lancaster threw his head back and roared with laughter. He stopped almost immediately. “What did the doctor want from the ambassador?”

“Rashid sent him. Our sheik is trying to find out who she is. He wants the ambassador to get the word out.”

“Kill it.”

O’Reilly grinned. “Already done. Rashid will never be the wiser.” O’Reilly motioned to the bartender to bring him a whiskey. He took a swig, then paused. “What if…I mean, what if she really can’t remember? What if she’s
not
faking?”

Lancaster studied his drink. “Then we’re safe. In the meantime, we wait to see if she makes contact. If she doesn’t, we pose as loving relatives, go in, neutralize her. If she does make contact—” Lancaster grinned devilishly “—then, partner, we’re back in business.”

Chapter 5

S
oft yellow light seeped through the louvered shutters, throwing stripes of shadow onto the whitewashed walls. She blinked in confusion, then her heart sank like a stone. It was dawn. She was still on Shendi. She still had no memory of her identity.

The thought paralyzed her for a moment. She lay staring at the bars of shadow on the wall. They only served to drive her situation home. She was trapped. Imprisoned inside her own damn head, on a remote island with a man who scorched her insides every time he turned his laser-blue eyes her way. A man who might be dangerous—if only she could remember why.

A man who had named her Sahar.

Frustration burned her eyes. How in hell did one deal with this? Then she thought of Kamilah.

Kamilah understood something of the prison she was in. Maybe that’s why she felt she could identify with the child. If the little girl could cope, so could she. She closed her eyes, willed away the panic.

Everyone had their own pain, she told herself. It was all relative. Besides, today she might learn who she was. Today word might come from the embassy in Khartoum. Things could start looking up. She
had
to stay positive.

She shoved the covers back, sat up. She needed a run to clear her head. Maybe once she got blood pumping through her cells that darn gray matter would start functioning properly again.

She pulled Dr. Watson’s clothes over the simple white underwear Fayha’ had given her, then slid her feet into Watson’s oversize thongs and slipped out of the heavy oak door into the long, cool hallway. She paused. Fayha’ had shown her how to navigate two of the palace wings yesterday, but it was still a confusing labyrinth to her. Like her mind.

She turned to her left and wound her way through stone passageways and mosaic courtyards thick with the scent of jasmine and the hum of bees, searching for the archway that would lead her down to the strip of sugar-white beach she’d seen from the window yesterday.

The phone on his desk beeped. David’s head jerked up from his papers. The sat system was operational. It beeped again. He stared at the phone. Watson perhaps? At six in the morning? Maybe he had an ID on Sahar.

It beeped a third time. David’s muscles tensed inexplicably across his chest. And he realized a part of him wasn’t quite ready to find out who she was. He picked up the receiver. “Rashid.”

“David, it’s Larry Markham. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days.”

Relief slid through him at the sound of his lawyer’s chipper voice. “Markham. We had a storm take our system down. We’ve been incommunicado until now. Everything okay at the London office?”

“All’s fine. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to fax through those papers you wanted prepared. As soon as you okay them, we can have Tariq sign them. It’ll put him in control of the second uranium mine and the last northern Azar oilfield.”

“Thanks. Have you made the extra adjustments to the trust?”

“Done. In the event of your death, Tariq will retain management of those mines, but he’ll remain under the control of the board you appointed. Your plans for Azar will stay in place no matter who takes the helm of Rashid International.”

“Good. Send the papers. And, thanks, Markham.” He hung up and his fax machine started to hum. David stretched, cricking his back into place. He stared at his phone again. He should call Watson. He should find out what happened at the embassy. He checked his watch. No, too early. And right now he needed his ride.

But as David strode toward the stable compound, he knew he was only postponing the inevitable.

And he really didn’t want to think about why.

Sahar slipped the thongs off her feet and stepped onto the sand. It was already warmed by the morning sun. She curled her toes into the fine grains, savoring the sensation. She shaded her eyes and scanned the bright strip of beach. Nothing but sand for miles. Waves crunched rhythmically against the shore, ridges of swells feeding them from behind. She felt her spirits begin to lift.

