The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen

Jesslyn nodded slightly. She totally agreed with him on that. “Did the headmistress give any specifics about the ‘difficult’ year? Were the girls struggling academically or was it something else?”

“I’ve looked at their end-of-year marks and they are down across the board, but it’s their conduct marks that trouble me. My daughters aren’t spoiled princesses. They’re good girls. Polite children. And yet it seems the school … the teachers … have come to view them as troubled.”

“Troubled?”

He took a quick rough breath, as though the entire subject was so painful he could barely endure it. “The youngest had the worst marks. She essentially failed everything. She’s the one the school isn’t sure should return.”

Jesslyn waved off the waiter who was trying to refill her water. “Perhaps it isn’t the right school for the girls.”

“They’ve been there for nearly two years.”

“Not every school is right for every child.”

“My wife attended the same school. It was her desire they go there.”

“How old are your children?”

“Takia is five, Saba is six and Jinan, the eldest, is seven,” Sharif answered.

“They’re babies!”

“My wife went away to boarding school early, too.”

Jesslyn had also gone to boarding school in England, but she’d never enjoyed it, never felt happy about the long school term and the all-too-brief summer and winter holidays. She’d also been terribly homesick at first, but she’d adapted. But then again, she’d been quite a bit older, almost nine when she’d first gone away. And she hadn’t been grieving the loss of a mother, either.

“Maybe they’re too young,” she said carefully. “Or maybe it’s too much, too soon after the loss of their mother.”

Sharif nodded, jaw flexing. “If that were the case they would be happy now that they’re home. But they’re not. They’re still quite withdrawn. It’s as if they’ve become someone else’s children.”

“Maybe it’s not an academic issue at all.”

“I wondered the same thing myself, so I invited a doctor, a specialist in children’s mental health issues, to come meet them, spend the day with them, and the doctor said that children go through different adjustment periods and that eventually they’ll be fine.”

Jesslyn heard the tension and frustration in Sharif’s voice. He genuinely cared about his girls. He wanted to help them. He just didn’t know how.

He said as much when he continued speaking. “That’s why I’ve come to you. You were always so good with children, even back when you’d just started your teacher training in London. I thought that if anyone could help them, it’d be you.”

“Sharif, you know I’m not a therapist, I’m a teacher.”

“Yes, and I need you to teach them. Takia can’t return with her sisters if she doesn’t make up missed and failed coursework, and the other two are struggling in several subjects. You’re to teach all of them. They will attend lessons with you every day. I’ve converted the palace library into a classroom and purchased all the necessary textbooks.”

“I haven’t taught children as young as yours in years,” she reminded him. “My specialty is older children, middle schoolers and high school students, and the curriculum is American based, not UK—”

“That’s fine. I’ve bought teacher’s editions, and should you find you require something else, materials, computers, an assistant to help you, just let me know and it’s yours.”

Why did his reassurance not make her feel better? Why did that niggle of doubt within her just grow? Was it because elementary education wasn’t her area, or because she was afraid of failing when it came to teaching Sharif’s children?

“Sharif, I just want to make sure you understand that in this instance, I am not the best teacher for the job. I spend my days teaching literature, grammar, social studies to eleven-through-fourteen-year-olds. I don’t teach how to read but how to interpret literary themes, how to deconstruct plot structure, character and conflict.” Swallowing quickly she looked up into his eyes. “There are a thousand teachers in Europe more qualified than me—”

“But none more suitable,” he answered, leaning forward to touch the back of her hand.

It was a light touch and yet the brush of his fingers across her skin made her breath catch and her belly knot. His touch was still familiar, achingly familiar. For years he had no place in her heart, her mind or her life, and yet in less than twelve hours he’d changed all that.

“What makes me so suitable?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky, colored with emotions and desire she hadn’t even known she still could feel. Immediately she fought back, reminding herself, he isn’t yours anymore. And you’re not his.

But that didn’t seem to matter right now, not when she was awash in emotions, stirred by desire. It’d been so easy to be his. It’d felt absolutely natural. And she hadn’t known then that what they had was rare and magical. She hadn’t known she would never feel that way about anyone again.

