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THE room was cool, quiet, the light filtering softly through rich, coloured glass; lapis blue and emerald, with tiny pieces of jewel bright red that gave Lucy the impression of lying in some undersea grotto. A grotto in which the bed was soft and enfolding.

A dream then.

Lucy drifted away, back into the dark and the next time she woke the light was brighter, but the colours were still there and although she found it difficult to open her eyes more than a crack, she could see that it was streaming through an intricately pieced stained glass window, throwing spangles of colour over the white sheets.

It was beautiful but strange and, uneasy, she tried to sit up, look around.

If the tiny explosions of pain from every part of her body were not sufficiently convincing, the hand at her shoulder, a low voice that was becoming a familiar backdrop to these moments of consciousness assured her that she was awake.

'Be still, Lucy Forrester. You're safe.'

Safe? What had happened? Where was she? Lucy struggled to look up at the tall figure leaning over her. A surgical collar restricted her movement and one eye still refused to open more than a crack, but she did not need two good eyes to know who he was.

Knife in his hand, he'd told her to be still before. She swallowed. Her throat, mouth were as dry as dust.

'You remember?' he asked. 'The accident?'

'I remember you,' she said. Even without the keffiyeh wound about his face she knew the dark fierce eyes, chiselled cheekbones, the hawkish, autocratic nose that had figured so vividly in her dreams.

Now she could see that his hair was long, thick, tied back at the nape with a dark cord, that only his voice was soft. But the savage she'd glimpsed before she'd passed out appeared to be under control.

But she knew, with every part of her that was female, vulnerable, that the man who'd washed her as she lay bloody and dusty on a hospital couch, was far more dangerous.

'You are Hanif al-Khatib,' she said. 'You saved my life and took me from the hospital.'

'You are feeling rested?'

'You don't want to know how I'm feeling. Where am I?'

Her voice was cracked, dry and he poured water in a glass then, supporting her up with his arm, held the glass to lips that appeared to have grown to twice their size. Some water made it into her mouth as she gulped at it. The rest dribbled down her chin, inside the collar.

He tugged on the bow holding it in place and removed it, then dried her face, her neck with a soft hand towel.

'Should you have done that?' she asked, nervously, reaching for her throat.

'Speaking from experience, I can tell you that the collar doesn't do much good, but the doctor advised keeping it in place until you were fully awake.'

'Experience? You crash cars that often?'

'Not cars. Horses.' He gave a little shrug. 'Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they crashed me. Polo makes great demands on both horse and rider.'

'At least the rider has the choice.' Then, 'Where am I? Who are you?' His name and "safe", told her nothing.

'When I lived in England,' he said, 'my friends called me Han.'

Her brain felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool, but she was alert enough to understand that he'd said that to reassure her that he was civilised. Understood western expectations of behaviour. And why would he do that unless she had reason to be nervous?

'What do your enemies call you?' she snapped back, pain, anxiety, making her sharp. She regretted the words before they were out of her mouth; whatever else he was, this man had saved her from a terrible death. But it was too late to call them back.

His face, his voice, expressionless, he replied, 'I am Hanif bin Jamal bin Khatib al-Khatib. And my enemies, if they are wise, do not speak it above a whisper.'

Her already dry mouth became drier and she shook her head, as if to distance herself from what she'd said. Gave an involuntarily squeak of pain.

'The doctor prescribed painkillers if you need them,' he said, distantly.

'No,' she said. 'Thank you.' She was finding it hard enough to think clearly as it was and she needed all her wits about her. Needed answers. 'You told me your name before,' she said. Only this time there was more of it. Steve had explained about the long strings of names and she knew that if she could decipher it, she would know his history. 'Bin means "son of"?'

He bowed slightly.

'You are Hanif son of Jamal son of...'

'Khatib.'

'Son of Khatib, of the house of Khatib.' The name sounded familiar. Had Steve mentioned it? 'And this is your home?'

Stupid question. Not even the finest private room in the fanciest hospital had ever looked like this. The carved screens, folded back from the window, the flowered frieze, each petal made from polished semi-precious stone, furniture of a richness that would have looked more at home in a palace...

'You are my guest, Miss Forrester. You will be more comfortable here than in the hospital. Unless you have friends in Ras al-Hamra with whom you would rather stay? Someone I could contact for you?' he continued. 'We tried calling your home in England -'

'You did?'

