Читать книгу Midnight in the Desert Collection - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 40

Montreux, Switzerland—The third of June

“I CAN’T MARRY YOU, Paul. Though I think you’re a wonderful man, I’m not in love with you.”

“Since your grandmother died, you’re too sad to know your own feelings right now.”

“But I do know them. A marriage between us wouldn’t work.”

“So you’re really going on that trip?”

“Yes. I want to walk in her footsteps for a time. It’s my tribute to her.”

“You shouldn’t go there alone, Lauren. At least let me come with you to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what? No, Paul.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. This has to be good-bye.”

The Nafud Desert—The fifth of June

THEY WANDERED IN THE DESERT in a solitary way. Thirsty, their souls fainted in them.

The line from Psalms didn’t leave Lauren Viret’s mind as she drank from her water bag, surveying the indescribable vastness and loneliness of the northern Arabian desert.

Since they had left the major city of El-Joktor, bone-scorching heat had born down on their little group of twenty penetrating deeper into the desert’s heart. Forty actually if you counted the camels. In a movie, the audience would consider them secondary characters. But out here where there were no movie cameras rolling, the humped female dromedary played the star role.

Lauren was less than a granule on this endless burning waste of sand where one could be swallowed alive in an instant. Before she’d set out this morning on her forty-mile journey, her guide, Mustafa, had lectured her that her camel was more valuable than any human.

She’d read enough firsthand accounts of desert survival to believe it. Besides transportation the camels provided shelter, protection, even water and food in dire circumstances.

While she was deep in thought, Mustafa urged his beast forward to ride alongside her. He talked with excitement as he pointed out the huge, awe-inspiring crescent-shaped dunes in this area of the Nafud Desert. It was true she’d never seen anything like them. No wonder her grandmother had never stopped talking about this place.

But Mustafa had no idea it was something flesh and blood, someone more awesome than these dunes that had captivated Lauren’s American grandmother many years ago.

“Malik was bigger than life, Lauren,” her grandmother had once told her, “the sheikh over all his people. His word was law. He was as beautiful as a god. I couldn’t help myself loving him any more than I could stop breathing.”

Lauren couldn’t imagine a love like that.

She turned her head to glance at the camel drivers in their head scarves and cloaks, true men of the desert no doubt wondering what had possessed her to come out here alone. Lauren knew she looked out of place, a blonde American woman wearing the Arab male guthra and lightweight kandura herself, just the way her grandmother Celia Melrose Bancroft had once done.

Everyone at home had marveled over Lauren’s resemblance to her grandmother. Odd how certain genetic traits skipped a generation. Lauren’s mother had been a stunning brunette, as dark as Lauren was fair. Celia had given her daughter an Arabic name, Lana, meaning tender, which had added to the mystique of Lauren’s beautiful mother. Both her mother and father had tragically died in a cable-car accident while skiing six months after Lauren was born, but thankfully Celia had hundreds of photographs which Lauren pored over to keep her father and mother alive in her heart.

“Jolie-laide,” Paul had once murmured when he’d first seen a close up of Lana, but Lauren had heard him. In French that meant striking, in an interesting way without being beautiful. When she’d asked Paul what he’d meant by it he’d said, “I’m afraid you inherited all the ravissante genes, petite. No offense to your lovely mother.”

Lauren had known that Paul had been flirting with her at the time. Of course, he didn’t realize that Lauren’s part-American, part-Arabic mother had the look of her father, the great Sheikh Malik Ghazi Shafeeq. Lauren had seen a copy of a picture of her grandfather from an old Arab newspaper her grandmother had once shown her. It was still with Celia’s treasures.

The sheikh had been dressed in robes and head scarf, making it impossible to see much, except that he had a proud nose and wide mouth, which he’d bequeathed to his daughter. Lauren wondered if her grandfather might still be alive today? Probably not.