Sharif stared across the room, off into the distance, his eyes so striking, his silver-gray irises framed by the densest black lashes with black winged eyebrows beneath a strong forehead. He was her Valentino of the desert.

“There are advantages to being king,” he said at last, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “It didn’t take me long to appreciate those advantages—everyone bows to you, acquiescing to keep you happy. I’m surrounded by people desperate to please me.”

He paused, frowned, before continuing. “It’s taken me longer to understand the disadvantages. No one wants to earn my disapproval. No one wants to lose a job, a connection, a reward. So people are afraid to tell me unpleasant things and bad news, even if it happens to be the truth.”

He turned now to look at her. “Maybe once I wanted that blind obedience, the adoration of my people, but it was a mistake. What I really needed were people who’d give me the truth.” His expression shifted, growing troubled and remote. “Truth. Whatever it is.”

Truth, she repeated silently, mesmerized by the shadows in his gaze. Those shadows hadn’t been there when she knew him. When they’d been together, he’d been so bold, so confident, so … free.

But that wasn’t the Sharif sitting before her now. No, this man had the weight of the world on his shoulders, weight and worry and a hundred different concerns.

“It hasn’t been easy, I take it,” she said, remembering how she and Sharif had once loved their evenings and weekends, time for just the two of them, time for long walks and talks followed by a stop at the corner video store and then Chinese or curry take-out. They used to hole up in her apartment and sit on her bed and eat Kung Pao chicken with chopsticks and kiss and laugh.

And laugh.

Looking at Sharif she wondered when he’d last laughed. For that matter, when had she?

But maybe that was all part of growing up. Maybe one became a full-fledged adult and let all those romantic dreams go….

“I’m not complaining,” he answered. “I love my country. I love my children. But nothing is easy, no. There are always compromises. Sacrifices. But you’ve had those, too, I’m sure.” His head turned and he looked at her. “Haven’t you?”

CHAPTER FOUR

DESPITE her sumptuous room with the most amazing Egyptian-cotton linens on the bed, Jesslyn couldn’t sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel that fleeting brush of Sharif’s fingers against the back of her hand, a touch that had scorched her then, a touch that burned her still. But it wasn’t just his touch that stayed with her, it was his low voice, a voice that hummed inside her head.

In the dark of her room she felt caught in a time warp, suspended in a moment where they were still together and still very much in love.

After such a fitful night’s sleep, the alarm came too early, jarring Jesslyn awake. For a long moment she sat on the edge of her bed, struggling to get her bearings, and then she remembered she was in a hotel room in Dubai waiting for her morning flight to Sarq.

She was going to Sarq to take care of Sharif’s children.

Jesslyn very nearly crawled back under the covers to hide but knew it wasn’t really an option. Instead she dragged herself into the shower where she turned the faucets on full force.

Drying her hair, she styled it into loose waves to take advantage of her hair’s natural curl. Hair done, Jesslyn chose a simple amethyst sheath dress to wear for the flight. The dress had a matching travel coat which she’d carry over her arm.

She was slipping her feet into bone-colored heels when two of Sharif’s men arrived at her hotel door. They’d come to take her luggage and escort her to the car. Sharif however wasn’t in the car.

“His Highness had an unexpected meeting come up this morning. He’ll meet you at the terminal in time for your flight,” one of the men said, holding the door for her while the other tucked her luggage into the trunk.

Jesslyn wasn’t surprised that Sharif had a meeting come up, and she wasn’t surprised that she was traveling to the airport alone, as he was an exceptionally powerful man, but that didn’t stop her intense whoosh of disappointment.

The fact that she even felt a whoosh of disappointment scared her. The whoosh meant she still had strong feelings for him. The whoosh meant she cared about his opinion, which made her fear her motivations for taking this job.

The truth was she couldn’t afford to get involved with Sharif, not when there was so much history between them.

The truth was she’d gotten involved. There was no backing out of the deal now, not after Sharif had done his part sorting out Aaron’s and Will’s problems.

