The Lost Prince Read online

  As if he had a prayer of living long enough for his nose to actually heal? Not bloody likely.

  She asked, “Is all that blood on your shirt yours or someone else’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you’ll take off your shirt, I’ll find out for you,” she suggested.

  He shrugged out of the filthy Army blouse, amused when she stared at his muscular chest. At least Kareem’s hasty beating to his face hadn’t cost him all his charms with the ladies.

  “You’re covered in blood. I’ll have to wash it off to see if there are any wounds beneath it,” she mumbled. There was a noticeable hitch in her voice. As if she was nervous about touching him. The idea amused him. Women he barely knew draped themselves all over him constantly as though he were their personal play toy.

  He scrutinized the young woman before him, for surely she was young to react the way she did to him. She groped in her medical bag and eventually emerged with a package of antiseptic towelettes she fumbled clumsily at opening.

  He leaned back against the cold stone wall and raised his arms, resting his hands on the back of his neck. His posture, suggestive of reclining in bed, seemed to fluster her even more. For some perverse reason, he was enjoying discomfiting this poor girl.

  Slowly she leaned toward him. Her chest rose and fell faster under her dark robe, and her pupils dilated to black, limpid pools.

  Blast him if she wasn’t having the same effect on him. On full alert, he watched as she drew close. Close enough for him to see that her eyelashes were light brown. A blonde, maybe? His nostrils flared. There were only a few tiny laugh wrinkles by her eyes. Definitely young, then. Those eyes of hers were extraordinary, as clear and bright as the sky on a summer day.

  Her hands settled lightly on his rib cage. They felt like an angel’s kiss against his skin; featherlight, exquisitely sweet. So incongruous in this cold, hard prison.

  Her gaze jerked up to meet his, surprised. For an instant, they looked directly into each other’s souls. A connection leaped between them. An almost psychic knowing that went far beyond sexual awareness. Synchronicity.

  Her gaze faltered, while he blinked in surprise. Who was this girl?

  Slowly she washed him, the intimacy of the act curling around them like strands of silk, drawing them into a web that bound them inexorably to one another. Almost painfully sharp electricity shot through him at the seduction of her hands soothing his bare flesh. She petted him as she might a magnificent lion. Her touch lacked the finesse of an experienced lover, but that didn’t stop it from arousing him to a stupidly feverish pitch. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He supposed it had to do with her offering him solace. She didn’t exactly know how to do it, but her naive sincerity made the gesture all the more appealing. He caught another tantalizing whiff of lavender and glimpsed a few strands of golden hair escaping her head scarf. An intense desire to see the face beneath the veil surged through him.

  Her compassion made him want to put his arms around her and hug her in gratitude. She was a priceless reminder of the sane, normal world that existed somewhere beyond the walls of his prison. He closed his eyes in sudden pain. He hadn’t realized just how isolated he felt until she had arrived.

  Her fingers lightly probed his ribs, looking for broken bones. “If you’ll lean forward,” she murmured, “I’ll check the ribs in your back.”

  He bent toward her, his arms coming up to surround her lightly. She jumped like a frightened doe in his arms.

  “Uh, not exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose it works,” she mumbled in consternation.

  It felt as if he’d captured a rainbow, all light and air and fragile color. He held her delicately while a powerful protective impulse slammed into him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d reacted to a woman like this. It must have something to do with that whole business of being about to die.

  He didn’t go for fragile females. The women he generally ran with could take perfectly fine care of themselves, thank you very much. But then, given that this young woman was here in the middle of an ongoing war, she probably could, too.

  He smiled into the folds of her veil as her hands traced the ribs in his back, checking for broken bones. Her fingers trembled against his skin. And something inside him trembled in response.

  Surprise coursed through him. He didn’t know which one of them was more flustered at the moment.

  “Poking you like this hurts, doesn’t it? I’m sorry,” she breathed.

  He opened his eyes and gazed down at her intently. Her eyes had tiny flecks of silver within the palette of vivid blue. “Don’t be sorry,” he murmured. “It’s a nice change from guards pounding the hell out of me.”

  She met his gaze for several candid seconds. Their faces would be in kissing range were it not for the black silk covering her mouth and nose. She meant him no harm. Wanted to help him. He saw it in her eyes. The weird electricity surged anew between them.

  Was it possible? Was there a chance that help might reach him from the outside? If someone like this were to be sympathetic to him, maybe pass a message to a few supporters of his in the city—

  It could work.

  Maybe his death wasn’t so inevitable after all!

  But first he would have to convince her to help him.

  Alarmed at her totally inappropriate reaction to this anonymous Baraqi man, Katy slipped out of the loose circle of his arms to reach into her medical bag, relieved to be out of such proximity to the strangely attractive prisoner.

  She fumbled for her clipboard and placed it squarely between them, lest he get any frisky ideas in the meantime.

  “What’s your full name?” she asked in as businesslike a fashion as she could muster.

  He didn’t answer right away. She looked up, her pen poised over the right box on Larry’s spreadsheet.

  He was frowning at her. Intently.

  She commented lightly, “It’s not that hard a question. I just need to write your name down for our records. It’s required by the Geneva Convention for you to give your captors your name anyway.”

