Royal and Ruthless

Keeping her gaze defiantly on the view outside, she was about to observe tartly that as he knew all about her there was no need for further conversation, when she realised she couldn’t be rude to a man who’d gone out of his way to be kind to her after the accident. Also, he was going to be her host for a few days.

She searched for something innocuous to say and finally came up with a subject. ‘I went diving the day I arrived. The reef fishes are absolutely gorgeous—like living jewels.’

‘You are interested in jewels?’ he commented dispassionately.

Perhaps that was the way everyone referred to the fish here and he found it trite. Well, she didn’t care.

Of course, Moraze was famous for the rare and exquisite—and extremely valuable—fire-diamonds found in gravel beds washed down from the mountains. Perhaps he thought she was hinting; no, how could he?

‘Most people are. Off Northland’s east coast we have a very interesting mix of sea life. A warm current sweeps south from the tropics, and we get a mixture of tropical and temperate fauna.’

OK, so she sounded like something out of a textbook, and was probably boring him to bits. It served him right. If he’d taken her to the hotel, instead of conspiring with the doctor behind her back, he’d have been rid of her by now.

‘It sounds most intriguing,’ he said smoothly, returning the waves of a small group of children walking down the road.

A few metres further on he turned into a drive and the big car passed between gates that had slid back silently at the press of an unknown button. Lexie looked around for a sentry box, but clearly security nowadays was much more technical and far less conspicuous. Ahead, the drive began to climb steeply through a tangle of greenery.

‘We’re almost there,’ Rafiq told her.

He lived in a castle. Perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the lagoon, it frowned down over a scene as beautiful as it was deserted.

Lexie drew a sharp breath. ‘I don’t know much about the architecture of castles, but that looks like something out of the Middle East.’

‘It’s a mixture of Oriental and European styles.’

The car eased to a halt outside a huge set of what appeared to be bronze doors, sculpted and ornate, with a grid of iron spikes poised above to grind down in case of an attack. Rafiq switched off the engine.

In the silence the sound of the waves on the reef echoed in Lexie’s ears. A manservant came swiftly out through a side door and went to the boot of the car, and one of the big bronze doors swung slowly open.

Rafiq looked at her, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing as he scanned her face. ‘Moraze was known to Arab sailors, but because it wasn’t on their trade routes and had nothing they wanted they rarely came this way. The first settlers were led by a distant ancestor of mine, a French nobleman who had the temerity to conduct an affair with his monarch’s much-prized mistress. Nowhere in Europe was safe, so he travelled farther afield, and eventually found refuge here with a somewhat motley crew of adventurers and sailors and their women.’

Fascinated, Lexie said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought the King of France’s mandate stretched this far.’

He smiled, and the skin at the back of her neck tightened, lifting the tiny hairs there. For a second she thought she saw his ancestor, proud and gallant and tough as he shepherded that motley crew to Moraze.

Rafiq told her, ‘By then it wasn’t the French king he was concerned about. On his travels my forebear stole an Arabian sheikh’s most precious jewel—his daughter—and as she was more than happy to be stolen they needed a refuge they could defend.’

‘When did all this happen?’

‘Several hundred years ago.’

Fascinated, she asked, ‘What happened to the French king’s mistress?’

He looked surprised. ‘I believe she was married off to some elderly duke. Why?’

‘I just wondered,’ she said. ‘I hope she liked that elderly duke.’

‘I don’t think anyone ever enquired,’ he told her dryly.

As though bored by the discussion, he got out and came around to open her door. With the same automatic courtesy he took her arm as they went up the steps and through the door into a vast, tiled hall. She’d expected grim stone inside, but the far end of the hall was high glass doors that opened out onto a terrace bordered by shrubs and trees.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ Lexie stopped without thinking.

Rafiq said smoothly, ‘I’m glad you like it. Let me show you up to your room.’

The staircase was wide and shallow, but by the time she reached the top her ribs were letting Lexie know they’d had a difficult time recently, and the tide of anticipation had receded, leaving her flat and exhausted. Exasperated by her weakness, she had to force her legs to take the final few steps.

He left her with a maid at the door. ‘Your clothes have been brought here from the hotel. Cari will show you where everything is,’ he said, and that hard green gaze rested for several charged seconds on her face. ‘You look a little pale; I suggest a rest, perhaps even a nap, then some refreshments when you are ready for them.’

