Surgeon Sheik's Rescue

by Loreth Anne White

  “The stairs to the battlements are not in very good condition,” he said. “That part of the abbey has not yet been refurbished.”

  “We could go carefully.”

  He inhaled. “This way,” he said, holding his hand out toward the hallway.

  He caught her scent as she passed close by. Soapy, clean. No perfume today. His butler took her coat and tension torqued painfully through Tariq’s body as he followed Amelie through the hallway, noting the way her jeans hugged the curves of her behind like a second skin. Keeping her close was definitely going to come with collateral damage. To him. It already had. It was now up to him to control how much. Because on some level Tariq knew he could still stop this physical attraction—and that he didn’t quite want to.

  Opening a heavy door at the end of a passageway, he said, “The stairs go up this way. Be careful, they’re crumbling in places and there is no light other than what comes in through the murder holes.”

  “The what?”

  “Gaps for arrows. The building was always used as a monastery,” he explained. “But it was constructed with defense in mind.” He held his hand out to the spiral stairwell that curled up the spire.

  She entered the stairwell ahead of him, dog still in her arms. Tariq stole a quick glance at his watch, getting increasingly worried about Omair and Faith now. He’d left his satellite phone with one of his men with instructions to summon him the minute Omair phoned.

  He began to climb after her, leaning one hand occasionally against the rough circular wall to support his injured leg. He tried not to watch her rear, or notice how slender her waist was. Or imagine how her body might feel under his. But God help him, he couldn’t concentrate on anything but. His breathing grew heavy as the stairwell wound tighter, darker, higher. He stopped, closing his eyes for a very brief moment, biting back pain. As he did, anger mushroomed through him. Denial, he thought. He was still in denial—he still could not accept his physical limitations, his loss. And he wanted revenge.

  Was desiring Amelie in his bed part of that hunger for revenge? A way of angrily thrusting back, just to lash out, prove he was still human, still male? Or was it another way of trying to bury his pain and emotions as he might bury himself blindly in her flesh?

  Whatever it was, he couldn’t do it. He must not touch her. For so many reasons.

  By the time they reached the top and stepped out through an archway into a burst of bright light, Tariq was thankful for the lungful of fresh, chilly air. He drunk it deep into his lungs, clearing the errant thoughts from his head.

  From up here they could see for miles, and in the distance a bank of bad weather was building on the horizon and beginning to roll over the Atlantic toward the island—the next storm front would be on them by this afternoon.

  Amelie set the little puppy down and it scampered over rock and moss to sniff along the parapet. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the deep emerald moss, the lichens blooming in shades of ochre and cream on the ancient stone battlements. Then she went to the wall and faced the sea, staring out at the lighthouse on a distant lump of rock. Far below, the Atlantic heaved and was streaked with ribs of white foam. He could taste the salt in the crisp breeze. He watched the way the wind ruffled her hair and pinked her cheeks.

  “The abbess would have stood here, watching.” Amelie almost whispered the words as she placed her palms flat on the stone wall. Tariq wondered if in her mind’s eye she was picturing ancient enemy sails cresting the horizon, if she was imagining the abbess’s terror at the sight of a medieval army approaching.

  She began to walk along the parapet, trailing her fingers over stone as she continued to gaze out over the water. He walked just behind her.

  “Watch your step,” he said suddenly, shooting out his hand to indicate the uneven surface at her feet. But it was too late—distracted by the view Amelie snagged the toe of her boot and stumbled wildly forward.

  He lunged for her, catching her and taking her weight with his crippled left arm. She grabbed hold of his maimed hand.

  He could feel her breast press against his arm, the rapid beating of her pulse at her wrist.

  “Thanks. I didn’t even see that,” she said, a little breathless. She straightened up, but remained close, her gaze traveling to the claw she held so tightly. She swallowed, then looked back up into his eye, and a strange sort of power surged through Tariq when she didn’t pull away. He’d caught her with his disfigured side—and she wasn’t repulsed by it. He’d found a strength he didn’t knew he had.

