Читать книгу The Sheikh's Hidden Heir - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 14

FOR three years, at some level, Karim had known this day would come.

Late afternoon his phone had buzzed quietly—not his regular phone, which he had long since turned off, but the one phone that he never could.

He had taken the call in the lounge, listened to the news and sat with his head in his hands in silence for a full five minutes afterwards. Then he had walked back into the bedroom, his gaze falling to where she slept, and all he’d wanted to do was climb in beside her, rest next to her soft skin and disappear. He wanted to wake with her in his arms and smile in relief as he realised it was just a dream. But to sleep now would have been to waste what he knew was his last taste of freedom.

The last few minutes in his life of being Karim—because, despite being the third-born son, he was being groomed to be King.

This day that should never had come—had never, when Karim had been a child, been anticipated. The third of four boys, relatively safe from the prospect of succession, he had run free. His mother had loved him with more abandon, the press had been less interested in the dark, wilful young Prince than in his elder brothers.

His elder brothers, Hassan and Ahmed, had been groomed, of course—Hassan the successor, Ahmed just in case. But for Karim, and later Ibrahim, there had been more freedom. It was a freedom that their mother had fought and begged for, and had been won only for her younger sons. Three of the boys had inherited some of their mother’s features. Hassan, the eldest, had her piercing blue eyes but none of her joy or lightness, Ahmed, the second boy, had a lighter complexion and hair and had inherited her high-strung personality too.

And young Ibrahim was a true mix of both—royal and abrupt, like his father, yet dashing and wild, like his mother.

Karim, though, was truly his father’s son.

He was, his father had said in a pensive moment, the one who would make the best King.

Decisive, arrogant, Karim held an innate strength, a deep streak of privacy that belied his public persona. Even when his mother’s indiscretion had been exposed and she had fled, shamed, to England, Karim, the closest to her, had been the only brother who had refused to cry.

It was how it had to be.

There could be no pardon, no erring from the rules—she was the wife of the King.

To Karim it was simple.

And, as third in line, it was simple: he could indulge his passion. While after their mandatory stint in the army his older brothers had studied politics and history, the young Karim had indulged his desire for medicine, heading to the UK, spending time with his mother, causing a stir on the social scene. A dashing Prince, he had had the young fillies of London eating out of his manicured hands.

At what point had it changed?

Staring out into the darkening London skies, Karim rested his forehead against the cool window and watched the cars, taxis and shoppers below enjoying the anonymity London afforded. He remembered the first time he had felt it, that shiver of realisation, a feeling he would later recognise as dread, sliding like black fingers around his heart. He felt it occasionally at first, then more regularly, until now each morning he awoke with a tight band around his heart.

Hassan had married. Karim remembered well the pride and the jubilation in Zaraq. Remembered too laughing at his father’s concerns when it had been two years and no heir.

‘There is plenty of time…’

Then it had been three years, then four, and then finally the news the country had waited for.

A baby due in April.

In February he had come—too soon for the little scrap of life named after the King. Karim had held his tiny nephew, Kaliq, on that last day. As a doctor he had known at first glance that no machines or technology could help. When neither Hassan nor his wife, Jamal, had been able to face it any longer he had held Kaliq in the palm of his hand, stared at the little life that was too weak, too frail, and yet so wanted, then held him to his cheek as his life had slipped away.

Those first voices of dread had started to speak up, but he had quashed them, dismissed them out of hand. Because if Hassan could not produce, then long in the future, if the King should die, there would be Ahmed.

Ahmed. Despite the grooming, despite the bravado, Karim had always known that his brother was fragile emotionally—just how fragile Karim had refused to consider. Burdened by the prospect that one day he might be King, Ahmed had one day taken his four-wheel drive into the hostile desert. Suicide was a sin, so it had been called ‘heat exhaustion’.

By November the country had been plunged into mourning again.

Nothing was ever voiced.

Nothing had ever actually been voiced.

As third in line, Karim had always indulged in his passion for surgery, but as the line of succession had shortened, so too had his theatre and patient list. Slowly he’d been moved away from the hospital and from direct contact with patients. Instead he built a new hospital and a new university, trying to ignore the voices. Because if he acknowledged they were real…

Today they were real.

Today they spoke.

You are strong, Karim said to himself. You will be a good leader for the people.

He knew he was strong. And he wouldn’t acknowledge, even to himself, the deep and buried truth.

