There were a lot of things she discovered she needed. “No, but you’re obviously on intimate terms with the king. Please let him know how grateful I am for everything. The room is beautiful beyond description.”
“It’s part of the garden suite.”
Lauren sucked in her breath. King Malik had arranged for her grandmother to stay in a private part of the palace with its own garden. Was it possible this suite was the one? The hairs lifted on the back of her neck.
He studied her for a moment. “Are you all right, Lauren?”
“Yes.”
“You need a lot more rest before I’m convinced of that. When you’re up to it, you’re welcome to walk out and enjoy the flowers through that portico. Some are quite exotic. On occasion, the queen herself tends the garden.”
She put a hand to her throat. “I don’t know why I’m so lucky.”
After a slight pause he said, “When word of your near-tragedy reached King Umar, he insisted you remain in this suite as his guest for as long as you want.”
His guest…
Lauren’s heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Was King Umar a son or a grandson or even a great-nephew of King Malik? Lauren was closer to getting information about her grandfather than she knew.
“That’s incredibly kind and generous of him.”
His black eyes gleamed. “It’s my hope that while you are recovering, the garden’s beauty will lift the sadness over your grandmother’s passing from your heart.”
Deeply touched by his words, she whispered her thanks. Bereft after he’d gone, Lauren couldn’t move any further than the nearest couch because a new weakness had attacked her, brought on by his nearness and the potent male reality of him.
She sank down and rested against one of the satin cushions. Her thoughts darted back to her grandmother who’d been a world traveler from an early age. Celia had come to Al-Shafeeq because it had been reported by a family friend highly placed in the government that this desert oasis blossomed like a rose. It had sounded so romantic to her, she’d deemed it a place she had to see.
While wandering through its palatial gardens, her waist-length blond hair had happened to catch the eye of King Malik. What had happened after that had been like a tale from the Arabian Nights tale and Celia had become enslaved by a love so powerful that Lauren’s mother, Lana, had been the ultimate result.
Lauren thought about the flowers on the patio, but she was too tired to walk out there yet. Inwardly she had the presentiment that if she went out to look at them, history might repeat itself. Lauren could well imagine being so enamored of Rafi, she would never want to leave Al-Shafeeq.
His powerful image swam before her eyes until they closed and she knew no more.
Rashad stood outside the suite and rang Dr. Tamam to give him the latest update. “Our patient was well enough to shower and eat a solid meal today.”
“That’s good. What did you find out about the medallion?”
He pursed his lips. “Nothing yet.”
“Ah?” The surprise in the older man’s voice was as unmistakable as it was understandable. “Then you must have felt she still wasn’t recovered enough to withstand an interrogation.”
The doctor was reading Rashad’s mind. Lauren had paled a little before he’d left her suite. That part was genuine. In fact everything she’d said, every reaction, had seemed genuine to him, especially her relief that Mustafa hadn’t died.
He could still feel the imprint of her lovely body molded to his while word of the near-tragedy had sunk in. She’d shed convincing tears of relief.
As for her pain over her deceased grandmother, there were degrees. Upon wakening, her first thought had been for the medallion she’d lost. Rashad had noticed she’d been careful not to give him a full description of the gold circle.
His instincts were never wrong. She was holding a secret.
The first thing Rashad needed to do was to ascertain if the medallion was real or a fake. Quite apart from her role in all of this, he wanted the answer for himself. Of the eight male members of the family alive today, including himself, none had reported their medallions lost or stolen. It had to be a fake—some kind of joke, perhaps—but he wouldn’t be able to get to the bottom of it until he’d talked to their gold expert.
In the next breath he phoned his mechanic. After being assured his helicopter had been serviced and was ready for flight, he slipped along a passage and across a private courtyard to the place where it was waiting.
Accompanied by his bodyguard, he flew to Raz. Once they’d set down, he hurried into the plant to consult the goldsmith who’d fashioned Rashad’s ring. The old man was getting on in years.
“Come in, Rashad. Your face looks like thunder. Yesterday everyone was rejoicing!”
Grimacing, he sat down at the work table across from him. “That was yesterday.” He pulled the medallion and chain out of his pocket and placed it in front of him.
Hasan stared at him in puzzlement. “Whose medallion is this?”
“That’s what I need to know.”
“You mean someone in the royal family has lost theirs?”
“Maybe. I found it…accidentally. Could it be a fake?”
“Why don’t you go do something else for a little while, then come back and I’ll have answers for you.”
Rashad spent the next hour discussing plans with the engineers drafting designs for the new processing plant. Being an engineer himself, he gave his input before returning to Hasan’s lab. The goldsmith gave him a speculative look.
“The medallion is twenty-four-carat gold, but the minting technique with respect to the dyes and style indicates it was made somewhere between 1890 and 1930, give or take fifteen years. I couldn’t duplicate what was produced back then.” He shook his head. “I have to believe this is not a fake, nor is the chain.”
“So,” Rashad murmured, “unless someone lost their medallion during that time period, the only other explanation I can come up with is that the family goldsmith at the time could have made an extra one in case of loss.”
