Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (12 page)

I enter, and stop dead, looking around desperately trying to stop my mouth falling open at the stunning sight in front of me. It’s an office, but unlike any I’ve ever known. Its very size is impressive enough, but it’s the rich decoration that is most remarkable. There are antiques on the shelving, precious paintings on the walls, and a massive floor-to-ceiling bookcase. A huge desk inlaid with leather dominates the rear of the room, behind which is a magnificent chair. It’s as if everything in the room is all paying homage to the rank of the person who would sit there. On the wall opposite the doorway we entered through, windows range the full height of the room looking on to a garden ablaze with flowers. A sweet smell is wafting in through the patio door that’s open to the outside.

A movement catches my eye. So overwhelmed by the magnificence of my surroundings, I hadn’t realised the room’s occupant was standing by the windows, silhouetted by the light coming through the glass. He is dressed in Arab robes and a keffiyeh, complete with a golden agal, and the traditional dress only serves to make him look all the more formidable. He seems in no hurry to address me but takes his time looking at me, giving me a thorough examination. Embarrassed and ashamed, I’m about to turn my head away when he eventually makes a move and comes forward.

He extends his hand as if in friendship, but his expression doesn’t quite match the action. “Miss Carson, I’m Sheik Kadar Rushdi Sadiq al Kassis, Crown Prince of Amahad. Welcome to my country.”

Bemused at the formal welcome, I force myself to respond to the handshake, my hand feeling small and weak as he grips it briefly, but firmly. The fingers surrounding mine have strength enough to crush bone, but I’m spared that torture for now. My hand is released, and although the hold hadn’t been tight, I have to resist the impulse to rub and soothe it. If I’d found Sheikh Jasim to be intimidating, Sheikh Kadar is in a whole different league, one all of his own. Taller than his brother by a couple of inches, his bearing is military straight and regal, and his presence is overpowering. I force myself to meet his eyes briefly, unwilling to cower like a criminal, but lower my gaze almost immediately, finding I’m unable to maintain eye contact. The man before me oozes control and dominance.

Those few seconds I focus on his face are enough for me to recognise him as the second man who’d taken part in my kidnapping. Hell! Not one, but both of the men who kidnapped me are princes, one the heir to the throne of Amahad! I have to swallow fast to suppress a nervous giggle – hysterics aren’t far away. Then I sober quickly. The situation I’m in is not a game; the men in front of me are not pawns but knights, and they are about to take the queen. My head swims and I start shaking as I begin to realise the magnitude of the trouble I’ve got myself into.

Kadar looks at me cautiously, his dark eyes penetrating mine as if able to see my innermost thoughts, and I have the feeling there isn’t much he misses. When he speaks his powerful voice resonates with authority, and he wastes no time getting down to the business at hand.

“Welcome to Amahad, Miss Benting. You are no doubt anxious to know why we have brought you here. Come. Sit, and we will talk.”

Ignoring the desk, Kadar waves me towards a low couch. He and Jasim seat themselves on a similar one opposite. A small table is between us. The setting is informal but does nothing to relax me. I feel like prey, wondering when the lion will pounce. While Kadar is giving me a long stare I wipe my hand over my face, trying to think. What do they know? How should I play this? Are they waiting for me to speak and give enough information to hang myself? A shudder makes my muscles contract as I realise what I’ve thought of as a commonplace expression might be a little bit too close to the truth. Is hacking a capital offence in Amahad? Or am I going to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell like the one I woke up in this morning? I don’t care for either option. I make a vain attempt to still my trembling legs, and I can’t seem to stop clasping and unclasping my hands in my lap. My actions give my nervousness away. Sheikh Jasim shoots me a look full of sympathy which, if anything, makes me feel worse.

Sheikh Kadar clears his throat and nods. I take it as a sign the interrogation is going to start. “I know you must be concerned, Miss Benting. I apologise for the way we brought you here. Unfortunately, you refused our invitation. We had hoped that you would travel here in comfort, and avoid the distress.” He examines my face. “I trust you have now recovered from any after-effects of your treatment?”

