Double Entendre

by Heather Graham

  “Oh, God!” Bret both swore and moaned.

  “It gets worse,” MacHowell warned him.

  Bret’s eyes shot to MacHowell.

  “This man, Hassan, is known to offer creature comforts for business deals. When he is finished with a new…” MacHowell hesitated, then shrugged, “…conquest, he keeps the woman a prisoner. And offers her to his associates.”

  Bret was on his feet, swearing in panic. “Where is this village?”

  The young Moroccan who had almost attacked MacHowell was right behind them. “I know where it is, and I’ve got my taxi right here,” he said. “Dear Allah, let’s go!”

  In seconds they were all in the taxi: Bret, MacHowell, Carly, Sandy and Ben. Bret’s fingers dug into the dashboard, and his heart hammered in his throat. His temples pounded. Somewhere in the back Sandy was sniffing in fear. Not even Carly seemed to have anything to say.

  But Bret finally thought of something. He turned to the Moroccan youth who was driving and demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

  Ben began to explain. When he had finished, Bret began to quiz MacHowell.

  There was nothing else to do. Ben had explained that it was going to be at least a three-hour drive, and Bret knew he had to try to remain sane somehow.

  CHAPTER 8

  Colleen didn’t know exactly when she began to return to consciousness. She didn’t just open her eyes, but became aware of little things very slowly. Her fingertips first… They felt ridiculously sensitive. They were touching something cool and silky. She wasn’t even really aware of danger; she felt as if she were wrapped in a fog that was soft and gentle and swirling. She felt her body with incredible keenness, yet it was almost as if she were outside herself, aware of things only from some higher, more celestial, plain. Everything was gray, soft, soothing, floating…and her eyelids were heavy. So heavy. It was the greatest effort to tug them open, and even when she did, it seemed that the world was still gray. Then a sharp, pungent odor suddenly streamed into her nostrils, and she dragged a hand up to try to force it away. The gray paled a bit, and she saw a silhouette. In another moment she saw the grinning, masklike face of the dark man in the tarboosh. Eli. Except that his mask was no longer a convivial one; it was amused and pleased—and cruel.

  Eli was not making arrangements for her to meet MacHowell. Even in her daze she realized that. She had been betrayed, set up. By Ben? She remembered his eyes, large and dark, just as her vision had faded along with consciousness. Or had General James MacHowell planned all this himself? Had he heard that she was in Marrakech and immediately made plans for her disposal?

  “Wh-what…?” The single word was difficult to say. The face became a hazy blob before her, then came into focus once again.

  “Mrs. McAllistair, you are with us. In spirit, at least. Welcome to the humble abode of Hassan Ydh Rabak. I will be leaving you now. Hassan has been expecting you. He has been quite anxious, as a matter of fact.”

  He was smiling pleasantly, so pleasantly that she felt a terrible fear penetrating the fog that swirled within her mind. Somewhere inside herself she began to realize that she was in real danger, that she was far away from law and order and anyone who might be able to help her.

  “Who…are…you working for?” Her voice was so distant, so strained. She sounded like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Wonderland. Oh, yes! She had stepped into a Moroccan bazaar, met this man and fallen into a dark tunnel from which she could not seem to escape. It was not real. She had to fight the fog and find reality. If only she could talk! “General MacHowell…?”

  “I’m so sorry. You won’t be seeing MacHowell, Mrs. McAllistair. I’m afraid I’m just one of the things you can purchase here. A go-between, an emissary. I’m hired by the job, you might say.” Something blurred before her eyes; it was his hand. Distantly she felt his fingers against her cheek, stroking lightly. She struggled desperately for the strength to fight him. He laughed, his hand returned to his lap. “Ah, yes, you would have been fascinating. But the arrangements have all been made, I’m afraid. You see…” He shifted slightly, and Colleen realized that she was in some sort of sunken bed. His hand waved, and she saw another man standing behind him. A tall man in loose trousers and a billowing shirt, with a sharp nose and a wide, toothless grin. He appeared to be built like a sumo wrestler. Colleen narrowed her eyes to focus better, but the cloud in her mind returned.