  With that notion came a wash of affection. It was such a human thing, to be accepted, to not be shunned.

  Then he saw arousal in her eyes, the way her mouth was slightly open. Blood began to pound in his ears, narrowing his world. Not only was she accepting him for what he was now, she wanted him—as he wanted her.

  Very slowly she reached up, lightly touching the injured side of his face. Inside Tariq flinched instinctively—his scars, his wounds, had not been touched by a woman in this way. But he did not break her gaze, did not pull away.

  Her fingertips gently traced the scar down the side of his face, lower, lower to where it pulled down his lips. The sensation was distant, his nerves there too damaged, but lust arrowed like a spear of molten lead into his groin. And Tariq was suddenly incapable of pulling away. Incapable of stopping feelings he thought he might still be able to control. Perspiration began to prickle over his torso. He could hear the waves crunch and suck on the rocks below, and he breathed in the scent of moss and salt. And her.

  More than anything, at this moment, suspended in time and history among these ancient stones, he wanted to grab hold of her, pull her hard up against his chest, crush her mouth under his own.

  “I’m glad you’re not wearing your hood, Tahar,” Bella whispered. She saw him swallow, hard, and it excited her to see the dark arousal in his features, the glittering awareness in his black eye. His desire for her. It scared her a little, too, the intensity in him.

  She’d never gone for the ordinary—and this man was everything but. Yet it was more than lust that welled hot in her chest now—it was a desire to heal, to ease his pain, to hold, comfort. To share. To just be herself with him—tell him who she was. Bella realized she wanted Tariq to like her, the real her. And on some level she realized that this was no longer just a story. Maybe it was never just a story.

  Maybe it was always about her feelings for this man.

  His eye patch was silky in this light, and his good eye, fringed by the thickest, blackest lashes she’d ever seen, smoldered with something so dark it burned inside her. The unforgiving sunlight hid nothing—yet everything about him remained hidden, simmering, just below the surface.

  Time seemed to stretch, quiver. Then several more beats of silence turned things awkward, and he abruptly pulled back. Dragging her hand through her hair, she turned away to hide the flush of embarrassment she could feel coloring her cheeks and she began to make an exaggerated fuss of getting her camera out of her bag.

  “Do you mind?” she said, holding up the camera, her voice all business.

  His features had turned hard, guarded again.

  “Have you already downloaded what’s in there?” he said cooly.

  “No,” she lied. Then nervousness made her way, “Why?”

  A small muscle began to tick at his jaw. “You can take whatever photos you like of the abbey, Amelie, but before you do, I need you to delete whatever images you have in there.”

  She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  A movement suddenly caught her eye and Bella glanced toward the archway that led to the stairs. One of his men stood there now, in shadow, his broad body blocking the exit. A tiny tongue of fear flicked through her. She hadn’t even realized they’d been followed.

  “The photos you took of me on the cliff,” he said quietly. “I’d like them deleted.”

  “I…I won’t use them for anything. I’m just keeping
them for…atmosphere. For my novel.”

  His face darkened. His bodyguard moved slightly forward.

  “These are my conditions, Amelie. Delete the photographs, or I’ll have my men do it for you.”

  Fear flicked harder. She glanced again at his guard. And Bella realized she’d let her own defenses drop too far. He’d been playing her all along.

  Chapter 5

  Bella felt hot spots of anger form high on her cheeks.

  “So that’s why you invited me back with my camera, so you could take my photos? Is that also why you decided to show me around yourself?”

  “My privacy is everything, Amelie,” he said quietly. “If you’re being truthful about why you’re here, you’ll understand—you don’t need those images of me.”

  She stared him, mind racing.

  Be careful, Bella—he’s testing you.

  “What did you think I was going to do with them, anyway—put them up on the internet?”

  “I can’t take that risk.”

  “Why is it so damn important for you to hide, Tahar?”

