Jacqueline Diamond - Captured By A Sheikh

A sense of unreality teased at Holly. Was she really about to eat dinner with an Arabian sheikh in a robe and headdress?

As he moved around the kitchen, the white fabric molded itself to his powerful build. She wished she weren’t so aware of Sharif’s leashed strength and the smoldering way he studied her when he thought she was unaware.

For one traitorous moment, she wished that, for one night, she could be someone other than prosaic Holly Rivers. That she could yield to instincts that she didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly justify.

No, she must not think that way. She must set her mind to escaping.

The man had said they were in a canyon. Even in paved-over Orange County, there remained wilderness areas with thick undergrowth inhabited by coyotes and mountain lions. Did she really dare to take the baby out there?

Gazing down at Ben, Holly saw that he’d dozed off. Gently, she settled him on the center of the queen-size bed.

The bell on the microwave indicated their food was ready. Her mind still mulling the dangers of an escape, Holly stood up. Without warning, the world began to spin, and she groped shakily for support.

Swiftly, Sharif reached her side. As he caught Holly’s arm, her knees went weak and she had to lean against him.

“The drug must be affecting your balance,” he said. “It will help if you eat something.”

“I thought I was over it.” Glancing up, she found his face close to hers, his gaze filled with concern. She knew she ought to be frightened, but instead she felt relaxed. Trusting.

“Stay in bed. I’ll bring the food here.” His low tone vibrated through her.

“No.” Holly didn’t dare fall asleep again. They needed to talk. The more she knew, the better her chances of getting out alive. “I want to sit at the table.”

“I’ll help you.” One arm encircled her waist. As the sheikh steered her across the room, she detected other thicknesses of cloth beneath the white fabric. So he was dressed under his robe. The realization highlighted how little she knew about him or his culture.

“At home, do you live in a tent, or a palace, or what?” she asked. “I don’t know much about Alqedar. Or about sheikhs, either.”

His jaw worked, and she realized he was suppressing a smile. Okay, she probably did sound like an idiot, but how was she to know?

“I live in a palace, and we have all the comforts of home.” Supporting her with one arm, he pulled out a chair at the wooden table. “Most of Alqedar’s leaders are educated in the West. We must be able to bridge two worlds, preserving our traditions while meeting the industrialized nations on their own terms.”

“You certainly speak English well.” She sank onto the chair, and immediately missed the comfort of his nearness. “Where did you go to school?”

“At Columbia, in New York.” He took a seat opposite her. “So I am familiar with your country.”

“New York is only one small part of America.”

“I have traveled through most of the states,” he said. “The dramatic landscapes of Utah and Arizona are like nothing else I’ve seen. And some of your cities exert a unique charm.”

Holly felt more provincial than ever. She’d seen less of her own country than this foreigner.

He dished some food onto her plate. Inhaling the aromas, Holly found that she really was hungry.

For a while, they ate without speaking. Under the table, the sheikh’s legs brushed hers. Although he moved them away, she was left with an impression of muscle and sinew.

“Tell me exactly why you kidnapped Ben,” she said. “You were afraid of a custody battle?”

“Exactly. The practices of your legal system do not always tally with those of my country,” he said. “We hoped for a quick getaway.”

“But now that your plan has failed—”

“It hasn’t failed, it has suffered a few setbacks,” he replied. “We incurred what you Americans call ‘the double whammy.’ We got shot twice, first by a camera and then with a gun.”

“You never explained who was firing at us,” she said. “Do you know?”

“Not for certain.” As Sharif ate, she saw that the backs of his hands bore thin, straight scars, as from knife wounds. “I have enemies, from my country’s fight for freedom. It is also possible that your sister has enemies.”

“Jazz hangs out with some strange people, but as far as I know, they don’t carry weapons.”

“What kind of strange people?” From a plastic bottle, he poured mineral water into two glasses.

“Musicians.” With their long hair and disorderly life-style, Jazz’s colleagues had little in common with most people Holly knew. “Maybe they only seem strange in Southern California, because they’re more interested in making music than money.”

“Your sister was interested in money, to make a demonstration recording,” Sharif reminded her.

“I wish she’d told me,” Holly said. “I would have loaned it to her. Or Trevor would have. He manages my parents’ estate, not that it’s worth much. But he’s always come through in a pinch. How much did you pay her?”

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Sharif said.

She choked on her food, and had to wash it down with water. “A hundred and—? Jazz got that much?”

“No, only half was paid in advance, and the clinic took a share,” he said. “I presume she received something in the order of thirty or forty thousand.”

“She left eleven thousand dollars in her checking account,” Holly said. “I’m sure she spent some money on living expenses and maternity clothes. She must have taken the rest with her in cash.”

“And you truly have no idea why she left?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t know why she sent Ben to me, either.”

“Perhaps that musician friend of hers was involved,” he said. “Ten or twenty thousand dollars would be a fortune to him.”

Holly pictured Griff, whom she’d known casually for years. An easygoing, talkative fellow, he played drums in an alternative rock band with which Jazz sang.

He’d had a minor drug conviction a few years back, and he’d managed to avoid being questioned by the police since she reported Jazz missing. Nevertheless, she couldn’t imagine him hurting her sister.

“If he were up to something, why would he give himself away by bringing me the baby?” she pointed out.

The sheikh finished eating. “I do not know. I am grateful that at least he put my son in good hands.”

Holly’s cheeks warmed, and she hurriedly changed the subject. “I think she left of her own free will, but then something prevented her from coming back for Ben. I’ve been so worried.”

“I share your concern that something has gone wrong,” he said slowly. “This Noreen Wheaton, the director of the clinic, might be afraid of someone, or she is playing a game of her own.”

He pushed back his chair and walked to a leather suitcase. From a side pocket, he drew some papers. “Here is a copy of our contract with the clinic. I brought it to prove that the baby is mine. Perhaps you will see something in them that I have missed.”

The papers bore the name of the Crestline View Clinic. The legal terminology covered such issues as privacy and liability.

Holly studied the signatures at the bottom: Sharif Al-Khalil, witnessed by Zahad Adran, and Noreen Wheaton, witnessed by someone named Manuel Estrellas.

“Do you know anything about this man Estrellas?” she asked.

The sheikh took a seat beside her. “A clinic employee, I presume.”

She scanned the contract again. “Why isn’t Jazz’s name on here?”

“We were told she signed a separate contract with the clinic,” Sharif said.

“But she knew about you, right?” Holly returned the document to him. “I mean, that the baby was going to be raised by your aunt and your cousin?”