Читать книгу The Sheikh Who Blackmailed Her - Ким Лоренс, Susan Mallery - Страница 14

GABBY did not actually see Rafiq until almost the following afternoon.

Her morning had been spent with someone called Sayed. She had no idea what his specific role was in the royal household—he had introduced himself simply as a member of the Prince’s personal staff—but it was clear from the level of respect given him by others that he was a man of some influence.

Sayed had given her a tour of the palace—or at least as much as could be covered in a morning. It was impossible to tell from the man’s manner towards her what he had been told about her, if anything. He was obviously too polite to express anything as vulgar as curiosity.

They had now reached the library—a room of such dazzling magnificence that even after all the splendour she had been exposed to that morning Gabby was stunned into awed silence. Then Rafiq finally appeared, and Gabby was struck dumb with awe for the second time.

She watched as he walked up the wooden steps that led to the upper mezzanine level of the room. Her breath snagged in her throat.

The man really was magnificent!

Her gaze swept in an arc from his toes to his dark bare head. He was wearing what seemed to be the norm for him—riding breeches, boots, and a white flowing desert robe, above which his burnished skin glowed golden. She gave her head a tiny shake of denial, still unable to reconcile his vitality with what she knew of his illness.

He nodded quite curtly to her, and then turned to Sayed.

The two men spoke in their own tongue for several minutes, and Gabby was left to twiddle her thumbs before the older man bowed low to her and excused himself.

Gabby turned to the tall Prince. ‘So what’s next?’ she asked arching a brow. ‘Cutlery lessons?’

‘I will assess the need for those at lunch.’

Gabby’s wrathful glare met his steady, sardonic gaze, and her expression melted into a reluctant grin. ‘If you’re serious,’ she warned, ‘I will slurp my soup.’

His dry response disconcerted her. ‘I sense you will be a charming dinner companion.’

The humour in his eyes disconcerted her some more—and she struggled not to respond to his dry humour. ‘Dinner and lunch?’ she said, trying not to analyse her quickened heart-rate too closely. ‘I do feel honoured.’

‘I would have been here earlier, but a problem required by attention. I hope Sayed was an adequate deputy.’

‘He was a preferable deputy.’ He hadn’t shaken loose odd, uncomfortable feelings inside her. ‘Infinitely preferable,’ she added, dragging her eyes from his mouth. ‘How did you explain to him …?’

He shook his head and looked baffled. ‘Explain?’

Gabby laid a hand flat on her chest. ‘Me! How did you explain me being here?’

There was no answering flicker of comprehension in his face as he placed his hand on the back of a leather chair. Gabby’s eyes were drawn to the dark red ring on his finger. He had lovely hands … strong and sensitive … and …

‘Why would I explain anything?’

Gabby’s eyes lifted to his face. Her distracted study of his hands had brought a flush to her cheeks. It remained there as she studied his lean, patrician features.

After a few seconds she laughed. ‘Sorry—silly question.’

‘Sayed tells me that you have asked a good many intelligent questions.’

‘He does?’ Gabby doused her smile and frowned, because she didn’t want to make it seem as if she was eager to please. ‘It was the novelty of receiving straight answers,’ she observed crankily.

‘I will try to be direct.’ He extended his arm in invitation. ‘Would you like to have lunch?’

Gabby gave a take-it-or-leave-it shrug and turned in the direction he indicated. As she did so she came face to face with a portrait that had caught her attention when she had first walked into the library. This close, the subject’s beauty was even more startling.

‘Her eyes really do follow you,’ she murmured, studying the dark-haired beauty. Her skin seemed to glow and her eyes were as blue as the string of sapphires that hung around her slender throat. ‘Who is she—or was she?’

‘Was. Queen Sadira.’

Gabby’s eyes left the painting as she tilted her head up to Rafiq. She found he was looking at her and not the portrait. ‘Your mother?’

‘No, she was my father’s first wife. She was the love of his life.’

Gabby, who wasn’t sure she would have enjoyed having the love of her husband’s life looking down at her from such a prominent position, turned back to the portrait.

‘But he loved your mother too?’

‘No. I think he was fond of her, and he respected her, but a man only experiences that sort of … insanity once in his life.’

