SHEIKH ZAGEO bin Sultan Al Farrahn was not amused. Not
only had there been criminal trespassing in the walled
grounds of this family property β his mother's pleasure
palace on the legendary spice island of Zanzibar β but
also criminal use of the private harbour by a drug-running
French yachtsman who was actually offering him a woman to
warm his bed in exchange for letting him go.
Did the sleazy low-life think he was speaking to the kind
of man who'd indulge in indiscriminate sex?
"She's very special," the drug-dealer pleaded with all the
oiliness of a practised pimp. "A genuine strawberry-
blonde. Hair like rippling silk, falling to the pit of her
back. Beautiful, bright, blue eyes. Lush breasts..." His
hands shaped an hourglass figure. "Fantastic legs, long
and..."
"A virgin, as well?" Zageo cut in mockingly, despis- ing
the man for thinking he could trade his whore for his own
freedom, for thinking the trade could even be an
acceptable possibility. "Completely untouched," Jacques
Arnault instantly replied, a consummate liar, not so much
as a flicker of an eyelash nor the twitch of a facial
muscle to betray any unease with the question, despite the
impossibility of there being anything virginal about a
woman who had to be his partner in crime.
"And where is this precious pearl?" Zageo drawled, barely
holding back his contempt for a man who was prepared to
sell flesh to save his own skin.
"On my yacht. If you get your security people β" he
glanced nervously at the guards who'd caught him ' β to
take me out to it, they can fetch her back to you."
While he silently sailed away in one hell of a hurry!
Zageo gave him a blast of scepticism. "On your yacht?
You've managed to sail from the Red Sea, down half the
east coast of Africa to this island, without being tempted
to touch this fabulous jewel of femininity?"
The Frenchman shrugged. "Stupid to spoil top mer-
chandise."
"And where did you get this top merchandise?" 'Picked her
up from one of the resorts where she was working with a
dive team. She agreed to help crew the yacht for free
passage to Zanzibar." His mouth curved into a cynical
smile. "A drifting traveller who could go missing
indefinitely."
"A fool to trust you with her life." 'Women are fools.
Particularly those with an inno- cent turn of mind."
Zageo arched a challenging eyebrow. "You take me for a
fool, as well?" 'I'm being completely straight with you,"
came the swift and strongly assertive assurance. "You can
have her. No problems." His gaze flicked around the
lavishly rich and exotic Versace furnishings in the huge
central atrium which had always served as the most public
re- ception area. "With all you have to offer, I doubt
you'd even have to force her. Unless you enjoy force, of
course," he quickly added on second thoughts.
Anger burned. "You are breaking another law, mon- sieur.
The slave trade was abolished in Zanzibar over a century
ago."
"But a man of your standing and influence...who's to
question what you do with a woman no one knows? Even if
she runs away from you..."
"Enough!" Zageo gestured to his security guards. "Put him
in a holding room. Have his yacht searched for a woman. If
there is one onboard, bring her to me."
Arnault looked alarmed as two of the guards flanked him to
escort him elsewhere. He spoke quickly in anx- ious
protest. "You'll see. She's everything I said she is. Once
you're satisfied..."
"Oh, I will be satisfied, monsieur, one way or an- other,"
Zageo silkily assured him, waving his men to proceed with
the execution of his orders.
Zageo doubted the woman existed, certainly not with all
the attributes ascribed to her by Jacques Arnault. He
suspected the Frenchman had been dangling what he thought
would be a tempting sexual fantasy in the hope of getting
back to his yacht and somehow ditching the men escorting
him. Even though the security guards carried guns, a
surprise attack might have won him time to escape.
However, if there was a female accomplice, she had to be
brought in and handed over to the appropriate au-
thorities. While she might not have been actively in-
volved in drug-dealing, there was no way she couldn't know
about it and would surely be able to supply use- ful
information.
He relaxed back on the thronelike sofa, reached over the
elaborately rolled armrest to pick up the mango cocktail
he'd previously set down on the entwined mon- keys table,
and sipped the refreshing drink slowly as the anger
stirred by the Frenchman's attempt to use sexual currency
turned onto Veronique, who had declined the invitation to
accompany him on this trip.
