King's Ransom

by Diana Palmer

  She couldn't. But just the thought of it got her through the whole day, smiling.

  Chapter Four

  But when Brianna got to the apartment that night there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing very visible, at least.

  Ahmed was sitting on her sofa glaring at the television, where a soap opera was playing. Two people were in bed, making passionate love. The sounds of it were embarrassing to Brianna, who sideskirted the sofa and went straight down the hall to her bedroom.

  She took off her jacket and stretched, stiff from hours of sitting. As she turned, she noticed Ahmed in the doorway, watching her with eyes whose expression she couldn't define. She didn't know that the stretching motion had outlined her young body in the most sensuous, arousing kind of way. Or that Ahmed, a connoisseur of women, had stopped dead just to look at her.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "They have removed the telephone directory and the information service does not function," he muttered. "This is your doing."

  She grinned. "Yes, it is. Didn't I do good? Furthermore, I am sleeping in this very bed tonight and you are going to have a nice, new bed in the guest room. I did that, too."

  "You did no such thing," he denied. "I have spoken to your friend Lang. He is sending over a bed. But it is you who will sleep on it. I am occupying this room as of tonight."

  "You are not! This is my apartment, buster, and nobody kicks me out of my own bedroom!"

  "If you do not vacate it, there will be an international incident of proportions which you cannot imagine," he countered smugly.

  "You spoiled old brat!"

  He gaped at her. "I beg your pardon!"

  "Lang told me that nobody ever said no to you in your life. Well, it's time somebody did! You can't just walk in and take over. You have no right!"

  "I have more rights than you," he countered. He folded his arms across his chest. The blue silk shirt he was wearing made his eyes look even darker. "Call Lang. Lodge a protest. He will not take your side against me. He will not dare."

  "I don't give a frog hair who you are or what you do, this is where I live and I'm not budging!" she raged, her Southern drawl emphasized in anger.

  He was frowning. "Frog hair?" He shook his head and muttered something in Arabic. "These frogs, they have no hair. Are you demented?"

  "Yes," she answered him, "I am demented. That's why I allowed them to talk me into letting you stay here!"

  His dark eyes sketched her angry face and lowered to the smooth, sleek lines of her body before they returned to capture her startled eyes. "How old are you?" he asked.

  "That is none of your business," she said uncomfortably. "I can find out."

  "Go right ahead." She felt a little shaky. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to change before I have to start cooking again."

  "Had you not complained, we could both be served with lobster thermidor," he reminded her.

  "I don't like lobster," she muttered. "At least, I don't think I do. I could never afford any, even to taste."

  He scowled. "You are paid a good salary."

  "Of course I am," she agreed. "But it doesn't stretch to foods like lobster. I have a little brother in a coma, don't you understand?" she asked softly. "Every spare penny has gone toward his comfort, until now."

  He seemed surprised. He moved a little awkwardly. "Yes, yes, I have heard about the boy."

  "Well, he's more than gossip to me," she replied. "I took care of him after he was born, played with him, fed him, diapered him.... I had to, because Mother wasn't well for a long time. But he was a joy, not a burden. He's a smart boy," she added, hanging on to the good times for all she was worth, fighting the hopelessness and fear. "He'll get up out of that bed one day, and play baseball again...."

  Ahmed was touched by her reluctant show of emotion. He found himself wondering about the boy, about her. He hadn't been curious before, but now he was.

  "What do the doctors say of his chances for recovery?"

  "They say as little as possible," she replied, having regained her almost-lost composure. "Medical science can't do any more than it already has. The brain is still very much an unexplored territory, you know. Comas are unpredictable."

  "His has lasted long?"

  "Three years." She moved toward the door and held the doorknob impatiently. "If you don't mind?"

  He moved back into the hall and she closed the door. It hurt to think how long Tad had lain in the hospital bed, knowing no one. She was going to see him tonight, but like all the other nights, it would be an exercise in futility, in loss of hope. She was growing more depressed as time passed.