Her room turned out to be more like a suite—something from an Arabian Nights tale of love lost and won, she thought, gazing at the huge bed covered in sleek silk, its sensuously curved headboard picked out in gilding. Translucent curtains softened the light from the sea, and the silk Chinese rug was in restful shades of blue, green and cream that echoed the colours of the ocean without competing with them.

And everywhere—in the window recesses, on the exquisitely carved desk, in a massive urn on the floor—were flowers, mainly white and cream, their scent sweet and seductive on the warm air.

Lexie felt totally out of place in her white jeans and simple tee-shirt. This room looked as though it had been built for a languorous concubine in flowing, transparent robes, a woman with only one aim in life—to please her lord.

That thought tightened something deep inside her. Hot cheeked, she thought with defiance that the room—and the maid—would just have to get used to her downmarket wardrobe. Apart from her flame-coloured silk and a couple of simple dinner dresses, she’d brought only holiday clothes to Moraze.

The maid spoke English reasonably well, and after showing Lexie the dressing room, took her into a splendid marble fantasy of a bathroom dominated by a huge, freestanding bath.

‘Heavens! It’s almost a swimming pool!’ Lexie exclaimed.

Cari laughed, and gestured at a pierced marble screen, almost hidden by pots of lush greenery. ‘Behind there is the shower—very modern,’ she said eagerly. ‘Perhaps you would like one now before your rest?’

‘I would very much, thank you.’

Sighing happily, Lexie stepped into the shower and washed herself, carefully skimming the sore spots. Since her sister had married into the Illyrian aristocracy Lexie had become accustomed to luxury. But Rafiq’s castle, she thought as the water swept away her aches, was something else again, its exotic beauty out of this world.

Just like Moraze.

Rafiq’s story about his ancestors had added to the island’s unusual charm. With herds of elegant wild horses and rare, exquisite fire-diamonds, transcendent beauty and isolation, Moraze was a fairy-tale place, a spellbound island that might disappear overnight into an enchanted mist…

Scoffing at her unusual flight of fancy, Lexie turned off the water and wrapped herself in one of the embroidered towels the maid had placed for her.

A rest would put paid to these feverish fantasies, she thought stoutly, wincing as she rubbed herself down. She inspected her bruises, then shrugged. Because of the seatbelt she’d got off lightly, and she was a fast healer, so the marks would soon be gone.

Yet it wasn’t just her ribs that had had a workout; her heart felt ominously fragile, as though it was under attack.

When she arrived back in the bedroom the maid had drawn back the covers on the bed; smiling, she pointed out a waiting jug of water and a glass. Lexie waited until she’d left the room before climbing gratefully into that enormous, decadent bed.

She slept deeply, without dreams, for almost an hour. Rubbing her eyes, she swung her feet onto the floor and realised she felt hugely better.

‘Almost normal,’ she said with satisfaction, examining her clothes. Carefully hung in the dressing room, they looked rather pathetic. As well as the orange silk dress, Jacoba had insisted on buying her several resort-style outfits, but what on earth did a reluctant guest in a castle wear?

And should she substitute a complete make-up for her usual lip-gloss?

No; she didn’t want to look as though she was trying to attract…well, anyone.

Defiantly ignoring a quickening of her pulse, she chose one of Jacoba’s purchases. The relaxed cotton trousers sat lightly on her hips to emphasise her long legs, and the silk shirt’s subdued pattern repeated the soft camel colour of the trousers. The cosmetics she left at a tinted moisturiser and some lip-gloss.

Before she rang the bell for the maid she walked across to a window and looked out. Sheer stone walls fell away from the windows that opened onto an infinity of sea and sky, framed by the panelled white shutters.

The maid escorted her downstairs again and out onto the long terrace, where Rafiq de Couteveille sat in the shade of a spreading tree that carpeted the flagstones with brilliant purple petals. The sultry scent of gardenias hung heavy and erotic in the lazy air. Lexie’s betraying heartbeat kicked up another gear when her host lifted his impressive height from a chair and inspected her with one of his intent, penetrating surveys. Prickles of awareness shot down her spine.

‘Yes, that’s better,’ he said, and indicated the chair beside him. ‘Are your ribs painful?’

