Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Sheikh's Desert Duty\Nine Months to Redeem Him\Fonseca's Fury\The Russian's Ultimatum (11 page)

“Okay.” They kept on driving until they reached the top of the ridge, and then Zayn put the vehicle in Park.

“We'll make camp here. We may not need to stay, but if it does start to rain it will flood the road. All of it will run down the side of this embankment, and none of it should pool here. We should be safe.”

“Your tent is going to keep us dry in a torrential downpour?”

“Of course it will. It isn't as though it's the sort of thing you could buy at a sporting goods store. It is made for this kind of weather.”

“I suppose that's the perk of being royalty.”

“This has nothing to do with being royalty. Nothing to do with the latest technology. These tents were made by Surhaadi's finest craftsmen. Using the same techniques that have been used for hundreds of years. We have always had rain such as this in the desert, and sandstorms. And we have always needed to seek shelter away from it.”

She looked back up at the sky, which had grown even angrier in the past few minutes. “I suppose we should hurry.”

“What do you mean ‘we'?” He opened the driver side door and got out.

She opened her door, and followed. “Well, I didn't figure I would leave you to set up the tent all by yourself.”

“Do you know how to set up a tent?”

“Not really. Not much camping happening while growing up in suburban New York. But still, I thought you might need help holding some things, or something.”

He raised the dark brow. “Or something.”

He rounded the SUV and opened the back hatch, pulling out a compact bundle. It didn't look like it could be much of anything, much less large enough for the two of them. But then, she doubted it would be anything half so large or luxurious as the one she had stayed in with the tribe last night.

“Will Jamal and his people be all right?” It occurred to her suddenly that they seemed to be at a lower elevation.

“Yes, that area is not so affected by these thunderstorms. The ground has more moisture and the water sinks faster. Even if they get a downpour it's very likely it won't flood.”

“It's amazing how different it can be only fifty miles away.”

“Yes, indeed. The capital city is built at a higher elevation so that torrential downpours like this don't affect the infrastructure. Jamal and his tribe stay farther east where they are not as likely to get floods. It's this in-between part that is less hospitable to all.”

He picked up the bundle and slung it over his shoulder, walking across the expanse of bare ground to a place on the ridge that seemed to be flat. At least as flat as they were going to find on the rocky terrain.

He started to unpack the bundle.

“Is there anything I can do?”

He looked up at the sky. “Well, if it starts to rain you could always hold an umbrella.”

“You're joking, right?”

He leveled his dark gaze on her. “Yes, I am joking.”

“I didn't know you could do that.”

He smiled, and she felt the impact down to her toes. “I may yet have some surprises in store for you, Sophie Parsons.”

* * *

As Sophie had guessed, the tent was small. Oh...so small. If the tent back by the oasis had felt crowded with his presence, this would be unendurable. She would melt. She was sure of it. And she could not afford to melt.

But you already are...

She ignored the treacherous thought and went back to examining the tent.

It was not tall enough for either of them to stand. Sophie only had to crouch, but Zayn had to bend at the waist. There was room enough for them to sit, but it was very close quarters and she feared it would drive them both to the edge of madness.

Before this she had had no experience with firsthand lust madness. In fact, she had absolutely fancied herself immune. Now, she was not so cocky.

As soon as Zayn was finished, fat raindrops started to fall on them, and Sophie made a dash for the tent. Zayn followed closely behind, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“I have food in here,” he said as he ducked his head and entered the tent, dropping to his knees near where she was standing, hunched over in the corner.

“Well, I am a fan of food.”

The rain started to fall in earnest, as if the skies had cracked open, letting it all pour out now with no restraint, making up for the countless dry days that had come before. It splattered against the roof of the tent, the sound like a handful of pins being dropped on a marble floor.

“It is nothing special.” He unzipped the top of the backpack and produced sealed bags of flatbread, grapes and some other fruits she couldn't readily identify.

“It all works.”

He also took out two bottles of water, handing her one and keeping one for himself.

He adjusted his position so that he was sitting with his legs crossed and he gestured for her to sit, as well. She did, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle and taking a long drink.