Now that Celia had passed away, no one else on earth knew of Lauren’s relationship to her Arabic grandfather and they never would. But her curiosity where he was concerned had been one of the main reasons driving her to make this journey into the desert.

Tonight she’d camp out under the stars. Tomorrow the caravan would continue on to the Oasis Al-Shafeeq where she’d spend several weeks and hoped to find out more about the man himself.

On occasion Celia would say, “The one thing I see that reveals the Arab blood in you is your fierce passion for life. Only in that regard have I glimpsed signs of Malik. Mark my words … with the right man, that passion will be unleashed.”

Paul, a newspaper journalist from Paris, could never have been that man. Lauren liked Paul, but in her heart she was waiting for the day she experienced the grande passion her grandmother had often talked about.

Though Lauren had turned down Paul’s marriage proposal, she feared that he hadn’t given up hope of marrying her and would be waiting for her upon her return. It was this unflagging trait to his personality that had won him an interview with Celia in the first place.

For several years Paul had been wanting to do a series for his paper on the life of Richard Bancroft, Celia’s deceased husband. Though Celia had been a young unwed mother at the time, Richard had married her and become a father figure to a young Lana. He had later become a favorite of Lauren’s too, especially after her parents had been killed. Apparently it had never bothered Richard that Celia did not tell him the name of her lover, and Lana’s father. It was simply enough that she’d loved Richard.

Richard had been a celebrated adventurer and anthropologist and had led fourteen different expeditions into some of the most inhospitable places on earth. Lauren and her grandmother had often gone along on some of his expeditions, amazed at the new sights they saw on their travels. But for some reason Richard had never traveled to the Arabian desert, and so neither Lauren nor her grandmother had ever ventured there either. Whether it was because her grandmother considered it too sacred a place to revisit with another man, or whether Richard’s interests took him elsewhere, Lauren would never know.

With persistence, Paul had finally won the opportunity to interview Celia about her life with Richard and their many travels. From the beginning he’d made it his business to get to know Lauren, too, who had still lived with her grandmother in Montreux and was helping to compile Richard’s many notes and diaries into a book for publication.

Celia had found Paul charming. Lauren had, too, but for her their relationship had been strictly platonic; her heart wasn’t involved. Her grandmother had known that, but one day had confessed to Lauren that her greatest fear was to leave her beloved granddaughter alone without a companion to share her life.

“I won’t always be alone,” she had assured Celia. “Like you, I plan to travel and do something worthwhile with my life. In time someone will come along.” Lauren hadn’t wanted to cause her dying grandmother any unnecessary anxiety, but there’d always been honesty between them.

Once Celia was buried, Lauren had made preparations for this trip to the Oasis Al-Shafeeq. She had needed to see the place where her grandmother—romantic to the depths of her being—had experienced a soul-captivating love encountered beneath a full desert moon.

Lauren’s hand instinctively went to her throat to touch the small hammered-gold medallion with its inscribed half moon on a gold chain hidden beneath her clothes. It had been her grandmother’s greatest treasure, given to her by her lover during a romantic visit to the Garden of the Moon.

She’d mentioned another garden, too, the Garden of Enchantment.

The names had delighted Lauren and she knew she had to see them while she visited there. She considered the medallion a talisman she hoped would one day bring her the same kind of magic that had bonded her grandmother to her beloved sheikh, Malik, body and soul.

With her grandmother now gone, Lauren had wanted to rid herself of her intense sadness and had decided to come on this adventure. She intended to take the same trip her grandmother had taken years before, done in the exact same way.

Celia had been the only mother Lauren had ever known. Now that she was alone, Lauren’s whole focus was on traveling to a spot that had resulted in a life-changing experience for Celia. To revisit the spot that had held such treasured memories for her grandmother.

Paul had begged to accompany Lauren on her trip. Earlier in the month he’d met some minor prince from the northern Arabian kingdom at one of the gaming tables at the casino in Montreux. Always looking for something newsworthy, Paul had taken the opportunity to get an interview and had snapped a few pictures of the prince and his retinue for the paper.

