Heather Graham (5 page)

He rolled over on the bed, suddenly awake and alert. First he called Raj. “Can you get a few days off from the hotel?”

“For you, Mr. D’Alesio? Certainly. My father will be most happy to replace me in order to accommodate you!”

“Wonderful,” Dan said shortly. “What I want you to do is this: First, get me a private plane out of here tonight. Second, call that guide agency and cancel Dr. Randall’s request. I want you to appear tomorrow morning at her hotel as her guide.”

Raj started chuckling. “I will be the best guide in the world, Mr. D’Alesio! But won’t we wind up in trouble?”

“Trust me, Raj; I’ll handle anything that comes up. All you have to do is go along with the lady. …”

He detailed his plan for Raj and hung up the phone to start packing the few things he would need for the trip. Raj called him back to tell him his plane would be leaving in an hour.

Dan had one more phone call to make.

Jesse Coffee, Dan’s makeup man, thought his request a bit strange, but when Dan was on a streak, it was best not to question him. Dan was a great employer, confident in himself, confident in those who worked for him. He never questioned his employees’ abilities once he had hired them, but he was also a private man, working his ideas out in his own mind before bringing the others in and asking their opinions. D’Alesio was charismatic, adventurous, fascinating. Life with him was never dull.

Jesse Coffee enjoyed his job too much ever to rock any boats. He agreed to have everything Dan wanted in fifteen minutes. When Dan was ready, he would let the film crew in on whatever story he was off chasing now.

Dan knew this was one adventure the film crew would never be in on.

He was out of his hotel room in another five minutes. His taxi stopped at the Cairo Hilton, where Coffee gave Dan the paraphernalia.

And then, with plenty of time to spare, Dan headed for the airfield and the small private plane he had hired.

A
S THE SMALL PLANE
soared over eastern Egypt, the Red Sea and Saudi Arabia toward the United Arab Emirates, Alex reviewed the time spent—or wasted—that had brought her to this rattling flight across endless deserts. She had tried not to panic when Jim hadn’t been at the airport when she had arrived two weeks ago. She had taken a taxi straight to the Hilton and had inquired studiously at the desk. But Jim had not checked out of his room when he had left for the UAE, and none of the desk clerks could remember exactly when they had seen him last.

She had tried to reach D’Alesio. And tried, and tried and tried, inquiring at the Cairo museum and the antique shops and anywhere else she could think of while she awaited a response that never came. When she heard that D’Alesio had traveled on down the Nile, she had followed, but when she reached Luxor, he was touring the Valley of the Kings, and when she reached the Valley of the Kings, he had gone back to Luxor. He had managed to elude her all the way up and down the Nile, the son of a—

Calm down, she warned herself. You are now taking positive action.

Alex held her father’s letter, her long fingers uncreasing the worn folds that were becoming fragile. Her eyes became like uniquely colored crystals as the turmoil of her mind shone through them in the privacy of her seat. She read Jim’s words again. “… If anything should go wrong, get hold of Sheikh Sheriff … A few things are making me a little nervous. …”

A few things are making me a little nervous, she thought.

What had Jim known when he wrote the letter? She had to believe that he knew something, that he was missing because he was in hiding.

He isn’t—dead, he isn’t dead, he isn’t dead. She hadn’t even realized she recognized that possibility until she started repeating the rebuttal in her mind. But he wasn’t dead! He couldn’t be!

Tears began to form in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. Get mad, she told herself. If you get mad, you won’t cry.

It would be easy to get mad, she told herself. All she had to do was think of that man D’Alesio again.

D’Alesio. How had her father ever gotten involved with such a man? Jim had never craved publicity. He loved discovery for discovery’s sake; his thirst for knowledge was unshakable. He had never before consented to an interview, much less the filming of an expedition!

Maybe Jim hadn’t realized just what an insolent, arrogant, insufferable bastard D’Alesio was. Alex had seen a number of the man’s documentaries over the years, as had most people. D’Alesio owned his own production company and chose his own work. But whether he filmed in the Middle East or the Antarctic, about historical treasures or contemporary hot spots, he could sell his films to any major network. Because he was good. He had the ability to get to the crux of a matter and present it in a smooth, objective, comprehensible light. And on television, Alex thought bitterly, he appeared civil, intelligent and reasonable.

