Heather Graham (11 page)

“You son of—”

“Un-unh, Doctor! Not productive. I want to know everything that happened after the phone call until we met.”

“You already know!” Alex flared with renewed fury. “All right, D’Alesio, you want to know everything? I flew to Paris the next morning. Transferred flights and arrived in Cairo. I waited for Jim for almost four hours. Then I went to the Hilton. I gave everyone I could the third degree. No one knew for sure when they had seen him last. I called the police; they said he wasn’t missing long enough to be a ‘missing person.’ I called you—a true effort in futility. I went to the museum. I called every professor my dad might know, thinking he might have gotten in touch with someone. I combed the tourist attractions and shops. I heard you’d gone down the Nile; I followed. You came back up the Nile. I followed. And then—as you know—I was tossed bodily out of your hotel room. I flew here—and was bodily attacked.” Her voice kept rising as she spoke. Repeating all that had happened made her temper flame like a brushfire.

“Alex,” D’Alesio said quietly, impressed despite himself with the loyalty and dogged determination of this particular powder puff. “If we’re going to solve anything, we’re going to have to call a truce.”

She turned back to him. “A truce? You’re crazy.”

He laughed, and she felt as if she were even touched by the husky sound of his voice. “Truce, Doctor. We can hardly get anywhere when you’re being hostile and uncooperative.”

“Mr. D’Alesio, I can hardly help feeling hostile.”

He stared at her, hands on hips, then suddenly laughed again. “Would it make you feel any better if I let you clobber me?”

She should, of course, say no. She had always hated violence, considering skirmishes beneath her. But she found she couldn’t simply decline dignity. It would make her—childishly perhaps, but truthfully—happier to just give him one good crack.

“Yes, D’Alesio,” she said quietly. “It would make me feel much better.”

“All right.”

“All right what?”

“Come over and clobber me.”

Was he joking? Was it another trick? There was only one way to find out. Alex walked over to him and hesitantly lifted her eyes to his.

He lifted his hands and dropped them. “At your convenience.”

She hesitated a second longer, then surprised even herself with the strength with which she hooked her right fist against his jaw. He gazed at her with eyes both startled and wry as he rubbed his chin. “I hope that did make you happy, Doctor, because you’re not going to get another offer.” He bypassed her, still massaging his jaw as he headed for the tent flap. She should have appreciated the way he glanced back at her warily over a shoulder, but she was busy rubbing her sore knuckles.

“You do pack a wallop for a powder puff,” he muttered.

Alex suddenly realized he was heading out of the tent. “Where are you going?” she demanded. “I thought this was all to make me more cooperative.”

“I’m going to go explain to Ali who you are, maybe keep you from having to explain a few things twice. Then I’m going to take a bath. I’ll come back to bring you something to eat later, while Ali is at evening prayer. Then I’ll take you to him.”

“Wait!” Alex rushed after him to catch his arm and stop him. He looked from her hand on his arm to her eyes, and she flushed unaccountably and released him. “Raj—what happened to my young guide? If you’ve pulled something over on me, D’Alesio, it’s one thing, but if you’ve done anything to that young boy …”

Her voice trailed away as she saw one of his slow, devastating smiles slip across his face, and she looked at him queryingly. “Raj is fine,
Dr.
Randall,” he assured her. She had never heard anyone make such a taunt of her title before. “Rajman works for me.”

Her eyes started to narrow; Dan watched the way her well-shaped lips pursed and thinned.

It was her “dangerous” expression, he thought dryly. The amber in her eyes began to spark against the green, and the color seemed to become gold before his eyes. In another second she would start flailing around with right-hook punches, and he had already learned she could deliver one with venom.

“See ya later, Doc!” he said with a laugh, and before she could vent any more steam upon him, he slipped out through the tent flap.

“Wait!” Alex called sharply again, springing after him. “Later? D’Alesio, get back here! What am I supposed to be doing while you have a leisurely afternoon?”

He didn’t hear her—or if did, he was choosing to ignore her. Alex tried to exit the tent and follow him to demand a showdown, but she was met by her Arabian guard dogs as soon as she touched the flap. Still smiling politely, they nevertheless solidly blocked her way.