I ignore his question; I just want to get on with why I’m here. In truth, my headache is returning, but I home in on one thing he’s said which irks me, and I have to correct him. My nerves mean I need to swallow a couple of times to get any words out.

“My name is Carson, Cara
Carson
. I’m not Cara Benting. Please stop calling me that.” I’m annoyed my voice sounds weak.

The crown prince looks annoyed and narrows his eyes. “Your father was Joseph Benting,” he states as indisputable fact.

“Yes, but …” He raises his hand in an obvious gesture for me to be quiet.

He nods, as if pleased with my obedience, and then swiftly his expression changes to a frown, looking like he is preparing for an awkward conversation. Starting to speak again, he comes straight to the point. “You can change your name, Miss Benting, but you cannot change your blood. Your father, Joseph Benting, committed a serious crime. He stole from Amahad.”

I lower my eyes, thinking quickly. They’ve confirmed I’m here because of my father, and I have absolutely no idea why. My brain quickly computes my response to this scenario, which is different to any I had expected. The fraud Benting committed had been reported in the newspapers and was a well-known fact. Yes, I’d hacked into his systems and found the strange documents that I’d given to Hunter, but the crime itself was nothing to do with me. My hacking ability isn’t something I care to advertise, particularly just now, so if they don’t already know I’m not going to advertise the fact that I delved deeper into the Amahadian finances than I should have done. So I keep to the topic they raised, and say in a shaky voice, “I heard about the crime; it was all over the news. And I also read in the papers, the man you call my father is dead.”

“And I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s obvious Kadar is going through the motions; there’s no conviction behind the condolence.

“Why? I’m not.”

This time, I show more strength in my response, which surprises both men because they sit up straighter and take notice. I have never owned any relationship between that hated man and myself, so I tell them that. “I don’t consider that man to be my father. His sperm might have caused my existence, but that’s as far as any involvement I had with him went. I’ve nothing to grieve over.”

Kadar exchanges a puzzled look with his brother, as if my bluntness has surprised them, and then clears his throat. “Miss Benting, I realise you might not have been close to your father, but nevertheless, you are the daughter of Joseph Benting.”

I have to protest. I’ve never been a Benting in my life. I wish they’d get to the point of why they’ve brought me here. I tremble as I respond to that comment, getting more frustrated the more they push the point.

“You call me Miss
Benting
– the name on my birth certificate is
Carson
.”

I pause, trying to gather my rather scattered thoughts, fear and the after-effects of the drugs making it difficult for me to think. “I only saw the man you call my father once in my life, and then only for a matter of minutes.” Once, when I was eighteen; once and never again. As I recall the meeting, my eyes crease up in pain.

Jasim is watching me carefully, and what he sees seems to make him uncomfortable. Up to this point he’s left the talking to his brother, and I’m getting the distinct impression that he doesn’t want to be here. But now he breaks his silence.

“You are aware of his business with Amahad?” he probes gently.

I’m unsure how to answer him. I’m still out of kilter. Why are they concentrating on the man who’s technically my father? What on earth has he got to do with me? I take a deep breath, deciding to be deliberately vague, and hope that I’m saying the right thing.

“I’ve already told you: I read about it.”

Kadar sits forwards as though to emphasise a point.

“Your father stole from us, Miss Benting. More importantly, he stole from our tribespeople, and they demand recompense. They want revenge.”

I start at the word ‘revenge’, not understanding what he could mean. I’m scared and alone in a foreign country, and they are talking about revenge for a crime a dead man committed?
What the hell could they possibly want from me?
I look from Kadar to Jasim, while taking a moment to try to calm myself. I narrow my eyes showing my confusion.