  Still no answer.

  “Are you having trouble remembering your name?”

  He sighed. “I’m trying to decide whether or not I should trust you.”

  She slid her pen into the top of the clipboard and set the whole thing down. She said pleasantly, “Well, I’ve been sent here to help you. If not me, who are you going to trust?”

  Another heavy sigh. “Therein lies my dilemma. You’re all I’ve got.”

  Maybe it was the constant browbeating she took over her unfortunate family connections that made his comment rub her the wrong way. But she said a little less pleasantly, “I am a fully trained humanitarian relief worker and I’m generally considered to be a reasonably intelligent human being who doesn’t lie, keeps her word and is classed as trustworthy.”

  And, unaccountably, he smiled. “Aah, there it is. A spine. Perhaps you are the person I need after all.”

  Huh?

  “Answer me this,” he continued. “Who’s going to see that spreadsheet of yours?”

  “My team will. General Sharaf’s people will. And I expect we’ll forward the list to the Red Cross.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vinyl-covered passport. “Then, in that case, my name is Akbar—” a pause while he read the document “—Mulwami.”

  She frowned. And didn’t bother to write it down. That so wasn’t his name.

  He glanced up at her. “Do you need me to spell that?”

  She snorted. “No. I need you to quit BSing me.”

  He laughed, back to his utterly charming self. “Aah, you and I are going to get along famously. I promise you that is my name as the Baraqi Army knows it to be.”

  “And what does your mother know it to be?” she retorted.

  He leaned back against the rock wall behind him. “I’ll answer that question if you wish. But first you must promise me something.”


  Man, his dimples were lethal. “What’s that?”

  “You must solemnly swear not to do or say anything that will get me killed.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Killed? Of course not. I’m here to save lives.”

  His voice vibrated with intensity. “Do you swear?”

  Katy replied without hesitating, “Of course I do. It’s my job to protect your life to the best of my ability.”

  He nodded slowly and murmured so quietly she had to lean close to hear him. “My friends call me Nick. But my mother calls me Nikolas.” A long pause. “Ramsey.”

  Chapter 3

  In a ravaged corner of Akuba, in a windowless room lit only by the flickering light of a pair of lanterns, a group convened in secret; a dozen dark-robed women, their faces hidden according to the edicts issued by General Sharaf—leader of the coup—only hours ago. Any woman who did not follow the strict religious dress code he’d declared would be whipped.

  In a whisper the self-appointed leader of the group asked, “Has anyone received word whether the king is alive or dead?”

  A shrug from a castle insider. “Nobody knows. He was seen sitting on his throne moments before the Army burst into the great hall. But that is the last report anyone has of him.”

  “Fool,” the leader bit out. “Nonetheless, he must be found. Sharaf must not be allowed to kill him. All our hopes rest with a Ramsey staying in power. Sharaf will strip away every right women have ever had under the Ramseys.”

  One of the others spoke hesitantly. “I heard General Nagheb phone someone he called InterAid this morning. He asked them to come monitor prisoners in Baraq. If Sharaf allows them in, perhaps we can make contact with them. Get them to assist us in searching for Nikolas Ramsey.”

  The leader shrugged. “Perhaps. We can try. But most of those groups choose to remain neutral. In the meantime, we must look to our own resources to find the king and extract him from the clutches of the Army. All of us must make this our one and only goal for now. Understood?”

  Nods all around.

  “Very well, then. Go and be safe. And remember—we must find the king before Sharaf does. Our futures and our daughters’ futures depend on it.”

  The twelve women rose silently to their feet and slipped one by one out into the frightened, waiting city.

  “Nikolas Ramsey?” Katy exclaimed.

  “Good Lord, woman, keep your voice down! You just swore not to get me killed!”

  “Nikolas Ramsey?” she repeated in a shocked whisper.

  He shrugged. “In the flesh.”

  “What in the world are you doing here?” Although, as soon as she asked the question, the answer was obvious. He was hiding from Sharaf. But in prison? “Why here?”

  “There was nowhere else to go. We were surrounded and the palace was overrun. It was this or die. Although, I think death is probably inevitable for me, don’t you?”

  He asked that last bit conversationally. As if they were talking about the weather. “Death is inevitable for all of us,” Katy retorted wryly. “The question is when.”

  “Sooner rather than later for me, I should think,” he said dryly. “As soon as my face heals enough for me to be recognized.”

  She examined it critically. “You’re pretty messed up. Honestly you look like Quasimodo.”

  He looked pained for a moment, then said lightly, “Thank God for small favors.”

  “That won’t protect you forever,” she said quietly.

  He met her gaze briefly and then his slid away. “No, it won’t.”

  She got the impression he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Sympathy washed over her. What a rotten way to spend your final days—waiting and watching the clock tick until your body betrays you and your captors recognize and kill you.

  She said, “If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He laughed briefly without humor. “How about a hacksaw and a helicopter?”

  She smiled gently and reached out to put her hand on his. Electricity shot up her arm, startling her into jerking her hand away. To cover up her reaction to him, she asked hastily, “Is there any chance the Army would let you live if they found out who you were?”

