by Fiona Brand
“I’m guessing since you’re at the exhibition that it’s Templar history?”
Her mood dropped even further when she realized she now had to tell him how boring and prosaic her subjects were. “I specialize in the industrial revolution and the First and Second World Wars.” She let out a resigned breath, convinced they had nothing in common. “What about you?”
“Five years at Harvard. It was useful.”
Hope flared anew. “Harvard. That sounds like law, or business.”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
He sounded almost as apologetic as she had been. Her heart beat faster. Not a bodyguard then, despite the muscle. Perhaps he was one of the sheikh’s financial advisors. She was riveted by the thought that maybe all wasn’t lost.
Just as she was searching for some small talk, two Arabic men in suits joined them. The taller one, carrying a screwdriver, immediately set about refixing the bracket that had held the sword. The other suit, a plump man with a tag that proclaimed he was Tarik ben Abdel, the consulate administration manager, sent her a disapproving glance. He then button-holed Gabe and launched into a tirade in a liquid tongue she recognized as Zahiri.
Gabe cut him off with a flat, soft phrase, although Sarah was distracted from the exchange. Graham had appeared just yards away, head swiveling as if he had finally remembered to search for her. His gaze passed over her then shot back to linger on the hint of cleavage at the V of her dress. When he fished in his pocket for his cell phone and turned away, an irritated look on his face, she realized that, aside from checking out her chest, he had failed to recognize her.
Tarik, with a last disapproving glance at her, marched away, the second suit trailing behind. She noticed that the sword was once again affixed to the display.
Sarah was suddenly blazingly aware that the tall dark man hadn’t left as she had expected him to and that he was studying her with an enigmatic expression, as if he’d logged the exchange with Graham.
Still mortified at the fuss she’d created, she rushed to apologize. “I read the sign. I know I shouldn’t have touched the sword, that artifacts can be vulnerable to skin oils and salts—”
“Tarik wasn’t worried that the sword might be damaged. It survived the Third Crusade, so a fall onto soft carpet is hardly likely to cause harm. He was more concerned about the tradition that goes with the sword.”
Understanding dawned. If there had been a pre-eminent symbol of manhood in the Middle Ages, it had been the sword, and this had been a Templar sword. “Of course, the Templar vow of chastity.”
Amusement gleamed in his gaze. “And a superstition that a woman’s touch would somehow disable a warrior’s potency in battle.”
A curious warmth hummed through her as she realized that, as nerve-racking as the exchange had started out, she was actually enjoying talking to the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. “Sounds more like a convenient way of shifting blame for a lackluster performance on the battlefield.”
“Possibly.” Gabe’s mouth kicked up at one corner, softening the line of his jaw and revealing the slightest hint of an indentation. “But, back then, on Zahir, if a woman handled a man’s sword, it was also viewed as a declaration of intent.”
Breath held, Sarah found herself waiting for the dimple to be more fully realized. “What if she was simply curious?”
His gaze locked with hers and a tension far more acute than any she had experienced in her dream flared to life. “Then the warrior might demand a forfeit. Although most of the Templars that landed on Zahir eventually gave up their vows.”
“Including the sheikh, who married.”
The cooling of his expression as she mentioned marriage was like a dash of cold water. For the second time she wondered if he was married. Disappointment cascaded through her at the thought. A glance at his left hand confirmed there was no ring, although that meant nothing. He could be married, with children, and never wear a ring.
A faint buzz emanated from his jacket pocket. With a frown that sent a dart of pleasure through her, because it conveyed that he didn’t want to be interrupted, he excused himself and half turned away to take the call.
Unsettled and on edge because she was clearly developing an unhealthy fascination for a complete stranger, Sarah remembered her glass of wine. As she took a steadying sip, her cell phone chimed. Setting the glass back down, she rummaged in her handbag and found the phone and another text from Graham. Although there was nothing romantic or even polite about the words. Where are you?
Annoyed at his blunt irritation, the cavalier way he hadn’t bothered to meet her as they had arranged, Sarah punched the delete key. She might be a victim of the love game, but she would not be a doormat. Temper on a slow simmer, she shoved the phone back in her handbag.
Gabe terminated his call. “Are you with someone? I noticed you came in alone.”
Suddenly the tension was thick enough to cut, although she couldn’t invest the knowledge that he had noticed her entrance with too much importance. She was the only person dressed in red in a sea of black and gray; of course he had noticed her. “Uh, I was supposed to meet someone...”
“A man.”
She crushed the urge to say she wasn’t meeting another man; that would have been a lie. “Yes.”
He nodded, his expression remote, but she was left with the unmistakable impression that if she had said she was alone the evening might have taken a more exciting turn than she could ever expect with Graham.
His expression suddenly neutral, Gabe checked his watch. “If you’ll excuse me. I have a call to make.”
Sarah squashed a plunging sense of disappointment. As he walked away, she forced herself to look around for Graham.
