Читать книгу The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest: The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest - Michelle Celmer, Michelle Celmer - Страница 8

Two

“So, you decided to avoid the welcome I had planned for you.” As the Mercedes pulled away, Tariq delivered the statement in a flat, emotionless tone, despite the rage that seethed inside him at what had nearly happened to her.

“Welcome?” Jayne laughed. It was not a happy sound. Annoyingly, she looked away from him again and he couldn’t read her eyes—the eyes that had always given away her every emotion. “You would be the last person I’d expect to welcome me anywhere.”

“I am your husband. It is my duty to welcome you to Zayed.”

Jayne didn’t respond.

“Why did you run?” He didn’t like the fact that she had taken one look at him in the airport and fled. Whatever else lay between them in the past, Jayne had never feared him. Nor was he happy with the notion that the only reason she was in the car was because he was the lesser of two evils. The thought that she considered his company only a notch above that of the youths who had assaulted her turned his mouth sour.

“I wasn’t dressed for the occasion.”

Anger rose at her flippant response and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Was she so unmoved by the attack? He knew that it would prey on his mind for a long time to come. He had thought that he had no feeling left for his errant wife, that her actions had killed every feeling he’d ever nurtured for her. But the instant he had seen that young dog lay his hand on Jayne, rage—and something else—had rushed through him. He could rationalise the anger, the blind red mist of rage.

She was his woman.

No other man had any right to touch her. Ever.

What he couldn’t understand was his concern for Jayne, the woman who had behaved so atrociously in the past. He couldn’t understand this urge to make such a woman feel safe, to assure her that what had happened out there in the back-streets of Jazirah wasn’t her fault. Even though it would never have happened if she had graciously accepted the welcome he’d arranged.

Before he could work through the confusing threads, Jayne was speaking again, “I don’t intend to stay long. A big welcome like the one you arranged would give the wrong impression and suggest that I’ve returned to stay.” She shrugged. “I thought it for the best to leave.”

“The best for whom? You? It certainly did me no good to be left standing there looking like a fool.”

“You would never look like a fool. But I would’ve. I was ill prepared for the occasion. How do you think I would’ve looked…sounded…on national television?”

Tariq swept his gaze over her, taking in the tension in every line of her body, the way the cheap clothes stuck to her in the heat, the dishevelled hair revealed under the scanty hijab that had fallen away and the white-knuckled hands clasped on her lap. Perhaps she wasn’t as composed as she sounded. Perhaps the attack had shaken her. In the old days she would’ve come apart, started to cry, she’d been so gentle, with her huge, adoring, doelike brown eyes. It had been her gentleness that had caused him to love her. There had been so little tenderness in his own life.

“What are you looking at? I’m sorry if I’m not wearing haute couture. I’m sorry if you think I’m unfit for your company.”

There was an unfamiliar note of annoyance in her voice, and resentment flashed in her eyes. Tariq blinked in astonishment. Where had this come from? Jayne had always been easygoing and eager to please, hero-worshipping him. “Unfit for my company?” he repeated. “I have never thought that. I married you, didn’t I?”

She ran a hand over her face. “Look, I feel like I’ve been flying forever. I’m tired, cranky. The last thing I wanted was a welcome reception with TV cameras, for heaven’s sake.”

“Your apology is accepted.”

He waited and watched the wide brown eyes flash again. He almost smiled. Yes, he could get used to this.

“It wasn’t an apology, it was an explanation why I am less civil than normal.” Her voice was curt. “You should not have sprung that surprise on me. And as for what’s best for me, yes, in the past our relationship was always about what you and your fa—family wanted. I didn’t need that circus back there at the airport. I came here for one reason only, to talk. With you. Alone. To get a divorce. I didn’t want to be welcomed back as your sheikhah. That would be a lie, because I have no intention of staying.”

