Читать книгу The Sheikh Who Loved Her - Kate Hardy - Страница 17

SITTING by Razi’s side in an unmarked army Jeep, Lucy was filled with apprehension. He had dismissed the driver. The vehicle had been waiting for them with its engine running, at the back door of the Maktabi office building with her luggage already loaded in the back. Razi was wearing jeans, desert boots and a plain black top, with the sleeves cut off to accommodate his biceps and a pair of aviators concealing the expression in his astute green eyes. To a casual observer he would pass for any particularly good-looking government agent with an uneasy suspect at his side. ‘Are we going to the airport?’ she asked, dry-mouthed.

‘Soon.’

So, where were they going? Lucy wondered, her anxiety mounting as the Jeep swept away from the kerb. Her great idea lay in ashes. Telling Razi her wonderful news now would be akin to walking into the lion’s den and asking if the lion would like relish with his meal. She couldn’t do it. Her first priority had to be going home to England where she could consult a lawyer. ‘Is there another flight to the UK today?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

She craned her neck to read a sign as Razi drove down a slip road onto the highway. ‘Where did you say we were going?’

‘I didn’t.’ As you very well know, his quick glance seemed to say. ‘We’re going into the desert.’

The desert? Her heart was thundering so violently she felt sick. Why couldn’t they have talked at the office as Razi had suggested? Because he didn’t want anyone to see him with her, Lucy concluded.

But he could have ordered someone to take her to the airport.

And had chosen not to.

Because he wouldn’t want any loose ends, she told herself sensibly, trying to calm down. Razi would never ask anyone to do something he believed was his duty; he took care of his own problems.

The highway cut through the desert, and at one time exploring that would have excited her, but the thought of travelling into such dangerous terrain with a man who could only wish she had never existed was a terrifying prospect.

Razi’s grim expression did nothing to allay Lucy’s fears. They sat in silence while he drove the same way he made love, with focus and a frightening degree of skill. ‘I thought you were joking about the desert,’ she said nervously as he took a turning off the highway.

‘I never joke,’ he said grimly.

Not these days. And now there was only the shimmering heat haze in front of them and the wilderness beyond.

When they arrived at their destination he had barely put the brake on before Lucy tumbled out of the Jeep. She gazed around in fear at what he realised must appear nothing more than featureless desert and mountainous dunes to her. ‘There’s more to come,’ he assured her, springing down to stand by her side.

She didn’t answer and the tension in her shoulders filled him with the urge to comfort her. He had forgotten how natural and unaffected she was, or that he hadn’t met anyone like her before or since. He made the effort to see things through her eyes and then he realised that what was familiar to him was strange and threatening to Lucy, and as she stumbled on the sand he leapt forward to steady her. ‘You’re trembling,’ he said, taking tighter hold of her. ‘You’ve no need to be frightened of me.’ He stared into her anxious eyes. ‘I come here all the time,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite safe. I thought it would be better for our talk than a sterile office building.’

‘It’s certainly more discreet,’ she observed shrewdly.

He had forgotten how perceptive she was too. ‘As soon as we’ve had our talk,’ he promised, ‘I’ll take you back.’

She looked at him as if to say she knew as well as he did that the time of her departure would depend on him just as her arrival had and that he held all the cards. ‘Lead on,’ she said, firming her jaw.

Something had changed. Lucy was stronger than when they’d first met …

Whatever it was he didn’t have long to find out.

Razi was a master of surprise. He’d sprung the first surprise at the door of his office where he’d been dressed in casual clothes and ready to leave, and now this drive into the wild interior. At first she thought there was nothing to see other than sand, but as Razi led the way up the shallow side of a dune and she saw the panorama on the other side she realised her dreams of a desert kingdom had been insipid stabs at conjuring the reality.

‘No comment?’ Razi demanded.

She was too stunned to speak. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said at last. This was a massive understatement. The brow of the dune was flat, allowing them to stand securely and look over the surrounding land. She was acutely aware of Razi at her side, sharing the moment as she gazed up into a metallic-blue sky streaked lemon and baby pink. There was a gash of neon-orange at the horizon and all the vivid colours of the dying sun were reflected on the surface of a glittering oasis, whose water was so clear she could see each tiny pebble on the sandy floor. Lush green palm trees provided a frame and there was even fruit hanging thickly amongst the fronds. But it was the pavilion on the bank of the oasis, with its ivory silk walls framed in indigo dusk, undulating lazily in the night-time breezes, that really held her attention. ‘Is that a traditional structure?’