  She changed into jeans and a loose, long-sleeved white knit shirt and socks. She didn't bother with her hair or her face. After all, Ahmed was not an invited guest whom she wanted to impress. He was, at best, a positive irritant.

  When she reached the living room, he had the television blaring on the news channel. She ignored him and went into the kitchen to cook. It was going to be meat loaf tonight, she thought heavily. She was so tired of meat loaf, but it would stretch to two days. She glanced at Ahmed and wondered how he was going to like something that unglamorous.

  "What culinary delight are you planning for this evening?" he asked with resignation.

  "Meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans."

  He made a terrible face.

  "There's always soup," she continued.

  He made a worse face and turned away from her to glare at the television screen.

  "Why don't you call the CIA and tell them you're starving here? Maybe they'll find you a nice new place to live."

  He didn't reply. He looked even more unapproachable than he usually did.

  She went on with her chores, humming softly to herself. If he wanted to starve himself rather than eat what normal people did, that was just too bad.

  "Think of it as an exploration of ethnic fare," she told him when she'd put everything on to cook and she was sitting in the big armchair by the sofa. "This is what Americans eat every week."

  "No wonder your country is so uncultured."

  "Uncultured?" she asked, affronted. "And what are you, Mr. Camels-in-the-desert-under-a-tent?"

  He gaped at her. "I have no camels in a desert tent!"

  "You know very well what I mean," she returned. "You live in a country full of camels and tents and deserts."

  "We have cities," he said. "Opera, symphony orchestras, theaters. We have libraries and great universities."

  "And sand and desert and camels."

  He glared at her. "You know nothing of my country."

  "You know nothing of mine she returned. "Most of us have never experienced that purified air you breathe when you're over here. Steak and lobster, five-star hotels, chauffeured limousines.... Do you think the majority of the people in this country know what any of that is?

  He scowled at her. "You do not understand. These things are my right."

  "You have it too easy," she said curtly. "You should have to work for minimum wage and live on leftovers and drive a car that always sounds like it's got half a potato shoved up its tail pipe! Then you'd know how the rest of the world lives."

  "All that concerns me is how I live," he said simply. "The rest of the world must cope as it can."

  "What a selfish attitude!"

  "There will always be people who are poor," he said philosophically. "Why should I deny myself because there are people less fortunate in the world?"

  "You might consider doing something to help the less fortunate, like taking a cut in your salary and giving up some of the trappings of your luxurious life-style."

  He drew up one long leg. He was wearing jeans, very tight ones, and she found the sight of him lounging on the sofa very disturbing. "My life-style, as you call it, is my heritage. I intend giving up nothing. However, I have done what I can for my own people," he said, ignoring her glare. "And your definition of poverty might find some resistance in my country. Our native nomadic trib
esmen find their life-style satisfying and superior to the spiritual poverty which exists in our cities. They do not consider themselves poor, despite the fact that industrialized Westerners look down on them."

  She frowned. "I don't understand."

  "That is obvious." His dark eyes smiled faintly. "You think that because you have great machines and factories that you are superior to less developed peoples."

  She hadn't considered the question before. "Well...we are. Aren't we?" "Have you been to college, Brianna?" She felt something flower inside her at the way he spoke her name. He made it sound musical, somehow. She had to stop and think to remember the question. "No," she replied. "I took some business courses to improve my typing and shorthand."

  "When you have the time, and your circumstances are improved, you might benefit by a few courses in sociology and racial diversity."

  "I suppose you have a college degree," she said.

  "Indeed. I am an Oxford graduate."

  "In...?"

  He smiled. "Science, with a major in chemistry and physics. My father greatly approved my choice. Our people were the founders of science."

  "In that case, with such a background," she said impishly, "perhaps you could chemically create a lobster for yourself in the kitchen."

  He frowned. Then the words made sense and he chuckled. The sound was very pleasant to Brianna's ears, deep and rich.

