Her Royal Protector (a Johari Crown Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) (11 page)

“My father must have known that it was all coming apart at that point, but he smiled and took their money. They were so grateful to him. My father’s magic touch! Michael would be safe forever. A year later, along with everyone else, that couple lost everything. Now they can’t afford even the most basic support in their son’s care, and they live in terror of their own deaths. Michael’s in a much worse prison than my father is. Every time I think of those people I cringe. But as my father famously said, ‘What would be the point of my expressing remorse?’”

She smiled through the bitter taste in her mouth. “What else did you want to know about him?”

“What is his name?” he asked, as if he had already guessed.

“The papers call him ‘Trojan’ Percy. The nickname suits him well. Afterwards, the
Sun
called him ‘The Trojan Virus.’ Do you get it now?”

“Yes, I get it,” Arif said, as if he really did. As if he could understand how bottomless was that well of grief and shame she drank from. “He lived like a rich man for many years.”

“Oh yes,” she said dryly, gazing into her glass. She wished she’d asked for wine. Something to deaden feeling.

“And then you lost everything, and now…you hate it all?”

Aly took a long pull on her sparkling water and welcomed the sting at the back of her throat. “
I
didn’t lose everything. My family did, but I had never really…believed it. It was never real to me, the wealth.” She didn’t say why. She didn’t say it was because she had always felt herself to be on the outside, excluded from her father’s charmed circle, a cuckoo in the nest. “So it wasn’t losing money and houses and yachts that bothered me. That was the least of it.”

She looked out to where a mega yacht was moored in the middle of the bay. “I hate all that, yes. You say the Sultan’s different and you’re different, and I believe you. But people like that,” she waved at the yacht, “are all, one way or another, to a greater or lesser extent, clones of my father. They all put themselves first, last and everywhere. Their selfish greed poisons the earth.” Moonlight sparkled in her glass as she took another drink. “And in their hearts, if they have hearts, they know it.”

Chapter Eleven

A day later they sailed into the harbor at Ausa, the biggest island in the group, where several dozen boats, large and small, sail and motor, were already moored, just before sunset. It was a spectacularly beautiful bay, deep and clear and surrounded by forested hills. Off to the right around the curve of the bay, a luxury resort hotel nestled above the beach amongst trees and massive flowering shrubs. Its lights already beckoned. On the sea beneath, half a dozen mega yachts lay at anchor.

“Lots of people here,” Aly observed as Arif motored in to a berth.

“Today is Friday. People sail over from the mainland after work on Thursday night, and spend the weekend here.” In Bagestan, she already knew, the weekend was Friday and Saturday. “Jamila and Farhad will take the evening off, as usual. You and I will eat at the Glen Eden,” Arif finished, waving in the direction of the resort tucked against the hillside.

He spoke with such easy command, as if she could have no objection, or he would brook none, that she almost let it go. But it was a crazy, dangerous idea, and Aly sat up straight and looked up at him standing with such authority at the wheel.

“Isn’t the Glen Eden a five star resort?”

“Six. Their chef is famous, the food beyond rubies. You will enjoy it, I’m sure.”

She had to laugh. “Turtle Watch’s budget wouldn’t even run to the cover charge.”

“You come as my guest, of course,” he said, concentrating on his engines while Farhad tossed ropes to a smartly uniformed docker and the yacht was moored. His complete lack of awareness of her situation had her clenching her jaw.

“Thanks, Arif, but no thanks. And before you ask, for all the reasons I’ve told you before. Including my lack of anything approaching a suitable wardrobe. I learned my lesson at the…”

“That can be fixed.”

She glared at him. This was one of the worst times for her—when he was performing tricky maneuvers with the yacht. His hands moved so expertly, so knowingly on the controls. She could feel them on her body, every time. “How, exactly, can that be fixed?”

“There are women’s boutiques at the Glen Eden and in Ausa Town. I will give you my credit card. We have time before dinner. If you go now, you are sure to find some outfit to dine in that will suit even the simplicity of your taste.”

She could just imagine how many times he’d made that offer to women. Aly bristled. “No, thank you.”

He had brought
Janahine
snugly home. Arif looked down at her in amazement as he cut the engines. “But what is the trouble? Think of it as an apology for our not having provided your charity with sufficient funding for your purposes.”

She couldn’t guess what he was after. Was he trying to undermine her independence? Was it intended as a kind of bribe? Sand in her eyes? Not for one moment did she think he might be using this as a way of getting into her bed.

If she’d believed that, a little voice whispered, she might have succumbed.

