Heather Graham (18 page)

“You think the chopper was Haman’s?” Dan asked.

Ali shrugged and smiled. “Who else would have such crazy pilots?”

Dan laughed along with Ali. The Arab clapped his hand against Dan’s back and they joked about “Haman’s Desert Flight Training School” as they returned to their horses to continue their ride.

Alex was deposited rudely on the floor in a tent not unlike the one she had come to consider hers at Ali’s oasis.

As she fumbled furiously to dislodge herself from the cumbersome blanket, she heard loud commands snapped out in Arabic. The words were spoken so swiftly that she could make out nothing.

As she finally managed to swing the blanket off her shoulders, she saw two of the three Arabs who had shared the wild ride with her backing out of the tent, bowing strenuously as they did so.

Hope and Crosby, she thought fleetingly,
The Road to Morocco.
But her moment of dry humor didn’t last long, because her eyes naturally riveted on the man who had been shouting commands. He was seated on a pillow, or rather his inestimable weight was spread over several pillows on a massive divan. He was dark, with beady little eyes in a fleshy face. His chin would be described as triple rather than double. He wore a merry, very self-satisfied smile, as well he might, for he was attended by four lithe and lovely young women. One merely sat near a tray of coffee and sweets, ready to move at his slightest command. Another kept the heat from his face with a large fan of exotic bird feathers. One kneeled before his bare feet, gently caring for toes that were fat as sausages, and the last stood by to mop his brow and jowls with a swath of cloth when they dampened despite the constant fanning.

Alex was so amazed at the scene that she just stared with her mouth gaping for several seconds. She thought such things had gone out with the last great sultans of Persia.

Haman, Haman, Haman. The name began to ripple through her mind as she remembered her father’s letter. This fat sheikh had to be Haman, and he did indeed exist just as Jim had described him. It was ironic, she thought. She had wanted to come here today, and here she was.

But this wasn’t what she had had in mind. Haman’s licentious smile informed her exactly what
he
had in mind—and she wanted no part of it.

Dan had been right; there were much worse things that could happen than the warning he had given her, and one of them was happening right now.

Alex stood, warily watching Haman. He was too fat to run or exert himself, she thought quickly. And his girls didn’t look the type to engage in a fight.

She smiled at the sheikh sweetly—then bolted for the tent flap. She was immediately returned. Two of her original captors caught her and lifted her by either elbow to deposit her once more in a heap before Haman.

The fat man waved away his bevy of beauties and lifted his bulk with surprising agility. Alex sprang to her feet as he approached her, backing away. She backed into the skin of the tent, and found herself trapped.

He lifted a hand, his eyes awed, and reached for her hair. Alex slapped the hand away in panic. “Keep your fat paws off me!” she shouted in panic. “Ali—Ali Sur Sheriff will come for me!”

This did not impress Haman. He had started smiling when she had knocked his hand away; now he laughed, holding his massive belly as he did so. Alex ducked around him, muscles bunched, fists clenched as she returned his scrutiny.

He watched her, then doubled over in laughter again. When he sobered, he was still smiling. He muttered something in Arabic, out of which Alex could fathom only a few words, but enough to give her an idea of their meaning along with his gesticulations.

Haman was fascinated by blondes, and he enjoyed a woman with spirit.

Oh, God, Alex thought, this was one road show she had to get out of! But though she was tempted to give Haman an hysterical tongue-lashing, she controlled herself. There was hope. Ali and Dan were somewhere near at this very moment. If she could just play for time and then find some way to make a big-enough racket. …

Haman clapped his hands. The men returned to take her by either elbow once more and drag her along. Instinct made her fight. Despite her resolutions, she was pulled away biting and kicking and furiously attempting to twist and turn to viciously spew her saltiest venom upon Omar Khi Haman.

She didn’t see much of the trail she traversed because she was busily trying to evade the hands of her captors, who returned her curses in Arabic each time she managed a painful bite, kick or scratch. She did, however, vaguely notice and register the fact that there was a fenced corral behind Haman’s tent and to the left. Several Arabian horses roamed freely within it, but there were also three with saddles and reins tethered to the fence.

