Читать книгу His Defiant Desert Queen - Jane Porter - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMIKAEL SAW JEMMA’S lower lip quiver before she clamped her jaw, biting down in an effort to remain silent, as she turned back to her dressing table.
He was surprised at how calm she was. He’d expected tears. Hysteria. Instead she was quiet. Thoughtful. Respectful.
He’d planned on defiance. He’d come prepared for theatrics. She’d almost gone there. Almost, but then thought better of it.
Perhaps she wasn’t as silly as he’d thought.
Perhaps she might have a brain in her pretty head after all.
He was glad she wasn’t going to dissolve into tears and hysteria. And glad she might be starting to understand the gravity of her situation.
But even then, he was still deeply furious with her for knowingly, willfully flaunting every international law by entering a foreign country with a false identity, and then practically stripping in public.
It wasn’t done.
It wasn’t acceptable.
It wouldn’t even be allowed in San Francisco or New York City.
So how could she think it would be okay here?
His brow lowered as his narrowed gaze swept over her. She looked so soft and contrite now as she removed her makeup. It was an act. He was certain she was playing him. Just as her father had played his mother...before bankrupting her, breaking her.
His mother would be alive today if Daniel Copeland hadn’t lied to her and stolen from her, taking not just her financial security, but her self-respect.
Thank goodness Mikael was not his mother.
He knew better than to allow himself to be manipulated by yet another Copeland con artist.
Mikael refused to pity Jemma. He didn’t care if she was sorry. Had Daniel Copeland shown his mother mercy? No. Had Daniel Copeland shown any of his clients concern...compassion? No. So why should his daughter receive preferential treatment?
“Will I have a lawyer present?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“No,” he said.
“Will I have any legal representation?”
“No.”
She hesitated, brow furrowing, lips compressing, somehow even more lovely troubled than when posed on the desert sand in the fur and thigh high boots.
Yes, she was beautiful. And yes, she’d inherited her mother’s famous bone structure, and yes, even in this dim, stifling tent she still glowed like a jewel—glossy dark hair, brilliant green eyes, luminous skin, pink lips—but that didn’t change the fact that she was a criminal.
“Neither of us have lawyers,” he added, hating that he was even aware of her beauty. He shouldn’t notice, or care. He shouldn’t feel any attraction at all. “There is just the case itself, presented by me, and then the judge passes the sentence.”
“You represent yourself?”
“I represent my tribe, the Karim family, and the laws of this country.”
She turned slowly on the stool to face him, her hands resting on her thighs, the pink kimono gaping slightly above the knotted sash, revealing the slope of her full breast. “What you’re saying is that it will be you testifying against me.”
He shouldn’t know that her nipple was small and pink and that her belly was flat above firm, rounded hips.
Or at the very least, he shouldn’t remember. He shouldn’t want to remember. “I present the facts. I do not pass judgment.”
“Will the facts be presented in English?”
“No.”
“So you could say anything.”
“But why would I?” he countered sharply. “You’ve broken numerous laws. Important laws. Laws created to protect our borders and the safety and security of my people. There is no need to add weight or severity. What you’ve done is quite serious. The punishment will be appropriately serious.”
He saw a flash in her eyes, and he didn’t know if it was anger or fear but she didn’t speak. She bit down, holding back the quick retort.
Seconds ticked by, one after the other.
For almost a minute there was only silence, a tense silence weighted with all the words she refrained from speaking.
“How serious?” she finally asked.
“There will be jail time.”
“How long?”
He was uncomfortable with all the questions. “Do you really want to do this now?”
“Absolutely. Far better to be prepared than to walk in blind.”
“The minimum sentence is somewhere between five to ten years. The maximum, upward of twenty.”
She went white, and her lips parted, but she made no sound. She simply stared at him, incredulous, before slowly turning back to face her dressing table mirror.
She was trying not to cry.
Her shoulders were straight, and her head was high but he saw the welling of tears in her eyes. He felt her shock, and sadness.
He should leave but his feet wouldn’t move. His chest felt tight.
It was her own damned fault.
But he could still see her five years ago in the periwinkle blue bridesmaid dress at Morgan’s wedding.
He could hear her gurgle of laughter as she’d made a toast to her big sister at the reception after.
“We will leave as soon as you’re dressed,” he said tersely, ignoring Jemma’s pallor and the trembling of her hands where they rested on the dressing table.
“I will need five or ten minutes,” she said.
“Of course.” He turned to leave but from the corner of his eye he saw her lean toward the mirror to try to remove the strip of false eyelashes on her right eye, her hands still shaking so much she couldn’t lift the edge.
It wasn’t his problem. He didn’t care if her hands shook violently or not. But he couldn’t stop watching her. He couldn’t help noticing that she was struggling. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as she battled to get the eyelashes off.
It was her fault.
He wasn’t responsible for her situation.
And yet her struggle unsettled him, awakening emotions and memories he didn’t want to feel.
Mikael didn’t believe in feeling. Feelings were best left to others. He, on the other hand, preferred logic. Structure. Rules. Order.
