Her Desert Prince. Rebecca Winters
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recovering, the garden’s beauty will lift the sadness over your grandmother’s passing from your heart.”
Deeply touched by his words, she whispered her thanks. Bereft after he’d gone, Lauren couldn’t move any further than the nearest couch because a new weakness had attacked her, brought on by his nearness and the potent male reality of him.
She sank down and rested against one of the satin cushions. Her thoughts darted back to her grandmother who’d been a world traveler from an early age. Celia had come to Al-Shafeeq because it had been reported by a family friend highly placed in the government that this desert oasis blossomed like a rose. It had sounded so romantic to her, she’d deemed it a place she had to see.
While wandering through its palatial gardens, her waist-length blond hair had happened to catch the eye of King Malik. What had happened after that had been like a tale from the Arabian Nights tale and Celia had become enslaved by a love so powerful that Lauren’s mother, Lana, had been the ultimate result.
Lauren thought about the flowers on the patio, but she was too tired to walk out there yet. Inwardly she had the presentiment that if she went out to look at them, history might repeat itself. Lauren could well imagine being so enamored of Rafi, she would never want to leave Al-Shafeeq.
His powerful image swam before her eyes until they closed and she knew no more.
Rashad stood outside the suite and rang Dr. Tamam to give him the latest update. “Our patient was well enough to shower and eat a solid meal today.”
“That’s good. What did you find out about the medallion?”
He pursed his lips. “Nothing yet.”
“Ah?” The surprise in the older man’s voice was as unmistakable as it was understandable. “Then you must have felt she still wasn’t recovered enough to withstand an interrogation.”
The doctor was reading Rashad’s mind. Lauren had paled a little before he’d left her suite. That part was genuine. In fact everything she’d said, every reaction, had seemed genuine to him, especially her relief that Mustafa hadn’t died.
He could still feel the imprint of her lovely body molded to his while word of the near-tragedy had sunk in. She’d shed convincing tears of relief.
As for her pain over her deceased grandmother, there were degrees. Upon wakening, her first thought had been for the medallion she’d lost. Rashad had noticed she’d been careful not to give him a full description of the gold circle.
His instincts were never wrong. She was holding a secret.
The first thing Rashad needed to do was to ascertain if the medallion was real or a fake. Quite apart from her role in all of this, he wanted the answer for himself. Of the eight male members of the family alive today, including himself, none had reported their medallions lost or stolen. It had to be a fake—some kind of joke, perhaps—but he wouldn’t be able to get to the bottom of it until he’d talked to their gold expert.
In the next breath he phoned his mechanic. After being assured his helicopter had been serviced and was ready for flight, he slipped along a passage and across a private courtyard to the place where it was waiting.
Accompanied by his bodyguard, he flew to Raz. Once they’d set down, he hurried into the plant to consult the goldsmith who’d fashioned Rashad’s ring. The old man was getting on in years.
“Come in, Rashad. Your face looks like thunder. Yesterday everyone was rejoicing!”
Grimacing, he sat down at the work table across from him. “That was yesterday.” He pulled the medallion and chain out of his pocket and placed it in front of him.
Hasan stared at him in puzzlement. “Whose medallion is this?”
“That’s what I need to know.”
“You mean someone in the royal family has lost theirs?”
“Maybe. I found it … accidentally. Could it be a fake?”
“Why don’t you go do something else for a little while, then come back and I’ll have answers for you.”
Rashad spent the next hour discussing plans with the engineers drafting designs for the new processing plant. Being an engineer himself, he gave his input before returning to Hasan’s lab. The goldsmith gave him a speculative look.
“The medallion is twenty-four-carat gold, but the minting technique with respect to the dyes and style indicates it was made somewhere between 1890 and 1930, give or take fifteen years. I couldn’t duplicate what was produced back then.” He shook his head. “I have to believe this is not a fake, nor is the chain.”
“So,” Rashad murmured, “unless someone lost their medallion during that time period, the only other explanation I can come up with is that the family goldsmith at the time could have made an extra one in case of loss.”
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