She began to run. And her spirits soared as the salt breeze played with her hair and blood pumped through her system. She picked up her pace, ran faster. Harder. The muscles warmed in her body. Her breath rasped at her throat. And she felt free. Truly free.

She ran even faster. And it felt as natural as breathing. She began to almost feel herself.

The notion brought her to a screeching halt.
Herself?

But as fleetingly as it was there, it was gone. Nothing but the dull thud of blood in her head.

It was as if her body, her cells, had a physical memory. Her body remembered motion, how to run. And she’d listened to it intuitively. Her body had craved this feeling of release from the minute she’d woken up. But in her mind, she hadn’t registered she was a runner. Or why. She’d simply moved instinctively. But the physical action itself had jolted her brain, given her a glimpse. Maybe she could do it again. Maybe there was another physical motion that could knock something free in her brain.

What else did her body know that she didn’t?

David halted Barakah up on the ridge and patted his muscled neck. They were both damp from the exertion of the ride. He drew in a deep breath, surveyed the ocean below. He loved this spot. Here he felt above everything, as if nothing could touch him.

Then he saw her.

His heart bucked, kicked into a light, steady rhythm. She was running on the strip of sand below the ridge. He leaned forward on his horse, mesmerized by her fast, fluid, natural motion. Her waist-length hair fanned out behind her, whipped by the sea breeze as she ran. It caught the morning sun, glinting with gold and copper light. The skin on her arms glistened with a sheen of moisture.

He whistled softly under his breath. For a mermaid she sure knew how to move on her legs.

Then she stopped suddenly and bent over, bracing her hands on her knees, catching her breath. Intrigued, David watched as she stood up again and raised her face to the sun. She stood like that for a while. Motionless, hands at her side.

It made him wonder what she was thinking.

Then she began to move. He watched as she placed her palms together between her breasts, as if in prayer. She then moved her hands up along her body until she held them high above her head, palms still pressed together. She stepped forward with one leg and leaned into a lunge, her hands still held in perfect symmetry above her head.

She was doing some sort of yoga, as if in salutation to the morning sun. She turned her body sideways, bent at the waist. Then she faltered. Her movements became a little more tentative as if she were slowly recalling a sequence.

She crouched suddenly. Then lurched into a leaping spin as her leg kicked out to full length at her side.

The muscles in David’s stomach tensed at the sudden and aggressive, yet exquisitely fluid movement.

Entranced, he watched as she continued her sequence, each kick and thrust of her arms flowing with fluid grace into the next. She looked like a golden warrior, balletic in her fighting sequence. Where in hell did she learn that? he wondered.

Then she stopped, looked around as if confused. She moved up to the high-tide line, searching for something among the scattered storm debris. She picked up a piece of flotsam, discarded it, hunted for another. Then she found what she was looking for. A long, slim and flat piece of wood, about as wide as her arm.

Holding it with two hands, wielding it like a sword, she began to swing it in front of her. Rhythmic. Fast. Sparring with an imaginary foe. Faster. Harder. But even as her speed mounted, each thrust of her weapon remained clean, smooth.

She was in control every inch of the way, perspiration gleaming on her skin.

A smiled tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was a phenomenal athlete. It didn’t surprise him, given the state of her body. Just the thought of her naked warmed him inside.

“Come, Barakah.” He nudged his horse toward the steep path that led down to the beach. “Let’s go and see what’s gotten our mermaid so worked up this morning.”

The beach was empty when he rounded the ridge and came through the grove of palms at the bottom. Puzzled, David scanned the area. She’d been here only seconds ago. Then he saw the neat pile of clothes on the sand. Doc Watson’s clothes. David’s eyes shot immediately out to the waves breaking along the shoreline.

She was there, playing in the waves. He watched as she moved into a swell with long, smooth strokes. It crested into a wave. She turned at precisely the right moment and rode the wave in as it broke, her hair streaming around her in the water. She ducked under the foaming surf, popped out behind the froth and headed for another swell.

She was playing in the ocean like a young seal, showing none of the fear someone who’d recently survived a boat wreck might. David shook his head. The woman was an absolute enigma.

He watched as she rode another wave in. A smile quirked along his lips and he felt his heart lift at the sight of her playful spirit. It made a part of him want to play too. He shook his head mentally. He couldn’t recall having felt this way in years.