Instead he pushed it aside and chose to get on with what he had been summoned to do.

The room was still and dark when Felicity awoke, stretching luxuriously. For that moment all she felt was peace—not a smudge of regret for what had taken place.

Karim was standing by the window, staring out on to the street below. Just as she was about to smile and greet him, she stilled. She saw the grave expression on his face, the weary set of his shoulders, and a chill of foreboding swept through her.

‘Karim?’

He came over, forced a half-smile on his grim face, and sat on the bed beside her.

‘You looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘Is something wrong?’ There was a different energy to him. They had made love on and off throughout the day, and Felicity had shared with him not just her body but her mind. She had told him how she adored her family, how it was tearing her apart to leave them even for this short while, how she adored her work, her friends. Bit by bit she had revealed herself to him, but now, as she stared up at his strained face, despite his tender words she realised Karim had revealed so very little.

‘My father is ill.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘He has been ill for some time, but I have just found out that he has been admitted to hospital. I have to leave tonight for Zaraq.’ His face was stamped with pain.

Felicity knew he was telling the truth, and she moved to comfort him as he had her, but even as she held him, he was unreachable. There was tension in his shoulders, and when he pulled back his voice sounded formal rather than tender.

‘I don’t know when I will be back.’

‘Will you call me?’ Oh, of course one should never sound needy, but she was needy—needy of him.

‘I did not expect to have to return so soon. Felicity…’ He wasn’t finding this easy—wasn’t finding any of it easy. He stared at her. She looked confused and gorgeous, and he wanted to take her with him, but he couldn’t. She didn’t even know who he was—and more than that he couldn’t inflict it all on her. She wanted romance, flowers, phone calls, Karim reminded himself. She wanted her family and her friends and the freedom in her body that he had just given her. He couldn’t, wouldn’t do it to her. ‘It will be busy when I get home. Things are very different for me there.’

‘So that’s it, then?’ Hurt, angry eyes met his, yet there was a dignity to her as she dressed, a proud dignity as she pulled on her clothes. And there was something else about her too—since this morning she had grown up. Before him now stood a proud, strong woman, and Karim knew that this day had played a large part in that.

Felicity knew it too. Oh, she was hurt, and bitterly disappointed, yet somehow she also felt strong. Of course he must go to his father. Of course they could never be…

But something beautiful had been taken away too soon, and it was with that sentiment that, instead of storming out, she walked over to him. And Karim held her. He held her in his arms as if he never wanted to let go.

‘I will have a car take you home.’

‘Karim, I live miles away…’

‘You are not getting a train.’ His phone was ringing again, and this time he answered it, talking for a second or two before clicking off. ‘My plane is being prepared.’

‘Your plane?’

He checked himself, determined not to confuse her further. ‘I am sorry. Sometimes my English is confusing. I have to be there soon. I have booked my ticket. I have to leave in half an hour.’

He didn’t want to go. She knew that. She could feel it in the hard kisses that he showered on her, in the desperate lovemaking that ensued, could even feel it as he took her down to Reception and saw her to a waiting car.

The journey home was long, but Felicity wanted it to be. She needed to get her head around all that happened in the last twenty-four hours.

She didn’t even know his surname—yet this man had changed her.

To anyone else it would sound cheap and sordid—a day of no-strings sex, with someone she would never see again—yet Felicity felt no need to justify to herself what had taken place.

Especially as, after she had taken the lift to her apartment and rummaged for her keys, when she paused in the middle of the corridor and saw a most exquisite bouquet at her door.

They must have cost a fortune, soft pink blooms of orchids, and with tears in her eyes Felicity read the note.

Never forget.

Karim x

How could she ever forget? Felicity thought, letting herself into the flat, staring at the blinking red light on the message machine and listening as Noor offered her a position in Zaraq.

The money was more than she’d been expecting; the only blight was that she had to leave within a week. Felicity knew it couldn’t have been Karim’s doing as, from the time of recording, the message had been left immediately after the information session.

Her mother’s message urged her to ring the second she was home. Instead she crossed her modest flat and stared out of the window into the cold night sky. She imagined Karim up there, flying back to his sick father, and wondered if they might meet again. Because even if his life was complicated, for Felicity it was actually rather simple. She read the card one more time.

Never forget.

Oh, she’d never forget—because every second of their encounter was etched indelibly on her mind. And anyway, Felicity realised, letting the tears spill now, she’d never forget because already she loved him.