Surgeon Sheik's Rescue

He started dining late every Tuesday night, at Le Grotte...always, he orders a bottle of cabernet franc from the Chateau Luneau estate in the Loire Valley...

Chateau Luneau was the winery owned by the Belard family.

She shut down her computer thinking she wasn’t ready to post anything on her blog. Not yet. She wanted—needed—proof. And she wanted the whole story.

Tomorrow was Tuesday. Bella would be at Le Grotte tomorrow night, waiting for Tariq.

And come hell or high water, she was going to find a way to talk to him.

* * *

It was 10:45 p.m. when Bella entered the small restaurant above the ancient harbor. On further investigation, she’d been told that Tahar came to dine at Le Grotte at 11:00 p.m. each Tuesday, when the establishment was quietest.

The restaurant was constructed of stone, like most buildings in the medieval village. Leading off the tiny entranceway Bella could see an intimate dining area with white linen tablecloths and candles flickering in jars. A hostess stepped forward to take Bella’s coat.

Shrugging out of her red slicker and hat, Bella tousled her fingers through her damp hair while making small talk about the weather. But inside she was wire-tense. It could be make or break tonight—move in on Tariq too fast, and she could lose all opportunity to talk to him.

The hostess showed Bella into the dining area. Her attention was immediately snagged by a small, stone-walled alcove with red curtain tied to the side. A table in the alcove was set for one, with a lone high-back chair facing the arched window that looked out over the harbor. But there was little to see outside tonight—fog pressed thick against the glass, moving, shifting, like a sentient thing seeking its way in.

He sits alone in a stone alcove in front of a window that overlooks the harbor. The maître d’ draws the curtain across the alcove for privacy...

Anxiety fisted in her stomach, and a strange chill washed over her skin. Bella rubbed her arms as a maître d’ with a startling waxed mustache scurried toward Bella. He reminded her of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, which eased some of the tension. He thrust his hand out toward a table near the dimly lit bar, but Bella asked instead for the table nearest the alcove.

The maître d’ frowned.

“The light is better here,” Bella explained. “I’ve brought reading material and want to make notes.” She paused. “And the place seems pretty empty tonight.”

Grudgingly the maître d’ pulled out the chair for her near the alcove. He set a wine list on the table, but his attention kept flicking back and forth between her and the door. Trepidation rose once again in Bella. She followed his glance to the door. It was almost 11:00 p.m.

Without looking at the wine list, Bella asked for a bottle of Chateau Luneau cabernet franc and a glass of water. Her intent was to have the bottle on her table and the label visible when Tariq arrived. She hoped to strike up a conversation about the winery, which could possibly lead to mention of the Belard family.

At the very least, she wanted to walk away tonight with an invitation to tour his abbey. She’d figure out how to play the rest as she went.

The wine might be a risky move, but Bella reminded herself that if she genuinely was Amelie Chenard, doing research for a gothic novel set in an old abbey on this island, trying to use the wine as a conversation opener with the abbey owner should not be suspicious in the slightest. After all, her employer had told her it was Tahar’s favored choice. And Amelie had made no secret out of the fact she was seeking an invite to the abbey.

Nose clearly out of joint, the mustachioed maître d’ bustled off to fetch the wine.

Bella turned her attention to the only other patrons in the establishment—a couple, maybe in their forties, were speaking intimately over a table in the far corner of the room. A bottle of champagne sweated in a silver bucket at their side and they were holding hands over the table. Celebrating, thought Bella. A wedding anniversary perhaps. Derek came suddenly to mind and a pang of remorse twisted through her. She really had thought he was different from the others. Was she that bad a judge of character when it came to men? Every relationship she’d ever entered had been very physical, had peaked fast, then crashed and burned. Sometimes she wondered if she was sabotaging her own efforts to be happy, as if choosing the wrong men was a way of avoiding commitment.

She needed to go slow next time, if there ever were a next time. After all, this story had already killed people and put her life at risk. But that also told her it was worth pursuing—and Bella never gave up without a fight.

The maître d’ returned with the bottle and made a great show of holding the label out for her approval—Poirot was clearly going to be sommelier, maître d’ and server rolled in one tonight.

Bella smiled, nodded, and he poured for her to taste.

She sipped, and liked it a lot. While Poirot filled her glass she opened the menu, paling suddenly at the prices. The wine alone was going to kill her budget. Bella ordered the house salad, the cheapest item.

The maître d’ sniffed at her choice. As he scuttled off, she removed her notebook and pen, along with a travel magazine, which she set upon the table at her side. A photo of an old castle graced the cover, and the magazine’s top feature was an article on haunted properties down the coast of France. If the wine didn’t spark conversation, the magazine might provide an opportunity to lead into a discussion about Abbaye Mont Noir and its ghost.

