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The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest: The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest
Michelle Celmer
Tessa Radley
Be swept away by passion… with intense drama and compelling plots, these emotionally powerful reads will keep you captivated from beginning to end.The Desert Bride of Al Zayed Tessa RadleySheikh Tariq bin Rashid, the desert prince of Zayed, had courted Jayne, captivated her, but he’d never truly trusted her. Now, after five years, she was back to demand a divorce. And Tariq was willing to comply. If Jayne would pretend to be his happily wedded bride for a few weeks longer…Best Man’s Conquest Michelle Celmer He may have been best man at the wedding, but oil tycoon Dillon Marshall had parted on less-than-friendly terms with one guest, his ex-wife, Ivy Madison. Ivy was still a temptation to the billionaire. So he devised a plan to rid his system of her once and for all. He’d seduce her, then walk away…


The Desert Bride of Al Zayedby Tessa Radley


She should not be allowing Tariq to kiss her like this.
Tariq needed a wife who would do her duty… and that woman was not her. So what on earth was she doing responding to her soon-to-be-ex like this?
She tore out of his arms and put half the length of the room between them. “I don’t want this.”
“Liar.” His voice was flat, his face expressionless. The light in his golden eyes had been extinguished. “You responded to me.”
He was right. But she couldn’t afford to let him know that. “Maybe I’d have responded to any attractive man.”
“Any man?” It was a soft snarl, dangerous. “Like the one waiting for you back in Auckland?”
Jayne’s heart thumped in her chest, so loudly she feared he might hear. “Your lack of trust is the reason why I don’t want to be married to you any more.”
“Do you blame me?” His mouth tightened. “No, don’t answer that. Our marriage is over. In a month you will have your divorce.”

Best Man’s Conquestby Michelle Celmer


“You don’t look happy to see me,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to try to make the best of this. I expect you to do the same.”
“How do you suppose we go about doing that?”
“I think we should agree to avoid each other whenever humanly possible. After this week, we never have to see each other again.”
A corner of his mouth twitched but he held the smile inside. “Sounds like a good idea.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “So that’s it?”
“Sure.” It did sound like a good idea. For her. But the way he saw it, he was long overdue for a little payback. Some good old-fashioned revenge.
If keeping his distance was what she really wanted, for the next week he would be stuck to that woman like glue.

The Desert Bride of Al Zayed
TESSA RADLEY

Best Man’s Conquest
MICHELLE CELMER

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

THE DESERT BRIDE OF AL ZAYED
by
Tessa Radley
TESSA RADLEY
loves travelling, reading and watching the world around her. As a teenager Tessa wanted to be an intrepid foreign correspondent. But after completing a bachelor of arts and marrying her sweetheart, she became fascinated with law and ended up studying further and becoming a lawyer in a city practice.
A six-month break travelling through Australia with her family re-awoke the yen to write. And life as a writer suits her perfectly: travelling and reading count as research and as for analysing the world…well, she can think what if all day long. When she’s not reading, travelling or thinking about writing, she’s spending time with her husband, her two sons – or her zany and wonderful friends. You can contact Tessa through her website, www.tessaradley.com.

Dear Reader,
But now it’s time to go out and meet – even embrace:) – new characters. Learn about them. What they like. What they loathe. And most importantly what happens to them when they fall in love…
I found it very hard to write this letter – mostly because I’ve reached the end of the BILLIONAIRE HEIRS trilogy about cousins Zac, Angelo and Tariq. And I don’t really want to say goodbye to these gorgeous men. Not yet. Nor do I want to say goodbye to Pandora, Gemma and Jayne. I’ve spent so much time with these people over the past months that they’ve become a part of my life.
Because at the heart of it all it’s fabulous to create people who, after a rocky beginning, end up falling in love – and convincing readers that their love will last a lifetime. And sometimes, like Jayne and Tariq, they don’t get it right the first time around. In The Desert Bride of Al Zayed Jayne and Tariq have a second chance at love…and a chance to get it right.
Take care,
Tessa
PS: Don’t forget that you can find out more about my upcoming releases over at www.tessaradley.com. Please come and visit!
I grew up surrounded by inspiring women.
My mother, Ria, who always stays true to
herself. As well as Sophie and Esme who
give so generously of themselves.
Thank you all for your love.
Much thanks to Melissa Jeglinski and Karen
Solem for giving me the freedom to write.
And Abby Gaines, Karina Bliss and
Sandra Hyatt – thank you for never being
farther than a call away!
One
“I want a divorce.”
The moment she’d blurted the words out, Jayne felt her pulse quicken. She squeezed her eyes shut…and waited. The silence on the other end of the line was absolute.
“No.”
The answer rang with finality over the vast distance that separated Zayed from New Zealand. Tariq’s voice was smooth and deep and very, very cool. Like ice. Tingling shivers of apprehension started to dance along Jayne’s spine. She recognised that sensation. It meant trouble.
Jayne gripped the handset until her fingers hurt. “But we’ve been separated for over five years. I thought you’d be jumping for joy at the prospect of a divorce.” And your father, too. She refrained from adding the dig. Mention of his father, the Emir of Zayed, tended to result in arguments—she’d learned that a long time ago. And she didn’t want a battle with no ceasefire in sight, she simply wanted a divorce.
But this was not going quite as she’d planned. From the outset Jayne had intended avoiding any direct contact with Tariq—or his father. She’d phoned the Emir’s chief aide, Hadi al Ebrahim, and had bluntly stated that more than five years had passed since Tariq had banished her from Zayed. Tariq was a citizen of Zayed and their marriage had been conducted in accordance with the laws of his country. According to the laws of Zayed, parties had to be separated for five years before a divorce could be petitioned.
The legal waiting time was over. She wanted to set divorce proceedings in motion. The excruciatingly polite aide had taken her number and promised to call her back.
But the aide’s promised call hadn’t come. Instead Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, her husband—no, her hopefully soon-to-be-ex-husband—had called.
Only to refuse her request.
No. No explanation. No softening the blow. Just a very blunt, very final “No.”
Jayne resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Instead she tried for her most reasonable teacher’s voice, and said, “You haven’t seen me for years, Tariq. Don’t you think it’s time for us both to move on?” From a past that had brought her more pain and anguish than she’d ever anticipated.
“It’s not yet time.”
Jayne’s heart skipped a beat. She sensed all her well-laid plans to start a new degree with the new year, to start dating again, to come out of hibernation and start living a life, unravelling. “Not time? What do you mean it’s not yet time? Of course it’s time. All you need to do is sign—”
“Come to Zayed and we’ll talk about it, Jayne.”
Even over the distance between them the husky sound of her very ordinary name on his tongue sounded sensual and intimate and had the power to make her shiver. It was madness.
“I don’t want to talk. I just want a divorce.” Jayne heard the touch of shrillness in her voice. She could see her brand-new life, her well-laid plans going up in smoke. Damn Tariq.
“Why?” His voice changed, became harsh and abrupt. “Why are you suddenly so desperate for a divorce, my faithless woman? Is there finally a man who objects to having a woman with a husband?”
A brief hesitation. She thought about Neil, the nice accountant her brother-in-law had introduced her to three months ago. He’d asked her out, but she hadn’t accepted. Yet. “No! You’ve got it all—”
“We will meet in Zayed,” her husband decreed. “There will be no divorce. Not yet. But it is possible that the time will come soon. Very soon. We will talk.”
“Tariq—”
But he was already firing information about dates and flights and visas at her. Belatedly Jayne realised that she no longer held her Zayedi passport, she’d left it behind in the bedroom she’d shared with Tariq on that terrible last day. She’d had no intention of ever returning. She’d have to apply for a visa to go to Zayed, which meant at least a week of delay.
“Tariq.” It was a desperate call.
He paused and the sudden silence that stretched between them was shattering.
Jayne swallowed, her mouth dry. Then, more quietly, she said, “Can’t we meet somewhere—” neutral “—else?” Tariq would not come to New Zealand; it was too far. He was a busy man. And she didn’t want him here, destroying her safe haven.
But there had to be other options. Somewhere where she wouldn’t need to revisit those traumatic weeks before the end of their marriage, somewhere she wouldn’t have to walk through the corridors of the lavish palace that had stifled her dreams, or confront the two men who had killed her soul. “What about London?”
“There are…problems…in Zayed. I cannot leave.”
She thought about that for a long moment. “I can’t come to Zayed,” she said at last.
“Can’t or won’t?”
She didn’t answer.
“Then let me make it easy for you. If you don’t come to Zayed, Jayne, I will oppose any application you make for a divorce.”
The words were chilling, even though the tone that delivered them was rich and lingering. The laws of Zayed stated that no divorce could be granted unless the husband consented. As much as it riled her, she needed Tariq’s consent.
Unless she went to Zayed, Tariq would deny her the one thing she wanted above all else: her freedom.
“Don’t forget to send me photos of Zayed.”
Jayne had almost reached the front door of her sister’s house, the Louis Vuitton bag clutched in her hand, when the request caused her to pause. She turned to look at the three people gathered in a huddle to see her off, the three people she loved most in the world—her sister and her two nieces. Raising an eyebrow at her elder niece, Jayne asked, “What kind of photos?”
“Of the desert…the palace—anything cool.”
“It’s very hot in the desert, not cool at all. Certainly not as cool as anything here in Auckland.” Jayne kept a straight face as she referred to her older niece’s active social life, then broke into a smile when Samantha poked a pink tongue out. “What do you want the photos for?”
Samantha moved closer. “I’m doing a PowerPoint project on Zayed. Most of my class has never heard of it.”
“I’m sure I can dig up some really up-to-date information while I’m there,” Jayne promised, setting the heavy bag down for a moment and flexing her fingers. Samantha flashed a pleased grin and Jayne restrained herself from rumpling her niece’s sleekly gelled hair. The style was so much more sophisticated than the ponytail Samantha had worn last year. It was hard to believe that in less than a month Samantha would turn thirteen. A teenager.
“Great.” Samantha beamed. “If I can wow my teacher, I might even get an A.”
“Do you really have to go?”
A small hand tugged at her arm. Jayne looked down into the hazel eyes of her younger niece—her goddaughter—and her heart twisted.
“I really have to go, Amy, my sweet.”
“Why?”
Jayne hesitated. Why? She thought of the abortive conversation with Tariq. How to even start to explain? “Because…” Her voice trailed away.
“‘Because’ is not an answer,” Amy replied, her freckled face solemn.
“Quite frankly, I can’t understand why you’re going, either,” Helen chipped in with typical older-sister impatience. “After everything that happened in that godforsaken country, what Tariq and his horrid father did to you, why on earth would you contemplate going back?”
Jayne recognised her sister’s impatience for what it was—concern. “Because I want a divorce—and it looks like going to Zayed is the only way I can get it.”
Tariq had made that clear enough.
“Why Zayed?” Helen asked, her lips tight. “Why couldn’t you have met in London?”
“It wasn’t an option I was given.” Jayne shrugged her shoulders. “That’s Tariq. His way. Or no way.”
“Are you sure he isn’t up to something?” Helen fretted. “I don’t trust him one bit.”
“Hush, don’t work yourself up.” Jayne moved closer to her sister. Helen had never understood the attraction, the fascination that Tariq had held right from the moment that Jayne had walked into him in the Tate Gallery in London and landed ignominiously at his feet. How could she explain the untamed attraction Tariq had held? “There’s no reason to be suspicious. Tariq wouldn’t take me back if I came coated in twenty-four carat gold.”
Helen’s eyes sparked with indignation. In a low voice she murmured so that only Jayne could hear, “He never deserved you.”
Emotion surged through Jayne. She slung an arm around her sister’s shoulder and pulled her close. Helen smelled of talc and roses and the familiar comfort of home. “Thank you. And thank you for all the support you’ve given me. For everything.”
“I don’t want to see you in that state again.” Helen hugged her back fiercely. “Five and a half years ago you were a mess.”
“It won’t happen again,” Jayne vowed, suppressing the sudden stab of apprehension. “I’m no longer nineteen. I’m older now, able to take care of myself.”
“Famous last words. And it better not happen again, because this time I’ll tell Tariq what a—” Helen cast a glance at the girls and lowered her voice “—jerk he is.”