‘It’s mine,’ he said, following her gaze.

‘It’s so romantic.’ She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

Razi remained silent, staring out across his desert kingdom. He moved down the dune and she followed him. He strode to the pavilion where he held the curtain aside for her to enter. As she dipped her head and brushed past him she was aware of his exotic scent, and as she walked deeper into the shaded interior she felt the heat of his stare on her back.

As she looked around he explained, ‘Everything you see here was produced in this country.’

It said something about a man who could take his pick from the world’s riches, and yet had furnished his desert retreat only with those items that carried a particular significance to him. Razi’s devotion to the Isla de Sinnebar couldn’t have been more starkly illustrated and she realised his trip to the mountains when they’d met had been one last indulgence before Razi returned to rule—and that her part in that trip had been nothing more than an entertainment for him.

‘What do you think?’ he said, interrupting these thoughts.

She brushed away the sadness and concentrated on her surroundings. ‘I think it’s magical,’ she said honestly. Everything was new and strange to her—she had everything to learn about his country. As she ran the palm of her hand over the fabric walls Razi explained that they were woven so fine to keep out the sand. So like the furniture they were functional as well as beautiful. It was like a treasure trove—Aladdin’s cave, she thought as she turned around to examine everything. There were chests of burnished ebony inlaid with mother of pearl, pierced brass tables and fabulous rugs intricately woven in jewel colours. Plump silk cushions invited rest, while polished lamps cast a subdued and honeyed light. As if a veil had dropped from her eyes, Lucy saw the heritage she was denying her child. The interior of the pavilion was so lovely she yearned for the opportunity to ask Razi for the history of every piece so she could squirrel the information away to tell her baby when the time was right. But how could she do that when he didn’t want idle conversation—and when the time would never be right? How could she ever have a normal conversation with him when she was concealing such a vital piece of news?

He offered her water, which she drank, and then she waited while he went back to the Jeep to collect the picnic he’d brought with them. This gave her an opportunity to look at things more closely, and now she noticed the platters of sweetmeats and the jugs of juice. ‘You planned this,’ she said when he returned.

‘You gave me around five minutes, I seem to remember,’ he said dryly, placing the basket of food on the ground.

And servants would rush to do his bidding, Lucy realised. Razi had everything in the material sense, and yet he seemed to have lost his joie de vivre, along with his capacity to love or even empathise with a fellow human being. How could that be good for his country? How could a fun-free life with a duty-bound father be good for her child?

‘Many of these gifts were left by the Bedouin,’ he explained, oblivious to her concerns. ‘And my brother uses the place sometimes.’

Lucy shuddered at Razi’s mention of the man known as The Sword of Vengeance. ‘You two must be very close,’ she ventured.

‘We trust each other completely.’

What would Ra’id make of her? Lucy wondered. She had to remind herself the great Sheikh probably wouldn’t think about staff at all.

Some of this must have shown on her face, she guessed as Razi dipped his head to stare at her. ‘Are you unwell?’ he demanded.

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, knowing pregnancy had taken hold of both her body and her turbulent thoughts.

‘Here, drink this.’ He poured another glass of water.

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she insisted as he stared closely at her. But gullible was one thing Razi had never been.

He was instantly suspicious. There had been too much force behind Lucy’s assurance that she was all right. So what was she hiding? He refused to consider the most obvious explanation. Lucy was too honest to hide something so vital from him. But her eyes were wary and she was very pale …

The desire to protect Lucy and to defend a country combined in a surge of longing. He couldn’t have both and had been right to get her out of the city and away from prying eyes. He could have taken her to any number of places, but had chosen the sultry, seductive setting of the Maktabi Lagoon, a place so rich in ecological treasures he and his brother Ra’id only allowed the passing Bedouin to use it. Why here? Because the desert freed him. This place was his haven when he needed to recall how it had felt to be free. And he supposed that, whatever Lucy’s motives for coming to Isla de Sinnebar, some part of him that still remembered the time they had shared in the ski resort had wanted her to see this special place.

And now he wanted her to stay.