“But that practice has always been forbidden,” Hasan reminded him.
“That’s true.” Hasan’s word was as good as the gold he’d been working with for the last forty years. Rashad’s mind shot back in time, making a mental list of every royal male child born within that time period who was now dead. No word of a lost medallion had ever reached his ears.
Rashad knew that no member of the family could ever willingly part with his medallion, and they took them to their graves. Rashad’s thoughts ran full circle and led him to the conclusion that the medallion must have been stolen off a dead body at the time of burial. Only family members could be in attendance at this sacred time, so that meant a member of the family had been holding on to it all this time….
For what purpose? And why had it suddenly surfaced around the throat of the stunning blonde American? Had she come specifically to attract Rashad’s attention and infiltrate his inner sanctum? Certainly she’d done that!
Such an elaborate scheme for her to glean information could only have been perpetrated by his uncle’s family, desperate to discover any information they could, which they could then use against Rashad’s own family. Amazingly it had backfired because of catastrophic circumstances beyond anyone’s control.
She’d been blown off course all right. Yet in a miraculous way she’d succeeded in penetrating his fortress in a way no enemy had ever done. Someone had coached her well, otherwise why had she held back in her description of the medallion?
Not only hadn’t he learned her secret yet, it was possible she’d been equipped with a picture of Rashad from the beginning and had recognized him all along. If that were true, then the woman sent to spy on him was the cleverest actress alive to pretend she believed he was the head of security.
Rashad didn’t like what he was thinking. Because of his strong attraction to her, it twisted his gut. He threw back his head in frustration. “You’ve done me an invaluable s
ervice, Hasan. I won’t forget.”
“It’s always a pleasure to serve you, Your Highness.”
With his business done, Rashad flew back to the palace. After he arrived, he heard from a trusted informant who’d done some digging for him. “What have you learned?”
“She flew into El-Joktor day before yesterday.”
The entry visa stamped in her passport had verified as much. She’d only had a one-day trek into the desert. Mustafa assured him they’d met no other caravans en route, no other contacts.
“Upon arrival in El-Joktor, she stayed at the Casbah alone.”
The Casbah? When there were modern hotels with amenities, why did she choose a two-star hotel in a poorer quarter of the city, once fashionable but no longer popular for close to many decades?
“Her papers are in order. She has no known occupation, but has been living in the apartment at the Montreux address belonging to an American named Celia Melrose Bancroft, seventy-five, recently deceased.”
Had Lauren Viret lied about being the woman’s granddaughter? Perhaps she’d been a very well-paid companion. After the woman died, had she gone looking for another kind of benefactor, this time a male? Or had a certain male found her? Was it possible?
“Do you wish me to probe deeper, Your High ness?”
“Not yet. You’ve done well.”
What had Rashad’s father taught him repeatedly from childhood? If the camel once gets his nose in the tent, his body will follow. With the help of the elements, Mademoiselle Viret had virtually been swept inside his tent and delivered into his hands.
Dinner with her first, away from all eyes. He needed to learn all there was to know about her. Despite everything he knew or suspected, he needed to be alone with her.
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER ARRANGING FOR A MEAL on the patio next to the flower garden, Rashad showered and dressed in another shirt and trousers. As he was on his way to the other wing of the palace, Nazir rang him. “Your Highness? The American has just asked me for an outside line from the palace. Should I allow it?”
“Yes.” The palace’s control center used a satellite tracking device. Later Rashad would check on the numbers she phoned. He bounded up the stairs and kept walking along the passageway until he reached the connecting hall to the garden suite. After knocking, he let himself in and discovered her seated at the desk in the sitting room. She spoke on the phone in French as impeccable as his own.
The minute she saw him approach, she ended her conversation and put down the receiver. “Good evening, Rafi.” There was a huskiness in her voice, letting him know she was pleased to see him, even if she hadn’t wanted him to know the nature of her business on the phone.
He was shaken to realize that even though elaborate preparations had been made long before she’d set out for Al-Shafeeq on a special mission, the connection between them was real…and rare.
“I’m glad to see you looking more rested.”
She nodded her blond head. “I took a nap after you left.”
Rashad thought she looked good enough to eat. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn earlier. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
If it was a lie, he didn’t care because he sensed she wanted to spend the evening with him. During the short flight back from Raz, the thought of being with her tonight was all that had consumed him. This kind of instant attraction was different from anything he’d ever known in his life, taking him completely unaware.
“I arranged for us to eat dinner together. How do you feel about that?”
She made a betraying motion with her hands. “If you’re free, I—I’d love it.” The words fell from her lips with satisfying speed…unrehearsed, unguarded.
“It’s waiting out on the patio.”
Her beguiling features lit up in pleasure. “I haven’t seen the flowers yet.” As she got up from the desk, the action drew his attention to her softly rounded figure. He didn’t like it that whether she was dressed in a hospital shift or western clothes, the heavenly mold of her body made it impossible for him to look elsewhere.
“Does this mean you’re off duty?” Her breathing sounded a trifle shallow, alerting him to the fact that she wasn’t in control of herself, either.
