Captive by Brenda Joyce

tucked up under her, shaking. The old man had shut the door and bolted it. He was pouring tea.
    She was on the verge of tears. She could hardly comprehend what had just happened. Alex took off her black patent sandals and began rubbing her feet, trying to ward off the tears. As soon as she returned to her hotel she would call Joseph, she decided. Maybe she would tell him everything, the entire truth about why she had come to Tripoli. She had the strangest certainty that he would not be shocked.
    But who were those men? Why had they been dressed likenineteenth-century Turkish soldiers? Had they been in costume for some event or parade, or perhaps they were attendants at some historical sight? They had appeared so genuine; soldiers from another era.
    The old man approached, his numerous robes flowing about him, handing her a steaming cup of tea. He murmured to her in Arabic, his tone low and soothing.
    Alex accepted the delicate cup gratefully and took a sip. It was sweet and delicious. “Shukran,” she said huskily. “Merci beaucoup. I don’t speak your language, I’m sorry.”
    He smiled at her. He had kind brown eyes set in a very weathered face.
    “I need to use your telephone,” Alex said, glancing around the room. She did not see a phone. In fact, the old man lived in very primitive conditions. When Alex had barged in, he had been cooking in an iron pot over an open fire in the room’s hearth. He had no stove, no refrigerator, and Alex saw no running water. But she already knew that much of the Middle East lived in conditions far less comfortable than those of the Western world.
    “I have to call someone.” She shivered. She had no doubt that those men had wanted to rape her. Why hadn’t she gotten Joseph’s telephone number from him? She hadn’t even taken a receipt for the purchase of the lamp.
    The old man murmured soothingly.
    Alex sipped the tea, exhaustion seeping through every pore and fiber of her being, even though she had been passed out all night long. But she did not want to fall asleep. She wanted to return to her hotel. She wanted to speak to Joseph. He would be comforting, reassuring, she knew. And she wanted to find Blackwell’s ghost again.
    “Have you heard of the Hotel Bab-el-Medina?” she whispered, her voice sounding strange and distant, even to her own ears.
    He watched her, unsmiling.
    She forced her eyes to remain open. But her lids would not obey her mind, and they closed resolutely.
    Her last thought before unconsciousness claimed her again was that this time she had been drugged.
    Alex awoke and screamed.
    The man looming over her was at least six foot four and black. He straightened, the huge muscles in his bare arms rippling, and backed off a step. That was when Alex noticed the gold collar on his broad, sinewed neck.
    Her second scream died without ever being emitted.
    She was lying on her back on a couch. Not a Western couch, but a Middle Eastern version, meaning it had no back or arms and sides. Numerous square pillows had been propped behind her, and Alex crushed her spine into them.
    And then, through the archway, Alex glimpsed another man approaching. Her heart accelerated. He was short and dark, and he was dressed in flowing robes and loose trousers, but he was clearly European. His face was sharp featured and aquiline. He entered the room and smiled at Alex. His eyes were blue and ice-cold.
    “I am so pleased that you are awake, mademoiselle,” he said in accented English.
    Alex stood up. She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Who are you? Why am I here? What do you want?” Was he her captor? Had she been kidnapped? Was she about to become a victim of white slavery?
    “My name is Gaston Rigaux,” he said pleasantly. “Are you English?”
    Alex crossed her arms. “I am … French. I demand you release me immediately. As a French citizen, I have rights, inalienable rights—and you have violated each and every one of them!”
    “Hmm. I would have sworn that you