“Not really. It doesn’t matter.” She moistened her lips nervously. “You have to tell Sheikh Ben Raschid not to give in to them. I’ll get out of this by myself.”

“Oh, will you?” Daniel asked sardonically. “That might be a little difficult considering the circumstances.”

“I told you. I’ll handle it. I owe too many debts already. I can’t add a burden like this to them.”

He was silent for a long moment, studying her intently. “You mean it.”

“Of course I mean it. I don’t say things I don’t mean,” she said, impatient. “Now, will you tell David and the sheikh I’m fine and that I’ll find a way out of this mess myself?”

He shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. Zilah Dabala looked more tired and more finely drawn than she had in the photograph, but the clear green eyes meeting his were steady and unafraid. There was no summer smile, however. Her lips were taut with the effort she was making to keep them from trembling. Strange that he could miss a smile he’d never really seen outside of a photograph. Suddenly his gaze sharpened as he realized that a cut marred the softness of her lower lip. His expression hardened into a fierceness that startled her. “Who struck you? I thought you said you hadn’t been hurt.”

Her fingers flew automatically to the cut on her lip. “Hassan. Stupidly, I tried to grab a gun from Hakim. I won’t do anything so impulsive again.” She deliberately dropped her hand away. “See, it’s only a little cut. It doesn’t hurt. And, anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters.” His tone was granite-harsh. His finger rose to brush her lower lip with a gossamer touch.

Zilah felt a sudden sensation that was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It must be pain, she thought in bewilderment. But somehow it didn’t feel like pain. It was more like a hot tingle of pleasure. Daniel Seifert’s navy blue eyes were holding her own with mesmerizing power.