awkwardly, and she was standing alone. Some riders approached Raj, and he called out something panicky in Arabic as he was led away between them.
And then he , still upon his magnificent stallion, was staring at her. His eyes were coal flames. They sizzled beneath the sun; they seemed to set fire to her soul. His skin was the bronze of a Bedouin; his thick mustache and beard covered a chin of insolent, angular strength. His brows were heavy and bushy, his nose prominent with a hawkish hook. And when he smiled, slowly, insolently, arrogantly, his teeth were perfect and white against the full mouth and dark beard.
“What do you want!” Alex demanded, hoping her voice held the defiance her trembling body lacked. He just stared at her, still smiling. Who was he? she wondered, again bemoaning the fact that she had chosen hieroglyphics over Arabic continually in school. Atop the stallion, the man with the dark Arabic eyes and haunting facial contours was a more formidable opponent than she had ever expected to face. No, he wasn’t just formidable. This man was terrifying.
“You made my camel run away!” she snapped, drawing desperately on whatever bravado she could summon. “You do realize that it is terribly rude to burst upon people this way—”
She didn’t get any further. The sinewed muscles in the stallion’s haunches convulsed, and the horse was moving—toward her.
“Now wait a minute …” Alex automatically began to back up. It did her no good. The horse broke into a prance and moved directly beside her, and even as she turned like a cornered deer, floundering in the sand and scrambling to flee, the man’s arms caught her squarely around the middle and she felt herself being hoisted through the air and precariously balanced belly-down over the shoulders of the stallion. The man snapped out a single word in Arabic, and the animal’s muscles bunched beneath her. She grabbed desperately at the saddle trimmings for balance as they broke into a canter.
It was difficult to talk; it was difficult to do anything other than pray that she would not fly off the racing horse, and try to draw air rather than sand into her lungs.
And yet, despite the rise of basic survival instincts, Alex found strength somewhere to scream out her rage. “You can’t do this to me! I’m an American. Stop this horse! Let me go at once. I’ll have the embassy on you for this! I’ll call out the entire United Nations!”
Laughter, full, deep, rich and husky, was his only response. Eventually she tired after she had called him every name she could think of—her vocabulary of profanities was quite extensive after all the years she had spent with her father and predominantly male workers. She threatened him with everything from being boiled alive to being drawn and quartered. Then she even remembered a few phrases in Arabic, two of which her father had taught her when she had begun to comb the bazaars of Cairo with him in search of authentic antiquities. “Ibiid yaedaek! Kif wae illae sae’ asrokh.” Keep your hands to yourself! Stop or I’ll scream!
Great words. They might have an effect upon a wayward youth in a crowded bazaar, but it was blatantly obvious this maniacal Arab couldn’t care less whether she screamed or not. There were certainly no bolis , police, around to help her.
She grew more and more angry—and frightened. No, Alex, she warned herself, don’t be frightened! Stay mad! Don’t let this man know you are anything but indignant and furious.
He merely grew more amused.
And she fell silent, focusing her inward curses upon some vague form of punishment for Kelly, who, it seemed, had wished this entire bizarre occurrence upon her. And when she finished cursing Kelly, she cursed Jim for having sent her to Sheriff, and when she finished cursing Jim, she started again with her greatest, most vicious vengeance upon the true root of her present humiliation—D’Alesio!
She knew there was no way that she could be
And then he , still upon his magnificent stallion, was staring at her. His eyes were coal flames. They sizzled beneath the sun; they seemed to set fire to her soul. His skin was the bronze of a Bedouin; his thick mustache and beard covered a chin of insolent, angular strength. His brows were heavy and bushy, his nose prominent with a hawkish hook. And when he smiled, slowly, insolently, arrogantly, his teeth were perfect and white against the full mouth and dark beard.
“What do you want!” Alex demanded, hoping her voice held the defiance her trembling body lacked. He just stared at her, still smiling. Who was he? she wondered, again bemoaning the fact that she had chosen hieroglyphics over Arabic continually in school. Atop the stallion, the man with the dark Arabic eyes and haunting facial contours was a more formidable opponent than she had ever expected to face. No, he wasn’t just formidable. This man was terrifying.
“You made my camel run away!” she snapped, drawing desperately on whatever bravado she could summon. “You do realize that it is terribly rude to burst upon people this way—”
She didn’t get any further. The sinewed muscles in the stallion’s haunches convulsed, and the horse was moving—toward her.
“Now wait a minute …” Alex automatically began to back up. It did her no good. The horse broke into a prance and moved directly beside her, and even as she turned like a cornered deer, floundering in the sand and scrambling to flee, the man’s arms caught her squarely around the middle and she felt herself being hoisted through the air and precariously balanced belly-down over the shoulders of the stallion. The man snapped out a single word in Arabic, and the animal’s muscles bunched beneath her. She grabbed desperately at the saddle trimmings for balance as they broke into a canter.
It was difficult to talk; it was difficult to do anything other than pray that she would not fly off the racing horse, and try to draw air rather than sand into her lungs.
And yet, despite the rise of basic survival instincts, Alex found strength somewhere to scream out her rage. “You can’t do this to me! I’m an American. Stop this horse! Let me go at once. I’ll have the embassy on you for this! I’ll call out the entire United Nations!”
Laughter, full, deep, rich and husky, was his only response. Eventually she tired after she had called him every name she could think of—her vocabulary of profanities was quite extensive after all the years she had spent with her father and predominantly male workers. She threatened him with everything from being boiled alive to being drawn and quartered. Then she even remembered a few phrases in Arabic, two of which her father had taught her when she had begun to comb the bazaars of Cairo with him in search of authentic antiquities. “Ibiid yaedaek! Kif wae illae sae’ asrokh.” Keep your hands to yourself! Stop or I’ll scream!
Great words. They might have an effect upon a wayward youth in a crowded bazaar, but it was blatantly obvious this maniacal Arab couldn’t care less whether she screamed or not. There were certainly no bolis , police, around to help her.
She grew more and more angry—and frightened. No, Alex, she warned herself, don’t be frightened! Stay mad! Don’t let this man know you are anything but indignant and furious.
He merely grew more amused.
And she fell silent, focusing her inward curses upon some vague form of punishment for Kelly, who, it seemed, had wished this entire bizarre occurrence upon her. And when she finished cursing Kelly, she cursed Jim for having sent her to Sheriff, and when she finished cursing Jim, she started again with her greatest, most vicious vengeance upon the true root of her present humiliation—D’Alesio!
She knew there was no way that she could be
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