She spotted him across the room involved in an animated discussion with a man wearing a business suit and a kaffiyeh, the traditional Arabic headdress. She studied the Arab man, who she assumed must be the sheikh. She had read a lot about Zahir, but most of it had been history, since Zahir was a small, peaceful country that didn’t normally make the news. She knew that the sheikh was on the elderly side, and that he had married a New Zealander, a woman who had originally come from Wellington, which explained Zahir’s close ties with her country.
She strolled closer just as the man with the kaffiyeh moved away and finally managed to make eye contact with Graham.
The blankness of his expression changed to incredulity. “You.”
Not for the first time Sarah looked at Graham and wondered how such a pleasantly handsome man could inspire little more in her than annoyance. “That’s right, your date.”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “If you’d told me you were going to change your appearance—”
Her jaw locked at Graham’s unflattering response, as if the act of putting on a dress, a little extra makeup and messing with her hair was some kind of disguise. “This is how I look.”
He stared at her mouth, making her wonder if she’d been a little too heavy on the berry lip gloss. “Not usually. If you had, we might have hit it off a little better.”
Sarah realized there was one very good reason she had never been able to really like Graham. Not only was he self-centered with a roving eye, he had a nasty streak. She had been looking for a prince and, as usual, had ended up dating a frog. “How about I make it easy for us both. From now on don’t call and don’t come around to my mother’s house for dinner. A clean break would suit me.”
His expression took on a shifty cast. “What about the journal? You said I could look at it.”
“That was all you really wanted, wasn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”
No, because what he really wanted was to find the lost dowry and cash in on it. Sarah drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. The first two men in her life h
ad dumped her for other women; that she could accept. Graham preferring a book and the possibility of cold hard cash over her was the proverbial last straw. “Forget the journal. It’s a private, family document. Hell would freeze solid before I’d give it to you.”
Feeling angry and hurt, hating the fact that she had lost her temper but relieved she had finally finished with Graham, Sarah spun on her heel then froze as she spotted Gabe talking with an elderly lady. He was close enough that he had probably heard some of her conversation with Graham. His gaze locked with hers, sharp and uncomplicatedly male, and for a moment the room full of people ceased to exist. Then a waiter strolled past with a tray filled with glasses, breaking the spell.
Her stomach clenched on a sharp jab of feminine intuition, that despite knowing she had a date, after he had made his call, Gabe had come looking for her. When he’d seen her talking with Graham, he’d stopped far enough away to allow her privacy—to allow her a choice—but close enough to keep an eye on her.
Graham didn’t find her attractive, but she was suddenly acutely aware that Gabe did. Talking to him at the sword display had been easy; there had been nothing at stake. Instinctively, she knew a second conversation meant a whole lot more. It meant she would have to make a decision. Suddenly the whole concept of abandoning her rule about no sex before commitment seemed full of holes when what she really wanted was love, not sex.
Feeling utterly out of her depth, her chest tight, she dragged her gaze away and made a beeline for the ladies’ room and the chance to regroup.
Pushing the door open, she stepped into a pretty tiled bathroom. Her reflection bounced back at her, tousled hair and smoky eyes, sleek dress and black boots. Her cheeks flushed as she registered what Gabe was seeing. Graham was right. She barely recognized herself. The woman who stared back at her looked exotic and assured. Experienced.
She wondered if all Gabe saw was the outer package and the possibility of a night of no-strings passion. What if, like Graham, Gabe wouldn’t be attracted to who she really was?
She found her lipstick and reapplied it, her fingers shaking very slightly. The knowledge that Gabe was attracted to her, that the improvement she had made to her appearance had worked, was unsettling. She hadn’t expected such an instant response.
She should be buoyed by her success. Instead, she felt on edge and, for want of a better word, vulnerable. Maybe it was because in her mind Gabe had become linked with the dream that had been the catalyst for all of this change. She knew almost nothing about him, but in the moment he had picked up the sword, he had made an indelible impression; he had symbolized what she wanted.
She stopped dead as the final piece of the puzzle of her dysfunction with men dropped neatly into place. She drew a deep breath. She felt like quietly banging her head against the nearest wall, but that would not be a good idea with all the security personnel roaming around. The reason she had not been intimate with anyone, even her fiancés, was because, hidden beneath the logic and practicality and years of academia, she was an idealist. Worse, she was a romantic.
Maybe all the years of burying her head in history books had changed her in some fundamental way because it was now blindingly clear why an ordinary, everyday kind of guy with a nine-to-five job had never been quite enough. Somehow, despite common sense, in her heart of hearts, she had wanted the kind of seasoned, bedrock strength and stirring romanticism that it was difficult to find in the twenty-first century.
She had wanted a knight.
When she stepped back into the reception room, despite giving herself a good talking-to about the dangers of projecting crazy romantic fantasies onto a man she barely knew, she found herself instantly looking for Gabe. When she couldn’t find him, disappointment gripped her. In an adjacent room the lecture on Zahir was beginning. She strolled inside and saw him at the back, in conversation with a well-known government official.
The jolt in her stomach, the relief and the tingling heat that flooded her, should have been warning enough. In the space of an hour she had somehow fallen into a heady infatuation with a virtual stranger, but after years of emotional limbo the blood racing through her veins, the crazy cocktail of emotions, was addictive. Just as she debated what to do—brazenly approach Gabe or wimp out completely and ignore the intense emotions—an elegant young woman walked up to Gabe and flung her arms around him.
