Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

CHAPTER THREE

Violet didn't stop to consider what might have prompted the scream. All she could think was that Sarah was in trouble. But as she turned to rush to her aid, Fayad al Kuwani caught her arm, held her.

'Who is that?' he demanded. 'I understood you lived alone.'

'My neighbour. She's pregnant…' she said, shaking him off, leaving him with nothing but a handful of bathrobe. For a minute she didn't think he was going to let go, but even when it slid from her shoulder, exposing more of her than any man had ever seen, she didn't stop. She'd have run naked into hell for Sarah, and he must have realised that because before that happened he released her, uttering a muffled oath.

It wasn't in English, and she didn't wait for him to translate, but pulled her robe tightly back in place and raced down the hall.

She burst through the kitchen door to find Sarah, still clutching the newspaper she'd brought for Violet, standing on her doorstep. A man, stocking-masked, had his arm around her throat.

'The knife,' he said. 'I want the knife.'

Violet tried to speak, but her tongue was thick, her mouth dry. And, having come to an abrupt halt, she appeared to be fixed to the spot.

'Give it to me!' he demanded, tightening his grip on Sarah. 'Now!' His voice was shaking as much as his hands. Somehow knowing that he was scared, too, didn't help. Scared men were dangerous…

'It's in the fridge,' she managed, not wanting to make any sudden moves.

'Get it!'

'It's frozen. I'll need something to hack it out with.'

Why had that seemed such a good thing yesterday? Right now she'd have given anything to be able to just hand the wretched thing over if only Sarah was safe.

'Use your hands!'

She flew to the fridge, wondering if there was any chance of Mr Tall, Dark and Dangerous doing anything beyond sitting in the safety of his very expensive car and using an equally expensive cellphone to call the police. Well, you wouldn't want to get a suit like that messed up, would you?

Obviously people who flew flags on their cars got an instant response, but it wouldn't be quick enough to help, and if he took after his great-great-grandfather, she was beginning to understand why Fatima had run…

She opened the fridge door. The light, which had been flickering uncertainly for weeks, didn't come on, and it suddenly occurred to her that everything was deathly quiet.

For a moment it seemed as if the world had stopped spinning, then, as she opened the freezer compartment, icy water hit the floor and splashed up over her bare legs, and she was unable to hold back a shriek of her own. After that everything happened very fast. There was a dull thud, and then she was spun off her feet as someone rushed passed her and out through the front door.

Then, as she lay there, icy water seeping through her bathrobe, she had a grandstand view of Tall, Dark and Dangerous lowering Sarah, very gently, into the nearest chair.

Hero material after all.

'Violet!' Sarah exclaimed. 'Are you all right?'

'Me?' she replied, feeling a touch light-headed. 'I'm just peachy.' Then, as it all came rushing back to her, she scrambled to her feet. 'Forget me. What about you? Are you hurt? Is the baby okay?'

'I'm fine,' Sarah said, rubbing at her throat. 'Really. It all happened so fast…'

Her voice was as shaky as her brave smile, and Violet hugged her.

'I'll call the doctor. Get him to check you over.'

'There's no need. Honestly.

'There's every need,' she said, picking up the telephone, hitting fast dial and asking the receptionist to get the doctor to drop everything and get over here right now.

'You shouldn't have done that, Violet,' Sarah protested. 'She's really busy.'

'I think it would be wise to take precautions,' their hero advised. Neither shaken nor stirred, his designer suit still immaculate, he was as steady as a rock, while Violet's legs went suddenly rubbery as reality hit her. She subsided in the chair beside Sarah.

'I wish I'd never seen that knife.'

Fayad, wishing something very similar, flexed his hand, using the pain to distract himself from the sight of Violet Hamilton's creamy shoulder. 'Maybe you should have the doctor check you over, too. You've had a nasty shock.'

'I'm fine,' she snapped. 'I thought you'd run out on me.' Then, tugging her robe back into place, 'Sorry.'

'Don't apologise. You distracted him while I came around the back. A much better plan.'

'I didn't have a-' She stopped as she realised that, somewhat unexpectedly, he was teasing her. 'You'd better run your hand under cold water before it swells.'

Maybe he looked as if he didn't know how to do that for himself, because she leapt to her feet, turned on the tap, filled a glass with cold water for her friend, then, taking his hand, held it under the running water.

'How does it feel?' she asked.

How did it feel to have this stunning girl leaning against him, holding his hand? Her hair, her temple, inches from his mouth, an unconscious display of the soft curve of her breast as she bent closer to check the damage for herself.

She really didn't want to hear about that kind of emptiness.

When he didn't answer, she looked up at him with those extraordinary sea-coloured eyes. 'Maybe you should go to the hospital?' she suggested. 'In case you've broken something?'

'It's just a graze,' he assured her. 'I've had worse. My only regret is that I didn't hit him harder.'

'It doesn't matter. He's gone.' Then, as if suddenly conscious of their closeness, she stepped back, pulled her robe tighter, refastening the belt. 'Just leave it there for a moment,' she advised. 'To be on the safe side.'

'He's gone for now,' Fayad corrected, testing his hand, turning off the water. 'He'll be back. Or someone very like him.'

'Not if you take it away with you. The khanjar,' She returned to the fridge, fetched a foil-wrapped parcel and laid it on the table, as if she couldn't bear to hold it for longer than necessary. 'I hope it's okay.'

