Defiant in the Desert (13 page)
‘Suleiman,’ she said and her voice sounded croaky and unsure. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to speak to your brother about the possibility of drilling for oil in Dhi’ban.’
Her heart plummeted. ‘Are you being serious?’
He looked at her, an expression of exasperation on his face. ‘Of course I’m not being serious. Why do you
think
I might be here, Sara?’
‘I don’t
know
!’
She was shaking her head and, for the first time, Suleiman saw that she had changed—even if for a moment he couldn’t quite work out what that change was. Her skin was a little paler than usual and her lips looked as if they had been bitten into—but beneath all that he could see something else. Something which had been missing for a long time. He swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat as he realised that something was peace. That there was a new strength and resolution which shone out from her shadowed eyes as she looked at him.
And now he began to have doubts of his own. Had Sara found true contentment—
without
him? For a moment he acknowledged that his motives for being here today were entirely selfish. What if she would be better off without him? Had he stopped to consider
that
? Was her need for independence such that she considered a man like him to be an impediment?
His heart turning over with love and pain, he looked into her beautiful face and suddenly he didn’t care. He knew there were no guarantees in this life, but that didn’t mean you shouldn’t strike out for the things which really mattered. Let Sara tell him that she didn’t want him if that was what she truly believed—but let her be in no doubt about his feelings for her.
‘I think you do know,’ he said softly. ‘I’m here because I love you and I can’t seem to stop loving you.’
‘Did you try?’ she questioned, her voice full of pain. ‘Is that why you walked away? Why you left my life so utterly when you walked out of my apartment?’
There was a silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of a bird calling from high up in one of the trees. ‘I couldn’t stay when you were like that,’ he told her truthfully. ‘When you were too scared to let go and be the woman you really wanted to be. You were pushing me away, Sara—and I couldn’t stand that. I knew you needed to come home before you could think about making any kind of home of your own.’ He smiled. ‘Then I heard on the desert grapevine that you’d come back to Dhi’ban. And I thought that was probably the best thing I’d heard in a long time.’
She turned big violet eyes up at him. ‘Did you?’
‘Mmm.’ He wanted to go to her. To cup her chin in the palm of his hand and hold it safe. To run the edge of his thumb over the tremble of her lips. But he needed her to hear these words before he could touch her again. He owed her his honesty.
‘As for the answer to your question. I’m here because you make me feel stuff—stuff I’ve spent a lifetime trying not to feel.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Love.’
‘Oh. You
think
you love me?’ she questioned, echoing the words he had used in Paris.
‘No.’ His voice was quiet. ‘I
love
you—without qualification. I love you fully, completely, utterly and for ever. I’m here because although I’m perfectly capable of living without you, I don’t want to. No. That’s not entirely true. If you want the truth, I can’t bear the thought of living without you, Sara. Because without you I am only half the man I’m capable of being and I want to be whole.’
There was silence for a moment. She lowered her gaze, as if she had found something of immense interest on the gravelled palace forecourt. For a moment he wondered if she was plucking up the courage to tell him that his journey here had been wasted, but when she lifted her face again, Suleiman could see the shimmer of tears in her violet eyes.
‘And without you I’m only half the woman I’m capable of being,’ she said shakily. ‘You’ve made me whole again, too. You’ve made me realise that only by facing our biggest fears can we overcome them. You’ve made me realise that independence is a good thing—but it can never be at the expense of love. Nothing can. Because love is the most important thing of all. And you are the most important thing of all, Suleiman—someone so precious who I thought I’d lost through my own stupidity.’
‘Sara,’ he said and the word was distorted by the shudder of his breath. ‘Sweet Sara. My only love.’
And that was all it took. A declaration torn from somewhere deep inside him. A declaration she returned over and over again in between their frantic kisses, although Suleiman first took the precaution of walking her further into the gardens, away from the natural interest of the servants’ eyes.
By the time they returned to the palace—where Ella and Haroun had perceptively put a bottle of champagne on ice—Sara was wearing an enormous emerald engagement ring.
And she couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
EPILOGUE
‘Y
OU
DO
REALISE
,’ said Sara as she removed her filmy tulle veil and placed it next to the emerald and diamond tiara, which her sister-in-law had lent her, ‘that I’m not going to be a traditional desert wife.’
‘Shouldn’t you have mentioned this
before
we got married?’ murmured Suleiman. He was lying naked waiting for his bride to join him on her old childhood bed, and had decided that there was something gloriously decadent about that.
‘I did.’ She stepped out of her ivory lace gown and hung it over the back of the chair, revelling in the look in his eyes as he ran his gaze over her bridal lingerie. ‘Just as long as you know that I meant it.’
‘And I meant it when I said that I didn’t expect you to be. Just as I did when I said that I will not be a traditional desert husband. I will not try to possess you, Sara—not ever again. I will give you all the freedom you need.’
