“I’m busy, Jafar,” he finally stated. He fought to push back his anger as he moved to pass his cousin once again.
“Abram.” Jafar stopped him again as he moved to enter the castle.
“What do you want, Jafar?” he questioned impatiently, his teeth clenching at the anger he couldn’t seem to stop from surging through him.
“Do you remember when we were sixteen and I caught you and that American student you were friends with at the whore’s apartment?”
Abram’s lips thinned. “She was no whore, Jafar.”
They had been in America visiting with cousins who had lived in D.C. Abram had met up with friends of Khalid’s and from there, had done his best to enjoy the time there rather than involving himself with a family that had escaped years before.
“She was taking two men into her body at the same time,” Jafar reminded him mockingly. “In any culture, she is called a whore.”
“Only in this one,” Abram snarled. “Now tell me what you want.”
“Answer me first,” Jafar told him. “Do you remember?”
“I remember,” Abram snapped. “Now what does it have to do with anything?”
Jafar’s lips thinned. “I warned you about bringing your hungers from America to your home,” Jafar reminded him. “And you brought them not just to your home, but to your wife.”
“Don’t make me kill you, Jafar.” Even now, more than ten years later, the memory of what had happened to Lessa had the power to enrage him.
“Don’t make me have to deal with the religious police, Abram,” Jafar warned him in return. “Keep your depravities under control. The battle we are involved in together, I prefer to win fairly.”
“There is noattle,” Abram assured him seriously, and as far as he was concerned, there wasn’t one. There would never be one.
Once Abram had achieved his objectives, then he was gone. If he hadn’t found a way to keep Paige safe from his father before the king’s emissary arrived, then he would simply take her and disappear until the bastard’s death.
“There is always a battle between us, Abram,” Jafar retorted. “And I am impatient. I may refuse to wait until the battle between you and your father has ended before I begin pushing for my own triumph.”
Abram’s lips thinned as he stared back at his cousin, attempting to figure out just what the hell he was talking about.
“There is no battle between us, Jafar,” he told him again.
Jafar chuckled. “Tell that lie to the present your father has acquired for your early birthday present, my friend. Then tell me how you’re going to survive the means he has acquired to win this war that wages between you. And I tell you once again, remember well the warning I gave you when we were sixteen, because I may not give you fair warning in time to save you from the consequences of your own sins.”
Abram felt ice race up his spine at Jafar’s words as the other man smirked back at him.
It wasn’t possible. God help him, he’d done everything he could, used every contact he had to ensure he had warning before it happened, not after.
Fury began burning in the back of his head, engulfing his senses as he stared into Jafar’s eyes and read the truth there.
Tension radiated through his body. His muscles began to tighten as though in preparation for a fight, his fists clenching in rage. A hard, warning sizzle began at the base of his brain as the red at the edges of his vision began to darken and push forward.
Murderous, all-consuming rage washed over him.
“What has he done?” he snarled back at his cousin.
Jafar’s gaze flashed with what could have been a momentary regret before hatred filled the pale green orbs once again.
“What he always does,” Jafar answered him. “He’s plotted your destruction. Though, this time it may well be your final one.”
5
She couldn’t believe this.
There wasn’t a single article of clothing to be found in any of the four armoires arranged around the stone room. There were sheets, throws, there were even pillows. But there wasn’t a single shirt, pair of pants, or even a pair of socks … Would socks have been out of the damned question?
This was completely ridiculous. The least they could have done was left her something to wear.
Tucking the silk sheet between her breasts, she propped her hands on her hips and stared around the dim, sun-dappled room with a frown and narrowed eyes.
Her mother had never really said much about this room, other than it had belonged to Azir’s first wife, Abram’s mother, Shahla, as Azir had named her. Her actual name, as she had told Marilyn, had been Anna Bailey. She’d been on vacation in Saudi Arabia with her family. Her father had been an executive for one of the oil companies.
Paige’s mother had contacted Anna Bailey’s family as soon as she had been able to, but they seemed reluctant to believe her, or to do anything to rescue their daughter.
Pavlos had checked into it for the woman he still intended to marry, and learned that when Anna had been kidnapped, her father had received a large deposit to his account to cover excess gambling debts.
Marilyn had always suspected Anna’s family had sold her, or perhaps accepted the payment to stop searching for their daughter and accusing the Saudi government of covering up her disappearance.
Both Anna Bailey and the French-born tourist Marilyn Girard would have been forgotten had it not been for Pavlos Galbraithe’s determination to find his fiancée, and Marilyn’s stubbornness in not giving up her plans to escape.
But, by the time Pavlos had put together a team willing to breech the fortress and rescue Anna and her son, Azir had killed her. According to Abdul at the time, Azir had strangled her to death in her own bedroom, in front of her three-year-old son, after dragging them both back from an escape attempt.
Abdul had recounted to her parents and to Khalid how the young Abram had screamed and even then, fought to free himself from the wooden crib he had been placed in. How the moment his mother had dropped to the ground, lifeless, he had stopped screaming, stared at her, then slowly sat down in his bed, lifted his eyes to his father, and simply stared back at him.
Now, more than thirty years later, Abram was still attempting to stand between his father and a woman Azir was trying to kill.
Where the hell was he now? She could use a little rescuing herself.
He had to be here somewhere. There was no doubt in her mind this was the Mustafa fortress on the Iraqi border. She hadn’t been kidnapped and sold, she had simply been kidnapped by a madman. Didn’t that just round out her week.
Turning, she walked back to the middle of the " align=where she stood looking around once more, trying to find something that would at least make her feel as though she were trying to escape.
As she started to move toward one of the armoires again, the wide, heavy wooden door was thrown open, a breeze surging past her. She stared at the apparition that entered with a nightmarish vision of terror.
The sense that this couldn’t be happening almost overwhelmed her. It had to be a dream.
Azir Mustafa swept into the room, his black eyes locked on her, his desert-dark face worn and creased with bitter lines. The long white thobe, the loose, ankle-length garment mostly worn in the Middle East seemed to ripple around his broad, overweight body. The ghutra, or keffiyeh, the large white square cloth secured to his head by a black cord, swept out behind him only to reverse direction and swirl around him as he came to an abrupt stop. He stared back at her as though mesmerized.
His eyes appeared dazed and damp. His expression filled with deepening hope as he watched her carefully, as though frightened she would disappear at any moment.