The Sheikh's Jewel

She marvelled that, in so long, there’d never been an opportunity to ask before—but Harun was a master at making certain they were never alone. His favourite place in the palace seemed to be his office, or the secret passageway between their bedrooms—going the other way, towards his room. Only once had she swallowed her pride, followed him out and asked him to come to her—

‘I’m sure you’ve noticed that my life is rather busy, my wife. And really, there’s no point in coming where you aren’t welcome.’

The heat in her cheeks turned painful. ‘Of—of course you’re welcome,’ she stammered. ‘You’re my husband.’

He shrugged. ‘So says the imam who performed the service.’

Knowing what he’d left unsaid, Amber opened her mouth, and closed it. No, they weren’t husband and wife, never had been. They hadn’t even had one normal conversation, only cold accusation on her part, and stubborn silence on his.

Didn’t he know how much it hurt that he only came to her rooms at night when the gossip became unbearable, and that he timed the hour and left, just as he had on their wedding night? Oh, she’d been cold and unwelcoming to him, mocking him with words and formal curtsies, but couldn’t he see that it was only because she was unable to stand the constant and very public humiliation of her life? Every time he was forced to be near her she knew that soon, he’d leave without a word, giving her nothing but that cold, distant bow. And everyone in her world knew it, too.

‘I didn’t come here to start an argument.’ He kept his gaze on her, and a faint thrill ran through her body, as delicious as it was unwelcome—yet Harun was finally looking at her, his eyes ablaze with life. ‘Alim’s shown up at last,’ he said abruptly.

Amber gasped. Alim’s disappearance from the clinic in Bern three years ago had been so complete that all Harun’s efforts to find him had proven useless. ‘He’s alive?’

Harun nodded. ‘He’s in Africa, taken by a Sudanese warlord. He’s being held hostage for a hundred million US dollars.’

Her hand fluttered to her cheek. ‘Oh, no! Is he well? Have they hurt him?’

The silence went on too long, and, seeing the ice chips in his eyes, she realised that, without meaning to, she’d said something terribly wrong—but what?

Floundering for words when she couldn’t know which ones were right or wrong, she tried again, wishing she knew something, anything about the man she’d married. ‘Harun, what are you going to do about it?’

‘Pay the ransom in full, of course. He’s the true Sheikh of Abbas al-Din, and without the contracts from the oil he found we’d have very little of our current wealth.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m going to Africa. I have to be there when he’s released, to find out if he’s coming home. And—he’s my brother.’

She’d expected him to say that, of course. From doing twelve hours of mind-numbing paperwork to meeting dignitaries and businessmen to taking up sword and gun, Harun always did what was right for the country, for his people, even for her, at least in public—but she hadn’t expected the catch in his voice, or the shimmer of tears in those normally emotionless eyes. ‘You love him,’ she muttered, almost in wonder.

He frowned at her. ‘Of course I do. He’s my brother, the only family I have left, and he—might come home at last.’

The second catch in her stranger husband’s voice made her search his face. She’d never seen him cry once since Fadi’s death. He’d never seemed lonely or needy during the years of Alim’s disappearance, at least not in her presence. But now his eyes were misty, his jaw working with emotion.

Amber felt a wave of shame. Harun had been missing his brother all this time, and she’d never suspected it. She’d even accused him once of enjoying his role too much as the replacement sheikh to care where Alim was, or if he was alive or dead. He’d bowed and left her without a word, seconds before she could regret her stupid words. She’d wanted to hurt him for always being so cold, so unfeeling with her—but during the past three years she’d been able to call or Skype with her family daily, or ask one sister or another to visit. She’d left him all alone, missing his brother, and she’d never even noticed until now.

The sudden longing to give him comfort when she knew he’d only push her away left her confused, even frightened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in the end—a compromise that was so weak, so wishy-washy she felt like an idiot. ‘I hope he does come home, for your sake.’

‘Thank you.’ But it seemed she’d said the wrong thing again; the smile he gave her held the same shard of ice as his eyes. ‘Will it make a difference to you?’

