Sheikh's Woman

“There he is!” a voice cried, and a cheer began in several throats and swelled.

Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to him. He was sternly handsome, his flowing hair a mass of black curls, his beard neat and pointed, his face grave but his eyes alight with humour. His jacket was rich blue, the sleeves ruched with silver thread; his silver breastplate glowed almost white. Across it, from shoulder to hip, a deep blue sash lay against the polished metal.

The sword at his hip was thickly encrusted with jewels. His fingers also sparkled, but no stone was brighter than his dark eyes as he glanced up towards the balcony as if he knew she was there. His eyes met hers, challenged and conquered in one piercingly sweet moment.

Her heart sprang in one leap from her breast and into his keeping.

As he rode past below, the white rose fell from her helpless hand. A strong dark hand plucked it from the air and drew it to his lips, and she cried softly, as though the rose were her own white throat.

He did not glance up again, but thrust the rose carefully inside the sash, knowing she watched. She clung to the carved wooden arabesques, her strength deserting her.

“So fierce, so handsome!” she murmured. “As strong and powerful as his own black destrier, I dare swear!”

The laughter of the women chimed around her ears. “Ah, truly, and love is blind and sees white as black!” they cried in teasing voices. “Black? But the prince’s horse is white! Look again, mistress!”

She looked in the direction of their gesturing, as the entourage still came on. In the centre of the men on black horses rode one more richly garbed than all. His armour glowed with beaten gold, his richly jewelled turban was cloth of gold, ropes of pearls draped his chest, rubies and emeralds adorned his fingers and ears. His eyebrows were strong and black, his jaw square, his beard thick and curling. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement as those riders nearest him tossed gold and silver coins to the cheering crowd.

Her women were right. Her bridegroom was mounted on a prancing stallion as white as the snows of Shir.

“Saba’ul khair, madame.”

Anna rolled over drowsily and blinked while intense sunlight poured into the cabin from the little portholes as, whick whick whick whick, the air hostess pulled aside the curtains.

Her eyes frowned a protest. “Is it morning already?”

The woman turned from her completed task and smiled. “We here, madame.”

Anna leapt out of the bed, wincing with the protest from her bruised muscles, and craned to peer out the porthole. They were flying over water, deep sparkling blue water dotted with one or two little boats, and were headed towards land. She saw a long line of creamy beach, lush green forest, a stretch of mixed golden and grey desert behind, and, in the distance, snow-topped mountains casting a spell at once dangerous and thrilling.

“Where on earth are we?”

“Shower, madame?”

“Oh, yes!”

The hostess smiled with the pleasure of someone who had recently memorized the word but had produced it without any real conviction and was now delighted to see that the sounds did carry meaning, and led her into the adjoining bathroom.

Anna waved away her offer of help, stripped and got into the shower stall, then stood gratefully under the firm spray of water, first hot, then cool. This morning her body was sore all over, but her headache was much less severe.

Her memory wasn’t in much better shape, though. It still stopped dead on the night before she had been due to leave for France. Now, however, she could remember a shopping expedition with Lisbet during the afternoon, going home to dress, meeting Cecile and Lisbet at the Riverfront Restaurant. Now she could remember leaving the restaurant, and almost immediately seeing a cab pull up across the street. “You take that one, Anna, it’s facing your direction,” Lisbet had commanded, and she had dashed across the street…

She could remember that as if it were yesterday.

Of the two years that had followed that night there was still absolutely nothing in her memory. Not one image had surfaced overnight to flesh out the bare outline Ishaq Ahmadi had given of her life since.

When she tried to make sense of it all, her head pounded unmercifully. The whole thing made her feel eerie, creepy.

Last night’s dream surfaced cloudily in her mind. She had the feeling that the man on the black horse was Ishaq Ahmadi.

She wondered if that held some clue about her first meeting with him. Had she seen him from a distance and fallen in love with him?

That she could believe. If ever there was a man you could take one look at and know you’d met your destiny, Ishaq Ahmadi was it. But he was definitely keeping something from her. If once they had loved each other, and she certainly accepted that, there was a problem now. It was in his eyes every time he looked at her. His look said she was a criminal—attractive and desirable, perhaps, but not in the least to be trusted.

Anna winced as she absently scrubbed a sore spot. The accident must have been real enough. Her body seemed to be one massive bruise now, and she ached as if she had been beaten with a bat.

That thought stilled her for a moment. Panic whispered along her nerves. Suppose a man had beaten his pregnant, runaway wife and wanted to avoid the consequences…

Anna reminded herself suddenly that they would be landing soon and turned off the water. In the bedroom mirror she stared at herself. She was still too thin, just as she had been after losing her baby two years ago. There were dark circles under her eyes to match the bruising on her body.

She had a tendency to lose weight with unhappiness. Anna sighed. By the look of her, she had been deeply unhappy recently, as unhappy as when she had lost Jonathan’s baby. But the question was—had she lost the weight before she left Ishaq, or after?

Her clothes were lying on the neatly made bed. The shirt had been mended, the suede pants neatly brushed. Anna’s breath hissed between her teeth. It’s terrific, Anna. Stop dithering and buy it!