She was thirsty beyond belief—and surely he must be, too? But he’d left both bottles with her. A tiny unwilling flicker of gratitude and admiration crept into her brain.
She presumed he intended to repeat his long march back to the bunker. He might be a man of the desert, but he still needed more than a few handfuls of liquid.
She shook her head sharply. He was a disgusting kidnapping terrorist pig she reminded herself, sneering at the sudden moment of concern she’d spared him.
He had manhandled her and handcuffed her and held her captive against her will. He’d rubbed himself up against her and touched her breasts. He’d scared her half to death with the video routine. His wellbeing was not worth considering. Had he considered hers?
She lost her train of thought for a moment as she concentrated on a tricky patch of rocks. She jumped across a larger than usual gap and yelped with alarm as she dropped the second bottle of orange juice and it ricocheted down from one hard surface to the next. Happily the bottle was plastic. She’d be able to retrieve it, and almost more importantly, not leave any telltale pile of broken glass to give her route away.
Her thoughts returned to Rafiq. Yes, he had manhandled her, but he hadn’t been too rough. A few bruises maybe, but no broken bones or blood. He’d somehow prevented the other two men from mistreating her, although the gun and the knife had been terrifying.
And he had—maybe—led her toward some sort of safety. Either that or he’d stranded her alone and lost in the burning desert, to flounder onwards until she dropped from exhaustion and died from heat and thirst. Perhaps he’d simply disposed of her? He and his men had achieved their kidnap of a western woman and had the recordings they wanted; if she was now surplus to requirements this would save them the bother of killing her.
But... the second bottle of orange juice gave her a glimmer of hope. Why had he given her two? Why did he not drink the other one himself? It seemed he intended she should live.
She’d long ago drained the last mouthful from the first bottle and followed his example of the rope; crushed it under her shoe, screwed the lid back on to keep it flat, and concealed it under a rock.
She glanced at her watch. Nearly 3.45. The Daniels family was holidaying at the seaside resort of Kalal—which was why she’d been free to go sketching on her own. Any other week she’d have been collecting eight year old Oscar and Jefferson from school in the capital of Al-Dubriz, or transporting six year old Mindy to dancing lessons. Had anyone noticed their nanny was missing yet? Probably not.
An unexpected sob wracked her body. No-one would even be looking for her! It might be several more hours before anyone did. The trail would be truly cold by then, and the tire tracks in the desert obliterated by the constantly moving sand. Maybe no-one would even think to look until someone saw the recording. The ‘take one’ version—where she still had Maddie’s red cap on and the metal handcuffs that had been snapped around her wrists in the van.
She levered herself down between the rocks and managed to catch up the bottle of juice she’d dropped. She squealed as a brilliant blue-green spiny lizard scuttled away from the small patch of shadow the bottle had cast. How could anything live in this unrelenting heat? And what on earth did it eat? Sure, there was the small trickle of water on the gully floor, but no plants or insects were visible.
“And that’s a stupid camouflage job,” she yelled at the iridescent creature as it vanished from view between two rocks. Anything to distract her from her desperate situation... anything to make it seem like she wasn’t so alone in the world.
From rock to boulder to stone. From stone to rock to boulder. Laurel pushed endlessly on, grateful for the odd few seconds when she was close enough to the overhanging bank to be out of the sun’s furious glare.
She twisted her wrist to check her watch again. 4.07. How long had she been struggling through the wretched gully? He’d said ‘an hour’s walk’. At his own desert-devouring speed or at her slow stagger? Thank goodness she’d been wearing sneakers instead of her new backless sandals. That thought cheered her up until 4.11, and then she sank onto a large rock beside the tiny stream and looked longingly at the second bottle of juice.
She knew she should hoard it for later, but she quivered with thirst and heat and exertion. Rafiq had drunk from the tiny stream—perhaps it was safe for her too? She dipped a hand into the tepid water and cupped up a small amount.