Tariq gave her a long, level glance. She wanted a divorce. Three months ago he’d have been too eager to grant her that, he would have been grateful to have the gentle, malleable wife, who he tried so hard never to think about, out of his life. But then everything had changed. His father was far from well. He needed her in Zayed at his side. And after his response to her attack and seeing the new flash of fire in her, he was not sure that he’d be letting her go too quickly.

For the first time in his life he was confused. And he didn’t like that bewildering sensation at all.

The palace lay ahead of them, dazzling, stupendous. The sandstone had been bleached over the centuries to a warm and inviting shade of gold. A mirage. Because Jayne knew that behind the walls lay a world of intrigue, politics…and the cold heart of the Emir who had destroyed her.

They drove around the side and under the rising wrought-iron portcullis into a large courtyard paved with cobbles where the Mercedes slowed to a stop. The driver opened her door and Jayne alighted.

Even now, with her confidence rebuilt after more than five long years away, she felt apprehensive as she entered the immense vaulted hallway through the side door.

“I’d like to call my sister to let her know I arrived safely.” Jayne craved the reassurance of Helen’s no-nonsense voice.

“Of course.”

She thought of Samantha’s request for photos. “And is there somewhere I can use for e-mail?”

“Yes, my study is available to you at any time.”

“Thank you.” She directed a small smile up at him.

Tariq went still. His eyes glinted as he came closer. “Jayne—”

“Excellency, it is good that you are back.” The interruption came from an aide wearing a worried frown. “Sheikh Tariq, there is need for your presence. Sheikh Ali has arrived demanding an audience. He has brought Sheikh Mahood, and they have been waiting for you.” The aide was wringing his hands.

Tariq moved away. Jayne felt his withdrawal, and it left a chill, cold feeling in her chest. Her heart sank further at the mention of Sheikh Ali. That was another name she would never have regretted not hearing in her lifetime again. She sneaked a sideways glance at Tariq.

His face had darkened. “Tell them that I will be with them shortly.”

“I’ve already told them that you were welcoming the sheikhah back after a long absence. They do not care about that, they are only concerned about the issue of grazing rights in the northern territories.”

Jayne flinched at Tariq’s short, sharp curse. Then he turned to her. “I need to go. I will see you at dinner.” Tariq’s voice was brisk, businesslike. “We will talk further then. In the meantime, Latifa will show you to your apartments.”

Jayne hadn’t heard the woman’s silent approach. Her face was round with the plumpness of youth, her eyes wide and respectful as she gazed at Jayne, waiting for instruction.

“Wait—” Jayne called after Tariq, but he didn’t hear, because his pace picked up as he strode away to attend to the latest crisis in Zayed, his head bent to listen to the aide beside him.

A sense of loss ebbed through Jayne. She forced it back with effort and turned to the young woman who waited respectfully. “Thank you, Latifa. I’d appreciate it if you showed me to my room. I’m looking forward to freshening up.”

It turned out to be a vast boudoir with stone arched windows that looked out onto the lush palace gardens filled with date palms, fountains and the clinging fragrance of honeysuckle and gardenia.

Jayne kicked off her shoes and toured around the rooms, exploring the crannies before making her way to the large bathroom where Latifa had filled the enormous spa bath. The sweet scent of the crushed rose petals was inviting…intoxicating. One of those little luxuries that seeped the ache out of the soul, made the daily misery of life in Zayed seem bearable.

Ten minutes later, lying back in the sleek, scented water, the realisation that she was back here in Tariq’s world, where she’d sworn never to return, sank in.

Jayne wondered whether there would be chance to talk with Tariq later. Her husband was an important man. He was no figurehead sheikh. His father had always demanded his full involvement in the affairs of the state that he would one day head. Not that the Emir would be in any hurry to relinquish control of his rule.

In the past the demands on Tariq’s time had driven a wedge between them. And Jayne was relieved that on this visit it was not her problem. She no longer needed Tariq to fulfil the role of husband and lover. All she required was sufficient time to discuss his enigmatic statement:

“There will be no divorce. Not yet. But it is possible that the time will come soon. Very soon. We will talk.”