  “I hope you will be very happy with Hassan. I’m afraid he doesn’t speak a word of English, so you won’t be able to complain. And I’ve told him a bit of a white lie so he won’t even understand your actions.”

  “White lie?” None of this was making sense. She was a lost Alice; surely she would eventually awake from the nightmare.

  “Anything can be for sale, Mrs. McAllistair. Even American reporters. Hassan, however, believes you’re in business for yourself. He also believes that you consider American men to be soft. We’ve anticipated you having a disagreement with our arrangements, you see. He’s promised to be very—what is the word—? macho! Oh, yes, that’s it. Macho with you! When you scream and fight, he will think you’re loving every minute with him.”

  She had to fight the numbing fog that continued to strip her of the ability to resist. Her mind was becoming sharper; but her limbs still felt like lead. She was beginning to understand her position all too clearly. She had been so easily tricked! Like a rank amateur. Easily and completely tricked and taken. She had been chloroformed and sold to a toothless old letch.

  “But I’d be nice to Hassan if I were you, Mrs. McAllistair.” Eli was shaking his head. “Someone dislikes you very much. In fact, I’d say someone hates you. But you’ll understand that later. For now…” He shrugged. “Your life, if not your virtue, is safe as long as you are with him.”

  “What…?”

  He moved away. Gray streamed and swarmed around her again, deepening and deepening until there was nothing but black.

  Minutes later—or was it hours? She had no way of knowing—she became aware again. It was different this time. She was aware of things in a very real way. She remembered the conversation with Eli; she knew instantly that she was in a horrendous situation. Panic washed over her; before she dared open her eyes, she clenched her teeth so that she would not scream until she had seen her position, if she were alone, how she could escape.

  She raised her lashes just a fraction of an inch and carefully looked out at the world. The room was very dark; there were candles burning on low tiled tables arranged around the foot of the sunken bed. It must have been night outside, but there was a pleasant breeze. There were gossamer drapes floating at Moorish arched windows. They appeared to be a soft dazzle of pastel colors, caught by the flutter of candlelight.

  Slowly she shifted her gaze. There really was a gray fog in the room. Incense was burning in small pots on the low tiled tables, filling the air with the scents of jasmine and sweet spice. The walls were shell-pink clay, the floors strewn with elegant rugs.

  She twisted slightly, and her eyes flew fully open as a gasp of shock and horror escaped her despite her determination to remain calm.

  The toothless Hassan was perched on the edge of the bed, grinning happily.

  Colleen discovered that she could move and move quite well. In a flash she was on her knees, scooting as far away from the man as she could. He laughed delightedly with a vast pleasure that made his massive frame rise and fall. He clapped his hands with a child’s joy and said something to her in Arabic.

  Colleen shook her head, clutching at a silken pillow for some sort of protection. She was panicking again, she realized, but why not? She had no idea where she was, and this roly-poly titan thought she’d gleefully hired herself out for the evening. She was going to start screaming in pure, desperate hysteria at any second.

  She couldn’t! If Eli had told her any form of truth, Hassan would think it was all part of the game. She had to stay calm. She had to convince him that she was a victim. Oh,
God! Why the hell had she ever run off without Bret? Bitterly she realized that Bret would never have gotten himself into a position like this. He would have been suspicious. He would never have walked blindly into danger.

  Hassan said something, then laughed again. He reached out to her, and it was all that Colleen could do to keep from slapping his hand away. She rolled quickly, finding her footing on the left side of the bed, near the windows.

  “Hassan,” she said firmly, planting her hands on her hips and attempting to look outraged and dignified. It wasn’t easy. She was missing one shoe, and her hair kept falling into her face. “Hassan, listen to me. This is all a big mistake. A tremendous mistake. I’m a reporter. An American reporter. I am not a call girl. Not for hire. Do you understand?”