During their conversation, the prince, obviously flattered by Paul’s attention and wanting the notoriety, had rhapsodized about the beauty of the Nafud, an area full of great photographic opportunities. He’d boasted that one day he would rule over the entire kingdom. Paul had confided to Lauren that even if it was only wishful thinking on the prince’s part, it made a good story.

When he’d passed on this information to Lauren with so much eagerness, she’d hated turning him down, especially after he’d been so good to her grandmother toward the end of her life. But Lauren knew that Paul already had strong feelings for her and she’d refused to lead him on. He was an attractive man who deserved to fall in love with a woman who could love him back. Lauren wasn’t that person.

Lost in thought now that she’d had hours to become accustomed to the jostling of her camel’s strange gait, she hardly noticed the change in the topography to the southwest. It seemed there was a ridge of brownish mountains appearing as if out of nowhere. She frowned. Yesterday on her flight from Geneva, she’d studied a map of this area, but there’d been no indication of mountains alongside her proposed route to the oasis. She was positive of it.

Suddenly there was shouting. To her ears, the Arabic language always sounded a little like shouting, but these were guttural shouts of a different kind. They sent a thrill of alarm through her body.

“Mustafa?” she called to get his attention before realizing he must have moved further back to talk to the other men. She turned her head to find him. The caravan had stopped. “Mustafa?” she shouted so he’d hear her. “What’s happening?”

His camel came up alongside hers. “A sandstorm! We must take cover at once! Pull on the reins so your camel will sit. Quickly!”

Sandstorm. The dreaded violent phenomenon of the desert. At full force more terrifying than a hurricane or a tornado. Only a few days ago she’d read about a caravan many years ago with two thousand people and eighteen hundred camels being overtaken by a storm. Enormous surges and clouds of red sand were raised and rolled forward, burying the whole tribe in its way. Only one Bedouin had survived to write about it.

The surge of wind he’d described in his account now snatched at her cloak without mercy, as if determined to remove it. A strange yellow color stained the blue sky, blotting it out as if it had never existed. It moved fast toward them like a pyroclastic flow from a volcano, but she heard no sound. Panic attacked her because she was finding it difficult to breathe.

Suddenly Mustafa pulled her off her camel with almost superhuman strength and pushed her against the camel’s leeward side. “Hold on to the trappings, mademoiselle! Cover your entire head and burrow against the animal.”

“But where will you be?” she cried out in fright.

“Next to you, mademoiselle. You mus—” But she wasn’t destined to hear the rest. His words were muffled as he pulled the ends of his scarf around his face. One second he was there, the next second she saw … nothing.

There was an eerie din in her ears.

“Mustafa!” she screamed, but sand filled her nostrils and throat, gagging her. She covered up, feeling herself start to suffocate. She was drowning in sand. Her head spun like a top, gaining momentum.

We’re all going to die, was her last thought before oblivion took over.

Prince Rashad Rayhan Shafeeq, acting sheikh of the northern Arabian kingdom of Al-Shafeeq whilst his father was ill, had only experienced two moments of real jubilation in his life. Both times had been in his early teens. The first was when he’d broken in the stallion his father had given him. The other time had been when his father and the pilot had survived the crash of a small plane and had been missing in the desert for three days.

This afternoon at the mining city of Raz, he was feeling a different kind of elation mixed with personal satisfaction. This moment had been a long time in coming, three years in fact. Gold had kept the royal family prosperous for centuries and would continue to do so for the next thousand years, but his gamble to do more drilling—a secret those involved had strenuously guarded—had paid off.

Rashad glanced at the heads of the various departments seated around the conference table. He’d called in the most trusted of those who worked for him.

