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them.”
    “So your personal guards are the ones in the red turbans, with the different knives?”
    “Kukri knives. In times past it was said that once a Gurkha drew a kukri in battle, it had to taste blood, or its owner had to cut himself before returning the blade to its sheath.”
    His warning was implicit—don’t mess with my guards.
    “And…these men are not worried about you being in here with me, alone?”
    His voice lowered, dangerous. Sensual. “Should they be?”
    The walls of the great hall suddenly felt too close. Her breathing quickened. “What…what about Omair?” she said, her voice thick. “Why not protect him?”
    Zakir smiled again—not the arrogant flash that had lit his eyes and twisted her hormones into a hot soup earlier, but a warm smile that sneaked the softness of affection into his dark eyes. “Omair is the black sheep prince of our family. He’s disappeared somewhere into the South American jungles. I’ve been unable to make contact with him. I doubt our enemies will find him, either. Not unless he chooses to be found. And then I’d worry—not for him, but the enemy.”
    Nikki detected genuine fondness, and frustration—a sense of family. She could relate. Family was everything toNikki. It was everything that had been taken from her that Christmas Eve. “What does Omair do for a living that he’s in the jungle?” She paused. “Presuming he actually needs to make a living.”
    Zakir grinned and shrugged. “No one really knows.”
    Nikki sensed Zakir knew exactly what Omair did. Intrigue curled into her. She returned her attention to the portrait, her gaze sliding down to a more recent photograph of Tariq on the table beneath it. She bent forward suddenly, gripped by raw reflex as it hit her. She knew him!
    Her eyes shot up to the painting, then back to the photograph. Blood began to pound in her ears.
    She’d met Tariq. In her past life, at a medical convention in D.C. nine years ago, where she’d been a guest speaker, where he’d asked her questions about a very rare genetic ocular disorder. Irrational panic whipped through Nikki as thoughts of Sam crowded in on her.
    Her mouth went dry, and she didn’t dare turn around for fear of what her face might reveal to Zakir.
    He came closer. Behind her. Sensing something. She could feel his height, his warmth. Her skin began to tingle. Fear. She couldn’t breathe.
    “That photo of Tariq was taken in Washington, D.C., about eight or nine years ago. Tariq is now a well-known neurosurgeon and geneticist. My father was very proud of him.”
    Nikki started to shake inside.
    She couldn’t look at Zakir. Something, she had to say something. “Very…interesting.” But she choked on the words.
    He touched her gently on her shoulder and she jumped. “Nikki, are you all right?”
    Her hand shot to her chest. “I…I just need air. I’m tired.I need to get some sleep.” She started to move toward the door.
    But he slid his hand down her arm, grasped her wrist. Gentle but firm, brooking no argument. “You are not going anywhere, Nikki. Please understand this. You are not free to leave. Now sit, have something to eat, have some wine.”
    “I already told you, I don’t drink. Now please, let go of me!”
    Little did he know she’d kill for a mind-numbing shot of vodka right now. But alcohol had almost killed her after the twins’ deaths. At times she’d wished it had.
    The only thing that had saved Nikki from taking her own life seven years ago had been finding Mercy Missions and a purpose in Africa. Where she could save other people’s lost children after failing her own.
    Zakir released her arm slowly, his gaze shifting inquiringly between Nikki and the photograph that had apparently spooked her. His features turned hard, suspicious. “Do you know Tariq, Nikki? You’re originally from D.C., and you work in the medical profession. Perhaps you have met him?”
    She felt her face grow hotter. “No, I have not. I…I was just