  He was watching her with his wide grin still in place. Colleen realized that he wasn’t getting her point at all. Nervously she pushed her hair back. There was a door about twenty feet from the bed. What would happen if she reached it? Was the house full of servants? What if she raced to the windows and screamed for help? Would anyone hear her? She had no idea where she was. Would anyone care? Would anyone think a thing of a woman screaming in the night?

  Hassan was rising, albeit slowly. He had a lot of weight to shift around. Colleen stifled a gasp and backed toward the window, putting a hand out in front of her to ward him off even as he neared her. “Hassan! Listen. Pay attention. You could be in serious trouble. You could wind up arrested. In jail for years. Oh, God! Why don’t I speak Arabic? Parlez-vous fran;alcais?”

  Apparently Hassan did not speak any French. He just kept grinning—and coming closer.

  Colleen gave up and rushed to the window. “Help! Help! Someone, help me!”

  She gazed out at the night. It seemed that the nearest building was half a mile away. There was no one out on the streets. She was screaming to an empty sky, and the ground was two stories below her. She spun around, leaning against the clay frame of the window. Hassan had almost reached her. His fingers, heavily laden with rings, were stretching toward her.

  Colleen slipped beneath his outstretched arms and raced to the door. He chuckled with good-natured humor. She cast him a quick glare, then reached for the curved brass handle on the door and wrenched at it. The door flew open only to leave her face-to-face with two swarthy men. Startled, Colleen stared at the pair. She tried to smile. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just be leaving now.”

  Her sentence ended with a shrill shriek as something closed around her waist. Hands. Hassan’s hands. She was lifted straight off the floor and treated to another of his enthusiastic, deep-chested chuckles.

  Colleen clawed at his fingers, but he barely noticed her efforts. She kicked out at him with fury. The hell with reason. Panic had taken over, and instinct was all she had left.

  The doors closed. Hassan carried her across the room, and she found herself flying face first back to the sunken bed. Her breath was knocked from her, and she gasped for air as she fought to rise from the pillows. She rolled quickly, desperate to see where the overgrown Arab was.

  She breathed a little easier. He was standing by the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. Smiling.

  Stay calm, she told herself again. Rational. Reasonable. If Eli had spoken the truth, Hassan was no cutthroat out to hurt her. He simply thought he had purchased an evening’s entertainment.

  “Oh, Hassan! Please? Can’t you understand me? Please try! Eli is a bad man. This isn’t real—”

  She broke off because he was talking. She couldn’t understand a single word. Suddenly he reached down for her hand.

  “No…”

  Desperately she shook her head. Wasn’t that the same in any language. “Se habla espa;atnol, Hassan? Oh, come on! How about Italian. No, non, nyet.”

  She gasped, finding herself on her feet and horribly close to him. He was still grinning. She tugged at her hand to no avail. He led her to the far corner of the room, where the shadows hid a screen, a big brass bathtub and a silken caftan.

  “Oh, no!” Colleen shrieked. “No, no, no, no!”

  He nodded, very pleased with himself.

  “No!” He wasn’t getting her message. Colleen gave a mighty twist of her wrist and kicked him with all her strength.

  Hassan grunted and paled with the sudden pain, then stared at her with new respect, though his smile faded at last. It was replaced by an annoyed scowl. Again he came toward her. Retreat seemed the better part of valor, and once again she was backing away.

  “When I say no, I mean no!” she said warningly, almost tripping as she backed into the bed. Frantic, she steadied herself and warily skirted it until she reached the other side.

  Hassan followed. She noticed that his feet were bare, and his toes, too, were ringed with gems.

  “Hassan!” She made a mad dash for the window again. For all his weight, Hassan could move quickly when he chose. His fingers closed around the waistband of her jeans, and she found herself in the air again, struggling like a kitten whose mother has clutched it by the scruff of the neck. In seconds she was making another nosedive into the pillows.

  Hassan was definitely annoyed. When she rolled over this time, he was standing above her with his hands on his hips and railing at her in no uncertain terms, even if she didn’t understand a word. He stamped a bare foot against one of the elegant throw rugs and pointed at the screen and bathtub. To further emphasize his monologue, he strode like a titan to retrieve the caftan and throw it over her. She still couldn’t understand him, but it was becoming obvious that Hassan hated jeans.

