Heather Graham by Arabian Nights Page A

should have stayed calm, but she didn’t. The hysteria rising within her bubbled over with a new vengeance. She was scared half out of her wits, and being so terrified made her defensive, which made her bluster. “Then if you understand me, you’d better understand just what can happen to you for what you’ve done to me! I am an American, and what you’re guilty of is kidnapping. Kidnapping is a federal offense. They can execute people for doing things like this—”
    She broke off just as his eyes rose to meet hers.
    Am I crazy? she wondered with horror. I’m threatening him while he still holds all the cards. And it was very evident that he knew he did. His stare was sharp and piercing and cold, and hinted of an anger barely tempered by disdainful amusement.
    “This is not the United States,” he said quietly.
    Chills swept over her as she was trapped again by that strange feeling of déjà vu. She knew no one in the United Arab Emirates, and yet she could have sworn she had seen his eyes before, felt that contact, heard that deep, husky voice.
    Calling upon every reserve of willpower within herself, Alex inhaled and exhaled and attempted to start over, diplomatically.
    “Yes, you’re right. This is not the United States. But please, if you will just tell me who you are …”
    He rose and came toward her once more, a dry, grim smile tightening the fullness of his mouth. “That will depend upon who is asking.”
    He stopped right in front of her, and she suddenly found that her throat was terribly dry and her lips were desert parched. That faint aroma of sandalwood and musk and masculinity seemed as overwhelming as his black-clad physique before her. She could feel his breath against her cheek, and she could faintly detect the added scents of mint and Turkish tobacco. She noted vaguely that his large hands were neatly groomed, that the shoulders beneath the black robe were very broad.
    And yet all these were secondary to the feeling of being electrically charged simply by being near him. She had to swallow to attempt to speak, and all the while her eyes were locked with his, and she was keenly, painfully, aware that all that lay between them was a matter of inches and that all that protected her was that misty gauze of silk.
    “Alex,” she managed to choke out. “My name is— Ismi —Alex Randall.” Great, now that she knew he could speak English, she was remembering some basic Arabic. “Dr. Alex Randall.”
    He smiled with a slightly derisive crook of his lip as he cocked a brow mockingly. “Dr. Alex Randall,” he repeated softly. “You are very nervous, Dr. Alex Randall. Come and sit down and drink something. You must be very, very thirsty.”
    Alex nodded jerkily. She was thirsty, agonizingly thirsty. But despite herself, she jumped as his hand came down upon her upper arm. He smiled again, fully aware of her reaction and mocking her for it. She ground down hard on her teeth for control and forced her feet to move as he led her to the crimson divan nearest the central Persian rug.
    “Sit, Dr. Alex Randall.”
    Alex sat uneasily upon the edge of the divan, folding her hands nervously in her lap. Be diplomatic—but forceful, she told herself. “I have told you who I am. Now, please, answer my questions.”
    “Ahh … but you haven’t told me who you are,” he corrected pleasantly. He poured her a little ceramic cup of the rich, thrice-boiled coffee, and she had the feeling that even as he hunched with coordinated agility to perform the little task, he was watching her. “You have given me a name that tells me nothing.”
    Her temper flared again when it shouldn’t have. Alex drank her coffee in a gulp, burning her mouth and adding fuel to the flames of indignation seething within her. “A name is a hell of a lot more than you’ve given me!”
    He still smiled—which, combined with that smoldering jet sizzle in his eyes, was a sure sign of danger. He rose and sat beside her, lifting her damp