He extended his hand and offered the bag to her. She plucked one round purple fruit off the stem and popped it into her mouth. She suddenly realized she was still looking at him, looking at his dark eyes. She looked away. Her stomach was tight, her heart fluttering.

She was getting distracted again. She did her best to get a grip on herself. But she still felt that strange weightless feeling she'd felt since the moment she'd accepted that she didn't have to pretend just now. It made her want to hold on to the feeling, made her want to hold it close and examine it, not push it down.

Too bad she didn't have a choice. Maybe she needed to get a date when she got back to New York. Stop ignoring this part of herself. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn't Zayn, but the culmination of twenty-five years of celibacy. She hadn't really intended to leave it that long, but all things considered she'd had a lot of stipulations placed on the whole sleeping with someone thing.

Maybe she needed to stop taking it so seriously. Because this wasn't normal. The strange, intense feeling that was blooming in her chest, spreading down to her stomach, and into her extremities.

No, this could not be normal at all. She'd heard people talk about butterflies, but this was somewhere beyond that. This was beyond anything she'd ever heard about.

But no matter how strong it was, it didn't make it any less impossible.

She looked away from him, desperate to catch her breath, desperate to catch her sanity.

She adjusted one of the blankets he had laid on the floor so that it offered a bit of support for her back. “Since we're here for a while...I think it's time for the third interview.”

“Do you?” he asked, his expression growing guarded.

Every so often she had the feeling she was skirting around the edges of something deep. Something real. It made her both curious, and afraid.

Part of her didn't want to know. Didn't want to be the keeper of his secrets.

“Since we've talked about how the country came to be, and how the monarchy came to be. I think it's time to talk about you.” She took another sip of water and reached out for the bag of grapes.

“Me?” he asked, and there was no question of whether or not he was guarded now. She could see it happening, watch the depth in his dark eyes recede, replaced by a flatness that terrified her.

But she couldn't back down. Not now. She had to get to the heart of why she was here. And she had a feeling it would never happen until she got to the heart of the man.

He paused for a moment, his eyes fixed behind her. Then he started speaking again. His words slow, monotone.

“It is interesting how time changes things. Surhaadi has been a very wealthy country since before my birth. So far removed from the scattered groups of people living in tents in the desert. This has brought positive change, new developments, the opportunity for good education. And yet, prosperity does not always build the best of characters. This is a story about a flawed character.”

His tone was grave, stoic, and she found herself looking at him again, even though she'd just been telling herself to get a grip. “And this is about you?”

“When a man knows from the day of his birth that one day an entire nation will bow at his feet, it affects him. I was told the history of our country, but unfortunately I missed the moral. It was all a very interesting story about battles, about destroying the bad guys. What I did not realize was that it was also about sacrifice. That it was intended to form the way I saw the throne. That it was not enough for a leader to simply have power. It is woven into the fabric of our country that a leader must be willing to sacrifice above all else. But those realities were lost on me. Those stories, those values, were dusty relics in my mind. And everything in life was shiny and new.”

He adjusted his position and opened one of the bags that contained a piece of flat bread. He tore off a piece and ate it slowly, as if he was carefully considering his next words. He swallowed and continued. “Nothing was off-limits to me and I set no boundaries for myself. I was the despair of my mother, and I earned my father's disdain. Make no mistake, it was earned. My father was a wise man, serious, and consumed with the idea of honor. And I was a son who had none. I was a son who cared for nothing more than acquiring the latest model of car, or finding the best nightspots throughout Europe. I had a large network of friends who helped me gain access to those places. Who helped me pick up women.”

It was jarring to think of him in this way. As a young man consumed by the idea of acquiring more wealth. She had seen nothing of that in him from the moment she met him. His only concern had ever been for his family. His family and his country.

“My father warned me that my behavior would lead to ruin, that it would lead to death. But I didn't care. Because I had never seen evidence of a consequence. Because money and power had spared me from every single one. If we trashed a hotel room, I could more than afford to pay someone to clean it up. If we got into a fender bender, it was easy to throw money at the owner of the other car and make it all go away. When I was through with a lover, all I had to do was give her a trinket and she would be happy again. She would go on her way feeling pleased at her dalliance with a sheikh. Yes, I lived my life consequence-free for a great many years.”

