Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

run your hand under cold water before it swells.'

Maybe he looked as if he didn't know how to do that for himself, because she leapt to her feet, turned on the tap, filled a glass with cold water for her friend, then, taking his hand, held it under the running water.

'How does it feel?' she asked.

How did it feel to have this stunning girl leaning against him, holding his hand? Her hair, her temple, inches from his mouth, an unconscious display of the soft curve of her breast as she bent closer to check the damage for herself.

She really didn't want to hear about that kind of emptiness.

When he didn't answer, she looked up at him with those extraordinary sea-coloured eyes. 'Maybe you should go to the hospital?' she suggested. 'In case you've broken something?'

'It's just a graze,' he assured her. 'I've had worse. My only regret is that I didn't hit him harder.'

'It doesn't matter. He's gone.' Then, as if suddenly conscious of their closeness, she stepped back, pulled her robe tighter, refastening the belt. 'Just leave it there for a moment,' she advised. 'To be on the safe side.'

'He's gone for now,' Fayad corrected, testing his hand, turning off the water. 'He'll be back. Or someone very like him.'

'Not if you take it away with you. The khanjar,' She returned to the fridge, fetched a foil-wrapped parcel and laid it on the table, as if she couldn't bear to hold it for longer than necessary. 'I hope it's okay.'

He unwrapped the foil, the bubble wrap, the black silk that was rotting at the folds, to reveal the knife. Deadly, beautiful beyond imagining. And trouble.

For both of them.

'I will, of course, relieve you of this burden,' he said. 'However, I'm afraid simply removing it to a place of safety is not likely to end the matter. You're a descendant of Fatima al Sayyid, a woman who ran from her husband, taking the Blood of Tariq with her.'

'The Blood of Tariq?'

'That's what they called it in the newspaper,' her friend said. She had now recovered her composure, along with her colour. 'You and your fancy piece of cutlery made the nationals, sweetie. It's got quite a history, apparently.'

'What kind of history?'

She looked not at her friend, but at him, and he said, 'My great-great-grandfather, Tariq al Kuwani, was wounded fighting for Arab freedom against the Ottoman Empire in the First World War. Yours was there, too, I understand?'

'He was a medical orderly.'

'The bravest of men went into battle armed only with a stretcher.'

'Yes,' she said, finally finding a smile, and he knew he'd said the right thing. 'He was given a medal.' Then, 'Your great-great-grandfather was armed with this khanjar, I suppose?'

'I doubt the Blood of Tariq ever saw action. It's a showpiece, a symbol of wealth and power. A prize captured in battle that Lawrence placed in his hand, declaring that victory had been won with the blood of Tariq. Nonsense, of course, but great PR. And it became a potent symbol in my country.'

'So potent that someone would threaten a pregnant woman to get hold of it?' The smile had gone; her laugh was derisory. 'All that must have happened nearly a hundred years ago!' she protested.

She put on a good show, but there was no doubt that she was quaking to her bare toes.

'Excuse me,' her friend-Sarah-intervened. 'This is all very interesting, but isn't someone going to call the police?'

'I'm sorry you were caught up in this…Sarah?' She nodded. 'My car is outside. I would be happy to take you to the hospital.'

She waved away the suggestion. 'Honestly, I'm fine.' She had quickly regained her colour, and, apparently, her sense of humour. 'And it was my own stupid fault. When I came through the hedge and saw him forcing the door I just screamed.'

They both looked at the splintered doorframe.

'The bolt is only as good as the wood that was holding it,' Sarah said. 'Pathetic. If I'd kept my head I could have slipped home and called the police myself, but you just don't think, do you?'

'Oh, Sarah! I'm so sorry…'

'It wasn't your fault.'

'Of course it was. If I hadn't blabbed about the family history it wouldn't have been all over the newspapers.' Then, 'I'd have given him anything he asked for-you know that, don't you?'

'You were wonderful.' Then, regarding him with a frown, 'As for you-heroic is the only word for it. But where did you spring from? And why do I think I know you?'

'I was at the front door when you screamed, and since I was unable to prevent Miss Hamilton's heroic, if foolhardy, frontal assault, I came around the back.'

'The classic pincer movement.'

'Indeed.' Then, 'As to your second question, I think you'll find that my photograph is also on the front page of the newspaper you're holding.'

It had been brought to him the instant the first edition had hit the streets. The later editions of some of the other papers had picked it up, too.

'Oh, right,' Sarah said. 'That's why I was coming round. To show Violet,' she said, opening it up. 'As I said, you made the nationals. The Blood of Tariq appears to be some long-lost treasure.' Then, 'Oh, good grief…'

'What?' Violet demanded.

Sarah gestured in his direction. 'Listen to this. 'A spokesman for Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani,'' she read, angling the front page so that Violet could see the headshot of him they'd found in their files.

They both looked at him, and he acknowledged the likeness with the slightest of bows. Sarah smiled. Violet did not.

Despite the damp, tousled hair, the appalling bathrobe, there was something intensely regal about her. The height helped, of course-she was tall for a woman-but she had a look that could, he suspected, quell the slightest familiarity.

''…Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani,' her friend Sarah continued, emphasising his title, ''heir apparent to the throne of Ras al Kawi and a direct descendant of Tariq al Kuwani, who is in London this week for an energy conference, suggested that the khanjar might be one of a number of fakes that are known to be in existence…''

Sarah held out the paper to Violet and, smiling, looked up at him. 'So? Is it a fake, Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani?'

He looked at Violet, then said, 'I think not.'

'She does have a look of her great-great-grandmother, doesn't she?'

'Excuse me?'

Sarah nodded at the dresser, and his heart almost stopped beating as he saw the photograph on the top shelf.

From the moment he'd set eyes on Violet Hamilton he'd been certain that she was a direct descendant of Princess Fatima. Ebony-black hair, skin so fair that it was almost luminous, and eyes the curious colour

that was the legacy of Portuguese invaders, who had built their forts along the coast of Africa and the Gulf centuries earlier, told their own story.

But here was proof indeed-a face he recognised from his own generation of the Sayyid family. Boys he'd grown up with. Their mothers, aunts, sisters.

They were one of the great tribes of Ras al Kawi, equal in status, wealth, influence to the Kuwani, until Lawrence had singled out his great-great-grandfather and in one romantic gesture made him the rallying point for all the tribes of the region, placing him at the head of the newly formed nation of Ras al Kawi.

He reached up and took the photograph from the shelf, then turned to Violet Hamilton and, with the slightest of bows, said, 'Will you come to Ras al Kawi with me, Princess? Bring the khanjar home?'