Heather Graham (19 page)

Just as she was congratulating herself, her luck suddenly soured. She heard a loud shout and turned to see a man racing for her. The horse’s owner, no doubt. Alex couldn’t dwell upon that worry. She grasped the reins and a handful of mane and swung her leg with all the vigor she could summon.

Her landing upon the creature’s back was less than graceful, but she made it. The horse started moving as she lay against his neck, struggling for balance. But she achieved that balance and dug her heels fervently into the animal’s flanks, making a mad dash for the open gate. As she had hoped, the other horses in the corral followed. They were pressed one against another in their flurry to bolt.

The Arab tried to push the gate shut, but the impetus of the horses was too strong. He fell back, scrambling in the sand and gasping for breath. But by then his shouts had been heard and the once-quiet camp was suddenly alive with humanity. Alex tried to race down the trail in front of the corral, but so many people were milling about that her horse reared and refused to go forward. She managed to turn the animal by straining at the reins, and attempted to forge a trail through the tents.

She had not chosen a particularly agreeable mount. Neither was she anywhere near an expert horsewoman. Between her fumbling attempts at control and the horse’s confusion, they managed only to drag down one of the smaller tents.

Now it seemed that the camp swarmed with shouting people, all coming from different directions. Alex jerked desperately at the reins, trying to keep the horse from tripping and throwing her as he pawed at the tent fabric that billowed around his hoofs. His knees buckled, but Alex managed to drag him back up. She spun around again, knocked down a furious mullah, and nudged the horse forward once more. They bolted together, then raced a hundred yards before coming into contact with a herd of goats. The goats protested with panicky bleats and began running amuck through the camp.

Alex noted vaguely that more of the smaller tents were falling and that women were shrieking as they crawled out of their collapsing homes. Absolute pandemonium had broken loose.

There was no sense attempting to ride through the incensed goats. Alex clung to the neck of the horse as he reared high in protest and plunged his forelegs back to the ground. Without her command, the animal spun about. Her knees lost their precarious hold on his bare flanks and she careened dangerously close to the ground. Then the horse bolted forward, and she lost her grip entirely, falling amid the melee of goats. She instinctively raised her arms above her face. Miraculously, the stampeding animals veered around her.

When the thundering past her ears quieted, she slowly moved her arms and opened her eyes.

She was surrounded by furious Arabs, among them the fat sheikh himself. He took a step closer to her and launched into a screaming verbal assault, shaking his fist at her. Alex just lay there and listened desolately. She had had her chance, and she had blown it.

It was no surprise to her when two of the men stepped forward past the sheikh and wrenched her to her feet. The sheikh was still ranting threats, his clenched fist pounding the air.

Fat Omar Khi Haman was definitely no longer smiling. His dark face had gone red with his flush of blood, and his jowls were shaking like molds of Jell-O.

He really is mad, Alex thought, adding to herself, of course he’s really mad. I—a woman—have just destroyed half his camp. She was too dazed and dispirited to care.

Suddenly she was saved from his rancor by another shout from the distant entrance to his personal tent. Alex regained interest and vitality as she saw everyone look toward the desert horizon. She narrowed her lids and strained her eyes, but she could see nothing but sand. Still, she knew these desert dwellers could read far more from the sand than she.

The sheikh stared off to the horizon, then glanced back at Alex, issuing orders. She heard something about the helicopter, and two men rushed off. Then a sausage-fat finger pointed to her, and she felt the two pairs of hands upon her arms tighten, and then she was being hauled back toward the tent from which she had so recently obtained her freedom.

A bolt of energy suddenly surged through her with renewed hope. The horizon! They had all been pointing off to the desert. Dan! It had to be D’Alesio and Ali arriving!

She gave a furious twist to her arm and momentarily eluded one of her captors. She lashed out wildly at him, managing to throw a few good punches before her arm was captured again. She didn’t give up. All the way back to the tent she balked, kicked and struggled, even managing to sink her teeth into the wrist of the man on her left.

She was half wild with exhilaration. They would throw her into her tent, and then she would wait, and when she was sure the riders had reached the oasis camp of Haman, she would scream bloody murder.