Gabby turned her head and found Rafiq was standing closer. She tilted her head further back and felt her stomach dip in reaction to the masculine aura he generated.

‘He didn’t love her?’ His pragmatic observation shocked her.

‘You sound scandalised,’ he observed. ‘You do not need to be. Not on my mother’s behalf. She did not love my father—not in the romantic sense—but she respected him, and they shared a vision of what this country should be, and a strong sense of commitment and duty.’

Things, Gabby thought, studying his dark face, they had passed on to one of their sons at least. A son who even when he was dying did not think about it in personal terms but in terms of how it would affect the future of his damned country … She was conscious of anger building inside her. No one had ever given him the choice!

Why should Rafiq be expected to make such a sacrifice?

‘My parents’ marriage was a successful union.’ Annoyance flickered across Rafiq’s face as he heard the defensive note in his own voice. ‘When they married the country was in turmoil. My mother was instrumental in supporting my father when he undid the years of neglect following Sadira’s death.’

‘You think love is a form of insanity?’ She studied his profile, her glance lingering on the passionate curve of his mouth, and wondered if Rafiq had ever known that insanity.

His eyes slid to the portrait. ‘When Sadira could not bear children my father was expected to put her aside. He refused, even though the lack of a clear heir to the throne was creating major divisions.’

Gabby’s tender heart bled for the tragic Queen. ‘You think he should have put her aside?’

He shrugged. ‘My father put his personal happiness ahead of his duty.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ It was a silly question. It was clear from his actions that Rafiq put his individual desires and needs below his duty and his country—duty had been bred into him, and he had never been allowed to be a carefree little boy or a reckless young man. He had always been the future King.

‘The job of King comes with responsibilities.’

‘The poor woman. She was so beautiful …’ Even though her glance had drifted back to the portrait Gabby remained painfully conscious of the man beside her, and her empathy went bone-deep. ‘And her eyes are incredible … so blue.’

‘Not as blue as yours.’

The husky retort brought her swinging back to face him. As their eyes connected the air around them seemed to shimmer with the intensity of unspoken desires and emotions.

The only sounds in the massive room came from the mingled tick of a selection of antique time pieces and their breathing—hard to distinguish each from the other.

Gabby’s stomach quivered, and her heart thundered as she struggled to breathe. Her feet seemed glued to the floor with lustful longing. She struggled to break free of the bonds of the sexual thrall that held her tight in its grip … Rafiq’s eyes were so … hot … Oh, help!

‘I … I … I’m hungry. For food,’ she added, her face crimson with embarrassment.

Rafiq inhaled, his flared nostrils quivering as he scented her perfume. ‘I too am hungry …’ Ravenous described better the desire pounding through his veins.

He moved abruptly, and broke the tableau a split second before Sayed announced his return with a tentative knock.

‘What is it, Sayed?’ He assumed a neutral expression. She was a sensual banquet, but not his.

Standing in the vault of the room, Sayed raised his voice to reach the mezzanine level. ‘I am afraid that there has been a landslip in Bahu.’

Gabby saw Rafiq stiffen as the two men continued their interchange in rapid Arabic. It didn’t take an ability to understand the language to see that the situation they were discussing was serious.

Halfway to convincing herself that the entire sizzling moment had only existed in her head, Gabby was sure of it when Rafiq turned back to her, with no residual trace of warmth in his sombre manner.

‘I am needed. I must leave you.’

‘Take me with you,’ she heard herself say. ‘That is …’

‘All right,’ he said, telling himself that it was a good thing if she saw some of his country and fell under its spell.

It was not a good moment to think of spells.

Conversation was not possible due to the noise during the helicopter flight. It took them three quarters of an hour, but for Gabby, staring down at the fascinating and constantly changing scenery of this geographically diverse country, the time went quickly.

Gabby wrapped the silk scarf she had been given around her head as she stepped out into the sun. She shaded her eyes and stared.

A group of black tents were scattered around a green oasis, but what dominated the site was the towering ancient stone wall rising up behind them.

Rafiq watched her jaw drop.

‘It is the remains of a Crusader castle. Like the Bedouin, the Crusaders were attracted by the water, and due to the height nobody—enemy or friend—can arrive unseen.’

It was clear from the small group who came to greet them that Rafiq fell into the latter category.

