Captive by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

palms.
    Alex had one distinct and horrible thought as she tried to make her legs obey her brain, as she tried to move forward. She wasn’t merely jet-lagged, oh no—she had caught a foreign virus—a virus that was now paralyzing her—a virus that might even kill her.
    She tried to cry out. Her mouth refused to open, or if it did, no sound came out. She wanted to throw the lamp away, but could not lift her arms. Her palms burned badly, on fire. And the night spun crazily around her.
    Alex suddenly felt herself being sucked down into a wildly spinning vortex—being sucked down into a cyclone.
    Alex became aware of several things at once. The sun was beating down on her face, and she was lying supine, the ground stony, hard and hurtful beneath her back. Her head throbbed; she was nauseated.
    Alex forced her eyes open only to be blinded by the glaring sun. She closed them quickly, pain stabbing all the way through her temples.
    What had happened? Where was she?
    Alex opened her eyes again and stared up at the bright white stone wall of a house. Her gaze took in the orange tiled roof, the single open window below it, which was missing a windowpane, and a closed, arched doorway. Inside that house someone was cooking something very spicy and aromatic. Alex smelled roasting lamb. And then she heard soft female voices chatting merrily in Arabic. Peals of laughter pierced the animated conversation.
    Alex levered herself up into a sitting position, glancing around. Hammers were pounding inside of her head. She did not recognize the narrow dirt street where she had been lying, or any of the clustered homes. But then she saw the blue oil lamp not far from her sandaled feet.
    Good God, what had happened? Alex remembered the shop and Joseph and the lamp. She remembered hearing Blackwell’s voice. But she had no recollection of arriving at this small dirt street. Had she walked here? Had she fainted? But it appeared to be midday—had she been unconscious all night? And where was she? She was not in the souk whereshe had bought the lamp. Alex was quite certain of that. She was in a very shabby residential neighborhood. A very old-fashioned neighborhood. There was a well beside the house, a bucket attached to a rope providing proof that the well was actually used.
    Something soft and warm touched Alex’s back.
    Alex cried out, scrambling to her feet so quickly that dizziness assailed her. She whirled, only to face a doe-eyed donkey.
    The small donkey blew softly, then lowered its head and began to sniff Alex’s backpack. Alex laughed in relief.
    Then she snatched her Coach backpack away from the animal, gathering up the lamp as well. It no longer burned her hands. Her nausea had disappeared, and she realized that she was famished and desperately thirsty. She fished a piece of Trident gum out of her backpack, tucked the oil lamp inside for safekeeping, and glanced around, wondering where the hell her hotel was. She could not see the harbor from where she stood. She was lost.
    Alex hesitated only a moment, then marched over to the door of the small, single-story stone house where the women were still chattering away. The house was a brilliant, sparkling shade of white. To the left of her head, clothes were hanging out of the single window to dry. She knocked on the painted door.
    It was opened almost immediately by a heavily veiled woman. She was wrapped in so many layers of clothing that it was impossible to tell either her age or her size. And if her clothing had not indicated her sex, Alex would not have been able to surmise that, either. Only her eyes were clearly visible.
    Alex smiled and spoke in French.
“Bonjour. S’il
vous plaît, pouvez-vous m’aider?”
    The woman’s eyes widened as she took in Alex’s appearance, and a moment later she slammed the door in Alex’s face.
    Uneasy, Alex backed away. What had she done?
    Alex glanced down at her wrinkled and stained white suit. It was torn, too. Well, she would just have to