by Maggie Cox
There had been several interrogators but always the same two guards, neither of whom spoke. One was short and squat, and the other was tall and had a problem with body odour—after he had gone the room was filled with a sour smell for ages.
This man was tall too, very tall. She found herself tilting her head to frame all of him; beyond height there was no similarity whatsoever to her round-shouldered, sour-smelling jailors. He wasn’t wearing the drab utilitarian khaki of the guards or the showy uniform with gold epaulettes of the man who sat in on all the interrogations.
This man was clean-shaven and he was wearing snowy white ceremonial desert robes. The fabric carried a scent of fresh air and clean male into the enclosed space. Rather bizarrely he carried a swathe of blue silk over one arm. Her round-eyed, fearful stare shifted from the incongruous item to his face.
If it hadn’t been for the slight scar that stood out white on his golden skin, and the slight off-centre kink in his nose, he might have been classed as pretty. Instead he was simply beautiful... She stared at his wide, sensual mouth and looked away a moment before he said in a voice that had no discernible accent and even less warmth, ‘I need you to put this on, Miss Latimer.’
The soft, sinister demand made her guts clench in fear. Before she clamped her trembling lips together a whisper slipped through. ‘No!’
This man represented the nightmare she had kept at bay and up to this point her treatment had been civilised, if not gentle. She had deliberately not dwelt on her vulnerability; she hadn’t seen another woman since her arrest, and she was at the mercy of men who sometimes looked at her... The close-set eyes of the man who sat in on the interviews flashed into her head and a quiver of disgust slid through her body.
People in her situation simply vanished.
Staring at the blue fabric and the hand that held it as if it were a striking snake, she surged to her feet—too fast. The room began to swirl as she struggled to focus on the silk square, bright against the clinical white of the walls and tiled floor...blue, white, blue, white...
‘Breathe.’ Her legs folded as he pressed her down onto the bed and pushed her head towards her knees.
The habit of a lifetime kicked in and she took refuge behind an air of cool disdain.
‘I don’t need a change of clothing. I’m fine with this.’ She clutched the fabric of the baggy shift that reached mid-calf with both hands and aimed her gaze at the middle of his chest.
Two large hands came to rest on her shoulders, stopping the rhythmic swaying motion she had been unaware of, but not the spasms of fear that were rippling through her body.
Kamel was controlling his anger and resentment: he didn’t want to be here; he didn’t want to be doing this, and he didn’t want to feel any empathy for the person who was totally responsible for the situation, a spoilt English brat who had a well-documented history of bolting at the final hurdle.
Had she felt any sort of remorse for the wave of emotional destruction she’d left in her wake? Had her own emotions ever been involved? he wondered.
Still, she hadn’t got off scot-free. Some enterprising journalist had linked the car smash of her first victim with the aborted wedding.
Driven over the Edge, the headline had screamed, and the media had crucified Heartless Hannah. Perhaps if she had shown even a scrap of emotion they might have softened when it turned out that the guy had been over the drink-drive limit when he drove his car off a bridge, but she had looked down her aristocratic little nose and ignored the flashing cameras.
In London at the time, he had followed the story partly because he knew her father and partly because, like the man who had written off his car, Kamel knew what it felt like to lose the love you planned to spend your life with. Not that Amira had dumped him—if he hadn’t released her she would have married him rather than cause him pain. She had been everything this woman was not.
And yet it was hard not to look into that grubby flower-like face, perfect in every detail, and feel a flicker of something that came perilously close to pity. He sternly squashed it.
She deserved everything that was going to happen to her. If there was any victim in this it was him. Luckily he had no romantic illusions about marriage, or at least his. It was never going to be a love match—he’d loved and lost and disbelieved the popular idea that this was better than not to have loved at all. Still, it was a mistake he would not make in the future. Only an imbecile would want to lay himself open to that sort of pain again. A marriage of practicality suited him.
Though Kamel had imagined his bride would be someone whom he could respect.
Why couldn’t the brainless little bimbo have found meaning in her life by buying some shoes? Even facing financial collapse, Kamel was sure Daddy dear would have bought her the whole shop. Instead she decided to become an angel of mercy. While he could see the selfish delusion that had led her to do this, he couldn’t understand why any legitimate medical charity would have taken her on, even on a voluntary basis.
‘I asked you to put this on, not take anything off.’ Kamel let out a hissing sound of irritation as she sat there looking up at him like some sort of sacrificial virgin...though there was nothing even vaguely virginal about Miss Hannah Latimer, and that quality was about the only one he didn’t have a problem with in his future bride!
Digging deep into reserves she didn’t know she had, Hannah got to her feet.
