Kamilah’s big brown eyes lifted slowly up. Sahar could read the hurt in them. She crouched down to the child’s height. “Kamilah,” she said. “It’s not because I don’t like them. I think they’re the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen. But I’m not sure your father would be happy if he saw me wearing these clothes. And I really wouldn’t want to upset anybody.”
Kamilah’s bottom lip trembled slightly. Sahar was at a loss. The poor child seemed to desperately need this. She sighed. “Okay, how about I just try one dress on, then?”
Kamilah’s face lit up. She immediately reached for a silky green dress and held the garment out to her.
Sahar took it from the child. “You think it’ll fit me?”
Kamilah nodded.
Sahar held the fabric against her face and turned toward the mirror. Kamilah had made a fine choice. The jade-green silk picked up the dark flecks in her eyes. She moved closer to the mirror. But as she did, a bright-white light stabbed through her head. She gasped. Her hand shot to the neat line of stitches under her hairline. It was as if she’d seen something. As if dark glass had cracked and let in a painful bright shard of memory. A memory that had something to do with the color of this jade-green silk. Something more than just the color. But as sharp and fast as it had come, it was gone.
Sahar’s heart pounded. She carefully set the dress back onto the bed. She couldn’t possibly put it on. She had to find a way out of this without upsetting Kamilah.
But before she could speak, the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves once again thudded into her brain. The Arabian horseman—David Rashid.
She spun around and peered out the window inexplicably hungry for another glimpse of the man on his stallion.
She saw him coming back up along the ridge at a hell-bent pace, spurts of red dust shooting up behind the stallion’s hooves, the horse’s mane and tail flying free with the wind of speed. Her breath caught once again at the primitive image of the powerful man astride his white horse.
“That’s my daddy,” said the small voice at her side.
Sahar released her breath in a whoosh. “Wow, he sure can ride. What a beautiful horse.”
“He’s got lots of horses. That’s Barakah, his stallion. He’s just broken him in.” Pride for her father had burst out in a spurt of words that left the little girl looking shell-shocked at the sound of her own voice.
Sahar chose not to comment, to go with the flow as if nothing was unusual. “You’re kidding? He’s totally in control. That stallion must be a devil to ride, but your dad makes it look like he was born on the horse.”
Kamilah shrugged.
“So, was he born on a horse?”
A smiled struggled across Kamilah’s lips. “Kind of.”
Sahar crouched down again. “How so?”
“My…my daddy, he used to ride with his daddy, Sheik Omar bin Zafir Rashid, when he was very little, in the desert. That’s where he learned how.”
“Sheik? Your grandfather’s a sheik?”
The little girl nodded.
“And does he live here, too?”
She shook her head. “He’s dead now. Like my mummy. He was the leader of a nomad tribe in the desert. Now daddy is the sheik.”
Curiosity quickened through Sahar. Somehow, instinctively she’d known David Rashid was connected with the Sahara. And the fact he was titled slotted into her brain like a missing puzzle piece. “So is that where your father is from? The Sahara desert?”
Kamilah nodded.
“But he’s also got a bit of an English accent.”
She nodded again.
“So he’s from two places? From England and the desert?” She felt a twinge of guilt at pressing the child like this for information on her father, but she couldn’t help herself.
The child smiled shyly. “Yes, and he’s been teaching me to ride. Horses and camels, too.”
“Your daddy must be very, very proud of you.”
Kamilah shook her head solemnly. “He’s upset with me.”
“Oh, sweetheart, why on earth would he be upset with you?”
“Be-becau-because I…I can’t talk.” She stumbled over her words, suddenly self-conscious again.
“Oh, honey,” she bent down, took Kamilah’s hands in her own, “you are talking. Beautifully. Listen to yourself.”
Tears pooled along the rims of the child’s big eyes. “I…I can talk to you…but…I…I can’t talk…to my daddy. Or…or anyone.”
“Because I’m a mermaid? Is that why you feel you can talk to me?”