'Unfortunately there was no reply. You are welcome to call yourself.' He indicated a telephone on the night table.

'No.' Then, because that had been too abrupt, 'There's no one there.' No one anywhere. 'I live alone now. I'm sorry to be so much trouble,' she said, subsiding into the pillows, but not before she'd seen the state of her arms. The cuts had been stuck together, the grazes cleaned, but the effect was not pretty.

'Don't distress yourself. They'll heal very quickly. A week or two and they'll be fine.' Then, 'Are you hungry?'

'I don't want to put you to any more trouble,' she said. 'If I could just get dressed, impose on you to call me a taxi.'

'A taxi?' He frowned. 'Why would you need a taxi?'

'To take me to the airport.'

'I really would not advise it. You should take a day or two to recover --'

'I can't stay here.'

'- and it will undoubtedly take that long to replace your passport, your ticket. I'm sorry to have to tell you that everything that you were carrying with you, was destroyed in the crash.'

'Destroyed?' Without warning she caught a whiff of petrol amongst the mingled scents of sweat, dust, disinfectant that clung to her. 'They were burned?' And she shivered despite her best effort not to think about how close she had come to being part of the conflagration. 'I have to see someone about that,' she said, sitting up too quickly and nearly passing out as everything spun around her.

'Please, leave it to my aide. He will handle everything,' he assured her. 'They will be ready, in sha'Allah, by the time you're fit to travel.'

'Why are you doing this?' she demanded. 'Why are you being so kind to me?'

He seemed surprised. 'You are a stranger. You need help. I was chosen.'

Chosen?

She put the oddity of the expression down to the difference in cultures and let it go, contenting herself with, 'You pulled me out the car wreck. For most people that would have been enough.' Then, realising how ungrateful that must have sounded, 'I know that I owe you my life.'

That provoked another bow. 'Mash'Allah. It is in safe hands.'

For heaven's sake! Enough with the bowing...

'I'm in no one's hands but my own,' she snapped back.

She might owe him her life, but she'd learned the hard way not to rely on anyone. Not even those she'd had a right to be able to trust. As for the rest...

'We are in all in God's hands,' he replied, without taking offence, no doubt making allowances for her injuries, shock, the fact that sedatives tended to remove the inhibitions. Her grandmother hadn't held back when she'd finally surrendered to the need for pain relief. A lifetime of resentment and anger had found voice in those last weeks...

'I'm sorry,' she said, carefully. 'You're being extremely kind. I must seem less than grateful.'

'No one is at their best when they've been through the kind of experience you've endured,' he said, gravely.

This masterly, if unintentional, understatement earned him a wry smile. At least it was a smile on the inside, how it came out through the swellings and bruises was anyone's guess.

'You need to eat, build up your strength.'

She began to shake her head and he moved swiftly to stop her. 'It would be better if you did not do that,' he cautioned, his hand resting lightly against her cheek. 'At least for a day or two.'

She jumped at his unexpected touch and he immediately removed his hand.

'What can I offer you?'

What she wanted most of all was more water, but not if it meant spilling half of it down herself like a drooling idiot.

Maybe she'd said her thoughts out loud, or maybe he'd seen the need in her eyes as she'd looked at the glass, because he picked it up, then sat on the edge of the bed, offering his arm as a prop, but not actually touching her. Leaving the decision to her.

'I can manage,' she assured him, using her elbows to try and push herself up. One of them buckled beneath her and all over her body a shocking kaleidoscope of pain jangled her nerves. Before she fell back, he had his shoulder, his chest behind her, his arm about her in support, taking all her weight so that her aching muscles didn't have to work to keep her upright.

'Take your time,' he said, holding the glass to her lips as taking careful sips this time. Raising her hand to steady it, she concentrated on the glass, avoiding eye contact, unused to such closeness, such intimacy. He did not rush her, but showed infinite patience as she slaked what seemed an insatiable thirst. 'Enough?' he asked, when she finally pulled back.

She nearly nodded, but remembered in time and instead glanced up. For a moment their gaze connected, locked and Lucy had the uncomfortable feeling that Hanif bin Jamal bin Khatib al-Khatib could see to the bottom of her soul.

Not a pretty sight.

Hanif held the glass to Lucy's lips for a moment longer, then easing her back onto the pillow, turned away, stood up. Her body had seemed feather light, as insubstantial as gossamer, yet the weight of it had jarred loose memories that he'd buried deep. Memories of holding another woman in just that way.