Why shouldn’t she stay?

He argued violently with himself, only to come up with the answer that rules might be made to be broken, but that was not the type of leader he intended to be. But for now he’d make her comfortable. ‘I keep a selection of robes in that chest over there,’ he said, viewing her city clothes with some degree of sympathy.

‘For your visitors?’

There was the faintest edge to her voice that made him smile inwardly. This was the Lucy he remembered: fire beneath the ice. And jealous too? He let that pass. What else could he do when he had changed her? He had always wanted Lucy to have confidence and self-belief, and now she had. ‘The Bedouin leave a selection of robes and other products when they use this trail through the desert,’ he explained. ‘That’s our custom here. If we have more than we need we pass it on to our neighbour—so, please, feel free to choose a robe to wear.’ She was hot and flustered in her workplace armour and would be more comfortable in a loose local robe, plus he’d like to see her wearing one—one last image for him to keep. ‘There’s no one but us around,’ he pointed out. ‘Why don’t you take a dip in the oasis to freshen up and then choose a robe?’

Maybe if she reversed that? Lucy thought as Razi strolled over to the ebony chest. She was still on edge with her mind full of what she had come to tell him. She watched as he raised the lid of a chest and rifled inside before pulling out a shimmering robe. In the palest shade of sky blue, it was embroidered with tiny pearls and diamanté, and was perhaps the most beautiful item of clothing she had ever seen. But as he held it up and the light streamed through it she realised it was completely sheer. ‘Don’t you have anything a little less revealing?’

‘This?’ he suggested, pulling out what was clearly a man’s robe.

‘That’s perfect.’ She nodded, plucking the dark, homespun robe out of his hands. It would go round her three times at a guess.

He was cooking over an open fire when Lucy returned from her swim. He’d had plenty of time to think while she’d been enjoying the lagoon, and every answer he’d come up with to explain her unexpected visit remained the same. He shrugged it off, refusing to believe she’d keep something like that from him.

‘You’re cooking,’ she said with surprise.

‘I still have to eat when I’m in the desert.’ He almost smiled. He hadn’t meant to relax, but the desert did that to him. He never felt more calm than when he was alone in this isolated splendour. He had always thought he was ready to see Lucy too—images already formed and complete in his head—but she never failed to surprise him. This time he sprang to his feet to save her embarrassment. The robe she had chosen to wear was trailing round her feet, and instead of winding the headdress, or howlis, as it was known in Isla de Sinnebar, around her head and face leaving only her eyes on view, she had draped it over her hair like a scarf. ‘Here, let me,’ he offered, risking danger just in touching her—and more of the same in being close. Not that he’d ever shrunk from danger, but when that danger came in the form of a woman he wanted to touch—a woman he had always believed to be pure and uncomplicated and now had his doubts about …

‘I’m not wearing it right?’ she said anxiously.

Taking hold of her water-cooled hands, he moved them away from her head to arrange the yards of fabric. He dragged greedily on her intoxicating wildflower scent while he was covering her face until only her concerned eyes were on view. ‘You are now,’ he said, relieved that her lips were covered. ‘Now all I need is a camera.’

‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘You used to have a sense of humour,’ he reminded her, aiming this over his shoulder as he returned to the fire.

‘And so did you,’ she called after him.

There was a moment of complete stillness between them as if they both accepted this, and then she went inside the pavilion to sort out her clothes, leaving him to see to the food. When she returned he tipped the omelette he had prepared for her onto a palm frond.

‘Eat,’ he encouraged as she sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire. He was still trying to talk himself into believing Lucy’s pallor was due to the long flight—or to dehydration—or to not eating for some time—to anything other than what made the most sense.

‘This is delicious,’ she said with surprise.

They were both off guard and almost exchanged a smile, but Lucy’s gaze dropped too quickly. He knew without doubt then that she was hiding something big from him.

She tossed away the headdress and began devouring the omelette as if she hadn’t eaten for days. He remembered her appetite for more than food. Here there was privacy afforded by mile upon mile of unseen sand. That she wanted him, he had no doubt. That he wanted Lucy had never been in doubt—and now more than ever. This was one last chance to taste what might have been and her absence from his life had only sharpened his appetite.

She glanced at him as if she could read his thoughts, but there was strain in her eyes—the strain of keeping that secret from him.