The closer the car got to the airport, the more her stomach did crazy flips. Nervously she ran her hands along the slim-fitting skirt of her dress. She’d dressed with such care this morning, had even put on her favorite dress. And yet, wanting to be attractive, wanting him to find her attractive was just asking for trouble.

It was like cutting open an old wound.

She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t his equal. She wasn’t his colleague. She was just a teacher. The schoolteacher Sharif had hired to mind his royal children for the summer.

The limousine turned through the airport gates, and her stomach did another nosedive. She was here. Her bags were here. Soon she’d be on her way to Sarq, a place she’d wanted to visit for as long as she could remember, and now she was on her way. As Sharif’s employee.

Jesslyn swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth as she stepped out of the Mercedes. Sharif’s security detail was already there. They ushered her into the beautiful marble-and-glass executive terminal. The very rich and famous used the private terminal, and various sheikhs and businessmen mingled in groups, even as private jets carrying celebrities landed one after the other.

It was a busy terminal, and Jesslyn stood aside just people watching, fascinated by the parade of wealth, glamour and beauty. She was still taking it all in when the exterior doors opened again and another group entered, this group predominantly male with one tall, robed man commanding the most attention.

The atmosphere in the terminal almost instantly changed, charged with a tangible energy, an electric awareness. Heads through the terminal turned, and even Jesslyn felt the frisson of excitement.

Sharif.

She pursed her lips, checking her smile. Wouldn’t you know that Sharif could bring a bustling terminal like the Dubai Executive Airport to a standstill.

Even before he was King Fehr he commanded attention. Ever since she’d known him he’d managed to combine physical beauty with easy grace, an innate elegance and a brilliant mind.

She’d loved his mind, and she wasn’t going to think about his body—that had already kept her awake far too late last night.

Now she watched as he walked swiftly through the airport, shaking hands with several people he knew along the way. He was beautiful—ridiculous, movie star beautiful—with his thick onyx hair and incredible bone structure, and again whispers of conversation reached her, murmurs about news and weddings, and Jesslyn listened to the bits of gossip swirling through the terminal.

Was Sharif really thinking about getting married again? Was he close to taking a new bride? Had that decision already been made? And is that why he wanted her to work with his children this summer? To manage any problems the children might have before their problems became public?

Puzzled, she watched him reach the exit on the far side of the terminal. He hadn’t once looked at her or for her, and she felt strangely numb, like a piece of office furniture.

But then he turned at the glass door, pushed up his sunglasses and looked straight at her with his startling eyes and that half smile of his that made her suck in air, dazzled despite herself.

So he’d known all along she was there, had been aware of her as he made his way through the terminal. Her heart did a painful little jump, an embarrassing little jump.

His eyes crinkled further, his mouth quirking higher, and he gestured to her, two fingers bending, calling her. Come.

Come.

If only he’d done that when she’d broken up with him. If only he’d called her, come after her, asked for her to return.

Sharif’s men walked her to him now, and together she and Sharif stepped onto the tarmac, the June sun blisteringly hot despite it still being early in the morning.

“How are you?” he asked, as they climbed the stairs to the jet.

“Good,” she answered, ducking her head as she entered the sleek jet. “How are you?”

He gave her a quick look, catching her tone. “Sounds like a loaded question.”

She shrugged as they stepped into the jet. “People are talking about you.”

“They always talk about me,” he answered flatly, walking her to a chair in a cluster of four seats, two on each side of an aisle. Behind the seating area was a paneled wall with a handsome paneled door. “Which reminds me, I’ve a few calls to make. I’ll be back out when we’re airborne.”

“Of course.”

With a nod in her direction he disappeared through the paneled door. Jesslyn couldn’t see what lay behind the door other than a room with pale plush carpet, the corner of a buttery leather couch or chair and lots of open space.

As the door closed, the flight attendant appeared at Jesslyn’s side, checking to see if she needed anything. And then the door to the jet closed and within minutes they were taxiing down the long runway and lifting off.

