Captive (5 page)

Alex paused in the open doorway of the small, cluttered antiquities shop. She leaned heavily against the doorjamb, perspiration running in rivulets down her body, taking great lungfuls of air. She was definitely dizzy—the room seemed to undulate around her in waves.

A middle-aged merchant was suddenly standing in front of her, his brown eyes dark with concern. He spoke to her in a language she could not understand but recognized as Arabic. Alex was feeling so ill that she reached out and gripped the man’s arm. “Help me,” she whispered in English.

“Joseph! Joseph!” More incomprehensible gibberish spewed. And then the bearded Arab was pushing her down.

Alex was panicked, not just because he was pushing her to the floor, but because the room was growing so dark now—and then her world went entirely black.

“
Anglezi!
“

She heard voices. Males voices, speaking a strange, foreign language. What language were they speaking? Where was she? Alex opened her eyes. Wherever she was, it was very dark.

Lights did glow, but they shed little illumination. And the voices had stopped.

Alex turned her head slightly and looked into a pair of long-lashed silver eyes. For a single moment she could not breathe. “Murad?”

The very handsome young man stared at her with grave concern. His jaw was flexed, his temples throbbing. “You fainted, madam. But you will be fine. Don’t try to sit up.
Lowsamaht,”
he added quickly. “How do you feel?” His English was flawless, but spoken with a clipped British accent.

Alex began to breathe normally again, but she could not tear her gaze from the young man’s. He was a striking boy of perhaps twenty. It was almost as if she knew him—except she was certain that they had never met before. “Better.”

The young man slipped his arm around her and helped her sit up. A moment later he had placed a paper cup to her lips and was helping her to drink. Alex leaned against him and drank greedily. When she had finished, their eyes met and Alex smiled. “I feel much better. Thank you.”

He stared at her, his gaze intense. His arm remained around her.

Alex realized then that she was practically on his lap. But it did not feel awkward or strange. She shifted and he released her. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

Alex hesitated; she wasn’t sure now that he was right. “I’m Alexandra Thornton.”

“Joseph.”

Alex started to rise. Immediately he had his arm around her and was lifting her to her feet. “Thank you,” she said again, thoroughly puzzled now. Too late, she realized they were speaking English, not French, but she did not feel any danger. She felt, in fact, incredibly safe.
“Shukran,”
she said, trying out one of the few Arabic words she had learned. It meant “thank you.”

He shrugged, jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You’re welcome.” Then he smiled.
“El-ah-foo.”

Alex turned to the older, bearded man. “I’m so sorry. I just arrived, and like a fool, decided to sightsee instead of rest and eat. I clearly overestimated myself.”
“My father doesn’t speak English,” Joseph said. He offered her a small smile and rapidly translated.

Joseph’s father nodded enthusiastically and spoke again.

Alex gave Joseph a questioning glance. He smiled at her again, more naturally now. He had a perfect smile. It reached his silver-blue eyes. “He says he is only heartsick that you were so unwell. To have such beauty in his shop is a wonderful event. He hopes you will have the best of times here in Tripoli. And perhaps you might like to browse in his shop.” Joseph’s eyes never left hers.

“Tell your father thank you,” Alex said, blushing slightly. “And of course, I would love to browse.” Joseph and his father were so kind that she could not have refused; in fact, she intended to purchase something.

“You don’t have to buy anything,” Joseph said.

Alex jerked. She was so surprised that she stared at him before saying jokingly. “What are you? A mind reader?”

He smiled. “Your intentions were written all over your face. You are easy to read, Alex Thornton.”

Alex wondered if he was flirting with her and instantly dismissed the idea. He was three or four years younger than she—he was not yet a man, but hardly a boy. He was just a kind person who was very serious and very intense.

Then Alex realized that he had called her Alex.

She hesitated. They
had
met before. But Alex could not think where. Then she realized that Joseph’s father was gesturing proudly at his store. Looking around, Alex saw that it was filled to overflowing with colorful rugs, beautifully carved chairs, tables, and chests, with mirrors, vases, and urns. And the shop smelled wonderfully of some sweet yet tangy incense.

“Is there anything that you prefer?” Joseph asked.