She tried to read what he was feeling, tried to understand what he was thinking by looking into his eyes. But there was nothing there. Nothing but an endless black well. “What changed? Because something had to. Otherwise I very much believe you would still be cutting a party swath through Europe.” And who wouldn't? She'd never had the luxury of living consequence-free, she'd always had to work harder. Had her life been different, she very likely would have been different to.

“You are not wrong. Something did change. My father was proven right.”

“What do you mean?”

He drew in a sharp breath and looked down, his shoulders tightened.

“Zayn,” she pressed. “What is it that he said?”

There was nothing but silence in the tent for long moments. Nothing but water on canvas. Then Zayn looked up at her, his eyes dark pits.

“My father said my behavior would end in ruin. He said it would end in death. And it did, Sophie. My actions caused the death of my sister.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
OPHIE
COULD
ONLY
stare at Zayn, his admission settling heavily in the room, like a blanket of dust, covering everything it touched. She didn't want to speak for fear she might disturb it all, for fear she might disrupt it, cloud the air and stop his confession. Interrupt what he was about to say. And yet, she found she could hardly breathe in the silence, waiting for him to continue. Waiting for him to explain.

But he didn't speak. He only sat, his dark eyes fixed on a spot behind her, not the tent wall, somewhere more distant than that. Perhaps somewhere back in the past.

“Zayn?” she asked. Her voice seemed far too loud in the stillness, competing with the rain falling on the tent top. Disturbing the natural order.

He still didn't speak, a sharp breath making his chest pitch, lifting his shoulders. And then he looked back at her, snapping back to the present, as though he had never been gone. But he had been, she knew it as certainly as she was sitting there.

“I am responsible for the death of my younger sister Jasmine.” He said the words again as though to affirm them both to himself and to her.

He had mentioned his sister just last night, and yet, at the time nothing had been brought up in her memory. But now... Dimly she thought she might be able to remember a news story about the death of a royal princess somewhere in the world. But it was hard to say what was memory and what was her brain trying to forge a connection between this moment and a moment in her past. Trying to find a way to connect even more deeply than she already had. Which was a mistake, and yet she couldn't stop herself.

“And she was younger?”

“By only a couple of years. Leila, my sister who is still alive, is the baby. Jasmine and I were much closer in age. And we were friends. Often, we got into trouble together. Until I outgrew her, until I started to do things I did not want my sister involved in. Of course, I did not want my younger sister sleeping around and drinking to excess. Those things were fine for me but in my mind off-limits to her. To this day I cannot say what I was thinking. Because I do not understand. I do not understand that man. That man I was sixteen years ago.”

“Why have I heard so little about this? It seems as though if there were a real scandal here it would be covered in the news even now.”

“Yes, and it would be, if anyone knew the full story.”

“Are you sure you want to tell the whole story to me?”

She had to give him a chance to change his mind. A chance to leave it unspoken. To leave her in the dark. But she wanted to push him to tell her, too, because this might be the scandal he'd mentioned. The one she needed to stop the Chatsfields.

Did you ever stop to think who else it could ruin?

No. And she couldn't. This was for Isabelle.

His dark eyes leveled with hers. “I am going to tell you the story. What you do with it after is up to you. You want the scandal, and this is the scandal I can give you.”

“The scandal I'm after?” she asked, her throat dry.

“Somehow I doubt it. But does it matter? You're a journalist. And this is the better story. This is the thing you need.”

Her throat tightened, her stomach cramping uncomfortably. “Is it about James Chatsfield?”

“No, it is not. The only villain in this story is me. Or perhaps Damien, should you wish to cast him as such. But I don't blame you if you do not wish to speak ill of the dead.”

Dimly she thought she should turn on her digital recorder, but she didn't want to interrupt him for anything. Didn't want him to become conscious of her recording his words. It was okay, though, because she wouldn't forget them. No matter what she did with his words after this, she would not forget them.

“I'm listening.”