“I’m sorry, Sheikh Kadar, Sheikh Jasim.” My voice squeaks as I acknowledge them both, looking at each in turn. I’m getting more concerned by the minute. I don’t know what to say safely, or what they want from me. Trying to choose my words carefully, making sure I don’t give myself away, I continue, forcing my voice into a more normal tone. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing here. How do you think I can help you?” I open my hands as if pleading with them to believe me. “I never had anything to do with Joseph Benting. I didn’t inherit anything, I’m not an executor of his will, and I don’t have any responsibility for the debts he left. I presume administrators have been appointed to salvage what they can. I’m sorry, but what do you think I can do to help you?”

Suddenly, I feel a little bit more confident. They must soon realise Benting was nothing to do with me, and let me go home.

With an exclamation in his own language that sounds like an expression I probably wouldn’t want translating, Kadar stands up in one smooth, fluid action and turns his back to me. I notice his posture has gone rigid, as if he’s reluctant to answer my question. His body language isn’t making me feel comfortable. His fists clench in anger, but whether at me, or my father, I can’t tell. Glancing across the table, I see his brother is watching him anxiously. Turning back again to Kadar, my eyes follow him as he begins to pace around the room. He stills, lifts his shoulders up and rests his head back. Then he noticeably seems to relax and returns to take his seat, looking like he has brought himself back under control. He nods at Jasim as if to show he’s back on script. For some reason, I’m starting to feel this conversation is as difficult for the two brothers as it is for me, which only makes me more perplexed. I’m at a complete loss to understand anything about this interview. But I’m feeling more confident. It’s clear they’ve got the wrong person; I know nothing about Benting’s activities. Officially, that is.

More positive now, I take a deep breath, needing now to get to the crux of the matter so that any misunderstanding can be sorted out. The tensions of the morning have left me like a rubber band about to snap. So I ask directly, “Your Highnesses. Why am I here?” But as I look directly at the older man I flinch at the cold look on his face, noticing he’s staring at his brother rather than me. The warmth seems to disappear from the room, and I shiver. Their delay in replying and the fact that neither appears to want to look me in the eye suggests they aren’t simply going to let me go home. Have my arguments fallen on deaf ears? My hands start shaking again, and my confidence ebbs away.

After a tense pause, Kadar’s eyes darken; his voice is so sombre it sounds ominously like a judge pronouncing a death sentence. “We accept you had no relationship with your father, but you are his kin. Of his blood. His actual daughter. His only living relation.” He breaks off, closing his eyes as if his next words are painful, even to himself. “To satisfy the tribal leaders and their people, we must be seen to seek retribution. The tribes want someone to be punished for this crime. As Joseph Benting can no longer accept his penance you, his daughter, will bear the punishment on his behalf.”

What. The. Fuck.
Punishment?
For something I haven’t been any part of?
For a crime the man who is nothing to me but a sperm donor? They must be crazy. The blood drains from my face and I must be as white as a sheet; my heart is beating like it’s going to jump out of my chest, and my muscles tense as though I’m getting ready to run. That one word:
punishment.
I’m not in England – I’m in Amahad. Everything I’ve ever read or heard about this region goes fleeting through my head. Stonings … beheadings … I can’t conceive of what might be in store for me, but the cruel way they left me to wake up this morning gives me some idea. Swallowing, having difficulty getting the words out, I all but whisper: “Punished?” I look at Jasim, because he seemed to show some sympathy for me earlier, but he’s looking away, avoiding meeting my gaze. I stand and, leaning forwards, put my hands on the table. I almost spit in my effort to get my point across.

“I am NOTHING to do with Benting!”

“Sit!” Kadar’s rasped command has me obeying him. Steadily he holds my gaze. “You do not understand our ways. Your blood is your father’s.”

As I start to protest again, his fist bangs on the table. “No more. Accept it. Revenge will be taken on Benting’s bloodline. You cannot deny your relationship. It is a physical certainty.” His voice gentles. “I know it’s difficult for you to understand because you are a Westerner, but any Amahadian would accept their fate. It’s our way, Miss Benting. You will bear his punishment because you are of his blood.”