by Lynne Graham
Her head felt heavy on her neck and she registered that she felt ridiculously sleepy. She propped her chin on her upturned hand. ‘I think I must be very tired,’ she framed, noticing that her voice emerged sounding slurred. ‘Something is wrong with me...’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ Tahir told her soothingly.
With an enormous effort of will, Molly planted her hands down on the surface of the table and pushed upright. Her cup and saucer slid off the edge of the table and tumbled with a crash on the tiled floor and she studied the broken pieces with a detached interest that felt as strange to her as her heavy, paralysed body.
‘I’m ill...need help,’ she mumbled on a very sudden flash of fear.
‘I will help you,’ Tahir assured her, moving towards her. ‘You will be fine. I promise you.’
‘Don’t want your help,’ Molly slurred, stubborn to the last, but her tongue felt too thick for her mouth and the effort it required to even focus her gaze was too much for her. Her eyes slid shut and she slumped down over the table.
* * *
Molly woke, feeling wonderfully comfortable. Slowly lifting her head, she opened her eyes and stared in shock at her completely unfamiliar surroundings.
She was lying on a bed in a room with bare stone walls that looked positively medieval. She sat up, discovering that she was wearing a white floaty cotton garment that did not belong to her, and she leapt off the ornate bed in growing consternation to rush over to the window. The landscape beyond that window made her brain short-circuit for several terrifying seconds. There was a desert outside, an actual desert with towering sand dunes that reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the Sahara. Her mouth ran dry.
How the heck had she travelled from the Djalian Embassy in London to...? And then she remembered the sweet coffee, her strange symptoms and then what must have been her collapse. She had been drugged. Was that too melodramatic an assumption? Molly was a very down-to-earth young woman and the concept of being drugged and kidnapped initially struck her as too fantastic an explanation to be possible. But then there was the unusually sweet coffee, she recalled, along with Prince Tahir watching her and telling her that she would be fine even though she had patently not been fine. Molly breathed in deep and slow.
‘Mees Carlisle?’ a soft female voice enquired, making her jump and spin in dismay. A young woman, clad in a long dress, was anxiously peering at her through a doorway. ‘I am Gamila and I am to tell you that you are safe. Safe,’ she repeated the word with emphasis. ‘No English,’ she completed apologetically.
‘Safe?’ Molly whispered shakily, suddenly realising that what had happened to her was real and not the result of a waking dream or her imagination. ‘Where am I?’
But the young woman was busy spreading open the door to display a bathroom and Molly was too grateful to see one to persist in enquiries that her companion seemed unable to answer. She closed the door, discovering a new toothbrush awaited her as well as soap and other necessities. Had Tahir kidnapped her? And if so, where was he now? Dear heaven, was he a madman? A sex offender? Had she been teaching English to a seriously dangerous man all these weeks?
Filled with horror and conjecture on worst-case scenarios, Molly ran herself a shallow bath, there being no shower, which surprised her because the bathroom suite and the tiling looked brand new. She was safe, she reminded herself doggedly. Someone had taken the time and trouble to coach Gamila into repeating that message...she was safe. But telling herself that even as she towelled herself dry did not make her feel remotely safe in such a strange environment.
She was abroad without a passport, she thought fearfully. She didn’t own a passport because she had never travelled abroad. Her father had not been a fan of foreign holidays and she had never had enough money to plan such a trip for herself. But when she had studied for her TEFL qualification, it had been her dream to work and live abroad. The only grandfather I ever knew was a monster, Tahir had said. Maybe she should have listened harder because it seemed to her that Tahir took after him. Only a monster with a nasty agenda would drug and carry off a woman to a foreign country. Where were the police? Molly wanted to see a policeman and report her abduction...then she would feel safe from all threat.
