Getting up, she began to walk slowly, gravestone to gravestone, the sense of past heavy, the weight of mortality sobering, the rain suddenly irrelevant. Tariq watched her in silence. He was giving her some distance. She wondered if he was thinking of Julie, buried in the States.
She dropped to her haunches again, moved a creeper back off another headstone.
“Also a Dupres,” she said. “This one died earlier, in the 1700s.”
“There’s a whole family of Dupres buried here.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, suddenly, “How long are you planning to take researching and writing this novel?”
“I don’t know.” She stood, dusting off her jeans. “As long as it takes, I guess. I have no rush to get back home—there’s nothing there for me right now.”
“What about family?” He glanced at the Dupres family headstone as he spoke. “Do you not have family back home?”
Bella hesitated, taken by surprise.
“I…I have family.”
“You wanted to get away from them, too?”
She gave a wry smile. “I suppose I deserve that.” She paused. “I don’t see them as often as I should.”
“Why not?”
She thought of her adoptive family—Italian-American mother and father, her brothers. They all lived in Chicago. They all met for big dinners, special occasions, birthdays, christenings, funerals. She was the one who’d left home, tried to make it somewhere else, who found excuses not to return home.
“They’re scattered around the place,” she lied.
“Your parents are no longer together?”
“No, they are—my mom and dad have been married almost fifty years.”
“Half a century,” he said, black eye regarding her intently.
Caution whispered through Bella.
Don’t give too much away—not yet.
“They still love each other. Very much.”
“So it’s your siblings who are scattered around the place?”
His questions, his sudden personal curiosity, was making her edgy. Did he want to know because he was interested in her, or because he still wasn’t certain he could trust her? Or a bit of both? Bella’s thoughts went to the phone call he’d taken in his study, the look on his face when he’d exited his office and discovered her in the library. His men leaving after they’d dropped her off this morning. He had to be checking into her background, and the clock was ticking.
In more ways than one.
She inhaled, calculating her best course of action, fighting an overriding desire to tell him about her family in Chicago, her background. It was a strange thing, this need to share.
He took a step forward. Swaths of mist blew thicker, like gauze curtains subtly darkening the sky.
“I understand from my men that your great-grandmother’s family came from this region. Is that where the name Amelie comes from? Chenard?”
Her heart beat faster. That’s what she’d told Madame—it must have gotten around the village, along with the story that she was a novelist.
“No,” she said.
His brow arched.
She swallowed, glancing at the gravestone near her feet, avoiding his scrutiny. “It’s not technically true that my grandmother comes from here. The truth is, I have no idea if there’s even French blood in my veins. I’m adopted, Tahar. I have zero idea who my real parents are, or if they’re even alive.”
She looked up at him, direct.
“I was two days old when I was abandoned in a bassinet in a private alcove as part of an inner-city hospital’s Angel’s Cradle program. It’s designed as a way for young mothers, teens, to anonymously dump their newborns instead of leaving them to die somewhere. The cops are on board with the program—no questions are asked. For some reason, maybe because of some medical problems, no one wanted to adopt me, and for two years I remained in the foster system. My parents took me in when I was almost three. I think they felt sorry for me.” She hesitated, hating the bitterness that had crept into her voice. She thought she was over this. But she wasn’t. She’d never be. It had left a quiet hole in her psyche, a question she might never answer—who was she, where did she come from, how did she fit in?
Her need to find answers had stirred an interest in journalism. It had shaped her career. It was who she was—Bella DiCaprio, forged by an incipient longing to expose the truth. Never fully able to commit to relationships out of some buried fear she’d be abandoned again. So she destroyed those relationships first, before they could hurt her. That, she realized suddenly, was why Derek’s betrayal had hit so hard. She’d finally decided to try. And she’d been abandoned anyway. By both him and the newspaper.
“My parents did love me,” she said quietly. “They still do. But I’ve always been the outsider. Even in my own home.”
“Why?”
She gave a shrug. “They already had five biological sons when they took me in. I was the only adopted one, the only girl.” Guilt stabbed more sharply. They’d tried so hard to make her feel part of their family. Minnie, her adoptive mother, had named her Bella. “Because you are beautiful,” she’d said.
Bella felt anything but beautiful.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “Family—those blood ties—it’s important. It’s everything.”
“Yet you’ve cut your own family out from your life,” she said. “Or have you?”
Something flickered through his features. The misty rain was coming down a little heavier now, and it was beginning to dampen their clothes, wind gusting harder as the dead leaves finally tore loose from the bare branches. A foghorn sounded out at sea.
“My family remains key in my life.” He inhaled deeply, as if considering something. Then he said, “You reminded me of that, Amelie—what you said in the library, and by the pool. I hated to hear the truth in your words. But you were right. I need to change this.”
She felt awkward. She’d told him the veiled truth about her family. And she knew that he was now telling her the general truth about his. The barriers between them were thinning. Her mind went back to that family photo in her pocket, the blind king, his wife…perspiration suddenly broke out over her body.
She knew where she’d seen the queen’s face before!