Numb with disappointment, Sarah turned on her heel, walked into the foyer and began searching for her coat. She was fiercely glad she hadn’t approached Gabe, because he appeared to have a girlfriend, or, more probably, a wife.
Frowning, she flipped through the rack of coats again and pulled out a coat which looked like hers, but which wasn’t. Someone had obviously left in a hurry and taken her coat by mistake. As much as she needed a coat, she drew the line at helping herself to one she knew wasn’t hers. Besides, she still had her small telescopic umbrella, which fit in her handbag. In the wind, it probably wouldn’t last long, but it was better than nothing.
Outside, lightning flickered and, in the distance, thunder crashed. As Murphy’s Law would have it, the rain, which had been light earlier was now tropical.
Extracting the umbrella, Sarah paused by the antique double doors of the entrance, reluctant to step out into such a heavy downpour. A flicker of movement turned her head. She saw Gabe speaking to the tall, bald man who had checked her invitation.
Aware that in just a few seconds he could turn and see her standing in the foyer, watching him, she pushed open the doors and stepped outside.
As she descended the steps the wind, damp with rain and bitingly cold, sent a raw shiver through her. She came to a halt at the edge of the sheltered area. Flipping up her umbrella, she stepped into the wet and wild night.
The bottom half of her dress was almost instantly soaked. Water seeped into the soles of her boots as she threaded through cars that gleamed beneath streetlights. The parking lot seemed farther away than when she had arrived. In the murky darkness, the garish lights from the nightclub were overbright, although the steady thud of music was now muted by the sound of the rain.
Dragging soaked hair from her eyes and glad she was wearing waterproof mascara, she fumbled in her bag, searching for keys. She depressed the key lock, suddenly wishing she hadn’t parked quite so close to the nightclub. The lights of her car flashed and she headed for the welcome beacon of her small hatchback. As she opened the door, she became aware of a cluster of dark shadows congregated beneath the overhang of the warehouse-size building that housed the nightclub. Slamming the door closed, she immediately locked it, just in case the youths tried something silly.
She inserted her key into the ignition. The starter motor made its familiar high-pitched whine, but the motor itself refused to fire. Feeling a little desperate, she tried again, then a third time. When the starter took on a deeper, slower sound, as if the battery was becoming drained, she immediately stopped. She was no mechanic but, at a guess, the wind had driven rain under the hood and the electronics had gotten wet. The car wouldn’t start until she managed to dry the motor. If she kept using the starter she would also end up with a flat battery.
She considered ringing her mother then immediately dismissed the thought. Hannah was overseas on a buying trip for her interior-decorating business. Graham was still inside. As much as she didn’t want to ask him, he would have to help her. Groaning, she tried texting. When minutes passed with no reply, she bit the bullet and rang him. The call went through to voice mail.
Deciding that it would be a whole lot simpler to just walk back into the consulate to get help, Sarah grabbed her bag and stepped out into the rain, which had thankfully eased to a fine drizzle. A tap on her shoulder made her start.
“Having trouble, darlin’?”
She stiffened at the shock of being touched by a stranger and stepped away from the powerful whiff of alcohol fumes. “Nothing I can’t handl
e, thanks.”
He grinned hazily. “I’d sure like to help you.”
There was a stifled laugh somewhere behind him. With a jolt Sarah realized they had been joined by two more men, both of them like the first, darkly dressed, wearing leather and decorated with tattoos and multiple piercings.
The taller of the two grinned. “Don’t keep her to yourself, Ty. We’d all like to help the lady.”
Jaw set, Sarah debated trying to get back into the car and locking the doors, but decided against that. If she did, they could prevent her from closing the door and before she knew where she was, they would be inside the car with her and she would be in a worse position.
Rape. The horrifying thought shuddered through her. She was a virgin. She had saved herself for love and marriage. The first time she was with a man could not be because she was being forced.
Footsteps sounded across the parking lot. They were no longer alone. Thinking quickly, Sarah’s fingers tightened on her umbrella. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but she would use it if she had to. “I don’t need help. My boyfriend’s here. He’ll fix the car.”
“What boyfriend?” The taller man grabbed her arm as she edged away.
Jaw gritted, Sara brought the umbrella’s wooden handle crashing down on the man’s fingers.
“This one,” a dark voice murmured, as Gabe stepped around a chunky utility vehicle into the light.
Three
Rubbing bruised knuckles, the tall guy, who now didn’t seem large at all compared to Gabe, stumbled backward. “Hey, sorry, man,” he mumbled. “Didn’t know she was taken.”
Gabe glided closer. When he stretched out his hand, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to put her fingers in his. “Even if she wasn’t ‘taken’ you shouldn’t have gone near her. But, as you said, she is taken, so don’t bother her again.”
Tall Guy took another step backward. The other two had already climbed into a car decorated with dents. He held one hand up in a placating gesture as he fumbled open the rear passenger door. “Yeah, man. She’s yours. Totally. We won’t bother her again.”