Surgeon Sheik's Rescue Page 7

  Either way, whoever had come after her believed they’d succeeded in killing both Faith and Omair in a yacht explosion off the coast of Western Sahara.

  Omair wanted to keep it that way. At least until they figured out who was actually behind the assassination attempts, and who had killed Faith’s handler, Travis Johnson, in D.C. Or until The Moor was unveiled and his MagMo followers defeated.

  Meanwhile, Faith had given birth to a baby boy almost two weeks ago. It struck Tariq that he didn’t even recall the baby’s name. Self-recrimination sliced through him. He really should have called earlier, asked how Faith and the child were doing.

  There was no answer and his call went to voice mail. Tariq glanced at his watch. In Arabic he left a message asking after Faith and the baby. He did not mention the real reason for his call. When Omair returned his message, Tariq would ask him to investigate Amelie, but only once he’d made sure mother and child were well.

  He hung up and stared into space.

  Never in his wildest dreams had Tariq thought his mercenary brother, the dark horse in the family, would make a family before he did. As happy as he was for his brother, it drove home the depth of his own loss. His incredible loneliness.

  He got up from his desk and went into the library, turning off the lights as he headed for bed.

  But he stopped in front of the fire.

  Embers glowed red, orange, pulsing in the darkness.

  He watched the coals for a while. Then on impulse, he took his cello from its stand and sat by the fire, the instrument positioned between his knees. Like the unused pool that had been kept heated, the unused cello had been kept tuned. Clutching the brazilwood bow awkwardly in his clawed left hand, Tariq stroked it over the strings, the sound sonorous, hollow. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on moving the bow the way he once used to, aching to feel the music rise from the cello, reverberate in his chest, fill his heart and mind. But instead the image of the burning jet—the searing heat, the odor of burnt flesh and singed hair—slammed into his mind. And painful memories looped over and over.

  He could feel Julie in his arms again, see her lying on the tarmac, her eyes open, unseeing. He could hear screaming. He felt his body, his mind, every molecule in his being trying to revive her. The utter despair in being unable to save her.

  His hands stilled and tears leaked from his good eye.

  Softly, Tariq swore in Arabic. Amelie had done this. She’d made him care again. She’d made him get into the pool, to ache for the taste of harmony in his body again. She’d forced him to call his family and butt up against his own guilt and self-recrimination for not having done so earlier.

  She’d made him hold his cello.

  But most of all, she’d rekindled the fire of lust in his belly, and it burned and hurt like a live coal against his bare flesh.

  Because it would never work. He could never get back what he’d lost.

  How could he even want her so desperately, so physically, in so short a time? Was it because he’d been so barren, so isolated? And she was so incredibly alive? So interested in him?

  Was it just the biochemical magic of human lust?

  There was so little truly understood about the power of human chemistry. Of the electricity in a touch. Of the look in a woman’s violet eyes.

  He leaned his head back, cello still between his knees, and closed his eye, bringing her to mind. Her mouth. That little gap between her teeth. Those oasis eyes. Pale skin. Tousled dark hair that made him think of bed-mussed mornings, the afterglow of making love.

  And that small coal she’d ignited in him suddenly blazed hot inside his chest. While he was blaming Amelie for bringing him to life, while this was making him angry, while he was fighting it every step of the way even as he ached to taste more—he was losing sight of the real villain. The Moor. MagMo.

  If there was one thing Tariq could still do with his life, and with these fires that were starting to rage inside him again, it was to help find The Moor, tear him and his terrorist empire down. He could still find a way to make his country safe for his family. For Omair’s new baby. For Zakir’s children—for their bloodline and future.

  Even if he didn’t have a future himself.

  *

  Bella booted up her computer and opened a Word file.

  Outside the night was silent, snow falling softly again. On this side of the island there was no wind. Inside her room the oil heater popped and cracked as it warmed. She started to type:

  Dr. Tariq Al Arif, next in line of succession to the Al Na’Jar throne and declared dead after a terrorist bombing at JFK ten months ago, has been found alive and living in France….