The anger she needed to take away her anxiety suddenly ripped through her like a bolt of lightning. She could almost feel her blood begin to boil, and she wondered if she had turned a steamy red from head to toe.

“Insufferable bastard!” and a few other even less complimentary descriptions filtered in a flash fire through her mind when she remembered how he had thrown her out of his room bodily without even listening to her. She was red, she knew it; she could feel the color fill her face. She squirmed slightly, remembering his nude form, rising like Atlas from the water, the water running over his firm and agile muscles.

She hadn’t realized that he was so tall. Or dangerous-looking. In the bathtub he had looked a bit like a cave man with his shadowed cheeks, dripping black hair and menacingly masculine form.

The man was a menace—to society. Totally deceptive. He had the manners of a barbarian, a chauvinistic monster. He was the type of man who thought he was a law unto himself simply because he had biceps the size of bowling balls and a sinewed physique that allowed him to brutalize those weaker than himself.

Well, Mr. Dan D’Alesio, she thought with bitter vengeance, you are not dealing with a simpering rose! And you are not a law unto yourself. By the time this is over, you are going to learn a few lessons in common courtesy.

She closed her eyes tightly as she bit down on her lip, annoyed with herself again. Now she couldn’t shake the image of the man’s lean physique. Whether she despised him or not, she had to admit that he was in very good shape. She doubted that there was a single spot on him from which a half-inch of flesh could be pulled. He was ruggedly, rakishly toned, from his broad shoulders and his chest, with its thick spattering of coarse dark curls, to his handsomely narrow waistline, to …

Oh, Alex, how long did you stare at him to picture him so clearly? To his well-corded thighs, she finished firmly. She was, she told herself, proving herself objective by giving the man his due, as an applaudable physical specimen.

And she could still feel the touch of heat and vitality and concrete that had held her so powerfully as he manhandled her, she reminded herself firmly.

Oh, Dad, how
did
you get involved with him?

She reflected suddenly that part of what had happened had been her father’s fault. If he had been planning on her joining him, why hadn’t D’Alesio recognized her name on the first note? Obviously her father had never mentioned her.

No, she couldn’t blame her father, not when she was so terribly worried about him. If she wanted to blame someone, she could blame herself. Why hadn’t she merely used her father’s name? Because it isn’t my name anymore. And because I like to use my own name when I work so that people won’t think I want to cash in on my father’s reputation. And she had tried to explain to D’Alesio who she was in her second note after his first refusal to see her. He had obviously ripped up the note, since he had accused her of bedroom antics with her own father.

It shouldn’t have mattered what my name was! Any civil human being should at least have given me the courtesy of listening, she argued silently. But she couldn’t help the intrusion of the facts filtering through her arguments.

She
had
wandered into his bathroom only to make sure he was there. She had been desperate, but she reluctantly realized that she shouldn’t have allowed him to make her temper flare.

Alex temporarily forgot the dilemmas plaguing her as the plane shuddered and convulsed like a shaking tin can as it dipped low to make its final descent to the small airfield at Abu Zaby, the island town in the Persian Gulf that was one of the few major towns in the emirate of Abu Dhabi.

The gulf itself appeared like a panel of aqua velvet, studded with a million tiny diamonds. And as the plane came closer and closer to sea level, she could begin to make out all manner of ships and boats, from tiny fishing vessels to massive oil tankers. Fishing, Alex knew, was one of the mainstays of the coastal people. Oil was the mainstay of the country.

The per capita income of the United Arab Emirates was staggering—hundreds of millions of dollars per merely a couple of hundred thousand people. But it was a land still grappling with its sudden catapulting into wealth, and backward in comparison with the Western world. The riches were held by the powerful emirs and sheikhs, and though they cared for their tribal domains like loving parents, the wealth was still theirs.