  He studied her, silent for several beats. “I need the time. I need to heal.”

  “Or maybe you don’t want the people who care about you to discover you walk too close to the cliffs every night,” she said.

  His features turned dangerous, an energy, palpable, rolling off him in waves.

  “It’s as if you stand on that cliff edge waiting for the ground to give way under your feet, for gravity and nature to make a decision you don’t have the guts to make yourself.”

  The muscles in his neck corded. But he refused to take the bait. Instead, voice cool, he said, “Are you sure you haven’t downloaded the photos into your computer?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said curtly.

  And it struck Bella suddenly—the way Tariq had nodded to his men before they’d left in the limo. Had he sent them back to check her computer for the photos? Was he playing her on an even deeper level than she’d first realized? Her pulse started to race wildly.

  It was okay, she told herself. There was nothing to find in her laptop—she’d deleted and shredded anything incriminating. All her files, including the photos of him, were now stored in the flash drive on a chain nestled between her breasts under her sweater. But a new wave of panic crashed afresh through Bella—her passport, ID, credit card were in her room. She’d hidden them in a cavity under a loose floorboard like in too many bad spy movies, but there’d been nowhere else.

  “Fine.” She held out the camera, praying they wouldn’t find her documents, because it was becoming crystal clear that this man did not trust her at all, even as he was attracted to her, and he was not going to take proof of her deception lightly. “Delete them yourself,” she said.

  Tariq motioned to his guard who came forward and took her camera. He fiddled with it, killing files, then handed it back to Bella.

  “Gee, thanks,” she said sarcastically.

  “I hope you understand,” Tariq said.

  Oh, she understood all right—he didn’t want anyone to know the prince of Al Na’Jar was alive. That his death was an elaborate lie. She’d do the same in his position.

  “I’m not sure that I do,” she lied.

  “Do you want to continue with the tour—or leave it here?”

  Bella blew air out of her lungs. “Continue. Do you mind if I take pictures now?”

  “Fair enough, but only of the abbey, no people.”

  She got busy, shooting images of the battlements, the bank of dark gray fog crawling ever closer over the Atlantic swells. Already the lighthouse in the distance had been swallowed by it, and she could feel a new dampness in the air, a sharp drop in temperature. She wondered about the ghost again as she crouched down to snap some close-ups of the mosses and lichens growing on the ancient rock. Her gaze was then pulled upward to the crumbling turrets and spires. She could feel Tariq watching her closely, too closely, feel his bodyguard’s scrutiny from the shadows.

  “Is that where the wind screams?” she said, nodding at the turrets.

  “Yes,” he said curtly. Whatever undercurrent that had passed between them earlier was gone.

  Bella got to her feet and went to the other side of the wall. From here she could see back into the abbey grounds, and in the distance, the ruins of a chapel, a graveyard with tumbling headstones. Creepers grew up the inner walls that were protected from the salty sea winds. And along the one wing was a walled-off garden. A man in a white chef’s jacket carrying a basket was picking what appeared to be herbs and vegetables. A kitchen garden, thought Bella.

  Again, the sensation of having stepped back in time washed over her.

  “Seen enough up here?” His voice broke into her thoughts.

  She nodded.

  He held out his hand toward the stairwell, careful this time to keep his distance from her. Bella glanced over her shoulder. The bodyguard had seemingly vanished. Perhaps he was watching from somewhere else. She whistled for Kiki and the little dog came running, lichen stuck on its nose. Bella picked up the pup, brushed the brown stuff off its muzzle and started down the stairs, twisting round and round as she spiraled down, conflict coiling tighter and tighter inside her. Through the murder holes she caught glimpses of the smoke-gray wall of weather almost upon them.

  Back downstairs Bella excused herself to go to the washroom. She needed a moment to gather her thoughts, to contact Estelle Dubois to find out if Tariq’s men had been there.

  Tariq took the dog from her and told her he’d be waiting in the pool room. He said his butler would show her to the pool when she was done.