‘Only when I twist,’ she told him, her voice as prosaic as she could make it. She avoided that piercing scrutiny by lowering herself into the chair. ‘How is the driver?’

The sooner she got better, the faster she’d get away from this man. He attracted her in ways that scared her.

Like Jacoba, her half-sister, Rafiq possessed more than superficial good looks. Jacoba’s character illuminated her stunning face, and Rafiq’s formidable authority endowed his aquiline features with strength as well as charisma. It was a potent combination that made Lexie feel very vulnerable.

Rafiq told her, ‘She is at home with her family, recovering fast. She sent her apologies, and her thanks for the flowers you ordered for her.’

‘I’d have liked to see her, but they wouldn’t let me.’

He frowned. ‘The doctor told me you had to rest as much as possible.’

‘I will.’ Carefully steering her thoughts away from the personal, she straightened her shoulders and laboured on with brittle composure. ‘This must be a very old building. Is it where your ancestors originally settled?’

‘No, they built the much grimmer fortress that now overlooks the capital city. This began as a watchtower, one of a chain along the coasts that were always kept manned.’

‘That Arabian princess’s father must have had a long arm,’ she said flippantly.

He shrugged. ‘Moraze has always needed good defences.’

‘I didn’t realise there had been pirates on the Indian Ocean,’ she admitted. ‘I really don’t know much about its history.’

‘Why should you? If you are interested I have books I can lend you, but like most histories it is long and bloody and dominated by force. Through good luck and considerable cunning, my ancestors kept the island safe until eventually the corsairs—and other threats—were either assimilated or crushed.’ He looked up as a maid appeared with a tray. ‘I noticed that you drank tea at the hospital, so I ordered that, but say so if you’d prefer coffee or a cold drink.’

He noticed too much.

And oddly, that last meeting with Felipe popped into Lexie’s brain. How much had Rafiq seen or heard?

She should have realised that the count’s practised charm hid your average, garden-variety wolf, she thought ironically. Then she wouldn’t be feeling quite so foolish.

Oh well. She’d learned something her friends at university could have told her years ago: some men weren’t to be trusted.

‘Tea will be lovely, thank you,’ she said sedately.

What followed was all on the surface, the conversation of two people who knew little of each other, yet Lexie sensed undercurrents. Partly it was a feeling of something held back, of being swept into events over which she had no control.

But most of her tension, she decided with rueful frankness, was rooted in the explosive memory of that kiss.

CHAPTER FOUR

WARINESS tightened Lexie’s skin. Unable to resist the temptation, she stole a look at Rafiq, colouring when she met greenstone eyes slightly narrowed against the sun and clinical in their detachment. A superstitious shiver ran through her—fierce, uncaged, almost desperate, forcing her to glance away hastily before those perceptive eyes homed in on her inner turmoil.

What would it take to break through his iron control?

More than she was prepared to risk, she thought bleakly. His air of authority wasn’t just a family heirloom handed down from hundreds of years of unquestioned rule. Sure, some of it might be due to the potent effect of strongly handsome features backed by wealth and power, but underpinning it was an indefinable aura of masculine competence.

This man could make a woman ache with desire and scream her satisfaction in his arms.

Lexie’s cup jangled musically in the saucer as she set both down, and her tone was a little too abrupt when she asked the first thing that came into her head. ‘How long have you ruled Moraze?’

‘For ten years,’ he said readily enough, adding, ‘Since I was twenty. My father died young.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, turning her head to admire the crimson blossoms of a hibiscus close by.

Rafiq’s gaze sharpened. Those clear-cut features might appear to reveal every emotion, but her silences were enigmatic.

So her father was a sore point.

Well, he admitted silently, if his sire had been notorious for his perfidy and cruelty, he too would avoid mentioning him.

He waited before saying, ‘Life can be cruel. Tell me, what decided you to become a vet?’ And he watched her through half-closed lashes, noting the tiny, almost unnoticeable signs of her relaxation.

She answered his question without hesitation. ‘I love animals, and I wanted to be able to do something for them.’

‘Very altruistic of you,’ he drawled, irritated by her pat answer.

She flashed him a direct look, following it with a cool, ‘Of course, it pays well too.’

‘The training is long and very expensive, I believe.’