She caught yet another wave, and he marveled at the way she was toying with the power of the swells, the force of nature, becoming one with it. It excited him. He could relate to it. He nudged his horse forward, watched hungrily from the shadows, the feeling mounting within him that this woman was some kind of wild and kindred soul.

She kicked out of her final wave and swam to shore. He watched her emerge from the turquoise water. Droplets caught the sun and slithered down her flat, tanned belly. She raised her arms and slicked her hair back, the movement highlighting the firm swell of her breasts.

Barakah moved under him, making him conscious of the heat in his loins as he watched her stride up the beach, her chest rising and falling from the exertion of her exercise, the sleek muscles of her thighs shifting under smooth wet skin.

As she came closer he could see the darker shade of her tight nipples under the wet, white underwear she was wearing. It hid nothing. His eyes slid down her body, drawn by the darker delta between her thighs.

His pulse quickened. His mouth went dry. His stallion stirred again, restless under him.

David swallowed and shifted on his horse, conscious of the beast between his thighs, of his own searing heat as his body responded involuntarily to the sight of the woman nearing him.

But he stayed in the shadows, just feet away from her.

She went straight for her piece of wood. With her back to him, she stooped, picked it up, swung it around…to face him. Barakah spooked, reared up violently. David grabbed the reins.

Sahar cried out in shock, dropped her piece of wood.

His stallion reared again at the sound of her cry. David felt himself slip. He clenched his thighs. “Whoa. Steady, boy, steady.” He struggled to calm his massive horse. Then he coaxed Barakah gently out onto the beach and into the sunlight.

Sahar glared at him, hands on her hips, her eyes wide, breathing hard. “What the hell!” she demanded.

He grinned, couldn’t help himself. He jerked his chin in the direction of her weapon. “You planning on killing someone with that stick?”

“You were
spying
on me?” she accused, furious spots of color flushing her cheeks.

“Last I recalled,” he said lazily, holding a tight rein on Barakah, “it was my island and I was free to go where I willed.”

Her jaw clenched and she held her ground, feet firmly planted in the sand. David had expected her to lunge immediately for the protection of her small pile of clothes. She didn’t. Neither did she back away as his massive stallion approached. Instead she pulled her shoulders back, thrust her chin forward. Even in that simple, yet very revealing, wet underwear she was as proud and regal as a lioness.

“What were you doing with that stick?” he asked. “Some kind of martial art?”

She faltered. “I…I’m not sure. I was trying to remember…until
you
interrupted me.”

He couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding slowly, brazenly, down her awesome body.

She didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. Instead she caught his eyes, held them, defying him to look away from her face. He forced himself to hold her gaze. But her challenge excited him, it shot a jolt of heat to his groin. His stallion pawed at the ground, the movement making him exquisitely conscious of his hot, pulsing desire. And for a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe even. He was pinned down by the dare in her eyes, by the dark hum in his body. The world around him seemed to slow to a standstill. The sound of waves breaking along the shore receded to a dull white noise in his head.

His horse snorted again, jerking him back to his senses. He sucked in air sharply, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together. Seeing her standing like that in her underwear had sent his brain and blood south.

“It was perhaps a mermaid fighting sequence?” he offered, provoking her further.

She pulled a face. “Yeah. Probably.”

Right. It was more likely some fitness routine picked up in a swanky London gym. Despite her lack of any worldly possessions, Sahar carried herself with obvious breeding and grace. He suspected her life, once she figured out what it was, was well-heeled. She’d probably acquired her perfect biscuit tan aboard upper-class yachts and on the shores of exotic beach resorts. Yet there was something else about her that was innately earthy.

And something that told him he wouldn’t want to confront her in a sword fight.

Although he was practically born with a
jambiya
in his hand and could wield a scimitar with the best Arabian horseman, he suspected she just might match him in that department. That only deepened his curiosity. Who
was
this woman? He was quite simply drawn to her, like a proverbial moth to a flame.

He leaned forward, slowly massaged Barakah’s neck. “Want a ride home?”

“Home?” Her eyes widened like a child’s. “You got news from Khartoum?”

Guilt bit at him again. “Sorry. It was a figure of speech.”