He unwrapped the foil, the bubble wrap, the black silk that was rotting at the folds, to reveal the knife. Deadly, beautiful beyond imagining. And trouble.

For both of them.

'I will, of course, relieve you of this burden,' he said. 'However, I'm afraid simply removing it to a place of safety is not likely to end the matter. You're a descendant of Fatima al Sayyid, a woman who ran from her husband, taking the Blood of Tariq with her.'

'The Blood of Tariq?'

'That's what they called it in the newspaper,' her friend said. She had now recovered her composure, along with her colour. 'You and your fancy piece of cutlery made the nationals, sweetie. It's got quite a history, apparently.'

'What kind of history?'

She looked not at her friend, but at him, and he said, 'My great-great-grandfather, Tariq al Kuwani, was wounded fighting for Arab freedom against the Ottoman Empire in the First World War. Yours was there, too, I understand?'

'He was a medical orderly.'

'The bravest of men went into battle armed only with a stretcher.'

'Yes,' she said, finally finding a smile, and he knew he'd said the right thing. 'He was given a medal.' Then, 'Your great-great-grandfather was armed with this khanjar, I suppose?'

'I doubt the Blood of Tariq ever saw action. It's a showpiece, a symbol of wealth and power. A prize captured in battle that Lawrence placed in his hand, declaring that victory had been won with the blood of Tariq. Nonsense, of course, but great PR. And it became a potent symbol in my country.'

'So potent that someone would threaten a pregnant woman to get hold of it?' The smile had gone; her laugh was derisory. 'All that must have happened nearly a hundred years ago!' she protested.

She put on a good show, but there was no doubt that she was quaking to her bare toes.

'Excuse me,' her friend-Sarah-intervened. 'This is all very interesting, but isn't someone going to call the police?'

'I'm sorry you were caught up in this…Sarah?' She nodded. 'My car is outside. I would be happy to take you to the hospital.'

She waved away the suggestion. 'Honestly, I'm fine.' She had quickly regained her colour, and, apparently, her sense of humour. 'And it was my own stupid fault. When I came through the hedge and saw him forcing the door I just screamed.'

They both looked at the splintered doorframe.

'The bolt is only as good as the wood that was holding it,' Sarah said. 'Pathetic. If I'd kept my head I could have slipped home and called the police myself, but you just don't think, do you?'

'Oh, Sarah! I'm so sorry…'

'It wasn't your fault.'

'Of course it was. If I hadn't blabbed about the family history it wouldn't have been all over the newspapers.' Then, 'I'd have given him anything he asked for-you know that, don't you?'

'You were wonderful.' Then, regarding him with a frown, 'As for you-heroic is the only word for it. But where did you spring from? And why do I think I know you?'

'I was at the front door when you screamed, and since I was unable to prevent Miss Hamilton's heroic, if foolhardy, frontal assault, I came around the back.'

'The classic pincer movement.'

'Indeed.' Then, 'As to your second question, I think you'll find that my photograph is also on the front page of the newspaper you're holding.'

It had been brought to him the instant the first edition had hit the streets. The later editions of some of the other papers had picked it up, too.

'Oh, right,' Sarah said. 'That's why I was coming round. To show Violet,' she said, opening it up. 'As I said, you made the nationals. The Blood of Tariq appears to be some long-lost treasure.' Then, 'Oh, good grief…'

'What?' Violet demanded.

Sarah gestured in his direction. 'Listen to this. "A spokesman for Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani,'" she read, angling the front page so that Violet could see the headshot of him they'd found in their files.

They both looked at him, and he acknowledged the likeness with the slightest of bows. Sarah smiled. Violet did not.

Despite the damp, tousled hair, the appalling bathrobe, there was something intensely regal about her. The height helped, of course-she was tall for a woman-but she had a look that could, he suspected, quell the slightest familiarity.

'"…Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani,' her friend Sarah continued, emphasising his title, '"heir apparent to the throne of Ras al Kawi and a direct descendant of Tariq al Kuwani, who is in London this week for an energy conference, suggested that the khanjar might be one of a number of fakes that are known to be in existence…'"

Sarah held out the paper to Violet and, smiling, looked up at him. 'So? Is it a fake, Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani?'

He looked at Violet, then said, 'I think not.'

'She does have a look of her great-great-grandmother, doesn't she?'

'Excuse me?'

Sarah nodded at the dresser, and his heart almost stopped beating as he saw the photograph on the top shelf.

From the moment he'd set eyes on Violet Hamilton he'd been certain that she was a direct descendant of Princess Fatima. Ebony-black hair, skin so fair that it was almost luminous, and eyes the curious colour

that was the legacy of Portuguese invaders, who had built their forts along the coast of Africa and the Gulf centuries earlier, told their own story.

But here was proof indeed-a face he recognised from his own generation of the Sayyid family. Boys he'd grown up with. Their mothers, aunts, sisters.

They were one of the great tribes of Ras al Kawi, equal in status, wealth, influence to the Kuwani, until Lawrence had singled out his great-great-grandfather and in one romantic gesture made him the rallying point for all the tribes of the region, placing him at the head of the newly formed nation of Ras al Kawi.

He reached up and took the photograph from the shelf, then turned to Violet Hamilton and, with the slightest of bows, said, 'Will you come to Ras al Kawi with me, Princess? Bring the khanjar home?'