Memories of her dark eyes begging him to let her go.

From the moment he'd cut Lucy Forrester free of the wreck she'd been attacking his senses, ripping away the layers of scar tissue he'd built up as a wall between himself and memory.

She smelt of dust, the hospital, but beneath it all her body had a soft, warm female scent of its own. He'd blocked it out while he'd held her safe on his horse, cradled her as she'd whimpered with pain, drifting in and out of consciousness in the helicopter, other, more urgent concerns taking precedent. But now, emergency over, he could no longer ignore the way it filled his head. Familiar, yet different.

He could not tell if it was the familiar or the different that bothered him more; it did not matter. But he clung to the glass if it was the only thing anchoring him to earth as he took a deep, steadying breath.

He was no stranger to the sick room, but this was more difficult than he'd imagined. Dredging up the poignant, painful memories he'd worked so hard to obliterate from his mind.

And it was true. Noor had been dark-eyed, golden-skinned, sweet as honey. The unsuspected, unbreakable core of steel that had taken her from him had lain well hidden within that tender wrapping.

Lucy Forrester was nothing like her.

The difference in their colouring was the least of it. His wife had been strong, steady, a rock in a disintegrating world but this woman was edgy, defensive, troubled and he sensed that she needed him in a way that Noor never had.

The glass rattled on the table as he turned back to her. 'I'm sure you would enjoy some tea,' he said. 'Something light to eat?'

'Actually, right now, all I want is the bathroom. A shower. To wash my hair.'

Lucy Forrester shuffled herself slowly up against the pillows, obviously finding it

painful to put weight on her bruised elbows, but determined to have her way.

He knew how she felt. He'd taken hard falls back in the youthful, carefree days when he'd thought himself indestructible. Chafed through weeks laid up with a broken leg.

'That's a little ambitious for your first outing,' he suggested. 'Maybe if I brought a bowl of water, you could --'

'I'm not a invalid. I've just got a few bumps and bruises,' she said, then let out an involuntary cry as she jerked her shoulder.

'That hurt?' he enquired, with an edge to his voice he barely recognised. Annoyed with her for being so obstinate.

'No,' she snapped. 'I always whimper when I move.' Then, 'Look, I know you're just trying to help, but if you'll point me in the direction of the bathroom I can manage. Or did you want to come along and finish what you started in the hospital?'

'I apologise that there are no women in my household to help you. If you think you can manage -'

'Too right, I can. I'll bet you wouldn't allow your wife to be washed by some strange man, would you? Probably not even a male nurse.'

There were men he knew, members of his family even, who would not allow their wives to be examined by a male doctor, let alone be touched by a male nurse. He had long since passed that kind of foolishness.

'I would willingly have let my wife be cared for by a Martian if I'd thought it would have helped her,' he said.

Would have? Past tense?

Oh, no, Lucy thought, she wasn't going there...

'Look, I know you're just trying to help and I'm grateful, but I'll be fine once I'm on my feet.'

He looked doubtful.

'Honestly! Besides, it's not just a wash I need and I'm telling you now, you can forget any ideas you have about me using a bedpan.'

'You are a headstrong woman, Lucy Forrester,' he said. 'If you fall, hurt yourself, you may end up back in the hospital.'

'If that happens, you have my full permission to say I-told-you-so.'

'Very well.' He glanced around as if looking for something, said, 'One moment.' And with that he swept from the room, dark robes flowing, the total autocrat.

Oh, right. Like she was planning to hang around so that he could enjoy the spectacle of her backside hanging out of the hospital gown.

Sending encouraging little you-can-do-it messages to her limbs, she pushed the sheet down as far as she could reach. Actually it wasn't that far and taking a moment to catch her breath, she had to admit that she might have been a bit hasty.

Ironic. All her life she'd been biting her tongue, keeping the peace, not doing anything to cause a fuss, but the minute she was left to her own devices she'd done what her grandmother had always warned her about and turned into her mother.

Impulsive, impetuous and in trouble...

From the book THE SHEIKH'S GUARDED HEART by Liz Fielding
ISBN0263849236 [UK]
ISBN0373038933 [US]
Imprint:Romance TM & Harlequin Romance (R)
(R) & TM are trademarks of the publisher