Once at cruising altitude, the flight attendant returned, offering Jesslyn a choice of refreshments. “Tea, please,” she answered, as Sharif reappeared, taking a seat opposite hers.

“Coffee, Your Highness?” the flight attendant asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he said before looking at Jesslyn. “So what did you hear? What are the gossips saying about me today?”

She listened to the flight attendant’s footsteps recede and looked at Sharif, really looked at him, seeing the fine lines fan from his eyes and the deeper grooves shaping his mouth. He looked pensive, even tired. Silently she debated whether she should even repeat the talk, if it was worth mentioning, but she’d heard the same talk twice now and it was better to know something like this than just wonder. “I heard you’re to be married again.”

His eyebrows lifted but he said nothing.

She watched his face. “Is it true?”

He hesitated a long moment. “There would be advantages to remarrying,” he said at last. “And there are those who feel it would be advantageous for me to marry their daughter, but is there a bride? A wedding date?” He shrugged. “No. Nothing is set.”

“But you will eventually marry?”

“I’m young. I’m a widower. It makes sense.”

“It’s just business, then.”

He made a low, rough sound. “What would you prefer me to say? That I’ve met the most wonderful woman and I can’t wait to marry my one true love?” He made the rough sound again. “I don’t have time for love. I’m too busy running my country.”

“How long have you been king now?”

Sharif frowned, trying to remember. “Five years? Six? Hard to recall. It’s been long enough that it’s starting to blur together.”

“Your father had a heart attack.”

“Died in his sleep.”

“I remember reading it was a shock to the family. No one had expected it.”

“That’s what the media reported but it wasn’t true. Father had problems several years before that, but his personal physician thought things were better. Mother hoped things were better. But I sensed that Father wasn’t the same, but then, he hadn’t been, not since my sisters’ death.”

Since the fourth form Jesslyn had loved his sisters, fraternal twins who had been completely different in every way and yet were still best friends, and over the years they’d become her best friends, too. Whatever Jamila and Aman did, wherever they went, Jesslyn could be found there, too.

After graduating from university Jamila and Aman had insisted Jesslyn come to live with them in London at the home of Sharif’s aunt in Mayfair. Together they had dived into work, building their careers during the day and enjoying each other’s company in the evenings. To celebrate finishing their first year as career girls, they planned a summer holiday in Greece.

They were on their last night on Crete when their car was broadsided by a drunk driver. Jamila died instantly, Aman was rushed to the emergency room, and Jesslyn, who’d been on the opposite side of the car, was hospitalized with injuries that hadn’t appeared life threatening.

The hospital in Athens had been a nightmare. Jesslyn was desperate to see Aman but no one would let her into the intensive care ward since Jesslyn wasn’t family.

Jesslyn remembered standing in her gown, leaning on her walker, sobbing for someone to let her in. She knew Jamila was gone. She was desperate to see Aman. It was then Sharif appeared and, learning what the commotion was about, he opened the door to Aman’s room himself, firmly telling the hospital staff that Jesslyn was family, too.

That was how they met. In the hospital, the day before Aman died.

“I’m not surprised it affected your father so much,” Jesslyn said, fingers knotting together. “I still can’t believe they’re gone. I think about Jamila and Aman all the time.”

“The three of you practically grew up together.”

She dug her nails into her palms, her throat aching with suppressed emotion. “Your parents blamed me for the accident, though.”

“My father never did. He knew you weren’t even at the wheel.”

“But your mother …”

“My mother has found it difficult to accept that her only daughters are gone. But that’s not your responsibility.”

Jesslyn nodded and yet his words did little to ease her pain. The day of the funeral she wrote a long letter to King and Queen Fehr telling them how much she’d loved their daughters and how much she would miss them. The letter was never acknowledged.

A week after the funeral Jesslyn received a call from one of the queen’s staff telling her she had to be out of the Mayfair house by the weekend because the house was being sold.

It was a scramble finding a new place to live on such short notice, but she did find a tiny studio flat in Notting Hill. Just days after moving into the new flat she collapsed. Apparently, she’d been bleeding internally ever since the accident.

