Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 24

CHAPTER 20

Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed, aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion; but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible.

Jane Austen, Emma

My sleep was the murky, half-dream kind that doesn’t refresh. The mysterious Brit became Mr. Knightly, lecturing Emma on selfish behavior. Emma, who looked like the young woman—California Girl—from the dining room, ran around pulling black burqas off Yemeni women to see if one of them was Miss Taylor, now Mrs. Weston. Tossing and turning on the thin mattress, barely covered with a short and narrow sheet, I felt the night would never end.

My only comfort was my own Mrs. Weston, her fur soft beside me.

Bright morning sun poked insistently at my eyes through flimsy curtains. Loud voices echoed in the hall, accompanied by footsteps that thudded and clicked down the tile-covered floor. At first, I thought I might doze through it. Not possible. I rose, then tied my Travel Smith robe over my nightgown, turned the key in the lock, and peeked out the door.

A mass of turbans, futhas, and wiry bodies crowded the end of the hall where the Brit entered a room last night. Among them were a few white-suited hotel employees, calling in vain for order.

I retreated, splashed cold water on my face, donned sandals, jeans, and long-tailed shirt, and automatically finger-fluffed my hair as I sailed into the hall.

As the only woman in the group, I benefited from the natural chivalry of Yemenis. They made way for me. I took one look and gasped. Nearly gagged.

Michael Petrovich still wore the dust-laden, expensive clothes he’d had on last night, but his gray eyes had lost their intent, ambiguous look. They’d lost any look whatsoever.

The man who’d shared my plane ride, with whom I’d laughed and joked, with whom I’d had lunch, had stopped laughing forever and would never invite anyone to lunch again. Michael lay on a rattan mat on the floor, a jambiya sticking out of his midsection. A sticky pool of blood spread under his body. Piles of vomit gave the room an even more unpleasant odor.

I felt a doomsday thud in my own midsection and fought off nausea. An inconsequential thought almost made me laugh: The ugly rust-colored stains didn’t go with his stylish shirt.