‘If you touch me I will report you and when I get out of here—’ Don’t you mean if, Hannah? ‘—I’m going to be sick.’
‘No, you are not,’ Kamel said. ‘If you want to get out of here do as I say so put the damned thing on.’
Breathing hard, staring at him with wide eyes, she backed away, holding her hands out in a warning gesture. ‘If you touch me in an inappropriate way...’ You’ll what, Hannah? Scream? And then who will come running?
‘I promise you, angel, that sex is the last thing on my mind and if it was...’ His heavy-lidded eyes moved in a contemptuous sweep from her feet to her face before he added, ‘I’m not asking you to strip.’ He enunciated each scathing word slowly, the words very clear despite the fact he had not raised his voice above a low menacing purr since he’d come in. ‘I’m asking you to cover up.’
Hannah barely heard him. The nightmare images she had so far kept at bay were crowding in.
Kamel had had a varied life, but having a woman look at him as though he were all her nightmares come true was a first. Conquering a natural impulse to shake her rather than comfort her, he struggled to inject some soothing quality into his voice as he leaned in closer. ‘Your father says to tell you that...’ He stopped and closed his eyes. What was the name of the damned dog? His eyes opened again as it came to him. ‘Olive had five puppies.’
It had been a last thought: I need a detail, something that a stranger wouldn’t know. Something that will tell her I’m one of the good guys.
Hannah froze, her wild eyes returning to his face at the specific reference to the rescue dog she had adopted.
‘Yes, I’m the cavalry—’ he watched as she took a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes ‘—so just do as you’re told and cover up.’ His glance moved to the honey-blonde tresses that were tangled and limp. ‘And be grateful you’re having a bad-hair day.’
Hannah didn’t register his words past cavalry; her thoughts were whirling. ‘My father sent you?’
She gave a watery smile. Her father had come through! She exhaled and sent up a silent thank you to her absent parent.
She took the fabric and looked at it. What did he expect her to do with it? ‘Who are you?’
Possibilities buzzed like a restless bee through her head. An actor? Some sort of mercenary ? A corrupt official? Someone willing to do anything for money or the adrenalin buzz?
‘Your ticket out of here.’
Hannah tilted h
er head in acknowledgement. The important thing was he had successfully blagged or bribed his way in here and represented a shot at freedom.
Her jaw firmed. Suddenly she felt the optimism she had not allowed herself to feel during her incarceration. It had been an hour to hour—hard to believe there had only been forty-eight, but then, in a room illuminated twenty-four-seven by the harsh fluorescent light, it was hard to judge time.
‘Is Dad...?’
He responded to the quiver of hope in her voice with a stern, ‘Forget your father and focus. Do not allow yourself to become distracted.’
The tone enabled her to retain her grip on her unravelling control. He had the shoulders but he clearly had no intention of offering them up for tears, which was fine by her. If a girl didn’t learn after two failed engagements that the only person she could rely on was herself, she deserved everything she got!
‘Yes...of course.’
Her fingers shook as she took the shimmering blue fabric. It fell in a tangled skein on the floor, the fabric unravelling... Just like me, she thought.
She took a deep breath and released it, slowly able to lift her chin and meet his gaze with something approaching composure as she asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’
Kamel felt an unwilling stab of admiration.
‘I want you to keep your mouth closed, your head covered, and follow my lead.’
He bent forward and took the fold of fabric from her fingers. The fabric billowed out of his hands and she was suddenly swathed in the stuff, covering her head and most of the ugly shift.
He stood back to see the effect, then nodded and threw the remaining fabric over her shoulder. His hand stayed there, heavy, the contact more reassuring than his stern stare.
‘Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ she said, hoping it was true.
‘Right. You are going to leave here and you are going to do so with your head held high. Just channel all your...just be yourself.’
She blinked up into his dark eyes, noticing the little silver flecks, and struggled to swallow a giggle—she knew that once she gave in to hysteria that was it.
‘And they are just going to let us out?’ His confidence bordered the insane but maybe that was a good thing for someone in charge of a jail break.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know why they let you just walk in here but—’
‘They let me just walk in here because to refuse me access would have caused offence and they have a lot of ground to make up.’ They could arrest, interrogate and imprison a foreign national on charges that carried the death penalty, but not the bride-to-be of the heir to the Suranian throne.
Maybe if she had chosen another moment to stray across the border his uncle’s influence alone would have been enough to gain her freedom, but with impeccable timing Hannah Latimer had wandered into an armed border patrol at a time when the ruling family of Quagani was politically vulnerable. Accused by rival factions of being unable to protect the country’s interests against foreign exploitation, the royals had responded by instigating a draconian zero-tolerance policy: no second chances, no leniency, no special cases...almost.