“Yes,” she said in a tiny voice. “Because I knew my mommy would send you from the sea.”
A swell of emotion choked Sahar’s throat. “And that’s why you were waiting for me? You knew your mother would send you something from the sea, because that’s where she went?”
Tears spilled from Kamilah’s eyes and ran in a sheen over her smooth brown cheeks. Sahar took the child’s shoulders in her hands and looked into her eyes. “Kamilah, have you been able to speak to anyone since your mother died?”
She shook her head.
“No one at all?”
A sob shuddered through her body. “I…I…I had to…I had to tell my daddy you were on…on the beach. I had to speak or the sea would take you away.”
“And you haven’t been able to speak to him again, not since you found me?”
She shook her head. Another sob racked through her little body, and fresh tears streamed down her face.
“Oh, honey, come here.” She drew the little girl into her arms and hugged her tight. She nestled her nose into Kamilah’s hair. She could smell the apple scent of the child’s shampoo. She could smell sunshine in her clothes.
And in Sahar’s heart an unbidden sense of responsibility swelled. She hugged tighter. She wanted to tell Kamilah she wasn’t really a mermaid. But she didn’t know what she was. She had a fictional name. No past. No future. She wasn’t a real person. Not in this child’s eyes. Not in her own eyes. She was a one-dimensional fabrication with no sense of self. A half person. A fairy tale.
And the notion made her feel suddenly so very alone and desperately lost. As lost as Kamilah probably felt.
As much as Kamilah seemed to need her, Sahar also needed this child. She needed this connection, this hug, this human touch. It somehow grounded her in the frightening mental blankness of her world.
The child probably needed her own mother for all the same reasons. To feel grounded. Whole. Loved.
She had to help this little girl, whatever it took. Right now this child was the one thing that linked her to some sense of purpose.
She felt Kamilah’s little hands stroking her hair. A hiccup of emotion tore through Sahar’s chest. Even in her own state of distress the child was offering comfort. She was a deep little thing. Intelligent and full of silent, lonely agony. Kamilah’s subconscious had cooked up a mermaid story to help explain the inexplicable—why the people you loved most had to die. The fantasy somehow helped justify the tragedy to the child. And perversely Kamilah now thought Sahar was one of the mermaids sent up from the sea by her mother to help her. A gift from the ocean in exchange for all the ocean had taken away.
And with that realization, Sahar vowed to herself that no matter what it took, she would do what she could to help Kamilah. She would be that gift from the ocean.
And hopefully, by the time she got her memory back, by the time she figured out who she was and where she belonged, Kamilah would be beyond the need for fantasy and mermaids and she’d be ready for her to leave Shendi Island.
“Kamilah, look at me, honey.”
Kamilah’s tear-streaked face gazed up at hers. “Listen to me, Kamilah. I’ll make you a promise. I will help you find your lost voice if you will promise to help me find my lost memory.”
The little girl’s lips began to tremble.
“Is that a deal, sweetheart?”
Kamilah nodded, swiping at her tears with her little hand, smudging them across her
face. Then she flung herself back into Sahar’s arms and clung tight. “Please,” she whispered, her little breath warm against Sahar’s neck, “please don’t ever…ever go away…like…like my mummy. Please don’t ever go back to the sea.”
“You think she’s faking it?” David’s hand tightened around his glass. He had to get a grip on the irrational anger, the strange swirl of unidentifiable emotions that tightened around him when he thought of Sahar.
“No, I’m not saying that.”
David slammed his glass onto the table. “Then what are you saying, Watson?”
The doctor eyed him silently. “Why don’t you sit down, David.”
“I’m comfortable standing.” He waited for Watson to continue.
“Okay, all I’m saying is that her amnesia appears to be psychological in origin.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
The doctor sipped his mint tea, ice chinking against the glass. “Meaning I think she needs a shrink. Her vitals are fine. I ran several basic memory tests and apart from the loss of personal identity and personal history, I can detect absolutely no other retrograde or anterograde dysfunction—no signs of organic damage.”