The upside was they stopped the bleeding and did what they could to repair the damage.

The downside was that they warned her the scar tissue would probably make it impossible for her to ever have kids.

And then in the middle of so much sadness and darkness and loss, flowers appeared on her Notting Hill doorstep, white tulips and delicate purple orchids, with a card that said, “You can call me anytime. Sharif.”

Sharif had scribbled his number on the card. She tried not to call. He was Prince Fehr, the eldest of the beautiful royal Fehr clan, the one Jamila and Aman had said would eventually inherit the throne.

But he’d also been kind to her, and he’d been the one to break the news to her that Aman had died.

Jesslyn called him. They talked for hours. Two days later he called her, inviting her out to dinner.

Sharif took her to a little Italian restaurant, one of those rustic hole-in-the-wall places with great food and friendly service. Jesslyn thought it was fantastic. Dinner was fantastic because it was so normal, so comfortable, with Sharif putting her immediately at ease. That night they talked about Jamila and Aman, they talked about Greece, they talked about the unseasonably cold weather they were having for late August, and at the end of the evening when he dropped her off, she knew she’d see him again.

She did see him again, she saw lots of him despite the fact that he was this famous rich gorgeous prince and she was, well, she was very much a nice, middle-class girl. But they enjoyed each other too much to think about their differences, so they just kept seeing each, never looking back, never looking forward. Not for two and a half years. Not until his mother found him a more suitable woman, a princess from Dubai.

“There are few people in this world like your sisters,” Jesslyn said, her voice husky. “They were just so much fun, and so good humored.” She tried to smile, but tears filled her eyes. “They knew how to live. They embraced it, you know?”

“I do know,” he said as the hum of the jet changed and the nose dipped down. “Check your seat belt,” he added gruffly. “We’ll be on the ground soon.”

A fleet of black Mercedeses waited at the airport, all in a line on the tarmac, not far from where the jet had parked.

In less than three minutes they disembarked, settled into the cars and were off, exiting the small private terminal reserved for the royal family’s use and heading through the city streets to the palace.

Jesslyn already knew that Sarq was ninety percent Muslim and yet as they drove through the streets Jesslyn saw relatively few women wearing the veil, apart from a few still wrapped in white robes, and although she’d lived in the Emirates for the past six years, she was still surprised by how relaxed everything seemed, the people on the streets appearing open and friendly.

“It feels like everyone’s on holiday here,” she said, as the car idled at a traffic light waiting for it to turn.

“People say Sarq is becoming the southern Mediterranean’s Costa del Sol.”

“Is that good or bad?” she asked, watching a cluster of girls cross the street linked arm in arm.

“It depends on who you talk to. In the past ten years a rather staggering number of beach resorts—inexpensive as well as deluxe properties—have opened along the coast. Some welcome the growth with open arms—my brother Zayed— for one, while others, like my nomadic brother Khalid, want to ban further development.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m in between. Economic stability enables Sarq to remain free and independent of any other country, and yet growth has a price. While the developing tourism industry has strengthened our economy, the environment’s paid a stiff price with the destruction of sand dunes and the troubling disappearance of wildlife.”

“You sound like you lean toward wildlife conservation,” she said.

“I have to. My father didn’t consider the impact development would have on our country’s natural resources, and now I’m forced to deal with the consequences.”

The car turned down a long drive marked by high stuccoed walls, lush, towering palm trees and flowering citrus trees beneath.

“We are here,” Sharif added as the Mercedes sedan slowed before immense wood and iron gates and the ten-foot-tall gates smoothly swung open.

Jesslyn craned her head to get her first look at the palace, a place she’d heard so much about from Jamila and Aman.

The girls had called the palace “heaven” and “paradise.” They’d said it was like a jewel in the most beautiful garden ever, and indeed, as the car turned round a corner, she spotted a sprawling pink building, the palace a compound of one-story stuccoed villas draped with trailing purple, pink and peach bougainvillea.