Her sister sounded so ferocious that Jayne couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. For the first time in a week, the tension that had been winding up in her chest subsided. Her sister would always be there for her. Family. Sisters. A sacred bond.
“I suggest you don’t say that to Tariq’s face.” Just the thought of his freezing expression, the way he would look coldly down his elegant bladed nose, was enough to make Jayne chuckle again.
“You won’t be here for my first day of school.” Amy’s desolate wail cut into Jayne’s moment of good humour. Instantly all laughter dried up. Bending down, she swept Amy up until the little girl’s eyes were level with hers.
“But I’ll be thinking of you,” Jayne promised. “I’ll even know where you’ll be sitting. Remember? You, mom and I went together to check your new school out?”
“I s’pose,” Amy said reflectively. “And I’ll have the pencils you bought me.” She already sounded more cheerful. Jayne smiled at her sister over Amy’s head, her throat tight.
A hoot sounded.
“Daddy’s ready.” Amy wriggled out of Jayne’s arms.
Helen rushed over and then Jayne was wrapped in her sister’s warm arms. “Take care, Jayne.”
“I will.” Jayne held on for a moment. A kiss on her sister’s cheek and then she freed herself and picked up her bag. “I’d better not keep Nigel waiting. Look after yourself—and the girls. I’ll e-mail photos, I promise,” she called to Helen and Samantha as she hurried out the door. From beside the car, Jayne gave them a last wave before getting into the idling car where her brother-in-law waited to take her to the airport.
Finally Jayne let herself admit she wasn’t looking forward to the long flight that lay ahead. And she dreaded the coming confrontation with the man who waited for her at the journey’s end.
The chilly air-conditioning in the international airport at Jazirah, the capital of Zayed, took the edge off the searing heat that shimmered over the runways outside the terminal building. A deferential official took charge of Jayne the instant she presented her passport and whisked her through customs. He retrieved her luggage and showed her to a plush seat in a sheltered alcove off the arrivals concourse, murmuring that he’d be back shortly.
Jayne attempted to assure him that she was quite capable of organising her own transport, but he grew increasingly agitated. He was obviously concerned by the fact that she was travelling alone. Zayedi men could be extremely protective, to the point of being overbearing. So Jayne subsided with a shrug and watched him scurry away.
Pulling the white chiffon scarf out the side pocket of her handbag where she’d tucked it in before leaving Auckland, Jayne looped it around her neck. It wasn’t a hijab, but it would do. Zayed was more modern than its neighbouring states, some of the youth even wore jeans, but most women still adopted conservative dress. Jayne knew that the narrow black trousers and casual geometric patterns of the black and white shift dress she wore over them were acceptably modest…even if they were straight out of this season’s budget fashions in Auckland, a far cry from the traditional jilbab and colourful kaftans so many older married Zayedi women wore.
From where she sat, Jayne could see the long wall of glass that separated the airport from the drop-off zone outside. A fleet of shiny black Mercedeses were parked there, reminding her of the extent of the wealth in this desert sheikhdom.
A commotion a way down the concourse attracted her attention. Jayne rose to her feet to get a better look. A knot of uniformed men were causing a stir. Her gaze narrowed. She recognized those uniforms, they belonged to the Emir of Zayed’s palace guard. They held some very unpleasant associations. The last time she’d seen the red and khaki colours had been here, at this airport, when the men wearing them had been charged with making sure she left Zayed.
Behind them she caught a glimpse of a tall man in a dark suit. His sheer imposing height and the familiar tilt of his head caused her heart to leap. Tariq. Jayne froze, her muscles tight, and her head swam with the sudden light-headedness caused by the panic that swirled through her.
He was coming closer. Her pulse grew choppy, loud in her ears. His head turned and their eyes connected. The first thing that struck her was that his eyes were still the colour of pure, molten gold. The second was that they were not the least bit welcoming.
Tariq raked her from head to toe, and his lip curled. Instantly all the old insecurities crashed back. She was plain Jayne Jones, in the everyday chain-store shift dress that she’d worn over her most comfortable black trousers for the flight.
The antipathy directed at her caused Jayne to stumble backward. Nothing had changed. Her husband detested her. The earth rocked under her feet and she glanced away, disconcerted. And caught sight of the red carpet. Of the trio of little girls holding posies. But it took the black print on the brightly coloured banner two women were unfurling to jolt her into disbelief. Welcome Back Sheikhah, it read.
This dog-and-pony show was intended for her.
In a flash the reason for the official’s agitation became clear. Her first meeting with Tariq was going to be conducted under public scrutiny. Jayne’s palms grew clammy and her pulse started to race.
No.
She gave the gathering crowd a wild glance, took in the scaffolding with the mounted television cameras, clearly here to film her return. She was so not prepared for this hullabaloo. She’d come to meet Tariq, to talk in private about their divorce.
Tariq was walking with purpose. Backed by the squad of the palace guard, he looked dangerous, resolute. But Jayne knew that whatever the reason he’d demanded her return to Zayed, it had nothing to do with the love they had once shared.
She cast a frantic gaze around. People were milling forward, crowding around the red carpet, the guards and the powerful, commanding man in the heart of all the fuss. No, she hadn’t come to be part of this…circus.
She wanted to meet Tariq on her terms. In private. Without an audience.
Two cameramen with huge cameras mounted on their shoulders that sported the local TV network logo rushed ahead of Tariq to capture the moment for the news. They blocked Tariq from her view.
Cautiously Jayne edged forward. No one was looking in her direction. With a surreptitious movement, she hitched the sheer scarf off her shoulders and draped it across her hair, then hoisted up the Louis Vuitton bag, a legacy from her past life with Tariq. Keeping her head down, she made quickly for the double sliding doors that led out of the airport. They hissed open and she escaped through.
The heat hit her like a wall. Oppressive. An inferno compared to the coolness in the airport and the temperate weather she’d left behind in Auckland. Jayne thought she heard a shout. She didn’t look back. Instead she kept her head down and increased her pace. A taxi was parked behind the string of Mercedeses.
As she broke into a run a taxi driver straightened from the low railing he’d been leaning against and parted his lips into a smile that revealed stained yellow teeth separated with chunks of gold. “Taxi?” He opened the rear door and music blared out.
“Yes,” she gasped, deafened as she fell into the backseat. When she didn’t bother to haggle over the rate, his smile grew wider still. “Take me to the palace. Please.”
The smile withered and he shot her a lightning-fast once-over glance, before climbing into the driver’s seat and turning the radio down a notch.
“Hurry,” she said, peering anxiously out the window beside her.
The motor roared, drowning out the radio for a moment, and her unsuspecting rescuer swerved out onto the strip of concrete road.
Driven by an impulse she could not explain, Jayne turned back to stare through the rear window at the glass doors through which she’d escaped.
His tie flapping with his stride, Tariq strode through the glass doors. Behind him followed the pack of palace guards. Jayne shrank back into her seat. Even from this distance she could tell that Tariq did not look pleased. The angle of his broad shoulders, the set of his head, the impatience in his long stride all showed his fury.
Trepidation coursed through her. This was no longer the young man she’d fallen in love with. This was a different Tariq. Older. Regal. The only son of the Emir of Zayed. A man accustomed to having his orders obeyed.
Jayne closed her eyes in relief at having gotten away. The taxi rocked from side to side as the driver darted through the traffic. Afraid that the roller-coaster motion might make her queasy, Jayne opened her eyes.
“Hey, slow down.”
Jayne sighed in exasperation when her demand met no response, and leaned back into her seat to brace herself for the ride.
The airport was located a distance away from the city. On the left side of the car, the stony desert stretched away as far as the eye could see. On the other side, a narrow strip of land separated the six-lane highway from the azure sea. A couple of minutes later they passed the desalination plant that Jayne knew had cost millions to set up ten years ago.
The taxi driver swerved past a tourist camper van and cut across to the exit. Once away from the highway, they wove through the city streets between old historic buildings and modern glass skyscrapers.
“Are we being followed?” Clutching at the seat belt as they hurtled through an older section of the city between ancient mosques and colourful souqs, Jayne voiced her worst fear.
But the taxi driver didn’t answer. Could he even hear her with the radio blaring? Jayne wished she’d sat up front. But this was Zayed, not New Zealand. Women didn’t sit up front. Not unless they wanted the taxi driver to construe the move as flirtation. While Zayed was a safe country, a woman travelling alone had to take care not to attract unwelcome attention. She shouted the question more loudly.
The taxi driver glanced in the rear mirror. “No one is following.”
But Jayne’s apprehension didn’t ease and the knot in her stomach grew tighter. Tariq was going to be fit to be tied. She shivered, then reason set in.
It was his own fault. He should have warned her. He should never have sprung that spectacle back at the airport on her. She gave her casual outfit a quick once-over. At least then she would’ve had the chance to dress up a little. Make the best of the little she had. Not that clothes and a little bit of makeup could bridge the gulf between them. They were too far apart. In every way.
She tried to set the worry aside, tried to tell herself that the sooner she met with Tariq in private and got it over with the better. But even that didn’t help. Jayne’s fingernails bit into her palms. She’d explain. She’d tell him that—
The sudden swerve of the taxi threw Jayne against the door, and she gave a shriek of fright. The driver leapt out of the car and Jayne could hear shouting.
When she emerged from the back of the car, her heart pounding, a shocking sight met her eyes. A youth was sprawled on the road, his bicycle lying on its side. He was groaning.
“Oh, my heavens.” Jayne moved toward the victim but the taxi driver grabbed her arm.
“Wait, it could be a set-up…”
“How can it be a set-up? He’s hurt!”
The youth was screaming now. A basket, its lid off, lay on the road and a clutch of ginger chickens were clucking in terror.
“Is he okay?” Jayne’s first concern was for the youngster. “Did we hit him?”
“No, no. The idiot—”
The youth interrupted with a deluge in Arabic. Jayne held up her hand. “Is he hurt?”
The taxi driver rattled off and the boy muttered, shaking his head. Relieved Jayne said, “What about his bike?”
“No problem.”
A crowd had started to gather. Quickly Jayne peeled some notes out of her bag.
“U.S. dollars.” The youth’s eyes lit up as he reached for them.
The taxi driver started to protest, Jayne handed him the next set of notes. “You can leave me here.” She’d had enough of his driving.
“But the palace?” He looked suddenly nervous.
Jayne waved a hand. “Don’t worry about taking me to the palace.” She’d have a better chance of surviving on her own. Jayne looked left and right, hitched her handbag over her shoulder and grabbed the handle of her suitcase.
Down the street she could see the flower souq, the market where blooms were brought early each morning. Across the road a pension-style hotel attracted her eye. It looked modest and unassuming, the kind of place where a woman alone would be safe from unwelcome attention. She could stay there for the night. And tomorrow she’d be better prepared to face Tariq, rested and refreshed. She started to feel better.
A hand brushed her arm. Jayne tensed and spun around, then relaxed. The taxi driver thrust a grimy square of cardboard at her. Jayne glanced down. Mohammed al Dubarik and a scrawl of Arabic characters followed by some numbers that clearly belonged to his cell phone. With a final flash of yellowed teeth and bright gold, he departed in a roar of dust.
Jayne shoved the card into her bag and looked both ways then hefted up her bag to cross the street. The curious crowd, sensing the drama was played out, started to disperse. Pulling the chiffon scarf more securely over her head she made for the door of the pension. She’d almost reached it when a touch on her shoulder startled her.
At first she thought the taxi driver had returned.
She turned her head…and saw the youth who had fallen off the bicycle. Standing, he looked a whole lot bigger. And far more threatening with the gang of faces that loomed behind him. With no chickens and no bike, he suddenly didn’t look so young and vulnerable. In fact, he looked downright menacing.
And then she saw the knife.
Jayne screamed. The sound was cut off midutterance as the biggest youth moved with the speed of a striking snake and shoved her up against the rough plaster wall of the pension. Through the tinted glass door, Jayne glimpsed an elderly man inside the pension, behind the reception desk, he caught her eye and looked away.
No help from that quarter.
Fear set in like a bird fluttering frantically within her chest. “Please, don’t hurt—”
A screech of brakes. A shout of a familiar voice in Arabic. Then she was free.