“Gentlemen. Today I met with the chief geologist and engineer who’ve given me the news I’ve been waiting for. The recent finds of minerals are so vast, my vision of opening up whole new industries to benefit my father’s kingdom has been realized. Besides thousands of new jobs over time, it will mean more education opportunities for the tribe. More hospitals and health care.”

Cheers resonated off the walls of the conference room.

This land had belonged to his family for centuries. They had rights to all the minerals and metals being taken from the ground. Various tribes throughout the years had coveted this area rich in resources beyond anyone’s dreams and had come against the people of Al-Shafeeq, spilling too much blood, but they’d never prevailed. Thankfully, in these modern times, there wasn’t that same kind of strife. Any problems today came from within the circle of Prince Shafeeq’s own extended family, but he didn’t have time to think about that now.

“Tonight when I return to the palace, I’ll inform the king, who will be overjoyed.” These days his father suffered from diabetes and had to be more careful in everything he did and ate. “I have no doubts he’ll declare a day of celebration. Your hard work has not gone unappreciated and each of you will receive a large bonus for your excellent work and your loyalty to the royal family.”

With spirits so high, he barely heard someone calling to him. He turned his head. “Your Highness,” the gold-plant manager beckoned to him from the doorway amidst the escalating noise. Rashad saw the concerned look on his face and excused himself to go out in the hall.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, but there was a sandstorm between El-Joktor and Al-Shafeeq, catching a caravan en route unawares.”

The bad news tarnished an otherwise red-letter day. “You have eye witnesses?”

“A passing horseman saw what was left of it from a distance and rode here for help. He noticed some camels wandering, but had no idea how many tribesmen survived or are dead and buried beneath the sand.”

His gut clenched. “How far away?”

“Twelve miles.”

“Assemble a search-and-rescue party to head out on horseback with supplies immediately. Have water loaded on to my helicopter and I’ll fly over the site to assess the damage and look for survivors. If needs be, I’ll airlift the worst casualties to Al-Shafeeq.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Rashad rejoined the men in the conference room and told them what had happened. The news galvanized everyone into action. They ran out the door behind Rashad to help in the rescue effort.

“Tariq? Come with me!” At a time like this, they would need all the help they could get and Tariq was a trusted colleague at the plant. His help would be invaluable.

At the waiting helicopter where water and other emergency supplies were being loaded, Rashad climbed into the pilot’s seat and did a pre-flight check. One of his bodyguards sat in back, followed by Tariq, who finished loading supplies then strapped himself in the co-pilot’s seat.

It was always dangerous to approach strangers in the desert, but with the knowledge that his own tribesmen might be involved, Rashad couldn’t look the other way. Within seconds he had the rotors whining and they lifted off.

He wished he could fly this machine as fast as his tribe’s famous streamlined falcons flew. When they went into a stoop for their prey, Rashad had clocked them doing 200 mph. Getting to the scene of the tragedy quickly was crucial if it meant lives could be saved.

This part of the desert was known for violent winds that rose up suddenly without warning. Sandstorms weren’t so common in the area, but when they did come, they could be devastating.

Before long he spotted cloaked figures and camels clustered together. Tariq handed him the binoculars for a better look. All were waving. The situation might not be as bad as first reported. He gave back the glasses and set the helicopter down a short distance off, willing to take the risk to his own safety.

“Careful, Your Highness,” Tariq cautioned. “It could be bandits luring us into the open. Someone may have planned an ambush and is waiting for us to walk into it.”

Rashad supposed it was possible, but then a group of men from the caravan came running toward them and Rashad recognized Mustafa Tahar before they bowed down to praise the prince for their deliverance.

“It’s all right,” Rashad advised his companions. Even as the blades were still rotating, whipping up sand, Tariq began lowering supplies. Rashad shut off the engine and jumped down to help carry water, that vital necessity meaning life or death under these circumstances.

Mustafa, a reputable caravan cameleer from the oasis whom Rashad had known for years, motioned him over to a spot where he saw a body laid out on the sand and covered by blankets.

