Secrets Of The Oasis

She’d looked up at him, and her treacherous heart had beat fast—too fast. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Salman. Why on earth would I be avoiding you? ‘

An inner voice answered: Because he broke your heart into tiny pieces and you’ve never forgotten it.

Jamilah noticed then that faint grooves were worn into the brackets of his mouth. His eyes were hard—far harder than she remembered them being.

‘Because I’ve never seen you at the Sultan’s party before.’

Jamilah wrenched her arm free. ‘This isn’t exactly my scene. And, not that it’s any of your business, I decided to come tonight because I was invited by—’

‘Ah, Jamilah, there you are. I was just coming to collect you.’

With a rolling wave of relief, Jamilah saw her date approach. She let him come and put a proprietorial arm around her shoulder, for once not minding the way men seemed to find it impossible not to stake their claim. And with a few words of muttered incoherency to Salman she let herself be led away, leaving Salman behind.

Now she stood amongst the throng that had gathered after the sumptuous dinner—a dinner Jamilah had had to force down her throat—horribly aware of Salman’s intense and assessing gaze from across the table.

To her utter relief, at that moment she spotted Sheikh Nadim and his date, an Irish girl called Iseult, who had come to work in Nadim’s stables after he’d bought out her family’s stud farm in Ireland.

Jamilah went to join them, and she could see their concerned looks as they took in her pale features. She felt light-headed. And then Iseult confirmed it by asking, ‘Jamilah, what is it?’

Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘Nothing at all.’

But Jamilah could feel whatever blood was left in her face drain southward when she saw Salman approach with narrowed eyes. No escape. How had she ever thought this would be a good idea?

Muttering something about finding her date, Jamilah fled across the room and out to the patio through open doors, where thankfully few people milled about. She rested her hands on the stone balustrade and sucked in deep breaths, only to feel every cell in her body react when she sensed his presence behind her.

She turned slowly and saw that the patio was now empty, as if the sheer force of the tension between her and Salman had repelled everyone else.

Not caring how she might be giving herself away, Jamilah said unevenly, ‘Leave me alone, Salman.’

His voice was harsh against the silence. ‘If you’d wanted to be left alone you should have stayed in Merkazad.’

Jamilah’s mouth twisted to acknowledge that uncomfortable truth. To think she’d ever thought that she could cope with this … ‘Ah, yes, because you never come home.’

His eyes flashed but he didn’t deny it. ‘Exactly.’

For a long moment neither one said anything, and then Salman took a step forward. Jamilah’s heart lurched, and she noticed that the patio doors had been closed.

He said, with a rough quality to his voice that resonated deep inside her, ‘You’re even more beautiful than I remember.’

Jamilah forgot about escape and glared at Salman. His compliment fell on deaf ears. There was an unmistakably predatory gleam in his eyes and Jamilah railed against it. He had no right. His face was cast into shadow, so she couldn’t make out his expression. ‘The last time you saw me you told me I was beautiful, Salman—or don’t you remember telling me why you took me to bed? ‘

‘You were undeniably beautiful then, but now there’s a maturity to your beauty…an edge.’ There was something achingly wistful in his voice for a moment, which caught Jamilah off guard.

She forced a mocking smile to numb lips. ‘You should be able to recognise cynicism when you see it, Salman. After all you’re the King of the Cynics, aren’t you? Always coming to the Sultan’s party empty-handed and walking away with the most beautiful woman here. Do you still stick to your three-week rule, or was that privilege afforded just to me? Tell me, how long did the lovely Eloise last?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Why should I?’

Salman stepped closer then, out of the shadows, and when Jamilah saw the starkness of his beautiful features she nearly forgot everything. He blocked out the light behind him.

‘I thought you would have got over that by now.’

Jamilah emitted a strangled laugh. ‘Got over it?’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I got over you long ago. I don’t have anything to discuss with you—so, if you don’t mind, my date will be looking for me.’

‘He’s no man for you. He’s a runt—an obsequious yes-man to the Sultan. What are you doing with him?’ Salman asked.