“More or less.”
“In other words, you’re like Dr. Tamam, always available if needed?”
He smiled. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“He came by a little while ago to check on me.”
“What’s the verdict?”
“I’m to relax for one more day to gain back my strength. Then I can return to being a tourist again.”
“He’s an excellent doctor. You won’t be sorry for following his advice.”
“I plan to.” After a pause she said, “Are you hungry too?”
“Ravenous, as a matter of fact.” All the senses of his body had come alive around her. He didn’t know himself anymore.
“Does that mean you’ve been out saving more poor souls caught in another sandstorm?” she teased.
Her charisma charmed him to the core of his being and was so at odds with the secret she was keeping, it succeeded in tying him in knots.
“They don’t happen that often, but I can tell you this much—in the last hundred years, you have the distinction of being the first foreign woman who lived through one.”
He felt her shiver. “I’ve been blessed, thanks to you and Mustafa.”
Rashad took an extra breath. “He was the one who pulled you off your camel in time.”
“Yes.” She turned away from him. “I need to thank him in person. That’s why I was on the phone just now. I called the travel agency in Montreux and asked them to contact him for me.”
“I would imagine he’s out with another caravan. When your caravan takes you back to El-Joktor, you can thank him then. Now if you’ll come with me, the patio is through this alcove.”
He cupped her elbow. Their bodies brushed against each other, bringing certain longings alive. He ushered her out to the roof with its crenelated walls. Evening had fallen. The patio torches had been lit.
An awe-filled sigh escaped her lips as she looked out over the desert. He understood it. From this vantage point, one could see the oasis with its many lighted torches, and the sand beyond the boundary stretching in every direction. The perfumed air of the night breeze was cooling down even as they stood there. Stars had started to come out overhead. This was his favorite spot of the palace.
“I’ve never seen a sight like this in my life.”
“Neither have I,” Rashad whispered, studying her alluring profile. If he moved an inch closer to her enticing warmth, he would have to touch her. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.
“It’s magical and makes me want to cry.”
She was so in tune with his emotions, he admitted, “Sometimes when my work closes in on me, I get the urge to slip away from my office and come out here to feel the night.”
“You can feel it,” she cried in wonder and turned to him. The glow from the nearest torch reached her eyes. When he looked into them, he was staggered by their bewitching color. They were a rare shade of green so light and iridescent, they dazzled him more than the large shimmering star rising beyond her shoulder.
How could eyes that soulful belong to a woman who’d come here to do him and his family harm? “Are you cold?” He wanted a reason to wrap his arms around her again.
“Not yet,” she answered in a shaken voice.
“Then let’s eat.”
Rashad had instructed his staff to arrange a table for two near the lattice-covered garden so that he and Lauren could enjoy its fragrance. Flames from the candles flickered, throwing the shapes of the flowers into larger-than-life replicas against the thick palace walls.
He pulled out a chair for her. She sat down quickly, but not before his hands shaped her shoulders after helping her. By now her long dark lashes—unusual on someone so fair—half hid her gaze focused on the flowe
rs. “How beautiful,” she whispered.
“The royal family calls it the Garden of Enchantment.”
Rashad heard her soft intake of breath before she said, “I can understand why. I feel only a sense of peace sitting here. It’s exquisite.”
“I agree it’s perfection.”
Goosebumps broke out on Lauren’s arms. This was the garden her grandmother had talked about!
Lauren had come to the desert to walk in Celia’s steps. Who would have dreamed she’d do it literally.
She’d always thought herself a down-to-earth, sensible person, but a force outside her sphere of understanding was at work here and it stemmed from the man seated across from her.
Feeling the full intensity of his eyes on her rather than garden, she was afraid to look at him directly. He was too powerfully striking. His unconscious arrogance of demeanor, his fierce male beauty, didn’t need the embellishment of this glorious night to cause the blood to pound in her ears.
Something had to be seriously wrong with her to be sitting here mesmerized by this masculine force of nature whose roots had sprung from an unforgiving desert. Refusing to let him know how much his comments and nearness disturbed her, she looked down at the food placed in front of her.
There were slices of melon, fruit ice and tender portions of lamb with potatoes. She’d been so enthralled by him, she hadn’t even noticed they’d been served, yet he was already eating with pleasure.
She sipped her hot sweet coffee first. “You keep late hours, Rafi. Have you no wife who’s expecting you?”
“A pot needs the right cover. I’ve not found mine yet.”
His admission made her heart leap. “In other words, you’re telling me in your unique way to mind my own business.” But Lauren laughed as she said it. Considering the looks of the gorgeous if not enigmatic male seated across from her, no Arabic analogy could have been more absurd.
“I’m pleased to see I’ve been able to bring a smile to your lips. You must do it more often.”
“I couldn’t help it. Your comment about a pot brought to mind the story of Ali Baba. All those poor thieves boiling in hot oil inside the covered pots. Such a cunning servant girl,” she said, enjoying each delicious morsel of food.
Her Desert Prince Page 4