‘There are no men.’ Gabby voiced her observation out loud.

‘The men are all helping in the rescue. My father gave permission for an archaeological dig to go ahead down in the valley.’

‘That’s where the landslip is?’

Rafiq nodded, his expression sombre. ‘Yes, several young men from here were working on the site.’

‘There are injuries?’

‘It appears so. The rescue is being made more difficult by sheer inaccessibility. The overhanging cliffs make helicopter access impossible, and the track is too rough for four-wheel drives. That just leaves …’ He nodded towards a distant dust cloud that as Gabby watched became a group of horsemen, approaching at great speed.

She felt her stomach lurch as she saw the spare horse they were leading.

‘You’re going in?’

He nodded, and looked surprised by the question. ‘Of course.’

‘Can I come with you?’

He shook his head, something close to tenderness flickering across his face as he looked at her. Gabby’s stomach flipped.

‘Not this time,’ he said. His expression grew troubled as he focused on her face. Then, as he hooked a thumb under her chin and tilted her face up to his, it hardened into one of self-recrimination. ‘I should not have brought you.’

‘What if when you go with them—?’ She nodded towards the men who had reined in their mounts close by. ‘What if—’ she repeated, unable to keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘What if you get ill?’

‘I won’t.’

Not a very practical response, but one that seemed to Gabby very typical of this man—this very hands-on Prince, who took responsibility a lot more literally than most.

‘The women will look after you.’ Rafiq had turned away to speak to the group from the tents, varied in age and all looking visibly comforted by what Rafiq said to them.

He only looked back once as he strode out to the waiting men and vaulted with lithe ease into the saddle of the spare horse. Gabby watched until the riders were nothing more than specks in the shimmering desert landscape.

The women did look after Gabby, but as they spoke no English and she spoke no Arabic, communication was limited. Her anxiety levels were rising, and she had almost chewed her nails off. When the braziers were lit, sending clouds of smoke into the darkening sky, still there was no sign of Rafiq.

She had tried several ways to ask the women when they thought Rafiq might be back, but the mention of his name had produced many giggles and smiles that were pretty much the same in any language.

Dawn was breaking when Gabby curled up on a rug beside one of the open camp fires, finally succumbing to exhaustion. But that exhaustion paled into insignificance beside the pallor of fatigue in the grime-streaked face of the man she saw when she awoke a couple of hours later.

‘Rafiq!’

He stretched his long legs in front of him and hooked one ankle over the other, looking at her over the rim of his coffee cup.

‘Good morning. I am sorry you were left for so long.’

Dismissing the apology with a wave of her hand, Gabby pushed aside the blanket someone had placed over her while she slept and shot into a sitting position, wincing as her cramped limbs complained.

‘You should have woken me. How long have you been sitting there? You’re hurt?’ she asked, as her horrified gaze fastened on the blood seeping from a gash on his wide forehead.

‘I am fine.’

From the way he said it Gabby knew the same could not be said of everyone. ‘Were many hurt?’ she asked quietly.

‘One fatality,’ he said, placing his cup down on a level stone with an exaggerated care that did not quite hide the tremor in his hand. He thought of the boy who had died in his arms. Later he must speak to the mother who had lost her son. ‘Twenty injuries. Five of those are critical; one man lost an arm.’

She watched as he passed a hand across his eyes. The need to wrap her arms around him and offer the comfort that would obviously be rejected was so intense that it took every ounce of her self-control to stay put. She could feel his pain in her bones.

‘I’m sorry.’ This was a prince, she realised, who took duty to a very personal level. He really cared.

He flicked her a half-smile that was very white in his grime-streaked face. ‘They have been airlifted out now. A helicopter will be back for you presently.’

‘You’re not coming?’

He shook his head. ‘I must stay.’

She didn’t even try and persuade him otherwise. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to change his mind.

‘What about my princess lessons?’

Rafiq felt something move and twist inside his chest as he looked at her, her hair a wild halo, the dark smudges under her eyes making them seem huge. Swallowing, he shook his head. ‘I think you have had a baptism of fire into our culture, so we will skip the cutlery lesson.’

‘Did I pass?’

He looked at her in silence for a moment, then rose to his feet. ‘Yes, you passed.’