Except that they didn’t just throw her into the tent. They dragged her in and still didn’t release her. Her eyes widened with horrified alarm, and she immediately began screaming in panic when she was hauled to the bed.

A hand clamped over her mouth, and one of the Arabs used his weight to hold her down as his companion secured one of her flailing fists and tied her wrist to the bedpost. Despite the fact that she fought like a wild woman, and despite the considerable damage she caused her tormentors, she shortly found herself bound hand and foot to the bed. For a terrified second she thought she was about to be sexually assaulted right then. But as one of her captors stuffed a rag into her mouth and secured it around her head, she realized she was merely being carefully restrained—and thoroughly quieted.

The men barely glanced at her when their task was complete. They turned quickly and left her behind.

Alex worked against her bonds furiously but succeeded in doing nothing but chafing her wrists. The dirty rag was nauseating her, and she had to take deep breaths and swallow carefully not to be sick. Eventually she exhausted herself and lay still, staring dismally at the silk that billowed from the canopy over the bed.

They were there. Ali and Dan were there, within shouting distance from her. But they didn’t even know she was here. They would carry out their business, and they would turn around to ride home. And she would be left in the fat sausage-fingered hands of an insanely angry Omar Khi Haman.

Tears pricked furiously at her eyelids, and she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. But she was about to start shaking in the futility of silent sobs.

Ali Sheriff was frowning.

“What is it?” Dan demanded.

Ali lifted a hand and pointed to the oasis camp, which looked miniature in the distance. “Something is going on.”

Dan stared in the direction indicated, and his brows were furrowed in confusion. Even at this distance he could see that the camp was in chaos. Horses and goats were running loose. Several of the miniature-looking tents were flattened. It was the lunch hour, usually a quiet time in the Bedouin camps.

“I wonder what happened,” Dan murmured.

“So do I,” Ali agreed. “Haman is usually so—ordered.”

Dan felt a strange trickle of unease tingling along his spine. He glanced toward the sky, as if seeing the helicopter again, but of course he didn’t. Something disturbed him about the turn of events, but he wasn’t quite sure what. He flicked his reins over his horse’s neck, and the spirited Arabian bunched his well-muscled haunches. “Let’s move a little faster, shall we?” Dan suggested.

The animals had been caught and resequestered by the time they reached the camp. The sand trails of the oasis were once again quiet.

Too quiet, Dan thought.

And Haman greeted them himself, a little too effervescently. He hugged Ali as if he were a long-lost friend instead of a cold-war enemy, and gave Dan, whom he’d only met once or twice before, a magnanimous American handshake. He dragged them into his tent almost before they had a chance to dismount from their horses.

Seated on the rug in Haman’s quarters, Dan and Ali were immediately offered juice and coffee. Dan gritted his teeth and bore with the custom, knowing that no business could be spoken of until the hospitalities had been afforded.

Haman himself brought up the question of their visit. “My friends,” he asked with a too-wide, too-magnanimous grin, “what brings you here across the desert in this heat?”

Ali. was sipping a sweet orangeade, and Dan replied. “We are looking for the American, James Crosby. He told Ali he would come to see you before heading into the city. He has disappeared since leaving Ali. Can you tell us if he made it here?”

To Dan’s surprise, Haman seemed relieved by his vein of questioning. “Yes,” Haman said quite frankly. “James Crosby did come here. We enjoyed several nights of conversation together.” The fat sheikh’s smile became very self-pleased. “I pledged Crosby a large sum in Egyptian pounds for his project with the schoolchildren.”

“When did he leave?” Dan demanded tensely.

Haman waved his fat fingers in the air. “Two—two and a half—three weeks ago. I do not keep track of the time. It has no meaning for me.”

“But he definitely left?”

Haman’s beady little eyes became mere slits in his bulbous face. “Of course he left. What do you imply?”

Ali broke in on the conversation. “We imply nothing, Haman. We are merely very worried and need any information you can give us. But that will wait a moment.” Ali shot Dan a warning glance. “I have brought you gifts, Sheikh Haman. Some very special French cheeses, some linen from Belgium and some of those American Devil Dogs you are so very fond of.”

Haman beamed and clapped his hands. A servant immediately appeared, and Haman ordered that they unpack the caravan.