“So it’s all in her head, then?”
Watson smiled. “I forgive you the pun, Rashid.”
David was not amused. He waited in irritable silence for the doctor to continue.
“She appears to have a dissociative disorder, most likely stemming from the trauma. It’s probably some kind of coping mechanism. She really needs a specialist for me to be one hundred per cent sure, David. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“You think she’s mentally cutting herself off from her accident?”
“It’s possible.”
“Or faking it.”
The doctor sighed. He set his glass down, pushed it to the middle of the table, leaving droplets of condensation in its wake. “It’s always difficult to tell.”
David dragged his hands through his hair. This mind business was so damned awkward. He’d been through all this with Kamilah. It had taken him months to come to terms with the fact the accident had shut his daughter off. A part of him always believed Kamilah held some control, that if she really wanted to, she would speak. That she had the choice.
He’d dealt with anger. Denial. He’d even come to a kind of acceptance. Yet a mad part of himself couldn’t let the thought go that perhaps Kamilah was punishing him for not having managed to save Aisha.
Specialist after London specialist had not been able to help either of them. That’s where Watson had come in. He’d helped David come to terms with the fact Kamilah did not hold control over her speech. That she was trapped in a psychological prison.
And now this woman. More mind games. He liked things up-front. Direct. Straightforward. He blew out a breath of pent-up air, reached for his tea, swigged. “Okay. So what you’re saying is medical attention is not urgent.”
“Not life-threatening urgent, but a good idea.”
“Fine.” He set his glass down. “My tech says the sat-phone system should be up again by tomorrow morning. In the meantime, when you get into Khartoum this evening, you get Sahar’s details to the British Embassy and to the Ministry of the Interior. Hopefully they’ll get bulletins out via Interpol, newspapers, whatever, and she’ll be identified within the next few days. Her relatives can then come and get her and take her to a specialist in her hometown…wherever that is.”
Watson drained the last of his tea, plunked the glass down and stood. “Good enough. I’ll stop by and see the ambassador this evening. In the meantime, little things like a familiar scent or sound could help jog her memory. Once she grabs on to a particular thread, the whole lot could come cascading back in one go.”
“Yeah, let’s hope that happens sooner rather than later.”
“It could be traumatic if it happens all at once, David. She’ll need someone to help her through it.”
“Yeah.” David checked his watch. “The chopper should be ready. I’ll see you out.”
The doctor hesitated.
“What now?” David asked, words more clipped than he’d intended.
“Why the anger, David? The woman’s helpless. It’s not her fault.”
“Ah, don’t you go pulling the shrink stuff on me now, Watson.”
“You’re worried about the mermaid thing, about Kamilah.”
David sighed deeply. He studied Watson’s lined face. The man was his friend. He meant well. He had no right to take his frustration out on the doc. “Yes,” he said. “I’m concerned about her grasp on reality, on her unnatural attachment to this woman.” And his own alarming physical attraction to her.
“Kamilah has started to speak, David. You’ve both reached a major milestone. Things can only go forward from here.”
“Kamilah thinks the woman’s some kind of fictional creature. That’s the only reason she spoke.”
Watson chuckled heartily. “Mermaid, schmermaid, whatever Kamilah thinks, it broke through her mental barriers. Use it, David. Use the tools that have been placed in your hands.”
David gave a derisive snort. “The tool I have been handed, Watson, is an unexplained woman coughed up by the sea in a freak storm. Why can’t my life be simple?”
Watson grinned broadly. “Because you’re not a simple man, Rashid.”
David smiled in spite of himself. “Seriously, Watson,” he said. “The woman will be gone in a few days. Where will that leave us?”
The doctor tilted a bushy white brow. “Us?”
“I mean Kamilah, where will that leave Kamilah?” His verbal slip shocked him. And it must have shown in face. Because the doctor angled his head and scrutinized him knowingly. “She’s a beautiful woman, David.”
