by Liz Fielding
Stupid question. Not even the finest private room in the fanciest hospital had ever looked like this. The carved screens, folded back from the window, the flowered frieze, each petal made from polished semi-precious stone, furniture of a richness that would have looked more at home in a palace…
‘You are my guest, Miss Forrester. You will be more comfortable here than in the hospital. Unless you have friends in Ramal Hamrah with whom you would rather stay? Someone I could contact for you?’ he continued. ‘We tried calling your home in England—’
‘You did?’
‘Unfortunately, there was no reply. You are welcome to call yourself.’ He indicated a telephone on the night table.
‘No.’ Then, because that had been too abrupt, ‘There’s no one there.’ No one anywhere. ‘I live alone now. I’m sorry to be so much trouble,’ she said, subsiding into the pillows, but not before she’d seen the state of her arms. The cuts had been stuck together, the grazes cleaned, but the effect was not pretty.
‘Don’t distress yourself. They’ll heal very quickly. A week or two and they’ll be fine.’ Then, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I don’t want to put you to any more trouble,’ she said. ‘If I could just get dressed, impose on you to call me a taxi.’
‘A taxi?’ He frowned. ‘Why would you need a taxi?’
‘To take me to the airport.’
‘I really would not advise it. You should take a day or two to recover—’
‘I can’t stay here.’
‘—and it will undoubtedly take that long to replace your passport, your ticket. I’m sorry to have to tell you that everything that you were carrying with you was destroyed in the crash.’
‘Destroyed?’ Without warning she caught a whiff of petrol amongst the mingled scents of sweat, dust, disinfectant that clung to her. ‘They were burned?’ And she shivered despite her best effort not to think about how close she had come to being part of the conflagration. ‘I need to see someone about that,’ she said, sitting up too quickly and nearly passing out as everything spun around her.
‘Please, leave it to my aide. He will handle everything,’ he assured her. ‘They will be ready, insha’Allah, by the time you’re fit to travel.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’
He seemed surprised. ‘You are a stranger. You need help. I was chosen.’
Chosen?
She put the oddity of the expression down to the difference in cultures and let it go, contenting herself with, ‘You pulled me out from the car wreck. For most people that would have been enough.’ Then, realising how ungrateful that must have sounded, ‘I know that I owe you my life.’
That provoked another bow. ‘Mash’Allah. It is in safe hands.’
For heaven’s sake! Enough with the bowing…
‘I’m in no one’s hands but my own,’ she snapped back.
She might owe him her life, but she’d learned the hard way not to rely on anyone. Not even those she’d had a right to be able to trust. As for the rest…
‘We are all in God’s hands,’ he replied, without taking offence, no doubt making allowances for her injuries, shock, the fact that sedatives tended to remove the inhibitions. Her grandmother hadn’t held back when she’d finally surrendered to the need for pain relief. A lifetime of resentment and anger had found voice in those last weeks…
‘I’m sorry,’ she said carefully. ‘You’re being extremely kind. I must seem less than grateful.’
‘No one is at their best when they’ve been through the kind of experience you’ve endured,’ he said gravely.
This masterly, if unintentional, understatement earned him a wry smile. At least it was a smile on the inside; how it came out through the swellings and bruises was anyone’s guess.
‘You need to eat, build up your strength.’
She began to shake her head and he moved swiftly to stop her. ‘It would be better if you did not do that,’ he cautioned, his hand resting lightly against her cheek. ‘At least for a day or two.’
She jumped at his unexpected touch and he immediately removed his hand.
‘What can I offer you?’
What she wanted most of all was more water, but not if it meant spilling half of it down herself like a drooling idiot.
Maybe she’d said her thoughts out loud, or maybe he’d seen the need in her eyes as she’d looked at the glass, because he picked it up, then sat on the edge of the bed, offering his arm as a prop, but not actually touching her. Leaving the decision to her.
‘I can manage,’ she assured him, using her elbows to try and push herself up. One of them buckled beneath her and all over her body a shocking kaleidoscope of pain jangled her nerves. Before she fell back he had his shoulder, his chest, behind her, his arm about her in support, taking all her weight so that her aching muscles didn’t have to work to keep her upright.
‘Take your time,’ he said, holding the glass to her lips. Raising her hand to steady it, she concentrated on the glass, avoiding eye contact, unused to such closeness, such intimacy. He did not rush her, but showed infinite patience as, taking careful sips this time, she slaked what seemed to be an insatiable thirst. ‘Enough?’ he asked when she finally pulled back.
She nearly nodded but remembered in time and instead glanced up. For a moment their gazes connected, locked, and Lucy had the uncomfortable feeling that Hanif bin Jamal bin Khatib al-Khatib could see to the bottom of her soul.
Not a pretty sight.
Hanif held the glass to Lucy’s lips for a moment longer, then, easing her back on to the pillow, turned away, stood up. Her body had seemed feather-light, as insubstantial as gossamer, yet the weight of it had jarred loose memories that he’d buried deep. Memories of holding another woman in just that way.
Memories of her dark eyes begging him to let her go.