“I saw your new helicopter,” Ali said idly as the parcels were brought into the tent. “It is a nice toy.”

“I do not have a helicopter,” Haman said. He had been pawing about in a parcel, but it seemed to Dan that he spoke tensely and that his greedy fingers and back became stiff.

He is lying. Why would he lie? Dan wondered. “You seem to have had some trouble here today,” Dan said pleasantly.

Haman shrugged, but Dan sensed the same stiffness.

“One of my stallions went a little crazy,” Haman said swiftly. He procured a Devil Dog from the pack and eagerly bit into it. He glanced at Dan then and abruptly started offering information. “I can tell you that Crosby is no longer in the country. I had him followed to Abu Dhabi. He hired a private plane.”

Dan and Ali exchanged glances. Haman had originally had no intention of offering them this information. Why was he suddenly being so generous?”

“Why did you have him followed?” Ali asked.

Haman shrugged. “To offer my services if need be.”

Dan stared down at his coffee. To offer services? Dan doubted it. More likely Haman wanted to be in on the find, if there was one.

“Where did Crosby go?” Ali asked. “If you were having him followed, it seems remarkable to me that you do not know.”

Again Haman shrugged. “My men lost him,” he growled. “James Crosby was talking on the phone at the airport at Abu Dhabi.” Haman paused with a bit of wonder, and Dan understood. Getting a line out of Abu Dhabi was a miracle itself.

“And then?” Dan urged.

Haman took another bite of his Devil Dog. Dan was tempted to slap the chocolate pastry out of the man’s meaty hands. He felt his entire body tense as he fought for control.

Haman began to speak again, and Dan was fraught with frustration. Haman’s Arabic was strangely accented, and when he spoke through a mouthful of food, Dan had to strain for comprehension.

“Zaid, who followed Crosby—and was severely upbraided for losing the man—said that Crosby must have believed he was being followed. But not by Zaid. Zaid swears Crosby never saw him. He said Crosby was talking, then, suddenly looking at something, he slammed the phone down. He disappeared into the airport crowd so quickly that Zaid lost him.”

“Perhaps,” Ali said slowly, “we could speak with Zaid.”

Surprisingly, Haman was quite agreeable. He clapped his hands, and his servant once more appeared. While Haman ordered that Zaid be brought to the tent, Dan idly sipped his coffee and glanced around the tent, wondering what it was that was wrong that he simply couldn’t put his finger on.

It was then that he noticed the earring.

At first it was only a speck of gold against the sand. It lay not two feet from him, five inches from the edge of the rug. Dan glanced sharply at Haman. He was still rattling on to his servant. Inching his hand over, Dan closed his fingers over the gold.

Shielding his find with his body, he opened his hand at his side and casually glanced down. His blood seemed to boil within him, creating a wash of heat that spread like wildfire from his legs to his head. There was no mistaking the earring. It was a tiny sphinx suspended from a delicate gold loop. There could be no second set of earrings like this, not out here, anyway, and he could remember all too clearly how he had touched the little bob that morning as it hung suspended from Alex’s ear.

Haman and Ali were talking again. He did not hear them as he fought for control. It suddenly made sense. The helicopter that Haman claimed he did not own, the information about Crosby that he had offered so willingly—Haman! Dan could not stop himself from shuddering with rage as he envisioned the obese trickster thinking he could have Alex. Wave after wave of fury struck him. His anger was such that he thought he could easily kill. His first temptation, barely restrained, was to jump to his feet and strangle the jowled bastard with his bare hands. But he couldn’t do that. He had to find Alex first.

If Haman had touched her, Dan thought he would go berserk and at a minimum break the ridiculous hook nose that sat in the fat face. And then he would break each finger one by one.

He shook himself slightly, trying to rid his eyes of the blood-red fury that seemed to half blind him. He realized he had never felt quite so possessive before in his life. The assault had been done to him; Alex was his. And this morning, when he had agreed to protect her, he had decreed somewhere in his heart that only he would have her, love her, discover the seductive mysteries of those strange gold eyes, the silk feel of her golden hair, only he would know the embrace of her femininity, the sleek curve of her back, the enticing dimples, the feel of her full breasts in his hands, the tangle of her long, shapely limbs with his.