LITMIR.BIZ

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in the center of the hall. Fat candles burned in sconces along the walls. The air inside was cold and had a strange weight to it. Clearly, central heating had not been part of the refurbishment.

      “Monsieur is waiting in the library,” the butler said, setting her hamper on the table. “If I can take your coat?” He held out a dark-skinned hand.

      “Could you hold this for me?” She offered Kiki to him.

      The butler’s eyes flashed up, meeting hers properly for the first time.

      “The dog?”

      “Please, so I can take off my coat.”

      Uneasy, the man took the ball of wriggling fur, holding Kiki at arm’s length as she tried to lick his face. Bella shrugged out of her slicker and removed her hat, holding them out to the butler. He called out for assistance.

      Another male servant came hurrying into the hallway, looking surprised as the butler handed him the dog and muttered in French for him to watch it while Mademoiselle Chenard visited with the Monsieur. Bella took note of their accents as they conversed. Both rolled their r’s low in their throats in the way of Arabic.

      “Her name is Kiki,” she called out after the man as he turned to leave with the dog. He shot a dark glance over his shoulder. Bella smiled inwardly and said a silent thank-you to Madame Dubois as she followed the butler down a wide and dimly lit stone corridor. The dog was easing her tension.

      The air in this part of the abbey smelled slightly musty, like an old church. The butler stopped to open a thick wooden door, showing Bella into a library.

      She entered cautiously. The room was massive but warm, with lots of rich wood paneling. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling. A cello stood at one end of the room, the smooth wood gleaming from the light of a fire that crackled softly in a big stone hearth. Persian rugs in rich reds and rust browns covered the floors. At the far end of the room another door opened into what looked like a study—Bella could see a desk of polished black wood. On it rested a stubby phone—satellite phone, she guessed—along with a pile of papers.

      “Mademoiselle Chenard,” the butler announced before sliding quietly away and closing the door.

      Tariq stood up from the chair he’d been seated in next to the fire. The size of the wingback had hidden him from view. He turned slowly to face her.

      Bella’s heart stilled as last summer’s headlines flooded through her mind.

      Heir to Al Na’Jar Throne Dead. Renowned Surgeon Prince Dies. Prince Assassinated. Palace Mourns...

      And here he was.

      Already she could see the new headlines.

      Sheik Al Arif Found Alive. Palace Lied. MagMo failed to Assassinate Heir. Al Na’Jar Prince Found Recovering in France.

      She could also imagine the photographs she’d taken of him on the cliff splashed over news pages, and a disturbing little thought entered her mind. Why break this story on the Watchdog site—why not take it straight to one of the major media outlets? It would be her byline, her photo credits. Then she thought of Hurley, Scoob, Agnes, all the investigative legwork they’d done to help her get to this point. Guilt wormed into her.

      “Come in,” he said, his voice rich, resonant. Deep.

      Bella swallowed and took a few steps forward, tension tightening in her stomach.

      He stepped around the chair, facing her square. He wore black pants—expensively cut, perfectly pressed. His white shirt was open at the neck showing a silk cravat. His hair was a glossy raven in the firelight. The eye patch lent him an air of mystery. In spite of his scars his presence shimmered with intensity, authority, wealth and something charismatically—and darkly—seductive.

      Bella’s gaze settled on his mouth, the way his lip turned down on the left. An earlier photograph of him shifted to mind—Tariq smiling as he accepted a polo trophy, his teeth stark white against dusky skin. The photographer had captured a fire that had burned bright in his black eyes that day. Bella wondered if he could still smile, or if that ability, too, had been stolen from him by MagMo terrorists.

      She came a little closer, holding out her hand. “I’m Amelie—”

      “Amelie Chenard,” he said, lifting his chin slightly and clasping his own hands behind his back. He made no move toward her. She dropped her hand back to her side, feeling awkward, and wondered if he was hiding his maimed hand this way. What did it take for a man once so devastatingly good-looking, so talented a neurosurgeon, to deal with this change in his body, his life?

      “You work for Estelle Dubois,” he said. “You’re here to do research for a novel.” He paused, watching her intently. “Or so I am told.”

      “Yes,” she said simply, waiting to see where he was going to take this.

      “This would be your debut novel.” It wasn’t a question.

      She smiled, warmly. Or so she hoped. “So, you’ve looked me up?”

      He said nothing.

      Apprehension rose in her.

      Before she’d left the States, Hurley and Scoob had managed to create a basic internet presence for “Amelie Chenard,” but it was superficial. Anyone digging deeper would soon see that. Bella had been lucky to secure her job with Estelle Dubois only two days after her arrival on Ile-en-Mer, and she’d managed to do it without applying for permits of any sort. She also hadn’t used her passport or any ID since arriving in France via the Chunnel, and so far she hadn’t touched the credit cards hidden in her room alongside her passport and driver’s license.

      “Yes, it will be my first, at least under my own name, should it be published.” She tried to hold her smile. “If you did look up my website you’ll have seen that I’ve worked as a ghost writer to date, but contracts have bound me to confidentiality as to whom I’ve written for.”

      His gaze bored into her, hot, intense. She tried not to blink, to look away. But her skin heated.

      Still, he remained silent, waiting.

      She cleared her throat. “I grew tired of being in the shadows all the time,” she said. “I want to step out, do something for myself, make my own name. Hence the new website, and now, my own book.” Bella hoped this would explain the apparent lack of internet litter around her alias. “It’s why I came to France, to this island. For the research. And I thought it might be good to stay awhile, absorb the local culture, the rhythms of the people.”

      His butler appeared like a ghost, startling Bella—she hadn’t even heard the door open. He set Madame’s hamper on a table near the fire, then left. The sheik didn’t even glance at his servant, or the hamper.

      Silently Bella thanked Madame again—clearly she was going to need a diversion, something to break the fortress of ice this man had built around himself. She glanced at the hamper, wondering what was inside.

      “Your French is good,” he said abruptly.

      “Thank you. I minored in French and philosophy.”

      “Where?”

      Perspiration suddenly prickled over her body. “Seattle,” she lied. It was the first place that came to mind that was not Chicago or D.C., and she’d visited the university there so she knew something about it.

      “What was your major?”

      “Literature,” she lied again, then forced a light laugh. “You’re making me feel as though I pushed my bike all the way up here simply to be interrogated.”

      His features remained implacable. “You’ve been following me, Amelie. I want to know why.”

      “I think it’s pretty obvious,” she said quietly, her smile dying on her lips. “I was hoping for a tour of the abbey, and I wanted to ask you about the ghost, the history of the place.” Silence hung between them. The fire crackled and popped, giving

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