“Something that is one hundred percent Tripoli—preferably from the early nineteenth century.”

“Why?”

Alex was already fingering a small box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “I am partial to that period of history.”

“I see,” Joseph said, his tone strange. “That box is not very old. It is a jewelry box.”

Alex flashed him a smile and picked up a small glass ashtray. Tiny, exquisite shells had been set inside the translucent glass, which was multicolored. “This is beautiful.”
“Do you smoke?”

“No, but it would still be perfect on a coffee table.” She set it down. Something metallic and blue caught her eye. And chills raced up and down Alex’s spine. “What is that?” She asked slowly.

Joseph followed her gaze. “An oil lamp.”

Alex stared. Joseph’s gaze moved between her and the lamp, but he did not offer to remove it from the glass case where it was displayed.

Joseph’s father said something from behind them.

Alex wet her lips. “An Aladdin’s lamp,” she heard herself say.

“It’s just an oil lamp,” Joseph said tersely. “My father asks if you wish for me to take it from the case.”

Alex’s eyes lifted and met Joseph’s. Joseph stepped behind the glass case, opened it, and lifted out the lamp. It shimmered radiantly even in the dimly lit shop.

Suddenly Alex was afraid to move. She did not extend her hand to take the lamp from him.

Joseph’s father stepped forward, grabbing the lamp from his son. His eyes bright, he shoved the lamp toward her. “Aladdin!” he exclaimed. “Yes!”

But Alex, although she itched to take the lamp, touch it, hold it, suddenly backed away. Her cheeks felt hot. She felt breathless, as well. “It’s beautiful, but … no, I don’t think so.” Blackwell’s image flashed through her mind.

Joseph’s father beamed and spoke rapidly, holding up the piece. Alex was probably imagining it, but the lamp seemed to throb and glow. She looked inquiringly at Joseph.

Joseph returned her gaze but said not a word.

“What is your father saying?” Alex asked.

Joseph laid his hand on the case, not far from hers. “My father wants me to tell you about it.”

Alex met his gaze. “Why don’t you want to translate what he is saying?”

Joseph sighed. “My father says that you were right when you said this is a lamp similar to the one used by Aladdin. It is very old. Two hundred years old, at least. It is very valuable and—”

“Two hundred years old!” Alex repeated.

“Yes.”

Alex felt faint. This lamp was a connection to Blackwell—she was certain of it! For, at the very least, this lamp had existed in his lifetime—perhaps it had even been in Tripoli when he had been a captive here. Was that why she was so drawn to this lamp? “Is this lamp native to the area?”

“Yes,” Joseph said slowly. “My father claims it is from the palace. That one of the women there in the royal family owned it.”

Alex looked at it more closely. Blackwell’s lover had belonged to the royal family.

“I don’t think you should buy this lamp, Alex,” Joseph said.

Alex stared into his pale eyes. “Are you psychic?”

“No.”

The old man was speaking rapidly. Joseph wet his lips. “My father wants me to tell you that it is a magical lamp. But we both know that is nonsense. Don’t we, Alex?”

Alex’s gaze was on the beautiful shimmering lamp. Of course it was nonsense. There was no such thing as a magic lamp, a genie’s lamp, a lamp that could make wishes come true.

Joseph’s father shouted at them both.

Alex was jerked out of her trance. “Is he angry?” she asked Joseph.

He nodded. “My father swears on the Koran that it has great magic for the right person.”

“You’re not going to tell me that it will make all of my wildest dreams come true!” Alex laughed shakily. But she was a stupid romantic fool, and the words
what
if
had popped into her head.

“I won’t,” Joseph said, unsmiling. “But my father thinks it will.”

Alex looked at the lamp. It was preposterous, for that lamp could not make her wishes come true, Alex was hardly foolish enough to believe so. Hardly romantic enough to believe so. Nothing could bring Blackwell back from the dead, and that was what she was actually wishing for—or even transport her back in time to him. She had to keep a firm grip on reality.

“It’s just a beautiful old lamp,” Joseph said firmly.

He was right. Alex nodded, determined to leave the shop, the lamp, and her romantic fancies behind, to return to her
hotel, to get a good night’s sleep.
Take it.
The words popped into her head. Harsh and low and firm.