Angling her chair slightly for a clear view of both the entrance and the alcove where she expected Tariq to sit, Bella reached for her wineglass. But as she was about to take a sip, the restaurant door swung open, letting in a blast of blustery air that made the candles on the tables flicker wildly.

She froze, attention riveted on the door.

A giant of a man with Mediterranean complexion, hooked nose, dark eyes, expensive suit, entered the hallway. He paused, scanning the dining area. His eyes settled instantly on Bella.

Holding her gaze, he stepped sideways. Tariq entered beside him. He pushed back the hood of his cape, exposing his oil-black hair, the eye patch, the violence down the left side of his face. His bodyguard bent down, whispered something. Tariq’s gaze shot to Bella.

His shoulders stiffened.

Bella felt her cheeks heat as she met the sheik’s piercing gaze. The power of his stare was disconcerting. So was the way his scar pulled the side of his mouth into an inflexible sneer. She wondered in that moment why he hadn’t opted for plastic surgery. Perhaps he didn’t care.

It wasn’t that his injuries made him unattractive—there was something darkly mesmerizing about him. And his air of command, of presence, was instantly tangible, powerful. But the piratical eye patch, the angry scars, the downturned eye and mouth—it made him look dangerous, formidable. Almost a little otherworldly. Something dark and hot pumped into her blood.

Bella tried to swallow against the growing dryness in her mouth, her pulse now fluttering like a moth caught in a jar. She tried to offer a smile, but was unable to command her mouth to do so. Slowly, she lowered her glass, setting it on the table. Her hand was shaking slightly.

The energy in the room shifted. The couple in the far corner felt it, glancing sharply up from their candlelight tête-à-tête, and the maître d’ rushed forward.

A second bodyguard entered behind Tariq. But as the hostess reached forward to take Tariq’s cloak, he raised his palm, halting her.

“Good evening, Monsieur Du Val,” the mustachioed maître d’ intoned loudly as he approached Tariq. “Can we show you to your table?” He held his arm out in the direction of the waiting alcove.

Tariq said something quietly to the maître d’, his eyes still fixed on Bella as he spoke. He then turned toward the door and drew the hood back up over his head.

Panic rose in her chest. He was leaving because of her! He’d taken one look at her sitting too close to his private table and he’d drawn his line in the sand.

The maître d’ shot her an angry scowl as Tariq’s bodyguard reopened the door and ushered the sheik out.

Tongues of panic licked fiercer. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him leave. Not without talking to him, trying to explain why she’d tried to ambush him. Because this might be her one and only shot at approaching him, and it was blowing up in front of her eyes.

* * *

The restaurant door swung shut behind him. Tariq sucked the icy winter air deep into his lungs, trying to calm himself. Rain was turning to snow, fat flakes separating from diaphanous mist, wafting to the ground and winking out on the slick cobblestones at his feet. He strode up the street to his waiting limousine, focusing fiercely on controlling his limp, his visible weaknesses.

He should never have started coming into the village, or dining at the restaurant. Why he’d done it he wasn’t sure. Maybe there was a distant need still buried somewhere deep inside him, a need for human connection.

But he had not anticipated the fierce lust that had gut-punched him at the sight of that woman in the restaurant. Tariq’s hands fisted. Seeing her in that figure-hugging, black jersey dress, knee-high boots, long legs, her mass of dark curls giving her that just-risen-from-bed allure...it reminded him he was not a cold, numb ghost of a man at all. Rather, he was a disfigured, damaged, sorry echo of what he’d once been, with all the old needs still pumping hot and hungry in his blood.

His mind went to her face, so pale against the black liner she’d applied around her huge crocus-colored eyes. Eyes like an oasis. Something he wanted to drown himself in. And not once had her steady gaze left his.

She’d been sitting too close to his alcove in a restaurant that was basically empty. And he’d not failed to notice the distinctive label on the bottle of wine near her fine-boned hand, either. Chateau Luneau cabernet franc—the same wine he ordered every Tuesday night. The wine that came from the Loire Valley estate that had been in Julie’s family for centuries.

His pulse quickened as he neared his vehicle. The startling fist of arousal that had slammed into him at the sight of her disturbed Tariq, as did the accompanying rush of adrenaline. He did not want to feel. Anything.

A cold anger calcified around his heart as he reached his limo, his guard stepping forward to open the door.

She’d positioned herself to ambush him. And Tariq knew why, at least on the surface. His men had done their digging.

She was Estelle Dubois’s new housekeeper and dog sitter. She was also an author. Her name was Amelie Chenard. She came from the States, spoke good French, and had told Estelle Dubois that her great-grandmother’s family hailed from this region. She was supposedly writing a gothic novel set on Ile-en-Mer, featuring the abbey and its ghost. And she wanted a tour of his estate.