Dimitri struggled off the divan, grasping Josef’s arm as a wave of dizziness threatened to buckle his knees. He would meet his fate on his feet.
“We haven’t yet been taken to the dungeon, which means we are still considered guests and not prisoners.”
“Do not be so certain,” Josef muttered. “There are two very large guards on the other side of the doors. It will not be easy to escape.”
“For now I prefer to avoid insulting our host,” he said, a hint of warning in his voice. It would not take long before Josef decided he had wearied of the pasha’s hospitality and took matters into his own hands. “It is quite possible we will be released once I have the opportunity to explain to the pasha why there is a dead Russian in his gutter.”
Josef grunted. “Or he might decide we would make a tasty meal for his pet tiger.”
Dimitri hid his sudden smile, not bothering to correct his servant’s odd belief that Egypt was filled with tigers and lions and any number of other dangerous animals. “Highly doubtful.”
“So you say.”
Dimitri’s hand tightened on Josef’s arm as the doors were pushed open to reveal two slender female servants attired in nearly transparent robes with tiny jewels dangling from their noses. “Patience, Josef.”
SIX HOURS LATER, DIMITRI had managed to forget his decision to behave as a rational, law-abiding gentle man.
It was not that he had been ill-treated. Quite the contrary, in fact.
The females that had led them to the baths had been beautiful and anxious to please. Rather too anxious, he wryly admitted, recalling their shock when he had refused to allow them to wash him with their scented oils. And when they had returned to their room, it was to find a sumptuous feast had been left on trays.
Once he had eaten, Dimitri forced himself to lie back on the pillows and rest. His shoulder was rapidly healing, but it would take some time to regain his strength.
As the hours passed, however, his attempt to calmly await his fate evaporated like wavering mists of a mirage. He might be in luxurious comfort, but he had no assurance that Emma was not in trouble.
She had run into the night alone, traversing the dangerous streets of Cairo with nothing but luck to protect her.
The worry was like an aching thorn in the center of his heart.
Pacing the floor, he at last moved to stand beside the grilled window overlooking the southern enclosure of the citadel, his gaze lingering on the massive green dome of the Hall of Justice. Beyond it was the black-and-yellow marble palace built by An-Nasir Muhammad where the pasha conducted his daily business of ruling his empire.
Surely the pasha had to be near? How difficult could it be to send for him and demand an explanation for the death of Valik?
With a muttered curse he turned on his heel to glare at Josef, who was busy with his own pacing.
“Where the hell is the pasha?” he burst out.
Josef flashed him a jaundiced frown. “You were the one to counsel patience.”
“I need to know that Emma is safe.”
“Do not worry, Dimitri Tipova,” a voice drawled from the door. “Emma is under my protection.”
Dimitri jerked his head to view Caliph Rajih strolling across the delicate carpet. His gaze skimmed over the man’s white robe heavily embroidered with gold trim and the matching turban, a scowl marring his brow as he lingered on the curved sword belted to his waist.
It was more than an ornamental weapon. That was obvious from the well-honed edge and worn leather of the hilt. There was also an ease in the manner Rajih wore the sword that suggested he was familiar with using the lethal tool.
Dimitri, on the other hand, had awoken to discover his pistol and knives had been taken while he slept. And even the dagger that Josef had used to cut the bullet from his shoulder had disappeared.
He did not like feeling vulnerable.
Or perhaps it was the smug smile curving the man’s lips that he did not like.
All he knew was that he had a sudden urge to wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat and squeeze the life from him.
“Where is she?” he snapped.
“She is visiting the pasha’s seraglio.”