  She deleted the sentence, started again.

  The prince of Al Na’Jar…

  She stalled, thinking of the way he’d struggled with the corkscrew, the way he walked so terrifyingly close to the cliff edge in darkness and fog, the haunted look in his features when he told her it was his fault the woman he loved died—the dark sensuality in his eyes as he’d watched her touching the puppy.

  Tariq had no idea just how much she understood and knew about him.

  She deleted her words, sat staring at the cursor blinking on the page, empathy welling in her chest.

  He wasn’t just some stranger to her. She’d covered his story so intimately she’d come to love the idea of him.

  Could she do this now—expose him?

  She had to. This was not just about exploiting his tragedy. This was her life, her job. Already people had died for this story. But how were they all linked—the Al Arif royals, The Moor and MagMo, the murders of Travis Johnson and his wife, Benjamin Raber, Sam Etherington?

  A chill suddenly crawled over her skin as something struck her.

  If The Moor and his MagMo insurgents were ultimately successful in overthrowing and taking control of Al Na’Jar, they’d take control of the considerable oil surplus there. Oil that Etherington was promising to a U.S. electorate should he become the next president. Could it mean Etherington’s and MagMo’s interests were aligned? She thought of the men who’d attacked her in D.C.—men who spoke Arabic. They’d come after her when she’d gone after Senator Etherington, looking for a link between him and the Al Arif royals.

  She sat back in horror. That wasn’t possible—was it? Sam Etherington in bed with a terrorist organization? No. He couldn’t be. MagMo was beginning to rival Al Qaida in size and strength. The organization had been declared an enemy of the U.S.

  Her computer beeped suddenly and Bella jolted in her chair. It was a call, coming from Hurley.

  Quickly she clicked on the icon and Hurley’s face filled the screen.

  “Bella—we ran the biometrics. It’s him! A one hundred percent match on all the images you sent. You have your proof. You have a story!”

  She swallowed. The software Scoob used was military level. It would stand up to outside verification. She could run with this as is.

  “What’s the matter?” Hurley said, reading something in her face.

  “It’s not enough, Hurley. I need the rest—on STRIKE, on Etherington.” She paused. “I met with him tonight.”

  “And?”

  She bit her lip. “He’s hurting.”

  Hurley frowned. “So? What about the story—did you get anything from him you can use?”

  “I’m getting a tour of his abbey tomorrow. I hope to learn more then. Did you shred the photos?” she said.

  “We did.”

  “And there’s still no security breach?”

  “Someone’s still trying to hack in, bouncing like a bug against a lightbulb, but Scoob’s keeping them at bay.”

  “Is he still looking into the Etherington-Raber connection?”

  “Yeah, I’ll call as soon as he gets something. And he thinks he might finally have found a way to clean up that audio from last summer. I’ll let you know if he gets anything.”

  “Thanks, Hurley.”

  He paused, a strange look crossing his face.<
br />
  “Bella—you are going to break this story on Watchdog, right?”

  “Of course.”

  He was silent for several beats. “We’ve put a lot into this as well, you know.”

  “I know you have.”

  “Print media is a dinosaur, Bella. Citizen journalism—that’s the future. Break this on the blog, finish what you started at the Daily, and the mainstream are going to come knocking on our doors. We’re going to get hits. Agnes will be able to truly monetize the site. We’ll be able—all of us—to draw a salary.”

  “Hurley, I’m not going anywhere else with this, relax. I promise.”

  His features relaxed a little. “I know how much you want to want to make a name, Bella—you’re going to do it.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  If I don’t die first.

  He signed off, his face fading with an electronic bloop.

  Bella stared at her computer, pulse beating a little too fast. The temptation to go elsewhere with this was huge, and Hurley had sensed it. But she couldn’t let the team down, not now. Not after everything they’d put into this.