“When you live a lifestyle such as mine you attract a certain sort of person. And it must be acknowledged that I was one of them. I was not above any of those I brought to the family palace. I was a part of them. I was the chief of sinners, in no way above any of their actions, and often leading them. These were the people I brought home. And my sister, who had been my closest friend growing up, was confused as to why I preferred these people over her now. Damien was my partner in crime. The drinking, the womanizing, he was there for all of it. I knew what manner of man he was, and yet, I introduced him to Jasmine.”

Again she wanted to say something, wanted to interrupt and offer comfort in some way. Wanted to stop the flow of words from coming out of his mouth, so he wouldn't expose himself in this way. So he wouldn't reveal his secrets to her. Because she wasn't certain she was equal to them, wasn't certain she was worthy of them.

She had no armor in this moment, adrift in a sea, rather than clinging doggedly to the pier and trying to appear as though she was secure.

“She was taken with Damien from the first, but I assumed, in my arrogance, that Damien knew better than to touch her. Still, when I noticed my sister's fascination with him I warned her away. I was not kind. I told her that silly virgins should never even speak to men like that. She asked if that meant she should not speak to me. Of course I said that was different. But I started to wonder if it was. I started to wonder why I was content to be the sort of person I would not allow my sister to associate with. But it was too late.”

He continued. “One day I walked into my chambers to find Damien with Jasmine. He had clearly given her alcohol, and possibly another substance, and she was impaired. Laughing, and hanging all over him. And then Damien, my friend, looked at me and told me that she was no longer a silly virgin and asked if it was okay now for her to associate with him.” Zayn clenched his jaw, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I was enraged, Sophie. Were there a weapon in my hand I think I might have destroyed Damien there and then. I told them to go. I told him to get out of my sight, to leave my home and never come back. And Jasmine, in love with him as she was, clung to him and told me she was going with him. And I told her I did not want to see her again. I told her...that she had brought shame onto our family and that she was dead to me. I said...I said terrible things to her.”

He pushed his hands through his hair, and lowered his head. “So she left with him. And only an hour later we received word they were in a terrible accident, and that none involved had survived. So you see the reason there was no scandal. No hint of what went on between us. How could there be? It would endanger public opinion of me if word were to get out how I spoke to her at the end. Of course, I never imagined he would drive, not in the state he was in. But I should've known. Because the most disturbing thing about my confrontation with Damien was that it was like looking into a mirror. It was realizing that had the roles been reversed, had he invited me into his home, had his innocent sister showed interest in me, I cannot guarantee I would not have done the same thing he'd done. He didn't love Jasmine. And yet he took her, took her from the palace, took her from this world. And I do not believe I would have done any better. I do not believe I would have acted any more honorably. It destroyed me to lose her. It destroyed me that I introduced her to the man who led her down that path, that I drove her away from the palace and into his car with him. And that was when I knew I had to change.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “That's why you believe so strongly in duty. That's why you're marrying Christine.”

“I trust nothing in myself, which is why I don't depend on what I feel. I simply must do what's right. It's the only thing that matters. It's the only thing that can matter.”

“Zayn, surely you have to know that it wasn't your fault. Not really.”

“Do you remember what I told you about consequences? I had never in my life faced a consequence before that moment. Before my angry words, before my own selfishness, my own desire to deny my behavior for my sister. Killed her. There was no amount of money, no amount of power, that could bring her back. In that moment I was simply a man, and nothing I had would fix the devastation that I had wrought. It was my consequence. One I could not pay off. One I could not ignore. And I will not turn from it now. A man is meant to learn from his mistakes, to learn from the ramifications of his actions. I'd avoided that for years. Until the moment I could not avoid it anymore. So I bear it now, so I let it change me. Because if not, then her death truly is in vain. That cannot be.”

He stood, stooped beneath the roof of the tent, a strange kind of desolation in his dark eyes. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I am going out to check the SUV. And to get a look at the roads. I will return.”

He pushed open the flap on the tent and went out into the downpour, leaving her sitting there, shell-shocked and alone.

