The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen

“I shall take you,” he repeated, teeth flashing in a barely civil smile. “I insist.”

Her brown eyes lifted, met his. He saw her full lips compress, her mouth a dark rose.

Hot sparks lit her eyes. Leaning forward she whispered so only he could hear. “I do not work for you, King Fehr, nor am I one of your subjects. You can’t insist. I’m afraid you forget, Your Highness, that you have no jurisdiction over me.”

Once again she’d told him no. Once again she’d flat-out rejected him.

He frowned, trying to digest her rejection.

It’d been years since anyone had refused him so absolutely. People didn’t say no to him. People needed him. People came to him wanting favors, assistance, support.

Studying her pale, oval-shaped face, he let his gaze drift from her dark, winged eyebrows to the heat in her warm eyes to the set of her firmly molded chin. He’d never noticed just how firm that chin was until now. He’d never noticed her backbone until now, either.

When he’d first known her she’d been a broken girl, literally broken from the accident that had taken his sisters. Jesslyn had been in the hospital, all white plaster and gauze and pins.

She wasn’t broken anymore.

“You don’t like me,” he said, almost amused. On one hand he was angered by her cool dismissal, and on the other hand he was surprised and intrigued, which was a novelty in and of itself. As king of a Middle Eastern country enjoying its tenth year of peace and economic stability, these days he found himself surprised by little and intrigued by even less.

Jesslyn eyed him steadily, her feelings for him definitely mixed. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I don’t trust you.”

“Why on earth wouldn’t you trust me?”

She again shouldered her purse, her damp coat dripping over her arm. “You’re not the Sharif I knew. You’re King Fehr.”

“Jesslyn.” His voice suddenly dropped, turned coaxing. He didn’t like his integrity being questioned. “Obviously, I’ve offended you. That wasn’t my intention. I’ve come to you to ask for help. At least let me explain.”

She glanced toward his limousine and then his half-dozen men who stood at attention, their eyes shielded by dark glasses. “I’m catching a redeye flight tonight, and I’m going to be on that plane.”

“So you’ll let me drive you home?”

She turned her head, looked up at him, her damp dark hair forming soft ringlets around her face. “I’m going to be on that plane,” she repeated.

He liked the way the dark-chestnut curls framed her pale face, liked the stubborn press of her lips and the defiant lift of her chin. “Then let me take you home.”

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER giving Sharif’s driver her address, Jesslyn placed her purse and briefcase on the floor and laid her damp coat on her damp lap as she tried to ignore the fact that Sharif was sitting so close.

Unfortunately, he was impossible to ignore. He was the kind of man who dominated a room, drawing light, attention, energy. And worse, sitting so close to him she could feel his warmth, smell a hint of his fragrance, and it threw her back to the past, filling her with memories of his skin. She loved his skin. He’d always known how to hold her.

Her heart turned over, and her fingers curled into her coat as the strangest pain shot through her.

Sorrow. Grief. Regret.

He was awakening memories and feelings she didn’t want or need, memories and feelings of a past—a life—she’d accepted was gone.

“You don’t look at me,” he said, as the car started.

She couldn’t exactly tell him that looking at him made her hurt worse. Made her realize all over again how foolish she’d been when she’d left him. She hadn’t really meant to walk away, not forever. Instead she’d thought he would have come running after her, had hoped he would have pursued her, beg her to reconsider, pledge undying love.

“Endings are awkward. It was awkward then, and it’s awkward now.”

“But you’re happier. Look at you. You’re living your dream.”

Her dream. She inhaled softly, a quick gasp of protest. She’d never dreamed of being single at her age. Her dream had always been to have a family, a family of her own. Having been raised by an elderly aunt after her parents’ deaths—three years apart—made her realize how much she needed people to love and people to love her. Instead here she was still single, and still teaching other peoples’ children.

“Yes,” she agreed, hiding the pain his words caused her. “It’s wonderful.”

“I’ve never seen you this confident,” he added.

Jesslyn glanced out the window and watched the fire trucks and school buildings fall away as the limousine exited the parking lot and pulled onto the street. “It’s not hard being stronger or more confident,” she said after a moment, turning to look at him. “All those years ago I was a different person.”

