by Liz Fielding
‘Please,’ she said.
Han could not let go. It was as if history was repeating itself, that if he stopped concentrating, even for a moment, she would fall, be lost to him.
Stupid.
She was nothing to him.
He was a man without feelings.
Yet from the moment her dust trail had caught his eye his world had become a torrent of emotions. Irritation, anger, concern…
He refused to acknowledge anything deeper.
‘We’ll do it my way,’ he said abruptly, taking a small step back, without removing his support. ‘Or not at all.’
‘It’s that instant obedience thing again, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Try it. You might like it.’
She blew a strand of hair from her face, took the weight on her hands and swung forward a few inches, barely stopped herself from crying out in pain. For a moment his entire body was a prop for hers, her forehead against his cheek, her breast crushed against the hardness of his broad chest, her thighs, clad in nothing but a skimpy hospital gown, against the smooth, heavy cloth of his dark robes. And, as he held her, for one giddy moment she felt no pain.
‘This is harder than it looks,’ she admitted after a moment.
‘You are not ready,’ he said, tucking the loose strand of hair behind her ear, doing his best to ignore the silky feel of it.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I usually wear it tied back. I really must get it cut the minute I get home.’
‘Why?’ he asked, horrified. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘It’s a damned nuisance. I meant to do it before…’
‘Before?’
She shrugged. ‘Before I came to Ramal Hamrah. Okay, I’m ready. You can let go now.’
Against his better judgement, he took another step back, still keeping a firm hold of her.
In this manner, her persistence wearing down his resistance, they crossed the room one step at a time until they were standing in the bathroom with the wall at his back. ‘This is as far as we go.’ Then, when she was slow to respond, ‘Enough, Lucy,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’ve made it to the shower. You can drop the crutches. I have you. You won’t fall.’
Lucy’s leg was shaking from the effort, her hands, arms, shoulders, back, shrieking in agony. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t obey Han, it was because she couldn’t. Her fingers were welded to the crutches and she was unable to straighten them.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
Looking down, he saw her problem and, muttering something she did not understand, but was sure was not complimentary, he caught her around the waist and, propping her up against his body, eased the crutches from her grasp.
‘You’ve done enough for today,’ he said.
Lucy, the hot grittiness of her skin made all the more unbearable by the very nearness of relief, persisted. ‘I’m not leaving here until I’ve had a shower.’
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. ‘I have to give you ten out of ten for determination, Lucy Forrester.’
‘Yes, well, no one ever accused me of being a quitter. And look, the shower has a seat. Easy. Just turn it on, give me back the crutches and leave me to it.’
He did as she’d said, testing the water until he was certain it was not too hot or cold, making sure that she had everything she needed to hand before turning to go. ‘Do not,’ he said, ‘lock the door.’
‘Got it,’ she said—as if she had the energy to waste on that kind of nonsense. Then, clutching hold of a handrail, ‘If I need you I’ll scream. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
‘Oh, wait. Um, can you unfasten the bows at the back of this thing?’
Keeping his gaze fixed firmly above her head, he tugged the fastenings loose on her hospital gown. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. Thank you. I can manage.’
It was an exaggeration, but she did what she had to, then settled herself in the shower, keeping her splinted foot propped out of the way of the water as much as she could. The warm water seemed to bring her back to life, but washing her hair was more than she could manage and by the time she’d struggled into the towelling robe he’d laid out for her she was almost done.
‘Han?’
He was there almost before the word was out of her mouth.
‘Thanks,’ she said, swinging herself through on willpower alone. ‘I would have opened it myself, but I had my hands full.’
‘You, Lucy Forrester, are a handful,’ he said. ‘Come, there is food, tea. Eat, then you can rest.’
Hanif had hoped for a few minutes alone walking the quiet paths of the ancient garden surrounding the pavilion where Lucy Forrester lay resting.
Fed by a precious natural spring that irrigated the orchards, guarded from the encroaching desert and wandering animals by thick, high walls, they had been laid out centuries earlier as an earthly reflection of heaven and he’d come here hoping to find some measure of peace.
In three years he hadn’t found it but today it wasn’t his own guilt and selfishness that disturbed him. He’d barely reached the reflecting pool before an agitated Zahir came hunting him down.
‘Sir!’
Han stopped, drew a deep breath then turned, lifting his head as the tops of the trees stirred on a windless day. Knowing what Zahir was going to say before the words left his mouth.
‘Sir, I’ve had a signal from the Emir’s office.’
No one had been here in months so this was no coincidence; it had to be something to do with Lucy Forrester.
‘Who is it?’ he asked. ‘Who is coming?’
Was it the man—he was certain it would be a man—she’d been so desperate to reach?
‘It is the Princess Ameerah, sir.’
Not her lover, then, but nevertheless Lucy Forrester was the direct cause of this invasion.
‘I am to have a chaperon, it would seem. You wasted no time in reporting last night’s event to my father, Zahir.’
‘Sir,’ he protested. ‘I did not. I would not…’ Then, ‘Your father is concerned for you. He understands your grief but he needs you, Han.’
