For years now, the stories had identified him as “one of the world’s richest men.” Lately, they had begun dropping “one of ” and making it “man,” singular. He owned a shipping fleet that would have rivaled that of his old mentor, Onassis, held investments in enterprises of a dozen kinds all over the world, and—in the dark speculation of the tabloids—might or might not be earning huge brokerage fees on billion-dollar arms sales in the Middle East and elsewhere.

Once in a while, the stories mentioned the tragic death of Malik’s sister, the Remal’s princess.

Twice, there had been photos of Genevieve, smiling and a bit heavier than Jenna remembered.

Once, there had been a picture of Laila, tall for her age, thin, and looking almost angrily at the camera.

Jenna had never let Malik know that she and Karim were alive. It was the hardest thing in her life, a knife that made a new cut every day. But she was afraid. After seven years, she was still afraid.

The early days had actually been easier. Then, there had been no question of telling anyone anything. She had lived as a fugitive, pure and simple. If someone stood for a few minutes across the street, or walked behind her for two blocks, or merely gave her a long glance in Harvard Yard, she wondered if Ali had found her.

That kind of fear—fear she woke with and went to sleep with and dreamed— was past. She still took precautions, such as not having a photograph on her book, but she no longer suspected that every odd click on the phone meant a wiretap.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to contact Malik. He was too flamboyant, and too beset by hungry reporters and wolfish paparazzi, for the secret to remain secret for long. And if it came out, what then? Malik was wealthy, but his mil- lions—or billions, if the press could be believed—were nothing against the vast fortune of the Remali royal family. Could he protect her and Karim from Ali? For how long? Could he even protect himself ?

Better to let things remain as they were. By now, surely, her brother had reconciled himself to her death. So had her father, her aunts, Bahia, everyone she had known in her old life.

Everyone except Ali.

From the same tabloids that told her about her brother, she knew that her husband had married again and fathered at least one new son. But that wouldn’t matter if he discovered that she and Karim were alive. He would be as implacable as a falcon—and as deadly.

Far better to let the truth lie quiet. Still, she hurt.

“Jenna? May I join you?”

She looked up and recognized Carolyn Chandler. “Of course. What a nice surprise.”

“I’m not interrupting your … reading?” Carolyn indicated the Star and Enquirer.