A long dress like Gamila’s hung on a hook on the wall. Since her own clothing was nowhere to be seen and Molly felt too exposed in the thin nightie she wore, she put on the dress after ascertaining that it at least smelled as if it was new. Even so, she had no underwear and Molly winced at the lack of a bra because she was extra curvy in the breast department. She had always hated that about her body, she reflected ruefully. Overly generous curves at breast and hip had bloomed as soon as she reached puberty. All very well had such curves been grafted onto a taller body, she conceded, but not so welcome a gift for a girl who barely passed five feet in height.
She emerged from the bathroom to find Gamila waiting for her with a tray of food. Molly studied the tray with distrust. Tahir had drugged her. How did she know the food was harmless? She shook her head in refusal although she was very hungry, and went back into the bathroom to use the tumbler by the sink to drink some tap water, simply praying that the source was hygienic. Gamila, looking puzzled by that demonstration, set the tray down and left the room.
Molly stood at the window staring out at that unbelievable view of the sand dunes. The sun was lower in the sky, turning them a toasty gold shade which was unexpectedly beautiful. It was time for her to find out where she was and when she was getting home, after she had reported Tahir to the authorities. As she stalked to the door in a fine temper a knock sounded on it. She flung it wide.
‘I...’ and then her tongue simply glued to the roof of her mouth because it was Mr Gorgeous from the portrait in the embassy hallway.
There he stood, in his pristine white robes and red chequered head cloth, those stunning features even more arresting in the flesh. It was as if a famous actor had stepped out of a movie screen into her presence. She was deeply shaken and she could barely breathe for nerves. In discomfiture, she backed away fast until her legs hit the very solid wooden bed frame behind her.
‘Miss Carlisle? I am Azrael, Tahir’s half-brother,’ Azrael proffered, rigid in bearing and stilted in speech from the sheer shame of what his little brother had done. ‘I must offer you my most profound apologies for what has happened to you and I assure you that you will be taken home as soon as possible.’
A tiny bit mollified by that unexpectedly humble approach from a man who looked more as if he should be waving a scimitar from the back of a horse in battle, so fierce was his expression, Molly moved forward a step. He was incredibly tall, well over six feet in height. And those eyes, a part of Molly that embarrassed her noted without her volition, he had the most amazing dark golden eyes, so heavily lashed in black that he looked as though he were sporting eye liner.
‘You speak English,’ she heard herself say rather stupidly.
‘I do,’ Azrael acknowledged, studying her with a concealed appreciation that affronted him, for he did not want to believe that he had the smallest taste in common with a brother who had committed such a very unforgivable act against a woman. But Tahir had more taste than his elder brother would have given him credit for. For some reason, Azrael had been expecting to see a Westernised blonde of pretty obvious attractions.
Instead he had Molly Carlisle before him and there was no contest in that comparison. Her skin was as fine and fair as pearlised silk. She had an astonishing colour of hair such as Azrael had never seen before and a wonderful wealth of it, and eyes the exact shade of his late mother’s famous emeralds. She was a beauty, a truly unusual beauty. His thoughts, his very awareness, were inappropriate, deeply inappropriate in the circumstances, Azrael castigated himself angrily, suppressing his too personal reactions to the very best of his ability.
‘When are the police coming?’ Molly asked baldly.
Nothing could have more surely focused Azrael’s concentration back on his dilemma than
that innocent question. In point of fact, Djalia did not currently have a police force, Hashem’s police department having been wholly corrupt. A large new group of male and female applicants was currently in training but, of course, he was not going to tell her that there were no police and expose his much-maligned country to adverse criticism again.
‘It is my hope that we can settle this unfortunate matter without alerting the authorities,’ Azrael told her truthfully, resting the full force of his commanding eyes on her, his royal resolve driving him. He knew how authoritative he was and how intimidating he could be and he was prepared to use that strength against her if necessary. Regardless of the cost, he had to protect Djalia from an international scandal and the risk of the rest of the world finding out what had happened and assuming that they were all ignorant, woman-stealing savages.
Impervious to his extremely bossy manner and commanding stance, because she was immovable when she made her mind up about anything, Molly compressed her lips. ‘I’m afraid not. I want the police. I want your brother...half-brother, whatever he is, prosecuted and punished.’