Jayne heard the sound of feet rushing along the sunbaked sidewalk, caught a glimpse of khaki and red uniforms giving chase.
“Jayne!”
She knew that voice. Recalled it from her most shattering dreams…and her worst nightmares. She sagged against the rough plastered wall of the pension as Tariq leapt from the Mercedes, shutting her eyes, blocking him out. All of him. The lithe body that moved with the fluidity of a big cat, the hawklike features that had hardened with the passage of the years, the golden eyes that were molten with a terrible anger.
“Get in.”
“I want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” The molten eyes turned to flame. “Get into the car.”
To her astonishment, Jayne found herself obeying. The Mercedes smelled of leather, of wealth and a hint of the spicy aftershave that Tariq wore—had always worn. The scent wove memories of Tariq close to her, holding her, of his skin under her lips. She shrank into the corner and curled away from the unwelcome memories. Memories that she had come here to excise forever. By getting a divorce.
“Look at me.”
She turned her head. His face was set in stone. Hard. Bleak as the desert. Until she detected a tangle of swirling emotions in his eyes. Not all of which she could identify. There was anger. Frustration. And other emotions, too. Dark emotions that she’d hoped never to see again.
Two
“So, you decided to avoid the welcome I had planned for you.” As the Mercedes pulled away, Tariq delivered the statement in a flat, emotionless tone, despite the rage that seethed inside him at what had nearly happened to her.
“Welcome?” Jayne laughed. It was not a happy sound. Annoyingly, she looked away from him again and he couldn’t read her eyes—the eyes that had always given away her every emotion. “You would be the last person I’d expect to welcome me anywhere.”
“I am your husband. It is my duty to welcome you to Zayed.”
Jayne didn’t respond.
“Why did you run?” He didn’t like the fact that she had taken one look at him in the airport and fled. Whatever else lay between them in the past, Jayne had never feared him. Nor was he happy with the notion that the only reason she was in the car was because he was the lesser of two evils. The thought that she considered his company only a notch above that of the youths who had assaulted her turned his mouth sour.
“I wasn’t dressed for the occasion.”
Anger rose at her flippant response and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Was she so unmoved by the attack? He knew that it would prey on his mind for a long time to come. He had thought that he had no feeling left for his errant wife, that her actions had killed every feeling he’d ever nurtured for her. But the instant he had seen that young dog lay his hand on Jayne, rage—and something else—had rushed through him. He could rationalise the anger, the blind red mist of rage.
She was his woman.
No other man had any right to touch her. Ever.
What he couldn’t understand was his concern for Jayne, the woman who had behaved so atrociously in the past. He couldn’t understand this urge to make such a woman feel safe, to assure her that what had happened out there in the back-streets of Jazirah wasn’t her fault. Even though it would never have happened if she had graciously accepted the welcome he’d arranged.
Before he could work through the confusing threads, Jayne was speaking again, “I don’t intend to stay long. A big welcome like the one you arranged would give the wrong impression and suggest that I’ve returned to stay.” She shrugged. “I thought it for the best to leave.”
“The best for whom? You? It certainly did me no good to be left standing there looking like a fool.”
“You would never look like a fool. But I would’ve. I was ill prepared for the occasion. How do you think I would’ve looked…sounded…on national television?”
Tariq swept his gaze over her, taking in the tension in every line of her body, the way the cheap clothes stuck to her in the heat, the dishevelled hair revealed under the scanty hijab that had fallen away and the white-knuckled hands clasped on her lap. Perhaps she wasn’t as composed as she sounded. Perhaps the attack had shaken her. In the old days she would’ve come apart, started to cry, she’d been so gentle, with her huge, adoring, doelike brown eyes. It had been her gentleness that had caused him to love her. There had been so little tenderness in his own life.
“What are you looking at? I’m sorry if I’m not wearing haute couture. I’m sorry if you think I’m unfit for your company.”
There was an unfamiliar note of annoyance in her voice, and resentment flashed in her eyes. Tariq blinked in astonishment. Where had this come from? Jayne had always been easygoing and eager to please, hero-worshipping him. “Unfit for my company?” he repeated. “I have never thought that. I married you, didn’t I?”
She ran a hand over her face. “Look, I feel like I’ve been flying forever. I’m tired, cranky. The last thing I wanted was a welcome reception with TV cameras, for heaven’s sake.”
“Your apology is accepted.”
He waited and watched the wide brown eyes flash again. He almost smiled. Yes, he could get used to this.
“It wasn’t an apology, it was an explanation why I am less civil than normal.” Her voice was curt. “You should not have sprung that surprise on me. And as for what’s best for me, yes, in the past our relationship was always about what you and your fa—family wanted. I didn’t need that circus back there at the airport. I came here for one reason only, to talk. With you. Alone. To get a divorce. I didn’t want to be welcomed back as your sheikhah. That would be a lie, because I have no intention of staying.”
Tariq gave her a long, level glance. She wanted a divorce. Three months ago he’d have been too eager to grant her that, he would have been grateful to have the gentle, malleable wife, who he tried so hard never to think about, out of his life. But then everything had changed. His father was far from well. He needed her in Zayed at his side. And after his response to her attack and seeing the new flash of fire in her, he was not sure that he’d be letting her go too quickly.
For the first time in his life he was confused. And he didn’t like that bewildering sensation at all.
The palace lay ahead of them, dazzling, stupendous. The sandstone had been bleached over the centuries to a warm and inviting shade of gold. A mirage. Because Jayne knew that behind the walls lay a world of intrigue, politics…and the cold heart of the Emir who had destroyed her.
They drove around the side and under the rising wrought-iron portcullis into a large courtyard paved with cobbles where the Mercedes slowed to a stop. The driver opened her door and Jayne alighted.
Even now, with her confidence rebuilt after more than five long years away, she felt apprehensive as she entered the immense vaulted hallway through the side door.
“I’d like to call my sister to let her know I arrived safely.” Jayne craved the reassurance of Helen’s no-nonsense voice.
“Of course.”
She thought of Samantha’s request for photos. “And is there somewhere I can use for e-mail?”
“Yes, my study is available to you at any time.”
“Thank you.” She directed a small smile up at him.
Tariq went still. His eyes glinted as he came closer. “Jayne—”
“Excellency, it is good that you are back.” The interruption came from an aide wearing a worried frown. “Sheikh Tariq, there is need for your presence. Sheikh Ali has arrived demanding an audience. He has brought Sheikh Mahood, and they have been waiting for you.” The aide was wringing his hands.
Tariq moved away. Jayne felt his withdrawal, and it left a chill, cold feeling in her chest. Her heart sank further at the mention of Sheikh Ali. That was another name she would never have regretted not hearing in her lifetime again. She sneaked a sideways glance at Tariq.
His face had darkened. “Tell them that I will be with them shortly.”
“I’ve already told them that you were welcoming the sheikhah back after a long absence. They do not care about that, they are only concerned about the issue of grazing rights in the northern territories.”
Jayne flinched at Tariq’s short, sharp curse. Then he turned to her. “I need to go. I will see you at dinner.” Tariq’s voice was brisk, businesslike. “We will talk further then. In the meantime, Latifa will show you to your apartments.”
Jayne hadn’t heard the woman’s silent approach. Her face was round with the plumpness of youth, her eyes wide and respectful as she gazed at Jayne, waiting for instruction.
“Wait—” Jayne called after Tariq, but he didn’t hear, because his pace picked up as he strode away to attend to the latest crisis in Zayed, his head bent to listen to the aide beside him.
A sense of loss ebbed through Jayne. She forced it back with effort and turned to the young woman who waited respectfully. “Thank you, Latifa. I’d appreciate it if you showed me to my room. I’m looking forward to freshening up.”
It turned out to be a vast boudoir with stone arched windows that looked out onto the lush palace gardens filled with date palms, fountains and the clinging fragrance of honeysuckle and gardenia.
Jayne kicked off her shoes and toured around the rooms, exploring the crannies before making her way to the large bathroom where Latifa had filled the enormous spa bath. The sweet scent of the crushed rose petals was inviting…intoxicating. One of those little luxuries that seeped the ache out of the soul, made the daily misery of life in Zayed seem bearable.
Ten minutes later, lying back in the sleek, scented water, the realisation that she was back here in Tariq’s world, where she’d sworn never to return, sank in.
Jayne wondered whether there would be chance to talk with Tariq later. Her husband was an important man. He was no figurehead sheikh. His father had always demanded his full involvement in the affairs of the state that he would one day head. Not that the Emir would be in any hurry to relinquish control of his rule.
In the past the demands on Tariq’s time had driven a wedge between them. And Jayne was relieved that on this visit it was not her problem. She no longer needed Tariq to fulfil the role of husband and lover. All she required was sufficient time to discuss his enigmatic statement:
“There will be no divorce. Not yet. But it is possible that the time will come soon. Very soon. We will talk.”
She wasn’t accepting that kiss-off. She had come to Zayed for a divorce. The time was here. She would not allow Tariq to dominate her as he had done in the past. She’d grown up; she was no longer in awe of her powerful husband.
A long soak left her body feeling heavy and languid. At last Jayne summoned the energy to get out of the bath and, wrapped in a soft ivory towel, she made her way back to the sumptuous bedroom where her meagre selection of clothing had been packed into the cupboard by Latifa.
Mindful of the conservative nature of the palace, Jayne chose a long black skirt that clung to her hips before falling to just above her ankles and teamed it with a black top with a vee-neck and long, trumpet-shaped sheer chiffon sleeves. A pair of ballet-style black pumps and she was as ready as she’d ever be to face Tariq.
Downstairs she was surprised to find only Tariq waiting for her in the small salon. He’d shed the dark designer suit and wore a traditional white thobe. It added to his height, emphasised his dark, hawklike features and made him appear more imposing than ever. Jayne hesitated in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”
In the past, facing a room full of strangers she barely knew at the end of the day over the long dinner table had been one of the major strains of life in the palace. Aides and distant family members of the Emir, members of desert clans, all came to the palace to seek advice from the Emir or one of the senior members of the ruling family. And she’d expected the delegation Tariq had met with about the grazing rights earlier today to be here.
“My father is…not well. Many are keeping vigil in the courtyard and antechamber outside his rooms.”
“Oh.” For a brief moment Jayne considered asking what was wrong with the Emir, then she decided against it. It would be too direct a question. Too impolite. And then there was the fact that she was reluctant to become embroiled in an argument with Tariq about his father. Which was where any innocent, well-meaning query would end. Instead she focused on what she’d come for. “Can we talk about finalising the divorce?”
“After dinner,” Tariq said. “You have been travelling, you will need sustenance.”
“I’ll be fine, this won’t take long.” She glanced at him with a frown. He was prevaricating. That was a palace etiquette rule, if it would raise conflict, a matter could not be aired during a meal. “I can’t believe you forced me to fly across the world to talk about a divorce to which I am entitled.”
His expression became distant. “You are not entitled to it, not until I give my consent.”
She gave a snort of disgust. “Surely you’re not going to take that line. It’s antiquated. If this is about your male pride, then you may divorce me. I don’t care. You needn’t have dragged me across the world for this.”
His eyes were hooded. “You will be recompensed for any…inconvenience.”
“That’s not necessary.” She raised her chin. She didn’t need his money. “All I want is the divorce. That will be worth every cent of the trip.”
His brows jerked together. “You will get your divorce. When I am ready. But now we eat.”
Jayne found herself bristling at the command. But she forced herself to take a deep breath and follow him through the French doors onto the terrace outside. Stairs cut into a wall of stone, lined with flaming sconces, led to a secret garden where white flowers bloomed in the waning light. In the arbour, surrounded with white roses, a table had been laid and an array of food spread out.
Nearby a fountain tinkled, the sound of water calming Jayne’s frazzled nerves.
There was huge platter of fruit with dates and wedges of crumbly white cheese that resembled haloumi. Another plate held a selection of flatbreads with hummus, fried kibbe, the spicy meatballs with pine nuts, and a dish of tabbouleh salad. Eyeing the spread, Jayne discovered that she was hungrier than she’d thought.
“Is that falafel?” she pointed to a plate of patties.
