Page 50 of Veiled Fantasies

The other man uttered a sharp word as he stepped up with a key, glaring at the Armenian. Jill swelled with desperate hope, but that was dashed when she was simply unlocked, thrust into a dim bathroom, re-shackled to the pipes under the sink, and left with bone-chilling words.

“I’ll be back for you soon.”

The door slammed. An actual door, this time, instead of just a curtain. The better to muffle her screams when he came back for her later?

She slumped on the tile floor, so cramped with fear that the sobs heaving inside her chest couldn’t escape. Horrifying images ran through her mind. The Armenian would come back. He would force her. She was helpless to fight back.

She would never get home. She would never see Erik again. She would be raped and murdered and no one would ever know.

Raped. Murdered.

No one would ever know.

* * *

Erik paced the lobby, then sat down. Seconds later, he shot up again, moving just for the sake of movement. Where was she?

She was in the scent of the flowers coloring the lobby and in the sound of laughter floating down the hall. The imprint of her body still tingled in his arms, warm and comforting. Home.

He wanted her like he hadn’t wanted anything in a long time. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to see her smile, watch her eyes spark. He wanted her back. Desperately.

Fate gave, it took away.

Or maybe the other way around. It took away, and it gave. There was good with the bad. Like the volcano that rained ashes, then sent her like a breath of fresh air.

Fate was never dormant, he knew that. There’d be more bad in the future, but she’d reminded him there was good, too. There were opportunities, not just setbacks. And wouldn’t it be easier to face the bad with someone who really cared? Someone like Jill?

Not just someone. Jill. Period.

Where the hell was she?

He sat down again, crossed and uncrossed his legs, picked up a tattered newspaper. His eyes scanned the print but only registered a black and white blur. The newspaper rustled in his hands, trying to telegraph words. He tossed it down with a sharp slap.

That did it—that slap, catching his attention. He glanced down at the front page. There, a box on the lower right. The story headline slowly registered in his mind.Arms dealer escapes custody.

He snapped up the paper and read with a growing sense of foreboding. He read it three times, then slowly lowered the paper and looked around.

Don’t be ridiculous.

Don’t be paranoid.

Don’t imagine things.

But seven hours, going on eight? He checked his watch. He checked the paper again. The morning edition. The news was nearly a day old. Where was the arms dealer now?

A knot formed in his stomach, and the sickening feeling spread through his core. The same dark feeling that had crept in just before that crushing phone call. The one about Martin.

Where was she?

The newspaper article included a police hotline. He approached the lobby courtesy phones three times but retreated twice before he finally picked one up and dialed.

“Hello, I want to report—” he started, only to be cut off by a recorded message. There was no one manning the hotline. He cursed and slammed the phone, sending a passing guest scuttling away.

He went back to pacing the lobby. Dubai was a big city. The chances of Jill running into that criminal were small.

But maybe not small enough.

A cheerful couple strolled past, hand in hand, oblivious of everything but each other. The woman carried a copy of the same slim guidebook that Jill had come to refer to as her Koran.

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