Murad remained still, a dozen questions flashing through his mind, his eyes wide. Jebal’s softly murmured praying filled the room. Murad could not move.
“Stay with her, aid her, protect her,” the bedouin said. Then, her gaze very black, she added softly, “He will return.”
And she was gone. Murad stared after her, breathless and shaken. He had no doubt about the bedouin’s meaning. Blackwell would return.
Alex woke up slowly, in stages.
She did not want to wake up. Because she was dreaming, and in her dream she was with Blackwell. They stood together on the bow of thePearlas it cut through the swells of the sea. His arm was around her. The wind and the water sprayed their faces. Xavier turned and pulled her close. His mouth sought hers.
The kiss was not violent or devouring. It was very, very tender.
Alex clung to his hard, broad shoulders, half-aware that she was dreaming—even though it felt so real. Her temples were pounding. Alex moaned. She had a splitting headache, a hammer pounding inside of the front of her head so forcefully that she could barely stand it. The fog engendered by sleep lifted.
Shewasdreaming. Blackwell was gone. He had been sent to the mines, where he had vanished, while she remained a captive in Tripoli. A captive and Jebal’s wife.
Her headache somehow increasing, Alex blinked and focused on her surroundings. Her bedchamber was dark and shadowed and filled with an orange-scented incense. Her back ached. Her legs felt numb. How long had she been sleeping?
And did it matter? Farouk and everyone else thought that Blackwell was dead—murdered. Alex waited for the terrible pain to swarm up from deep inside her chest and overwhelm her. But it did not come.
“Alex? Are you awake?” A strong, callused hand stroked her brow.
“Murad,” she gasped, her eyes fluttering open.Blackwellwasnot dead.The voice was there suddenly, inside of her head. Blackwell was not dead! Alex didn’t know how she knew it, but she did, with her entire heart and soul, with every fiber of her being. “Murad!” She smiled tremulously at him.
He caressed her cheek. “Praise Allah that you live, Alex, for you almost died.”
Instantly her mind blazed to life. “I have been sick.”
“Very. You willed yourself to die, Alex.” Murad’s eyes filled with tears. “How could you do such a thing?”
She reached for and found his hand. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Don’t cry. Murad.”
He brushed his bare forearm over his eyes and smiled somewhat shakily at her. “You frightened me—us—very badly, Alex.”
“Us?”
“Jebal has been here night and day.”
Alex didn’t want to remember, but she did. Their relationship hardly remained amicable. She was afraid of what the future might now hold. “Is he still angry with me? I would have thought he would be glad to be rid of me.”
“I believe that, in spite of your behavior, he does love you.”
She inhaled. She could not cope with that concept now. “I am very weak.”
“You will be well in a few more days.” He smiled reassuringly at her.
“And Blackwell? Has there been any word?” Alex asked eagerly.
Murad’s smile faded. “There has been no word, Alex.”
Alex stared, her smile gone. “He isn’t dead, Murad. He still lives. I know it.”
Murad hesitated. “I don’t want to raise your hopes falsely, Alex.”
“What!” she cried.
“A seer told me that he would return.”
A few days later, Alex rummaged through her things, all of which were stored in the bottom of a small chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She turned her Coach backpack upside down, emptying out the contents. A strange feeling, almost nostalgic, perhaps even homesickness, swept over her as she stared at the items that had fallen out. A Lancôme lipstick and compact, a few sticks of Trident gum, her comb, some pens, her Filofax, Guess sunglasses, and her Gucci watch. None of these items interested her—she hadn’t looked at them in more than a year. But now she thought about Beth, who must be worried to death by her disappearance, and by now would assume that she was dead or kidnapped into white slavery.
