Once Upon a Second Chance (1 Night Stand Series) (2 page)

As the pent-up emotions washed out of her, Leila forced herself to take stock of her life, of her future.

Khalid was not coming back.

She didn’t want to go on that date. But she couldn’t keep him bound to her forever. The man who had rescued her from the hell of her first marriage deserved everything good. Including his freedom, if he so desired. No matter what he’d done afterward—she should get over her anger and thank him for setting her free.

She broke away from the embrace, swiped the tears from her cheeks. On a deep breath, she faced her only friend. “This man I’m to meet tonight. Does he know about my situation?”

Carole nodded. “I told Madame Eve everything when I asked her to find someone for you.”

Leila glanced at the sea, at the golden sunlight and the glinting waters. She would never have such brightness touch her life, but maybe she didn’t need to linger in a dark corner, either.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”

***

Damned be Carole Laroche
!

Khalid bin Abdallah Al-Nadir winced when the curse danced inside his head. With a hard thump on the wheel of his rental Jaguar, he called the words back, afraid he’d end up facing Hell because of such despicable thoughts. Obedience to parents came right after obedience to God for Muslim men. She might not have given birth to him, but the law remained sketchy as to what power she could wield on his life as his stepmother. A God-fearing man, he didn’t want to test those parameters.

You’re already in Hell
. He didn’t deserve anything good after bedding Leila, implying he’d look after her, and then abandoning her. He forced his eyes shut, then blinked and stared through the windshield. He couldn’t think of her, not now. When he stopped at a red light at the entrance of Grand Baie, temptation lay just a mile away. If he turned left, he’d be at their house in less than five minutes.

But he couldn’t go there. Leila deserved a new beginning and happiness. Everything she wouldn’t get as his wife. If she ever learned the truth, she would despise him, and he wouldn’t be able to bear her cold contempt. One glimpse of her, and he had lost the heart he never suspected he had.

The traffic light switched to green. Snapping out of his thoughts, he gunned the engine and swerved the car to the right in a screech of burning tires, away from the winding lane leading to her house, and toward his rendezvous for the night.

Carole’s work, once again. She had signed him up at a dating service called 1Night Stand, and informed him he’d better be ready to go on the blind date Madame Eve would set up for him soon. Carole knew he didn’t do casual sex, but insisted he step out and meet a girl. Full stop. As if things could be so simple with her involved. The woman had worked as a strategic analyst before she joined the board of directors of one of the biggest banking groups of the Indian Ocean. He was about to be played, but damn if he’d let her get the upper hand, even if she loved to pull the “paradise lies under the feet of thy mother” card whenever it suited her. No way out for him this time.

He glanced at bouquet of pink roses on the passenger seat. Madame Eve had informed him in her email that the person he was to meet loved these roses more than any other flower. He’d bitten the bullet and ordered the blooms, figuring they’d soften the blow of his rejection when he informed his date he had no intention of carrying out a one-night stand with her. He would’ve been a no-show, but he’d let the woman down, and his stepmother would certainly learn about it. When he could escape her wrath, he did.

Khalid sighed as he was forced to slam on the brakes. Yet another traffic jam near the entrance to the crowded public beach of Pereybere, one of the most pristine lagoons on the whole island. Thank goodness he didn’t need to enter the glut of people. His GPS screen indicated a secluded villa further to the north-east at the island’s tip known as Cap Malheureux.

Cape of Misfortune, as his father had once described the place. Bernardin de St. Pierre’s tragic heroine had washed up on this shore after the shipwreck of the St. Geran, in his literary classic
Paul & Virginie
.

Would his body wash up on that same beach tonight, once he contemplated the true wreck of his existence? He snorted—the spot couldn’t be more fitting for him. He loved this island, loved Carole, but for the first time in his thirty-three years on earth, she didn’t know he was in the country. And so close to Leila. He’d never wanted to set foot in Mauritius again, but business forced him to make a brief stopover. How had Madame Eve known his schedule? Did his stepmother know, too? And his wife?