Alex stood quite still and stared from one man to the other. She smiled sweetly at them and tried a
Min fadlak
, which could mean either “please” or “excuse me.”

They didn’t budge. They merely shook their dark heads sorrowfully.

Alex spun and reentered the tent with seething frustration, wishing it were possible to slam a tent flap.

She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot against the sand in several moments of simple frustration. Then she sighed, and her eyes lit upon the coffeepot and the tray of fruits and dates and nuts. What she would have liked was her giant Scotch and soda, with several lemon twists floating above the ice and bubbling water. But it was highly unlikely she would be enjoying such a luxury soon. Even she knew the Muslims were total abstainers; they didn’t even drink wine.

She sat on the Persian rug and noticed with delight that several perfect mangoes were nestled prettily within the platter. She reached for one of the fruits and bit into it, enjoying the sweet, grainy texture. Just as she was reaching for the small coffeepot to pour herself another demitasse cup of the rich and aromatic brew, the tent flap suddenly whipped open.

Dan D’Alesio, his rakish smile in place, stepped in as she stared up at him. He threw something across the space between them and it landed a foot from her. Her eyes automatically followed the object. It was a brush.

“You wanted something to do,” he said with a dry shrug. “Well, please, do something with your hair. You look like the madwoman of Chaillot.”

The brush went hurtling back across the tent—but the flap had closed a second time and the missile crashed harmlessly against silk and goatskin. Alex could hear the soft echo of his throaty laughter as he moved away, and she spent the next ten minutes thinking of calamities, natural and premeditated, that might befall Daniel D’Alesio.

But eventually, with little choice of anything else to do, she finished her mango and coffee. And her eyes wandered back to the brush lying on the ground. She was dying to brush out her hair where it had dried in tangles. And it seemed absurd to spite herself just because D’Alesio was the rudest individual she had ever met. Besides, she was going to have to learn to ignore D’Alesio. It was an abhorrent thought, but it appeared she was going to need him. Her father’s life was at stake. If D’Alesio were a two-humped camel and he could help find Jim, she would learn to tolerate a two-humped camel.

She rose and retrieved the brush, then studiously gave her hair far more than the customary hundred strokes. Then, with time still weighing on her hands, she eyed the canopied bed with its inviting silken coverings.

It should have been in a harem. The bed itself seemed to offer exotic sensual delights. But it also looked invitingly comfortable, beckoningly comfortable. It seemed to reach out and promise comfort to her tired and sore muscles. Shrugging and glancing uneasily at the still tent flap, Alex crawled on top of the sheer, cool silks and pulled several of the little pillows against herself. She didn’t think she would sleep—her mind was still in a seething muddle over the events of the day. And she was becoming more and more worried about Jim. If Sheriff had no answers, where would she go? She had thought ahead no further than to seek out the sheikh. She had prayed that simply finding him would be the miraculous answer to all her problems.

But if he couldn’t help her, she might be back at square one. No, D’Alesio was as determined as she to find Jim, and despite everything, that was a strange comfort.

The bed did prove to be very, very comfortable. Cocooned in the soft coolness of the sheets and embraced by the plush pillows, Alex finally slept.

She awoke while dreaming of lamb stew. A succulent aroma rose in her mind so strongly that she could smell it on the air. With a start she realized she wasn’t dreaming. The tent was filled with a spicy, delicious scent. Jerking around, she discovered that D’Alesio was back. Cross-legged on the Persian rug, he was watching her with idle interest as he chewed food from a crockery bowl in his hands.

Irritated that he had come in while she had been sleeping, and not liking the feeling of vulnerability it gave her, Alex snapped, “You might learn to knock!”

He cocked a brow high and queried, “How does one knock at a tent?”

Alex swung her feet around to the floor and was again annoyed to realize she still felt only half dressed. “Now that the joke is over, Mr. D’Alesio, do you think you could return my own clothing?”

“Sorry; it’s being laundered.”

Alex rose, gritting her teeth. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. I have never liked being threatened, and, Doctor, you do have a talent with threats.”