  "Perhaps I could, given the right ingredients," he mused.

  An item on the news caught his attention. He turned back to listen and Brianna escaped back into the kitchen.

  After a few muttered comments about the lack of proper silverware and china and linen napkins, which made her glower at him, he settled down to the meal with surprised pleasure. "I have not tasted such food before," he said. "It is good."

  "You needn't sound so surprised. I'm not exactly hopeless in the kitchen. My mother was a wonderful cook. She taught me how." She lifted her eyes. "Does your mother cook?"

  He laughed uproariously. "No. Her hands were never allowed to do anything so menial."

  She felt reprimanded and flushed a little. "Yes, well, in America it isn't considered menial."

  "I beg your pardon, I did not mean to insult you," he said surprisingly. "You are a good cook." "Thank you."

  He took a last bite of the meat loaf and sipped sweetened, creamed coffee with obvious pleasure.

  "You said her hands were never allowed," she asked. "Is your mother no longer alive?"

  "What a soft way you have with words, Brianna," he said with a curious smile.

  "Always the passive, not the active voice, when you ask something that might be hurtful." He put down his fork. "Yes, she is dead. So is my father. They were murdered."

  She dropped her fork. It clattered against the inexpensive ceramic plate, the noise loud in the sudden silence. "Oh, I am sorry," she stammered.

  "It was a long time ago," he said. "The sting is still there, but their murderers were caught and executed."

  All that reminded her that Ahmed was himself a target of would-be executioners.

  She grimaced as she looked at his impassive face. "Aren't you afraid?"

  "Why waste energy in such futility?" he asked. "I will die when my time comes." He shrugged. "It is our destiny to die, is it not, one day?"

  "Well, if assassins were gunning for me, I wouldn't be quite so casual about it!"

  He smiled. "You are a curious girl."

  "Woman," she corrected.

  He lifted an eyebrow, and his eyes were old and wise. "Girl," he replied softly.

  She got up a little jerkily and collected the plates. "I made a cherry pie for dessert," she said.

  "Ah. My favorite."

  "Is it?" She was sheepish. "Mine, too."

  "A thing we have in common. Shall we find more, I wonder?"

  She didn't answer him. He was getting under her skin, and he frightened her in emotional ways. She wasn't eager to let him turn her life upside down.

  They finished the pie in silence. He went back to the television while she cleared the table, washed up the few dishes and went to get her coat and purse.

  "Where are you going?" he asked, looking at her over his shoulder.

  "To see Tad."

  He got up and turned off the television. "I shall accompany you."

  "Now, wait a minute," she said. "They said you shouldn't leave the apartment."

  He was putting on his coat, ignoring her. "They will know that I am accompanying you. They will be watching."

  She threw up her hands. "I never saw a man so enchanted with his own demise!"

  He joined her at the door, ignoring her cry. "Shall we go?"

  She gave up. She could hardly restrain him. He was very tall, close up, and she imagined he was very fit, too, if those muscles she'd seen in his legs and arms were any indication.

  "Do you work out?" she asked suddenly.

  "In a gym, you mean? Not really. I ride my horses and work with them."

  "You have horses?" She was impressed. "I love horses. What sort are they?"

  "Lippizaner stallions," he said. "Those huge Austrian ones? But aren't they terribly expensive?"

  "Astronomical." He noticed her suspicion and chuckled. "They are the king's," he explained. "But he allows me to train them for him, during my spare hours."

  "Oh, I see. How nice of him."

  He looked very smug, and lights danced in his black eyes. "Indeed."

  It wasn't going to be such a bad evening, she thought He was in a good mood.

  And it lasted just until they reached her little car. He stopped and gaped at its bruised front fender, its rust spots covered with Bondo in preparation for the paint job she was having done on the installment plan. It was going to be red one day. Right now it was orange and rust and gray. Its tires were good, though, and its seats were hardly ragged at all. There was the small crack in the dash....