She gave a happy sigh as she smiled at him. Wasn’t it a strange thing that when somebody gave you freedom, it meant you no longer wanted it quite so much?
Suleiman had told her that of course she could carry on working for Gabe—just as long as they came to some compromise over her long hours. The crazy thing was that she no longer wanted to work there—or, at least, not as she’d done before. She had loved her job, but it was part of her past and part of her life as a single woman. She had a different life now and different opportunities. Which was why she had agreed to carry on working for the Steel organisation on a freelance basis. That way, she could travel with her husband and everyone was happy.
She gave a contented sigh. Their wedding had been the best wedding she’d ever been to—although Suleiman told her she was biased. Alice from the office had been invited—and her expression as she’d been shown around the Dhi’ban palace had been priceless. Gabe had been there too—and Sara thought that even her cynical boss had enjoyed all the ancient ritual and ceremony which accompanied the joining of her hand to Suleiman’s.
The best bit had been the Sultan’s surprise appearance, because it signified that he had forgiven Suleiman—and her—for so radically changing the course of desert history.
‘Murat seemed to get on well with Gabe, don’t you think?’ she questioned as she slid her diamond bracelet onto the dressing table, where it lay coiled like a glittery snake. ‘What do you suppose they were talking about?’
‘Right now I don’t care,’ Suleiman murmured. ‘About anything other than kissing you again. It seems like an eternity since I had you in my bed.’
‘It’s almost a week since you had me in your bed—palace protocol being what it is,’ she agreed. ‘But less than eight hours since you
had
me.
In
the stables, no less—on the eve of my wedding. And I wasn’t allowed to make a sound.’
‘That was part of the thrill,’ he drawled, watching as she kicked off her high-heeled shoes. ‘Not very much keeps you quiet, but it seems that at last I’ve found something which does. Which means that we are going to be indulging in lots of illicit sex in the future, my darling wife.’
She walked over to the bed to join him, still wearing her panties, her bra and her white lace suspender belt and stockings. It felt warm in his embrace, and safe. So very safe.
They were going to honeymoon in Samahan and she was going to learn all about the land of Suleiman’s birth. Afterwards, they would decide where they wanted to make their main base.
‘It can be anywhere,’ he had promised her. ‘Anywhere at all.’
She closed her eyes as he tightened his arms around her, because where they lived didn’t matter.
This
was home.
* * * * *
The Sheikh’s Undoing
CHAPTER ONE
T
HE
SOUND
OF
the telephone woke her, but Isobel didn’t need to see the name flashing on the screen to know who was ringing. Who else would call her at this time of night but the man who thought he had the right to do pretty much whatever he wanted? And frequently did.
Tariq, the so-called ‘Playboy Prince’. Or Prince Tariq Kadar al Hakam, Sheikh of Khayarzah—to give him his full and rather impressive title. And the boss if not exactly from hell then certainly from some equally dark and complicated place.
She glanced at the clock. Four in the morning was early even by
his
standards. Yawning, she picked up the phone, wondering what the hell he had been up to this time.
Had some new story about him emerged, as it so often did, sparked by gossip about his latest audacious take-over bid? Or had he simply got himself tied up with a new blonde—they were always blonde—and wanted Isobel to juggle his early morning meetings for him? Would he walk into the office later on with yesterday’s growth darkening his strong jaw and a smug smile curving the edges of his sensual lips? And the scent of someone’s perfume still lingering on his skin...
It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, that was for sure. With a frown, Isobel recalled some of his more famous sexual conquests, before reminding herself that she was employed as his personal assistant—not his moral guardian.
Friends sometimes asked whether she ever tired of having a boss who demanded so much of her. Or whether she was tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his outrageously chauvinistic behaviour—and the answer was yes. Sometimes. But the generous amount of money he paid her soon put a stop to her disapproval. Because money like that provided security—the kind of security which you could never get from another person. Isobel knew that better than anyone. Hadn’t her mother taught her that the most important lesson a woman could learn was to be completely independent of men? Men could just walk away whenever they wanted...and because they could, they frequently did.
She answered the call. ‘Hello?’
‘I-Isobel?’
Her senses were instantly alerted when she heard the deep voice of her employer—because there was something very different about it. Either he was in some kind of post-coital daze or something was wrong. Because he sounded...
weird.
She’d never heard Tariq hesitate before. Never heard him as anything other than the confident and charismatic Prince—the darling of London’s casinos and international gossip columns. The man most women couldn’t resist, even when—as seemed inevitable—he was destined to break their heart into tiny little pieces.
‘Tariq?’ Isobel’s voice took on a sudden note of urgency. ‘Is something wrong?’