She had to get back to her room, her computer, to check, to be sure. She had to contact Hurley right away. This was not possible…was it? And if so, what on earth did it mean?
Adrenaline thrummed through her.
She stared at him, incredulous, and her pulse raced even faster. “I…I need to get going,” she said abruptly. “I promised Madame I’d have Kiki back by, ah—” she checked her watch “—two o’clock. I don’t want to be late.”
Tariq frowned. “Amelie—”
But already she’d begun to move quickly over the grass, making for the walkway.
“Amelie!” he commanded. “Stop—wait.”
She reached the walkway and his bodyguards surged from the shadows, barring her progress. Amelie spun round to face him.
He caught up to her, took her arm.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I…I just lost track of the time.”
It wasn’t nothing. She looked spooked, pale. Her pulse was racing under his fingertips.
Had he pushed her too hard on family? Was what she told him even the truth? He believed it was—he’d seen such an open honesty in her face, a rawness in her eyes. It either had to be the truth, or she was a consummate—and very dangerous—liar.
“Fine,” he said quietly, firmly. “I will show you the way to the kitchen where you can collect Kiki, then my men will take you home.” He shot a quick glance at one of his bodyguards as he spoke. The man nodded, stepped out of earshot and called his other men on the radio.
Then he gave Tariq a subtle thumbs-up, which meant the men had returned with the limo, and were clear of Amelie’s quarters where he’d sent them to look into her computer, and for anything else that might send up red flags.
*
&
nbsp; There was a moment of panic when the chef realized Kiki was missing from the kitchen, but they found her near the garage and workshops that were once used as stables.
Tariq saw Bella to the limousine, Kiki tucked tightly into her arms. Almost losing the dog seemed to have added to her sudden nervousness. She climbed into the vehicle, distracted. He motioned for his driver to wind down her window.
Tariq leaned into the car, close. She opened her lips in surprise.
“Come for dinner tomorrow night,” he said quietly.
Disquiet filled her purple eyes.
“Please,” he said, even more quietly.
She moistened those lips. “On one condition,” she said softly, her attention back, wholly, on him.
“And what is that condition?”
“You let me cook.”
Surprise rippled through Tariq, and he felt a slow smile curve along his lips. Her attention went to his mouth, and heat pooled low in his gut.
“You like to cook?” he said.
“I saw your kitchen. Anyone would like to cook in a kitchen like that.”
He studied her, as if from a fresh perspective. “You continue to surprise me, Amelie.”
“I hope not, too much.” Her cheeks warmed under his scrutiny and she swallowed.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“My mother. I spent my childhood among the steaming pots in the kitchen. It was always the heart of our home, but there was never a recipe in sight. She taught me to use the senses—taste, smell. The herbs have to feel just right in your fingers.”
“All right,” he said, still watching her closely. “But I have a condition of my own.”
“No dog?”
He laughed. “No, I don’t mind the dog at all—I told you, I like animals. My condition is that you tell my driver what ingredients you need before he drops you off. He’ll pass the list on to my chef. Whatever you require will be waiting when you arrive tomorrow.”
She opened her mouth, but he stepped back, making a quick sign for the driver to close the window. The glass hummed quietly up and the limo began to draw away.
Bella turned in her seat to watch him as they exited the grim iron gates. He stood at the abbey entrance, like the sheik he was, proud, tall, dark, the spires reaching into the gray mist above him. Somehow, thought Bella, at that moment, Tariq Al Arif looked just a little less broken.
And she’d fallen even more deeply for him. If that was possible.
She cursed softly, closed her eyes. What a pathetic, stupid, ridiculous infatuation. A prince? A kingdom? She—little orphan Bella from Chicago—couldn’t even begin to think of herself in that context. Blogger Bella with no real job. Bella, with university degrees worth nothing and debts out the yin yang. Bella, who was going to wreck his life and his family’s with her scoop, because if the woman in the photo really was who she thought it might be, it was going to rock both his kingdom, and her country.
It had the power to depose the man set to be the next president of the United States.
Chapter 7
The first thing Bella did upon returning to her room was open her laptop.
It had been accessed. She could tell by checking the properties of the files in there, what time they’d last been opened.
Tariq’s men had been here, in her room. They’d poked around in her computer, touched her things.
She lurched to her feet, wrapping her arms tight across her stomach. Then she swiveled, dropped to her knees, pried up the floorboard. Her passport, driver’s license, credit card, wad of cash, were just as she’d left them.
But had they seen her ID? Was Tariq, at this very moment, being told of her real identity?
From the back pocket of her jeans Bella removed the photograph she’d stolen from his wallet and set it on her desk. She took the flash drive off the chain around her neck and slotted it into her laptop. Scrolling quickly through the flash-drive files, she searched for the digital scan of the newspaper article and photograph taken at a medical convention in Chicago more than ten years ago.
Bella clicked on the file. The image opened, filled her screen. She enlarged the photo and reached for the family shot she’d taken from Tariq’s wallet. Comparing the two side by side Bella’s hands began to shake. Quickly she opened her Skype program and clicked on Hurley’s video-call icon.