She wasn’t accepting that kiss-off. She had come to Zayed for a divorce. The time was here. She would not allow Tariq to dominate her as he had done in the past. She’d grown up; she was no longer in awe of her powerful husband.

A long soak left her body feeling heavy and languid. At last Jayne summoned the energy to get out of the bath and, wrapped in a soft ivory towel, she made her way back to the sumptuous bedroom where her meagre selection of clothing had been packed into the cupboard by Latifa.

Mindful of the conservative nature of the palace, Jayne chose a long black skirt that clung to her hips before falling to just above her ankles and teamed it with a black top with a vee-neck and long, trumpet-shaped sheer chiffon sleeves. A pair of ballet-style black pumps and she was as ready as she’d ever be to face Tariq.

Downstairs she was surprised to find only Tariq waiting for her in the small salon. He’d shed the dark designer suit and wore a traditional white thobe. It added to his height, emphasised his dark, hawklike features and made him appear more imposing than ever. Jayne hesitated in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”

In the past, facing a room full of strangers she barely knew at the end of the day over the long dinner table had been one of the major strains of life in the palace. Aides and distant family members of the Emir, members of desert clans, all came to the palace to seek advice from the Emir or one of the senior members of the ruling family. And she’d expected the delegation Tariq had met with about the grazing rights earlier today to be here.

“My father is…not well. Many are keeping vigil in the courtyard and antechamber outside his rooms.”

“Oh.” For a brief moment Jayne considered asking what was wrong with the Emir, then she decided against it. It would be too direct a question. Too impolite. And then there was the fact that she was reluctant to become embroiled in an argument with Tariq about his father. Which was where any innocent, well-meaning query would end. Instead she focused on what she’d come for. “Can we talk about finalising the divorce?”

“After dinner,” Tariq said. “You have been travelling, you will need sustenance.”

“I’ll be fine, this won’t take long.” She glanced at him with a frown. He was prevaricating. That was a palace etiquette rule, if it would raise conflict, a matter could not be aired during a meal. “I can’t believe you forced me to fly across the world to talk about a divorce to which I am entitled.”

His expression became distant. “You are not entitled to it, not until I give my consent.”

She gave a snort of disgust. “Surely you’re not going to take that line. It’s antiquated. If this is about your male pride, then you may divorce me. I don’t care. You needn’t have dragged me across the world for this.”

His eyes were hooded. “You will be recompensed for any…inconvenience.”

“That’s not necessary.” She raised her chin. She didn’t need his money. “All I want is the divorce. That will be worth every cent of the trip.”

His brows jerked together. “You will get your divorce. When I am ready. But now we eat.”

Jayne found herself bristling at the command. But she forced herself to take a deep breath and follow him through the French doors onto the terrace outside. Stairs cut into a wall of stone, lined with flaming sconces, led to a secret garden where white flowers bloomed in the waning light. In the arbour, surrounded with white roses, a table had been laid and an array of food spread out.

Nearby a fountain tinkled, the sound of water calming Jayne’s frazzled nerves.

There was huge platter of fruit with dates and wedges of crumbly white cheese that resembled haloumi. Another plate held a selection of flatbreads with hummus, fried kibbe, the spicy meatballs with pine nuts, and a dish of tabbouleh salad. Eyeing the spread, Jayne discovered that she was hungrier than she’d thought.

“Is that falafel?” she pointed to a plate of patties.

“Ta’amiyya. It’s made with fava beans, but it’s not dissimilar to falafel. Try some.”

Jayne did. She selected a little of everything and let Tariq pour her a glass of icy water. After she’d finished eating, Tariq selected two peaches from the fruit bowl to the side of the table. Picking up a sharp knife he deftly cut the peaches into slices. The inner flesh was a ripe golden orange and the juice dripped from his fingertips.

