Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (108 page)

Tamara inclined her head. 'I'm sure you will.'

'And may I suggest you do try to do a little more sightsee
ing? It would be a pity if you didn't see more of Palestine. This
is rugged but beautiful terrain. Ladies?' And with that, he spun around and marched off.

They watched him disappear around the corner of the hotel. Tamara picked up a teaspoon and toyed with it. Inge had been
right. They really needed to go on more outings. Brigadier Diggins' sudden appearance had proved that they hadn't
played tourist well enough to convince him that that was what
they really were. If she wanted to throw him off her father's
scent, they'd better throw themselves into the role, and with
a vengeance. Maybe it
would
make time pass more quickly. Anything was better than this interminable waiting. Also, if
they kept moving around, they would make things more diffi
cult for Brigadier Diggins.

She felt Inge touch her arm, and she looked up.

'Are you all right?'

Tamara nodded. 'I'm fine,' she assured her, 'but I don't
want to eat anything else. If we're going to start sightseeing,
we'd best get to bed early.'

The sound.

Like a pebble tossed into a placid pond, it send out widening
ripples that radiated outward until it reached down, down,
down into the slowly swirling depths of her dream. Against
her will, she found herself drifting up through its successive
layers of lulling tranquillity. She lay motionless on her side,
one hand flat on the pillow, under the right cheek of her face.
Her forehead furrowed with anxiety; her eyelids fluttered.

Crr-eak,
the sound encroached again.

Her eyes flew open, but the primeval instinct which had
alerted her to possible danger immediately made her close
them to mere slits and kept her from sitting up. A smothering
fear grasped her and cut off her breathing as effectively as a
pair of strangulating hands wrapped tightly around her throat.
With a supreme effort she pushed the fear back far enough to
keep it from suffocating her.

Crrr-eeeak.

From somewhere behind her, she thought. Her heart rose in her throat. It was definitely not part of the dream. It was
the very real, very furtive creaking of a floorboard and the shallow exhalation of a human breath. Someone was trying to
sneak up on her.

She lay motionless, terrified, and held her breath, waiting.
When the sound came again, it was closer . . . much closer.
Just then, a gust of wind came up. It stirred the curtains and
they suddenly billowed toward her like two surging plump
white ghosts. She nearly fainted from terror.

She slowed her breathing, giving herself a moment to try to
pinpoint the exact location of whoever was in the room with her. That way, when she leapt out of bed, she would know
exactly which way to run.

For escape she must: it was a matter of self-preservation. The sooner she was out of this room, the safer she would be.
At least she did not have far to go. Inge's room was right
across the hall. Just twenty short steps.

Shakily, she bit down on her lip. She had waited long
enough. Her hands crept to the covers.
Now!

Taking a deep, slow breath, buoyed by the steady rise of
her adrenaline, she flung aside the covers and leapt from the
bed.

The moment her left foot hit the floor, she put her entire
weight on it; before the other could find purchase, her body
was already spinning in a 180-degree pirouette. She skirted
the bed and, oblivious of anything in her path, flung herself
straight for the door—and into the arms of a shadowy appar
ition. He jerked her backward.

She started to scream, but a rough hand clapped over her mouth, cutting off her breath and the sound with it. Her eyes
were wild and her body twisted violently. For a moment she
struggled against him, her nails clawing frantically at the arm
in front of her, but it was futile. He was much too strong for
her. Her shoulders slumped in resignation.

'I will remove my hand only if you promise not to scream,'
a strongly accented voice whispered harshly. She cringed. She
could smell his perspiration, and each word he spoke was a
puff of warm breath against her neck. 'Do you understand?
One sound, and I will be forced to gag you, yes?' His English
was fluent, but as was the case with many multilingual people,
he ended the declarative sentence with a question.

For an instant a challenge flared in her eyes, then died.
Slowly she nodded.

He removed his hand, but kept it poised in front of her
mouth.

Her eyes, long adjusted to the darkness, did not need the
help of light to see that he was over six feet in height. She
could make out little of his face, other than the whiteness of
determined eyes. His features were hidden in the shadows.

Who was he?