His uncle had not ordered, he had not played the duty card—instead he had spoken of a debt he owed Charles Latimer and asked with uncharacteristic humility if Kamel would be willing to marry Hannah Latimer.
‘She is not ideal,’ the King admitted, ‘and not the person I would have wanted for you, but I’m sure with guidance... She was a lovely child, as I recall. Very like her mother, poor Emily.’ He sighed.
‘She grew up.’
‘It is your decision, Kamel.’
This was the first thing ever asked of him by his uncle—who was not just his King but also the man who had stepped in after his father’s death and treated him as his own son. Kamel’s response had never been in doubt.
Hannah heard the irony in her rescuer’s voice but didn’t have a clue what it meant. ‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’ Though he said it in a voice that had a tactile shiver-down-your-spine quality.
‘You will.’ Despite the smile that went with the words, she sensed an underlying threat that was echoed in the bleakness of his stare.
‘Look, no one is about to ask you anything, but if they do, don’t say anything. Burst into tears or something.’
That would not require much effort. The walking might, though—her knees felt like cotton wool.
‘Just pretend you’re running away from some sucker at the altar.’
Her shocked violet eyes widened to their fullest extent. The reputation she pretended not to care about had followed her to a jail halfway around the world. Ironically she had come here in the hope of rebuilding her reputation, or at least escaping the cameras.
‘I believe you’ve had some practice,’ he murmured before seamlessly raising his voice from the soft, for-her-ears-only undertone, to an authoritative command to the prison guards.
The words were unintelligible to her but the effect was magic. The guards she recognised stood either side of the open door, their heads bowed. Along the corridor there were uniformed figures standing to attention.
The man beside her spoke and the guards bowed lower. Hannah stared, astonished—it wasn’t just their reaction; it was the man himself. He seemed to have assumed a totally new persona, and it fitted him as well as the flowing robes. He was clearly immersing himself in his role; even his body language had changed. The arrogance was still there but it was combined with an air of haughty authority as he strode along, shortening his step so that she could keep pace.
What the hell was happening?
She had expected to be smuggled out of some back entrance, not to receive the red-carpet treatment.
Like a sleepwalker, Hannah allowed her tall escort to guide her down the corridor. Nobody looked directly at her or her companion as they walked past. The silence was so intense she could feel it.
Outside, the heat hit her—it was like walking into a shimmering wall, but the sun was infinitely preferable to the ten-foot-square, white-walled cell. It was the thought of being discovered and ending up back there and not the temperature that brought Hannah out in a cold sweat.
A leashed guard dog began to bark, straining at the lead as they walked on. Could dogs really smell fear? As his handler fought to control the animal the man beside her turned, clicked his fingers and looked at the dog, who immediately dropped down on his belly and whimpered.
Neat trick, Hannah thought, momentarily losing her balance as a jet flew low overhead. She had heard the sound before many times over the last days but it was a lot quieter in her cell.
‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled as the hand on her elbow slid to her waist. In that moment of contact she registered the fact that his body had no give—it was all hard muscle. For a moment she enjoyed an illusion of safety before she was released.
Hannah, who had been totally disorientated when she had arrived in darkness, realised for the first time that she had been incarcerated on a military base.
Almost as if some of his strength had seeped into her, she felt more confident, enabling her to adopt a fatalistic attitude when they were approached by a mean-looking man with shoulders the size of a hangar, dressed similarly to the man she struggled to keep pace with.
Hannah wanted to run, every survival instinct she had was screaming at her to do so, but the hand that reached down and took her own had other ideas. Her escort had stopped when he saw the other man and waited. Under her blue silk and grubby shift Hannah sucked in a shaky breath and began to sweat—but the hand that held her own was cool and dry.
‘This is Rafiq.’
So clearly friend, not foe. She managed a shaky half-smile when the big man acknowledged her presence with a respectful tip of his covered head. He responded with calm, one-word repl
ies to the questions her escort threw at him, even earning a tight smile that might have been approval.
Hannah, who hadn’t been able to follow a word, was unable to restrain herself. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘You mean are you about to escape justice?’
‘I’m innocent!’
Her protest drew a sardonic smile from her rescuer. She had the impression he wasn’t her greatest fan, but she didn’t mind so long as he got her out of here.
‘We are all guilty of something, angel. As the man said, there’s no such thing as a free meal, but, yes, your taxi awaits.’
Hannah spun to face the direction in which he had nodded and saw a jet with a crest on the side that seemed vaguely familiar.
Copyright © 2014 by Kim Lawrence
ISBN-13: 9781460333136
THE MAN SHE CAN’T FORGET
Copyright © 2014 by Maggie Cox
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