“Promises,” Alex corrected coolly. “And sorry—I have never liked being treated like a child or a toy.”

“Then you’ll be happy to hear that I’m packing you up and sending you home as soon as I think I’ve heard anything helpful you might have to say.”

“What?” Alex demanded, approaching him furiously. With him seated, she felt momentarily at an advantage. But he stood as she reached him and planted his hands as firmly upon his hips as hers were planted upon her own. And instead of looking down at him, she was looking up again.

“You heard me,” he said firmly. “You’re going home. This is simply no place for you to be. Now sit down and have something to eat.”

He sat again and picked up his bowl as if the matter were settled. Alex remained standing a moment longer in helpless rage, then sat across from him. She tried to remind herself that a man like D’Alesio had to be treated with kid gloves.

There was a large covered pot between them. Alex calmly lifted the cover and glanced about for utensils. D’Alesio handed her a second dish and she ladled some of the stew into it. She recovered the pot and said with quiet determination, “Mr. D’Alesio, I am not leaving the Middle East until I find my father.”

He issued a small explosion of exasperation. “Lady, where are your brains? You want to have me boiled alive for what I did to you, and that was nothing but a warning! Alex! I will do everything in my power to find your father.”

“I will not leave,” she said stubbornly. She didn’t look at his face. She barely knew the man, and yet she knew his power. She was discovering that he did have a few human streaks, but he still considered his words unquestionably to be law. And he had a way of making one falter into believing him, into accepting him. That power, his power, she tried to tell herself, came from his eyes, as if they had a separate, occult force all their own like a mystical jet stone. If she didn’t look into his eyes, she could carry off her own aplomb more easily.

“You will leave,” he returned shortly. He reached across her suddenly and she flinched, then relaxed as she realized he was merely reaching behind her for a large satchel. From it he withdrew a bottle of mineral water and stoneware cups. Her eyes involuntarily met his as he handed her a cup and she shivered slightly, aware that he had noticed and registered her flinch.

“Don’t you realize that you shouldn’t be here?” he asked irritably.

“D’Alesio, the only danger I’ve come across is you!”

To her surprise, he smiled with a small shrug. “Whatever the danger is, Doctor, you should leave before it gets too hot.” He sipped his water and nudged the bowl of food she held. “Come on, Doctor, the stew is excellent. And if you eat it all up like a good little girl, I’ll take you to Sheriff.”

Apparently they had both dropped the argument for the moment. Alex obediently bit into the stew, which was excellent, with no protest. If she was about to meet Sheriff, she wasn’t going to attempt to spite D’Alesio, no matter how condescending his attitude.

Before they left the tent, she put on the Moroccan slippers that had been left with the silk garments. Dan supplied her with a heavier robe to cover the thin silks. He also took it upon himself to secure a swath of material over her hair and a veil over her lower face. “When in Rome. …” he murmured as she chaffed beneath his ministrations.

“Are you quite through?” Alex asked impatiently.

“Quite.” He laughed in return. He lifted the tent flap for her, and she preceded him out. The two bruisers she was coming to think of as Abbott and Costello didn’t make a move except to incline their heads in a barely perceptible fashion toward Dan D’Alesio. They maintained their crossed-armed stances, a bitter reminder to Alex that she would be returned to the tent and once more guarded when her interview was finished.

The sun was fast fading in the western sky, and the color of the desert and the oasis was beautiful. The sizzling heat of the day was gone; night was coming to the desert, with its kiss of blissful coolness. Alex paused just outside the tent to feel the strange beauty of the night. She could no longer hear the laughter of children, but she could somehow feel the serenity of the camp. Past the closest array of tents, Alex could see glimpses of the water, aqua against the magenta sky, shaded and protected by numerous palms. The beautiful aqua water, the lifeline of the people.

Only a few of the Bedouins were about: men in neutral galabrias tethering horses and camels for the night, a few women in their modest robes wandering back from the waters of the oasis with pots for evening ablutions. It was a quiet time for the Bedouins; even the animals seemed to know it. Alex felt as if she had been taken back centuries, as if she had stumbled upon an era of tranquility and beauty. The desert was as it had been through the millennia—not even the power of man could change it.