And she felt him behind her, smoldering now with power and energy and determination.

She had not felt his presence since she had left New York.

The difference in the atmosphere was startling—stunning.

“Alex?” Joseph was startled. “You’re white. Are you feeling unwell again?”

Alex could not answer. The voice was there now, stronger, insistent, inside of her mind.
Take it. Buy it. I insist.

I insist.
The words rang inside of Alex’s head.
I insist. I …
He had never spoken to her like that before.

“Alex?” Joseph said very cautiously.

His tone was so strange that Alex glanced up, and saw that he had lost much of his coloring, too. “What is going on here, Alex?” he whispered, glancing past her—glancing around the shop warily.

“I’ll take it,” Alex said dryly. And she felt his presence soften. She felt him smile. “How much?” she managed.

The old man interjected, “One hundred fifty dollars.” He pushed a piece of paper in front of Alex with $150 scrawled on it.

Before Alex could even nod, Joseph’s hand covered hers. He caught Alex’s eye. “You don’t want this lamp,” he said harshly.

Alex could still hear the voice inside of her head, although it was a memory now …
I insist.
“I must have it.”

Joseph’s lashes lowered, his hand slipped away from hers. He turned to his father and spoke harshly—the two men argued briefly. Joseph faced Alex. “He’ll sell it to you for fifty dollars.”

“Thank you.” She dug into her backpack. Her pulse was slamming. Both men watched her sign the traveler’s check. Alex’s hand was shaking.

And Blackwell said, “We can leave now, Alexandra.”

A
BOVE ALEX’S HEAD
there came a sudden, strange wailing.

Alex stood on the steps of the store beside Joseph. She was both frightened and exhilarated; she was also, oddly, reluctant to leave. Joseph stared at her. Alex managed a smile. “I plan to visit the museum tomorrow,” she said.

He brightened. “I know this museum like the back of my hand.” His gaze flickered. “Can I give you a tour? I promise you that you will not be disappointed.” He hesitated. “I’ll even show you a secret tunnel.”

Alex nodded, pleased. “Good night, Joseph. It was great meeting you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He watched her as she hefted her backpack, still carrying the lamp in her hand, and walked away. Alex felt his eyes upon her until she had turned the corner. How strange. She was still trying to figure out when and where they had first met. She was positive that they were not strangers.

The sun was setting. A strange Arabic cry came from loudspeakers somewhere above. Alex paused. She realized now that the wailing was the Moslem call to prayer from a nearby mosque.

Several Arabs who had been strolling ahead of her on the narrow street flung themselves onto the ground, facing the east. Alex held the lamp more tightly. It seemed somewhat
warm. She was suddenly aware of being exhausted. An image of Joseph still danced in her head. She was also aware of the fact that Blackwell had left her. But she knew now that he had been present in the shop. He had spoken to her very personally, and he had also spoken out loud. Both Joseph and his father had been startled, both of them had heard a man’s voice. Though neither had mentioned it.

Blackwell’s spirit was here in Tripoli. She had been right to come. But they were still separated by time. Did hearing his voice mean he was somehow trying to break though whatever barriers existed between them, in order to reach her? Alex trembled at the very notion. But why? What did he want?

It was growing dark now, and she did not move, watching the praying men, afraid to disturb them. Alex was a little bit dizzy. If she felt faint again, though, it was her own fault; she had pushed herself far too hard after such a long and arduous trip. She realized now that she had been so overwhelmed with all that had transpired that she had left the small shop on foot when she should have been looking for a taxi.

The men had finished praying and were continuing down the silent and dark, nearly deserted street. Alex started after them. The lamp had become even warmer in her hands.

Almost burning her palms.

Alex was perplexed, confused. She stared at the lamp, which had taken on a dull, slightly metallic glow. It
was
burning her palms. Yet that made no sense. She wanted to drop it. Her hands hurt. Yet she could not relax her grip.

What was happening?

And Alex was very dizzy now; it was hard to focus on the street ahead of her, or was that because it was nightfall? She blinked. And realized that her legs were becoming numb. A surge of panic filled Alex.