Liz Fielding: The Sheikh's Guarded Heart

‘She didn’t want to check her records?’

‘She was quite adamant.’

‘Did you tell her that Miss Forrester had been injured?’

‘She didn’t ask what had happened to her and I didn’t volunteer any information.’

‘Leave it that way. Meanwhile, find out more about this tour company and the people who run it. And Zahir, be discreet.’

THE room was cool, quiet, the light filtering softly through rich coloured glass—lapis blue and emerald, with tiny pieces of jewel-bright red that gave Lucy the impression of lying in some undersea grotto. A grotto in which the bed was soft and enfolding.

A dream, then.

Lucy drifted away, back into the dark, and the next time she woke the light was brighter but the colours were still there and, although she found it difficult to open her eyes more than a crack, she could see that it was streaming through an intricately pieced stained glass window, throwing spangles of colour over the white sheets.

It was beautiful but strange and, uneasy, she tried to sit up, look around.

If the tiny explosions of pain from every part of her body were not sufficiently convincing, the hand at her shoulder, a low voice that was becoming a familiar backdrop to these moments of consciousness, assured her that she was awake.

‘Be still, Lucy Forrester. You’re safe.’

Safe? What had happened? Where was she? Lucy struggled to look up at the tall figure leaning over her. A surgical collar restricted her movement and one eye still refused to open more than a crack, but she did not need two good eyes to know who he was.

Knife in his hand, he’d told her to be still before. She swallowed. Her throat, mouth were as dry as dust.

‘You remember?’ he asked. ‘The accident?’

‘I remember you,’ she said. Even without the keffiyeh wound about his face she knew the dark fierce eyes, chiselled cheekbones, the hawkish, autocratic nose that had figured so vividly in her dreams.

Now she could see that his hair was long, thick, tied back at the nape with a dark cord, that only his voice was soft, although the savage she’d glimpsed before she’d passed out appeared to be under control.

But she knew, with every part of her that was female, vulnerable, that the man who’d washed her as she lay bloody and dusty on a hospital couch was far more dangerous.

‘You are Hanif al-Khatib,’ she said. ‘You saved my life and took me from the hospital.’

‘Good. You remember.’

Not that good, she thought. A touch of amnesia would have been very welcome right now.

‘You are feeling rested?’

‘You don’t want to know how I’m feeling. Where am I?’

Her voice was cracked, dry, and he poured water into a glass then, supporting her up with his arm, held the glass to lips that appeared to have grown to twice their size. Some water made it into her mouth as she gulped at it. The rest dribbled down her chin, inside the collar.

He tugged on the bow holding it in place and removed it, then dried her face, her neck, with a soft hand towel.

‘Should you have done that?’ she asked nervously, reaching for her throat.

‘Speaking from experience, I can tell you that the collar doesn’t do much good, but the doctor advised keeping it in place until you were fully awake.’

‘Experience? You crash cars that often?’

‘Not cars. Horses.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they crashed me. Polo makes great demands on both horse and rider.’

‘At least the rider has the choice.’ Then, ‘Where am I? Who are you?’ His name and ‘safe’ told her nothing.

‘When I lived in England,’ he said, ‘my friends called me Han.’

‘When I lived in England…’

Her brain felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool, but she was alert enough to understand that this was his way of reassuring her that he understood western expectations of behaviour. Why would he do that unless she had reason to be nervous?

‘What do your enemies call you?’ she snapped back, pain, anxiety, making her sharp. She regretted the words before they were out of her mouth; whatever else he was, this man had saved her from a terrible death. But it was too late to call them back.

His face, his voice expressionless, he replied, ‘I am Hanif bin Jamal bin Khatib al-Khatib. And my enemies, if they are wise, remember that.’

Her already dry mouth became drier and she shook her head, as if to distance herself from what she’d said. Gave an involuntarily squeak of pain.

‘The doctor prescribed painkillers if you need them,’ he said distantly.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She was finding it hard enough to think clearly as it was and she needed all her wits about her. Needed answers. ‘You told me your name before,’ she said. Only this time there was more of it. Steve had explained about the long strings of names and she knew that if she could decipher it she would know his history. ‘Bin means “son of”?’

He bowed slightly.

‘You are Hanif, son of Jamal, son of…’

‘Khatib.’

‘Son of Khatib, of the house of Khatib.’ The name sounded familiar. Had Steve mentioned it? ‘And this is your home?’

Stupid question. Not even the finest private room in the fanciest hospital had ever looked like this. The carved screens, folded back from the window, the flowered frieze, each petal made from polished semi-precious stone, furniture of a richness that would have looked more at home in a palace…

‘You are my guest, Miss Forrester. You will be more comfortable here than in the hospital. Unless you have friends in Ramal Hamrah with whom you would rather stay? Someone I could contact for you?’ he continued. ‘We tried calling your home in England—’

‘You did?’

‘Unfortunately, there was no reply. You are welcome to call yourself.’ He indicated a telephone on the night table.

‘No.’ Then, because that had been too abrupt, ‘There’s no one there.’ No one anywhere. ‘I live alone now. I’m sorry to be so much trouble,’ she said, subsiding into the pillows, but not before she’d seen the state of her arms. The cuts had been stuck together, the grazes cleaned, but the effect was not pretty.

‘Don’t distress yourself. They’ll heal very quickly. A week or two and they’ll be fine.’ Then, ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I don’t want to put you to any more trouble,’ she said. ‘If I could just get dressed, impose on you to call me a taxi.’

‘A taxi?’ He frowned. ‘Why would you need a taxi?’

‘To take me to the airport.’

‘I really would not advise it. You should take a day or two to recover—’

‘I can’t stay here.’

‘—and it will undoubtedly take that long to replace your passport, your ticket. I’m sorry to have to tell you that everything that you were carrying with you was destroyed in the crash.’

‘Destroyed?’ Without warning she caught a whiff of petrol amongst the mingled scents of sweat, dust, disinfectant that clung to her. ‘They were burned?’ And she shivered despite her best effort not to think about how close she had come to being part of the conflagration. ‘I need to see someone about that,’ she said, sitting up too quickly and nearly passing out as everything spun around her.

‘Please, leave it to my aide. He will handle everything,’ he assured her. ‘They will be ready, insha’Allah, by the time you’re fit to travel.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’

He seemed surprised. ‘You are a stranger. You need help. I was chosen.’

Chosen?

She put the oddity of the expression down to the difference in cultures and let it go, contenting herself with, ‘You pulled me out from the car wreck. For most people that would have been enough.’ Then, realising how ungrateful that must have sounded, ‘I know that I owe you my life.’