for

       Jennifer Nauss,

       heartbreaker

      ALEXANDRA SELLERS

      is the author of over twenty-five novels and a feline language text published in 1997 and still selling.

      Born and raised in Canada, Alexandra first came to London as a drama student. Now she lives near Hampstead Heath with her husband, Nick. They share housekeeping with Monsieur, who jumped through the window one day and announced, as cats do, that he was moving in.

      What she would miss most on a desert island is shared laughter.

      Readers can write to Alexandra at P.O. Box 9449, London NW3 2WH, England.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      A heavy, humming silence hung over the ancient brick and modern steel of the bank’s safety deposit vault. Three men stood together watching as the manager himself inserted the key that allowed the slender chromium door to open. They exchanged brief glances but no word.

      They were young, all around thirty, the manager supposed. There was something about them that he could not place, a sense of themselves, an authority, that was unusual in the young. They reminded him of someone, but he could not say who. Perhaps it was the curiously elusive resemblance they had to one another, some expression in the eyes that made him think their relationship might be one of blood. One had called the dead man, whose safety deposit box he was now opening for them, their cousin.

      His fingers hooked into the little handle, and the bank manager drew out the long, shining drawer. “It has not been touched for five years, of course,” he said, feeling somehow that this was his moment. Perhaps it was because they were watching him with such fixed attention.

      It was by no means an unusual occurrence in the aftermath of the long and devastating Kaljuk War. Other families had lost track of the safety deposit boxes of their dead loved ones, or had never known of them, until notified by the bank of an arrears on the rental. And sometimes when the bank sent out letters there was no reply at all….

      No one answered him, and he slid his left arm under the box as it came free of its sheath. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and turned to lead them out of the vault, leaving a clerk to close and turn the locks of the vault door.

      He led them down the narrow passage, on a sudden impulse bypassing the doorways leading to the closets where more ordinary clients of the bank examined their safety deposit boxes, instead going up the staircase to the main floor of the bustling institution.

      He headed for a door labelled Meeting Room, and with a nod instructed the young clerk to open it. “You will not be disturbed here,” he told them with a certain gravity, leading the way inside.

      He placed the box on the polished wood table, then straightened and glanced at the men. Still no one had spoken. Although on the surface the three were completely calm, there was a tension in the air that was of a different order from the usual simple, excited hope that some family treasure would be found to have been saved from the devastation. He wondered what might be in the box.

      The bank manager nodded as if to himself. “You will not be disturbed,” he said again.

      “Thank you,” said one of the men, holding the door with polite implacability. Reluctantly, unconsciously wishing to be part of the drama he felt hovering, the bank manager bowed again and left.

      Najib al Makhtoum closed the door, shutting him out, then turned to his companions. The three men stood for a moment looking at each other in silence. Strong sunlight slanted through narrow windows high along one wall, casting sharp shadows, and making visible a family resemblance between the three men that was not always so obvious. They all shared some ancestor’s broad forehead, strong cheekbones, and full mouth, but each had put his own individual stamp on his genes.

      “Well, let’s hope this is it,” Ashraf said, and as if this were a signal they all three moved to pull out chairs around the table where the box lay, and settled themselves.

      A hand reached