Taken aback by her complete lack of reaction to his royal poise, Azrael expelled his breath in a measured hiss. ‘There will be no police involved,’ he informed her flatly.
‘I’ve been drugged and kidnapped. I demand justice!’ Molly launched at him full throttle.
‘I must apologise for my inability to meet your demand. My brother is no longer in Djalia to be prosecuted,’ Azrael countered, deciding to pursue another tack.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Molly responded, shocking him with that frank admission, for he had never had the veracity of his words questioned before by anyone. ‘You’re trying to protect him from the consequences of what he’s done—’
‘That is not the case,’ Azrael assured her, and it was the truth because at that moment he would happily have thrown Tahir to the wolves had that been an option but, sadly, it was not.
‘You cannot deny me my rights,’ Molly began, rosy colour mantling her cheeks as fury began to suffuse her, firing through her veins like an intoxicating drug.
His eyes hard as granite, Azrael’s jaw clenched. ‘I can—’
‘You can’t!’ Molly spat back at him in a rage. ‘You can’t deny me my rights. There are international laws protecting women—’
‘Not in Djalia,’ Azrael told her truthfully but without pride.
‘I was drugged and kidnapped—’
‘But Tahir was intercepted as soon as the plane landed and you were immediately removed from his keeping. You are unharmed,’ Azrael reminded her.
‘But I could’ve been the victim of sexual violence!’ Molly shot at him with knotted fists, her temper only rising at his refusal to do a single thing that she asked.
‘I doubt that. Tahir is many foolish things but he’s not a rapist. He thought he could bring you here and shower you with clothes and jewels and that then you would magically find him more appealing,’ Azrael recited with derision. ‘He is infatuated with you but he would never have physically harmed you.’
‘So, in your opinion, it’s basically all right for him to have drugged and kidnapped me?’
‘No, of course it is not right, it is very wrong!’ Azrael proclaimed heatedly, his own temper flaring at her wording. ‘It was a crime and there is no dispute on that issue but we will not involve the police in this matter.’
‘That’s not your decision to make,’ Molly told him angrily, green eyes glittering like jewels, coppery ringlets dancing across her slim shoulders with the livewire energy of her every restive movement.
‘It is my decision,’ Azrael contradicted softly, wondering what colour would best describe that dark red and yet strangely bright hair and furiously repressing the irrelevant thought. ‘And in Djalia my word is law.’
‘Then Djalia must be a pretty backward place!’ Molly hurled back at him loudly.
Azrael froze as if she had thrown a flaming torch at him, every line of his lean, extravagantly handsome face drawn taut with offence and growing anger. ‘I will not discuss this business again with you until you have calmed down and thought it over.’
‘I’m as calm as I’m ever going to be after waking up to see a desert out of the freakin’ window!’ Molly flung hotly and as he turned on his heel, making her realise that he intended to leave again, she was fit to be tied. ‘Don’t you dare walk out of here and leave me!’
‘You are not in a mood to be reasonable—’
‘How blasted reasonable would you be after being drugged and kidnapped?’ Molly shouted after him, and she kicked the door shut with a resounding clunk on his sweeping departure. She hurt her bare toes and cursed and hopped round the room, ineffectually trying to soothe them while boiling with frustrated fury at Tahir’s brother.
Clearly insanity ran in the family! One abducted her to a foreign country and the other wanted her to be reasonable. What century was he living in? What kind of country was Djalia where women had no rights and some good-looking louse could tell her and with a straight face, mind you, that his word was law? Who the blazes did he think he was to talk to her like that? Well, Molly had no intention of standing for that kind of nonsense. His countrywomen might have no rights, but she knew she had hers and she had every intention of exercising them in the UK, if need be, where the crime had taken place. Yes, she registered belatedly, Azrael’s attitude didn’t really matter because she could go to the police at home and report the crime once she got back there. And he couldn’t stop her doing that, could he?
