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protested.
“You must, please. His life is at stake.”
What had Simone gotten herself into? She hadn’t been able to get close enough to the sheikh’s party to look for her half uncle. Now she was supposed to take a message to the sheikh from a woman who was either ill or delusional, possibly both.
“You need a doctor,” she tried again, adding in desperation, “Why don’t I drive you back to your hotel?” Arriving in a cab, Simone had no car of her own to worry about.
The woman clenched her teeth, but not before Simone had seen them chattering. “I’m not crazy. Tell Markaz you met Natalie. Give him…oh, God, he’s coming.” She wrenched a ring off the third finger of her right hand and closed Simone’s fingers around it, then gave her a shove that almost knocked her off her feet. “He mustn’t see you with me. Go.”
Regaining her balance, Simone looked in the direction of Natalie’s wild-eyed gaze. The only other person nearby was a stocky, dark-haired man in a business suit and reflective sunglasses, weaving his way between the cars. He stopped and spoke to a woman seated in another car. Nothing in his actions seemed to justify Natalie’s panic.
Simone debated taking Natalie’s keys away from her, but was daunted by the strength she’d felt in that shove. If the woman was demented by the heat or illness, she might become even more violent. Simone reached a sudden decision. “I’m getting help whether you want it or not.” She didn’t wait for more arguments, as she set off across the parking lot in the direction of a first-aid center she’d passed earlier.
She was almost there when she heard a distant cry and swung around. The man in the business suit was standing over Natalie.
Simone froze. Was the man Natalie’s husband, taking care of her at last? But she’d sounded terrified when she’d said, “He’s coming.” Then the man pushed Natalie into the car and slammed the door.
Before Simone had the thought fully hatched, she was racing toward the car. The man looked up. Seeing her, he sprinted around the car and wrenched open the driver’s door and threw himself inside. Seconds later the engine roared into life.
The car was moving by the time she reached it. Futilely she hammered on the window as it slid past her. Natalie was slumped in the seat, but opened her eyes at the sound. Was it Simone’s imagination or did she mouth the word Markaz before the car picked up speed?
Jumping clear seconds before being run down, Simone could only watch as they sped off, her sense of despair growing. She should have done more to help. But what?
Becoming aware of metal biting into her palm, Simone unclenched her fist and looked at the ring the woman had pressed on her. The gold was incised with symbols, among them a beaver holding a piece of wood. On the shank was a design of two men and a lamp. Nothing that explained what Simone had just witnessed.
Unless the ring meant something to the sheikh.
Outside the main building, a flurry of activity told her he was emerging. The crowd was several people deep, but desperation enabled her to push her way to the front and grab the arm of the nearest guard. “You must help me. A woman’s been abducted in the parking lot.”
“Report this to Al-Qasr’s own security,” the guard responded in guttural English. “I cannot leave my post.”
“I don’t want you to leave your post.” You muscle-bound moron, she barely resisted adding. “You must tell the sheikh that Natalie needs help urgently. She sent him this.”
The guard looked at the ring as if it could bite. “Gifts should be sent to the palace.”
“It isn’t a gift, it’s a message. The sheikh knows the woman who sent it. She needs his help.”
The man’s determination wavered, but only for a second, before his jaw hardened and he gestured Simone back. “Take this to local security.”
A scattering of applause greeted the appearance of Sheikh Markaz, once again shadowed by his giant bodyguard. What would happen if she threw the ring to the sheikh and called out, “catch”? A vision of being tackled by the giant, her bones breaking under the impact, stopped her.
But she wasn’t defeated yet. She reached over the cordon and tugged at the guard’s sleeve. “You must give this to His Highness. A woman’s life is at stake.”
The guard roared a response in Arabic. “Persist and you will find yourself under arrest,” he said in English.
Having already considered the possibility, she felt chilled, but her determination notched higher. “The woman told me the sheikh’s life is in danger, as well.”
That got the guard’s attention, she saw, but his barked command also had his colleagues lifting their weapons. The ring glinted in the sunlight as she raised her hands instinctively. “I’m not the threat, but Natalie knows who is. You must find her.”
The ruckus she was causing was getting her noticed, she saw, feeling color surge into her face. Suddenly a sensation as if she was caught in the beam of a powerful light dragged her gaze past the guard and she found herself looking into the eyes of Sheikh Markaz himself.
His face appeared to be carved from the same living stone as the monuments around them. His eyes were as dark as the rest of his features, she noticed immediately. Not so much black as the green of a deep ocean cavern. The cavern impression was echoed in the hollows and hard planes of his cheeks, and a faintly cleft jaw that looked like stubbornness personified.
A flare of blatantly masculine interest suddenly lit his gaze, catching her unawares. She hadn’t reached her present age without attracting her share of male notice, and she was definitely attracting it now, she realized in amazement. Worse, it wasn’t one-sided. Her pulse was double-timing and all he’d done was look her way.
The extraordinary sensation of communion between them was over in an instant, then the sheikh’s attention was claimed by the giant. But she was left feeling thunderstruck. What on earth had just happened?
What had happened was he was moving on flanked by his goons, and she was still clutching the ring, she thought, cursing herself for her lapse. He was the richest and most powerful man in the country. That high-voltage look was probably part of his normal arsenal, hardly personal.
The royal party was heading for the luncheon laid on after the inspection, she noted. Access would be strictly controlled, but there must be some way she could get the ring to him, even if she had to slip it onto a tray of drinks being carried into the marquee.
Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she froze. A man in a business suit was making a beeline for her through the crowd.
As Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari came down the steps of Al-Qasr’s main monument, he lifted his hand in the not-quite wave that acknowledged the crowd’s good wishes, but conserved his energy. The cheers gratified him. Not everyone in Nazaar felt kindly toward his government. The rebels were in a minority, but a troublesome one. And sometimes dangerous. Already today, he’d been informed of a bomb threat that had closed Raisa International Airport.
A commotion in the crowd had him bracing himself. Was the airport incident a diversion for an attempt on his life here? But his bodyguard Fayed remained relaxed as he leaned closer. “It seems you’ve caught the eye of a pretty tourist, Markaz,” he murmured for the sheikh’s ears alone.
Markaz felt his mouth curve. He and Fayed had grown up together, as close as brothers, and Markaz trusted the big man with his life. He sought out the source of the fuss, then felt something inside him catch. “I could do worse.”
“Indeed you could, my friend. She’s beautiful.”
Beautiful was too mundane a description, Markaz thought. Engaged in an altercation with a guard, the woman’s eyes flashed blue-green like the oasis at the sheikh’s desert lodge. Under a tinted sun visor, her short golden hair feathered around her animated face, her strong features and golden coloring also speaking of the desert. Who