He offered her the plate.

“Oh, I couldn’t, I pigged out.”

“Try them. The taste is sweet, the flesh of the fruit soft and succulent. They were flown in from Damascus today.”

He made them sound utterly irresistible. Against her better judgment, Jayne reached out and took a sliver. Tasted it. The peach lived up to everything he had promised.

“Like it?”

“Mmm.”

His eyes grew darker at her throaty murmur. “You used to make delighted sounds like that when we made love.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course you do.” Tariq’s eyes were hooded, but his voice was softer than velvet and caused little shivers to spread through her.

The meal was over. She no longer had to observe social niceties. It was time for a little directness. “I don’t want to remember. I want to go back home, to move on with my life.”

“There was a time when your home was with me—”

She waved a hand, dismissing his claim. “That was another life.”

“So, there is another man…at this new home?”

“I didn’t say that.” But Jayne couldn’t help thinking of Neil, who had waited so patiently, asking her out every couple of weeks, taking her refusals stoically. He was so safe. So different from her overwhelming husband—and that was precisely what made Neil so attractive. He wouldn’t take her to the highs or the lows that Tariq had. He wouldn’t crush her love and her trust and rip her heart out.

“I have no doubt that the sudden urge for the divorce is linked to a man.” Tariq’s savage cynicism took her aback.

“Why does it have to be about a man? I want to move on, get a life.” Jayne swallowed under his quelling gaze. “I want my identity as Jayne Jones back. I no longer want to be associated with you, Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, son of the Emir of Zayed.”

The look he shot her was deadly. “I hadn’t realised I was such a liability.”

“Surely you want to move on, too? Get married? Have children?”

“Maybe.” His face gave nothing away.

A sharp stab of emotion pierced her. His father had wanted Tariq to marry Leila, the daughter of one of the sheikhs who had arrived at the palace earlier today. Both men were counted amongst the Emir’s closest friends. Sheikh Ali was a power in the north of the country. He owned extensive land, controlled oil leases and governed several, at times, unruly clans. And Leila’s uncle, Sheikh Mahood, was related by marriage to a sultan who ruled a bordering state that put out a massive amount of barrels of oil per day. Tariq’s marriage to Leila would solidify the fate of Zayed, making the tiny country more powerful and strategic in the region.

No doubt that marriage would take place once their divorce was final.

“On the way from the airport you said that in the past our relationship was always about what I wanted, about what my family wanted. That it wasn’t about you. I don’t remember it that way.” His voice lowered to throb a little above a murmur. “In fact, I remember sitting on a hard park bench in London, not far from that awful one-bedroom flat we rented, and staring into your eyes while we talked about the future and shared our dreams. It was about us. Not me. Not my family.”

How dare he remind her of those long-ago days? She’d been so young, so in love with the gorgeous student she’d met at the Tate Gallery. Too soon they’d been married. A mad, later regretted, impulse. “Our marriage was a mistake.”

Before his world and the reality of who he was—the Emir of Zayed’s only son—had come crashing in on them. Memories of the bittersweet days when he’d loved her—and she’d loved him—with youthful joyfulness haunted her. Then the long shadow of his father, the Emir of Zayed, had raised its head. Tariq had been summoned back to his father’s control and overnight everything had changed.

He had changed.

Jayne’s fingernails bit into her palms. She’d changed, back then, too. She’d gone from sensitive to wan and needy. And that had been before the discovery that—

“We were happy,” he interrupted her thoughts. “For a while.”

“Until I found out who you were, and everything changed.” She took a long, hard look at him. He was still the most earth-shatteringly gorgeous male she’d ever met. His golden eyes glowed with intelligence. His high, slanting cheekbones, the arrogant blade of his nose above the chiselled lips, still had the power to make her heart race. But, clad in the thobe, the fearsomely muscled body hidden beneath the white folds, he looked foreign, dangerous and very, very powerful.

“Who I was should never have changed what we had.”