He wouldn’t be moved by tears. Not even the tears of a young foreign woman that he’d met many years ago at the wedding of Drakon Xanthis, his close friend from university. Just because Drakon had married Jemma’s older sister, Morgan, didn’t mean that Mikael had to make allowances. Why make allowances when Daniel Copeland had made none for his mother?
“Stop,” he ordered, unable to watch her struggle any longer. “You’re about to take out your eye.”
“I have to get them off.”
“Not like that.”
“I can do it.”
“You’re making a mess of it.” He crossed the distance, gestured for her to turn on her stool. “Face me, and hold still. Look down. Don’t move.”
Jemma held her breath as she felt his fingers against her temple. His touch was warm, his hand steady as he used the tip of his finger to lift the edge of the strip and then he slowly, carefully peeled the lashes from her lid. “One down,” he said, putting the crescent of lashes in her hand. “One to go.”
He made quick work on the second set.
“You’ve done this before,” she said, as he took a step back, putting distance between them, but not enough distance. He was so big, so intimidating, that she found his nearness overwhelming.
“I haven’t, but I’ve watched enough girlfriends put on make up to know how it’s done.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching his. “And you have no say in the sentencing?” she asked.
“I have plenty of say,” he answered. “I am the king. I can make new laws, pass laws, break laws...but breaking laws wouldn’t make me a good king or a proper leader for my people. So I, too, observe the laws of Saidia, and am committed to upholding them.”
“Could you ask the judge to be lenient with me?”
“I could.”
“But you won’t?”
He didn’t answer right away, which was telling, she thought.
“Would you ask for leniency for another woman?”
His broad shoulders shifted. “It would depend on who she was, and what she’d done.”
“So your relationship with her would influence your decision?”
“Absolutely.”
“I see.”
“As her character would influence my decision.”
And he didn’t approve of her character.
Jemma understood then that he wouldn’t help her in any way. He didn’t like her. He didn’t approve of her. And he felt no pity or compassion because she was a Copeland and it was a Copeland, her father, who had wronged his family.
In his mind, she had so many strikes against her she wasn’t worth saving.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. The pain was so sharp and hard it cut her to the quick.
It was almost like the pain when Damien ended their engagement. He’d said he’d loved her. He’d said he wanted to spend his life with her. But then when he began losing jobs, he backed away from her. Far better to lose her, than his career.
Throat aching, eyes burning, Jemma turned back to the mirror.
She reached for a brush and ran it slowly through her long dark hair, making the glossy waves ripple down her back, telling herself not to think, not to feel, and most definitely, not to cry.
“You expect your tribal elder to sentence me to prison, for at least five years?” she asked, drawing the brush through her long hair.
Silence stretched. After a long moment, Sheikh Karim answered, “I don’t expect Sheikh Azizzi to give you a minimum sentence, no.”
She nodded once. “Thank you for at least being honest.”
And then she reached for the bottle of make-up remover and a cotton ball to remove what was left of her eye make-up.
He walked out then. Thank goodness. She’d barely kept it together there, at the end.
She was scared, so scared.
Would she really be going to prison?
Would he really allow the judge to have her locked away for years?
She couldn’t believe this was happening. Had to be a bad dream. But the sweltering heat inside the tent felt far too real to be a dream.
Jemma left her make-up table and went to her purse to retrieve her phone. Mary had informed the crew this morning as they left the hotel that they’d get no signal here in the desert, and checking her phone now she saw that Mary was right. She couldn’t call anyone. Couldn’t alert anyone to her situation. As Jemma put her phone away, she could only pray that Mary would make some calls on her behalf once she returned to London.
Jemma changed quickly into her street clothes, a gray short linen skirt, white knit top and gray blazer.
Drawing a breath, she left the tent, stepping out into the last lingering ray of light. Two of the sheikh’s men guarded the tent, but they didn’t acknowledge her.
The desert glowed with amber, ruby and golden colors. The convoy of cars that had descended on the shoot two hours ago was half the number it’d been when Jemma had disappeared into the tent.
Sheikh Karim stepped from the back of one of the black vehicles. He gestured to her. “Come. We leave now.”
She shouldered her purse, pretending the sheikh wasn’t watching her walk toward him, pretending his guards weren’t there behind her, watching her walk away from them. She pretended she was strong and calm, that nothing threatened her.
It was all she’d been doing since her father’s downfall.
Pretending. Faking. Fighting.
“Ready?” Sheikh Karim asked as she reached his side.
“Yes.”
“You have no suitcase, no clothes?”
“I have a few traveling pieces here, but the rest is in my suitcase.” She clasped her oversized purse closer to her body. “Can we go get my luggage?”
“No.”
“Will you send for it?”
“You won’t need it where you are going.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted to protest but his grim expression silenced her.
He held open the door. The car was already running.
“It’s time to go,” he said firmly.
Swallowing, Jemma slid onto the black leather seat, terrified to leave this scorching desert, not knowing where she’d go next.
Sheikh Karim joined her on the seat, his large body filling the back of the car. Jemma scooted as far over as she could before settling her blazer over her thighs, hiding her bare skin. But even sitting near the door, he was far too close, and warm, so warm that she fixed her attention on the desert beyond the car window determined to block out everything until she was calm.