He knew immediately what she alluded to. His eyes darkened. “It was a terrible accident.”

She nodded, and suddenly the accident wasn’t eleven years ago, but yesterday, and the loss was just as fresh. “I still dream about it sometimes,” she said, knotting her hands, her fingers interlocking so tightly the tips of her fingers shone pink and the knuckles white. “I always wake up on impact. I wake up before I know what’s happened.”

Sharif didn’t speak, and she fought the enormous heaviness bearing down on her chest. “But when I wake I know what happened.”

“You weren’t at the wheel.”

“But Jamila did nothing wrong. No one in our car did anything wrong.”

“That’s why they’re called accidents.”

Tragedies, she whispered in her mind.

“Otherwise, you’ve healed,” he said. “You’re lucky.”

His sisters hadn’t been.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and Jesslyn swiftly reached up and brushed them away before they could fall. It’d been a long time since she’d talked about the accident, and still she carried the grief and loss in her heart. Jamila and Aman had been her best friends. She’d met them when she was ten, and they’d become instantly inseparable.

But the past was the past, she reminded herself, trying to focus on the present. She could only live right now, in the present time, a time where she could actually make a difference. “You’ve changed, too, but I suppose you had to, being a …”

“Yes?” he prompted when her voice faded away without finishing the thought.

Jesslyn shifted uncomfortably. “You know.”

“But I don’t. Why don’t you tell me.”

She didn’t miss the ruthless edge in his voice, and suddenly she wished she’d never said anything at all. “You have to know you’ve changed,” she said, dodging his question even as she looked at him, really looked at him and saw all over again how much harder, fiercer, prouder he’d become. Beautiful silver into steel.

“You don’t like me now, though.”

Her shoulders shifted. “I don’t know you now.”

“I’m still the same person.”

But he wasn’t, she thought, he wasn’t the man she knew. He’d become something other, larger, more powerful, and more conscious of that power, too. “Maybe what I should say is that I don’t see the man anymore, I see the king.” She could see from the hardening of his expression that he didn’t like what she’d said, so she hastily added, “But of course you’ve changed. You’re not a young man anymore. You’re now … what? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine?”

“Thirty-seven, Miss Heaton.” He paused, his voice deepening. “And you’re thirty-one.”

Something in his voice made her look up, and when she did, she stared straight into his stunning silver-gray eyes, eyes she’d once found heartbreakingly beautiful.

Eyes that seemed to pierce her heart now.

The air left her in a rush, forcing her to take a quick breath and then another.

Her prince had become a king. Her Sharif had married and then been widowed. Her own life with him had been a lifetime ago.

“You’re displeased with me, and yet it’s the opposite for me. You’re more than I remembered,” he continued in the same deep, husky voice, “more confident. More beautiful. More of everything.”

Once again her chest tightened, her heart feeling as mashed as a potato.

He made her feel too much. He made her remember everything.

Inexplicably she suddenly wanted to seize all the years back, the nine years she’d buried herself in good works and deeds, the years in higher-education courses and summer school and night school, arduous activities and pursuits designed to keep her from thinking or feeling.

Designed to keep her from regretting.

Prince Sharif Fehr, her Prince Sharif Fehr, her first lover, her only love, had married someone else only months after they broke off.

Shifting restlessly, she glanced out the window, saw they were less than a mile from her apartment and felt confusing emotions of disappointment and relief.

Soon he’d drop her off and be gone.

Soon she could be in control of her emotions again.

Sharif’s gaze still rested on her face. “So tell me more about your school, your current job. Are you happy there? What is the faculty like?”

This Jesslyn could answer easily, with a clear conscience. “I love being a teacher. I always end up so attached to my students, and I still get a thrill teaching literature and history. And yes, the school is very different from the American School in London, and the American School in Dubai where I taught one year, but I have a lot more control over my curriculum here and I get to spend more time with my students, which is what I want.”

“Your students,” he repeated.