As if she cared about Tahir or what happened to him! She wanted to know that Tahir would be punished and that he could never, ever do to any other woman what he had done to her. As for that assurance that Tahir would never have physically harmed her, Molly was not impressed. Did she look stupid enough to credit that Tahir had gone to such extraordinary lengths merely to offer her new clothes and jewels? No, she would ensure that the British police dealt with Tahir.
Mollified by that idea, Molly greeted the surprised Gamila with a smile when she crept in carrying Molly’s freshly laundered clothes. Thanking the other woman, Molly vanished into the bathroom to put on her own clothes, snapping her bra on again with deep satisfaction and shimmying into her jeans and sweater. Only as perspiration began to gather on her skin and her face did she appreciate that what she had worn for a London winter was quite unsuitable for a desert climate. Crossly she stripped again and put the stupid dress back on because at least it was cool and comfortable.
Leaving the bedroom, she walked out onto a stone corridor and espied a worn spiral staircase, brows climbing at the sight of it. She walked down into a square turreted forecourt of some kind that was crowded with uniformed soldiers carrying guns, all of whom turned to stare at her in the most unsettling way. Taken aback, she coloured and froze and was grateful when a wiry little man in robes hailed her from several feet away. ‘Miss Carlisle? How may I assist you?’
‘I want to speak to Azrael again,’ Molly said, moving towards him. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Of course. Please come this way. I am Butrus. I work for the King.’
‘What king?’ Molly almost whispered.
‘His Majesty, King Azrael of Djalia,’ Butrus proclaimed with clear pride. ‘Our Glorious Leader.’
Glorious Leader? Oh, how Molly enjoyed that label and she would have struggled not to laugh at it in any other mood but her aggression had been swallowed alive by mind-blowing surprise. Tahir’s brother was the King of this country? That was why there had been that portrait hung in the Djalian Embassy, she realised belatedly. But Tahir had not mentioned his big brother’s exalted status, possibly because he lived in a different country. Molly had looked up Quarein on the Internet, not Djalia, and she knew nothing whatsoever about the country she had landed in.
‘I didn’t realise he was the King,’ Molly admitted thinly, not best pleased to accept her own ignorance.
But it didn’t essentially change anything, she reason
ed angrily. She now understood why Azrael could declare that his word was law in Djalia and not be carted away to the funny farm. She also understood that he had much more power over the situation than she had initially appreciated. Well, that was good, Molly thought grimly. With his influence, he would surely be able to get her home to London even faster. And she had to get back, had to get home to be available for Maurice should he need her. After all, she was her grandfather’s only relative and his only representative and she needed to be on the spot to ensure that his needs were always met and that he received the best possible care.
CHAPTER TWO
AZRAEL’S HEART SANK when Butrus ushered Molly Carlisle into the library of his desert fortress, where he normally contrived to relax. In truth, while deeply resenting the position he found himself in when he had done nothing wrong, he had had enough of her for one day. But he straightened his broad shoulders, reminded himself of his duty to Djalia and felt ashamed of that momentary shrinking from what had become necessity.
Whether he liked it or not, he had to placate Molly Carlisle. It didn’t matter how much money it cost to buy her silence. It didn’t matter even that bribery of any kind appalled him and contravened his values. Butrus was correct: ‘needs must when the devil rides’, some homely but apt saying the older man had picked up from his Scottish grandmother. But the entire distasteful business might have been more bearable had he found Tahir’s victim less attractive, he conceded grudgingly.
Of course, he couldn’t remember when he had last had sex. That was probably all that was amiss with him: the weight of a celibate life. Not that, strictly speaking, he was expected to be celibate but he could only relax and enjoy his sensual nature outside Djalian borders because to do otherwise could risk attracting unsavoury comparisons with Hashem’s orgies with his so-called concubines. Unhappily for Azrael, the time and freedom to travel abroad where casual affairs were not seized on and dissected did not feature in his current crammed schedule. And he had already learned that nothing he did, nowhere he went and nobody he even spoke to was considered too trivial to provide fodder for the Djalian free press. His every word, his every act was reported on. Only here in the desert at the fortress built by his ancestors was he usually left alone in peace.