‘I managed,’ she returned, her level tone a contrast to the challenge in her eyes. ‘I was lucky—I had a regular holiday job, and my sister helped a lot.’

Jacoba had worked as a model from the time she turned sixteen, determined to earn enough to care for their ill mother. Her extremely successful career had also helped with Lexie’s tuition and boarding fees.

In spite of Jacoba’s insistence that it wasn’t necessary, Lexie was slowly reimbursing her. The past year’s leave of absence had meant a hiatus in her repayments, but she’d be able to start again when she got back home.

No doubt Rafiq de Couteveille had swanned around enjoying himself with some easy option at college. Not for him the worry of sordid, boring things like where the next meal was coming from, or whether a good daughter would be staying at home to care for her mother rather than putting her own ambitions first.

She enquired sweetly, ‘Where did you go to university?’

‘Oxford and Harvard,’ he said. ‘With some time at the Sorbonne.’ He added with a twist of his lips that revealed he’d guessed what she was thinking, ‘My father valued education highly.’

‘On Moraze as well as in his family?’ she asked even more sweetly, then wished she’d remained silent.

Her urge to dig at his impervious facade was becoming reckless. And recklessness was something she didn’t do.

In a level, unemphatic tone that managed to refute her snide insinuation, he said, ‘Of course. Moraze has an excellent school system, and my father set up a scholarship scheme that offers promising students access to the best overseas universities.’

‘Do you lose many to the lure of bigger, more sophisticated places?’

‘We might, if they weren’t bonded to come back here to work for five years; usually after that they’re incorporated back into the fabric of our society. If not, they are then free to leave to pursue those goals.’

Lexie nodded, eyes widening as he got to his feet. Tall as she was, he towered over her so that she felt crowded. No, dominated, she thought, settling back into her chair and trying to look confident and at ease.

‘I must go now,’ he told her. ‘If you need anything at all, tell Cari.’

An odd emptiness took her by surprise. ‘I’m very grateful for everybody’s kindness,’ she said, and tried to sound her usual practical self as she went on, ‘I assume I’ll get a bill from the hospital—’

‘No.’

‘But I have travel insurance—’

‘It isn’t relevant,’ he interrupted again, brows drawing together.

Head held so high it made her neck ache, Lexie got to her feet. Was he implying that he’d pay for it? Rich and powerful he might be, but she was an independent woman. ‘Surely Moraze’s health system bills travel insurance companies? In an island that depends on tourists—’

‘We do not depend on tourists,’ he said. ‘We have an extremely good and progressive offshore banking system, and we have invested heavily in high-tech industries. Along with sugar, coffee and our gems, these are the pillars of our prosperity. Tourists are welcome, of course, but my government and I have taken note of the problems that come from too heavy a reliance on tourism.’

She would not let that aristocratic authority intimidate her. Steadily, each word bitten out, she said, ‘Perhaps you would let me finish?’

A black eyebrow climbed, and his reply was delivered with a cool, autocratic politeness that reminded her he was almost a king. ‘Of course. My apologies.’

‘I pay my own way,’ she said with brittle emphasis. ‘And I pay my insurance company to cover me while I’m travelling.’

He measured her with one of those penetrating green surveys, then shrugged dismissively. ‘I will make sure someone deals with it. I suggest that for the rest of today you take things quietly. There is a pool here, if you wish to swim, although it would be sensible not to go into the water until tomorrow.’

Lexie fought back a pang of humiliating disappointment, because that didn’t sound as though he was coming back to the castle. She said with what she hoped was some dignity, ‘Thank you very much for everything you’ve done.’

‘It is my pleasure,’ he said formally with a half bow, before turning on his heel to stride away.

Very much the man in control, she thought, subsiding back into the chair.

Very much the ruler of his own kingdom.

But why had he been so kind? If it was kindness that had persuaded him to bring her here to convalesce.

What else could it be? She gazed around at vivid flowers soaking up the sun, her gaze following a bird bright as a mobile bloom that darted from one heavily laden bush to another.

Uneasily she wondered if the kiss had had anything to do with his consideration. No; he’d given no indication that he even remembered that wild embrace.

Perhaps he was so accustomed to kissing women he’d forgotten. It had almost certainly been a whim, put behind him once he’d realised she didn’t know much about kissing.

This holiday had seemed such a good idea; the chance to decide once and for all whether she and Felipe had a future together.