“This one is still alive, but without a doctor to rehydrate her, she will not live. I tried to give her the little water I had left, but it ran out of her mouth.”

“She?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Rashad hunkered down and lifted the blanket off her body, surprised to see a woman lying on her side wearing a man’s kandura. His fingers felt for a pulse at her slim wrist. It was slow, but it was there. She wore no jewelry on her delicate hands, only a gold watch around her wrist. Rashad noticed that she was already feverish.

His gaze traveled over her, stunned by the sight of hair as diaphanous as gossamer despite the sand particles. Her beauty was a revelation. It caused him to pause for a second before he reached down and picked her up; her slight weight filled his arms, sending an odd sensation through him.

Though his people believed in omens, he was more skeptical and refused to credit what he was feeling as anything more than a response to an attractive female. He hadn’t been with one in several weeks. Affairs of state for his father had kept him too busy.

This woman’s pallor didn’t diminish her fresh-faced, porcelain complexion. A slight fruity fragrance escaped the silkiest hair ever to touch his cheek. Wisps of it, not confined, framed classic features. Her feminine scent tantalized his nostrils and further weakened him in ways his mind refused to acknowledge.

Mustafa followed him to the helicopter where Tariq assisted in strapping her into the seat behind them.

“She was traveling to Al-Shafeeq.”

“Alone?” Rashad couldn’t imagine why.

“Yes.” Mustafa scratched the side of his cheek. “I thought it strange, too. Here is her passport.”

Rashad grimaced before putting it inside his pocket. “Is there anyone else who needs immediate treatment?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Good, then I’ll fly her to the palace for medical care. Help is coming from Raz with provisions for you. They’ll be here soon.”

Mustafa nodded his thanks and once more Rashad started up the helicopter, this time heading for Al-Shafeeq. He reached for his satellite phone to call Nazir. His personal assistant at the palace would make certain the doctor for the royal family would be standing by ready to take over.

After a short flight, Rashad put down at the side of the palace. He let Tariq and the bodyguard lower the woman out of the helicopter. The less he had to do with this incredibly appealing female, the better. A team of medical people rushed forward and took her seemingly lifeless form inside.

Assured she’d get the best treatment possible, he told the men to climb back in the helicopter and he’d fly them back to Raz. Rashad still had business to finish up.

During the flight Tariq remained uncharacteristically quiet. Rashad cast him a side glance. “What’s on your mind, Tariq? I haven’t heard a word out of you.”

“It’s not natural for a woman to be out here alone. Especially one so young.”

“I agree, but this one is foreign, which explains a lot.”

“She is very, very beautiful. Some man will suffer if he learns the sand has claimed her. Let’s hope the doctor can save her.”

Rashad didn’t respond because Tariq’s words had sent an invisible wind racing over his skin, lifting the hairs on his bronzed arms and nape. That was the second time within an hour he’d felt a quickening. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

Anxious to get back to work on his new plans, Rashad set them down outside the main plant, only to hear his phone ring as Tariq exited the chopper. Rashad checked the caller ID; it was the doctor back at the palace.

His body tautened. The man was probably phoning to tell Rashad he’d lost his patient. And what if he had? What could that possibly mean to Rashad, except that he would feel sorrow for anyone who’d died in those circumstances? He finally answered the call. “Dr. Tamam?”

“I’m glad you answered right away.”

“Did I get the American woman to you too late?”

“No. She’s slowly reviving with the IV.”

Rashad released his breath, unaware he’d been holding it until he’d heard the news. “She was very fortunate. Is she coherent yet?”

“No, but that’s good.”

Rashad nodded to himself. “She’s going to be in shock while she recovers from her ordeal.” He waited for a response, but when it came, the doctor’s words surprised Rashad.

“This woman needs complete privacy, away from everyone. Do you have a suggestion, Your Highness?”