Taken aback, she stammered, ‘W-what? How could Alim’s return possibly make any difference to me?’

Harun shrugged, but there was something—a hint of fire beneath his customary ice with her. She didn’t know why, but it fascinated her, held her gaze as if riveted to his face. ‘He surrendered himself to the warlord in order to protect the woman who saved his life, a nurse working with Doctors for Africa. Very courageous of him, but of course one expects no less from the Racing Sheikh. Soon Alim will become the true, hereditary sheikh he should have been these three years, and I’ll be back to being—Brother Number Three.’

By this point she wondered if any more blood could possibly pool in her face. Ridiculous that she could feel such envy for a woman she’d never met, but she’d always yearned to have a man care enough about her to make such a sacrifice. To know Alim, the man who’d run from her, could risk his life for another woman—

Then, without warning, Harun’s deliberate wording slithered back into her mind like a silent snake, striking without warning. Frowning, she tilted her head, mystified. ‘What did you mean by that—Brother Number Three?’

‘It took you long enough to remember. Thinking of Alim, were you?’ He lifted a brow, just a touch, in true understated irony, and, feeling somehow as if he’d caught her out in wrong behaviour, she blushed. Slowly, he nodded. ‘I thought you might be.’

Her head was spinning now. ‘You just told me he’s alive and has been taken by a warlord. Who else should I be thinking about?’ He merely shrugged again, and she wanted to hit him. ‘So are you going to explain your cryptic comment?’

It took him a few moments to reply, but it wasn’t truly an answer. ‘You figure it out, Amber. If you think hard, you might remember … or maybe you won’t. It probably was never very important to you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said before she could stop herself.

His gaze searched hers for a few moments, but whatever he was looking for he obviously didn’t find. For some reason she felt a sense of something lost she didn’t know she’d had, the bittersweet wishing for what she never realised she could have had.

Before she could ask he shrugged and went on, ‘By the way, you’ll be needed for a telecast later today, of course, my dear. We’re so glad Alim’s alive, of course we’re paying the ransom, et cetera.’

The momentary wistfulness vanished like a stone in a pond, only its ripples left behind in tiny circles of hurt. ‘Of course,’ she said mockingly, with a deep curtsy. ‘Aren’t I always the perfect wife for the cameras? I must be good for something, since you endure my continued barrenness.’

His mouth hardened, but he replied mildly enough, ‘Yes, my dear, you’re perfect—for the cameras.’

He’d left the room before the poison hidden deep inside the gently-spoken cryptic words hit her.

Brother Number Three.

Oh, no—had it been Harun standing behind the door when she’d discussed her unwanted marriage—no, her unwanted groom—with her father?

She struggled to remember what she’d said. The trouble was, she’d tried to bury it beneath a blanket of forgetfulness ever since she’d accepted her fate.

Brother Number Three … how am I to face this total stranger in the marriage bed?

Her father’s words came back to haunt her. He’s been left completely alone … in deepest mourning …

He’d heard everything, heard her fight with all her might against marrying him—

And he’d heard her father discuss her feelings for Alim.

She closed her eyes. Now, when it was far too late, she understood why her husband had barely spoken to her in all this time, had never tried to find friendship or comfort with her, had rarely if ever shown any emotion in front of her—and remembering how she’d reacted, then and just now …

For three years she’d constantly punished him for his reaction—one born of intense grief and suffering, a reaction she could readily understand … at least she could understand it now. During the most painful time of his life, he’d needed one person to be there for him. He’d needed someone not to abandon or betray him, and that was exactly what she’d done. He’d come to her that day, and she’d treated him with utter contempt, a most unwanted husband, when he’d been the one to salvage her pride and give her the honour she deserved.

No wonder he’d never tried to touch her, had never attempted to make love to her, even on the one occasion she’d gone to his room to ask him to come to her bed!

But had she asked? Even then she’d been so cold, so proud, not hesitating to let him know how he’d failed her over and over. Give me a child and remove this shame you’ve forced on me all this time, she’d said.