“Ta’amiyya. It’s made with fava beans, but it’s not dissimilar to falafel. Try some.”
Jayne did. She selected a little of everything and let Tariq pour her a glass of icy water. After she’d finished eating, Tariq selected two peaches from the fruit bowl to the side of the table. Picking up a sharp knife he deftly cut the peaches into slices. The inner flesh was a ripe golden orange and the juice dripped from his fingertips.
He offered her the plate.
“Oh, I couldn’t, I pigged out.”
“Try them. The taste is sweet, the flesh of the fruit soft and succulent. They were flown in from Damascus today.”
He made them sound utterly irresistible. Against her better judgment, Jayne reached out and took a sliver. Tasted it. The peach lived up to everything he had promised.
“Like it?”
“Mmm.”
His eyes grew darker at her throaty murmur. “You used to make delighted sounds like that when we made love.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you do.” Tariq’s eyes were hooded, but his voice was softer than velvet and caused little shivers to spread through her.
The meal was over. She no longer had to observe social niceties. It was time for a little directness. “I don’t want to remember. I want to go back home, to move on with my life.”
“There was a time when your home was with me—”
She waved a hand, dismissing his claim. “That was another life.”
“So, there is another man…at this new home?”
“I didn’t say that.” But Jayne couldn’t help thinking of Neil, who had waited so patiently, asking her out every couple of weeks, taking her refusals stoically. He was so safe. So different from her overwhelming husband—and that was precisely what made Neil so attractive. He wouldn’t take her to the highs or the lows that Tariq had. He wouldn’t crush her love and her trust and rip her heart out.
“I have no doubt that the sudden urge for the divorce is linked to a man.” Tariq’s savage cynicism took her aback.
“Why does it have to be about a man? I want to move on, get a life.” Jayne swallowed under his quelling gaze. “I want my identity as Jayne Jones back. I no longer want to be associated with you, Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, son of the Emir of Zayed.”
The look he shot her was deadly. “I hadn’t realised I was such a liability.”
“Surely you want to move on, too? Get married? Have children?”
“Maybe.” His face gave nothing away.
A sharp stab of emotion pierced her. His father had wanted Tariq to marry Leila, the daughter of one of the sheikhs who had arrived at the palace earlier today. Both men were counted amongst the Emir’s closest friends. Sheikh Ali was a power in the north of the country. He owned extensive land, controlled oil leases and governed several, at times, unruly clans. And Leila’s uncle, Sheikh Mahood, was related by marriage to a sultan who ruled a bordering state that put out a massive amount of barrels of oil per day. Tariq’s marriage to Leila would solidify the fate of Zayed, making the tiny country more powerful and strategic in the region.
No doubt that marriage would take place once their divorce was final.
“On the way from the airport you said that in the past our relationship was always about what I wanted, about what my family wanted. That it wasn’t about you. I don’t remember it that way.” His voice lowered to throb a little above a murmur. “In fact, I remember sitting on a hard park bench in London, not far from that awful one-bedroom flat we rented, and staring into your eyes while we talked about the future and shared our dreams. It was about us. Not me. Not my family.”
How dare he remind her of those long-ago days? She’d been so young, so in love with the gorgeous student she’d met at the Tate Gallery. Too soon they’d been married. A mad, later regretted, impulse. “Our marriage was a mistake.”
Before his world and the reality of who he was—the Emir of Zayed’s only son—had come crashing in on them. Memories of the bittersweet days when he’d loved her—and she’d loved him—with youthful joyfulness haunted her. Then the long shadow of his father, the Emir of Zayed, had raised its head. Tariq had been summoned back to his father’s control and overnight everything had changed.
He had changed.
Jayne’s fingernails bit into her palms. She’d changed, back then, too. She’d gone from sensitive to wan and needy. And that had been before the discovery that—
“We were happy,” he interrupted her thoughts. “For a while.”
“Until I found out who you were, and everything changed.” She took a long, hard look at him. He was still the most earth-shatteringly gorgeous male she’d ever met. His golden eyes glowed with intelligence. His high, slanting cheekbones, the arrogant blade of his nose above the chiselled lips, still had the power to make her heart race. But, clad in the thobe, the fearsomely muscled body hidden beneath the white folds, he looked foreign, dangerous and very, very powerful.
“Who I was should never have changed what we had.”
“Oh, come on, Tariq. You can’t honestly believe that? The pressure of being the successor to the Emir of Zayed, the hostility of your father—”
“Leave my father out of this!” His face darkened. “He never did anything to harm you. It was your behaviour, your treachery, that destroyed what we had.”
Jayne shut her eyes blocking out the familiar invective. The Emir had hated her from the start, done everything he could to break up what they shared. And, in the end he’d succeeded. She’d been driven away, her spirit beaten, her heart broken.
Tariq had hated her.
“What does the past matter? You say it was my treachery that drove us apart. But in the end it was your lack of trust that killed what we had, Tariq. So what’s the point of—”
“My lack of trust?” Fury turned the body beside her to steel. “You—”
“There’s no point to all this, Tariq.” She turned her head and stared at the water bubbling from the fountainhead. “It’s over. I want a divorce…and once I leave I never want to see you or your father again.”
“You may just get your wish.” He drew a deep breath. “My father is dying.”
Jayne heard his words from a distance; they didn’t sound quite real. Six years ago she’d wished that the old Emir could…simply disappear out of her life…out of Tariq’s life. Then, his death would have solved all her problems. Yet now she didn’t care.
She felt numb. She told herself it was because she’d moved on. She had a life. And that life did not include Tariq. Not even if his father was dying.
“What does that have to do with me?” She kept her voice expressionless. “I don’t care about your father. I don’t care if he’s dying.” She swallowed her pain and flicked him a look. A flash of raw emotion glittered in his eyes. It was quickly suppressed. Her throat closed, feeling hot and tight. “I have no desire to see your father. Not ever again. When you told me to leave five and a half years ago, I told you that.”
“You said you never wanted to see me, either.” His mouth kinked into a mocking line. “Yet here you sit, in front of me. So, nuur il-en, never is a long time. Death has a finality that comes to us all. My father feels it is time for me to settle—he wants that reassurance before he dies.”
He paused. The silence swelled darkly around them, coloured by the undercurrents between them.
“So?”
“Who better for me to settle with than my lawfully wedded wife?”
Jayne gave an uncontrollable laugh. It was hard and grating. Alien. As alien as the notion that the Emir would ever accept her as the consort for his son. “That’s the last thing your father wants. He’d prefer to see me in hell.” She gave him a twisted smile. “What about Leila? Why not settle down with her? Your father would approve that match like a shot.”
“Unfortunately, Leila is now married. I do not approve of bigamy.”
Unexpectedly, Jayne’s heart lifted at the information. Then she quashed her exultation. It had nothing to do with her, who he married. “So divorce me and find another bride.”
“There is no time. My father needs to be assured that I am married, happily reconciled with you. Now. And you are going to help me achieve that. As soon as he is dead you can leave. With this divorce you want so badly.”
There was something savagely ironic at the idea that Tariq wanted her aid to deceive his father into thinking he was settled. But she had no intention of staying. She shook her head. “I want you to sign the consent to our divorce, then I want to leave.”
“You never used to be this hard of heart—”
“Me? Hard-hearted?”
“You used to be gentle, loving.” Tariq continued.
“Until you and your father got hold of me.”
Tariq’s gaze turned dark with bitterness. “Don’t blame—”
“Oh, what is the use?” She wasn’t going to get through to him. She gave a dismissive shrug. “I don’t care anymore what you think of me. I’ve grown up. I don’t need your approval anymore.”
Tariq’s lips thinned into a hard line. “But you do want a divorce. And I’m not signing anything unless you stay. So unless you convince my father all is well between us before he dies, I will not consent to a divorce. Ever.”
“I’ll sue for divorce from New Zealand.”
“And I’ll oppose you. Even though our marriage was recorded at the New Zealand High Commission in London at the time, we were married according to the laws of Zayed and I am a citizen of that country. You need my consent. I have a lot of money to fight you with. And you know that I will succeed. Otherwise you would have applied for divorce in New Zealand. Not come all the way here to persuade me to give you this divorce.”
He had her there. “Tariq, what you’re asking is impossible.”
Tariq glanced at his wife and suppressed the tenderness that threatened to spill out. She looked bewildered, off balance for the first time since her arrival. Not even when she’d been faced by those young thugs had she looked as shattered. She’d remained calm, unflustered, sitting beside him with her long lashes lowered against the porcelain skin he’d always relished, while he’d simmered with rage that any one dared touch his woman.
He’d wanted to arrest the youth, have him expelled from Zayed for touching Jayne. He’d fought the red, red rage for calm.
And in that instant he’d known that he was going to make this divorce as difficult as he could. But none of the seething emotion was revealed when he said, “I am not asking the impossible. It is my wish, dearest beloved—”
“Don’t call me that. I am no longer your dearest beloved.”
“That is true. You are no longer my dearest beloved.” He knew she’d recognised his point by the way her body tensed against his. But he was not yet ready to open the wounds of the past. “Stay until my father dies. That is the last thing I ask of you, my wife—” he paused, waiting for her to respond to the subtle mockery, but her lashes again swept her cheeks “—before I grant you the divorce you seek so urgently.”
He watched as she examined her nails. They were short, bare of polish. “How long?”
At her question his head came up. He narrowed his gaze, searching her averted face for guile. “What do you mean, ‘How long’?”
“How long…must I stay?”
“Until my father dies.”
“Yes…I know…but how long will that be?”
Something constricted in his chest as she flouted the conventions that frowned on such directness. Tariq felt a burning sense of…frustration…that she so clearly wanted out of their marriage, that she was prepared to ask him to quantify how many days remained for his father in this realm. He shrugged. “How long is a piece of thread?”
“That’s no answer.” At last she looked at him. “I want a time limit.”
“I don’t know.” He stared at her, brooding. Hoped she didn’t see all the way to his soul to the dark, black well of sorrow and confusion that lay there. “The thread of his life is close to snapping. He is very weak and in much pain. The doctors say it could be a week or two weeks. They don’t give him longer than a month.”
“A month!” She hesitated, her eyelashes lowered again. Her teeth closed on her bottom lip.
He waited, giving her time. She was impatient. Tariq narrowed his gaze on her teeth, the endearing gap between them, and wondered what it was about this Neil that had her so enthralled that she’d come back to the country she’d sworn never to return to, to get her divorce. The pictures of the man, procured from the detective agency he’d hired immediately after her call to his father’s aide, showed an ordinary-looking man with a thatch of blond hair and an innocuous smile. Nothing pointed to Jayne having a sexual relationship with this man, this Neil.
Yet.
Right now that was the only thing keeping Tariq sane.
He had banished her. But he had not yet divorced her. He, Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, owned her. And what he owned he kept. Until he decided to rid himself of the troubling possession. As he would.
After his father died.
At last she looked up at him, her eyes darkened by shadows of turmoil. Her features pinched and drawn, a woman driven beyond her limits.
“Okay, I’ll stay. But not for more than a month. I want your word on that. If your father hasn’t…” Her voice trailed away.
“Died?” he supplied.
“Yes.” She paused and shifted, looking dreadfully uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. Then it came out with a rush. “Even if he hasn’t…well…died, I want to go home in a month. I want you to swear you will give me a divorce.”
It was time to cut her a little slack. It was extremely doubtful that his father would survive that long. “You have my word. Stay for the month and you will get the divorce you desire.” Tariq allowed his voice to soften. “You will find my father…changed. He’s very ill. He has moments when the medication takes effect and he is not himself.” It pained Tariq that his strong father was so frail, so weak, in his body and his mind. It devastated him that disease had crept up undetected on the seemingly invulnerable Emir. “For that month you must promise me that you will strive to convince my father in his lucid moments that we are reconciled.”
She drew a deep breath, then whispered, “I promise.”
Three
The following morning Jayne crept silently into the Emir’s quarters. A couple of men huddled in the antechamber murmuring prayers and didn’t notice her sneaking past. The male nurse in the bedchamber nodded to Jayne as she entered.
