The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest

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.