The Lost Prince. Cindy Dees
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several candid seconds. Their faces would be in kissing range were it not for the black silk covering her mouth and nose. She meant him no harm. Wanted to help him. He saw it in her eyes. The weird electricity surged anew between them.
Was it possible? Was there a chance that help might reach him from the outside? If someone like this were to be sympathetic to him, maybe pass a message to a few supporters of his in the city—
It could work.
Maybe his death wasn’t so inevitable after all!
But first he would have to convince her to help him.
Alarmed at her totally inappropriate reaction to this anonymous Baraqi man, Katy slipped out of the loose circle of his arms to reach into her medical bag, relieved to be out of such proximity to the strangely attractive prisoner.
She fumbled for her clipboard and placed it squarely between them, lest he get any frisky ideas in the meantime.
“What’s your full name?” she asked in as businesslike a fashion as she could muster.
He didn’t answer right away. She looked up, her pen poised over the right box on Larry’s spreadsheet.
He was frowning at her. Intently.
She commented lightly, “It’s not that hard a question. I just need to write your name down for our records. It’s required by the Geneva Convention for you to give your captors your name anyway.”
Still no answer.
“Are you having trouble remembering your name?”
He sighed. “I’m trying to decide whether or not I should trust you.”
She slid her pen into the top of the clipboard and set the whole thing down. She said pleasantly, “Well, I’ve been sent here to help you. If not me, who are you going to trust?”
Another heavy sigh. “Therein lies my dilemma. You’re all I’ve got.”
Maybe it was the constant browbeating she took over her unfortunate family connections that made his comment rub her the wrong way. But she said a little less pleasantly, “I am a fully trained humanitarian relief worker and I’m generally considered to be a reasonably intelligent human being who doesn’t lie, keeps her word and is classed as trustworthy.”
And, unaccountably, he smiled. “Aah, there it is. A spine. Perhaps you are the person I need after all.”
Huh?
“Answer me this,” he continued. “Who’s going to see that spreadsheet of yours?”
“My team will. General Sharaf’s people will. And I expect we’ll forward the list to the Red Cross.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vinyl-covered passport. “Then, in that case, my name is Akbar—” a pause while he read the document “—Mulwami.”
She frowned. And didn’t bother to write it down. That so wasn’t his name.
He glanced up at her. “Do you need me to spell that?”
She snorted. “No. I need you to quit BSing me.”
He laughed, back to his utterly charming self. “Aah, you and I are going to get along famously. I promise you that is my name as the Baraqi Army knows it to be.”
“And what does your mother know it to be?” she retorted.
He leaned back against the rock wall behind him. “I’ll answer that question if you wish. But first you must promise me something.”
Man, his dimples were lethal. “What’s that?”
“You must solemnly swear not to do or say anything that will get me killed.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Killed? Of course not. I’m here to save lives.”
His voice vibrated with intensity. “Do you swear?”
Katy replied without hesitating, “Of course I do. It’s my job to protect your life to the best of my ability.”
He nodded slowly and murmured so quietly she had to lean close to hear him. “My friends call me Nick. But my mother calls me Nikolas.” A long pause. “Ramsey.”
Chapter 3
In a ravaged corner of Akuba, in a windowless room lit only by the flickering light of a pair of lanterns, a group convened in secret; a dozen dark-robed women, their faces hidden according to the edicts issued by General Sharaf—leader of the coup—only hours ago. Any woman who did not follow the strict religious dress code he’d declared would be whipped.
In a whisper the self-appointed leader of the group asked, “Has anyone received word whether the king is alive or dead?”
A shrug from a castle insider. “Nobody knows. He was seen sitting on his throne moments before the Army burst into the great hall. But that is the last report anyone has of him.”
“Fool,” the leader bit out. “Nonetheless, he must be found. Sharaf must not be allowed to kill him. All our hopes rest with a Ramsey staying in power. Sharaf will strip away every right women have ever had under the Ramseys.”
One of the others spoke hesitantly. “I heard General Nagheb phone someone he called InterAid this morning. He asked them to come monitor prisoners in Baraq. If Sharaf allows them in, perhaps we can make contact with them. Get them to assist us in searching for Nikolas Ramsey.”
The leader shrugged. “Perhaps. We can try. But most of those groups choose to remain neutral. In the meantime, we must look to our own resources to find the king and extract him from the clutches of the Army. All of us must make this our one and only goal for now. Understood?”
Nods all around.
“Very well, then. Go and be safe. And remember—we must find the king before Sharaf does. Our futures and our daughters’ futures depend on it.”
The twelve women rose silently to their feet and slipped one by one out into the frightened, waiting city.
“Nikolas Ramsey?” Katy exclaimed.
“Good Lord, woman, keep your voice down! You just swore not to get me killed!”
“Nikolas Ramsey?” she repeated in a shocked whisper.
He shrugged. “In the flesh.”
“What in the world are you doing here?” Although, as soon as she asked the question, the answer was obvious. He was hiding from Sharaf. But in prison? “Why here?”
“There was nowhere else to go. We were surrounded and the palace was overrun. It was this or die. Although, I think death is probably inevitable for me, don’t you?”
He asked that last bit conversationally. As if they were talking about the weather. “Death is inevitable for all of us,” Katy retorted wryly. “The question is when.”
“Sooner rather than later for me, I should think,” he said dryly. “As soon as my face heals enough for me to be recognized.”
She examined it critically. “You’re pretty messed up. Honestly you look like Quasimodo.”
He looked pained for a moment, then said lightly, “Thank God for small favors.”
“That won’t protect you forever,” she said quietly.
He met her gaze briefly and then his slid away. “No, it won’t.”
She got the impression he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Sympathy washed over her. What a rotten way to spend your final days—waiting and watching the clock tick until your body betrays you and your captors recognize and kill you.
She said, “If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”
He