“Oh, come on, Tariq. You can’t honestly believe that? The pressure of being the successor to the Emir of Zayed, the hostility of your father—”

“Leave my father out of this!” His face darkened. “He never did anything to harm you. It was your behaviour, your treachery, that destroyed what we had.”

Jayne shut her eyes blocking out the familiar invective. The Emir had hated her from the start, done everything he could to break up what they shared. And, in the end he’d succeeded. She’d been driven away, her spirit beaten, her heart broken.

Tariq had hated her.

“What does the past matter? You say it was my treachery that drove us apart. But in the end it was your lack of trust that killed what we had, Tariq. So what’s the point of—”

“My lack of trust?” Fury turned the body beside her to steel. “You—”

“There’s no point to all this, Tariq.” She turned her head and stared at the water bubbling from the fountainhead. “It’s over. I want a divorce…and once I leave I never want to see you or your father again.”

“You may just get your wish.” He drew a deep breath. “My father is dying.”

Jayne heard his words from a distance; they didn’t sound quite real. Six years ago she’d wished that the old Emir could…simply disappear out of her life…out of Tariq’s life. Then, his death would have solved all her problems. Yet now she didn’t care.

She felt numb. She told herself it was because she’d moved on. She had a life. And that life did not include Tariq. Not even if his father was dying.

“What does that have to do with me?” She kept her voice expressionless. “I don’t care about your father. I don’t care if he’s dying.” She swallowed her pain and flicked him a look. A flash of raw emotion glittered in his eyes. It was quickly suppressed. Her throat closed, feeling hot and tight. “I have no desire to see your father. Not ever again. When you told me to leave five and a half years ago, I told you that.”

“You said you never wanted to see me, either.” His mouth kinked into a mocking line. “Yet here you sit, in front of me. So, nuur il-en, never is a long time. Death has a finality that comes to us all. My father feels it is time for me to settle—he wants that reassurance before he dies.”

He paused. The silence swelled darkly around them, coloured by the undercurrents between them.

“So?”

“Who better for me to settle with than my lawfully wedded wife?”

Jayne gave an uncontrollable laugh. It was hard and grating. Alien. As alien as the notion that the Emir would ever accept her as the consort for his son. “That’s the last thing your father wants. He’d prefer to see me in hell.” She gave him a twisted smile. “What about Leila? Why not settle down with her? Your father would approve that match like a shot.”

“Unfortunately, Leila is now married. I do not approve of bigamy.”

Unexpectedly, Jayne’s heart lifted at the information. Then she quashed her exultation. It had nothing to do with her, who he married. “So divorce me and find another bride.”

“There is no time. My father needs to be assured that I am married, happily reconciled with you. Now. And you are going to help me achieve that. As soon as he is dead you can leave. With this divorce you want so badly.”

There was something savagely ironic at the idea that Tariq wanted her aid to deceive his father into thinking he was settled. But she had no intention of staying. She shook her head. “I want you to sign the consent to our divorce, then I want to leave.”

“You never used to be this hard of heart—”

“Me? Hard-hearted?”

“You used to be gentle, loving.” Tariq continued.

“Until you and your father got hold of me.”

Tariq’s gaze turned dark with bitterness. “Don’t blame—”

“Oh, what is the use?” She wasn’t going to get through to him. She gave a dismissive shrug. “I don’t care anymore what you think of me. I’ve grown up. I don’t need your approval anymore.”

Tariq’s lips thinned into a hard line. “But you do want a divorce. And I’m not signing anything unless you stay. So unless you convince my father all is well between us before he dies, I will not consent to a divorce. Ever.”

“I’ll sue for divorce from New Zealand.”

“And I’ll oppose you. Even though our marriage was recorded at the New Zealand High Commission in London at the time, we were married according to the laws of Zayed and I am a citizen of that country. You need my consent. I have a lot of money to fight you with. And you know that I will succeed. Otherwise you would have applied for divorce in New Zealand. Not come all the way here to persuade me to give you this divorce.”

