One Desert Night - By Maggie Cox Page 0,39

In the light of what happened to Zahir I should have realised that it might not be completely safe. But, Gina, you were so brave—biting the attacker like that. If you had not, I shudder to think what might have happened.'

'You're not to blame, either, Farida. And I prefer to deal with what is than speculate on what might have been. I'm okay, aren't I? I'm still here—alive and kicking.' Injecting some firmness into her tone, Gina even made herself smile—the last thing she wanted was the other woman berating herself for the incident, even if the truth was that her nerves were as scrambled as if she'd leapt from a fastmoving train.

'You remind me of Zahir when you say that. He had a similar reaction when I told him that he could have been killed by that gunman. "But I wasn't," he said...' Eyeing Gina with a definitely speculative glance, Farida stood in front of her and held out a hand to help her to her feet. 'I will talk to the public security forces and then we will go directly home.'

The hard ride on his stallion had partially torn open the wound on Zahir's side. Biting back a soft curse as his disapproving physician put in fresh stitches, he was nonetheless unrepentant. The ride had not only helped divert some of his frustration and restless energy, but had also helped clear his head.

As much as his proud, fiercely masculine nature and privileged position made him want to demand that Gina share his bed, he sensed that that was definitely not the way to go about achieving his goal. After all, he didn't want to alienate her or make her hate him. No...instead he would employ a charm offensive that she couldn't resist.

To start with he would give her a private showing of the Heart of Courage—even before he let her colleague Dr Rivers see the artefact. Then he would organise a special dinner for two in the palace's grandest dining room, where she would marvel at the opulence and grandeur of the furnishings and—

'A thousand pardons, Your Highness.' The double doors flew wide and Jamal strode purposely into the room. His urgent tone and agitated expression immediately applied the emergency brake to Zahir's distracted train of thought. He'd been lying back against the luxurious satin pillows on his bed whilst his doctor snipped the thread from the last stitch he'd applied, and now he sat up abruptly. 'What is it? What's happened?'

In a heated rush, Jamal told him. It was as though he'd been punched in the stomach by an iron fist. Gina... For a disturbing few seconds his thoughts were so distressed by the idea she might be hurt that Zahir was paralysed. Then, as Jamal continued to regale him with the story of how Dr Collins had almost been abducted in the marketplace, where she'd gone with Farida and his sister's servant Hafiz, he swung his muscular legs to the floor and grabbed the long black robes he'd been wearing from the end of the bed—deliberately ignoring his physician's plea to wait until his wounds were rebandaged as he hastily dressed.

Inside his chest his heart mimicked the heavy thud of a steel hammer against stone. Had he visited this latest calamity on his family by thinking he could apply reason to his dealings with the rebels? It had already been demonstrated what a deluded belief that was! Would his father have simply sent in the military to sort them out, giving them no chance to state their grievances whatsoever? Had Zahir's arrogance in believing his way was right diminished his wisdom?

Shutting out the bittersweet memory of his father—a man who had been affectionately admired by officials and the public alike for his wisdom and fairness when dealing with matters of governance—he hurried out through the door at a mile a minute, with no mind to Jamal who, although young and fit, panted a little in his bid to keep pace with him.

The women were in a private downstairs salon, where they were drinking tea. On entering the lavishly decorated room, with its long gold-coloured couches and antique furniture, Zahir let his anxious glance deliberately overshoot his sister to dwell first on the slender, fair-haired woman seated at her side. Her usual tidy French pleat was a little awry, and escaping curling tendrils framed the delicate beauty of her face to give her the same vulnerable look that Zahir remembered from their first meeting in the Husseins'