“What the hell has that got to do with it?” he snapped, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
The doctor raised his hand in mock defeat. “Okay, okay. But any red-blooded male can’t help notice she’s one hell of a woman.”
“And probably attached,” he said in spite of himself.
Watson’s weather-beaten face cracked into a grin. “Ah, so you did notice, Rashid. There is hope for you yet.”
“She’ll be history as soon as her memory returns. The sooner she goes, the better. I don’t want Kamilah any more attached to the woman than she already is.”
And he sure as hell didn’t want to feel any more attracted to her than he already was.
The doctor nodded, the twinkle still in his eyes. “Word about our beautiful amnesiac should start circulating by this evening. People like her don’t go unnoticed, David. Especially in a place like Sudan. We’ll know soon enough.”
David watched the doctor waddle off with his characteristic uneven gait. Damn him. That all-knowing gleam had never left Watson’s perceptive eyes. Not once. He’d noted David’s blatant attraction to Sahar, and that just made David angrier. He’d thought he’d at least demonstrated outward control of his libido. That his male interest was so obvious irked the hell out him. It meant Sahar had likely seen it, too. And that gave her a power he didn’t want her to have.
Because David Rashid always made sure the balance of power was in his hands.
Chapter 4
David took his brandy out onto the tiled terrace that overlooked the lagoon and the ocean beyond. The sky was devoid of cloud, the air sultry and the black heavens peppered with stars.
Dinner with Kamilah had been really special. Just the two of them. She hadn’t spoken to him again, but she’d engaged him with her eyes. Watson was right. It was progress. And he was going to hold on to that.
He allowed himself to relax. Cradling his drink, he watched the pale light of the moon shoot silver ribbons across the oily black sea with the rise and curl of each wave. In the calm of the lagoon below, his yacht swayed gently with the rhythm of the incoming tide. He could hear the distant chink of the halyard against the mast.
Having the occasional drink was one of the few Western luxuries he allowed
himself. Being born of an English mother and Arabic father, being raised half his life in the desert, the other half in the hallowed halls of British aristocracy, he’d found himself torn between two cultures—a man with one foot in an ancient world and one in the new. His detractors saw this dichotomy as a weakness. But David had made it his strength, in business and in life.
He took a sip of his brandy, the fire of it burning down his throat. He felt its warmth diffuse through his system. He exhaled softly, stretched out his legs.
“It’s so peaceful.”
He jolted, almost choking on his drink.
“It’s hard to believe there was a violent storm only hours ago.”
He turned to look at her. She stood in the arched doorway. The lamplight from the dining room behind her set a halo of soft fire to the amber-gold of her hair. It was tied back loosely with a piece of ribbon, but fine tendrils escaped and wafted ever so slightly about her face in the warm, salty breeze. Her eyes were darkly luminous in this light. An oversize white muslin shirt hung to her thighs. On her legs she wore soft white muslin pants. She had oversize leather thongs on her feet. Watson’s clothes?
He swallowed against the tightening in his throat. He’d expected—no, dreaded—seeing her in Aisha’s clothes. And here she was in Watson’s garb. And in spite of the getup, she remained ridiculously sensual and feminine, in the way of a woman confident and secure with her sexuality. That in itself was insanely arousing to David. He couldn’t seem to find his voice. All he could do was stare at the shape of her body under the sheer African fabric, silhouetted against the lamplight. It made him recall her perfect breasts, the tight coral tips.
His pulse rate kicked up, and his breathing became light and shallow. This woman had a confounding effect on his body. He cleared his throat. But his voice still came out low and gruff. “Those clothes?”
She smiled. “The doctor’s. May I join you?”
“Why are you wearing Watson’s stuff? What happened to the clothes Kamilah brought you?”
She stepped out onto the patio and into his personal space. “It didn’t feel right,” she said. “I didn’t want to upset anyone. I told Watson how I felt, and he gave me free access to his closet.” She looked down at the garments and grimaced playfully. “I’m afraid this is the best I could come up with. Couture à la doc.”
The Sheik Who Loved Me Page 5