Jayne was shocked at the change in the tyrant who had made her life such a misery. Sheikh Rashid lay in the high bed, his face gaunt, the bones showing through skin as pale as parchment, his lips drained of all colour. He turned his head when she paused beside him. Jayne had a glimpse of rheumy eyes, great black sunken rings around them, and then his eyelids closed again.
“He is not well today,” the nurse said. “He has been drifting in and out of consciousness, confused about what is real and what is not. The painkillers are not helping.”
“What exactly is wrong with him?” Jayne asked delicately.
“He has cancer of the bowel. It has been eating him, sapping his vitality.”
So it was true. The old Emir really was dying. But Jayne felt no satisfaction…or even regret. Instead, a searing sadness followed by a vast well of emptiness filled her.
“I’m so sorry.”
Sheikh Rashid’s eyes opened. For a moment there was a flare of recognition. Jayne recoiled. The Emir muttered something indistinct.
“He is talking to you,” the nurse said. “Bend closer.”
Wary, as if he could bite, Jayne moved closer. She leaned forward.
“Lina,” she thought he whispered.
Jayne frowned. “He’s saying something.” She waited a moment, then reached out awkwardly and touched the pile of bedclothes. “I am here.”
“Lina,” he whispered more insistently.
Her eyes troubled, Jayne said to the nurse, “I think he is confusing me with someone else.” She patted the bedclothes, feeling the bony shoulder through the coverings.
His eyelids fluttered down and his breathing became regular.
“He’s sleeping. Your presence is soothing him.”
There must be some mistake. If he knew about her presence, the Emir would be rabid with rage. Withdrawing her hand, Jayne backed away to the door.
When Jayne went searching for Tariq a little while later, the disturbing sense of unease aroused by her visit to the Emir still had not left her. She found Tariq in the mews where the royal raptors were housed. Squinting through the dim light to the back of the building, Jayne made out Tariq’s form clad in his distinctive white thobe.
She picked her way past a row of hooded birds perched on railings. There had been times in the past when she’d thought the birds were accorded more respect and affection than she had been.
The falcon perched regally on Tariq’s glove glowered at her with suspicious eyes that reminded her instantly of Tariq—even though these were dark and his were pure gold. It was a larger bird than she’d expected to see. But the bird had the same long, pointed wings and dark eyes.
“That’s not Khan,” Jayne said, referring to Tariq’s prized bird. The bird gaped at her, its beak open, a show of aggression to an unfamiliar intruder.
“This is Noor, a young bird that I’m training. Like Khan, she’s a shaheen—a peregrine—but she doesn’t know you.”
“She’s bigger.” Jayne eyed the bird’s open mouth with caution. The feathers on the falcon’s head and neck were black, and a dark stripe extended down from the eye to the throat. Noor’s throat and cheeks were white with narrow banded stripes on her breast and flecks across her back.
“She’s a female, they’re up to a third larger than the males. Here.” Tariq passed Jayne a small piece of meat. “Place it in her open beak. It will stop her threatening you.”
Jayne fed the bird gingerly, wary of the sharp beak. When the titbit was gone, Noor tilted her head expectantly. “No more for now,” Jayne told the bird. To Tariq she said, “Where’s Khan?”
“Khan died. A long time ago.” The shadows in his eyes told her he was thinking of more than his beloved falcon.
Jayne could prevaricate no longer. “Your father is much worse than I expected.”
“I told you that he is dying.”
“I didn’t—” She broke off. I didn’t believe you. “I didn’t realise how bad it was. The nurse said that he has cancer.”
Tariq nodded. “He fought it with everything he had. He has lost the most important battle of his life.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words sounded so inadequate.
Tariq must have thought so, too, because he raised a mocking brow. “I doubt it. You always hated him.”
Jayne stared at him mutely. Now was hardly the time to correct him, to tell him that Sheikh Rashid had hated her with a ferocious intensity that had sometimes scared her witless. The Emir had seen her as an interloper, and had taken every opportunity to make her feel like an outsider, until he’d poisoned even Tariq against her.
The falcon shifted restlessly on the glove, bringing Jayne’s attention back to the bird. She studied the leather jesses bound to her legs. Noor was as captive as she had once been. “Noor wants your attention.”
“She’s hungry. She wants food.” Tariq moved his other hand into the bucket containing strips of meat. The falcon tensed, her head coming forward, anticipation in every line of her body. Tariq placed the piece of meat on the glove and the falcon lowered her head and took it.
“Here, give her another piece.”
Jayne fed it to the bird. This time Noor gave a squawk. Jayne gave the bird a wary look.
“She won’t eat you.” There was a hint of derision in his tone. “It’s easy to come to an understanding with a falcon. The falcon simply has to stay hungrier.”
Noor gaped at her again. “I don’t think she likes me.”
Tariq made an impatient sound. “She’s a bird. Noor doesn’t recognise like or love. She’s interested in having her wants satisfied. She feels no emotion.” He shot her a hooded glance. “A typical woman.”
Jayne ignored the dig. “She’s so graceful yet so strong.” She moved to stroke the bird, Noor flapped her wings in warning.
“Careful. She’s a wild animal, a predator. An opportunist. Not a house pet.”
“Is she hungry? Will you take her out to hunt? Or will she fly away?”
“She’s eaten sufficient. But even if I took her out she would not fly away. My relationship with Noor is straightforward, based on trust—unlike most male-female interactions. Noor trusts me to feed her. I trust her to return.”
Jayne felt the jab of the barb. She started to protest. Then gave up. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be drawn. Instead she said, “Your father spoke to me.”
Tariq’s gaze sharpened. “What did he say?”
“I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I think he was confused, he thought I was someone else. He called me ‘Lina.’”
His head went back, and his eyes flared to black. “That’s impossible. You must’ve misheard.”
Jayne considered him. What was that stark emotion in his eyes? Shock? Disbelief. And why? “What does it mean?”
“That was his name for my mother.” Tariq’s eyes were as empty as the stony desert she’d passed in the taxi yesterday.
“Perhaps he wants to see her?”
“No.” He made a sudden, definite movement. The falcon reacted by flapping her wings and hopping up and down on the glove. “My mother is not welcome in Zayed.”
Jayne waited. When Tariq failed to add more, she said, “I never met your mother. You never talk about her.”
“As far as my father and I are concerned, that woman does not exist.”
“Yet you see your maternal cousins, don’t you?”
“That is different. Not only are we bound by blood, we are bound by business interests, too. My cousin Zac owns supertankers, I run refineries. There’s a reason for us to get together. My cousins know that my mother is not welcome in my presence.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s how your father feels any longer. He’s dying. Perhaps he wants to make peace with your mother.”
“My mother abandoned us—him—for another man. She has her own family—another daughter.”
There was a flatness to Tariq’s tone that had Jayne shooting him a questioning look. There must be pain about his mother’s desertion. Somewhere. Deep inside him. They’d been married, yet she’d never been aware of this suffering within him.
“There is no space in her life for me or my father,” he said, feeding Noor another sliver of meat. “Nor would my father want her back.”
“Perhaps it’s not a case of wanting her back. Perhaps it’s more about wanting to tie off the loose ends in his life before he dies.”
“You misheard. My father would never want my mother back in Zayed.” The finality in Tariq’s tone warned Jayne that the subject of his mother was better left alone.
Absently Jayne watched the bird preen, her beak stroking through her feathers, setting them right. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. I just thought you might know who your father confused me with.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that he confused you.” A hand touched her hair. Jayne’s gaze jerked upward. Emotion flared in his eyes. “You both have long, dark hair and pale ivory skin.”
“I’ve never seen a photo of your mother.” Jayne was sure his mother would be beautiful. Nothing like her. Ordinary. Plain Jayne.
“There are no pictures in the palace of my mother. As there are none of you. Both of you treacherous, two-timing—”
Jayne shifted abruptly. “I’m not listening to this. I was prepared to discuss this in the past. You wouldn’t listen then and I’m not getting caught up in it all over again.” He’d stonewalled her then, breaking her heart. “It’s water under the bridge.”
Water under the bridge.
The painful memories exploded inside her. She swung away from Tariq and made blindly for the exit to the mews, to where shafts of silver sunlight broke into the gloomy interior, lighting her escape. No footsteps followed. And she was glad.
She didn’t want to talk about the baby that she’d carried in her body. The baby she’d lost. It hurt too much. It was something she could never forget, something that stayed with her every day of her life.
But what choice had she had?
The day dragged past. Jayne had bought some magazines at the airport in Auckland to read on the plane and she flicked through them listlessly. She itched for a book to read, but Tariq’s library was a place she dared not go. It held too many unpleasant reminders of his distrust.
So she lay down on the bed and dozed, until every last wisp of jetlag had lifted. When the knock sounded on the door late in the afternoon, heralding Latifa’s entrance, Jayne was ready for a distraction.
“There are many people in the palace this evening. His Excellency has been kept busy all day.” Latifa’s young eyes were kind and wise beyond their years. “I am sure Sheikh Tariq is looking forward to seeing the sheikhah tonight. There has been much talking today.”
This was what had driven her mad the first time round. The long days with no sign of Tariq. The absence of anything to do, while the men closed themselves behind high carved wooden doors, wearing sombre expressions. And few of the women she’d met had spoken English, even though some had seemed nice enough. But apart from one or two invitations none had made any overtures of friendship to her.
In the past Tariq had told her to be patient. That she would make friends in time, that her loneliness would ease.
If only it had been so simple.
“Look, this came for you today.” Latifa produced the box with the air of a magician performing a wondrous trick that deserved squeals of delight. Jayne didn’t have the heart not to smile.
“What is it?”
“It is most beautiful.” Latifa opened the lid to reveal a caftan and sheer hijab in shades of emerald shot through with bronze thread. “There are shoes to match and pants.” She pulled out the high-heeled pumps like a rabbit from a hat. “And more clothes will arrive in the morning.”
“I don’t want clothes,” Jayne protested.
But once dressed, Jayne had to admit that the colour suited her. The green accentuated the raven highlights in her hair, and her skin was paler than ever. Mascara, and a hint of kajal around her eyes to emphasise the shape, and she was ready to go. Draping the hijab across her shoulders and leaving her hair uncovered, she made her way downstairs, through the labyrinth of palace corridors.
The long table in the stateroom was laid with cutlery that gleamed in the light of the heavy chandeliers overhead. Men from the large delegation that Latifa had alluded to were already arriving; some in dark suits with only the traditional headgear, while others wore traditional dress. A few women were scattered around. A quick glance revealed that Tariq was nowhere to be seen.
An aide appeared and directed Jayne to where two vacant seats remained down the length of the table. Jayne kept her head down, aware of the speculative glances she was attracting. She was grateful for the welcoming smile from the woman seated to the left of her and they started to chat.
The woman introduced herself as Farrah Jirah in fluent English. It turned out that she was a doctor who practised in the maternity unit of the local hospital. Jayne found her charming, and she stopped worrying about where Tariq was.
When Tariq finally strode in, flanked by Ali and Mahood, Jayne could tell from the taut way he held himself that the latest round of meetings had not gone well.
Tariq’s gaze flashed to the top of the table, took in the empty place at the head. His brow drew into a frown as he scanned the surrounding seats. The tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw her.
Jayne turned back to talk to her friendly neighbour. A moment later she sensed someone beside her.
“Are you okay?”
It was Tariq. He looked tired, the lines around his mouth more deeply scored than they had been this morning, and his eyes held concern.
“I’m fine. You look tired.”
A ghost of a smile flitted over his harsh features. “It’s been a hard day.”
“I won’t even ask how whatever meetings you had went.” Ali and Mahood were trouble. Vipers. She’d known that since the first time she’d met them. And Ali’s daughter, Leila, was pure poison. Tariq was welcome to her.
Tariq sighed and said softly, “Ali is a powerful force in Zayed.”
Jayne nodded. Ali controlled a lot of the northern territory, making him an important player.
“He can’t be ignored,” Tariq continued. “But he is disruptive. And this latest skirmish Ali and Mahood have gotten into over grazing rights with Sheikh Karim al Bashir is going to cause headaches.”
“Are they fighting?”
“It hasn’t turned violent yet. But Ali claims that Sheikh Karim is threatening war.” Impatience showed in Tariq’s eyes. “The sooner I intervene, the better.”