Now she wished she’d flown straight back home to New Zealand. Felipe’s attempt to pressure her into his bed had convinced her she definitely didn’t want any sort of future with him, and meeting Rafiq had stirred something dark and disturbing in her, making her yearn for some unknowable, unattainable goal.

Therese Fanchette said, ‘You asked for a check to be kept on Count Felipe Gastano.’

Not a muscle moved in her ruler’s face, but she felt the chill from across the big desk.

Eyes chips of green ice, Rafiq rapped out, ‘So?’

‘Information has come in about the Interpol operation.’

Rafiq’s voice gave away nothing of the cold anger biting into him. ‘Is he aware of what’s happening?’

‘Not so far, as far as we can tell. His emails have been intercepted, of course. There has been nothing to suggest that anyone in his organisation has yet discovered our plans.’

Rafiq dampened down his spurt of triumph. ‘We need a couple of days. Has he tried to contact M’selle Considine?’

‘So far he has made several telephone calls to the castle. Your people have said she is still resting.’

‘It is strange that he knew I was involved in her rescue, yet he has made no attempt to contact me.’

Therese Fanchette was one of the few people who knew the reason for Rafiq’s caution. She frowned, and said slowly, ‘Which leads one to suppose that he wants to keep out of your way. One of Gastano’s closest associates is convinced that he plans to marry M’selle Considine.’

Rafiq’s head came up and he stared at her. ‘Is this good information?’ he demanded. ‘Not just gossip?’

‘I don’t deal in gossip; this is as good as it gets. The source mentioned that the date had been set. Has M’selle Considine said anything about that? Or about Gastano?’

‘Nothing,’ he said briefly. ‘Continue keeping him under observation. I want to know exactly what he is doing, where he goes, who he sees, and I want to make sure that he is unable to contact M’selle Considine for at least another couple of days.’

Therese inclined her head. ‘Her phone calls and email are being monitored, as you requested. If he tries to contact her we will know immediately.’ After a slight pause she said, ‘With respect, sir, I still think it would be better to let them communicate with each other and see what we can learn.’

‘I don’t.’

She gave him what he called her grandmother’s look, and his mouth quirked, his expression lightening. ‘I know how you feel,’ he admitted. ‘I rarely have hunches, but something tells me to keep her under wraps for the present. If it achieves nothing else, the knowledge that his prospective bride is my guest and incommunicado should keep his mind off his overseas affairs.’

With a reluctant smile, Therese said, ‘So far your hunches have been one-hundred-per-cent accurate, so I’d be stupid not to accept this one.’

‘I realise it’s likely to make things more difficult for you.’ After another speaking look from her, his smile widened. ‘But I’m sure you’ll cope.’

When he was alone again he sat back at his desk and stared at the gold pen in front of him.

One part of him was icily furious that Gastano had dared set foot on Moraze, the other was bleakly satisfied—because now the count was in unfamiliar territory where the rules were different.

Greed bolstered by overconfidence often led to mistakes, Rafiq thought with ruthless pragmatism. And coming to Moraze was the first mistake Gastano had made in a long time.

Rafiq got to his feet and walked over to the window, glancing up for a moment at the rampant stallion on the wall of his office, the badge of his house and the symbol of his family’s rule. Everything he did was for Moraze’s welfare.

So, was Lexie what she seemed to be, the complaisant lover of a high-flying criminal, in line to be his wife?

Or was she an innocent dupe, rather charming in her lack of sophistication?

If she wasn’t a partner in Gastano’s schemes, discovering the true nature of her lover could hurt her. But Rafiq knew he couldn’t afford to be squeamish; he needed an edge over Gastano, and if the man planned to marry her this could be it.

Had Lexie been an innocent when she’d met the count?

A surge of lethal fury took Rafiq completely by surprise. Implacably, he fought it back, forcing himself to think analytically. It seemed unlikely. She’d spent years studying to be a vet, and, although universities were by no means hotbeds of vice, she was a very attractive woman with a swift, reckless sexual response that hinted at considerable experience.

Some of it gained in Gastano’s bed, he reminded himself ruthlessly.

The memory of the kiss they’d exchanged still had the power to arouse Rafiq. What had been a rather sardonic whim on his part had changed the instant his lips met hers. She’d been vividly, tantalisingly passionate, and he’d lost himself in her open sensuality.