She sniffed. Nothing. She tasted. Nothing. She swallowed. Bliss! She dipped and swallowed several more times, then opened the bottle and chugged the juice down in a greedy torrent. When the bottle was empty she refilled it from the shining trickle, screwed the lid on, and resumed her trek feeling totally triumphant.
~♥~
Yasmina peered around the bedroom door again, noting that her unexpected guest finally rested quietly. Poor girl—she was obviously exhausted. How far had she walked? Where had the master found her? And how much longer before he arrived to explain the delicious mystery?
As Laurel slept and dreamed, Rafiq lay exhausted and dehydrated in the bunker. He remembered turning away from the cliff-top once he’d seen the girl stow his note in her jeans pocket. She’d opened the first bottle of juice and raised it to her mouth. The harsh sun had highlighted the movements of her ivory throat as she drank. He’d imagined brushing his lips down that creamy soft skin. Cupping his hands around her plump little breasts.
But not yet. For now he’d done all he could, and she was free.
He’d cast about for a suitable stone. Something fist sized and jagged, hoping it would do its work swiftly.
As he resumed his long march back across the burning sand, he willed his mind to become blank and feel no pain, his body to keep moving and ignore its screaming need for something more to drink.
Something wet and cool and refreshing.
Something which would dilute the thudding ache bouncing from ear to ear, and which would only get worse in the foreseeable future.
He counted the times his boots bit into the sand. With every twentieth pace he clenched his teeth and struck the sharp edge of the stone against the same piece of his brow until blood flowed.
His head pounded. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His legs moved on automatic. But at last, once he bled, he could stop his self-induced torture. He licked the stone clean, grimacing at the metallic taste of his own blood, slipped it into a pocket, and continued striding at the same merciless pace.
Finally the bunker appeared. A huge wave of relief swept through him—the van had not yet arrived back.
He fingered his brow. The blood had dried in the fierce heat. He retrieved the stone from his pocket and ground it against the same tender place until the crust burst apart and it was bloodied again. Then he bent and buried the stone and his clippers deep in the sand. He smoothed the hole over—the wind would finish the concealment in a few minutes.
With a silent prayer of thanks, he lurched the last dozen paces and staggered into the shade of the bunker. He overturned the wooden chair, dabbled his fingers against his brow, and smeared a patch of blood onto one of the legs.
Hopefully that would fool them.
He checked the melted knots in the orange rope and transferred a little blood onto them as well, wanting to make it look as though she’d somehow struggled free.
Then he collapsed onto the mattress and waited, desperate to drink, but knowing he must appear dazed and disoriented if his ruse was to be successful. Nazim and Fayez were wily and experienced campaigners; not easy to fool.
An indeterminate time later he heard the van slide to a halt. He tensed as boots thudded down the steps. He had no idea how bad his head wound looked. Bad enough to be convincing, he hoped.
Nazim was first to enter. “How was the American bitch? Is it worth us taking a turn?” His eyes darted swiftly around the half dark bunker. “She got free?”
“Free but dead,” Rafiq croaked. “She can’t survive out there.”
“You were too kind with
your knots.”
“I wanted her responsive—able to move for me a little.”
“But she escaped?”
“And hit me with that.”
Fayez righted the chair, fingering the dark blood.
He bent and touched Rafiq’s wound. “Not too bad,” he said with little sympathy. He dropped his hands lower and ran them over Rafiq’s body, ostensibly to check for other injuries. Rafiq knew he was being searched.
“Drink...” he groaned.
Nazim handed him an orange juice but didn’t bother unscrewing the top for him. Icy suspicion glittered in his eyes.
“She grabbed a couple of bottles and ran for it,” Rafiq muttered. “Towards Akajar. I followed her prints for a while once I could. She’ll never make it. She’s dead for sure.”
Fayez checked the drinks crate. Three juices now missing, the Coca Cola untouched. The numbers tallied.
Rafiq struggled with the screw-cap. Fayez took pity on him and opened it. Rafiq practically inhaled the juice. Fayez handed him another.