Jayne felt a flutter of pity for him, for the predicament that Ali and his brother had put Tariq in. “But what about your father? You can’t leave him now.”
“My father wouldn’t want this disagreement to flare out of control. We can’t afford to be at war with Bashir. He will understand.”
“Why can’t Ali and Mahood understand that you’re needed here?”
He looked at her. “No one understands that. Only you. To every one else my duty to Zayed must come before all else—even my father. And now you must excuse me, nuur il-en, I must claim my seat at the head of the table before Ali usurps it.”
Ali was sitting in the vacant chair at the top of the table, his head close to the man on his right, conspiring no doubt. Jayne shifted her attention to Tariq, watched him rise from beside her, his traditional robes swirling around him, the white ghutra over his head secured by the doubled black cord that made him look more formidable than ever. She pitied Ali and Mahood if they unleashed his full ire.
She picked at her food until she sensed someone seating themselves in the place Tariq had vacated, and turned her head. The welcoming smile she’d prepared shrivelled as she met the frigid gaze of Sheikh Ali.
The dinner dragged on and Tariq found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation swirling around him. His attention was riveted on his wife. He watched as she said something to Ali. But the response caused her to sag. What had Ali said to make her skin grow so pale?
As the meal progressed his attention kept straying back. Most of the time Jayne spent chatting to the woman on her left, Dr. Farrah Jirah was a nice enough woman and he’d hoped she might befriend Jayne. He relaxed as he saw Jayne smile. But then stiffened again when he noted that the few times she attempted to talk to Ali her attempts were rebuffed. Ali was flouting the social norms of Zayedi politeness at a meal table. As host, Tariq was within his rights to request Ali to leave. Tariq’s frown grew more and more thunderous, until his dinner partners started to regard him with increasing wariness.
Ali said something to Jayne. She glanced down, and Tariq saw the wash of colour high on her ivory cheeks. He started to rise. But Jayne beat him to it. Pushing back her chair, she was on her feet before he could move. By the time he reached the elaborate carved doors flanked by two palace guards, she was already gone.
He charged into the corridor, saw her disappearing into the study he’d had an aide show her to earlier in the day. With long raking strides he set off after her.
Jayne collapsed into the leather chair behind Tariq’s desk. Her first reaction was to hop onto the Internet, to see if Helen was still awake. She felt lonely and isolated and incredibly homesick. She wanted her family, she wanted to go home, to leave this inhospitable country that had never brought her anything but pain.
The soft sound of the door closing brought the first hint that she was no longer alone.
“What did Ali say to make you leave?” An implacable anger glowed in Tariq’s eyes.
“It doesn’t matter.” Ali had been his usual obnoxious self. He’d taunted her by saying that had his daughter married Tariq, she would have done her duty, borne him fine sons and done him proud as a hostess. She’d been stupid to let Ali get to her. Jayne shook her head, suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the heat of Tariq’s body behind her, the soft hiss of his breath beside her ear as he leaned forward. Instantly, nerves started to churn in her belly. She lifted her hand from the mouse and spun the leather office chair around. Only to find herself face-to-face with Tariq. This close his eyes had the appearance of molten gold. Ensnaring her. Trapping her in the rich heat.
“It matters. You are my wife.”
She held his knee-weakening gaze. “Not for long.”
“For at least a month. And for that month I expect my countrymen to treat you with the respect that you deserve.”
“The respect I deserve because I am your woman? Or the respect that I deserve in my own right?”
“Is there a difference?” He lifted his hand to touch her cheek. “I touch this skin. It belongs to my wife and it belongs to Jayne, too. They are one and the same.”
“Jayne Jones is not your possession.”
He didn’t answer. His finger trailed down, across her lips, sensitising the soft skin.
“I should go,” she whispered against his finger.
“I don’t think so.”
She stared at him, her breathing quickening, tingles of apprehension mingled with excitement shivered down her spine. Trouble.
“You’re aware of me. Your body recognizes me.”
“That doesn’t mean you own me.”
“My body responds to you, too. Even though I resist it. You own me every bit as much as I own you.” Taking her hands, he pulled her out of the chair, against the hard, muscled length of his body. Instantly, she felt the hardness of his arousal against her stomach.
“I am leaving.”
“Too late.” His head swooped down, his mouth slanting across hers.
Heat and light and emotion scorched Jayne as his mouth met hers. All rational thought left Jayne as she parted her lips and started to kiss her husband back.
Four
All thoughts of her family, her sister, her nieces, flew away as Tariq’s mouth plundered hers. His kiss was uncompromising and the flare of heat that started deep in her stomach took her by surprise.
It had been a long time.
Too long, since she’d last felt this intensity of emotion.
As his hand threaded through her hair at the back of her neck, his fingers brushed the sensitive skin of her nape and a frisson of delight ran through her. Tariq knew exactly where to touch…to arouse her, to turn her. The fingertips now moving in little circles sent shivers through her and his lips demanded a response.
Jayne gave a little gasp, taken aback by the pent up passion that Tariq had unleashed. Instantly he pressed closer, his tongue stroking into her mouth, tasting her, slower now, languidly, as if he could never get enough.
With a groan she reached up, locking her arms around his neck, conscious of her breasts growing taut and tender as her body melted against him. She felt like a flower blooming, unfurling, under the heat of the sun. Tariq’s hands shifted against the back of her head, cradling her, bringing her closer still. She was sharply, disconcertingly aware of the tips of her breasts hardening under the loose fabric of the caftan, of the brush of his chest against the taut mounds.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss was over.
The chill that followed the wave of heat shocked her. Jayne shivered with regret. Until those drive-me-crazy hands moved again, tilting her head, and his lips landed on the soft, exposed skin of her neck. A guttural sound exploded from her. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, giving herself up to his touch, to the sheer indescribable delight. The fingers spearing through her hair released a fresh wave of shivers. And her body felt soft and pliable, boneless with want.
His teeth scraped her skin, his tongue followed, and Jayne gasped again. His mouth closed on the sensitive area beneath her ear…a trail of hot kisses, then a long stroke of his tongue set her on edge. Jayne waited…every nerve ending quivering… eager for what would come next.
In some distant space of her mind, she was half-aware of his hands leaving her hair, sliding over her shoulders, down her back, and she arched like a cat about to be stroked.
But when she felt his fingers stop, linger, and her bra strap give under the fabric of the caftan, she tensed, jolted by reality.
What was she doing?
She should not be allowing Tariq to kiss her like this. Ali’s words echoed hollowly in her head. Tariq needed a wife who would do her duty…and that woman was not her. So what on earth was she doing responding to her soon-to-be-ex like this? She couldn’t jeopardise her newly planned life simply because Tariq still turned her on.
She’d almost left it too late. Jenna heard the rasp of a zipper, felt the caftan give.
“No!”
Tariq’s hands stilled. “What do you mean ‘No’? You are my wife!”
“No!” She shuddered. She couldn’t survive the half world, the dry wasteland that had been her marriage. “I’ll never be your wife again, Tariq. Our marriage is over.” She wanted a divorce, to put Tariq and her marriage behind her and move on.
She tore out of his arms, ducked under his arm, and put half the length of the room between them. “I don’t want this.”
“Liar.” His voice was flat, his face expressionless. The light in the golden eyes had been extinguished. “You responded to me.”
He was right. She’d been far too…engaged. But she couldn’t afford to let him know that. So she looked away. “Maybe I’d have responded to any attractive man.”
“Any man?” It was a soft snarl, dangerous. “Not only me? So where does that leave the blond man who waits for you back home in Auckland, my faithless, lying wife?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Neil Woodruffe,” he said silkily. “Or had you forgotten all about the poor bastard you are holding on a string?”
“How do you know about Neil?” Neil had asked her out several times over the past months. Lately he’d taken to visiting her apartment on flimsy excuses. She’d humoured him, inviting him in. But how did Tariq know about Neil? A sick tightness gripped Jayne. One glance at Tariq’s face con firmed her suspicious. “You’re having me watched.”
He didn’t deny it.
“That’s disgusting.” The words burst from her. She hated the thought that he was spying on her. “Does it make you feel powerful to follow the details of my life? That’s sick!”
“I employed a detective when you initiated contact. You should remember that I have always believed information is key to any negotiation.” He gave her a tight smile.
Jayne’s heart thumped in her chest, so loudly that she feared he might hear. “Your lack of trust is the reason why I don’t want to be married to you anymore.”
“Do you blame me?” His mouth tightened. “No, don’t answer that, there’s no point in rehashing the past. Our marriage is over. In a month you will have your divorce, maybe sooner.”
The next day Tariq stormed down the corridor to his father’s apartments, his white thobe billowing behind him, still seething about how Jayne had managed to put him on the back foot the night before. Why was he thinking about her, when he had this whole disaster with Mahood and Ali to worry about…and he’d just been summoned to his father’s side. Had the end come?
With his father dead, Jayne would get her divorce sooner than she’d hoped.
There would be no reason to keep her in Zayed.
The palace guard leapt to attention as he swept past. “His Excellency is awake?” he asked the male nurse who was filling out a clipboard in the antechamber.
“Not only am I awake—I’m refusing to take the drugs, which is why they have called you.” The voice was thin and thready, but the eyes that met Tariq’s as he rushed into the bedchamber, with the nurse at his heels, held a hint of the old fire.
“Leave us,” Tariq commanded the nurse. Retreating with a respectful bow, the nurse closed the door.
“Father.” Tariq sank to one knee beside the bed. “You must take the morphine, it will help the pain.”
“I am feeling much better. The confusion and dizzy head is less now that I abandon the medicine.” His father’s hand rested on top of Tariq’s head. Gone was the solid weight that had stroked his hair as a child. No longer the hand of a ruler feared and revered by his subjects, but the wavering touch of a dying man. Tariq swallowed the hot thickness in his throat.
“Hadi al Ebrahim has been to see me.” Tariq’s head rose as his father spoke. “He tells me the sheikhah has returned.”
Hadi was one of his father’s most trusted aides. Tariq nodded. “She came to see you but you were—” drugged “—sleeping.” He watched his father carefully, unsure of what to say next. A couple of months ago, soon after the terrible diagnosis, Tariq had heard rumours that his father had sent Hadi on a mission to Sheikh Karim—a mission that he was not prepared to confront his father about now that he was dying. Instead he’d obliquely mentioned to his father that in terms of his marriage contract with Jayne he could take only one wife at a time. His father had looked fit to burst, calling Tariq a foolish monkey. Tariq certainly hadn’t expected his father to be overjoyed by Jayne’s return. But, for his father to die in peace, he needed to convince his father that marriage to Jayne was what he, Tariq, wanted more than anything on earth….
“Good. It is time that your wife resumes her position at your side.”
Tariq’s mouth fell open. While he was aware that his father wanted him contently married before he died, he’d anticipated a little more resistance. Especially as his father had evidently had other plans.
“Hadi is worried,” the Emir said. “He says that Ali and Mahood can make a lot of trouble for Karim—and for you.”
Tariq shrugged. “I’m sorry to say this, Father, but their trouble causing is not new.” And if Hadi had been acting as a go-between to broker a marriage between Tariq and Sheikh Karim’s half sister, then Hadi would have even more cause for concern.
“But this time they have angered Karim, you need to placate him, we cannot afford to have an angry neighbouring ruler—especially not one as powerful as the sheikh of Bashir. What will happen to our oil interests in Bashir if we are in conflict with each other?”
“I know. I have been in touch.” Sheikh Karim had laid the blame squarely at Ali and Mahood’s feet, saying they illicitly grazed herds of livestock over the border and had appropriated animals that did not belong to them. Karim had confiscated the whole herd the next time the animals had returned and impounded them.
Tariq gave a sharp sigh. “I will go—” He broke off and closed his eyes. What if his father died while he was gone? What if he missed these precious last days because of the stupidity and stubbornness of Ali and Mahood?
“When? You cannot wait.”
Tormented, Tariq opened his eyes and looked into the dark orbs close to his own. Eyes that in the past had been filled with love…anger…disappointment…and now held only a stoic acceptance.
No, he wanted to yell. Fight it. Don’t die.
Don’t leave me.
Alone.