From amid a painful throbbing, which felt as if a thousand hammers were beating against his skull, Tariq registered the familiar voice of his assistant. His first brush with reality after what seemed like hours of chaos and confusion. Almost imperceptibly he let out a low sigh of relief as his lashes parted by a fraction. Izzy was his anchor. Izzy would sort this out for him. A ceiling swam into view, and quickly he shut his eyes against its harsh brightness.
‘Accident,’ he mumbled.
‘Accident?’ Isobel sat up in bed, her heart thundering as she heard the unmistakable twist of pain in his voice. ‘What kind of accident? Tariq, where are you? What’s
happened?
’
‘I...’
‘Tariq?’ Isobel could hear someone indignantly telling him that he shouldn’t be using his phone, and then a rustling noise before a woman’s voice came on the line.
‘Hello?’ the strange voice said. ‘Who is this, please?’
Isobel felt fear begin to whisper over her as she recognised the sound of officialdom, and it took an almighty effort just to stop her voice from shaking. ‘M-my name is Isobel Mulholland and I work for Sheikh al Hakam—would you please tell me what’s going on?’
There was a pause before the woman spoke again. ‘This is one of the staff nurses at the Accident and Emergency department of St Mark’s hospital in Chislehurst. I’m afraid that the Sheikh has been involved in a car crash—’
‘Is he okay?’ Isobel interrupted.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give out any more information at the moment.’
Hearing inflexible resistance in the woman’s voice, Isobel swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said grimly, and cut the connection.
Pulling on a pair of jeans, she grabbed the first warm sweater which came to hand and then, after shoving her still-bare feet into sheepskin boots, took the elevator down to the underground car park of her small London apartment.
Thank heavens for sat-nav, she thought as she tapped in the name of the hospital and waited for a map to appear on the screen. She peered at it. It seemed that Chislehurst was on the edge of the Kent countryside—less than an hour from here, especially at this time in the morning.
But, even though there was barely any traffic around, Isobel had to force herself to concentrate on the road ahead and not focus on the frightened thoughts which were crowding into her mind.
What the hell was Tariq doing driving around at this time in the morning? And what was he doing
crashing his car
—he who was normally as adept at driving as he was at riding one of his polo ponies?
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel as she tried and failed to imagine her powerful boss lying injured. But it was an image which stubbornly failed to materialise, for he was a man who was larger than life in every sense of the word.
Tall and striking, with distinctive golden-dark colouring, Sheikh Tariq al Hakam commanded attention wherever he was. Complete strangers stopped to watch him walk by in the street. Women pressed their phone numbers into his hand in restaurants. She’d seen it happen time and time again. His proud and sometimes cruel features had often been compared to those of a fallen angel. And he exuded such passion and energy that it was impossible to imagine anything inhibiting those qualities—even for a second.
What if...? Isobel swallowed down the acrid taste of fear. What if her charismatic boss was in
danger?
What would she do if he was in a life-threatening condition? If he...he...
She’d never thought of Tariq as mortal before, and now she could think of nothing else. Her heart missed a beat as she registered the blaring horn of a passing car and she tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. There was no point in thinking negatively. Whatever it was, he would pull through—just like he always did. Because Tariq was as strong as a lion, and she couldn’t imagine anything dimming that magnificent strength of his.
A dull rain was spattering against the windscreen as she pulled into the hospital car park. It was still so early that the morning staff hadn’t yet arrived. The whole building seemed eerily quiet as she entered it, which only increased her growing sense of foreboding. Noiselessly, she sped down the bright corridors towards the A&E department until she reached the main desk.
A nurse glanced up at her. ‘Can I help you?’
Isobel wiped a raindrop from her cheek. ‘I’ve come...I’m here about one of your patients. His name is Tariq al Hakam and I understand he’s been involved in a car crash.’
‘And you are?’ enquired the nurse, her carefully plucked eyebrows disappearing beneath her fringe.
‘I work for him.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,’ said the nurse, with a dismissive smile. ‘You aren’t his next of kin, are you?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘His next of kin lives in the Middle East,’ she said. Swallowing down her frustration, she realised that she’d crammed her thick curls into a ponytail and thrown on a pair of old jeans and a sweater. Did she look unbelievably scruffy? The last kind of person who would be associated with the powerful Sheikh? Was that the reason the nurse was being so...so...
officious?
‘I work closely with the Prince and have done for the past five years,’ she continued urgently. ‘Please let me see him. I’m...I’m...’
For one stupid moment she was about to say
I’m all he’s got.
Until she realised that the shock of hearing he was injured must have temporarily unhinged her mind. Why, Tariq had a whole
stable
of women he could call upon in an instant. Women who were far closer to him than Isobel had ever been or ever would be.
‘I’m the person he rang just over an hour ago,’ she said, her voice full of appeal. ‘It was...it was me he turned to.’