Jamilah was belligerent. ‘What do you care? He’s perfect. The alpha male lost any fascination for me a long time ago.’

She went to walk around Salman, but once again he caught her arm. ‘Tell me, do you shout out his name in ecstasy?’ he asked silkily. ‘Do you rake his back with your nails, pleading with him never to stop?’

He didn’t have to say it, but the words hung between them: do you tell him you love him? As if held back by the flimsiest of walls, images and sensations flooded Jamilah’s body and mind. She was unaware of Salman putting his hands on her arms and drawing her back in front of him. Unaware of the intent in his dark gaze. Unaware of the way his eyes dropped down her body, and unaware of the guttural moan as he drew her into him and his head lowered to hers.

She only became aware when the hot brand of his mouth seared hers, plundering and demanding, forcing her soft lips apart so that his tongue could snake out between her small teeth and suck hers deep. Jamilah had no defence. Desire burned up through her like a living flame and hurled her into the fire.

It was shocking how well her body remembered his touch—and how hungry she was for it. His hands on her back felt so wonderful. Even more so when they went lower and cupped her buttocks through the fine silk of her dress. He pulled her up and into him, where she could feel the hardening ridge of his desire, and with a soft mewl of frustration she arched against him, wanting more. Burning up with it. It was as if no time had passed at all.

And all the while their mouths clung feverishly, as if taking a first long drink of water from an oasis in the desert. It was only when Salman pulled her in even closer that an insidious image inserted itself—that of a red-haired woman being held in his arms, being made love to in exactly the same way.

Suddenly as cold as ice, Jamilah wrenched her head away and pulled free. She stood apart, aghast at how out of control she felt and how hard she was breathing.

‘Stay away from me, Salman. There is nothing between us. Nothing. And there never was. You said it yourself. It was just a fling, and I’m not in the market for another one.’

She whirled around, her dark blue silk dress billowing about her as she stalked to the doors, praying he wouldn’t stop her again. And then she turned back. ‘You had your chance. You won’t get another one. And for your information I’ve called out plenty of names in ecstasy since you, so don’t think what happened just now was anything special.’

Salman watched Jamilah stalk back into the party and for a moment an almost unassailable wave of despair washed over him. Seeing her again had provoked a maelstrom of emotions within him—emotions he’d not felt since he’d last seen her. He sagged back against the wall, his legs suddenly weak as he registered how intoxicating it had been to kiss her, hold her in his arms.

How familiar. And how necessary it had been—as necessary as taking another breath. It was as if no time had passed. He wanted her with something close to desperation. On that thought he resolutely stood to his full height again. He’d already seduced her and then rejected her. He had no right to want her again. He never wanted women after he’d had them. So why should she be different?

His mouth was a grim line as he followed her back into the party. He hoped that she’d been telling the truth when she’d claimed those numerous lovers, because then it would mean that his impact on her had been minimal, and he could ignore the fact that he thought he’d seen vulnerability and hurt in those stunning blue eyes.

Jamilah knew her parting words to Salman had been a cheap shot, but they’d felt good for a moment—even if they weren’t remotely true. Giving up any pretence of wanting to stay at the party, within an hour she had changed, her face scrubbed clean, and was in her Jeep and heading back to Merkazad.

Eventually she had to pull over on the hard shoulder of the motorway when tears blurred her vision too much. She rested her head on her hands on the steering wheel. She had to concede that she’d been hopelessly naïve in having thought she could remain unscathed after seeing Salman—and, worse, after kissing him, which she was sure had been nothing more than his cruel experiment to see how she still hungered for him.

On some level she’d never been able to believe how he’d turned into such a cruel and distant stranger that day.

She ruthlessly stopped her thoughts from deviating down a self-indulgent path where she’d try to find justification for Salman’s behaviour. He was cold and heartless—he always had been. She’d just been too naïve to see it before.

She’d often speculated if the cataclysmic events that had once taken place in Merkazad had anything to do with Salman’s insularity and darkness. Years before Merkazad had been invaded by an army from Al-Omar, which had been against its independence. Salman, his brother and their parents had been locked up in the bowels of the castle for three long months. It had been a difficult time for the whole country, and must have been traumatic for Nadim and Salman, but Jamilah had been just two at the time—far too young to remember the details.