She smiled, finally able to breathe easier. Talking about teaching put her firmly back in control of her emotions, and she wanted to keep it that way. She had to keep it that way. “I do think of them as my kids, but I can’t help it. I have such high hopes for each of them.”

“If you love children so much, why don’t you have any of your own?”

Immediately she was thrown back into inner chaos, her sense of calm and goodwill vanishing. Did his mother never tell him? Did he still really not know?

Her fingers balled into fists as she felt anger wash through her, anger toward his cold, manipulative mother, and anger toward Sharif. Sharif was supposed to have loved her. Sharif was supposed to have wanted her.

“Haven’t met the right person,” she answered tightly, looking into his face, seeing again the hard, carved features, the way his dark sleek hair touched his robe, and the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw.

That face …

His eyes …

Heat rushed through her, heat followed by ice because she could never have been his wife. She could never have been the one he married and cherished. She was, as his mother had put it so indelicately, a good-time girl. Someone frivolous and fun to pass the time with.

“You’ve never married?” he asked.

“No.”

“I’m surprised. When you left all those years ago I was sure there was someone, or something, you wanted.”

No, there was nothing else she wanted, but she hadn’t known how to fight then. Hadn’t known how to keep, protect, what she loved. “We’re almost to my apartment,” she said numbly, gesturing to the street.

“My girls need a teacher this summer. They’re home from boarding school and lagging academically.”

They were so close to her apartment, so close. Just another block and she could get out, run away, escape.

“I’ll pay you three times your annual salary,” he continued. “In ten weeks you could make three times what you make in a year.”

She wanted to cover her ears. She didn’t want to know about the job, didn’t want to hear about his children—children he’d had with his fabulously wealthy and stunningly beautiful princess—or their academic deficiencies. “I’m going on holiday, Sharif. I leave tonight.”

“I thought you cared about children. I thought you wanted what’s best for children.”

But these weren’t her children and she wasn’t going to get involved. “I’ve plans,” she repeated woodenly.

“Plans you could change,” Sharif said so pleasantly that Jesslyn felt a prickle beneath her skin. She didn’t trust Sharif when he used that tone of voice.

But then, she didn’t trust Sharif at all.

Maybe that’s because she didn’t know the real Sharif. The Sharif she’d dated and adored would have never married a Dubai princess just to further his career and kingdom, much less married that princess less than six months after they’d broken up. But that’s what he’d done. His wedding had been covered by virtually every glossy magazine in the UK, and in every article about the wedding, below every photograph the caption read, Prince Sharif Fehr Marries Princess Zulima of Dubai after a Year-Long Engagement.

Year-long engagement?

Impossible. Six months before the wedding Jesslyn was still dating Sharif.

The car had stopped but Jesslyn didn’t wait for the driver to appear. Gathering her things, she flung the door open. “Good luck, Sharif,” she said, sliding her legs out and standing. “Goodbye.”

And Jesslyn rushed to the entrance of her building, racing to the lobby and the entrance as though her life depended on it. And in a way it did, because Sharif would annihilate her if she gave him the chance.

She wouldn’t give him the chance.

In her apartment Jesslyn forced herself to focus on finishing packing. She wasn’t going to think about Sharif, not again, not anymore. She had more pressing things to think about, things like her passport, sunscreen and extra batteries for her digital camera.

Her trip required more luggage than she would normally take, but ten weeks and radically different climates meant swimsuits and shorts for the warmer temperatures in Northern Queensland, slacks and elegant blouses for the big Australian cities, and then down jackets and fleece-lined boots for the ski slopes in New Zealand.

She was just zipping the biggest suitcase closed when her phone rang.

“Hello,” Jesslyn said, answering the phone as she dragged her big suitcase into the hall.

It was Sharif. “I’ve news I thought you’d want to hear.”

She straightened, leaving the suitcase by her door. “I’ve a million things to do before the flight, Sharif—”

“It concerns one of your students.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “What’s happened?”

“I just had a call from Mahir, my chief of security, and he’s on his way to the Sharjah police station. They’ve arrested one of the school students for vandalizing the campus this afternoon. It was thought that I’d want to press charges.”