The nurse looked at her steadily, and then seemed to take pity on her.
‘He has a concussion,’ she said quietly, and then shook her head as if in answer to the silent question in Isobel’s eyes. ‘His CT scan shows no sign of haemorrhaging, but we’re putting him under observation just to be sure.’
No sign of haemorrhaging.
A breath of relief shuddered from Isobel’s lips, and for a moment she had to lean on the nurses’ station for support. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Can I
see
him? Please? Would that be okay? Just for a moment.’
There was a moment’s assessment, and then the nurse nodded. ‘Well, as long as it
is
a moment. A familiar face is often reassuring. But you’re not to excite him—do you understand?’
Isobel gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, there’s no danger of that happening,’ she answered—because Tariq thought she was about as exciting as watching paint dry.
He’d often described her as the most practical and sensible woman he knew—citing those as the reasons he employed her. Once, she’d even overheard him saying that it was a relief to find a woman under thirty who wasn’t a
distraction,
and although it had hurt at the time, she could live with it. She’d always known her place in his life and that wasn’t about to change now. Her job was to soothe his ruffled feathers, not to excite him. There were plenty of other contenders for
that
category.
She followed the rhythmical squishing of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes into a side-room at the far end of the unit, and the unbelievable sight that confronted her there made her heart skip a painful beat.
Shrouded in the bleached cotton of a single sheet lay the prone figure of her boss. He looked too long and too broad for the narrow hospital bed, and he was lying perfectly still. The stark white bedlinen threw his darkly golden colouring into relief—and even from here she could see the dark red stain of blood which had matted his thick black hair.
Waves of dizziness washed over her at the sight of the seemingly indestructible Tariq looking so stricken, and Isobel had to quash a stupid instinct to run over to his side and touch her fingers to his cheek. But the nurse had warned her not to excite him, and so she mustered up her usual level-headed attitude and walked quietly towards him.
His eyes were closed—two ebony feathered arcs of lashes were lying against a face which she could see was unusually blanched, despite the natural darkness of his olive skin.
She swallowed down the acid taste of fear. She had seen Tariq in many different guises during the five eventful years she’d been working for him. She’d seen him looking sharp and urbanely suited as he dominated the boardroom during the meetings which filled his life. She’d seen him hollow-eyed from lack of sleep when he’d spent most of the night gambling and had come straight into the office brandishing a thick wad of notes and a careless smile.
Once she’d started remembering Isobel couldn’t stop. Other images crowded into her mind. Tariq in jodhpurs as he played polo with such breathtaking flair, and the faint sheen of sweat that made his muddy jodhpurs stick to his powerful thighs. Tariq in jeans and a T-shirt when he was dressed down and casual. Or looking like a movie idol in a sharply tailored tuxedo before he went out to dinner. She’d even seen him in the flowing white robes and headdress of his homeland, when he was leaving on one of his rare visits to the oil-rich kingdom of Khayarzah—where his brother Zahid was King.
But she had never seen her powerful boss looking so defenceless before, and something inside her softened and melted. At that moment she felt almost
tender
towards him—as if she’d like to cradle him in her arms and comfort him. Poor, vulnerable Tariq she thought bleakly.
Until the reality of the situation came slamming home to her and she forced herself to confront it. Tariq was looking vulnerable because right at this moment he
was.
Very vulnerable. Lying injured on a hospital bed. Beneath the wool of her sweater she could feel the crash of her heart—and she had to fight back a feeling of panic, and nausea.
‘Tariq,’ she breathed softly. ‘Oh, Tariq.’
Tariq screwed up his eyes. Through the mists of hammering pain he was aware of something familiar and yet curiously different about the woman who was speaking to him. It was a voice he knew well. A voice which exemplified the small area of calm which lay at the centre of his crazy life. It was...
Izzy’s
voice, he realised—but not as he’d ever heard it before. Normally it was crisp and matter-of-fact, sometimes cool and disapproving, but he’d never heard it all soft and trembling before.
His eyes opened, surprising a look of such darkened fear in her gaze that he was momentarily taken aback. He studied the soft quiver of her lips and felt the tiptoeing of something unfamiliar on his skin. Was that really Izzy?
‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to die,’ he drawled. And then, despite the terrible aching at his temples, he allowed just the right pause for maximum effect before directing a mocking question at the woman in uniform who was standing beside his bed, her fingertips counting the hammering of his pulse. ‘Am I, Nurse?’
Inexplicably, Isobel felt angry at Tariq for being as arrogant as only he knew how. He could have killed himself, and all he could do was flirt with the damned nurse! Why had she wasted even a second being sentimental about him when she should have realised that he was as indestructible as a rock? And with about as much emotion as a rock, too! She wanted to tell him not to dare be so flippant—but, recognising that might fall into the category of exciting him, she bit back the words.