From the moment he’d cut Lucy Forrester free of the wreck she’d been attacking his senses, ripping away the layers of scar tissue he’d built up as a wall between himself and memory.
She smelt of dust, the hospital, but beneath it all her body had a soft, warm female scent of its own. He’d blocked it out while he’d held her safe on his horse, cradled her as she’d whimpered with pain, drifting in and out of consciousness in the helicopter, other, more urgent concerns taking precedent. But now, emergency over, he could no longer ignore the way it filled his head. Familiar, yet different.
He could not tell if it was the familiar or the different that bothered him more. It did not matter, but he clung to the glass as if it was the only thing anchoring him to earth as he took a deep steadying breath.
He was no stranger to the sick room, but this was more difficult than he’d imagined. Dredging up the poignant, painful memories he’d worked so hard to obliterate from his mind.
She is different.
And it was true. Noor had been dark-eyed, golden-skinned, sweet as honey. The unsuspected, unbreakable core of steel that had taken her from him had lain well hidden within that tender wrapping.
Lucy Forrester was nothing like her.
The difference in their colouring was the least of it. His wife had been strong, steady, a rock in a disintegrating world, but this woman was edgy, defensive, troubled, and he sensed that she needed him in a way that Noor never had.
The glass rattled on the table as he turned back to her. ‘I’m sure you would enjoy some tea,’ he said. ‘Something light to eat?’
‘Actually, right now, all I want is the bathroom. A shower. To wash my hair.’
Lucy Forrester shuffled herself slowly up against the pillows, obviously finding it painful to put weight on her bruised elbows, but determined to have her way.
He knew how she felt. He’d taken hard falls back in the youthful, carefree days when he’d thought himself indestructible. Had chafed impatiently through weeks laid up with a broken leg.
‘That’s a little ambitious for your first outing,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe if I brou
ght a bowl of water, you could—’
‘I’m not an invalid. I’ve just got a few bumps and bruises,’ she said, then let out an involuntary cry as she jerked her shoulder.
‘That hurt?’ he enquired, with an edge to his voice he barely recognised, annoyed with her for being so obstinate.
‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I always whimper when I move.’ Then, ‘Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but if you’ll point me in the direction of the bathroom I can manage. Or did you want to come along and finish what you started in the hospital?’
‘I apologise that there are no women in my household to help you. If you think you can manage—’
‘Too right, I can. I’ll bet you wouldn’t allow your wife to be washed by some strange man, would you? Probably not even a male nurse.’
There were men he knew, members of his family even, who would not allow their wives to be examined by a male doctor, let alone be touched by a male nurse. He had long since passed that kind of foolishness.
‘I would willingly have let my wife be cared for by a Martian if I’d thought it would have helped her,’ he said.
Would have? Past tense?
Oh, no, Lucy thought, she wasn’t going there…
‘Look, I know you’re just trying to help and I’m grateful, but I’ll be fine once I’m on my feet.’
He looked doubtful.
‘Honestly! Besides, it’s not just a wash I need and I’m telling you now, you can forget any ideas you might have about trying out your bedpan technique on me.’
‘You are a headstrong woman, Lucy Forrester,’ he said. ‘If you fall, hurt yourself, you may end up back in the hospital.’
‘If that happens, you have my full permission to say I told you so.’
‘Very well.’ He glanced around as if looking for something, and said, ‘One moment.’ And with that he swept from the room, dark robes flowing, the total autocrat.
Oh, right. As if she was planning to hang around so that he could enjoy the spectacle of her backside hanging out of the hospital gown.
Sending encouraging little you-can-do-it messages to her limbs, she pushed the sheet down as far as she could reach. Actually it wasn’t that far and, taking a moment to catch her breath, she had to admit that she might have been a bit hasty.
Ironic. All her life she’d been biting her tongue, keeping the peace, not doing anything to cause a fuss, but the minute she was left to her own devices she’d done what her grandmother had always warned her about and turned into her mother.
Impulsive, impetuous and in trouble…
If Hanif bin al-thingy hadn’t been passing she’d have been toast, she knew, and it wasn’t worth dying over.
Money.
She’d been broke all her life and when she’d had money she hadn’t known what to do with it. At least Steve had given her a few weeks of believing herself to be desired, loved.
He might be a cheat, a liar, a con man, but he’d given value for money. Unfortunately there were some things that she couldn’t just chalk up to experience and brush aside. Which was why she had to get out of here…
Everything was going fine until she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand up. That was when she discovered what pain really was.
She didn’t cry out as she crumpled up on the floor. She tried, but every bit of breath had been sucked out of her and she couldn’t make a sound, not even when Hanif dropped whatever he was carrying with a clatter and gathered her up, murmuring soft words that she didn’t understand; the meaning came through his voice, the tenderness with which he held her.
Idiot! Han could not believe he’d been so stupid. He was so used to total obedience, to having his orders obeyed without question, without explanation, it had never occurred to him that Lucy would ignore his command to stay put until he found the crutches, the ankle splint, which had been tidied away by someone as he’d dozed on the day bed in the sitting room.
Over and over he murmured his apologies and only when she let her head fall against his shoulder and he felt her relax, did he gently chide her.
