He knew who was behind the kidnapping. And he knew that without the ransom one or both hostages would be killed.
He refused to have that on his conscience.
He’d bring the ringleader to justice. But it would be too late to save the kidnap victims. So he’d bargained for time. Q’aroum didn’t need the international notoriety that the kidnap and execution of foreign nationals would bring. His country had a reputation for stability, for being a place where it was safe to do business. That couldn’t be jeopardised.
So right about now, according to his instructions, the outrageous ransom demand was being paid. And there’d be no keeping it secret. Not in a place like Q’aroum, where news spread with the speed and inevitability of the desert wind.
By morning the whole island nation would know that the Peacock’s Eye, the most revered and coveted family heirloom in the world, and one of his country’s national treasures, had been paid for the life of the woman in his arms.
Belle woke to the dull pounding of the surf.
So. She was alive.
Experimentally she shifted her legs, gritting her teeth as abrasive sand scratched the raw skin of her ankles. Fiery circlets of pain ringed her feet, throbbing in time with her pulse.
At least she had a pulse. Last night she’d wondered if she’d see another dawn.
If it hadn’t been for him she might not have survived. He’d protected her with his body as the cyclone tore the night apart. The din had stunned her, and nothing had existed beyond the barrage of sound and his weight on her. And the steady beat of his heart that had kept her hope alive.
Who was he? Where was he?
She squinted up through gritty eyes. A stab of bright sunlight blinded her and the ache in her head ignited into a flame of agony that kept time with the pulse of pain in her legs. Tentatively she moved her hands. Sharp pins and needles shot through her. She’d spent the night with her arms wrapped around his head. Now her shoulders had set.
Belle clenched her jaw as she dragged down protesting arms, rolled over and levered herself up onto her knees. Her bones had surely calcified, unwilling to permit movement. She braced herself on her hands and opened her eyes again. Blearily she focussed on the ugly manacles.
She remembered the hulking brute who’d locked them round her wrists. His satisfaction as he’d watched her struggle against their unforgiving weight.
Suddenly she understood with nauseating certainty that lack of funds hadn’t prevented the kidnappers using modern, lightweight handcuffs. Those men had bristled with an arsenal of automatic weapons. The manacles had been a deliberately sadistic choice. Anger surged through her. Searing fury at her helpless sense of violation.
But they hadn’t won. She hadn’t given up fighting.
She forced herself to stand, ignoring the silent scream of protesting muscles. For a moment she swayed. Then she planted her feet wide, found her balance and straightened. She narrowed her eyes against the glare. A black bank of cloud marked the distant horizon, but overhead the grey was broken by patches of bright light.
The sea was high, rough and threatening. The island wasn’t familiar any more. Its boundaries had changed in the night, reshaped by the gouging sea. Slowly she turned. During the night the force of the wind and water had eaten into the island, carving a sheltered, almost enclosed inlet at its centre.
There! Was that where the hut had stood? She shuddered as she saw the remnants. It had collapsed, a death trap of tumbled walls that would have crushed anyone inside.
Her next desperate breath bruised her lungs. Her eyes swam and she stumbled. Frantically she scanned the debris for any shape that looked human.
Something dropped hard in the pit of her stomach at the possibility he might be injured. Or worse.
Slowly she turned.
And there he was.
Her unsteady legs gave way and she collapsed abruptly onto the sun-warmed sand. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
He rose like some bronzed deity from the water. Naked. Elementally masculine. Potently desirable.
Her pulse thumped a rapid tattoo in her throat and a spiral of feminine excitement coiled tight within her, making her gasp at its intensity. Thank goodness he had his back to her and couldn’t read her stunned reaction.
She’d watched him in the wavering torchlight. She’d spent the night clasped in his arms, learning at first hand the tough masculine planes and bunched muscles that comprised his body. But still she hadn’t been prepared.
His wide shoulders tapered through a strong torso to a lean waist. Slick jet-black hair splayed down over his neck and reached his shoulders. His skin was smooth and glistening. Belle’s fingers clenched into tight fists.
Her gaze strayed lower. The curve of tight, round buttocks. The weight of muscled thighs. Innate strength and endurance. He stretched his arms out and she stared, mesmerised, at the movement of muscles in his back.
He dropped his hands to his sides and shook his head, flicking diamond droplets of water from his hair. He was about to move. And here she was, playing voyeur!
Belle stumbled to her feet and turned away. He’d looked so…elemental. An embodiment of masculine power that would both thrill and frighten any woman.
A sudden blast of need rocked her. Melting awareness. Choking heat. The desire to have those strong arms shelter her again. But this time his body would warm her in different ways and his hands would caress her.
She shook her head. This was absurd. She’d survived the ordeal of a lifetime: violence and pain, threat and terror. How could she even think about sexual attraction?
Had something fused in her brain? Or was this a primitive reaction to her near-fatal experience?
The urge to escape, to be alone with her confused emotions, was overwhelming. But there was nowhere to go. She was a prisoner here with her buccaneer.
Rafiq yanked the trousers up his wet legs and watched her stare out to sea, seeking some sign of rescue.
She looked lost and alone, her slender body held upright only by the steely determination he’d seen in her. Her hair was a matted nimbus around her head, not like the sleek style in her passport photo. Rings of bruised, bloody skin marked her ankles where the irons had bitten.
She should look pathetic, an object of sympathy, he told himself as he hauled his shirt on and strode towards her. Yet he saw only the streamlined perfection of her toned body. The inviting flare of her hips that had cradled him through the night till he’d thought he’d go mad, resisting urges that were nigh on irresistible. He read tensile strength in the set of her shoulders, in her wide-planted, honey-tanned legs.
He thrust aside the subtle voice of temptation.
‘Ms Winters.’ He saw her tense, but she didn’t turn. ‘How do you feel this morning?’
‘Glad to be alive.’ She half turned her head. ‘And you?’ There was strain in her profile, at odds with her determined chin and the strength of her neat, straight nose.