With a silent groan, she buried her face in her hands.

The question now was, what could she do to make him forgive her, when it was years too late to undo the damage?

Harun was climbing into the jet the next day when he heard his name being called in the soft, breathless feminine voice that still turned his guts inside-out.

She might be your wife, but she can’t stand you. She wants Alim—even more, now she knows he’s alive, and as heroic as ever.

The same old fight, the same stupid need. Nothing ever changed, including his hatred for his everlasting weakness in wanting her.

Lust, it’s nothing more than lust. You can ignore that. You’ve done it for three years. After a few moments, struggling to wipe the hunger from his face, he turned to her. Afraid he’d give himself away somehow, he didn’t speak, just lifted a brow.

With that limber, swaying walk, she moved along the carpet laid down for him to reach the jet from the limo, and climbed the stairs to him. Her eyes were enormous, filled with something he’d never seen from her since that wretched night a year ago when he could have had her, and he’d walked away. ‘Harun, I want to come with you.’

A shard of ice pierced his heart. Amber hated to fly, yet here she was, ready to do what she hated most. For the sake of seeing Alim? ‘No.’

She blinked and took an involuntary step back at his forceful tone. ‘But I want to—’

He couldn’t stand to hear her reasons. ‘I said no.’

Her chin shot up then, and her eyes flashed. Ah, there was the same defiant wife he’d known and ached to have from three feet or three thousand miles of distance for so long. ‘Damn you, Harun, it’s all I’m asking of you.’

Harun turned his face away. Just looking at her right now hurt. For the first time she was showing him the impulsive, passionate side he’d believed slumbered deep inside her, and it was for Alim.

Of course it was for Alim; why should he expect anything else? In all these years, she’d only shown emotion once: when she’d asked—no, demanded—that he end her public shame, and give her a child. When he’d said no, she’d sworn at him for the first time.

But she’d just sworn at him again.

‘You still care for him so much?’ he asked, his voice low and throbbing with the white-hot betrayal he barely managed to hide.

She sighed. ‘I’m not nineteen any more. I’m your wife. Please, just give me a chance. It’s all I’m asking.’

A chance for what? he wanted to ask, but remained silent.

Something to the left of him caught his attention. Her bags were being stowed in the hold. With a sense of fatalism, he swept a hand before him. ‘By all means, come and see him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your care.’

No part of her touched him as she pushed past him and into the jet. Her chin was high, her eyes as cold as they’d always been for him … except on that fateful night last year—and a moment ago, because she wanted to see Alim.

Damn her. Damn them both.

Yet something like regret trailed in the wake of the warm Gulf wind behind her. Harun breathed it in, refusing to yet again indulge in the wish that things could be different for them. It was far too late.

She was sitting upright and straight in the plush, wide seat, her belt already buckled. He sat beside her, and saw her hands gripping the armrests. He’d seen this on the times they’d had to go to another country for a state visit. She really hated flying.

His hand moved to hers, then stopped. It wasn’t his comfort she wanted.

During the final safety check of the jet the silence stretched out. The awkwardness between them was never more evident than when they sat side by side and could find nothing to talk about: he because all he could think of was touching her and hating himself for it, and she presumably because all she wanted was to get away from him, as fast and as far as possible.

How she must hate this life, trapped in this submissive woman’s role, tied to a man she despised.

‘You are not Brother Number Three.’

Startled, he turned to face her, prompted by a tone of voice he’d never known from his cold, proud wife. The fierce words seemed to burst from her; the passion he’d always felt slumbering in her came to blazing life in a few restrained words. ‘I’m sorry I ever said it, and sorrier still that you heard stupid words said in my own shock and grief, and took them so literally. I humiliated you before my father, and I’m sorry, Harun.’