Biting her lip, Alex begin to wish she knew a little more about the country. Or a little more of the language. But in school she had spent so much time studying the ancient language and hieroglyphics that she had had little time for Arabic—and besides, she had learned early that the natives who made their living by working for the Egyptologists and archaeologists spoke English quite competently. She had never thought she would be chasing down an Arabian sheikh in the desert of a little-known and tiny oil power.

The plane came to an abrasive landing. Cheer up, Alex tried to tell herself. Perhaps the wealthy sheikh will be in the city.

She turned to the young Egyptian she had hired to guide her into the masculine realm of the emirs and sheikhs. If nothing else, Raj at least was proving to be a blessing. He was younger—much younger than she had expected from the reputable agency. But what he lacked in age he made up for in charm. She had told him only that she needed to reach an Arabian sheikh; he had assured her he was a Bedouin by ancestry himself, and a devout Muslim. If anyone could guide her through the male-dominated society of Muslims, it was he. “Well, Raj,” she said softly, “we’re here.”

Raj gave the woman a wide smile. His teeth were beautiful and perfect against his bronze complexion. “Yes, miss, we’re here.”

Alex sighed as she gathered her bag, a simple and large goatskin satchel, in her arms. “Raj,” she said with soft determination. “I appreciate your respectful manners, but I am not a miss. If you must address me formally, I’m a doctor. A Ph.D. I spent eight years of my life studying to achieve that title!”

She smiled softly as she finished the little speech, and young Rajman felt his heart take on a little flutter. She was surely one of the most beautiful creatures Allah had ever deigned to put on earth. But there was something more about her, something that had swept away his heart since he had first appeared at her hotel room door that morning.

Her determination was like steel, and yet she was not a hard woman. There was a gentleness about her that was a cloak over the steel, tempering it, guiding it. She was firm yet quiet, and her voice was soft thunder. Her smile was like the dazzling stars in a desert night sky.

And she certainly was bright, Raj added to himself dryly. He remembered her expensively tailored suit of the previous day; but now, to wander into a world more alien to Westerners than even Cairo, she was clad in the simple robes of the Arab fellahins, or peasants. She wore a veil respectably drawn over the lower portion of her face. Her hair, a color too soft to be that of the sun, too golden to be the color of the moon, was discreetly covered with a hooded shawl.

Raj realized suddenly that he was staring at her as stupidly as a lovesick goat. He snapped himself out of his paralysis, reminding himself that he was on a mission—a very important mission—for the man he adulated almost as much as Allah.

“Yes, indeed, we are here!” he said quickly, the tassel of his fez bouncing about his face. “First we must inquire about the sheikh through the authorities. It is possible we may find him in his city palace.”

With a premonition of impending difficulty, Alex doubted that as she and Raj threaded their way through the tiny—but growing—bustling airport to a small center cubicle that offered information in English. Alex breathed a thankful sigh for American oil interests as she questioned a handsome young man about getting around and finding Ali Sur Sheriff.

“A bus will take you over the highway bridge to the mainland,” the Arab man in a neat European suit told her. “Sheikh Sheriff has a palace in town, but I do not believe he is in residence now. His tribe is largely Bedouin, and the sheikh spends a great deal of time with his people.” The man hesitated a moment, then added softly, “He seldom consents to meet with outsiders.”

I already know that, Alex thought silently, but I must see him. She realized suddenly that the man was staring curiously at both her and Raj. She had dressed out of respect for Arab custom and to blend with the mainstream of Arab life as much as possible, but she realized that she must appear strange. She was so very fair.

As they left the information clerk behind, Raj lowered his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “You’d best let me do the speaking from now on. They are not accustomed to meeting many American women. It is seldom that even the oil workers bring their wives here, and when they do, they remain within their own communities.”

Alex nodded mutely. She was paying him a small fortune to join her on this odyssey, but it was precisely for the reasons he had just mentioned. As long as they both knew she was the boss.

Outside the tiny terminal a bus did indeed arrive. She and Raj were forced to split up to find seats. She found herself situated between an old veiled woman with a chicken on her lap and a youth of about ten, who smelled worse than the chickens. Gritting her teeth, she sank against the seat.