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of dogs that would turn vicious if they sensed terror. “I carry letters of introduction from the shah and several honored mullahs, and am worth more alive than dead.”
    “I should think you would be worth a great deal, monsieur.” Guli Sarahi began pacing around Ross with catlike grace. Abruptly he said, “Take off your coat and shirt.”
    There could be several possible reasons for such a request, and all of them made Ross uneasy. He considered refusing, but decided that would be foolish; though he was the largest man in the room, he was outnumbered six to one and his captors would probably be very rough about enforcing their leader’s orders.
    Feeling like a slave being forced to strip in front of a potential buyer, he peeled off his battered garments and dropped them on the floor. There was a murmur of interest from the watchers as Ross bared his torso. He was unsure whether they were impressed by the pallor of his English skin, the flamboyant bruises and lacerations he had acquired earlier, or the vicious scars left by a bullet that had almost killed him a year and a half earlier. Probably all three.
    Guli Sarahi stopped in front of Ross, posture intent. Once again Ross cursed the tagelmoust, which made it impossible to interpret his captor’s expression.
    With delicate precision the Targui used the handle of his riding whip to trace around the ugly, puckered scar left where the bullet exited. That mark and the entrance wound on Ross’s back had faded over time, but they were still dramatic. Then Guli Sarahi skimmed the handle over the bruised and abraded areas on his captive’s chest and arms. There was an odd gentleness about the gesture that Ross found more disquieting than brutality would have been.
    Softly the veiled man circled behind Ross and touched the other scar. As the swinging leather thong brushed Ross’s ribs, he felt his skin crawl with distaste. Given the strange undercurrents of the situation, he did not know whether to expect a caress or a sudden slash of the whip; either seemed equally possible, and equally distasteful.
    Lightly he said, “Sorry about the scars—they might lower my value a bit if you decide to sell me.”
    Sharply Guli Sarahi said, “To the right buyer you would still be worth a pretty penny, ferengi.”
    Ross went rigid with shock. In his irritation, the Targui had abandoned whispering for a normal speaking level, and the husky voice was hauntingly familiar. Familiar, and more stunning that anything else that had happened today.
    Telling himself that what he imagined was impossible, Ross spun around and stared at his captor. The height was about right, as were the light build and supple, gliding movements. He tried to see the shadowed eyes through the slit in the tagelmoust. Were they black, like the eyes of most Tuareg, or a changeable gray that could shift from clear quartz to smoke?
    Mockingly Guli Sarahi said, “What is wrong, ferengi—have you seen a ghost?”
    This time the voice was unmistakable. With a surge of the greatest fury he had known in a dozen years, Ross recklessly stepped forward and seized the edge of the veil, just below the eyes, then ripped downward, exposing Guli Sarahi’s face.
    The impossible was true. His captor was no Targui, but his long-lost betraying wife, Juliet.
CHAPTER 3
    Juliet did not flinch, merely regarded him with cool, guarded eyes. Her blazing red hair had been pulled casually into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck and she looked as sleek and lovely as a finely tempered blade. Raising her brows, she said in English, “Since you are in my fortress, surrounded by my men, don’t you think that showing a little more caution might be the better part of wisdom, Ross?”
    He was too furious to care what happened to him. Dropping his hand from the tagelmoust, he snapped, “Go ahead and do your damnedest, Juliet. You always did.”
    Her brows drew together. Then, raising her gaze to her men, she made a quick gesture and they left