Years after their liberation she’d always been the one allowed to spend time with Salman, when he hadn’t even let his own brother or parents near. He’d never said much, but he’d listened to her inconsequential chatter—which had developed into tongue-tied embarrassment as she’d grown older. Yet he’d never made her feel uncomfortable. He’d even sought her out the day he left Merkazad for good. She’d been sixteen and hopelessly in love. He’d touched her cheek with a finger, such a wealth of bleakness in his eyes that she’d ached to comfort him, but he’d just said, ‘See you around, kid.’

It was that bond that she believed had flared to life and blossomed over those three weeks in Paris. And yet if she believed what Salman had said to her there—and why wouldn’t she?—it had all been a cruel illusion. She had to get it through her thick skull that there could be no justification for Salman’s behaviour, and after tonight she had to draw a line under her obsession with him.

CHAPTER TWO

Present day.

SHEIKH SALMAN BIN KALID AL SAQR looked at the shadows of the rotorblades of the helicopter as it flew across the rocky expanse below him. They undulated and snaked like dark ribbons over the mountaintops, and when he looked further he could already see minarets and the vague outlines of the buildings of Merkazad—and the castle, where he was headed. His home and birthplace. He was coming back for the first time in ten years. Ten long years. And he felt numb inside.

He could remember the day he’d left, and the blistering argument he’d had with his older brother Nadim, as if it had happened yesterday, despite every attempt he’d made to block it out in the interim. They’d been standing in Nadim’s study, from where he’d been running the country since the tender age of twenty-one. His older brother’s responsibility had always struck fear into Salman’s heart because he’d known he would never have been able to bear it.

Not because of a lack of ability, but because at the age of eight he’d borne a horrific responsibility for his own people that he’d never spoken about, and since that time he’d cut Merkazad and everyone associated with it out of his heart.

As if to contradict him a memory rose up of Jamilah—the kinship he’d always felt with her, the way that for a long time she’d been the only person he could tolerate being near him and, in Paris, the ease with which he’d allowed her to seduce him to a softer place than he’d inhabited for as long as he could remember. If ever. And then the way he’d callously told her that it had been nothing, that she’d imagined them having some sort of bond. His skin prickled at being reminded of that now, and with ruthless efficiency he pushed it aside and focused on that moment with his brother again.

‘This is your home, Salman!’ his brother had shouted at him. ‘I need you here with me. We need to rule together to be strong.’

Salman could remember how dead he’d felt inside, how removed from his brother’s passion. He’d known that day would be his last in Merkazad. He was a free man. Since he’d been that eight-year-old boy, since the awful time of their incarceration, he’d felt aeons older than Nadim. ‘Brother, this is your country now. Not mine. I will forge my own life. And I will not have you dictate to me. You have no right.’

He’d been able to see the struggle that had run through Nadim, and silently he’d sent out a dire warning: don’t even go there. And as he’d watched he’d seen the fight leave Nadim. The weight of their history ran too deep between them. Salman felt bitter jealousy every time he looked at his brother and knew his integral goodness had never been compromised, or taken away, or violated. Salman’s had when his childhood had been ripped away from him over a three-month period that had felt like three centuries.

Salman knew Nadim blamed himself for not protecting him all those years before. And even though Salman knew that it was irrational, because Nadim had been as helpless as he had, he still blamed Nadim for not saving him from the horrors he’d faced. In a way, he wanted his brother to feel that pain, and he inflicted it with impunity, knowing exactly what he was doing even while hating himself for it.

Blame, counter-blame and recrimination had festered between them for years, and it had only been last year, when Salman had seen Nadim at the Sultan of Al-Omar’s birthday party, that he’d noticed a subtle change within himself. They’d spoken for mere tense moments, as was their custom when they met once or twice a year, but Salman had noticed a sense of weightlessness that he’d never felt before.