  "You expect me to ride in that!" he exclaimed, bug-eyed.

  "It's the only car I own," she informed him.

  "It is... pitiful."

  She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "It is not! It's a diamond in the rough. Just because it isn't cosmetically perfect...!"

  "It is a piece of junk!" he said harshly. "Why do you not buy something new, instead of riding around in this death trap?"

  "Because it's all I can afford!" she countered proudly. "Do you think everybody can just walk into a car dealership and buy a new one whenever they feel like it? This is the best I can do, and you have no right to make me feel ashamed of my car!"

  He started to speak just as a car pulled slowly up to the curb, a sinister-looking black one, and stopped in front of Brianna's car. She saw it and without even thinking, she suddenly pushed Ahmed against her car and tugged his head down, so that he was between the car and her body.

  "What are you doing?" he exclaimed, fighting her hold.

  "Will you be still?" she squeaked. "What if it's them?"

  "The CIA?" he said

  "The assassins!" she replied.

  "Oh. Oh, I see." He chuckled. "How very flattering, Brianna."

  "Will you keep your head down?"

  His lean hands found her waist and gently pushed her away from him. "Brianna, look, chérie."

  He turned her face toward the black car, where Lang was lounging by the back fender. He seemed lazily amused.

  Brianna flushed. She quickly stepped back from Ahmed and pushed at her disheveled hair.

  Lang walked toward them. "Hello, little lady," he drawled. "I was just passing and saw you and your cousin here and figured you might like a lift.

  Having car trouble?"

  "Yes, indeed," Ahmed agreed. "Then I'll be glad to drive you two wherever you want to go."

  Ahmed put Brianna in back and himself in the passenger seat beside Lang. She was still seething about Ahmed's insults. She loved her little car, dents and all. Arrogant jerk, she thought, glaring at the back of his head.

  "Would you min
d telling me how it is that I have a Mexican cousin when I'm very obviously of Irish ancestry?" she asked Lang irritably.

  "By marriage, of course," he said, chuckling. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She looked flushed and Ahmed was unusually silent. "Did you think I was going to shoot him?" he asked, gesturing toward his companion.

  "I didn't know it was you," she protested. "I just saw a big black limousine. Next time, I'll push him out in the street," she muttered under her breath. "He insulted my car."

  "That is not a car!" Ahmed joined in the conversation. "It is a piece of tin with spots."

  "How dare you!"

  "Excuse me," Lang interrupted. "But where are we going?"

  "To the hospital," Brianna said.

  "I should have remembered. You go almost every night." Lang's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "How long do you think you can keep it up before you collapse?"

  "I've managed for almost three years," she said tautly. "I'll manage for as long as it takes."

  He didn't say another word, but his expression was stark. Ahmed sat quietly pondering what he'd learned of Brianna all the way to the hospital. It surprised him to discover that she intrigued him. It must not be. They were worlds apart. She was an innocent, as well. He must marry one day for the sake of heirs, but they would of necessity have to be by an Arab woman. These flights of fancy must be suppressed. They were unrealistic.

  Brianna left Lang and Ahmed in the waiting room. She was allowed into the intensive care unit alone, where she sat holding Tad's frail hand and talking to him about the weather and her day, as she always did. His dark lashes lay on his pale cheek, his unruly dark hair falling onto his forehead as he slept in his oblivion.

  "Oh, Tad, I'd give anything if you'd wake up," she whispered huskily. "I'd give anything I owned!"

  But he didn't, couldn't, answer her.

  Lang leaned back against the wall, watching her through the glass, with an uncommunicative Ahmed at his side.

  "Torture," Lang said heavily. "That's what it must be for her to go through this every day."

  "Is there no other family, someone who might share her burden and lighten it?" Ahmed asked.

  "There's no one.. .just her and the boy."

  He let out a long breath. "Nurses could be arranged, you know," he said. "Around the clock. The best in the country."