He had her there. “Tariq, what you’re asking is impossible.”

Tariq glanced at his wife and suppressed the tenderness that threatened to spill out. She looked bewildered, off balance for the first time since her arrival. Not even when she’d been faced by those young thugs had she looked as shattered. She’d remained calm, unflustered, sitting beside him with her long lashes lowered against the porcelain skin he’d always relished, while he’d simmered with rage that any one dared touch his woman.

He’d wanted to arrest the youth, have him expelled from Zayed for touching Jayne. He’d fought the red, red rage for calm.

And in that instant he’d known that he was going to make this divorce as difficult as he could. But none of the seething emotion was revealed when he said, “I am not asking the impossible. It is my wish, dearest beloved—”

“Don’t call me that. I am no longer your dearest beloved.”

“That is true. You are no longer my dearest beloved.” He knew she’d recognised his point by the way her body tensed against his. But he was not yet ready to open the wounds of the past. “Stay until my father dies. That is the last thing I ask of you, my wife—” he paused, waiting for her to respond to the subtle mockery, but her lashes again swept her cheeks “—before I grant you the divorce you seek so urgently.”

He watched as she examined her nails. They were short, bare of polish. “How long?”

At her question his head came up. He narrowed his gaze, searching her averted face for guile. “What do you mean, ‘How long’?”

“How long…must I stay?”

“Until my father dies.”

“Yes…I know…but how long will that be?”

Something constricted in his chest as she flouted the conventions that frowned on such directness. Tariq felt a burning sense of…frustration…that she so clearly wanted out of their marriage, that she was prepared to ask him to quantify how many days remained for his father in this realm. He shrugged. “How long is a piece of thread?”

“That’s no answer.” At last she looked at him. “I want a time limit.”

“I don’t know.” He stared at her, brooding. Hoped she didn’t see all the way to his soul to the dark, black well of sorrow and confusion that lay there. “The thread of his life is close to snapping. He is very weak and in much pain. The doctors say it could be a week or two weeks. They don’t give him longer than a month.”

“A month!” She hesitated, her eyelashes lowered again. Her teeth closed on her bottom lip.

He waited, giving her time. She was impatient. Tariq narrowed his gaze on her teeth, the endearing gap between them, and wondered what it was about this Neil that had her so enthralled that she’d come back to the country she’d sworn never to return to, to get her divorce. The pictures of the man, procured from the detective agency he’d hired immediately after her call to his father’s aide, showed an ordinary-looking man with a thatch of blond hair and an innocuous smile. Nothing pointed to Jayne having a sexual relationship with this man, this Neil.

Yet.

Right now that was the only thing keeping Tariq sane.

He had banished her. But he had not yet divorced her. He, Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, owned her. And what he owned he kept. Until he decided to rid himself of the troubling possession. As he would.

After his father died.

At last she looked up at him, her eyes darkened by shadows of turmoil. Her features pinched and drawn, a woman driven beyond her limits.

“Okay, I’ll stay. But not for more than a month. I want your word on that. If your father hasn’t…” Her voice trailed away.

“Died?” he supplied.

“Yes.” She paused and shifted, looking dreadfully uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. Then it came out with a rush. “Even if he hasn’t…well…died, I want to go home in a month. I want you to swear you will give me a divorce.”

It was time to cut her a little slack. It was extremely doubtful that his father would survive that long. “You have my word. Stay for the month and you will get the divorce you desire.” Tariq allowed his voice to soften. “You will find my father…changed. He’s very ill. He has moments when the medication takes effect and he is not himself.” It pained Tariq that his strong father was so frail, so weak, in his body and his mind. It devastated him that disease had crept up undetected on the seemingly invulnerable Emir. “For that month you must promise me that you will strive to convince my father in his lucid moments that we are reconciled.”

She drew a deep breath, then whispered, “I promise.”