That kiss had been surprisingly hard to break away from—and even harder to forget.

His household offices were in the old citadel, built on a spur of volcanic rock that overtopped the city by some hundred or so metres, so he had an excellent view of the business district. His gaze skimmed the glittering water of the port, and the bright trees that lined the business area, then beyond to the houses clinging to the surrounding hills.

Logically, dispassionately, he considered the situation, examining it from all angles until he finally came to a conclusion. It was a difficult one, but he had been trained to make difficult decisions, even ones that threatened to exact a personal cost.

As the sweet-scented tropical day drew to a close, Lexie felt so much better she thought quite seriously about heading back to the hotel. Common sense decided that tomorrow would probably be a better day. The maid had insisted she rest again before dinner, closing the shutters even while Lexie was trying to persuade her that she wasn’t tired.

‘The Emir says it is necessary,’ Cari said firmly.

Rafiq the Emir. It suited him, Lexie thought with an odd little shiver.

To her astonishment she did sleep again, lulled by the distant thunder of the waves on the reef, waking to a feeling of lazy wellbeing, a kind of hopeful anticipation, as though something wonderful was in store, something she’d waited for without even realising it…

‘Just watch yourself,’ she said aloud.

But that rash eagerness persisted even after she’d got up, even though she knew Rafiq wasn’t coming back. Irritated by the wistful tone of her thoughts, she made an impatient gesture.

So she was attracted to him. Why should that startle her? Plenty of other women at the party had watched him from the corners of their eyes, avidly appreciating his superb male assets. Like this castle, her suite, her bathroom, he was straight out of a fairy tale—a ruler, strong, and more than a little intimidating.

He’d asked her if she liked the thought of taming a man.

Flushing, she went to brush her hair. The answer was still no, but it would be…exciting to discover whether his imperious control was unbreakable.

Meeting—being kissed by—Rafiq de Couteveille had summoned a hidden, shameful yearning.

To be beautiful.

There, she’d said it, but only in her mind. To rub in how completely ridiculous she was being, she forced the words through her lips: ‘I’d like to be beautiful. I’d like him to look at me the way Marco looks at Jacoba. Even once would do.’

A swift, derisory glance at the mirror revealed why that would never happen. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you—you’re just ordinary,’ she said, pronouncing the word like a curse.

She stared more closely at her reflection, clinically cataloguing her assets.

Good skin, though it turned sallow if she didn’t choose the right colours to wear.

Fine features, but without anything of Jacoba’s witchery.

OK eyes, darkish blue, set off by black brows and long lashes.

Hair that was wavy and thick, boring brown with gold highlights in the sun.

And although she had quite a reasonable figure, she lacked any lush curves; slim and athletic was probably as good as it got.

Lexie curled her lip. All in all—forgettable.

And the kiss they’d shared had clearly meant so little to Rafiq he’d relegated it to some dark cupboard in his memory, never to be opened again.

Which was what she should do, she decided, ashamed by her neediness. It embarrassed her that the independence she’d taken so much for granted had crumbled at one touch from a man’s practised mouth.

She was Lexie Sinclair, and she was a vet—a good vet—and she’d be a better one before she finished. Always she’d gratefully left the limelight to Jacoba and followed her own less-spectacular dreams. Being thrust into the Illyrian spotlight had shocked her, and awakened a difficult conscience within herself, one that forced her to do what she could to alleviate her father’s bitter, brutal legacy. She was proud of what she’d achieved in her year in Illyria. But now it was over she craved privacy, and the chance to get on with the life she’d planned.

So how the heck had she ended up in a royal palace on an exotic island in the Indian Ocean, with the most handsome prince in the world as her reluctant host?

‘Sheer chance. And you’ll soon be out of here,’ she told herself. ‘Then you can forget about this interlude.’

But even as she turned away and dressed she knew she’d never forget Rafiq de Couteveille.

The tropical twilight was draping the hills in a hazy robe when she made her way down the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, a table stood with a huge vase of flowers, some completely alien to Lexie. Entranced by their colours and shapes, she stopped to admire them, but her attention was caught by a photograph beside the urn.

A girl—in her mid-teens perhaps, and clearly a close relative of Rafiq. Her bright, beautiful face was a softened version of his features.