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He had known Etienne. He knew it was not possible for the late Lord Cauve to hurt someone. Not someone he loved, as he had loved his step-daughter. Hakim did not count may men as friends and trusted advisors. His position of power left him vulnerable to those who sought only to gain his favor. Etienne had not been like that. His affection had been true, his loyalty unmistakable. Hakim would continue to value their friendship, even now, when Etienne was no longer a physical being.
Perhaps, he thought, with a hopeful lift of his brows, someone had abused her, and Etienne’s name had come most easily to her lips. Perhaps it was a half-truth, after all. He thought of her occasional skittishness, and the way she’d blanched in abject terror from time to time. The way she would become shaken and pale. That made sense.
And y
et, laying the blame at Etienne’s feet was unforgivable.
He had to speak to her. To get her to apologize; to admit she’d been lying.
He reached for his robe and pulled it on as he walked, quickly, through the harem and to her bedroom. The sun was only just beginning to bleach the sky; it was early.
He pushed into her room without knocking, and moved swiftly, urgently, to the bed.
When he saw it was empty, still made from the day before, a bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Where was she?
He moved across the room and looked down at the pool. The water was undisturbed. No sign of Phoebe in the cool depths.
He swore. He gave up walking and ran, instead, to Becca’s room. Despite his panic, he had the forethought to knock before barging in. Becca was asleep when he entered, and he apologized brusquely. “I can’t find Phoebe.”
She sat up, pushing hair out of her eyes.
“Huh?”
“Phoebe. Is she here?”
Becca frowned. “No. She’s probably swimming. She said she was planning on an early morning swim.”
He shook his head. “I’ve checked.”
Becca rubbed her eyes. “Why are you so worried? Do you think she’s going to jilt you?” It was intended as a joke, but the way Hakim’s eyes closed, Becca realized she’d hit on a sore point.
“I do not know,” he said quietly, desperately. “But I need to speak to her.”
“I’ll help you look,” Becca said. She grabbed the sheet and began to throw it back, then squeaked. “Can you turn around, please? I’m sort of, um, not suitably dressed.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait outside. Please hurry.”
Becca took less than a minute to throw on a tracksuit, but when she emerged, Hakim was walking a groove into the marble floor.
“Good,” he said with a nod. “Where shall we go?”
Becca almost laughed. The sight of this powerful, uber masculine ruler seeming like a little boy lost was incredibly charming. “It’s your palace. You tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair.
“What about the kitchen?”
“The kitchen?”
Becca tossed him a look of amusement. “When we were in school, Phoebe was famous for her pre-examination feasting. She’s a nervous eater. If she’d nervous, she’s probably half way through the wedding cake by now.”
He nodded, relief flooding through him. “Thank you, Becca,” he said, as they moved quickly through the empty corridors of the palace.
His gratitude was premature. Phoebe was not in the kitchen. Nor was she in any of the ten other spots they choose.
“And you checked the pool?” Becca asked, her own worry levels increasing now.
