скачать книгу бесплатно
He sighed. “I’m trying to decide whether or not I should trust you.”
She slid her pen into the top of the clipboard and set the whole thing down. She said pleasantly, “Well, I’ve been sent here to help you. If not me, who are you going to trust?”
Another heavy sigh. “Therein lies my dilemma. You’re all I’ve got.”
Maybe it was the constant browbeating she took over her unfortunate family connections that made his comment rub her the wrong way. But she said a little less pleasantly, “I am a fully trained humanitarian relief worker and I’m generally considered to be a reasonably intelligent human being who doesn’t lie, keeps her word and is classed as trustworthy.”
And, unaccountably, he smiled. “Aah, there it is. A spine. Perhaps you are the person I need after all.”
Huh?
“Answer me this,” he continued. “Who’s going to see that spreadsheet of yours?”
“My team will. General Sharaf’s people will. And I expect we’ll forward the list to the Red Cross.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vinyl-covered passport. “Then, in that case, my name is Akbar—” a pause while he read the document “—Mulwami.”
She frowned. And didn’t bother to write it down. That so wasn’t his name.
He glanced up at her. “Do you need me to spell that?”
She snorted. “No. I need you to quit BSing me.”
He laughed, back to his utterly charming self. “Aah, you and I are going to get along famously. I promise you that is my name as the Baraqi Army knows it to be.”
“And what does your mother know it to be?” she retorted.
He leaned back against the rock wall behind him. “I’ll answer that question if you wish. But first you must promise me something.”
Man, his dimples were lethal. “What’s that?”
“You must solemnly swear not to do or say anything that will get me killed.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Killed? Of course not. I’m here to save lives.”
His voice vibrated with intensity. “Do you swear?”
Katy replied without hesitating, “Of course I do. It’s my job to protect your life to the best of my ability.”
He nodded slowly and murmured so quietly she had to lean close to hear him. “My friends call me Nick. But my mother calls me Nikolas.” A long pause. “Ramsey.”
Chapter 3
In a ravaged corner of Akuba, in a windowless room lit only by the flickering light of a pair of lanterns, a group convened in secret; a dozen dark-robed women, their faces hidden according to the edicts issued by General Sharaf—leader of the coup—only hours ago. Any woman who did not follow the strict religious dress code he’d declared would be whipped.
In a whisper the self-appointed leader of the group asked, “Has anyone received word whether the king is alive or dead?”
A shrug from a castle insider. “Nobody knows. He was seen sitting on his throne moments before the Army burst into the great hall. But that is the last report anyone has of him.”
“Fool,” the leader bit out. “Nonetheless, he must be found. Sharaf must not be allowed to kill him. All our hopes rest with a Ramsey staying in power. Sharaf will strip away every right women have ever had under the Ramseys.”
One of the others spoke hesitantly. “I heard General Nagheb phone someone he called InterAid this morning. He asked them to come monitor prisoners in Baraq. If Sharaf allows them in, perhaps we can make contact with them. Get them to assist us in searching for Nikolas Ramsey.”
The leader shrugged. “Perhaps. We can try. But most of those groups choose to remain neutral. In the meantime, we must look to our own resources to find the king and extract him from the clutches of the Army. All of us must make this our one and only goal for now. Understood?”
Nods all around.
“Very well, then. Go and be safe. And remember—we must find the king before Sharaf does. Our futures and our daughters’ futures depend on it.”
The twelve women rose silently to their feet and slipped one by one out into the frightened, waiting city.
“Nikolas Ramsey?” Katy exclaimed.
“Good Lord, woman, keep your voice down! You just swore not to get me killed!”
“Nikolas Ramsey?” she repeated in a shocked whisper.
He shrugged. “In the flesh.”
“What in the world are you doing here?” Although, as soon as she asked the question, the answer was obvious. He was hiding from Sharaf. But in prison? “Why here?”
“There was nowhere else to go. We were surrounded and the palace was overrun. It was this or die. Although, I think death is probably inevitable for me, don’t you?”
He asked that last bit conversationally. As if they were talking about the weather. “Death is inevitable for all of us,” Katy retorted wryly. “The question is when.”
“Sooner rather than later for me, I should think,” he said dryly. “As soon as my face heals enough for me to be recognized.”
She examined it critically. “You’re pretty messed up. Honestly you look like Quasimodo.”
He looked pained for a moment, then said lightly, “Thank God for small favors.”
“That won’t protect you forever,” she said quietly.
He met her gaze briefly and then his slid away. “No, it won’t.”
