Even over the phone he had been able to tell that the sheikh was not pleased at the news Abernathy had received in the morning's mail. Abernathy had thought El Kabbar would be relieved that the blasted girl had surfaced at last. After all, they had been searching for her for over six years. Reigning sheikhs were notoriously arrogant and Philip El Kabbar was more difficult than most. However, as his agent, Abernathy was extremely well paid to put up with that arrogance. There wasn't any question that he'd continue to do so, not in today's economy.

When Abernathy entered the library El Kabbar didn't look any more pleased than he'd sounded on the phone. His black brows were knit in a frown over stormy blue-green eyes. "Where is it?" he asked curtly.

"I have it here." Abernathy strode briskly forward and placed the package on the Sheraton desk. "I opened it, as I do everything addressed to you." He paused before adding apologetically, "I had no idea it was anything of a personal nature." He started to turn away. "Now, if you don't need me . . ."

"Sit down and quit trying to escape, Abernathy." El Kabbar was crossing the room with swift strides, his tall, lean body as lithe as a cat's. From his clothes it was evident he had been about to go riding when he'd received the phone call. Abernathy fervently wished the sheikh had continued with the plan. Perhaps he would have expended a little of his anger on his horse.

Abernathy repressed a sigh as he obediently sat down in the wing chair beside the desk. "Of course, Sheikh El Kabbar. I'm only too happy to be of service to you. I merely didn't wish to intrude."

"I doubt that I'm going to be overcome with emotion," El Kabbar said cynically. He flicked on the desk lamp before removing the plain brown paper from the package with impatient hands. "Unless that emotion is anger. You could say I'm a trifle annoyed with our little runaway."

"Not very little any longer, judging by the photograph on the cover of that magazine," Abernathy said mildly. "You must remember that she's no longer the child of fifteen she was when she disappeared."

"Must I?" El Kabbar asked as he opened the jeweler's box. The sheikh's face was impassive when he looked down at the medallion, but his hand suddenly tightened, snapping the box shut. He picked up the copy of Rolling Stone and glanced at the picture. "A rock star. I should have known Pandora would pick a profession suited to her rather bizarre mentality."

"She's turned into quite a raving beauty, hasn't she?" Abernathy permitted himself a small smile. "Who would have thought such a little tomboy could be transformed into the woman in that picture?" He had only seen the girl once, when he had picked her up at the airport some six years before. The next day she had decided to run away. She had left only a sealed note for Philip El Kabbar and a great deal of turmoil behind her. That girl had been thin and wiry, with silver-blond hair that had been brutally chopped into a boy's cut.

From the photograph it was clear all that had changed. Pandora Madchen's features were by far the most classically beautiful Abernathy had ever seen, and her great dark eyes were truly magnificent. In the white satin Grecian toga that bared one shoulder her slim body was everything a woman's form should be. Her bosom might even be considered a little too voluptuous for her small body. It wasn't likely any man would complain, however. Pandora emitted an aura of sensuality that almost reached out and touched, stroked . . . Abernathy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was a very disturbing quality. "Do you suppose that wild orange hair is dyed or a wig? Why would she try to cover her own hair? The color was quite lovely, as I remember."

Philip El Kabbar didn't look up from the magazine. "A wig. But it wouldn't surprise me if she's had her head shaved and is bald as a jaybird underneath the damn thing. There wasn't a note?"

Abernathy shook his head. "Just the magazine and the jeweler's box."

The sheikh picked up the magazine and crossed to stand in front of the fireplace. "I suppose you've read the article?"

Abernathy shrugged. "Most of it. A good deal of it concerns the artistic merits of the group itself. Evidently Pandora and Nemesis are very well thought of by popular musicians."

"Nemesis?" Philip's gaze lifted swiftly.

"That's the name of the group itself. Rather fanciful, isn't it? I wonder if she thought of it herself."

"Probably." Philip looked down into the heart of the crackling fire. "Give me the bare bones of the story. I can do without the critical review."

"No one appears to know her last name in the United States. She's known only as Pandora. Evidently that's the thing to do in rock circles. It adds a certain mystique." His lips pursed disapprovingly. "Most exasperating. Your detectives might have found her if she'd used her surname. She's been in the public eye for almost two years."

"That long?"

Abernathy nodded. "The group had a hit single about that time and became very popular. The men in the group are all British, so it's probable that she linked up with them here in London."

"Then why didn't the fools find her? No city is that large."

"It's understandable. They were looking in the wrong places." Abernathy's expression was faintly reproachful. "You gave us no hint that she was interested in music. You said she had ambitions as an equestrienne."

"I also said that you couldn't put her into any cozy pigeonhole, blast it. There aren't any limits where she's concerned. She doesn't even know they exist." His hand clenched around the magazine. "Why the hell didn't they listen to me?"

"I'm sure they were thorough. Blackwell's is an extremely efficient agency." Abernathy could see that he wasn't getting through and sought for an out. Unfortunately, he had been the one to hire the detective agency when the Madchen girl ran away. "Have you phoned her father in Sedikhan and informed him that she's been located?"

El Kabbar nodded curtly. "Right after you called me. He wasn't at the dispensary so I left word with his assistant."

"Undoubtedly hell be overjoyed when he hears the good news."

"Undoubtedly," El Kabbar said caustically. "He lost a horse-crazy fifteen-year-old and finds an orange-haired twenty-one-year-old rock star. Hell be over the moon."

"She's still his daughter," Abernathy offered quietly.

There was a short silence.

"Yes, she's still his daughter," El Kabbar finally said. "Whatever that means. Madchen never treated her with anything but complete indifference. When I told him she was missing his reaction was a philosophic shrug. No, you can't say they were exactly close."

"Is that why she ran away? I thought she was just rebelling at being sent away from Sedikhan to school here in England."

"No, there was more to it than that." El Kabbar's lips were suddenly a tight line. "Nothing is ever simple when it comes to Pandora."

"Isn't it?" There was a note of speculation in Abernathy's voice.

El Kabbar noticed it, and his lips curved in a cynical smile. "And, no, she wasn't my mistress, Abernathy. I've never indulged myself with teenage Lolitas. I like my bedmates with a degree of maturity and experience."

Abernathy was well aware of that. El Kabbar's latest affair had been with a beautiful opera singer who possessed both of those attributes. Still, he had wondered a bit at the sheikh's reaction when Pandora Madchen disappeared. El Kabbar had flown to London at once and supervised the search personally for almost a year. That, in itself, had been unusual. His demeanor during that period had been even more surprising. There had been moments when the man looked positively haggard. "I would never have intimated such a thing. I know that Dr. Madchen has been in your employ for a number of years. I'm sure you would have been just as concerned for the daughter of any—"