“You don’t get it, do you? You really just don’t get it. I have work to do,” she said flatly. “If you don’t mind, I’ll feed myself from the fridge tonight.”

…

“Good evening, Sir,” the headwaiter said with a bow. “What name, please?”

“Hamrahi,” said Arif. During his month in the mines he generally did his best to be incognito everywhere. No other false identity had been readily available, so he had some of Jafar Hamrahi’s business cards in his wallet. Idly he wondered how the other Jafar Hamrahi was getting along at Anglo-Bagestan Oil. How narrowly he had missed being there instead of here. He sent up a small thank you, without knowing why.

“Ah, yes,” the man said now, consulting his book of reservations. He looked up, glanced behind Arif’s shoulder. “For two?”

“One, now.”

The headwaiter sized him up for a moment in a way a Cup Companion seldom experienced, approved what he saw, inclined his head, twitched up a menu and slipped it under his arm. “This way, please.”

He was ushered to a perfectly adequate table, but perhaps not the one he would have been offered if the headwaiter had recognized him as a Cup Companion. Arif sat down, ordered a whiskey, set a folder on the table in front of him, and began to read the information Fouad had sent him on Turtle Watch.

…

Left alone on the yacht, Aly used the opportunity to call Richard and Ellen. She wanted to discuss the problem she had, trying to false mark the nests when Arif insisted on accompanying her.

“I’ll tell Richard what you’ve told me,” Ellen said, when Aly had unburdened herself. “But it won’t be tonight, I’m afraid. Richard’s just come out of surgery and he’s feeling very low. I don’t want to worry him about all this now. He may be well enough in the morning. Call again tomorrow and I’ll pass on any insights we may have.”

Aly sighed to herself. “All right. But remember that when I call next time I probably won’t be able to talk freely. If I’m on satellite…other people can hear me.”

“If I can just say one thing, Aly, and I’m sure Richard would agree, it’s—don’t confide in Sheikh Amir. Please don’t do that without approval from Richard. I know Richard doesn’t trust him, primarily because he insisted on traveling with you. That seems to both of us a very suspicious thing. I mean, he’s a busy man, he must have had to drop everything…it doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“Arif,” Aly corrected her irritably. “Sheikh Arif.” It had somehow sounded more reasonable when Arif put it to her, but she wasn’t arguing. The longer she was with him, the less clear-headed she was about the man. “I guess not. But he seems totally honorable to me, tell Richard.”

“Yes, well…will you promise not to say anything till I’ve talked to Richard?”

“All right,” Aly said unhappily. “It does make it difficult about the nests, though. Do I carry on flagging them? It’s a gold-embossed invitation to saboteurs.”

“Well, I think what you’re already doing, moving the stake just one meter, sounds good. Carry on with that till we can get back to you. As you say, with luck you can correct to a greater distance next time round “

Aly hung up, and sat there for a moment, irritated by the call without knowing why. Then she got up and wandered down to the galley in search of something edible. Her skin was itchy. Her whole body was restless. No food looked worth the trouble of preparing it.

Hell. She was regretting that she hadn’t gone with Arif. But that was just crazy. What was in it for her but mortification? It would be even worse than the banquet. In an atmosphere like the Glen Eden, she wouldn’t even be able to dream.

Even if she’d let him buy her an expensive outfit, she would have looked pathetic, surrounded by all the pampered, beautiful women coming off the mega yachts or staying at the Glen Eden. She would have hated exposing her failings to Arif like that.

A Cup Companion with
you
on his arm?

But he’s not a Cup Companion here. He’s incognito. If he cared about being seen with me, he wouldn’t have asked.

He did mind. He wanted to put you into something expensive before being seen with you.

Shut up!

Aly slammed the fridge door, then climbed up on deck into the warm, soft evening. There she drew a deep breath. The heat of the day had lifted and there was a delicious sea-scented breeze. The harbor was enchanting by night. Lights glowed golden all round the bay—from many of the boats, from the village, and from the hotel that was nestled against the hillside to the right, where Arif was dining this evening. In the distance, above yearning elegiac music, a wailing wind instrument soared and searched the darkness for what was lost.

She didn’t have smart clothes, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t go ashore and find something to eat somewhere less posh than the Glen Eden. Aly ran below, combed her hair, changed into loose long pants and a short-sleeved shirt, slipped on sandals, grabbed up her handbag, and went back up on deck. She locked the hatch, lowered the gangplank, ran down onto the dock, then raised it again.

People strolled along the dock or sat on aft decks with ice clinking in their glasses, laughing and chatting. She saw the flags of many nations as she passed. Approaching the shore she saw crowds in the distance, and the odor of spicy meat cooking made her mouth water.

