facing battle, Sharif thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Samuelson. Now for a look at how long this rain is going to last and how much accumulation we can expect…”
Holly wore a guarded expression as she fed the baby. During Trevor’s appeal, she’d showed no sign of longing for her betrothed. What was she thinking?
And why did she keep sneaking sideways glances at Sharif? Did she too feel this urge to touch?
Her tenderness toward his son formed a bond between them. A man and woman who shared a baby usually also shared the intimacy of their bodies. But she was not the mother, the sheikh reminded himself. And she was not, and never could be, his woman.
The mobile phone rang. After muting the TV, he answered it.
Zahad spoke in Baharalik, an ancient language that survived only in Bahrim. “Did you see the newscast? Yes? I am angry with myself. I should have spotted the camera.”
“We may still be able to resolve this matter,” Sharif said. “Since the mother is missing, I doubt we face a custody battle.”
“Only charges of kidnapping!”
Holding the baby against a cloth laid over her shoulder, Holly was rubbing his back with circular motions. She appeared to pay him no notice.
Into the phone, he said, “I hope to persuade the woman to drop charges. She has accepted that I am the child’s father, and she did leap into the car of her own free will.”
“I doubt she or the authorities will see it that way,” grumbled his cousin. “I do not think it wise to trust her.”
Zahad was a genius at intrigues, but sometimes, Sharif had learned, the shortest distance between two points really was a straight line. “Nevertheless, we need to get my son home quickly. If I can persuade her to plead our cause, it might help.”
“She will lie to you,” warned his aide.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I will have to use my judgment.”
“I would rather you used your wits,” Zahad said. “Although, I admit, you have reason to doubt my advice, now that we have been shot at and photographed all in one day.”
“I do not doubt you,” Sharif said. “You are my other self.”
“As you are mine. I will call as soon as I learn anything from my sources in Alqedar. So far, they have uncovered no rumors of a plot.”
The sheikh rang off with a silent prayer of thanks for his faithful relative. Although they had attended different universities while exiled during their country’s dictatorship, they had trained together at a military camp, and they had both shed blood in the war of liberation. There was no one he trusted more than Zahad.
Perhaps the man was right about Holly. Perhaps she would lie in order to liberate herself, then betray him. But he had to try to win her over, for his son’s sake.
HOLLY WISHED she were an expert at languages. If only she knew what the men had been saying!
At least, according to the newscast, Sharif had told the truth about his identity. He really was a sheikh, and he’d given her his true name.
Did that mean he was being honest about Jazz? That he hadn’t harmed her, and that her sister really had become a surrogate to raise money for a demo recording?
It was, Holly supposed, the kind of impulsive scheme that Jazz might get involved in. But surely Sharif knew more than he was telling about her sister’s disappearance.
She bit her lip. Nothing in her quiet life had prepared her to deal with this brooding, complicated man.
At least the effects of the medication had worn off. She felt tired and sore, but her brain was functioning.
“You must be hungry.” Lamplight etched shadows into the man’s face.
“I guess so.” She tried not to think about Trevor and the wedding reception he’d planned at his favorite restaurant.
In the corner kitchenette, the sheikh opened a refrigerator. His broad shoulders blocked Holly’s view of the contents.
At last he swung around. “We have plenty to eat, if you like Middle Eastern food.”
“That’s fine.” Holly had eaten at several exotic restaurants with Trevor, although she couldn’t remember much about the food. “Do you know how to cook?”
“Only over a campfire.” The sheikh removed a platter. “Fortunately, this can be microwaved.”
A sense of unreality teased at Holly. Was she really about to eat dinner with an Arabian sheikh in a robe and headdress?
As he moved around the kitchen, the white fabric molded itself to his powerful build. She wished she weren’t so aware of Sharif’s leashed strength and the smoldering way he studied her when he thought she was unaware.
For one traitorous moment, she wished that, for one night, she could be someone other than prosaic Holly Rivers. That she could yield to instincts that she didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly justify.
No, she must not think that way. She must set her mind to escaping.
The man had said they were in a canyon. Even in paved-over Orange County, there remained wilderness areas with thick undergrowth inhabited by coyotes and mountain lions. Did she really dare to take the baby out there?
Gazing down at Ben, Holly saw that he’d dozed off. Gently, she settled him on the center of the queen-size bed.
The bell on the microwave indicated their food was ready. Her mind still mulling the dangers of an escape, Holly stood up. Without warning, the world began to spin, and she groped shakily for support.
Swiftly, Sharif reached her side. As he caught Holly’s arm, her knees went weak and she had to lean against him.
“The drug must be affecting your balance,” he said. “It will help if you eat something.”
“I thought I was over it.” Glancing up, she found his face close to hers, his gaze filled with concern. She knew she ought to be frightened, but instead she felt relaxed. Trusting.
“Stay in bed. I’ll bring the food here.” His low tone vibrated through her.
“No.” Holly didn’t dare fall asleep again. They needed to talk. The more she knew, the better her chances of getting out alive. “I want to sit at the table.”
“I’ll help you.” One arm encircled her waist. As the sheikh steered her across the room, she detected other thicknesses of cloth beneath the white fabric. So he was dressed under his robe. The realization highlighted how little she knew about him or his culture.
“At home, do you live in a tent, or a palace, or what?” she asked. “I don’t know much about Alqedar. Or about sheikhs, either.”
His jaw worked, and she realized he was suppressing a smile. Okay, she probably did sound like an idiot, but how was she to know?
“I live in a palace, and we have all the comforts of home.” Supporting her with one arm, he pulled out a chair at the wooden table. “Most of Alqedar’s leaders are educated in the West. We must be able to bridge two worlds, preserving our traditions while meeting the industrialized nations on their own terms.”
“You certainly speak English well.” She sank onto the chair, and immediately missed the comfort of his nearness. “Where did you go to school?”
“At Columbia, in New York.” He took a seat opposite her. “So I am familiar with your country.”
“New York is only one small part of America.”
“I have traveled through most of the states,” he said. “The dramatic landscapes of Utah and Arizona are like nothing else I’ve seen. And some of your cities exert a unique charm.”
Holly