Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (32 page)

I greet her with a smile, and then find it strange that the normally ebullient servant doesn’t respond with her customary cheery response. I notice her eyes don’t meet mine, and the respectful bow with which she normally greets me, even though I’ve told her often enough she doesn’t need to show me that mark of respect, is missing. My smile fades as my brow furrows; her behaviour is very out of character. I open my mouth to ask her if anything is wrong, but she turns away from me as though not wanting to enter into conversation. Usually, I can’t get her to stop talking. Very strange.

“You wear this, Sheikha.” Lamis sets down some clothing. “The prince wants you dressing quick.” She looks uncomfortable. “You dress now.” After her abrupt statements she turns to leave, instead of staying to help me dress as she normally does, and makes a hasty exit out of the bedroom before I can question her.

Odd.
Perhaps she resents moving to the palace? I didn’t think she had a boyfriend or suitor, but maybe there was someone she’s had to leave behind? Hmm … If so, I’ll talk to Nijad about sending her back, or bringing him here. I don’t like seeing someone unhappy. I’m certain I couldn’t have upset her. Racking my brains, I can’t think of anything she might have taken offence at. Oh well. I shrug it off, expecting the reason for my maid’s uncharacteristic lack of friendliness will become apparent in time if it’s anything serious. In the meantime, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. Heck, I’ve done it for twenty-five years!

I walk through to the shower, taking a moment to suss out how to work it, but once it gets started … Wow! After two weeks of standing under nothing more than a dribble, this is pure luxury. The shower’s plenty big enough for two people, which gives me ideas of playing out a fantasy I’ve always had, and I can’t wait to share it with Nijad. Shower sex: delicious. Indulging myself, I spend far too long enjoying the multiple jets of water coming at me from the sides as well as above, feeling the sand washing out of my hair properly for the first time in days. Playing with the controls, I find there’s a setting where jets have a massaging action, which I enjoy as I roll my shoulders to get the knots out of my muscles. When I turn off the water and wipe my eyes, I see the edge of the shower stall is a gold-coloured metal. Belatedly, it dawns on me that anything in the palace won’t just be gold- coloured, it probably really
is
gold! I’ve married a fucking sheikh! Jesus! I’ve married a sheikh and I’m living in his palace. Me! Plain old boring Cara Carson! Suddenly I start to laugh, and soon can’t control the chuckles and giggles coming out of me. I sink to the floor, my head in my hands as I laugh and laugh. It’s at that moment Hunter comes into my mind, and I wonder whether he’s contactable or whether he’s on one of his many excursions. I’d love to catch up with him and tell him everything that’s happened. Once he believes it, I know he’ll be so happy for me. My laughter ends with a hiccup and I remember Lamis had urged me to hurry. Whoops! I’ve taken far too long and now need to get a move on. Wrapping myself in luxurious thick towels, I quickly dry off and return to the bedroom to dress.

I’m in the middle of pulling on my clothes when I hear a loud rumbling noise, so close that the glass in the windows seems to shake. I start, fearing an earthquake, and then chortle at being so stupid when I recognise the sound of a helicopter. Drawing back the curtains, I see that the suite looks out over the gardens to the rear of the palace and there, below, is the helipad. Is Nijad going to take me out for a trip today? Or is someone arriving? Wondering what he might have planned, I hurry to finish getting ready, and satisfy my healthy appetite, courtesy of the night before, with the breakfast that’s been delivered for me. Finally, I go to find my husband.

I thought I’d be wandering around the palace for a while since I haven’t a clue where I’m going but, instead, as I exit the royal apartment, I find a guard outside standing ready to escort me. My grasp of Arabic remains poor, but he makes me understand, with easily interpretable signing, that I’m to follow him. The fact that he’s a bit unfriendly I put down to the lack of a common language and think little of it as he leads me through the corridors, through the atrium, and out to the gardens and the helipad. There I find my husband quickly enough. He’s waiting for me, walking briskly up and down as though he can’t stand still.