He drew in a deep breath. He’d gotten what he sought—revenge on Bashir Al-Arif—and in the process, he had freed her. Nothing else should matter. He’d never thought he would fall in love with her, had gone to her bed only to consummate their union and make their marriage valid. But the sweet, innocent way she had opened to him on their wedding night had tilted his world on its axis. He’d more than wanted her then. He’d craved her.

Yet, he couldn’t have her. He didn’t deserve her trust or her fragile beauty.

As he passed the red and white wooden church erected on the edge of the rocky beach—a landmark of Cap Malheureux—he slowed the car in anticipation of finding the entrance to the villa. A uniformed security guard threw the gate open at his approach.

Khalid accelerated up the winding drive flanked by lush gardens, watching the wood and wrought-iron panel slide closed in the rearview mirror. He should’ve spared the guard the effort. He would be leaving as soon as he apologized to his “date,” handed her the flowers, and hit the road again.

At least, he planned the meeting to go that way as he parked and exited the Jaguar. The front door lay wide open, and he stepped into the cool semi-darkness of the thatched-roof villa, the bouquet in his hand. The interior appeared empty, not a human sound to be heard. A waft of salty breeze caressed his cheek in the entryway.

His step heavy on the polished teak floor, he trudged toward the back of the house. Pausing in the open panel of the sliding glass doors to the terrace, he caught a glimpse of the view. Blue waters sparkling even in the late afternoon, with the jutting tip of Coin de Mire island emerging from the sea in a giant chunk of basalt rock.

A postcard image of the north coast—an idyllic setting for a date. He chuckled at the irony. Why couldn’t he be like other guys? He lingered in a dream location, about to meet a woman who would be his for the night, and who would leave in the morning with no questions asked or hopes of anything beyond a few stolen nocturnal hours. He should jump on the opportunity.

And speaking of this woman, where was she?

Clutching the bouquet, he stepped onto the terrace, and froze.
No, it cannot be
….

She stood barefoot on the luxuriant green lawn, hands atop the back of a chaise as she gazed at the scenery. Her long, turquoise silk dress clung to her lithe body and shimmered like the waters of the lagoon beyond the spit of the land, making her resemble a nymph who’d stepped out of the aquamarine depths. Her shiny, golden hair danced down her back in soft curls the mellow wind lifted from her pale, creamy shoulders. From where he stood, he had a clear view of her delicate, sculpted profile. Eyes closed, she basked in the dying light, and when she opened them, he’d see their translucent jade.

A year ago, across a busy street in Abu Dhabi, the unique sparkle of her gaze had captivated him. She’d worn a black
abaya
, the long cloak hiding every one of her curves, and a purple
shayla
scarf that had bared nothing but the oval of her face from her eyebrows down to her chin. Dressed the same as every other woman in the country, she should’ve melted into the crowd. But those irises pierced him when she’d looked in his direction just before she ducked into her chauffeur-driven car.

Lost in thought, he jerked when she turned and stared at him.

His gut experienced the punch of a hard fist as her eyes locked with his, and his chest squeezed at the same time a dagger ripped at his lungs.

A date with his wife—how, ever, would he walk away now?

Chapter Two

Leila blinked, but the picture remained the same. Up the three steps to the stone-cut terrace, her husband stared at her with narrowed eyes and a tense expression. Why did he have to remain so silent, so close yet so far from her?

A small puff of air left her parted lips when she contemplated the sheer charisma that emanated from his arresting body. Dressed in pressed, navy linen trousers and a white cotton shirt that skimmed the wide breadth of his shoulders, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he presented a formidable picture. Arab men were generally tall and brawny, but Khalid had something else that made him stand out in a crowd made up of big physiques.

Absolute physical presence, as well as a quiet intensity in his gaze, as if nothing escaped his notice. His face appeared shuttered; under the dark, closely-cropped beard on his pale-gold cheeks, his jaw had clamped. His mouth, with those soft, oh-so-soft lips, pursed in a tight, thin line, echoing the narrowed look in deep-set eyes. She’d always thought he could pass for white, if it weren’t for the nose. He had the typical, somewhat bulbous and hawk-like nose of the Arabs.