This was no normal request from the doctor, and Rashad was immediately alerted. Without having to think about it he said, “The garden suite.”

It was on the second floor of the palace with a rooftop view. A private passageway led to it from the main upstairs hallway. Because of its isolation from the rest of the palace, other members of the family had used it as their bridal suite at the beginning of their honeymoons.

No one would be occupying it again until his own wedding night, scheduled in six months. Lines darkened Rashad’s face at the thought.

“Good. The nurse and I will transfer her there immediately.”

Nothing else was forthcoming, which wasn’t like the usually loquacious doctor. An unsettling feeling swept through Rashad. “I’ll be with you shortly, Doctor.”

“I will be waiting for you.” Dr. Tamam clicked off.

The doctor who’d faithfully looked after his family for years had just ended the call before Rashad could ask any more questions. That alone told him the older man was keeping some information that would be for Rashad’s ears alone.

Like everyone else on the staff, the doctor kept his ear to the ground for anything that appeared suspicious. One could never be too careful where the safety of Rashad’s family was concerned.

Rashad entered the plant office, intending to work on some details needing attention, but he found he couldn’t concentrate. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he decided to fly back to Al-Shafeeq to find out what was going on. After a quick shower and a meal in his own suite, he left for the other wing of the palace in one of his silk lounging robes.

There was a cultivated garden of exotic flowers by the patio of the garden suite. His mother, along with the gardeners, often tended it because she had a special love for them. Rashad had decided on this suite for their patient partly since the American was a rather exotic species herself. He thought of Tariq’s comment—very, very beautiful didn’t begin to cover Rashad’s description of the woman.

He opened the doors and nodded to the nurse who told him the doctor was still in with the American. Rashad walked on through the large sitting room to the bedroom. From a distance he saw the patient in bed with an IV drip hanging from the stand placed at the side. He drew closer. The doctor stood at the other side, checking her pulse. When he saw Rashad, he lowered the woman’s arm and moved toward him.

“How is she?” Rashad asked in a quiet voice.

“Coming along. I put something in her IV to help her sleep. Tomorrow she should be in better shape to cope with what happened. I’m leaving the nurse to watch over her during the night and give her oxygen if she needs it. I wanted you here because I’d like you to take a look at what I found hanging from the chain around her neck.”

Rashad’s brows formed a black bar before he moved past the doctor to see what he was talking about. Closer now, he could tell the IV was doing its job. There was more color in the woman’s cheeks. Her hair had been washed, and the wavy strands had a sheen like that on the sheerest wings of the butterflies hovering over the flowers in the garden. Her dark lashes and brows provided a contrast that made her even more stunningly beautiful.

The nurse had dressed her in a white cotton shift. A sheet had been pulled up to her shoulders, but he glimpsed a gold chain around her neck. He flashed the doctor a glance. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“This. I took the liberty of removing it at the clinic before I did anything else.”

As he glanced at the shiny object held in the doctor’s palm, Rashad drew in a ragged breath. It was a round gold medallion with a half moon inscribed—the symbol of the Shafeeq royal family.

Only when a new male member was born was another one minted. Rashad had been given his when he’d come of age at sixteen. They were all worn around the neck on a chain, but Rashad had broken with tradition and had asked for his to be fashioned into a ring he could use as his personal seal for important documents. He kept it in the desk of his office here at the palace.

For this woman from another continent to be in possession of one, let alone wearing it, simply wasn’t possible! Yet the truth lay in front of him, mere inches away.

How had she come by it?

Without hesitation he pocketed the medallion before returning to the woman. With great care he found the little catch to remove the chain, aware of the softness of her creamy skin against his bronzed knuckles; such skin the women of his tribe didn’t possess.

Their patient made a little sound, then moved her head to the other side, as if she’d felt the slight caress of his flesh against hers. He held his breath, half hoping she’d wake up so he could look into her eyes and see through to her soul to where she kept her secrets.

