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up much of a fight as she was lifted against his chest.
    He was warm, hard and so solid. She felt safe for the first time in years.
Safe.
    And yet it was an illusion. Now, more than ever, she needed to guard herself against emotion. Because she was emotionally raw right now, vulnerable.
    She felt so much.
Too much.
    She could feel his heart beating strong beneath the palm she’d rested on his chest, could smell the delicious spicy male scent of him. He carried her toward the back of the plane and into a room that contained a double-size bed. The sheets were folded down already, and the lights were dim. Heaven for her throbbing head.
    He set her on the bed and she lay back, uncaring that she wore jeans. Adan slipped her shoes from her feet and then pulled the blanket over her. She closed her eyes, unable to watch him as he cared for her.
    Because he didn’t
really
care for her, did he?
    “Sleep, Isabella,” he said.
    “Adan,” she said when he was at the door.
    “Yes?”
    She swallowed. Her throat hurt from crying. “I’m sorry.”
    He merely inclined his head before pulling the door shut with a sharp click.
    Adan didn’t sleep well. He kept tossing and turning, kicking off the covers, pulling them back again. In the next cabin, he imagined Isabella huddled beneath the blankets and sleeping soundly.
    He had to admit, when she’d walked out of the bathroom earlier with her face scrubbed clean, he’d been gutted by her expression. She’d been crying, he could tell that right away. Her skin had been pink from the hot water she must have used, but her nose was redderand her eyes were bloodshot. She looked as though she’d been through hell.
    And maybe she had. She’d seemed so stunned as she’d absorbed the news about their marriage, about Rafiq. About her
death.
    Adan pressed his closed fist to his forehead. He had no room for sympathy for her. He had to do what he’d come here to do. His country depended on it. His son depended on it.
    He would not risk Rafiq’s happiness. Isabella was his mother, but what kind of mother was she? She’d abandoned her baby. Even if she truly didn’t remember doing it, she had. And she’d been in possession of all her faculties at the time. What had happened after, he did not know, but she’d chosen to leave.
    Whether she’d truly walked into the desert or whether it was a fiction she’d cooked up to cover her tracks, he wasn’t certain. But whatever the truth, her father had helped her.
    He would deal with Hassan Maro soon enough.
    Right now, he had to deal with Isabella.
    Adan threw back the covers. There was no sense in lying here any longer when he could get some work done instead. After he’d showered and shaved, he dressed in a white
dishdasha
and the traditional dark red
keffiyeh
of Jahfar.
    A new shift of flight attendants was busily preparing breakfast in the galley. When they saw him, all activity immediately stopped as they dipped into deep curtsies and bows. He was still getting used to it, really. As a prince, he’d received obeisance, but not to the level he now did as a king. It was disconcerting sometimes. He was impatient, wanted to cut right to the matter, buthe realized—thanks to Mahmoud’s tutelage—that the forms were still important to people. It set him apart, and there were still those in Jahfar who very much appreciated the traditions of their ancient nation.
    “Would you like coffee, Your Excellency?” a young man asked.
    “Yes, thank you,” Adan replied. “Bring it to my office.”
    He went into the large space and sat down behind the big wooden desk. His computer fired up instantly, and he checked email. Then he brought up a window and typed in a search phrase:
selective amnesia.
    The coffee arrived, and Adan drank it while he read about dissociative amnesia, systematized amnesia and a host of other disorders. It was possible, though rare, for someone to forget a specific person and all the events surrounding that person. Did Isabella