A soft breeze danced across her shoulders and lifted the locks of shaggy black hair from his wide forehead.

Regal, poised, so sure of himself. Yet, gentleness pulsed just underneath the confidence. She’d experienced the same reassuring certitude on the day she had first met him. In the crowded living room of Bashir Al-Arif’s dowager aunt, the old hag had introduced her to the one who’d asked for her hand, and questioned if she consented to the union.

Why were they asking her? Men decided everything. Women had no say. Beyond a cursory glance at the male who led the proceedings, to at least ascertain who in the lineup of blokes in the parlor she would be handed to, she hadn’t sought to know more. Khalid’s eyes lit on her, but his regard caused no apprehension or panic, unlike anytime Bashir had stalked her with his lecherous stare. Something told her she could trust Khalid. And alone in their honeymoon chamber, the same trust had echoed in every heartbeat. She had risked a bold visual appraisal of her new husband then, and lost her breath at his beauty.

Like now, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

His gaze caught hers, and she gasped. He’d come back. For her?

Then the realization slid in. He was her date for the night. But how? Carole hadn’t told her Khalid had returned to Mauritius, and the matchmaker, Madame Eve, didn’t know either of them.

She bit her lip when she noticed the bouquet he held. Pink roses, of a dusky, champagne hue. The same ones she’d stopped to buy at the shop earlier. Khalid had bought them out? For a date with her?

Yet, she saw the shock rumbling in her own system in his rigid stance. He’d drawn up to his full six-foot-one height, a sure sign he sought the upper hand. He hadn’t known, either.

An unknown woman had brought them together, working almost a miracle. Could this be a sign?

And what of him leaving her here all those months ago, dumping her like cargo before he shipped off to return to his life?

The burn of anger flared inside her, scorching her desire for him and wiping out every good thought she’d ever held for Khalid Al-Nadir.

With quick treads, she stepped toward the veranda. The sun-heated paving stones burnt the soles of her feet, yet she paid the hurt little heed. Nothing could sting more than knowing he had left her, and would leave again.

Flight—written all over his face, in the way he lowered his head and started to turn away from her. Without saying a word, he would abandon her once more….

Not on my life
. Who did he think he was? She reached the veranda, the tin roof-shaded stone floor cold under her feet. She’d let other people take charge of her life too much. Now she would snatch control over her destiny.

“
Assalam aleikoum
.” She addressed him with the universal Muslim greeting, more out of habit than really wishing peace on him. Wrath, despair, loneliness—these she wanted to cast onto him. The same debilitating emotions she had experienced when he’d deserted her.

He inclined his head. “
Waleikoum salaam
.”

And peace be upon you, too
.

The gall of him. She reached for the bouquet. “Are these for me?”

Her low, sultry tone stunned her. Who was this composed, sophisticated woman?

I have grown up
.

In the past three months, she had changed along with her circumstances. Leila Hassan Al-Nadir no longer cowered; she stood tall and proud. With the freedom to be her own person, she no longer feared consequences, especially not in the face of a man’s whims and moods.

Khalid thrust the flowers toward her. “I shouldn’t be here,” he grumbled.

She grasped the bouquet, making sure her fingers brushed his on the clear cellophane wrapping. He released the bunch, pulled his hand away as if singed, then took a step back.

“You about to run again?”

He froze. In his narrowed gaze, in the drawn-out blink, she saw the rumblings of a formidable temper not to be goaded. But she wouldn’t back down. She didn’t know when she’d get a chance to talk to him again, and he would not escape without hearing how his desertion had wrecked her life.

The sconces on the veranda walls lit up for the night. The golden glow tanned his skin to a delicious honey color, and in the flick of his eyes, she encountered doubt, hesitation. Her barb had hit home.
Good
. He wasn’t an arse, after all.

Yet, he’d shown her earth-shattering pleasure. Rapture she’d never suspected existed in a marriage bed. Bliss she’d never dreamed would touch her life.

Only to leave her the following morning.

That had hurt, even more than realizing she woke up, all alone, in a foreign country inside the house of a stranger.