  He shook his head sharply. “Not a chance. They have to kill me to solidify their hold on power. As long as I’m alive, Ramsey loyalists will continue to fight.”

  She replied, “The way I hear it, the fighting’s pretty much over and the Army’s in control of the country.”

  He shrugged, causing all those gorgeous muscles to ripple across his chest. “The first battle may be finished, but the war is far from over.”

  Lovely. And here she was, smack-dab in the middle of it.

  She jumped when he grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “Listen. Whatever you do, you can’t tell the Army who I am. They’ll kill me the second they know.”

  “I understand.” The zinging energy of the man was shooting through her again, but this time she was ready for it. “Truly. I swear they won’t find out from me.”

  For just a second desperation glistened in his eyes. He let go of her fingers reluctantly, like a drowning man slipping into the abyss. He whispered, “Please. Help me.”

  She thought fast. “Tell you what. I’ll look into the legalities of it. There might be something we can do. You are a head of state, after all. There might be some special rule of prisoner treatment we can invoke in your case. Tonight I’ll take a look at the Geneva Conventions and see what I can find.”

  “Don’t talk to your boss about me. Don’t talk to anyone. Trust no one.”

  Why the heck not? Aloud she said, “InterAid is not in the business of getting anyone killed. My boss will keep your secret.”

  He surged to his feet, looming over her. “Swear to me you will not tell anyone who I am. It must remain our secret. My life depends on it.”

  She stared up at him for several seconds. He knew something he wasn’t telling her. Currents of intrigue flowed all around this place, this man. One thing she knew to be true—Nick was really worried about being double-crossed. Although that was probably part and parcel of being a prince his whole life. A rich, handsome, eligible one.

  “I said I won’t tell anyone and I won’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  His simple words were a caress. A reverent touch gliding across her skin. And she was losing her mind. The guy was bruised and battered and filthy, and she was panting after him like a dog in a sauna.

  But then he did touch her. And it was a hundred times more seductive in the flesh. His fingertips brushed the back of her hand lightly. Beseechingly. Desperately.

  “Be careful. The very fact that you know who I am places you in grave jeopardy, as well.”

  She blinked, alarmed. “How? I’m just a random relief worker.”

  “This is Baraq. Nothing is simple here. There are plots within plots everywhere. Layers within layers to every plot. If I am killed, you could bear witness to the fact that I was murdered by the Army well after the coup itself was over. They can’t afford to have that information become public. The Baraqi people and world opinion will not tolerate a bunch of murderers ruling this country. That is why they’ll kill you, too.”

  She absorbed his words in silence. Damned if what he said didn’t make perfect sense. Foreboding clutched at her throat like a cold, bony hand.

  He murmured urgently, “I’m not exaggerating. Trust no one. Both of our lives depend on it.”

  His golden gaze bored into her in uncomfortably intense entreaty. He certainly believed his warnings to her, at any rate. Should she?

  He exhaled a long, slow breath and said beseechingly, “Please. My life is in your hands.”

  He didn’t sound as though he used the word please often. And that was the second time he’d used it with her. Despite his breezy charm, this guy was scared stiff. And she couldn’t blame him. Sharaf’s men hadn’t exactly made the world’s friendliest first impression on her.r />
  Saying “please” was probably a big concession for him. The guy was a king, after all. At least he’d sounded sincere when he’d said it. Maybe she was wrong to protect this guy. Maybe she should ignore his advice and tell her boss who he was after all—

  His voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. “I believe you were going to put a bandage on my nose?”

  “Right,” she mumbled. “Bandage. The bigger, the better.”

  “Exactly.” His relieved smile lit up the room like a floodlight. He added under his breath, “Thank you.”

  She got the distinct feeling she’d just stepped over some sort of invisible line. And, once crossed, there was no going back.

  Katy stumbled through the rest of the day’s work in a daze, mechanically treating prisoners and recording their condition on her clipboard. Alive! The king of Baraq was alive! And she was the only person who knew it. Was her life really in danger? Or was Nikolas Ramsey just trying to scare her into silence? Should she ignore his warning and tell someone of her discovery or was discretion the better part of valor? One thing he was right about: palpable currents of intrigue flowed around her as she made her way through the palace toward the exit a few hours later.

  Unseen eyes glared at her, and she caught the furtive looks and snide comments the Army soldiers cast at her when they thought she wasn’t looking or listening. It was one advantage of the veil over most of her face. Nobody could see her reaction to their jabs, uttered mostly in Arabic they thought she wouldn’t understand. She’d studied the language for four years in college, and it was coming back to her rapidly. She got the distinct feeling her well-being might rest on her secret comprehension of the tongue. Nope, not gonna let on that I understand them just yet.

  The Army didn’t deign to provide the aid workers transportation to their hotel, so Katy, Larry and two other team members, who’d been treating the more seriously wounded prisoners housed in the palace proper, convened at the main drawbridge at dusk to walk to their lodgings. Soldiers all but pushed them out a man-sized postern gate within the larger drawbridge. The good news was the walk was steeply downhill into the crowded city streets. The bad news was the hike back up the hill tomorrow morning was going to be a bear.