A kebab seller called to her from his kiosk just outside the harbor area, but she only called “
Shokran,
” and passed on up the road till she got to the main street. Brightly lighted shops offering carpets, ceramics, sweets, antiques, jewelry, ship’s chandlery, diving gear, luggage, clothing, and smartphones were all crowded with happy visitors. She heard French, German, English, and Russian as well as Parvani and Arabic. There were restaurants, snack bars, coffee shops, and tea houses. A wealth of choice.

Aly paused in front of a women’s clothing shop. Among the items in the window was a white linen dress. A square neckline and a pencil skirt with a kick pleat on each side. Dead plain. No pretensions.

Nice, but she looked like a stick in anything fitted.

Poor little Aly. My poor little stick. A figure only a father could love.

And even if she had been half inclined to try it on with a view to next time, she quickly reassessed the inclination: there were no price tags in the window. It was obvious what kind of tourist frequented this resort. She’d be lucky to find a sarong she could afford. In the old days her father would have loved Ausa Town, if he had ever bothered to take his “
ocean-going” mega yacht out of the Med. So exclusive.

Ah well. Aly bought a kebab and a lemonade from the kiosk and went and sat on a wall, watching the crowd pass as she ate.

…

Arif skimmed through the Turtle Watch file, making a mental note of which of his people had assessed the application and made recommendations for cuts, filing the information away in his brain for further consideration. On the surface there was nothing questionable, but he would read it more closely later.

He opened the background file on Olivia Percy with more interest.
She is the daughter of Alexander “Trojan” Percy, the infamous high-living financier whose exposure as a fraud precipitated a financial…
So much he knew, and Arif’s eyes dropped to where Fouad had underlined the text and made a mark in the margin.
Percy was also linked with certain of the Kaljuk ruling elite. Among the worthless investments he endorsed were Kaljuk “gold mine” stocks for mines that never existed, or were non-producing. Percy was the channel through which the fantasy of Kaljuk gold entered western mainstream financial wisdom. The collapse of his financial empire has also meant exposure and ruin for these corrupt Kaljuk officials.

Arif sat up and gazed out over the sea, unconsciously closing the file as he absorbed it. This almost-forgotten fact had been nagging at the back of his mind ever since Aly had told him her father’s name.

He had now to consider the possibility that the Kaljuks had got to her. That she was a woman who could be
bribed
he had dismissed early—her love of her work and her dedication to the Johari turtle’s continued existence was too obvious, too real. But threats? Those who were in power in Kaljukistan now were more than merely greedy. They were violent and vengeful men. It was possible.

She had claimed ignorance of Kaljuk interest in Joharistan, and he had been convinced. But if she were trying to protect her family in this way, she would do everything in her power to hide the fact from him. For all he knew she had been acting from the beginning. That show of incompetence at the banquet. Richard Falbright’s convenient illness. Aly’s ridiculous determination to sail alone on this trip, her refusal to use
Dhikra,
her dismay and resistance to Plan C.
Her insistence on patrolling the beaches alone, the way she had swum back to shore at Solomon’s Foot to move the nest marker she had just planted. The mismarking of nests since.

He had always known there was something behind it all. But because she aroused his protective instincts and because he wanted to bed her, he had believed her innocent. The fool’s way.

She had wept when she watched the hatchlings make their way to their home in the sea. He had taken that as a clear sign of her devotion to the work of saving them. But might it not equally be grief over her complicity with men who were killing them?

He was taking too much on trust. He had been blindsided by her, by her unique beauty, by her awkward charm, by the potent female sexuality that seemed so unconscious.

Was it all sleight of hand, a magician’s distraction?

He had to find out, by whatever means possible, and immediately, just what Aly Percy was doing to those turtle nests. He had no right to judge by his gut instinct in a case so urgent. He
had
to know.

His entree arrived with a discreet flourish, and he set the file aside and pondered while he ate. How to plumb the depths of the mystery? How to get her to lower her guard with him?

There was one sure way to get to a woman—in bed. A woman who has been thoroughly pleasured is a woman whose heart is open to her lover. That much was certain. A woman’s surest weakness was sexual. It was somehow generally considered that only men were vulnerable through sex, but that, he was sure, was because so few men took the trouble to explore the farthest reaches of a woman’s pleasure—or even the nearest.

The Prophet had left clear instructions as to a man’s duty in bed.
Do not leap upon your woman like a mule, leaving her more dissatisfied than when you began. Send a messenger first, he said. And when they asked, what messenger? He said, A kiss, a caress.