  Bella watched the prince walk away, Madame’s little dog in his arms. His limp had worsened after climbing the stairs. A strange conflict curled through her chest—a potent cocktail of desire and fear, empathy and affection, and exhilaration at the idea of breaking this story, of finding out more. More than ever she needed to stay focused, keep her wits about her. There was no one else to watch out for her. Misstep now, in this monastery, behind these spiked walls, and she’d be at his mercy.

  The bathroom was beautiful—a vase of fresh white flowers graced the sink, green-and-white Grecian-style tiles. Big mirrors. It spoke of a woman’s touch, and Bella wondered if this portion of the abbey had been renovated while Julie was still alive. The thought sobered her as she leaned forward and splashed water on her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, thinking of Tariq’s touch, the look in his eye. The electricity that had crackled between them. There was no doubt in her mind that Tariq was physically attracted to her, but at the same time she’d glimpsed something akin to hatred in his features, although he’d quickly hid it. Tariq was at war inside himself over her, and she suspected one reason was Julie, and his loyalty to her memory.

  Why was she doing this to him?

  Focus, Bella. You know why.

  This wasn’t just about her job, or proving herself anymore—people had died trying to tip her off for this story. She had an obligation to see this through, on several fronts.

  Taking her cell phone from her bag, Bella punched in Madame’s number. She wanted to ask Estelle Dubois if Tariq’s men had returned, and to check that the door to her room was properly locked. But there was no answer. Estelle had probably turned the ringer off as was her usual practice when she took a nap. Cursing softly, Bella pocketed the phone.

  Outside the bathroom the butler was waiting discreetly.

  “This way,” he said, ushering her down a hall, the faint scent of chlorine entering the air as they neared the pool room.

  Bella entered the large room and stilled in awe. A long black pool glistened before her, the water seeming to flow under the floor-to-ceiling windows and vanish over the cliff edge outside. Steam rose from a whirlpool built into one end of the pool, and beyond the whirlpool, behind a thick wall of smoked glass, was a gym full of gleaming chrome equipment.

  Turning in a half circle, she searched for Tariq and finally saw him crouched awkwardl
y at the far end of the room near an indoor garden feature, playing with the dog, ruffling its fur. She smiled, cleared her throat.

  Startled, he looked up.

  His features shuttered as Bella approached, and he struggled quickly to his feet, a sharp flash of pain across his face as he did. Then came an arrogant forward thrust of his jaw, as if he was furious for revealing weakness.

  Kiki was immune to it all, hopping about his boots for more attention.

  “You have an affinity for animals,” she said as she came up to him, thinking of the way he rode polo ponies, the saluki hounds his family had always hunted with.

  He gave a snort. “Ready to see the rest of the abbey?”

  “Absolutely. This has to be one of the most stunning pool and gym setups I’ve ever seen. Do you use it often?” she said, nodding to the water.

  “I did last night.”

  “What about the gym?”

  “Fired my physical therpist on day one.”

  She crooked a brow. “How come?”

  “Didn’t need her around, waste of her time.”

  She studied him quietly for several beats. “You don’t really want to get better, do you, Tahar?” she said softly.

  His face darkened. “Better? Look at this.” He held out his crippled left hand. “This is fact. This is not going to get better. I was a surgeon, Amelie. I will never operate again.”

  She swallowed at the rawness in his voice, the truth. “I…I’m so sorry.”

  Tariq turned his back on Amelie, began striding toward the door, his shoulders tight, sparks of pain shooting through his hip and neck. This woman was pushing him to the edge, a much more dangerous one from the cliff face he walked daily.

  “Tahar!” she called after him.

  He stopped, but refused to turn to face her.

  “I am sorry. I don’t know what else to say!”

  “There is nothing to say. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want people saying they’re sorry, looking at me like I’m some goddamn broken thing. What I want is for you to take what you need and leave me the hell alone.”