‘He has two other sons, Zahir. One to succeed him, one to hunt with him.’
‘But you, Han…’
‘He can spare me.’
Zahir stiffened. ‘You were not recognised at the hospital, I would swear to it, but the removal of Miss Forrester by your staff would not have passed without comment. Sir,’ he added, after a pause just long enough to indicate that he did not appreciate his loyalty being doubted. ‘It was only a matter of time before news of it reached your father.’
‘He will want to know why the news did not come from you.’
‘You undertook a simple act of charity, Excellency. I did not believe the incident was of sufficient importance to interest His Highness.’
‘Let us hope, for your sake, that His Highness takes the same view,’ Hanif replied wryly, briefly touching the young man’s shoulder in a gesture that they both understood was an apology. ‘I would hate to see him replace you with someone less concerned about bothering him.’
Or was that what Zahir was banking on? Did he consider the chance of returning to the centre of things worth the risk of irritating the Emir?
‘I think I should warn you, Zahir, that the arrival of the princess would suggest otherwise.’
‘It may be a coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’ Undoubtedly his father was making the point that if he could take in and care for some unknown foreign woman, he could spare time for his own daughter. He turned away. ‘Make the necessary arrangements to receive the princess.’
‘It has been done, Excellency.’ Zahir raised his voice as the helicopter appeared overhead, shaking a storm of blossom from the trees. ‘Will you come and greet her?’
‘Not now. She’ll be tired from her journey. Maybe tomorrow,’ he said when his cousin looked as if he might press the point.
He’d had three years of tomorrows. One more wouldn’t mak
e any difference.
CHAPTER THREE
LUCY had refused the painkillers Han offered, but he’d left the two capsules beside the bed with a glass of water in case she changed her mind, and a small hand bell that she was to ring if she needed anything, before leaving her to rest.
She was, she had to admit, feeling exhausted, but it wasn’t just the effects of the accident. She hadn’t slept since the second credit card statement had arrived. The first she’d assumed was a mistake, had emailed Steve and he’d said he’d sort it out. When the second one had arrived a couple of days later she’d known that the mistake was all hers.
Her body jabbed her with irritable reminders of what she’d put it through with every movement, but for the moment she’d chosen what passed for clear-headedness over relief.
She needed to think, try and work out what to do. How much to tell Hanif al-Khatib. She didn’t want him to get into trouble, but neither did she relish the thought of being turned over to the authorities, which was what he would have to do once he knew the truth.
Her research on the Internet at the library had informed her that Ramal Hamrah was a modern state that paid due respect to human rights; what that meant in terms of punishment for car theft, justifiable or otherwise, she had no idea. And actually she was finding it hard to convince herself that her actions were justifiable.
Gran wouldn’t have thought so, but then she’d taken an unshakeable Old Testament line when it came to sin. Thou shalt not…
The only certainty in her own life these days was that she’d behaved liked an idiot. If she’d gone to the police, instead of taking off after Steve like some avenging harpy, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Now she’d lost the moral high ground, had put herself in the wrong.
Maybe a good lawyer could get her off on the grounds that the balance of her mind had been disturbed, she thought. Hold him responsible for everything. Make a counter-claim against him, at least for the fraud.
But what good would that do? Even if she could afford a lawyer, Steve wouldn’t be able to repay her if he was in jail.
Besides, it was no longer just about the money.
That was what was so unfair. When she’d taken the 4x4 and set off to look for him it hadn’t been herself she’d been thinking of. All she’d wanted was for him to put things right…
As if.
That was the point at which she decided that a clear head was not so very desirable after all but, as she reached for the painkillers, she realised that she was not alone.
‘Hello.’ Lucy forced her swollen face into a smile. The tiny girl, exotic in bright silks, half hiding behind the open door, didn’t move, didn’t speak, and she tried again, using her limited Arabic. ‘Shes-mak?’ What’s your name? At least she hoped that was what it meant since the child’s only response was a little gasp of fright before she took off, tiny gold bangles tinkling as she ran away.
Her place in the doorway was immediately taken by a breathless figure, a lightweight black abbeyah thrown over her dress, who paused only long enough to gasp her own quickly muffled shock before murmuring, ‘Sorry, sorry…’ before disappearing as fast as her charge.
Did she look that bad?
There must have been a mirror in the bathroom—there was always a mirror above the basin, even in her grandmother’s house where vanity had been considered a sin.
Maybe some inner sense of self-preservation had kept her from examining the damage but now she wondered just how grotesque she looked. Was she going to be permanently scarred?
She raised her hands to her face, searching for serious damage. Everything was swollen—her lips, her eyes, the flesh around her nose. None of her features felt…right, familiar.
Han had moved the crutches, the plastic splint, had propped them up out of the way on the far side of the room. It didn’t matter, she had to know the worst. Putting her sound foot down, she heaved herself upright, grabbing the night table for support.
For a moment every muscle, every sinew, every bone, complained and it was touch and go whether the table would fall or she would.