“You can’t wait, my son. You must go. Now.”
Silently Tariq shook his head. His father’s hands were thin, the purple veins showing through the wrinkled skin. The skin that hung over his face showed a waxen cast…like a death mask, the eyes deeply sunken in the sockets.
“I order you.” It was a command, gasped out by a man used to being obeyed.
Tariq stiffened. He knew that his father would read his refusal in his eyes. He would not go. He could not leave his father. Not so near the end.
“Please.”
This time it was a plea. Tariq stared at the man who had never begged for anything in his life. The man that no one disobeyed.
“What if…” Tariq swallowed the words, unable to finish the thought.
But his father knew. “What if I die? Inshallah. It will not happen yet, I am feeling a lot better. But you cannot hover around waiting for that hour like a vulture in the noonday sky. You have a destiny…and Zayed needs you.”
Tariq started to answer back.
“Do not argue with your father. I am an old, sick man.” The bloodless lips curved into a ghost of a smile. “And by Allah, this will be the last task I ask of you, I promise that. Make peace with Karim and I will ask no more.”
“He will expect an apology.”
His father nodded.
“I will have to put something in it for him…land or oil leases.”
His father nodded again.
“I will go tomorrow.”
“Take your wife with you.”
“What?” On his way to the door, Tariq stopped and stared at his father in disbelief. He’d already planned to take Jayne with him, in order to make it doubly clear to Karim that he was not in the market for a wife. Not even for Karim’s ever-so-suitable half sister. But he’d never expected his father to suggest the same. He’d thought his father wanted the…merger… with Karim. It would’ve been convenient for all concerned. And for the two oil-rich desert countries.
“He needs to accept your wife…as I have. To know there will be no marriage between you and his sister.”
There, it was out in the open.
So the rumours were true. His father had tried to broker a new marriage for him. But hearing that Tariq could only take one wife—a wife he had not chosen to divorce—must have dissuaded him from meddling further.
A gnarled hand reached out from the bed. “My son, do not repeat my mistakes with your own wife.”
Crossing the room in one stride, Tariq closed his hands around the thin bones. “What do you mean, Father?”
For a while the Emir did not answer. Finally he said. “I am tired. Never forget, I am proud of you, my son. Now I need the morphine.”
Tariq’s hand went to the bell. The nurse arrived in a rush. The drug was administered, and his father’s eyes closed.
Tariq lingered a few minutes, a deep sense of loss swarming through him. What had his father been about to reveal? Finally he leant over to kiss the wrinkled brow. In his heart he feared this was the last time he might see his father alive.
The notion shook him to his soul.
* * *
Jayne was sitting at the stone table in the walled arbour beside the fountain, catching a little morning sun and writing out postcards to Samantha and Amy when the sound of Tariq’s footsteps clattered on the stone stairs.
“I have been to see my father,” Tariq announced, his eyes unreadable.
He dominated the comforting enclosed space of the arbour. His height, his presence, the scent of the citrusy cologne that clung to his skin all overwhelmed Jayne. She set her pen down. “You talked about your mother?”
“No!” His answer was uncompromising. “You may have heard that there is trouble brewing between Ali and Mahood and Sheikh Karim al Bashir?”
She nodded. It would’ve been difficult not to have heard the rumours that flew around the palace, or the speculation about how Tariq would react. The Emir was dying. Would he placate his father’s oldest friends? Or would he make amends to the furious Karim?
“Zayed must avoid a war with Sheikh Karim at all costs.”
Her brow creased, trying to remember what she’d heard. “He’s the ruler of a neighbouring sheikhdom, right?”
“Yes. We have many alliances—particularly over oil. We can’t afford to antagonise him.”
“Ali and Mahood are more trouble than they are worth,” she said daringly.
“Mahood and Ali are my father’s closest friends. Like brothers to him. I have to respect that bond.”
Jayne said nothing. His reply left no room for argument. He would put up with Mahood and Ali and all their guile for his love of his father.
“The trip to the desert town of Aziz should take no longer than three days. I plan to travel swiftly.”
He must fear that his father would die in his absence. Her heart squeezed at the sight of the pain etched into his features as he towered over her.
“What about—” His father. She broke off, her heart going out to Tariq. What if his father did die while he was gone? What if he left to sort out Ali and Mahood’s skirmishes and never saw his father again? As much as she loathed Sheik Rashid, Tariq loved his father.
“What about you? Or what about the divorce that you desire so highly?” His mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. “Your first thought is about yourself.”
It was so unfair! But her heart sank at the derision in his eyes, and for the first time she felt relief that she would be staying in the palace. Being surrounded by hostile aides was better than accompanying Tariq in this mood. “I have to think about me,” she fired back. “No one else does. You’ve brought me all the way across the world to cool my heels and await your return and twiddle my thumbs. To waste my time. I have things I want to do.” Like start her new course…and have a date with Neil…and start a new life, out from under Tariq’s shadow. “What if there are delays and this all takes more than three days? Does that mean you will expect me to stay longer?”
The bubbling of the water in the fountain was the only sound that broke the silence. But the soothing sound did nothing to comfort her as she waited for his reply.
At last he spoke and his eyes were hard. “I won’t leave my father for as long as a week. Not when he is so near the end. Nor will I be leaving you to cool your heels, habiibtii. You will be coming with me. Be ready to leave by daybreak.”
* * *
The courtyard behind the palace was already bustling when Jayne got there the following morning.
Tariq was waiting beside a lone white SUV, clad in a thobe with a ghutra tied with two rounds of black cord around his head. The SUV had already been packed high with provisions. In the back, beside their bags, Jayne spotted a kafas, a cage with holes to allow circulation, holding Noor along with large storage bottles of water—a sobering reminder of exactly how remote their destination was.
Jayne slowed to a halt in front of Tariq. “Is this it?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You were expecting camels?”
Not camels. Anyway, the white SUV was the modern equivalent of the white stallion for a desert traveller. But she’d expected some sort of entourage. Tariq never went anywhere alone. Bodyguards. Aides. A veritable army accompanied him. “When we travelled before—”
“Last time I organised camels because that’s what you wanted.”
She gave up. They were talking at cross purposes. He was referring to the trip they’d made in the first few months after their return to Zayed not long after their marriage in London. He’d taken her into the desert—by camel. They’d camped out under velvet skies studded with stars as bright as diamonds.
“You expected the fantasy,” he was saying, his eyes intent. “A desert romance. That excursion was supposed to be romantic—to make up for the honeymoon I’d never given you.”
She clambered into the vehicle and muttered dismissively, “Another mirage.”
“What do you mean?” He leaned in through the doorway, his brows fierce.
She shrugged, reluctant to get into a skirmish, and stared through the windshield determined not to look at him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”
“When a woman says ‘It’s nothing’ only a fool believes her.”
Jayne remained mute, pressing her lips firmly together.
She sensed him watching her. After a long moment he sighed and shut the door before walking around the front of the vehicle to hop in beside her. A flick of his wrist and the vehicle roared to life. Jayne put her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes.
Their desert romance had been nothing more than a mirage. Even that belated honeymoon had been cut short. After only two days a helicopter had landed where they were camped. Tariq had been summoned back to the palace. During the flight back he’d apologised. Promised that there’d be other times.
And Jayne had been left wondering if it had been another instance of the long hand of the Emir acting to destroy their marriage.
When she’d been taken ill with a violent stomach bug the next day, she hated everything in the desert…and Zayed.
But that was in the past.
In the end, the Emir had won.
Their entire marriage had been a mirage.
Now she’d finally made herself a new life. A real life. And she was ready to move on. Find an ordinary man with whom to create a real marriage with real children.
Turning her head, Jayne focused on the passing landscape. The morning was lovely. A smattering of clouds meant that the heat had lost the edge common even in the winter months.
“It’s hot,” she said a while later, more to break the throbbing silence than because the heat worried her.
“Tonight will be cool in the desert.” His hand flicked a dial, and a blast of cold air swirled around her. “Better?”
She stared at the lean hands on the steering wheel, and a bolt of emotion shot through her. No, it wasn’t better. The cold air did nothing to alleviate her inner tension. She swallowed. “Yes,” she said finally. “It’s cooler.”
A sideways glance revealed a hard, hawkish profile. The white ghutra should have softened his jagged profile; instead it added to the mystique and ruthlessness of the man. Her gaze lingered on the black agal—the cords that wound twice around his headdress and hung down his back. Beside his mouth, the deep, scored lines showed the strain he was under. Tariq must be terribly worried about his father…and then there was this situation that Ali and Mahood had created. She had to remember that if she felt tense, he was under infinitely more stress. Finally she turned her head away and tipped her head back again, closing her eyes, and tried to doze.
Jayne woke suddenly to find that several hours had passed and she was chilled. The desert sun had vanished and a white blanket of cloud stretched across the sky. The air-conditioning was chilly enough to have Jayne reaching into her bag for a lightweight merino cardigan.
“Cold?” Tariq fiddled with the air-conditioning controls, and the rush of cool air slowed.
“A little. Despite the heat that is probably out there.” She gestured to the desert that stretched out, bleak and inhospitable, in every direction.
“The cloud cover makes today cooler than normal.” Tariq dipped his head and glanced up through the windshield. “I don’t like the look of them, they’ve been gathering over the last hour.” He slowed and examined a gadget that had to be a GPS.
Four-wheel-drive. GPS. What was she worried about? This was the twenty-first century. The desert was not as alien and threatening as she imagined. She was overreacting, allowing her dislike and resentment of Zayed to get to her. Jayne laughed. “Rain? Little chance of that out here.”
“The desert does get storms, not often but they happen. They can be devastating because the desert does not absorb the water. So it gathers on the surface until there is sufficient for floods.”
“Floods?” Jayne stared at the barren landscape and her apprehension crept back. Just enough to make prickles rise at her the base of her neck. “Hard to imagine.”
“Believe it. As much as water brings life, rain can wreak havoc.”
“Will we be able to reach Aziz before the rain comes?”
“Maybe. If it comes at all. The clouds may dissipate—not uncommon.”
“That would be a relief.” The prospect of a desert storm did not thrill Jayne. She stared out of the window at the clouds, then at the expanse of stony ground that stretched without end to the horizon. It gave the desert a foreboding feeling, even greater than it already possessed, and Jayne shivered.
Another hour passed. They’d stopped briefly to eat pita rounds filled with shredded lamb and lettuce and tomato and drink bottles of mineral water, before setting off again. Since the meal, Tariq had been silent, but Jayne thought that they’d picked up speed. The banks of cloud had been rolling, piling high into stacks that made Jayne’s insides twist.
“I hate this place.” Jayne’s tension spilled over. “I really do.”
“I know.” Tariq’s voice held a bleak quality that made Jayne give him a quick glance.
“You shouldn’t have made me come back to Zayed.”
“I needed you.”
Her heart missed a beat. In the past she would have killed for an admission like that. But Tariq had been more focused on his father, on the good of Zayed than on her. She’d been lonely, her heart bruised by his lack of care.
“To convince your father that you will be settled after his death?”
“In my country it is believed if a man has given all his children in marriage through the course of his lifetime, then he has successfully fulfilled the duty of his life. Our marriage is not what my father considers a real marriage, so he considers that he has failed to fulfill the duty of his life. He wants me to be happily married. He believes it is time for me to have a family, children.” Tariq sighed. “He’s even tried to use a go-between to offer a bride price…he’s been plotting to find me a second wife.”
Second wife. She should’ve expected this. But still her heart plummeted at the news. Tariq with a family. With children. Once upon a time that had been her dream. “He can’t do that,” she said. “Our marriage contract—”
“Forbids that. I know. And I have advised my father that we added a clause that I may not marry another woman while married to you.”
Jayne had insisted on it. Even young and desperately in love, she hadn’t been able to overcome her greatest fear: that one day her gorgeous Zayedi husband would find a more beautiful, more accomplished wife and wish to marry a second time. Not even the status of being the senior wife would have made up for that. She’d wanted to be his only love. Forever.
Sadly, she’d never considered requesting a clause that allowed her to divorce her husband without his consent. If she had, she’d never have needed to return to Zayed. Back then, lighthearted with love, she’d thought that her marriage would last longer than the sands of the desert.
