The Sheik Who Loved Me(7)

He jerked back, startled by the sheer power of his own physical reaction. He sucked in a deep breath, dragged both hands forcefully through his hair and told himself in no uncertain terms that he was only looking for clues to her identity.

But even so, he couldn’t deny the spark of interest that had flared deep within. Even as he tried to quash it, he could feel the small, hot, ulcerous burn of it. He had a sinking sense it wasn’t going to heal anytime soon.

The thought made his mouth dry, his head hurt. It was as if the freak storm had invaded his very brain, whipped up his normally razor-sharp and logical mind, clogging it with the rain-soaked sand.

The door banged open behind him. David just about jumped out of his skin. He swiveled around. Dr. James Watson stood there, medical bag in hand, his gray hair still slightly disheveled from sleep.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” he growled, furious at having been caught unawares. David Rashid was never caught off guard.

The doctor’s wise gray eyes studied him silently, knowingly, irritatingly. “Sorry, David. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Watson jerked his chin toward the door. “Wind just grabbed it from my hand. Fayha’ must have a door open somewhere. There’s a bloody gale blowing down the corridors.”

Watson closed the heavy door carefully behind him and ambled into the room with his customary air of casual authority. “So she woke up, did she?” he asked as he set his big black medical bag down on the nightstand and opened it. “How was she?”

David gave himself a mental shake, banishing unbidden images of mermaids and wedding bands to the farthest reaches of his mind. “She seemed fine. Apart from the fact she has absolutely no idea who she is, what happened to her, or how she got here,” he told Watson. “Doesn’t even know her name. She got up, tried to walk and went out like a light.”

The doctor nodded, feeling for her pulse. He timed it, his face furrowed in thought as he focused on his watch.

David paced the room. Through the slats in the louvered shutters he could see the sky beginning to brighten. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table in surprise. It was almost 5:30 a.m. He hadn’t slept a wink since he’d tucked Kamilah into bed.

Watson rested the woman’s wrist back on the covers and joined David near the window. He kept his voice low. “Her breathing and heart rate are back in regular range. So far everything is looking normal.”

“What about the amnesia?”

“It’s not uncommon to experience some memory loss after a blow to the head. It may last seconds, days, months. It could even last years.”

“Could it be permanent?”

“Possibly. She might never remember the accident that brought her here.”

David studied the doctor’s face. “But there’s something else worrying you.”

Watson pursed his lips. He glanced at the woman then back at David.

“What is it Watson?” he pressed.

“The retrograde amnesia, that’s consistent with head trauma, with organic damage.” The doctor chewed on the inside of his cheek, a furrow deepening along his forehead. “But the loss of sense of self…” He shook his head. “We really should get her to a hospital for a CAT scan. Maybe fly her into Nairobi, or north to Cairo. In the meantime, she’ll need to stay under constant observation. And—”

But before the doctor could complete his sentence, their patient groaned. They both spun around.

Her lashes flickered against her cheeks.

David tensed, once again anticipating those incredible eyes.

Outside the wind was suddenly silent. The storm had finally died. Only surf boomed over distant coral reefs. Yellow dawn sun seeped through the louvered shutters, throwing patterns on the tiled floor as the sun peeked over the distant horizon.

Then her eyes flared open. She stared straight at David and blinked like a confused and trapped animal. Something snagged so sharply in his chest it clean stole his breath.

She looked so lost. So vulnerable.

She was straining to pull her whole world back into focus.



Lancaster’s hulking frame filled the doorway of the Khartoum hotel room.

O’Reilly glanced up from his laptop. He stilled instantly at the somber expression on the big man’s face. “Bad news?”

“Still no sign of her.” Lancaster dragged his powerful hand over his brush cut and stepped into the room, momentarily blotting the early-morning sunlight from the window.

“And Gibbs?”

“Got picked up by a Sudanese fishing vessel last night. He’s pretty bashed up. Damn lucky to be alive. He says he saw her go under, says there’s no way she could have come out of that alive.”