  Before shutting her computer off, Bella deleted her archives and Skype history, and she saved all her text documents onto a USB flash drive. She then wiped her computer clean of everything apart from her notes on the abbey and its ghost. Then she electronically shredded everything in her trash.

  Removing the flash drive, she fastened it to the chain around her neck alongside the gold medallion. Flopping back onto her cot, she closed her eyes.

  Tariq, dark, mysterious, filled her mind. She dozed off—and then he filled her dreams.

  *

  Bella woke with a start to banging on her door. Stumbling out of bed she punched her arms into her robe, gathering it about her waist as she opened her door to Estelle Dubois standing in the courtyard. Bella blinked against the light—the day had dawned impossibly bright, melting snow dripping from the wash line. Estelle’s rheumy eyes gleamed, a grin creasing her powdery cheeks.

  “Madame?”

  “Out front,” she said, breathless. “Monsieur Du Val, he has sent his limousine!”

  “What?”

  “Come, come,” she beckoned with her arthritic hand as she shuffled quickly back through the courtyard to the main house.

  Bella stuffed her feet into the bright green rubber clogs she kept by the door and followed Estelle Dubois into the living room, belting her robe as she went. Madame held back the drapes for Bella to peer through.

  A black limo idled outside, exhaust fumes puffing white into the February air. Tariq’s driver got out of the vehicle and began making his way up to the front door, his polished leather shoes slipping in the melting snow on the pathway.

  Bella opened the door.

  He dipped his head slightly. “Mademoiselle Chenard,” he said. “Monsieur Du Val sent the car for you.”

  Another man appeared behind him, pushing her bike up the path, tires leaving a line in the snow. Her gaze went to the limo. They’d found a bike rack, or they’d bought one, because there had been no rack before.

  She pushed her curls back off her face and glanced at the clock on the mantel. She’d overslept. How was that possible? She never overslept.

  “Monsieur says there is another storm front blowing in. It will likely hit early this afternoon and will not be conducive to cycling. We are to bring you to the Abbaye Mont Noir and return you once your tour is complete. Monsieur will conduct the tour himself.”

  Clutching her robe closed over her breasts, she said, “Himself? Why?”

  “It’s his wish.”

  Her heart started to hammer and she shot a look at Madame.

  “Go.” Madame waved her veined hand at Bella. “Have the day off. I need to rest. But you must take Kiki. She will disturb me—the older dog will leave me in peace.” And with that she turned to shuffle into the kitchen, but Bella caught the smile on her lips. Madame was in her element as matchmaker.

  “Can you wait maybe five minutes while I change and get my things together?” she asked the driver. “I’m running a bit late.”

  He dipped his head, studiously avoiding looking at her robe, her green clogs.

  Bella showered so quickly the water didn’t have time to warm properly. She pulled on her jeans, boots, sweater and coat, wrapping a scarf around her neck. She stuffed a woolen hat into a sling bag, along with her notebook and tape recorder. She grabbed her camera bag, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stilled at her harried reflection. Ruffling her hair, she slicked on some lip gloss and ran out to the waiting car.

  “Amelie!”

  She stalled and spun round at the sound of Estelle Dubois’ voice.

  “You forgot Kiki!” She stood at the door, holding the pup and a ziplock bag of puppy kibble. “And don’t forget to give her water.”

  Bella took the dog, and slipped the kibble into her bag. Madame and Kiki had helped crack the ice last night—she was open to being helped out again.

  *

  Tariq stood at the abbey entrance watching his limousine snake up the twisting road, the gleaming black chrome like a hearse against the stark and blinding snow.

  He inhaled deeply and stepped out from under the shadow of the portico into the sun as the vehicle neared the gates. Hooking his hands behind his back, he squared his shoulders, bracing to meet her.

  He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to a soft rush of anticipation. Whether he liked it or not, she was putting him back in the game. She was forcing him to think of his family, their safety, his country, and he was feeling like a prince again. A damaged one, but one with a role to play. Amelie had fanned the coals of a fire that had all but died in him—his desire to fight back.