“Your father couldn’t have been pleased.” Jayne guessed that was an understatement. The Emir would’ve been enraged. Why hadn’t he demanded that Tariq divorce her?
Immediately.
“No, he wasn’t.” Tariq’s reply held a certain wryness. “But at least it appeared to put a stop to his quest to find me a second wife although certain…complications…were caused by his enthusiastic matchmaking.”
“Serves him right! He never approved of our marriage. So don’t expect me to be a hypocrite and stay for the funeral after he—” she swallowed “—dies.”
“Why would I want you to stay for my father’s funeral?” Tariq looked away from the road ahead. The eyes that met hers were full of turmoil. “You’re not—”
The ring of a cell phone rent the air, interrupting what he’d been about to say. He hit the button where the phone rested in its housing on the dashboard. “Yes?” Tariq demanded tersely.
Jayne was relieved. There had been something in his eyes…
She suspected she wasn’t ready to hear what he’d wanted to say. Not here stuck out in the middle of this inhospitable terrain with nowhere to run.
When he ended the call, he said, “There is concern about the weather. We will stop at a Bedu camp not far from here to take shelter from the cloudburst that the meteorologists are predicting.”
Five
As they approached the Bedouin camp, Jayne stared with interest at the tents that nestled at the base of a rocky rise.
“These are Bedu tribal lands,” Tariq told her as he headed the SUV for a huddle of tents. “You can’t see it clearly from here, but on the other side of the ridge there is a village with a school and a clinic, and in the surrounding area efforts are being made at de-desertification.”
“What do you mean?” Jayne turned to look at him and couldn’t help noticing how he speeded up his speech, how his eyes sparkled as he spoke. He loved the desert and its people as much as she hated it.
“There are olive groves planted in the desert.”
“But who looks after them?” She stared at their surroundings. “Aren’t the Bedu nomads, always on the move?”
“In the past, yes, but things change…although some still follow the old ways, others are setting down roots.”
Jayne gestured to the array of tents. “Some of those tents are huge. But are you saying there are brick-and-mortar dwellings?”
“Yes, over the rise.”
“I think I prefer the idea of tents. I always wanted to stay in a Bedouin camp,” she said a little dreamily.
“I remember.” He gave a laugh.
“But we didn’t find a Bedouin tent that time…although I did get to ride into the desert on a camel and camp in the tent you put up.” Jayne thought back to that disastrous trip.
Seconds later Tariq pulled up to where a group of men sat outside in the thin shade of a tamarisk tree playing cards. They looked up. All play stopped.
One of the men jumped to his feet and came to shake Tariq’s hand. “Excellency, we did not know you were visiting. We welcome you.”
Tariq flung an arm to the overcast sky. “The weather has forced us on you, and we would be grateful for your hospitality for a night.”
“Only a pleasure, Excellency. You are welcome for more than one miserable night. My residence is not far from here. It is new and you will not lack for luxury.”
A smile played around Tariq’s mouth. “I thank you for your offer. But the sheikhah has a fancy to stay in a tent—if that is not too much for us to ask.”
The headman, whom Tariq introduced as Ghayth, looked at Jayne as if she were touched by the moon, then glanced at the sky. “But, Excellency, if the rain comes, the area outside the tent will be a mudbath.”
Tariq raised an eyebrow at Jayne. “The tents themselves won’t leak, they’re constructed to withstand the elements, sun, wind, sandstorms. But are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay under a solid roof?”
“As long as it’s not going to cause problems for our hosts or uncomfortable flooding for you if the rains come, I’d rather stay in a Bedouin tent. It sounds like an experience of a lifetime.” She was touched that he was trying to accommodate her quirky dreams, rather than practicalities. She gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Tariq.”
The tent to which they were led was far larger than she had expected—and far more luxurious than the shelters on the outskirts of the encampment. Inside it was divided with drapes into two separate areas.
“This is the meeting area,” Tariq said, waving to the large space around them furnished with several squat square stools covered with woven fabric and a long divan covered with similar material. In the corner stood a round table with four chairs set around it, and the walls and floors were covered with beautifully woven rugs. “Traditionally the curtained-off area is where the women prepare food in the day and where the family sleeps at night. But this tent is more ornate, probably kept for visiting dignitaries, that’s why there are no cooking arrangements. The de-desertification program has been attracting a lot of interest—even from the UN.”
“Oh.” Jayne took in the rugs, the drapes that hung from the roof. “It’s certainly not quite as modest as I expected.”
Tariq pulled back the drapes to reveal a couple of broad low divans draped with rugs. The sleeping quarters. Instantly a subtle tension invaded the room.
“I think I need a wash,” Jayne said, suddenly eager to get out of the tent she’d been so keen to experience. She had a feeling that she was going to be very pleased that the tent was a lot more spacious than she’d anticipated. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to have accepted the offer of a stay in Ghayth’s house…at least she would’ve had her own bedroom.
“You can bathe later,” Tariq said, “after dinner. For now, use the water in the pitcher on the table to freshen up. Our hosts will be here shortly with our bags. Then we need to see that Noor has been fed and bedded down.”
An hour later the clouds, while still ominous, seemed to have lifted a little. They no longer sagged with moisture overhead. Ghayth, the headman, met Jayne and Tariq as they headed back from feeding Noor, with an offer to show Jayne the nearby village.
Within minutes they’d piled into their host’s very battered four-wheel drive, with the two salukis in the back, and roared down the dirt road that cut across the stony terrain. Tariq sat up front beside Ghayth, and Jayne sat beside his senior wife, Matra, whose name meant “pot that catches the rain,” Jayne discovered as they drove past the olive groves surrounded by desert sand that Tariq had told her about.
From the pointing and the rapid questions he fired at their host, Jayne realised that Tariq was a lot more involved in the program than she’d suspected.
A little way on they turned down a track and the village came into view. A group of children were huddled around a bicycle that leaned against a scrawny tree and they all turned to stare curiously at the approaching vehicle.
Once they had stopped, Jayne descended from the vehicle and followed the men. Carpets in shades of ruby, garnet and topaz were spread out in the patchy sunlight, and a dozen or more women sat around weaving. Jayne caught her breath at vivid designs and colours. “They are beautiful.”
One of the women gave her a gentle smile.
“How long does it take you to make such a rug?” Jayne asked, bending down to touch the design.
The woman looked at the men, a frown pleating her forehead.
“She does not speak any English,” Tariq said, and rattled off in Arabic. The woman nodded and said something. “She says it depends on how many women are working on the design,” Tariq translated.
“They must do well out of such rugs. The craftsmanship is wonderful.”
“Not yet. The project has only been going for a couple of years. It’s supposed to be self-driven by the village women, so it has taken some time for the women to get it off the ground.”
“That’s heartbreaking. The rugs are so amazing. I can think of people in Auckland who would pay a fortune for such finery.” She thought of Neil, of his home in Remuera with the collection of fine furniture and antique books.
“There is no question of their talent, or their entrepreneurial skills. But some of the women are reticent. They are used to the men running things. But they are insistent that this is their project. They’ve had a lot to learn. Accounts. Running a business. Distribution.”
“And a lot of us can’t read or write, which makes it much harder,” Matra said softly from behind Jayne’s shoulder.
Jayne knew she shouldn’t be surprised. But somehow she was. “I thought Zayed was progressive country, that a lot of the wealth from the oil fields is poured into education and development.”
“It is,” Tariq said levelly, and Jayne realised he’d taken her words as criticism. “But there are a lot of nomadic tribes in Zayed, too.”
“And some of us are too old to learn,” Matra said, her expression showing that it took a lot of bravery to converse with Tariq.
Jayne considered her. “No one is ever too old to learn.”
The daylight waned quickly as they returned to the camp. Night fell like a cloak over the desert, and Jayne found herself shivering as the temperature plummeted. Dark clouds swarmed overhead, but the rain that had threatened did not come, much to the glee of their hosts.
The Bedu had prepared an outdoor feast to celebrate their arrival. A fire had been lit and everyone sat around the flames.
An hour later Jayne sat back replete, and weariness seeped through her. She watched as the men seated around the fire clamoured for Tariq’s attention. He listened, nodded, spoke a few words, then turned to the next person.
Matra came toward her carrying a copper pot with a long spout and murmured something Jayne did not understand. So she smiled and spread her hands helplessly.
“What is that?”
Before Matra could reply, Tariq was at her side. “Matra is offering you coffee.”
Jayne nodded enthusiastically. “Coffee would be lovely.”
Matra put the coffeepot down and disappeared.
“It’s Bedu coffee,” Tariq warned. “Strong and bitter. The coffee beans are roasted on a long shovel and then ground with a mortar before being brewed for several hours.”
The other woman returned with a tray of tiny handleless cups and filled them from the coffeepot and handed one to Jayne who eyed the greenish-brown liquid with suspicion. “It’s not as dark as normal coffee.”
“That’s the cardamom. You drink the whole cup down in one sip.”
“O-kay.” Jayne took a deep breath and gulped, then almost choked as the bitterness hit her throat. “At least these cups only hold a sip or two,” she murmured. “Otherwise I might have to develop a coffee allergy.”
Tariq threw his head back and laughed. Jayne stared. How long had it been since he had laughed like that? When she’d first known him, his infectious laughter, his joie de vivre, had been one of the first things to attract her. Tariq had loved life—and lived it joyously.
She hadn’t realised how much she had missed his good humour. Until now.
Matra was back offering the tray again. Tariq took another cup and smiled at the woman, who lowered her eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, Jayne reached for another cup.
“How am I going to drink this?”
“Slowly,” Tariq responded, but his eyes danced.
She took a tiny sip and pulled a surreptitious face.
“Here, give it to me.”
“It’s okay, I don’t want to be rude.”
His hand closed around hers. He brought the cup up to his mouth. Under the pressure of his hand, she tipped the cup. He sipped. This close the gold eyes gleamed like burnished bronze. Caught in the snare of his gaze, she stared at him, suddenly breathless.
His lips lifted off the rim of the minute cup. “There is one last sip. For you.”
His hands still cupping hers, she placed her lips against the opposite rim from where he had drunk. The cup tilted. She drank.
“How does it taste now?” His voice was husky. “Still bitter?”
She licked her lips clean of the last smears of coffee. As her tongue tip skimmed across her bottom lip, his eyes flared to the colour of midnight. The shock of the change from gold to dark sent a bolt of sensation through her.
She hurriedly retracted her tongue, swallowed and realised that the bitter taste had gone. All that remained was the distinctive flavour of cardamom. “No, not bitter.”
How had this happened?
How had she become so aware of him standing so close to her, to his hand still grasping hers?
Jayne pulled away…and found Matra at her elbow. Jayne looked at the cups of coffee, glanced at Tariq and knew he, too, was supremely conscious of the heat that sizzled between them.
“Accepting a third cup means that you consider yourself one of the family. If you deliberately refuse this cup…it will be considered rude,” he murmured softly.
Quickly she nodded to Marta. And so did Tariq. Following his lead, she tossed it back, trying very hard not to grimace and set the empty cup on the tray.
“Now you can refuse the next cup. Because after three cups it is considered rude to take another.”
“Thank goodness,” she murmured.
“You did fine. Come, it is time to say good-night.”
A fine quivering sensation started deep in her stomach as they walked across the shadowed camp to their tent, the indigo night sky arching overhead. Jayne was aware of the darkness that stretched into the desert beyond their tent. The vast emptiness that surrounded them, broken only by the soft conversation of the Bedouin still gathered around the fire.
Their tent glowed inside, the soft light of candles diffusing against the drapes in a warm pattern.
“In the sleeping area there is a bath ready for you,” Tariq said. “Matra arranged it.”
“Oh.” Jayne felt suddenly breathless. “I had thought there might be a washroom nearby.”
“There is—with communal baths. No doubt Matra thought you would prefer to bathe in private.”
Private?
With Tariq here?
Dragging her feet, Jayne made her way to where Tariq had pointed. A steaming bath waited, with a high back and a curved lip to rest her head on. After the drive and the long day, it looked too welcoming to refuse. Quickly she shucked off her clothes and stepped in, sinking down into the hot water. Shivers broke across her skin as ripples of heat enfolded her.

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