Jake and Gina were having their breakfast on a canopied covered mosaic terrace. In the distance the sound of someone playing the oud—a stringed instrument that produced a haunting sound not unlike a Spanish guitar—floated hypnotically on the air.
The two colleagues were not alone. Jamal appeared at regular intervals, issuing curt instructions to two young housemaids to frequently hand round dishes piled high with fresh chunks of khubuz—the local bread—earthenware bowls of fat glistening black and green olives and dishes of labneh—a strained cream cheese that resembled yoghurt.
At the same time as Gina carefully opened the stopper on a slim bottle of olive oil, to drizzle it on her bread, she sensed a warm bead of perspiration sluggishly meander down her back. The sun was already high and hot in the azure sky, and the thin full-length yellow and gold kaftan she was wearing felt more like a winter coat beneath such unforgiving heat. She hadn’t been able to resist sitting outside—not after enduring one of the longest and bitterest winters back home—but she was far from at ease. How could she be at ease after the way Zahir had left her last night?
He’d been so accusing and angry … a million miles away from the tender, beguiling man who had so easily swept her off her feet at first sight. Again, her heart ached to make things right between them, but how?
Adjusting her sunglasses, she watched Jake lift a generous chunk of bread that he’d liberally covered in slices of cucumber and wedges of dazzling red tomato to his lips and take a large bite. When he’d chewed and swallowed the food, Gina smiled. ‘You’ve certainly got a healthy appetite.’
‘That’s true. But then I need to eat a lot to keep the old grey cells replenished!’ he joked, grinning back at her.
This morning he was dressed in a wildly patterned Hawaiian-style loose shirt, which probably wouldn’t have looked out of place on the beaches of Majorca or Corfu, and it definitely made him look eccentric. All he needed to top the outfit off was a knotted folded handkerchief on his head.
‘Are you ready to present your notes on the jewel to His Highness?’ he asked her.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
Gina’s mouth tightened. Just the thought of sitting in front of Zahir to discuss that amazing jewel with its heartrending prophecy was akin to the prospect of walking across a bed of hot coals. She’d never been so nervous or so mentally under siege. Perhaps she shouldn’t take it so personally that he now scorned the legend of marrying for love, but God help her she did.
After absenting himself for a while, Jamal reappeared on the terrace. ‘After breakfast you are both summoned to see His Highness. I will wait here to escort you.’
Nervously scanning the food that yet again she’d barely touched, Gina met the far-seeing gaze of Zahir’s personal servant and forced a scant smile as her insides churned and apprehension dried her mouth. ‘Thank you.’
With a polite bow, and his hands behind his back, Jamal moved away to stand by the wall and wait.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE Sheikh of Kabuyadir’s office was enormous—almost like a small ballroom, with its marble floor and exotic octagonal brass lamps with little coloured windows hanging down from the rafters of the high ceiling. A desk was definitely present. How could they ignore the six-foot-long burnished table that stood in the centre, with carved and cushioned antique chairs surrounding it? But Gina’s eye was immediately drawn to the circle of colourful patterned cushions round a hand-woven blue, red and gold rug, to the right of the impressive desk, where Zahir sat, chin in his hands, crossed-legged and thoughtful.
He wore another broad leather belt round his long hooded black robe, and this one had an attachment that crossed over his chest and shoulder. It looked as if it might have accommodated a hunting knife or scimitar at some point, but right then the slim holster was empty. The image of Zahir as a brave ancient warrior was never far away, it seemed—at least to Gina. For three long years his striking visage had fuelled her fantasies and stoked her longing for him to an inferno at times—especially when she reflected on what she had lost by letting him go.
As they approached Jake gave a respectful nod, and under Jamal’s hawk-like stare Gina did the same.
‘You have breakfasted well, I trust?’ Zahir’s questioning dark gaze encompassed both of them, but definitely lingered longer on her.
‘Very well indeed, thank you.’ This from an enthusiastic Jake.
‘That is a nice shirt, Dr Rivers. Very … shall we say colourful?’
‘I’m glad that you like it, Your Highness.’
‘Sit down, please. We should make a start on the matter of the jewel.’ Sweeping an extravagant hand round the circle of floor cushions, Zahir was suddenly all business.
His lightly mocking comment about Jake’s shirt woke Gina to the unsettling fact that he had a sense of humour. Seating herself on the cushion the furthest in distance from their host, she spied a gleam which might have been amusement in the depths of his hypnotically brown eyes. It made her self-conscious and uncomfortable as she opened the slim leather document holder on her lap and carefully withdrew her notes. A couple of feet away from her, Jake did the same.
‘I will start with you, Dr Rivers, if I may? Tell me what your historical research says about the jewel.’
Jake’s enthusiastic report was followed by some intense discussion between the two men. Gina took the opportunity to observe Zahir at her leisure—starting with his voice. It was undoubtedly strong, yet he kept it modulated, varying the tone from time to time as his gaze focused unwaveringly on her colleague, and managing to give not the slightest indication of his private thoughts about what was being discussed at any time.
Now and again Jake shifted a little nervously—as if overwhelmed by where he was and who was quizzing him—but by and large he gave a good account of his painstaking research, and as the discussion ended, the merest smile touched the edges of Zahir’s well-cut lips. At least he appeared pleased with what he had heard.
Then it was Gina’s turn.
As Zahir directed his glance back to her, she had the panicked idea that his eyes were like the high-power lens of a high-resolution microscope, illuminating a specimen on a slide for detailed examination. Right now she was the specimen.
Fumbling with her papers as she cleared her throat to speak, she saw a few of the A-4 sheets slide off her lap and onto the patterned rug. She was mortified. Not exactly the best start, she thought, as she hurriedly gathered the papers and tidied them.
‘Are you ready to proceed with your presentation now, Dr Collins?’
Hearing the sardonic edge to his tone didn’t exactly help Gina’s case. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’
She made herself look him straight in the eye to give herself courage. After all, she was an expert in her field—not some nervous schoolgirl making a presentation for a class project.
‘I thought I would start by discussing the fascinating legend that has grown up around the Heart of Courage.’
Where had that come from? It wasn’t the first thing she’d intended discussing at all! The papers had got mixed up when they’d slid off her lap, and the sheet that had been at the bottom of the pile was now somehow on top. There was a sudden drop in temperature in the sultry air. Gina’s glance collided with Zahir’s. It was the iciest look she’d ever received. For a couple of excruciating seconds her breath was strangled inside her throat.
‘I think not, if you don’t mind, Dr Collins? I prefer to stick to verifiable facts right now. Speculation about any kind of mythical legend can only detract from a more important discussion about the authenticity