‘You could not wait two minutes, Lucy?’
‘I thought I could manage. What have I done?’ she asked into his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘You’ve torn a ligament in your ankle, that’s all.’
‘All?’ She looked up.
‘I know,’ he sympathised. ‘It is an extremely painful injury.’
She remembered.
At the time it had all happened so quickly that she’d felt nothing. It had been just one pain amongst many. Now, though, she was reliving the moment in slow motion…
He was holding her, supporting her, holding the sheet to her mouth before she even knew she was going to need it, but there was nothing to throw up except water…
By the time her stomach caught up with reality and gave up, she was sweaty and trembling with weakness. He continued to hold her, offering her water, wiping her forehead, her mouth—so gently that she knew her lips must look as bad as they felt.
‘You’re very good at this,’ she said, angry with him, although she couldn’t have said why. Angry with herself for having made such a mess of everything. ‘Are you sure you’re not a nurse?’
‘Quite sure, but I took care of my wife when she was dying.’
His voice, his face, were wiped of all emotion. She wasn’t fooled by that.
She’d become pretty good at hiding her feelings over the years, at least until Steve had walked into her life; he’d certainly cured her of that. But when you knew how it was done it was easy to spot.
‘I’m so sorry…Han,’ she said, trying out the name he’d offered, as near as she could get to an apology for behaving so badly, so thoughtlessly, when all he was doing was trying to help her. When he was clearly reliving all kinds of painful memories.
‘Nausea is to be expected,’ he said distantly.
That wasn’t what she’d been apologising for and she was sure he knew it. Questions crowded into her mind, but she had no right to ask him any of them and she let it go. Better to keep to the practicalities.
‘Didn’t they explain your injuries to you at the hospital?’
‘They tried. I didn’t understand most of what they were saying. I was just so confused. By everything.’ She looked up, appealing for understanding. ‘I saw a mirage,’ she said, trying to make him see. ‘At least I thought I did. Then, after the crash there was an angel. He had gold wings and he was coming to get me and I thought I was dead—’
‘Hush, don’t distress yourself—’
‘And then you were there and I thought… I thought…’
She couldn’t say what she’d thought.
‘You drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. The mind plays tricks. The memory becomes uncertain.’
‘You’re speaking from experience again?’ she asked, trying a wry smile, but suspecting that it lost something of its subtlety in translation from her brain to her face.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Then, ‘They did a scan at the hospital,’ he said, wanting to reassure her. ‘There was no head injury.’
‘Just my ankle? Really? Is that it?’ she asked. ‘No more nasty surprises?’
‘Lacerations and bruising.’
‘Cracked ribs?’
‘No one mentioned anything about cracked ribs,’ he said, finally showing some emotion, if irritation counted as emotion, although not, she thought, with her. ‘Are they sore?’
‘Everything is sore. So, tell me, what’s the prognosis?’
‘The bruises, abrasions, will heal quickly enough and you’ll need to wear a support on your ankle for a couple of weeks, use crutches. That’s where I went. To fetch them for you.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘Of course you didn’t. I should have explained.’ His smile was a little creaky, as if it needed oiling, she thought. ‘I’m so used to being obeyed without question.’
‘Really? I hate to have to tell you th
is, Han, but western women don’t do that any more.’
‘No? Do you want to take a shower?’
‘Please…’
‘Then you’re going to have to do as you are told.’
‘What…?’ Catching on, she laughed and said, ‘Yes, sir!’
‘Hold on,’ he said and she didn’t hesitate, but grabbed at his shoulders, bunching the heavy dark cloth of the robe he was wearing beneath her fingers as he lifted her back up on to the bed.
Her laughter caught at him, tore at him, and he did not know which was harder, taking her into his arms or letting her go so that he could fasten the support to her ankle. He reached out to stop her tipping forward when she was overcome by dizziness.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘Just pass me the crutches and give me some room.’
He didn’t try to argue with her, but he didn’t take any notice of her either, Lucy discovered. The minute she had the crutches in her hands, had settled them on the floor ready to push herself up, she found herself being lifted to her feet.
She would have complained, but it seemed such a waste of breath.
He didn’t let go either, but just leaned back a little, spreading his hands across her back to support the shift in weight. Strong hands. Hands made to keep a woman safe.
He was, she thought, everything that Steve was not.
A rock, where the man she’d married in such haste was quicksand.
Light-headed, drowning in eyes as black as night, her limbs boneless, she knew that if she fell into Hanif al-Khatib’s arms the world would turn full circle before she needed to breathe again.
‘Lucy…’
It was a question. She thought it was a question, although she wasn’t sure what he was asking.
She swallowed, shocked at the thoughts, feelings, that were racing through her body—struggled to break eye contact, ground herself.
‘I’m all right.’ Breathless, her words little more than a murmur, he was not convinced. ‘You can let go.’ Then, when he still didn’t move, ‘I won’t fall.’
She looked down and slowly, carefully, felt for the floor beneath her one good leg, took her weight. Then she leaned on the crutches. Still he held her, forcing her to look up.