“The first phone is at the TV station?” Rafiq asked once he could speak more easily.
“Into the drop-box, and the bell was rung as you instructed.”
“Then we’ve succeeded. Now all we have to do is wait for them to comply.”
“And if we can’t produce the girl?”
“You know they’ll take their time and try to negotiate. It’ll be a fortnight at least before we have to worry. It hasn’t been a problem before.” He smiled—blazing white teeth against dark skin. “Load the gear. We stay apart for the time being. Let’s go home. I want to see the TV news tonight.”
Chapter Three — See-through Robe
Laurel jerked awake in full darkness to the solid thumping of an approaching helicopter. She struggled to a sitting position, and sat blinking and confused on a bed that wasn’t hers. The unfamiliar room was dimly lit from light that spilled in from the adjoining bathroom.
Damn—not a weird dream then. She was still here...
A knock thudded on her planked door. Yasmina’s thin arm snaked in from the hallway and switched on the black iron chandelier.
“Rafiq,” she said, coming further in and pointing to the sky.
Laurel plainly still looked half asleep because Yasmina whirled one hand to simulate helicopter rotors, and said again “Rafiq.”
“Rafiq,” Laurel agreed, nodding furiously. She struggled off the bed and did her best to indicate she required her jeans and T-shirt. No way was she meeting the pig in a see-through robe and nothing else.
Yasmina shook her head and mimed wringing out washing with her bony brown fists.
Laurel clapped a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. Well, she could add her sneakers and the baseball cap to the robe, but that was it. Not a good look! It seemed even her bra and panties had been dealt to by her unexpected personal maid.
She drew the all too transparent robe around her body, hoping to manage a double layer of fabric at least over her breasts and groin. There were no other clothes visible in the shady room; the chandelier gave out only fitful light. Yasmina had scuttled off—plainly she’d provide no further help.
The helicopter’s thudding was now deafening. Its swishing rotors chopped at the air, and it sounded to be landing very close to the house. A couple of minutes later eerie silence fell, disturbed only by the distant screeching of wakened birds.
Laurel thrust her feet into her sneakers, struggling to lace them up with fingers that seemed all thumbs. Then she combed her hands through the long strands of her newly washed hair. She was as ready as she would ever be, and she was going to deliver the tirade of her life.
She strode with false bravado down the hallway to where the lights shone brighter and the air was scented with delicious cooking aromas.
“Ah, you have arrived safely, Miss Kiwi,” a husky voice said. She whirled around and found herself being inspected by piercing dark eyes. Eyes which had no doubt been enjoying an excellent view of her bottom under only one layer of flimsy fabric.
“No thanks to you,” she retorted, feeling a hot blush rushing up her neck and over her face.
“You think not?” The query was soft, but she sensed steel behind it.
“Leaving me there on my own to walk all that way? In such disgusting heat?”
“Spiriting you away from two dangerous animals? Oh please...” His eyelids drooped. “You’d rather I’d left you to defend yourself? I’m sure you would have done it so well, a big strong girl like you.”
Laurel drew herself up to her full five-feet-four and clenched her fists.
“I see they got the better of you anyway,” she said with satisfaction, indicating the clotted bruising above his eye.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He seemed unruffled by her jibe.
Yasmina bustled towards him with a bowl of water, antiseptic and a sponge. The tiny woman dumped her equipment down with little regard for the table top, tugged Rafiq onto one of the dining chairs with even less ceremony, draped a small towel over his shoulder, and attacked his wound with tender dabs and much clicking of her tongue and ai-ai-ai-ing.
Rafiq suffered this attention without comment, and his intent dark gaze pinned an embarrassed and furious Laurel where she stood. She clutched the robe even more tightly around her and crossed her arms over her breasts. She’d be damned if she’d turn away and display her butt again...
Why on earth had she pulled her sporty shoes on? They must look ridiculous under the pretty robe with its borders of sensuous gold embroidery. The floors were smooth stone strewn with soft patterned rugs—she’d had no need of tough rubber soles.