"Your mind will be on business, cheri," she had pret- tily
complained. "It will not be fun."
Was the amount of fun to be had the measure of their
relationship? His three-month tour of checking the hotel
chain he'd established throughout Africa could not be
called a hardship on anyone's agenda β luxurious re- sorts
in exotic locations. How much fun did she need to feel
happy and satisfied?
He understood that for the much-in-demand French- Morrocan
model, pleasure was inextricably linked with exciting
leisure and being taken shopping. He under- stood that
what he provided in this context was the trade-off for
having her as his mistress. He had not un- derstood that
Veronique was only prepared to give him her company on her
own totally self-indulgent terms.
Intolerable!
He had indulged her far too much. It wasn't enough
recompense that the sex was good. It wasn't enough that
Veronique was invariably a splendid ornament on his arm,
superbly dressed to complement her dark-skinned exotic
beauty. He found it deeply insulting that she had so
little respect for his wishes.
His father was right. It was time he ended this too long
fascination with women of different cultures and found one
of his own kind to marry. He was thirty- five years old
and should be thinking of settling down, having a family.
He would cut his connection with Veronique and start
considering more suitable can- didates for a lifelong
commitment β well-educated women from other powerful
families in Dubai, women whose background ensured they
would share his life, not just his bed and his spending
power.
None of them would have strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes
and fair skin, but such factors were hardly prime
requirements for marriage. They weren't even factors to
inspire a lustful dalliance. Right now the idea of trading
in sex was particularly abhorrent, and Zageo found him-
self actually relishing the opportunity to hammer this
home to Jacques Arnault's female yachting companion.
He hoped she did exist.
He hoped his men would find her on board the illicit yacht
in the private harbour that served this private pal- ace.
He hoped she actually measured up to the Frenchman's
selling spiel.
It would give him considerable satisfaction to dem-
onstrate that regardless of how attractive her physical
assets were, they were worth nothing to him.
Absolutely nothing! "I WILL get out of this! I will!"
Emily Ross kept reciting as she struggled through the
mangrove swamp.
These mutterings of fierce determination were inter-
spersed with bursts of self-castigation. "What a fool I've
been! A gullible idiot to be taken in by Jacques. I should
have just paid the money to fly here. No hassle about
arriving in time. All safe and sound..."
Talking blocked out the fear of having made another wrong
step, of putting her life in hopeless hazard this time.
Yet reason insisted that the Frenchman could not have been
trusted to keep his word about anything. The only sure way
of staying in Zanzibar and getting to Stone Town to meet
Hannah was to jump ship while Jacques was still off in his
dinghy doing his drug-running.
So, okay...she'd done the swim from the yacht to shore,
dragging all her essentials in a waterproof bag behind
her. No shark or fish had attacked. Her feet had not been
cut to ribbons by shells or coral or sharp rocks. Now she
just had to find her way out of the mangrove swamp that
seemed to cover the peninsula she'd swum to.
"It's not going to beat me. I will get out of it." And she
did, finally emerging from the mud and tan- gled tree
roots onto a wide mound of firmer ground which turned out
to be an embankment above a small creek. More water! But
beyond it was definitely proof of civilisation β what
looked like the well kept grounds of some big property. No
more swamp. The worst was over.
Emily's legs shook from sheer exhaustion. Now, with the
fear of being swallowed up by the swamp re- ceding and
much easier travelling in sight, she felt like collapsing
on the bank and weeping with relief at hav- ing made it
this far. Nevertheless, the need to cling to some self-
control persisted. She might be out of the woods but this
was still far from the end of her journey.
She sat herself down on the bank and did some deep
breathing, hoping to lessen the load of stress β the huge
mental, emotional and physical stress attached to her
decision not to cling to the relative safety of Jacques
Arnault's yacht, not to remain captive to any further de-
vious plan he might make.
Free...
The thought gathered its own momentum, finding a burst of
positive achievement.
Free of him. Free of the swamp. Free to go where I want in
my own time.
It helped calm her enough to get on with assessing her
current position. A high stone wall ran back into dis-
tant darkness on the other side of the creek. It gave rise
to the hope it might lead to a public road.
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