He grimaced, his eyes seeing but not seeing the vista of his own country unfold beneath him in all its rocky glory. The fact that he was flying over it right now, about to land in mere minutes, spoke volumes. A part of him still couldn’t really believe that he was coming to Merkazad for a month in Nadim’s stead, while he and his pregnant wife went to spend time in Ireland, where she came from, before they returned to have their first baby.

A ridiculous and archaic law said that if Merkazad was without its Sheikh for a month then a coup could be staged by the military to seat a new ruler. This law had been put in place at a time when they’d faced numerous and frequent attacks, to protect Merkazad from outside forces.

They’d been in this position only once before, when their parents had died and an interim governing body had been set up until Nadim had come of age. Luckily the army had been steadfastly loyal to their deceased father and to Nadim.

But Nadim had confided to Salman that since his marriage to Iseult some people were proving hard to win round, were disappointed that their Sheikh hadn’t picked a Merkazadi woman to be his wife. He’d been concerned that until his heir was born their rule might be vulnerable for the first time in years. But if Salman was there in his place there would be no question of dissent.

Salman had found himself saying yes, bizarrely overriding his conscious intent to say no. He’d known on some deep level that one day he’d have to come home to face his demons, and it appeared the time had come. He’d put his completely incomprehensible decision down to that, and not to a latent sense of duty, or to passing time…or to the fact that since he’d seen Jamilah at that party a year ago he’d felt restless.

Even now he could remember the visceral kick in his chest when he’d turned in that corridor in the Hussein Palace and seen her standing before him like a vision, like something from a dream he’d never admitted having.

He’d only realised in that moment, as a kind of sigh of relief had gone through him, that in all the intervening years since Paris he’d gone to the Sultan’s party every year hoping to see Jamilah…and he had not welcomed that revelation.

Salman’s face darkened. She should have always been firmly off-limits—a woman he should have turned his back on—but he hadn’t been able to resist. Even though he’d known that she’d been way, way too innocent for his cold heart he’d still seduced her in Paris, taken her innocence, proving to himself once again how debauched he really was.

And, not content with that, then he’d cruelly broken her heart. A bleakness filled his belly at remembering the pale set of her features that day. The incredible hurt in those beautiful eyes. He’d watched her innocence and joy turn into an adult’s bitter disillusion right in front of him, even as he’d been telling himself that he was doing her a favour.

He reassured himself that he’d saved her—from him and other men like him. Because he himself was beyond saving. He’d seen the face of evil and that would taint him for ever, and anyone around him, which was why he never allowed anyone too close.

Yet all that knowledge hadn’t stopped him from kissing Jamilah at the Sultan’s party. He’d only had to imagine her with that ineffectual date of hers and he’d been overcome with a dark desire to stamp her, brand her as his. His body throbbed to life now, making him shift uncomfortably; she’d tasted as sweetly sensuous as she had when he’d first kissed her in Paris, when he’d known he was doing the wrong thing but had been overcome with a lust so intense it had made him dizzy.

With an effort he forced his mind away from the disturbing fact that in the past year no woman had managed to arouse his once insatiable libido. But merely thinking of Jamilah now was doing just that, as if to taunt him, because she was the last woman he could ever touch again. If he had any chance of redeeming a tiny morsel of his soul it would be in this.

Salman knew Nadim suspected something had happened between them, and of course he didn’t approve. The protective warning had been implicit in Nadim’s voice in their last conversation. ‘You’re unlikely to see much of Jamilah. She lives and works down at the stables, and is extremely busy with her work there.’ And that, Salman told himself now, suited him just fine—because the mere thought of even seeing a horse or the stables sent clammy chills of dread across his skin. He wouldn’t be making a visit there any time soon.

With that thought lingering as the helicopter started to descend over the lush watered Merkazadi castle grounds, reality hit Salman, and claustrophobia surged along with panic. He fought the urge to tell the pilot to turn around. He was strong enough to withstand a month in his own country. He had to be. He’d heard far worse stories than his; he’d been humbled over and over again. He owed it to those who had trusted him with their stories to face this.