She was suddenly pitched into another tent, her two “escorts” obviously pleased to be letting her go. The impetus of their toss brought her to her knees.

This tent was filled with women of all ages, shapes and sizes. But if Alex had expected help or reprieve from members of her own sex, she was sadly mistaken. Two of the ladies—big, husky women who appeared in their late forties—reached for her. They had grips more powerful than those of the Arab men. They pulled her to her feet, and one of them reached for the hem of her robe.

“No!” Alex snapped furiously. There were titters of laughter throughout the tent. The middle-aged woman didn’t stop in her efforts for a second. So much for her own sex, Alex thought dryly. She lashed out with a foot, and the heavy-set Arabian woman fell to the floor on her derriere. “No, damnit, and I mean it!” Alex raged.

When the woman fell, Alex looked behind her. History seemed to be repeating itself in outrageous fashion. Another bathtub awaited her, this one absurdly modern. It had all the proper connections attached to it, except that there was no plumbing.

Alex had obviously angered the woman she had knocked over. She stood, and for an absurd moment Alex thought she looked like a dragon. If she had started breathing fire, Alex wouldn’t have been one bit surprised. The woman’s hand suddenly flew through the air and hit her cheek, sending her sprawling once more.

Alex had never engaged in even a playground fight as a child. It seemed incredulous that she was trapped in a tent with this monster female, but she wasn’t about to let the hefty Arabian get away with physical abuse. She was younger and much more agile. She leaped back to her feet with her head spinning, fully intending that her tormentor would receive a good right hook to the jaw.

Except all hell broke loose, and so quickly, that afterward she wasn’t sure how she had finally been dumped in the tub. All she knew was that the entire tent of hefties and beauties had wound up in the act. Silk-covered pillows had flown and feathers had riddled the air. And she had finally been divested of her clothing. Apparently if Haman ordered one bathed, one was bathed.

Alex was tempted to cry as she was submerged in the bath, but she couldn’t allow herself to do so. Trying to regain her lost dignity, she went rigid as her hair was shampooed and gawked over by every one of the ten or so women and girls in the tent. She ground her teeth and withdrew into her mind, strenuously reminding herself that she was a fool to expend energy with no hope of escape when it was much wiser to remain calm until she saw opportunity. And Dan and Ali would be coming; they could not be far away. …

Somehow she survived the bath, and the strenuous scrubbing given her by the dragon lady. She was cocooned in a massive towel, and her hair was studiously dried with another. And then she was given a set of ridiculous silk clothing similar to what Dan had given her.

Dragon Lady was in no mood for a further squabble. She veiled her face modestly (Alex wondered why her ferocious mug would need to be hidden, unless it was for the benefit of the observer!) and tucked her head outside the tent, calling for someone. While they waited, Alex was offered a heavier robe to wear over the silks.

The two men returned. Dragon Lady accompanied Alex and her escort to a new tent. Alex was crudely pushed into the tent. It was small, and although it also had a center rug with a tray of fruits, its largest and most dominant accessory was a large silk- and fur-covered bed.

Dragon Lady stayed only long enough to snatch back the heavy robe. Then Alex was left alone, but as she had been at Ali’s, she was guarded by a pair of goons. Except that now she would have loved to see Ali’s goons, the ones who were to protect her rather than guard her.

“I have to get out of this asylum!” she tried to tell herself without shaking or collapsing in useless tears.

She glanced nervously at the bed and thought of the fat and repulsive sheikh Haman and felt her breakfast sour dangerously in her stomach. If D’Alesio could only rescue her from such a fate, Alex thought woefully, she would cheerfully spend the rest of her life enjoying his glorious nudity.

She tiptoed carefully to the tent flap, to discover that she had been right. She was guarded by the two men. An attempt to leave by such an avenue would be foolhardy.