She stared hard at the landscape, imagining that she was someone else, somewhere else and it soothed her. The sun was lower in the sky and the colors were changing, darkening, deepening and it made her heart hurt. In any other situation she would’ve been overcome by the beauty of the sunset. As it was now, she felt bereft.
She’d come to Saidia to save what was left of her world, and instead she’d shattered it completely.
The car was moving. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the handle on the door and drew a deep breath and then another to calm herself.
It was going to be okay.
Everything would be okay.
Everything would be fine.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
He said nothing.
She blinked again, clearing her vision, determined to find her center...a place of peace, and calm. She had to keep her head. There was no other way she’d survive whatever came next if she didn’t stay focused.
“Where does this elder, Sheikh Azizzi, live?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on a distant dune. The sun was dropping more quickly, painting the sky a wash of rose and red that reflected crimson against the sand.
“Haslam,” he said.
“Is it far?”
“Two hours by car. If there is no sandstorm.”
“Do you expect one?” she asked, glancing briefly in his direction.
“Not tonight, but it’s not unusual as you approach the mountains. The wind races through the valley and whips the sand dunes. It’s impressive if you’re not trying to drive through, and maddening if you are.”
He sounded so cavalier. She wondered just how dangerous a sandstorm really was. “The storm won’t hurt us?”
The sheikh shrugged. “Not if we stay on the road, turn off the engine and close the vents. But I don’t expect a sandstorm tonight. So far there appears to be little wind. I think it will be a quiet night in the desert.”
She tried to picture the still crimson desert as a whirling sea of sand. She’d seen it in movies, but it seemed impossible now. “And so when do we see the judge?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” she echoed, and when he nodded, she added, “But we won’t be there for hours.”
“We are expected.”
His answer unleashed a thousand butterflies inside her middle. “And will we know his verdict tonight?”
“Yes.” Sheikh Karim’s jaw hardened. “It will be a long night.”
“Justice moves swiftly in Saidia,” she said under her breath.
“You have no one to blame but yourself.”
She flinched at his harsh tone, and held her tongue.
But the sheikh wasn’t satisfied with her silence. “Why did you do it?” he demanded, his voice almost savage. “You’ve had a successful career. Surely you could have been happy with less?”
“I’m broke. I needed the work. I would have lost my flat.”
“You’ll lose it anyway, now. There is no way for you to pay bills from prison.”
She hadn’t thought that far. She gave her head a bemused shake. “Maybe someone will be able to—” she broke off as she saw his expression. “Yes, I know. You don’t think I deserve help, but you’re wrong. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not this selfish, horrible woman you make me out to be.”
“Then why did you enter Saidia with your sister’s passport? I can’t imagine she gave her passport to you.”
“She didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so,” he ground out.
Jemma bit down on the inside of her lip, chewing her lip to keep from making a sound.
“I know Morgan,” he added ruthlessly. “Drakon was one of my best friends. And you probably don’t remember, or were too young to notice, but I attended Morgan and Drakon’s wedding five years ago in Greenwich. Yes, you and Morgan might both be brunettes, but you don’t look anything alike. It was beyond stupid to try to pass yourself off as her.”
Fatigue and fear and dread made her heartsick, and his words drilled into her, like a hammer in her head, making her headache feel worse. She pressed her fingers to her temple to ease the pain. “How did you find out I was here?”
He shot her a cool look. “You had a very chatty stylist on the shoot. She sat in a bar two nights ago drinking and talking about the layout, the models, and you. Apparently your name was mentioned oh...a dozen times. Jemma Copeland. That Jemma Copeland. Jemma Copeland, daughter of Daniel Copeland. In today’s age of technology and social media, it just took a couple Tweets and it went viral. One minute I was in Buenos Aires, thinking everything was fine at home, and then the next I was boarding my jet to return home to deal with you.”
He shifted, extending his long legs out, and she sucked in an uneasy breath. He was so big, and his legs were so long, she felt positively suffocated, trapped here in the back of the car with him.
“I wish you had just let me go. We were leaving tomorrow morning anyway,” she said softly. “You were out of the country. You didn’t have to rush home to have me arrested.”
“No. I could have allowed the police to come for you. They were going to arrest you. They wouldn’t have been as polite, or patient, as I’ve been. They would have handcuffed you and put you in the back of an armored truck and taken you to a jail where you’d languish for a few days, maybe a week, until you were seen by our tribunal, and then you would have been sentenced to five, ten, fifteen years...or longer...in our state run prison. It wouldn’t have been pleasant. It wouldn’t have been nice at all.” His expression was fierce, his gaze held hers, critical, condemning. “You don’t realize it, but I’ve done you a favor. I have intervened on your behalf, and yes, you will still serve time, but it will be in a smaller place, in a private home. My assistance allows you to serve your time under house arrest rather than a large state run prison. So you can thank your stars I found out.”
“I’m amazed you’d intervene since you hate the Copelands so much.”
His dark gaze met hers. “So am I.”