Not for the first time in his life did he wish that he could resort to the easy way out of drugs and alcohol.

He sighed deeply as the distinctive white castle came into clear view, the ornate latticed walls and flat-roofed terraces all at once achingly familiar and rousing a veritable flood of memories, some terrifying. He would get through this as he’d got through his life up to this point—by distracting himself from the pain.

‘Miss Jamilah—he stumbled out of the helicopter with his shirt half undone and torn jeans. He looked like a…a rock star, not the second in line to rule Merkazad.’ The main housekeeper screwed up her wizened face and spat out disgustedly, ‘He is nothing like his brother. He is a disgrace to—’

‘Hana, that’s enough.’ They were in a meeting to discuss the domestic schedule of the castle while Nadim and Iseult were away, and Jamilah was having a hard enough time just functioning since she’d heard Salman’s arrival in the helicopter the previous day.

The older woman flushed brick-red. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jamilah. I forgot myself for a moment…’

Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Look, he’s only here till Nadim and Iseult get back…and then everything will be back to normal.’

Yeah, right.

The housekeeper’s face lit up. ‘And next year we will have a new baby in the castle! ‘

Jamilah let her prattle on excitedly, and hoped the dart of hurt she felt lance her wasn’t apparent on her face or in her eyes. She loved Nadim, and she loved Iseult, who had become a very close friend, but much to her ongoing shame she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of their exuberant happiness.

In truth, when Nadim had told her they would be going to Ireland to see Iseult’s family while they still had time before the birth, Jamilah had felt a tinge of relief. To bear witness to their intense love and absorption every day was becoming more and more difficult. And it had only intensified with news of Iseult’s pregnancy some six months previously. Nadim hardly let Iseult out of his sight, and cosseted her like a prize jewel. Jamilah knew it drove Iseult crazy, but then she was as bad he was—visibly pining for her husband if he was away from her side for more than an hour.

Jamilah’s relief that she would have some respite had been spectacularly eclipsed when Nadim had casually mentioned over dinner that Salman would be taking over as acting ruler while they were gone.

She’d not missed the way Nadim and Iseult had looked at her intently for her reaction; they hadn’t asked questions after her bizarre behaviour at the Sultan’s party last year, but it had been obvious it had something to do with Salman.

She was proud of the way she’d absorbed the shock into her body and kept on sipping her wine, willing her hands not to show a tremor. She’d said nonchalantly, ‘That’s nice. It’s been so long since he came home…’

Nadim had said gently, ‘You could go to France, if you like. Check up on the stables there?’

Jamilah had tensed all over and sat up straight. ‘No.’ She was aghast that they might think she would crumble, or that she would let Salman’s presence affect her work. She’d shaken her head and sealed her fate. ‘Not at all. I won’t be going anywhere. We’re far too busy here…’

But now, when Hana stood up and asked, ‘Will you come to the castle to talk to the staff?’ Jamilah almost shouted out another visceral no, and had to calm herself.

She smiled and said, as breezily as she could, shamelessly playing to Hana’s pride, ‘Why would I need to come to the castle when you have it all in hand so beautifully? We’re busy here at the stables with some new arrivals… you can call me if anything comes up.’

To her intense relief Hana didn’t argue, and left. Jamilah sank back into her office chair, feeling as edgy as a new colt, her heart racing.

A month.

One whole month of avoiding going anywhere near the castle and Salman. At least here at the stables where she lived she was relatively safe. For as long as she’d known him he’d had an abhorrence of horses, so she knew he wouldn’t come near them.

She was over him, so the fact that he was right now less than ten minutes away meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

* * *

Jamilah’s phone rang at five-thirty a.m.—just as she was about to go out and do her morning round of the stables to check everyone was where they should be. She was grouchy from lack of sleep and the constant feeling of being on edge. And for the past few days there had been the non-stop clatter of helicopter rotorblades, as numerous choppers took off and landed in the castle’s grounds. Even though it was a fair distance to the stables, some had flown close enough to the horses to spook them for hours. Jamilah had heard through the robust grapevine that Salman was hosting an unending series of parties at the castle.