No answer.
Bella checked her watch. D.C. was six hours behind—Hurley should be awake and in the office. Digitally, she cropped the image part of the article, saved it as a separate file and tried Hurley again.
Still no answer.
Tension twisted through her. She grabbed her cell, punched in the emergency number Hurley had sent her for his own prepaid phone. He picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hurley, thank God.”
“Bella?” A pause. “You okay?”
“Are you near your laptop?”
“It’s in the other room—I’m using it only to connect with you. Hang up and I’ll video call you right back. I don’t want to stay on this phone too long—I don’t know how far they’ll go to trace you.” He hesitated. “There’s been a strange van in the street outside for a couple of days. I’m worried they’re tapping into the phones.”
While she waited, Bella connected her small portable scanner to her laptop. Inserting Tariq’s family photo, she pressed Scan. The image began to roll through. She saved the file to a folder on the flash drive.
An electronic sound announced Hurley’s call. She hit Accept, and as his round face filled the small screen she felt a punch of warmth, solidarity. Hurley, Scoob, Agnes—the Watchdog crew had become a family to her.
“I’m sending you another image, Hurley. It’s a face I’ve cropped from a group family photo. It’s small, but I’m hoping you can still run it through your facial-recognition software and compare it to other known images.” She loaded the file to Skype as she spoke, hit Send. “I need to be sure it’s who I think it is.”
She was sure—she just couldn’t wrap her head around it.
“Who’s the cropped photo supposed to be of?” Hurley asked as he waited for the file to download on his end.
“The queen of Al Na’Jar,” she said quietly. “Without a veil.”
“You’re kidding—no one’s ever seen her face.”
“Well, it’s in this photo. A candid shot of the royal family. I sort of borrowed it from Tariq’s wallet.” Bella uploaded a second file as she spoke. “This next photo I’m sending is the one I want you to compare her to.”
“Okay, I’ve opening them both fi— Jesus!” His brow furrowed as he studied the images. “Queen Nikki Al Arif is Alexis Etherington?”
“Senator Sam Etherington’s missing ex-wife.”
He stared at her.
Bella leaned forward. “I don’t know what this means, Hurley, but the senator divorced her and had her declared dead in absentia before marrying and fathering children with his current wife. Meanwhile, Alexis could be alive, living under an alias and married to King Zakir, who controls the very same country Sam Etherington is expecting an oil deal with. And,” she said quietly, “there’s the allegation that Etherington might also have been involved in an attempted assassination of King Zakir’s brother, Omair. At least, this was where Althea Winston was leading us before she was killed.”
Hurley drew his hand over his mouth, the movement pulling his lips down into a frown as he stared at the images.
“Can you run that face through the biometrics software—is it detailed enough?”
He nodded. “We’ll pull up some other old images of Dr. Alexis Etherington as well, and compare those. I mean, she could just be a startling look-alike.”
“I know, but the coincidences of the queen being a dead ringer for a woman standing next to Tariq at a medical conference ten years ago—an ophthalmic surgeon who just happens to be a specialist in the genetic blindness that afflicts the royal family?”
Hurley whistled softly, shaking his head.
“Alexis Etherington vanished off the face of this earth a year after she claimed she was run off a bridge by a black SUV with no plates, just like Althea Winston was. And King Zakir’s new wife—a mysterious Norwegian—shows up out of the blue years later, and never reveals her face.”
“The queen does have a background—”
“Like Amelie has a background? Maybe someone faked an ID, a past history for her.”
“You think the Al Arifs know who she actually is—I mean, if it’s the same woman?”
“Hell knows what’s going on, Hurley. But if it’s true, this alone could derail the senator’s bid for the White House.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve run these through our system.” Hurley paused. “What if Senator Etherington and his ex are in on this together—maybe that’s why he’s promising oil from Al Na’Jar and new alliances in the Middle East?”
She swore softly, dragging her hand through her hair as she thought. “I don’t know. Something weird is going on here.” She breathed in deep. “I need to talk to him.”
“Tariq?”
She bit her lip, nodded. “He’s suspicious of me. He kept me busy with a tour of the abbey while his men poked around my room and computer—thank God it was clean. But I don’t know if they found my passport and ID, and I figure he’s running a deeper background check on Amelie as we speak. If he’s not on to me yet, he will be soon. I need to keep the lines of dialogue open—but the more I deceive him, the less likely he’ll be to trust me, or talk to me down the road. I think I might need to come clean with him now.”
“Bella—” Hurley’s voice was grave. “Telling Tariq who you are could be dangerous. Something huge is going on with his family, and Etherington, and the U.S. election. And STRIKE. Just look at that JFK bombing. Look at what happened to Althea Winston after she contacted you, and to her husband. Tariq’s family might go to extremes to stop you if they know who you are, and what you want.” He paused. “You were already attacked once, by men who spoke Arabic and carried a traditional dagger when—”
“That couldn’t have been his family,” she interrupted. “He’d know who I was then, surely?”
“Not necessarily, not by sight.”
Surgeon Sheik's Rescue Page 11