Methodically Zoe went through the walnut armoire, as she had already done before. But she would leave nothing to chance. Although last time she had not found anything in Zohara’s room, this time she might.
But once again, there was nothing in the armoire but clothing, including the set of bedouin robes that Zoe had discovered before but had not understood the significance of. Now she smiled, removing them, for here was evidence of the American’s perfidy should she ever decide to move against her. Tossing the robes on the bed, she opened a chest. It was empty.
Where was that oil lamp? The one that had brought the strangest, mesmerized, almost frightened expression to Zohara’s face? And what about those other odd items that Zohara had thought she had hidden from Zoe’s view? Zoe had just glimpsed a strange leather bag and an assortment of objects she could not identify. But one of the objects had been a very small blue book, almost palm sized. Zoe could not read English, but she wanted to know what was written there.
She wondered if the objects might be in Murad’s room.
Zoe was about to move to the adjoining door when it suddenly opened. She stiffened in surprise. She had forgotten that the new slave was recuperating there.
Now that slave stood in the doorway, an oil lamp in his hand, staring at her. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
Zoe straightened slowly. In just a few days, the slave had drastically changed. Or had she merely failed to notice how tall he was, how broad shouldered—how male? Zoe could not help looking him up and down with actual feminine interest. Although he was thin, he was muscular and extraordinarily well built. His eyes were dark and hard. He seemed to be handsome in spite of the ragged beard. And he exuded authority. Clearly in his past life he had been a man of importance and power.
And he had spoken English. Not the English spoken by the British living in Tripoli, and not the kind of English spoken by Zohara. His accent was clipped, nasal and strange.
Did she know him? Had she heard that accent before? He seemed familiar, yet she would swear that they had never met.
“What are you doing in here?” he said again. This time he spoke in halting Arabic.
“This is my home. I can do as I please,” she said, shrugging. “Someone had better teach you manners, slave. You may address me as Lilli Zoe, nothing less.”
He stared suspiciously, his gaze moving behind her to the pile of clothing on the bed.
“How loyal you are to your new mistress,” Zoe murmured.
He did not respond.
“And I wonder what you would look like without that beard.” Zoe could not help herself, she was intrigued. She pranced forward until her bell-like gauze pants touched his bare toes. “You have a lot of silver in your hair, but many European slaves gray early, it seems. How old are you?”
He did not answer immediately. “Twenty-eight.”
Her eyes widened; he was young. And she had no doubt that he was virile—she could sense his sexuality just the way she could sense his power. Zoe glanced down at his groin. He was wearing thin silk pants, nothing more, not even a vest. He was a tall man; he was probably big, too. Zoe preferred her men oversized. She wet her lips and laid her hand on one slab of his chest. She shuddered. Touching him was like touching a rock. Surely his penis was as hard.
He did not move. His expression did not change. But his dark eyes blazed. With lust, or with anger? Zoe did not know. She did not particularly care.
She stroked the muscle of his chest, deliberately arousing his nipple. “What an interesting addition to our household you are,” she said huskily. “I think I understand why Zohara bought you. How astute she was.” Zoe laughed.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
Her hand paused. She gripped his chest hair, almost hurtfully. “I don’t think so,” she said, sending him a hot look. “How long has it been since you’ve had a woman?”
His response was to grip her wrist and force it away from contact with his torso. “My answer is no.”
He had hurt her a little and she smiled widely. “Did I ask you for anything?”
He dropped her hand abruptly.
“And did I even give you a choice?” Zoe asked coyly. She moved closer and pushed her soft thigh between his legs, up against his loins. “Oh, praise Allah,” she exclaimed. “You are not a eunuch!”
Alex had trouble dismissing Blackwell from her mind as she entered Jebal’s apartments. Xavier was healing rapidly, and she wanted to be with him. She wanted to resolve their relationship, put the past behind them, consummate their love for one another Just once, and escape Tripoli.
Yet they had not spoken much since he had awoken three days ago. He spent all of his time eating or sleeping. But Alex knew that this was the best and fastest way for him to recover his health.
And recover, he must. It was June fifth. The clock was ticking. They had to escape very soon, before the middle of July, in case fate intended to hand Blackwell to his executioner.
“Zohara.”
Alex came to her senses. Jebal had only visited her briefly in the past few weeks, waiting, she knew, for her to fully recover from her bout with death. Alex faced him now, filled with tension. She had so far escaped his advances; surely she could withstand them a little while longer, until she and Blackwell escaped. Alex was determined. There was only one man she would give herself to.