The other half of him hoped she’d stay asleep, thus prolonging the moment when she had to be told she’d almost died. There was a penalty for experiencing the terrible beauty of the desert. Sometimes the price was too great, but this foreign woman had been willing to take the risk. Why?

He stared at the medallion, fingering its smoothness until his jaw hardened. An ill wind boded no good. His mother had said it many times. Nothing about the woman or the medallion added up.

Confounded by the situation, he pocketed the chain with the medallion, then turned to the doctor whose shrewd gaze told its own story. There were few secrets between the two of them. “You were right to tell me about this, but say nothing to anyone else.”

“My lips are closed tighter than the eye of the needle, Your Highness. My nurse wasn’t allowed to undress and bathe the patient until I’d safely removed the medallion.”

In the past the doctor had saved Rashad’s life on more than one occasion, and Rashad trusted him completely. “I owe you a great deal. Thank you for taking care of her.”

The doctor nodded. “I’m going home. Call if you need me. I’ll look in on her later.”

As soon as he left, Rashad went through the suitcases left by the maids. He did a thorough search of both, looking for a clue that would help explain this mystery, but he turned up nothing.

To his surprise the woman had packed with no frills. Unlike most females, her underwear and nightgowns were modest. Two dresses for evening, one a simple black, the other cream. A pair of high heels, some sandals and a sweater. The rest, practical clothing for the desert. A small kit with few cosmetics or makeup. She packed like a person used to traveling light.

Rashad knew better than to prolong his stay at the woman’s bedside. His thoughts would wander down different paths, distracting him from his mission to unmask her. Like the fragrant white moonflower, she held her secret within her petals, only revealing it in full moonlight when no one was watching.

For the good of the family he’d sworn a holy oath to protect, he would wait until daylight to learn how she’d come by the medallion.

Once he’d said goodnight to the nurse, he strode down a long hallway to his own second-floor suite on the other side of the palace and dismissed his staff. He needed to be alone. After pouring himself a cup of hot black coffee, he wandered through to his bedroom. Reaching for the woman’s passport, he sat down in a chair to study it.

Lauren Viret. Twenty-six. Few people looked good in a passport photo, but she was one woman who couldn’t take a bad picture. Even lying there unconscious, her beauty had reached out to him, stirring him on some deeper level.

Address: Montreux, Switzerland.

Montreux. The town where the Shafeeq family did their banking. When he had stayed there in order to do business, he had sometimes skied at Porte du Soleil, only a half hour from the Swiss town with its exuberant night life. Rashad had no use for casinos or partying. On the other hand, his forty-year-old cousin Faisal, the ambitious son of his father’s younger brother Sabeer, frequented the place on a regular basis, mostly for pleasure.

Rashad liked the snow, but he much preferred flying to Montreux in summer. The sight of Lake Geneva from the bedroom balcony of the family apartment mesmerized him. So much blue water to be seen, with steamers and sailboats, when he’d been born in a land with so little of the precious element above ground. Below the Arabian desert there was a vast amount of water, more than the uninformed person knew.

For years he’d been working to find a way to channel more of it to the surface to water flocks and irrigate crops. A fertile land for the growing population of his people. That was his next project in the years to come, but for the moment he was keeping his plans a secret from his uncle’s family living nearby. There’d been enough jealousy from that sector to last a lifetime.

Rashad took a deep breath before studying the street address listed in the passport. It was in the wealthiest area of the town bordering the lake. Who was paying for Lauren Viret to live among the pieds-a-terre of royals in Montreux?

Where and how had she come by the medallion? There were only eight in existence.

Reaching the limit of his patience, Rashad closed the passport and tossed it on the nearest table, a beauty inlaid with mother of pearl. It was late. He had no answers to this riddle and needed sleep. Tomorrow he’d get to the bottom of it by drawing close to her. It was a task he found himself looking forward to with uncommon anticipation.