The pig looked amused, damn him. As though he positively enjoyed her unease. After everything he’d subjected her to that afternoon, he now thought it fair to laugh?
Having subdued her and held her down with his disgusting masculine body?
And handcuffed her, and played with her hair?
And manhandled her into the hideous bunker by grabbing her by the pony-tail?
Recorded her without permission, and put her through the hell of having those weapons thrust in her face?
Snarled at her to impress his friends?
She knew she could go on and on, piling accusation upon accusation.
“I hope that hurts,” she said, eyeing Yasmina’s efforts.
“Quite a lot, thank you.”
“Good. Excellent. It serves you right. At least you can take me back to Kalal in the helicopter now—except she’s washed my clothes and I’ve nothing to wear.”
He nodded, and intensified his gaze, travelling without hurry from the top of her head down to her ankles and the incongruous shoes.
“Yes, I can see you are wearing nothing,” he finally agreed. “They suit you very well, these non-existent clothes. You’re a pleasant diversion from Yasmina’s torture.”
Laurel seethed, but managed somehow to hold her tongue and not react to his taunting. Right now she needed his flying skills more than she needed to defend her own pride.
Yasmina heard her name spoken and gave Rafiq a fond pat on the cheek. He threw a few soft words in her direction and then returned his attention to Laurel.
“Well you can’t go travelling if you’ve nothing to wear, can you Miss Kiwi? The International Aviation Federation forbids it on grounds that pilots may be distracted and rendered unsafe to fly.”
“What!?” Her eyes blazed at his insolence.
His own much darker ones stared her down. Surely he had his tongue tucked into his cheek and was trying to annoy her?
“And anyway, this pilot is hungry. He needs feeding and resting before he’s fit to fly again.” He turned his attention back to Yasmina, leaving Laurel stunned and silent.
~♥~
“What have you cooked for us?”
“Lamb stew with cumin and tomatoes, My Lord Rafiq. Ripe apricots to follow with your coffee.”
Yasmina gave his forehead a final close inspection and appeared as ple
ased as she was ever going to be.
“She has made us lamb stew, my old nurse and nanny. We can’t just fly off and disappoint her.” He grinned at Laurel’s outraged expression. “We’ll eat and then we’ll see.”
“We’ll eat and then we’ll fly,” the girl snapped.
“Perhaps.” His eyes continued to roam around her body, stopping now at her small hands with their pearly pink nails, next on her pale throat which had so drawn him as she gulped at the orange juice after their frantic march across the swirling sand, then down to the crossover neckline of the robe where her breasts were pushed together by her arms holding the fabric tight.
She was not sport for the likes of Nazim and Fayez. He knew all too well what her fate would have been if he’d not intervened. She’d been disposable the moment the recordings were complete.
And he would have had to let them have her because so much time and planning had gone into the mission, and so many other lives were at risk because of it. The scene his mind insisted on summoning curdled his blood. She was a pretty thing—soft and young, feisty but unsophisticated. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“I can’t eat dinner wearing only this,” she objected, glaring down at the fabric.
Rafiq dragged his brain back from rape and murder to the tiny problem of the see-through robe.
“Yasmina has very few clothes, and she would be embarrassed for you to borrow any of them.”
“But... this isn’t decent.”
“Poor Miss Kiwi. I held you underneath me this afternoon for many minutes so I’m well acquainted with your body. Why should you be worried after that?”
“You’re disgusting!”
“I’m realistic. There are no other ladies’ garments in the lodge. Although...”
He pushed back the chair, unfolded to his full height, and placed the towel on the table top.
He enjoyed her disbelieving stare as he pulled his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. He slipped the topmost button undone, then moved down to the next, and the next. His eyes sent her a mischievous challenge as he progressed downwards. As he’d hoped, Laurel found it impossible to look away. She swallowed.
He saw the small convulsive movement, and something gave a kick deep in his gut. So he was turning her on a little? Not as much as her compact curves in that transparent confection were affecting him!