  To find and take down The Moor.

  She might be innocent, and that was fine—he’d give her the tour and she’d be out of his life for good. But if she wasn’t who she claimed to be, if Amelie was somehow linked to their enemy, he was going to use her to get that enemy.

  There was also the chance she was some kind of reporter, seeking to expose him. Again, Omair would find this out. And somehow she’d have to be stopped, because right now The Moor likely believed Tariq and Omair were both dead. They wanted to keep it this way. It would lower The Moor’s defenses, make him focus exclusively on Zakir and the kingdom where the royal army was strong and the kingdom had a firm contract with the F.D.S. for backup military support if necessary.

  The limousine was nearing the gates, and worry fisted in his gut—Omair had not yet returned his call, and there’d been no answer when Tariq had tried again this morning. This was unusual for Omair. It also meant that for now, Tariq was on his own with Amelie, and his goal was to keep her close, see what more he and his men could learn themselves. It was also the reason he was conducting the tour personally today.

  The iron gates swung slowly open and the vehicle tires crunched up the circular driveway, stopping in front of him. Sunlight glanced off the roof as the passenger door opened.

  One booted leg swung out, but before Amelie could move any farther Tariq’s man rushed around to hold the door open for her. She alighted, raven hair glinting with burgundy highlights in the sun. The little Papillon was tucked under one arm, a sling bag and camera bag clutched in her hand.

  Her jeans were slim-fitting and showed her long legs to advantage. Her coat was open and underneath her sweater was striped and bright and body-hugging. Nothing about this woman was subtle. And unlike him, there was nothing she appeared to want to hide. She put Tariq in mind of a feisty polo pony with the kind of energy that could injure—or even kill—an experienced rider who wasn’t careful.

  He reminded himself to be careful.

  But hot damn, he wanted to straddle and ride that energy, like he used to. All he could think about for a blinding instant was touching those pert breasts, peeling those snug layers of clothing off her body, feeling her skin, naked against his.

  His heart started to slam hard agai
nst his rib cage.

  She came up to him, features open, and she smiled warmly, showing that small gap between her teeth. In the stark sunlight Tariq could see a scattering of fine freckles over her nose and cheeks. He swallowed.

  “Tahar,” she said as she slung her bag over her shoulder and brushed delinquent curls back from her eyes. “I hear you’ll be giving me the tour yourself. I’m thrilled, thank you.”

  Muscles strapped tight across his chest. “Where would you like to start?” His voice came out unnecessarily brusque.

  She met his gaze and was silent for a beat, something shifting subtly in her features as she studied him. He wondered for an insane moment if she could read his mind. It made him hot under his clothes.

  Under her scrutiny he also felt ugly in the broad daylight, exposed without his hood. Yet he wanted her to see him—all of him. Part of Tariq wanted to repel Amelie, unnerve her, even as he was attracted to her—or because he was.

  But it wasn’t working. He could detect no flinch in her features, no hesitation in her eyes. And on some level he knew his first move in this chess game was lost.

  But the game was far from over.

  Tariq turned his gaze toward his man standing beside the limo. The driver was still inside, engine still running. Tariq gave them a curt nod.

  His bodyguard climbed back in, and the vehicle purred round the turning circle, the gates opening again as they headed back out.

  Amelie followed his gaze. “Where are they going?”

  “Abbey business.”

  She moistened her lips, something flashing through her eyes. Concern? But then she smiled again. “I was thinking from the top down,” she said. “Are the battlements accessible? I read that the abbess used to walk up there daily, and that’s where she likely saw the enemy ships coming over the horizon.” Amelie looked up as she spoke, taking in the huge Catherine window above the arched doors. The sun was catching the stained glass, making it glow as if internally lit.

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  Something akin to pride flushed through Tariq, which shocked him a little. He’d actually forgotten the beauty he’d first seen hidden in the abbey. He felt himself stand a little taller.