Surprise and regret, remembered humiliation, yearning and a dozen other emotions flew around in him, their edges hitting him like the wings of a wild bird caged. He could only think of one thing to say, and he couldn’t possibly say it to his stranger wife. What am I to you now? As ever, he resorted to his fall-back, the cool diplomacy that told her nothing about what he was thinking or feeling. ‘It’s all right.’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s not all right between us. It never has been, and I never knew why. But we’ve been married for three years. In all this time, why didn’t you try, even once, to talk to me?’ Touching his cheek, she turned him to face her before he could school his stunned surprise that her hands were on his skin. ‘I always wanted to know why you hated me. You were outside the door that day.’

Taken aback, he could only answer with truth. ‘I don’t hate you.’

An encyclopaedia could be written on the doubt in her eyes. ‘Really? You don’t?’

Reluctant understanding touched a heart shrouded in ice too long. ‘No,’ was all he said.

She sighed. ‘But you don’t trust me. You won’t treat me even as a friend, let alone your wife.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were a servant when I heard your footsteps behind the door. I would never have done that to you—don’t you know that?’

Her face was vivid with the force of her anger and her regret. She thought she wanted to know about his emotions—but she didn’t have a clue. If he let out one iota of his feelings, it might break a dam of everything he’d repressed since he was eight years old.

I need you to be strong for me again, little akh, Fadi had said at his mother’s funeral, only three months after their father died, and Alim had stormed off within minutes of the service beginning. We have to stand together, and show the world what we ‘re made of.

I need you to stay home and help me, little akh, he’d said when Alim was seventeen, and his first race on the circuit gave him the nickname the Racing Sheikh. What Alim’s doing could change the nation for us, economically and socially. You can study by correspondence, right? It won’t make a difference to you.

I need you to come home, little akh. I feel like I’m drowning under the weight of all this, Fadi had said when Harun was nineteen, and had to go on a dig to pass his archaeology course. I’ll fix it with the university, don’t worry. You’ll pass, which is all you want, right?

‘I suppose I should have known,’ he answered Amber now. From the vague memories he had of his mother, he knew that it was dangerous not to answer an angry woman, but it was worse to answer with a truth she didn’t want to hear.

‘And—and you heard what my father said about—’ her cheeks blazed, but her chin lifted again, and she said it ‘—about the—the feelings I had for Alim back then.’

As a passion-killer, hearing his wife say she had feelings for the brother who’d abandoned him to this halflife had to rank up there as number one. ‘Yes,’ he said, quiet. Dead inside.

‘Harun, don’t.’ She gripped his chin in her hand, her eyes fairly blazing with emotion. ‘Do you hate me for it?’

He closed his eyes against the passion always beneath the surface with her, but never for him. ‘No.’ So many times, he’d wished he could hate her, or just take her for the higher duty of making an heir, but he could do neither. Yes, he still desired her; he could live with that. But he’d shut off his heart years ago. There was no way he’d open it up, only to have her walk all over it again with her careless rejections and stinging rebukes.

‘Stop it, Harun,’ she burst out, startling him into opening his eyes again. ‘Hate me if you want, but stop showing me this uncaring wall of ice! I don’t know how to talk to you or what to do when you’re so cold with me, always pushing me away!’

Cold? He felt as if he were bleeding agony whenever he looked at her, and she thought his feelings for her were cold? Harun stared at her, the wife he barely knew, and wondered if she was blind, or if it was because he really had covered his need too well. But wasn’t that what he’d always done? How could he stop doing what had always been expected of him?

So he frowned again. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘Talk to me for once. Tell me how it hurt you.’ Though she spoke softly, almost beneath her breath, it felt like a dam bursting, the release of a long-held pressure valve. ‘I was nineteen, Harun, one of a legion of girls that dreamed of capturing the heart of the world-famous Racing Sheikh. I didn’t know him any more than I could touch or talk to a literal star.’

She hadn’t said so many words to him at one time since he’d rejected her one attempt at connection last year—and the bitter self-mockery in her voice and her eyes lashed even harder at him than herself.

So she thought of Alim as a star. Well, why not? Even now, years later, it was how the world saw him. The headlines were filled with adoring references to the missing sheikh, reinforcing his own aching emptiness. He’s my brother. Not one of you misses him like I do

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.