  Desperately thinking, and terrified that it was going to be all over any second, Colleen just stared at him. He rattled on and on, waving his arms. Then suddenly he pointed at the screen again, spat out one more sentence and turned to stride toward the door, swinging it open so furiously that she was sure the hinges would snap.

  But they didn’t. Hassan disappeared, and the door swung shut with a bang.

  For a moment all Colleen could do was stare at the door. Then she realized that she had miraculously received a reprieve. Hassan wanted her to get bathed and dressed first.

  “Oh!” A frantic little sob escaped her, and she flew off the bed again. The door, she realized, staring desperately around for another miracle, would do her little good. The swarthy bodyguards were beyond it.

  She raced to the window, and for a moment her heart took flight. There were vines growing all over the shell-pink clay walls. Perhaps she could grasp one and crawl down.

  Nervously Colleen reached out to test one of the vines, reminding herself that she had wondered while watching Tarzan films in her youth how it was that he never happened to pick a weak vine, and how the damned things had never once broken while he swung through the jungle.

  She tugged at the vine and was horrified when it instantly broke off in her hand.

  “Damn!” she swore.

  There had to be a way out!

  Sheets! She ran to the bed and tried to strip it. The sheets were silk; they were slippery even to the touch. But it wasn’t until they were in her hands and she was back at the window that she realized there was absolutely nothing to tie them to. Tears started to fill her eyes and slide silently down her cheeks. Bret would never be able to save her now. He’d never know where she was. Why had she been so foolish, so determined to handle things on her own? He wouldn’t have let this happen. He wouldn’t have been trapped.

  Suddenly, standing there with the breeze flowing over her, the sheets clutched ridiculously in her hands, she wanted him more than ever. His cool thinking, his assured silver gaze, his broad shoulder to lean against. She even longed for the brunt of his temper, the lash of his tongue, the chilly distance he could put between them when he chose.

  Distance! She had to quit standing there crying. Bret was far away. He wasn’t with her, wasn’t there to help. She had to pull herself together and do something.

  Getting mad at Bret seemed to be the easiest thing to do, she thought suddenly. It was al
l his fault. If he hadn’t stolen her story the first time, she wouldn’t be here now. She would never have felt that she had to prove something to herself. She would never have been alone, prime pickings for a toothless, beringed sausage!

  Colleen dropped the sheet and looked around the room. She bit her lip and hurried over to the screen and the tub. There was a vase full of some kind of oil there. A heavy vase. If she could hide herself somehow and get the guards to rush in, she could try to crack them over the head and run out.

  Them. How was she going to get two of them? It was impossible.

  It couldn’t be impossible. It was her only chance.

  In desperation she came up with a plan. After setting one of the sheets and the vase by the door, she took the second sheet and two of the candles over by the screen. Praying that she wouldn’t asphyxiate herself, Colleen patiently dangled the sheet over the candle until it caught fire. Then she set the sheet next to the screen.

  The fire burned itself out almost instantly. Tears flecked her lashes as she tried a second time, swearing a thousand oaths against Bret as she did so. Then she quit swearing to pray silently with her breath held so that the sheet would catch fire this time.

  Eventually it did. When her eyes watered again, it was because of the smoke. She waited until the fire had really taken hold, then she screamed and raced back to grab the vase and the sheet.

  A second later the door burst open. The two guards rushed in, yelling in Arabic. Colleen waited until they were past her, coughing at the smoke. Then she leaped forward, tossing the sheet over them and bringing the vase down with all her strength on what she thought was a head.

  It was a head. She heard a startled groan and then a thud as a body crashed to the floor. The second man was still struggling with the sheet. Colleen hesitated, trying to decide whether to run or to crack him with the remnants of the vase. She heard footsteps pounding from somewhere and furious shouts. If she didn’t get out quickly, someone else would come.