She walked into the small living room and leaned against the back of her couch. “Are you pressing charges?”

“Mahir is handling the matter.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means that Mahir makes those decisions. He’s responsible for my security.”

Jesslyn’s hand shook as she held the phone to her ear. “Which student?”

“Aaron.”

Aaron?

She frowned, bewildered. It couldn’t have been Aaron. Aaron wasn’t like that. Aaron didn’t pull pranks. He was a good kid, a serious kid, almost nerdy. “He didn’t do it,” she said faintly, folding one arm across her chest to fight the icy weakness in her limbs. “He wouldn’t pull the fire alarm. He wouldn’t.”

“They caught him running from the scene.”

“It just … it’s not … it’s not what he’d do …” And then her voice faded as she pictured the small gift Aaron had brought her earlier that day, after school had ended. She could see the white paper, the colorful silk ribbon. She’d left it on her desk when the sprinklers turned on.

“Wait.” Jesslyn chewed on her mouth. “He was on campus after school, but that’s because he had a goodbye gift for me. He’s moving back to the States.”

“Which probably explains his stunt,” Sharif answered. “I may be in my thirties but I remember being a teenager, and kids do things to get attention—”

“So you will forgive him?” she interrupted eagerly.

“If that’s all he did, the punishment would be light. But he didn’t just pull the fire alarm. Apparently he also broke into the vice principal’s office and stole copies of exams from a filing cabinet. Dr. Maddox intends to prosecute.” He paused. “She’s asked me to press charges as well.”

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“It’s not just me, though. The police are involved, as well. Theft is a serious crime.”

Swallowing, Jesslyn felt her heart lodge up in her throat. There was absolutely no way Aaron did what they said he’d done. “Sharif, he didn’t steal anything. He brought me a gift. It’s on my desk. We can go to school, retrieve that—”

“A janitor spotted the boy running away.”

“He was running to get home, not running away!”

“Jesslyn, there’s nothing we can do right now.”

She continued to shake her head. It wasn’t true. She wouldn’t believe it until she talked to Aaron herself. “I must see him. Take me to the jail, Sharif, please take me right now.”

“They won’t allow you to see him. They’ve called his parents, but the police must finish questioning him first.”

Jesslyn closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “You’re telling me they won’t let you in? You’re telling me they won’t let Sheikh Sharif Fehr in to see a child?”

He sighed. “Jesslyn.”

Her heart was racing so hard it hurt. “You can get me in to see him, Sharif.”

Silence stretched over the phone line. “I know how protective you are of your students—”

“Sharif. Please.” Her voice broke. “Please.”

Again silence answered her request, a silence that just grew longer, heavier until she heard him sigh again. “I’ll send my car for you, laeela, but understand this is serious. Understand he’s being formally charged.”

Sharif’s car arrived for her within the hour, and while sitting in the back of the dark Mercedes sedan, Jesslyn replayed the afternoon scene with Aaron in her mind again and again.

He’d been upset when he gave her the gift, touchingly emotional. But had he been acting? Or was it a ruse? The gift of the present an opportunity to cover his crime?

She didn’t know and still couldn’t decide when the car pulled up in front of the station. Sharif was already there, appearing from the police station to meet her at the car.

Jesslyn had changed before the car arrived for her, selecting a conservative, loose-fitting chocolate linen dress with long sleeves and a simple skirt. It was a dress she wore when she didn’t want to draw attention to her figure as she knew both men and women traditionally wore robes to hide the body. Sharif, she noticed, had changed, too.

He offered his hand to her as she stepped from the car. She didn’t want to take it but couldn’t refuse him, not with so many of his men watching.

Reluctantly she put her hand in his, felt his fingers wrap around hers.

“You’re cold,” Sharif said, as she stepped onto the pavement.

“I’m nervous,” she confessed, worriedly glancing up into the sky. It was beginning to grow dark. Her flight would board in a little more than three hours.

His expression sharpened. “You think he did do it, then?”

“No.” She shot Sharif a desperate look. “I’m certain he didn’t, but I’m afraid for him. If his parents have been called they’ll be upset. He’ll be upset.” She shook her head. “Oh, I wish none of this had happened.”