She didn’t have a hand to spare to catch the painkillers as they spilled on to the floor, or the glass which followed them, toppling over, spilling water as it spun before falling on to the beautiful silk carpet. Then the bell succumbed to gravity, landing with a discordant clang, followed by the crash of the telephone.
There was nothing she could do about any of it; all she could do was hold on tight and pray.
Apparently that was enough.
After a moment the room stopped going round and, since she wasn’t sure what would happen if she put her weight on her damaged ankle, she used her good one to hop across the room, hanging on to the table, the wall, the door, jarring every bone in her body, but gritting her teeth, refusing to give up.
Once she reached the door, however, she was on her own. It seemed an unbridgeable distance to the basin, but she wasn’t about to give up now and, with desperate lurch, she reached her goal.
It was only when she finally recovered her breath sufficiently to turn and confront her reflection, that she realised all her effort had been for nothing.
There had once been a mirror over the basin—the fittings were there—but it had been removed.
Did she look that bad?
Without warning her legs buckled beneath her and, still hanging on to the basin, she crumpled up in a heap on the floor. For a moment she sat there in shock. Then, as she tried to move, haul herself back up, she discovered that she hadn’t got the strength to do it, which left her with two choices.
She could shout for help or crawl back to bed on her hands and knees.
She was still trying to get herself up on to her knees when Han folded himself up beside her.
‘Can I not leave you for a moment, Lucy Forrester?’
She shrugged, forced a smile—or more probably a grimace.
‘I guess I’m not cut out for total obedience.’ She forced a smile—or more likely a grimace—and said, ‘I was doing okay until I was overcome by gravity.’
‘Don’t knock gravity. Without it we’d be in serious trouble.’ Then, ‘I thought we’d agreed that you would ring the bell if you needed anything.’
‘Did we?’ As a slave to her grandmother’s bell, she was somewhat averse to them. ‘You said I should; I don’t recall agreeing to it. Besides, I thought you’d try to stop me.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘I wanted to look at my face. I scared a little girl. She ran away when I spoke to her. I needed to know the worst.’
‘Ameerah? She was here?’
‘Is that her name? She looked really frightened, the poor child.’
‘Poor child, nothing,’ he said dismissively. ‘She ran away because she was caught where she shouldn’t have been.’ He got up and offered her his hands. ‘Come along, let me get you back to bed.’
It was a clear change of subject and, although she was curious, Lucy thought it wiser to leave it at that. But she made no move to accept his support.
‘I still want to see the damage,’ she said. ‘If I look so bad that you took the mirror away—’
‘No!’ He seemed at a loss, she thought. ‘No, it was nothing to do with you. The mirror was broken. A long time ago. You look…’ Words failed him.
‘That bad?’
He shook his head. ‘You have some bruising, that’s all. It looks worse than it is.’
‘How much worse? Do I have a black eye?’
He hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly black?’
‘Not exactly one,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘And really, they’re more an interesting shade of purple. With yellow highlights.’
‘An overrated colour scheme, I’ve always thought,’ she replied, equally wry, but omitting the smile. ‘Anything else?’
‘There are a few minor cuts, nothing that will leave a scar. And your bottom lip is swollen.’ He looked as if he was going to say more, but though
t better of it.
‘And?’
He gave the kind of shrug that suggested she’d be wiser to leave it at that.
‘And?’
‘It would seem that there was a bag loose in the car. It must have caught your cheek…’ he touched a finger to her cheekbone ‘…here,’ he said, lightly tracing a curve first one way, then the other.
‘My Chanel bag?’ she said, realising that it had gone up in flames with everything else.
Han glanced up, looked into her eyes. Then, suddenly distant, ‘I’m sorry you lost it. I hope it was insured.’
‘I hadn’t got around to it,’ she admitted. ‘Don’t worry, it was almost certainly a fake.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘It was a gift.’
He frowned as if he didn’t understand. Clearly he would never have given anyone a knock-off as a gift. Would certainly never have pretended it was the real thing.
‘Maybe I’m being unkind,’ she said, although in the light of recent events it seemed unlikely that Steve would have paid for the genuine article.
He didn’t pursue it. ‘I hope you’re reassured that there’s no permanent damage to your face, Lucy, but in any case I’ll have the mirror replaced for you.’
‘No rush,’ she said, finally placing her hands in his, allowing him to help her to her feet, to put his arm around her waist and support her back to bed. ‘Now you’ve given me a blow by blow description, I’m in no great hurry to see the reality for myself.’
Someone, she noticed, had picked up the pills she’d dropped. The water and broken glass had been cleaned up too, the bell and telephone were back in place.
‘Han…’ She had to tell him about the 4x4. He had to know that he was harbouring a criminal. A wanted woman. ‘There’s something I have to tell you—’
‘Take the painkillers the doctor gave you, Lucy,’ he said, cutting her short as he lowered her on to the bed. For a moment she sat there, his arm still around her, his cheek close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his skin. Then, abruptly, he moved, lifted her legs, turning her so that she could lie back in comfort. Covered her with the sheet. ‘You need to rest, give your body a chance to recover. There is nothing you have to say that will not wait until tomorrow.’