She got the impression he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Sympathy washed over her. What a rotten way to spend your final days—waiting and watching the clock tick until your body betrays you and your captors recognize and kill you.
She said, “If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”
He laughed briefly without humor. “How about a hacksaw and a helicopter?”
She smiled gently and reached out to put her hand on his. Electricity shot up her arm, startling her into jerking her hand away. To cover up her reaction to him, she asked hastily, “Is there any chance the Army would let you live if they found out who you were?”
He shook his head sharply. “Not a chance. They have to kill me to solidify their hold on power. As long as I’m alive, Ramsey loyalists will continue to fight.”
She replied, “The way I hear it, the fighting’s pretty much over and the Army’s in control of the country.”
He shrugged, causing all those gorgeous muscles to ripple across his chest. “The first battle may be finished, but the war is far from over.”
Lovely. And here she was, smack-dab in the middle of it.
She jumped when he grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “Listen. Whatever you do, you can’t tell the Army who I am. They’ll kill me the second they know.”
“I understand.” The zinging energy of the man was shooting through her again, but this time she was ready for it. “Truly. I swear they won’t find out from me.”
For just a second desperation glistened in his eyes. He let go of her fingers reluctantly, like a drowning man slipping into the abyss. He whispered, “Please. Help me.”
She thought fast. “Tell you what. I’ll look into the legalities of it. There might be something we can do. You are a head of state, after all. There might be some special rule of prisoner treatment we can invoke in your case. Tonight I’ll take a look at the Geneva Conventions and see what I can find.”
“Don’t talk to your boss about me. Don’t talk to anyone. Trust no one.”
Why the heck not? Aloud she said, “InterAid is not in the business of getting anyone killed. My boss will keep your secret.”
He surged to his feet, looming over her. “Swear to me you will not tell anyone who I am. It must remain our secret. My life depends on it.”
She stared up at him for several seconds. He knew something he wasn’t telling her. Currents of intrigue flowed all around this place, this man. One thing she knew to be true—Nick was really worried about being double-crossed. Although that was probably part and parcel of being a prince his whole life. A rich, handsome, eligible one.
“I said I won’t tell anyone and I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
His simple words were a caress. A reverent touch gliding across her skin. And she was losing her mind. The guy was bruised and battered and filthy, and she was panting after him like a dog in a sauna.
But then he did touch her. And it was a hundred times more seductive in the flesh. His fingertips brushed the back of her hand lightly. Beseechingly. Desperately.
“Be careful. The very fact that you know who I am places you in grave jeopardy, as well.”
She blinked, alarmed. “How? I’m just a random relief worker.”
“This is Baraq. Nothing is simple here. There are plots within plots everywhere. Layers within layers to every plot. If I am killed, you could bear witness to the fact that I was murdered by the Army well after the coup itself was over. They can’t afford to have that information become public. The Baraqi people and world opinion will not tolerate a bunch of murderers ruling this country. That is why they’ll kill you, too.”
She absorbed his words in silence. Damned if what he said didn’t make perfect sense. Foreboding clutched at her throat like a cold, bony hand.
He murmured urgently, “I’m not exaggerating. Trust no one. Both of our lives depend on it.”
His golden gaze bored into her in uncomfortably intense entreaty. He certainly believed his warnings to her, at any rate. Should she?
He exhaled a long, slow breath and said beseechingly, “Please. My life is in your hands.”
He didn’t sound as though he used the word please often. And that was the second time he’d used it with her. Despite his breezy charm, this guy was scared stiff. And she couldn’t blame him. Sharaf’s men hadn’t exactly made the world’s friendliest first impression on her.
Saying “please” was probably a big concession for him. The guy was a king, after all. At least he’d sounded sincere when he’d said it. Maybe she was wrong to protect this guy. Maybe she should ignore his advice and tell her boss who he was after all—
His voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. “I believe you were going to put a bandage on my nose?”
“Right,” she mumbled. “Bandage. The bigger, the better.”
“Exactly.” His relieved smile lit up the room like a floodlight. He added under his breath, “Thank you.”
She got the distinct feeling she’d just stepped over some sort of invisible line. And, once crossed, there was no going back.
Katy stumbled through the rest of the day’s work in a daze, mechanically treating prisoners and recording their condition on her clipboard. Alive! The king of Baraq was alive! And she was the only person who knew it. Was her life really in danger? Or was Nikolas Ramsey just trying to scare her into silence? Should she ignore his warning and tell someone of her discovery or was discretion the better part of valor? One thing he was right about: palpable currents of intrigue flowed around her as she made her way through the palace toward the exit a few hours later.