The smile on my face fades. Although the man impatiently pacing is most definitely Nijad, he is barely recognisable, as if at some point during the night he’s been replaced by a complete stranger. Instead of his traditional robes, he is dressed, like last evening, in tight-fitting denim jeans and the black T-shirt hugging him and defining his muscles. It’s so rare to see him in Western dress in daylight that I take the opportunity to drink him in with my eyes. My first thought is how hot he looks. But quickly putting aside my body’s treacherous thoughts, concern begins to take their place. I take a step towards him, my arms already reaching to hug him, and it’s at this point that my gut tells me something is wrong. My arms drop uselessly back to my sides. His hair is unkempt and, uncharacteristically, he’s running his hands through it as if troubled. His body exudes tension as he stops to speak to another man dressed in a smart suit. As he turns I recognise the new arrival as Jasim, and my heart skips a beat. I wonder what on earth could have happened to cause another visit from Nijad’s brother when he’d only left us the day before? My earlier delight and excitement instantly disappears; it’s clear from the expressions on both their faces that Jasim must have brought bad news. I stand tall at Nijad’s side, ready to support my husband, whatever the problem is.

He starts when I put my hand on his arm, and with a rough shake extricates himself from my touch, taking a step away as though to put distance between us.

His unkind action hurts and confuses me, but I put that aside, worried about him.

“What’s the matter?” I ask softly. “What’s happened? Can I help?”

The man, who at the moment doesn’t resemble the husband I’ve come to know, turns and gives me his full attention as I ask my questions, but his eyes are cold; the warmth and affection I have come to expect are missing. His expression hits me like a physical blow, and I reel backwards. This man scares me. I can’t understand the frightening transformation.

“Nijad …” I try to talk to him again.

He regards me so coldly. Then he snaps out an instruction in a clipped voice, sounding like he is trying very hard to control his temper. “Get in the helicopter.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, nervously.

“Wherever I want to take you!” he rasps. “If you don’t get in then I’ll put you in.”

I start. What is this?
Who
is this? Nijad has never raised his voice to me before.

“What’s wrong?”

My voice has become squeaky and I have to clear my throat. Looking at him carefully, I try to deduce what the hell is happening. Noticing his rigid stance, the way his fists clench at his sides, I realise this is a man on the very edge of losing control.

I’m not the only one to notice Nijad’s brewing anger. Jasim throws him a sympathetic look, and it is he, not my husband, who answers my question.

“You’ve been found out, Cara Benting. You’re a thief, just like your father, although I admit you’ve been more devious about it.”

“Carson.”

I correct my surname automatically while thinking that it isn’t Carson now, is it? I’m Sheikha Cara al Kassis. But the way Nijad is acting, I don’t feel I want to remind him of my marital status right at this moment. And then suddenly it all falls into place, and it’s all I can do to keep standing and not collapse into a heap on the floor. My life has changed out of all recognition. Here, in the desert, I’d given no thought at all to command central and the work I used to do; it no longer seems part of my life. But the processes I’d put in place wouldn’t have stopped just because I’m not there to manage them. Computers and servers tick on, following their programmed instructions until they are told to do otherwise. What I’d done must have been discovered, my actions misinterpreted. Pulling myself up taller I realise I can explain everything, and they’ll soon see things are not as they seem. I haven’t stolen anything, though it might look that way on the surface. I start on my defence.

“I’m no thief. Just let me explain. If …”

I’m stunned when Nijad looks at me as if I repulse him. Suddenly he spits out, “There is nothing you can say that I wish to hear.”

Without warning, he steps towards me, picks me up and almost throws me into the rear seat of the helicopter. He roughly pulls the harness straps around my body and secures them. Then, staring straight into my eyes, he snarls, “Damn it, Cara, why didn’t you trust me? I told you: no secrets! We could have worked something out if you’d told me.”

The hurt in his eyes undoes me, and tears start to form in mine. Ignoring my emotions, he moves away and nods at Jasim. His brother climbs into the cockpit, taking the controls. Nijad sits in the co-pilot’s seat.