Before she could gather up the courage and ask, he
answered the question for her.

'My name is Dani ben Yaacov. I have been sent to take you
to your father.'

Chapter 24

Once he was convinced that she wouldn't scream, he stepped
away from her, crossed soundlessly to the window, pulled
closed the wooden shutters, and drew the curtains quietly. For a moment the room was thrown into a pitch-black void. Then
he switched on the glaring overhead light.

She realized with a start that she was wearing only a filmy
nightgown. Snatching the blanket off the bed, she clutched it in front of her, her breasts heaving, her breathing laboured.
Her eyes were wide with surprise and her dishevelled hair
hung limply over her face. Adrenaline still pumped with a pulsating roar through her veins. It made her feel she could
slay giants.

Without warning, the shrew in her whirled on him, her eyes
shooting lethal daggers. 'How dare you!' she hissed furiously,
advancing threateningly toward him. She flung an arm in the
air. 'Sneaking into my room without warning while I'm asleep!
You very nearly frightened me to death! I thought someone
was coming to—'

'—ravish you.' He seemed to find her discomfiture amusing.
'Perhaps another time, when we are not so rushed.'

Her temper was like an explosive charge. 'You . . . you
s-sneaking snake!' she stammered shakily. 'You f-furtive, cow
ardly, yellow-bellied, skulking—'

'Ah, such colourful adjectives. You show an artful com
mand of the language. Your father was right—you really are
a fine actress.'

She flushed under his calmly contemplating gaze. 'Is that all
you have to say for yourself? You gave me the fright of my
life and—'

'You look so beautiful when you are angry. Yes, it really
does suit you. It brings out the emerald fieriness in your eyes
and darkens the freckles on your nose.'

'F-freckles . . .'she managed hoarsely. She could only stare
at him. He lounged against the wall with such casual ease and looked at her so calmly through indolent, half-lowered eyelids
dark with bristly lashes that her rage simply died. The fight seemed to go out of her—almost of its own volition—and her gesturing arm dropped futilely to her side. But her eyes were
still locked to his.

Why am I staring at him? I can't tear my eyes away from
him.

Whatever it was, something about him had disarmed her
completely. His lopsided, gleaming smile that showed off his
lupine incisors and dimpled his chin along with his cheeks? Or
that catlike sparkle in his tawny eyes while he stared so deeply,
so acutely, into her that for a moment she felt his gaze actually
reaching into her soul? Whatever it was, some omnipotent force had reached out, cast a spell, and taken charge of her
emotions. She was entirely helpless against it.

There was nothing studied about him; he was the real thing,
the man the movie idols sought to emulate. She guessed him
to be twenty-eight. His sun-darkened face was all cheekbones
and angles, and his chin was strong and cleft, like a well-
designed piece of structural architecture. His hair was thick
and black, curly and unruly. His mouth was sensuous and
cruel, and only his nose saved him from arrogant handsome
ness; it was superbly sculptured, aquiline without quite being
Roman, and so high-bridged it seemed to begin between his
dark eyebrows. For all the sparkling, mischievous humour of
his big eyes, a sadness lurked behind them—a vulnerability
that seemed at odds with his inborn self-assurance. She sensed
that he was a man of many layers, that one had to peel them
back, one by one, in order to extricate, far beneath the sur
face, his true being.

She was completely nonplussed. There was something
about him that picked at her heartstrings as sharply, as
seductively, and as effectively as a fingertip plucking a per
fectly pitched harp string. The thrilling vibrations coursed
through her with tuning-fork precision, rippling up and down
her spine, unearthing long-buried desires, and arousing pas
sions she had not felt even when she had first met Louis.

She tried to tear her eyes away, but they were locked to his.
He was as keenly aware of her as she was of him. Despite
his casual demeanour, he was mesmerized with her. His eyes
looked lazy, but the pupils were aware that their lives had
somehow changed.

'We do not have time to waste.' His voice was muted by the
roaring in her head. 'The sooner you are dressed, the sooner
we can leave.'

She kept the blanket pressed in front of her, knowing she
was acting coy, ridiculously modest. She
was
wearing a night
gown, after all.