“But it has. Now we just have to see what the situation is.”

They headed for the police station’s entrance, Sharif’s security detail surrounding them. The bodyguards were everywhere tonight—in front of them, behind them, beside them, and while the security had been with them earlier today, it unnerved her tonight.

Or maybe it was Sharif who was unnerving her by walking so close.

Inside the station Sharif was received with great respect. The entire station staff, from desk sergeants to detectives to the chief of police, made a point of welcoming Sharif, and after ten minutes of warm greetings, the police chief and Sharif stepped aside to have a private talk.

Jesslyn waited anxiously for them to return, praying that Sharif could convince the police chief to let her see Aaron. Finally Sharif summoned her. “We have been granted permission to speak to your student, and you may ask him whatever you’d like, but you must understand they’ve a good case against him.” He looked at her, his gray gaze shuttered. “Jesslyn, the consequences would be severe.”

Another one of her fears.

Sharjah was Jesslyn’s second home and she was loath to criticize any of it, much less the government and the very good police force that worked so hard to protect both Western expats and Arab citizens, but there were dangers here, particularly for careless or reckless American teenagers who failed to heed the law.

Fortunately, teenage boys didn’t go to prison for stealing or destroying private property, but the punishment wouldn’t be light and could be emotionally scarring.

“I understand,” she whispered.

They were escorted to a small office, and while they waited for Aaron, Jesslyn nervously twisted the ring on her third finger, a ring given to her by her grandmother when she’d turned eighteen. She’d always called it her good luck ring and she played with it now, praying for good fortune.

The door finally opened and the police chief appeared, escorting young Aaron.

She was devastated that he was handcuffed, but before she could say a word the police chief removed the boy’s handcuffs and pulled out a chair for him.

Aaron tumbled into the chair, his head hung so low he couldn’t see anything but the floor.

“Aaron.” She said his name softly.

His head lifted slightly but she could at least see his face. He’d been crying. His cheeks still bore traces of tears and his nose was red and shiny. “Miss Heaton,” he choked.

Her heart contracted. He’d always been one of her favorite students and to see him like this made her feel absolutely desperate. She didn’t even know what to say.

As if he could read her mind he shook his head. “I didn’t do it, Miss Heaton. I swear I didn’t. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t.”

She wanted to comfort him but didn’t know how, not when she knew she couldn’t reassure him that everything would be fine. It was impossible to promise him anything. “They found you on campus,” she said carefully. “They said they caught you running.”

He groaned. “I was on campus because I’d taken you a gift.”

“But why were you running?”

“I was late getting home. I didn’t want my father to know I’d missed the school bus.”

She bit her bottom lip, bit down to keep her emotions in check. “Apparently someone saw you running from the office—”

“Not me.” He looked at her, eyes brilliant with unshed tears. “And maybe someone was running from the office, and maybe someone had stolen papers, but it wasn’t me.”

Sharif glanced from Jesslyn to the boy. “What do you know about the papers?”

Aaron’s jaw hardened and yet his eyes were filled with pain. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.” And then he dropped his head, his shoulders slumping.

Jesslyn moved forward on her chair. “Aaron, if you know who did it, it would save you from serious trouble.”

“And if I tell you, he’d be in serious trouble and I can’t do that. His mom is already dying—“Aaron broke off on a soft sob. His head hung so low that a tear fell and dropped onto the floor.

Jesslyn inhaled sharply, knowing who he was referring to. Only one boy in the upper grades had a mom dying, and it was Will. Will McInnes. Will’s mother had just been moved to a hospice facility, and Will’s father was coping by drinking too much and then terrorizing the children.

She turned to Sharif. “I need to talk to you.” They stepped out of the room and stood in the narrow hall.

She told Sharif everything, about Will and Aaron’s friendship, how Aaron’s parents had done their best to include Will in their family life as Will’s family life unraveled. “Will is barely getting by,” she said, her eyes stinging. “He’s had such a hard year, and the only person who’s really been there for him is Aaron. And now Aaron’s leaving.”