“I’d rather be flying,” Nijad barks at Jasim, who gives him an incredulous look and shakes his head.

“Not today, brother.”

Even sitting behind him, it’s impossible to miss Nijad’s tension, his fingers tapping on the arm of the seat in impatience, his body taut and stiff.

Jasim tosses me a set of ear protectors, seeing my tears as he turns. He pulls a pristine white handkerchief out of his suit pocket and passes it to me. Although his actions show sympathy, his eyes are as cold as his brother’s. He turns back and, shortly afterwards, the helicopter rises into the air.

I have no way to hear what they are saying to each other; they have microphones and speakers and I don’t. But in any case, I see they aren’t talking much. Nijad holds himself bolt upright and rigid, his posture such a far cry from the way he’d been just a few short hours ago, when he was so relaxed and holding me close in bed. The change is so abrupt, so unexpected. I’m weak with shock. My tears begin to fall, and soon I’m sobbing, unable to stop. My heart is breaking as I cry, not just for myself, but for the hurt and disappointment I’d seen in Nijad’s eyes. If only I had told him everything. I’d been so confident they would never find out. The only person who could have discovered what I’d done was Basheer. And he was the criminal who’d been robbing Amahad blind for years! Shit! I’d banked on him keeping quiet. I can’t believe he had the audacity to point the finger at me. I’d evidently seriously miscalculated his confidence that his high position would mean everyone would believe him and not me. But the fact remains, he is the only person who could have exposed what it would appear that I’d done.

I berate myself for my foolishness. Of course the man feels safe. Basheer Mansur is the trusted finance minister to the throne of Amahad. Who’d ever believe the word of a woman, the daughter of a known cheat and liar, over his?

But I’m not going to take this lying down. I’ll fight to prove my innocence. I start to plan in my head what I’m going to say the very first chance I get, knowing I’ll just need to get hold of a laptop so I can show them the proof. OK, so they have probably seen what Basheer wanted to show them, but I’ve got all the other files, the reports of the traces I’ve run showing just where the money used to go, and the good that money’s doing now in the place I’ve diverted it to. Basheer’s lost his source of income, while Amahad has gained significantly. Once they listen to me, all this can be sorted out.

I start practising, rehearsing my explanation in my head, getting down to a few succinct sentences so I’ll be sure to get them to listen to me. They have to give me a chance to explain, and then I’ll be able to exonerate myself. Of course I wish I’d told Nijad, but we’d always avoided talking about the past, and the subject just hadn’t come up. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I try to convince myself that everything will sort itself out. My kidnap, my marriage and my delight in my husband had overwhelmed me. I didn’t consciously keep my secrets from him.

I have to fight this accusation and fight for my man. The man who has brought my sexuality to the fore, the man who has held and comforted me, who has encouraged me to find my inner strength and confidence. With him my spirits have soared, the black depression that sometimes threatened to overwhelm me back in London has dissipated. Nijad has made me think myself worth something. It suddenly hits me that I love him ... truly love him. I want to tell him, but realise the timing is all wrong.

The handkerchief is useless now, crushed to a sodden ball, but I start crying again, still clenching the damp cloth in my fist. Despite trying to be positive and confident things will be cleared up as soon as we land, I feel a wave of despair wash over me. The last couple of weeks I’ve lived in Utopia, and I have the disheartening feeling I will never go back.

Nijad

Jasim lands the helicopter on the landing pad to the rear of the palace. The rotors stop spinning and I sit, unmoving.

“We’re here, brother,” he tells me unnecessarily.

“I noticed,” I reply dryly. I unclip my harness and open the door, my whole fucking body wracked with pain as I jump down and then go to help the woman I’m tied to by contract, feeling empty and bereft. I want to do nothing more than wrap her in my arms, hold her tight and tell her everything will be all right. But that’s exactly what I can’t fucking do. Jasim had brought me proof she’s committed crimes against my country, against the monarchy, and hence against me. Had she trusted me, talked to me, told me what she had done, then I might have been able to stop it coming to this. But she hadn’t; she’d kept secrets. I can never trust her again.