Unseen eyes glared at her, and she caught the furtive looks and snide comments the Army soldiers cast at her when they thought she wasn’t looking or listening. It was one advantage of the veil over most of her face. Nobody could see her reaction to their jabs, uttered mostly in Arabic they thought she wouldn’t understand. She’d studied the language for four years in college, and it was coming back to her rapidly. She got the distinct feeling her well-being might rest on her secret comprehension of the tongue. Nope, not gonna let on that I understand them just yet.
The Army didn’t deign to provide the aid workers transportation to their hotel, so Katy, Larry and two other team members, who’d been treating the more seriously wounded prisoners housed in the palace proper, convened at the main drawbridge at dusk to walk to their lodgings. Soldiers all but pushed them out a man-sized postern gate within the larger drawbridge. The good news was the walk was steeply downhill into the crowded city streets. The bad news was the hike back up the hill tomorrow morning was going to be a bear.
When they arrived at the hotel, Katy was segregated from the men and given a room on a floor allotted only to women. Her room was sparse and in need of a good cleaning, not to mention stuffy with the remnants of the day’s warmth. There was one toilet for the entire floor of twelve rooms and one bathroom with an old claw-foot bathtub. At least it was clean and in good working order.
She sat down on her bed and winced at the sag in the mattress. But, hey, it was better than the stone ledges the prisoners were sleeping on. She stripped off her abaya, considering whether it would be dry by morning if she washed it right then. She opened her suitcase, which had magically appeared in her room. And stopped cold. Someone had searched it. The clothes weren’t folded right, and her things weren’t in the same places she’d put them when she’d left home.
She went next door and knocked on Hazel’s door. The older woman stuck her head around the jamb. “Oh, it’s you. Come on in.”
Katy stepped inside and grinned at Hazel’s shorts and halter top. No wonder the woman had hidden behind the door. She’d be arrested if any Baraqi Army type saw her in such lascivious garb. “Was your suitcase searched, Hazel?”
The older woman looked up at her quickly. “No. Was yours?”
For some reason, a twinge of foreboding made her reticent to tell anyone about it. Maybe it was Nikolas Ramsey’s warning. Or maybe it was a gut instinct. Her brothers swore by them. She shrugged. “I guess I’m just getting paranoid after the way the Army’s treating us women.”
Again Hazel shot her a strange look. “They’ve been exceedingly polite to me and Phyllis. Did you do something to make them mad?”
Katy blinked. “Not that I know of.” On yet another hunch, she asked, “Do you speak Arabic?”
Hazel nodded. “Fluent in it. I can argue politics and cuss out a cab driver with the best of them.”
“And there haven’t been any nasty comments or innuendos flying around you from the soldiers?”
“Nope.” Hazel looked at her closely. “You going to be able to hack it in this country?”
Katy drew herself up straight. “Of course.” Why in the world was she being singled out for harassment by the Army? Surely they didn’t know or give a flip for who her brothers were!
The older woman nodded. Paused. Told her sagely, “Don’t go out by yourself. Eat in the hotel or go with a group into the bazaar to buy food. And don’t touch any of the meat from the street vendors. It’ll give you a case of Montezuma’s revenge you’ll never forget.”
Katy smiled at the small overture of friendly advice. “Thanks.”
Hazel nodded briskly.
Thoughtfully Katy wandered downstairs to snag a couple pieces of fruit and returned to her own room. She unlocked the door and let herself in. Night had fallen while she’d been gone, and she had to cross her room to reach the lamp in the corner. The white gauze curtains billowed in the breeze, and again she stopped cold.
She hadn’t left her window open.
She turned around slowly, scanning the dark corners and shadows dancing in her room. Nothing there. She was alone. She let out a slow breath. Still in the dark, she moved over to the floor-to-ceiling casement windows and shut them. She made a special point of locking them, as well. Only then did she move over to the lamp and switch it on. It bathed the room in soft yellow light.
She looked around again. And froze. There was something on her pillow. A note. She moved over to it and looked at it without touching it. It was a single sheet of beige linen stationery folded in half. In cramped cursive were the letters M-l-l-e, the French abbreviation for Mademoiselle. Gingerly Katy picked it up. Unfolded it. More of the cramped cursive.
She translated the French quickly in her head.
King Nikolas is not dead, and we desperately need your assistance in finding him. Please help us in this vital endeavor, mademoiselle. We shall wait with utmost urgency until you succeed. We will contact you soon. Be warned—there are those within the lion who would use you to gain their own ends.