And then she realized, this was the end of the story. Or rather the end as it had happened so far. Ultimately, it would end with the wedding, the wedding to Christine. A wedding that was taking place as part of Zayn's quest for atonement. The story of the nation, the story of the monarchy and the story of Zayn. He had told her to try and make her understand why he felt he'd fallen short, why he must go on to do his duty for his people.

And she ached for him, for the pain he had been through when he lost his sister. But she could not blame him. She could not blame him because she had spent her life refusing to accept what she had been given. Refusing to allow the decisions of other people to shape who she was. Jasmine had made a decision, one that might have been different with the benefit of age, but a decision all the same.

When Sophie had been that age she had already decided she would not drink or do drugs. She had already decided that she had too many things ahead of her to allow herself to be distracted. She barely had friends, she'd never dated. Maybe her decisions hadn't been healthier, but she'd been safe. And in many ways, she'd been in control of her fate, rather than someone who'd followed a guy blindly.

She had never seen the point of sitting back and blaming her father, her mother, for her situation in life. Not when she could transcend it.

Jasmine, as tragic as her death was, could have done the same. And may well have if her poor decision had not been the first and last poor decision she'd ever made. Life was unfair that way. There were those who made mistake after mistake and came out just fine, and there were those who put one foot wrong and paid a dear cost.

But Jasmine's hand had not been forced. Not by Zayn, not by anyone.

She burst into a sitting position, and scurried out the door of the tent, shrieking when a fat drop of water landed on her head and rolled down her face. The rain was cold, torrential, creating tributaries that flowed down the side of the embankment, down to the road below. A road that now appeared to be a river.

She looked toward the SUV, but didn't see Zayn anywhere. Then she looked the other way, and saw nothing but scrub brush and dark clouds. “Zayn!” she called, looking all around, hoping to catch sight of him. But she couldn't. She didn't see him anywhere. “Zayn!” She called his name again.

Her voice was swallowed up by the wind, swallowed up by the falling rain.

She pressed forward, moving away from the tent, away from the vehicle. Because she had a feeling he had gone toward the wilderness. Because it just seemed like something he would do. She knew it, as deeply as she knew anything about herself.

In many ways, he seemed to perpetually be wandering the wilderness alone. Standing separate from everyone else, from everything else. From the law, from modern mores, from anything that might interfere with the protection of his country and his family.

A strange realization, followed closely by the realization that she had been doing the same.

Yes, Isabelle was her friend, yes, she had other casual acquaintances. She went into an office every day and worked with people surrounding her. But she was alone. She did not allow people to touch her. Because she was in the wilderness, fighting to survive.

Because she was afraid of revealing weakness, afraid of depending on anyone. Afraid of nearly everything. And so she insulated herself, kept herself separate, so that no one would ever know.

How very strange that the two of them, wandering alone in separate parts of the world, had managed to find each other.

If only she could find him now, in this literal wilderness.

Then she saw him, down on one knee, rain pouring over his back, seeping through his tunic, his head bent low.

“Zayn?” She approached him cautiously, her heart thundering in her temples.

He lifted his head, then straightened slowly. He turned to face her, water drops sliding down his face, a haunted look at his eyes. She blinked back tears, not sure if they had already fallen or not. There was water on her face, but it was very hard to say where it had come from.

They simply looked at each other, an expanse of dirt between them, the rain pouring down on them.

“I wanted to tell you—I needed to tell you—it's not your fault.”

He shook his head. “You are hardly going to undo sixteen years of guilt with a simple phrase. But you must know I appreciate the effort, Sophie.”

“The effort isn't enough. I need you to understand it.”

“This has nothing to do with your story. I don't see why you would care what I think.”

She blinked against the rain. “I care because I don't think you should carry this burden. I don't feel like you should blame yourself like this. You can't live your life for other people.”

“Are you any different? Answer me, Sophie, are you any different?”

“I live for myself, Zayn. How can you ask if I'm different?”

“Do you? I don't think you do. You are here because of your friend Isabelle, even if you won't tell me the reasoning. You are questioning me to benefit her. You are afraid to show that you are vulnerable because of what other people might think. You went to university so you can show your father that you were worthy. Yes, Sophie, you do live for other people.”