Glancing desperately about the room, Alex paid sharp attention to the structure of the tent. One large pole held up the skins in the center; the circumference was ringed by smaller poles at strategic locations. As in the tents at Ali’s oasis, this too was sided in silks. But as far as she could tell, there was nothing to hold the actual skins to the ground except in those places where they were attached to the sustaining poles.

Alex took a hesitant glance over her shoulder. Things were quiet outside the closed flap. Catching her breath for a moment, she walked to the rear of the tent and fell to her knees, inspecting the juncture of the skins with the ground. The skins were stretched tight, and were restraining in that aspect. But she could get her fingers beneath them; and then her hand, and then her wrist.

She glanced over her shoulder again, feeling that her breathing had become harsh and shallow with fear and anticipation. The entrance was still quiet, but how long would it remain so?

If she waited, Dan and Ali would be here. But what if they didn’t come in time? Or worse still, what if there was absolutely no way to let them know she was here?

A mental image of the many jowls of Sheikh Haman was the deciding factor. Alex strained furiously against the skins, drawing them ever farther, inch by inch, from the ground. She finally created enough space to be able to worm her body beneath them.

Alex slipped her head under the skins and quickly surveyed the area. More tents stretched before her, and she could hear muted conversation from afar. But she couldn’t see anyone. Desperately she flattened her body against the ground and shimmied beneath the skins.

A
LEX HOVERED CLOSE TO
the ground as she tried to assimilate her surroundings. She could hear occasional spurts of conversation, and every once in a while the Arab voices would rise. She began to creep around the tent, pausing with a catch in her breath when she saw two men passing. They didn’t give her a glance; they were the ones involved in the heated conversation she had been hearing. They passed on, heading deeper into the camp.

She tried to orient herself in relation to the horse corral she had seen. It was, she assured herself with confidence, to her left. But she couldn’t merely walk down to it; the guards would be upon her like a swarm of flies.

Perplexed, she rocked upon the balls of her feet and glanced nervously to her rear and the haphazard rows of tents. Several had lines stretched between them with clothes hung out to dry in the hot afternoon sun. The heat, she surmised, was the lucky factor that was presently keeping the camp so quiet.

But she couldn’t stay where she was long; someone was bound to come along and see her. Glancing speculatively at the closest clothesline about a hundred feet away, she decided she was going to have to make a run for it. Creeping quietly around the tent again, she bolted across the open space, praying no one’s first, second, third or fourth wife was going to make an untimely appearance to bring in her laundry.

Gasping for breath, she reached the line and sheltered herself within the drying folds of a tattered galabria in a dull-color tan. She could hear soft voices from the nearest tent, and she realized she had to act. She slipped the garment from the line and over her head and grabbed at the next nearest piece of material. It was another galabria, but she wrapped it quickly around her head and then sprinted toward the next tent to the left before the owners of the first should discover their clothesline ravaged.

Now stop jumping around! she warned herself. When she walked, she had to do so casually. She had to pretend she had every right to be sauntering through the camp. If she kept her head lowered she should be okay; it seemed apparent that it was the lunch hour and therefore there were few people about.

It was difficult to convince herself not to hide, but she was sure that a furtive appearance would draw far more attention than a confident one. And from where she was now, she could hear the occasional whinny of a horse. She had been correct—the corral was still just a little to her left.

Squaring her shoulders, she lowered her head and pulled the material close over her forehead. Walking swiftly, she entered the main trail. Her blood seemed to freeze when she saw a man walking toward her, but she forced herself to keep walking steadily. The man passed her. Alex allowed a pent-up breath to escape and hurried on, willing herself not to break into a telltale run.

She reached the corral and saw only two horses tethered to the fence, while the others roamed freely. Slipping fingers damp with perspiration over the crude latch, she released it and slipped inside. The horses ignored her. It occurred to her that she should leave the gate open in the hope that the rest of the horses would bolt to freedom along with the bridled mount she chose.

Following that logic, Alex first released a beautiful bay gelding from his tie before grasping the reins of the second tethered horse, a chestnut with a dark, flowing mane. She eyed the creature’s back nervously, praying that she would be able to leap up onto it. Luck had been with her so far; if she could just mount the horse …