The sheikh's chosen wife (13 page)

His body awoke; he
allowed himself a rueful smile at how little it took to make him want this
beautiful creature. Then she realised he was there and opened her eyes, risking
soap burn so that she could kill him with a look.

'What do you want now?'
she demanded.

Since the answer to that
question was indubitably obvious, he didn't bother with a reply. Instead he
reached for the container of foaming body soap, pumped a generous amount into
the palm of his hand and began applying it to her skin. Her hands dropped from
her hair and pressed hard against his chest in an effort to push him away.

'Thank you,' he said, and
calmly pumped some soap onto his own chest as if it was a foregone conclusion that
she would wash him. 'Sharing can turn the simplest of chores into the best of
pleasures, do you not think?"

The green light in her
eyes took on a distinctly threatening gleam. 'I think you're arrogant and
hateful and I want you to get out of here,' she coldly informed him.

'Close your eyes,' he
advised. 'The shampoo is about to reach them.'

Then, even as she lifted
a hand to swipe the bubbles away, he reached up and directed the shower head at
her so that the steamy spray hit her full in the face. While gasping at the
shock, he made his next move, turned the spray away and replaced it with his
mouth.

For a sweet, single
moment he allowed himself to believe he'd made the easy conquest. It usually
worked. On any other occasion it would have worked as a tasty starter to other
ways of forgetfulness. But this time he received a sharp dig in the ribs for
his optimism, and a set of teeth closed threateningly on his bottom lip until
he eased the pressure and lifted his head. Her eyes spat fire and brimstone at
him.

He arched an eyebrow and
glided a defiant hand down to the silken warmth of her abdomen.

'You are treading on
dangerous ground. Sheikh,' she warned him.

'I am?

She ignored the message
in his tone. 'I have nothing I want to say to you. So why don't you leave me
alone?

'But I was not offering
to talk,' he explained, and boldly slid the hand lower.

'You are not doing that either!'
Squirming away like a slippery snake, she ended up pressed against the corner
of the cubicle, eyes like green lasers trying their best to obliterate him.
One arm was covering her breasts, the other hand was protecting other parts.
She looked like some sweet, cowering virgin, but he was not fooled by the
vision. This beautiful wife of his possessed a temper that could erupt without
warning. At the moment it was merely simmering.

'Okay.' With an ease that
threw her into frowning confusion, he conceded the battle to her, pumped more
soap onto his chest and began to wash while trying to ignore the obvious fact
that a certain part of him was as hard as a rock and begging he do something
about it. 'We did not really have time, anyway. Our guests arrive in less than
an hour...'

'Guests?' she looked up
sharply. 'What guests?'

'The guests we are about
to transport to Rahman to attend the anniversary of my father's thirtieth year
of rule, which will take place in ten days' time,' he replied while calmly
sluicing the soap from his body as if he had not dropped yet another bomb at
her feet. 'Here.' He frowned. 'Wash the shampoo from your hair before you
really do hurt your eyes.' And he stepped back to allow her access to the
spray.

Leona didn't move; she
didn't even notice that he had. She was too busy suffering from one shock too
many. 'How long have you known you were taking on guests?'

'A while.' Reaching up to
unhook the shower head from the wall, he then pulled her towards him to began
rinsing the shampoo from her hair for himself.

'But you didn't feel fit
to tell me before now?'

'I did not feel fit to do
anything but enjoy being with you.' Pushing up her chin, he sent the slick,
clean pelt of her hair sliding down her spine with the help of the shower jet.
'Why?' He asked a question of his own. 'Would knowing have had any bearing on
your decision to come back to Rahman with me?'

Would it? Leona asked
herself, when really she did not need to, because she knew her answer would
have been the same. He was rinsing the rest of her now and she just stood there
and let him do it. Only a few minutes ago his smallest touch had infused her
with that need to feel him deep inside her, now she could not remember what the
need felt like. As she waited for him to finish administering to her wooden
form, she noticed that his passion had died too.

'I suppose I had better
know if there is anything else you haven't bothered to tell me,' she murmured
eventually.

His pause before speaking
could have been a hesitation over his answer, or it could have been a simple
pause while he switched off the shower. 'Just the names of our guests,' he
said. 'And that can wait until we have dealt with the more urgent task of
drying ourselves and getting dressed."

With that he opened the
shower door and stepped out to collect a towel, which he folded around her
before offering her another one for her hair. For himself he reached for a
towelling bathrobe, pulled it on and headed for the door.

'Hassan...' she made him
pause '...the rest of this trip and your father's celebration party—am I being
put on public show for a specific purpose?'

'Some people need to be
shown that I will not be coerced in any way,' he answered without turning. 'And
my father meets you there. This will be his last anniversary.  In accordance
with Arabian tradition, the had a high neckline long sleeves and a pair of
matching slender silk trousers that covered her legs. On her head she had
draped a length of fine silk, and beneath it her hair had been carefully
pleated into a glossy, smooth coronet. Her make-up was so understated you could
barely tell it was there except for the flick of black mascara highlighting the
length of her eyelashes and the hint of a gloss to her soft pink mouth.

Beside her stood the
Prince. Dressed in a white silk tunic and gold silk top robe, on his head he
wore a white gutrah ringed by three circles of gold. To her other side and one
short pace behind stood Raflq, dressed almost exactly the same as his brother
only without the bands of gold. And as they waited in the boat's foyer, Leona
was in no doubt that the way they were presented was aimed to make a specific
statement.

Sheikh Hassan ben Khalifa
Al-Qadim and his wife the Sheikha Leona Al-Qadim—bestowed upon her at her request,
for the woman of Arabia traditionally kept their father's name—were ready to
formally receive guests, whether those guests were friends or foes.

Raflq was their guardian,
their protector, their most respected brother and trusted friend. He possessed
his own title, though he had never been known to use it. He possessed the
right to wear the gold bands of high office, but no one had ever seen them
circling his head. His power rode on the back of his indifference to anything
that did not interest him. His threat lay in the famed knowledge that he would
lay down his life for these two people standing in front of him, plus the
father he loved without question.

His presence here,
therefore, made its own loud statement; come in friendship and be at peace;
come in conflict and beware.

Why? Because the first
person to tread the gangway onto the yacht was Sheikh Abdul Al-Yasin and his
wife, Zafina. Hassan and Rafiq knew that Sheikh Abdul was behind the plot to
abduct Leona, but the sheikh did not know the brothers knew. Which was why he
felt safe in taking the bait handed out for this trip—namely a meeting of the
chiefs during a cruise on the Red Sea, in which his aim was to beat Hassan into
submission about this second wife he was being so stubborn in refusing.

What none of them knew
was that Leona suspected it was Sheikh Abdul who had planned her abduction.
Because she knew about Nadira, his beautiful daughter, who had been held up to
her many times as the one chosen to take that coveted place in Sheikh Hassan's
life as his second wife.

'Ah—Hassan!' The two men
greeted and shook hands pleasantly enough. 'You will be pleased to know that I
left your father in better sorts than of late. I saw him this morning before I
caught my flight to Cairo.'

T must thank you for
keeping him company while we have been away,' Hassan replied.

'No thanks—no thanks.'
Sheikh Abdul refused them, it was my privilege—Leona...' He turned towards her
next, though offered no physical contact as was the Arab way. He bowed instead.
'You have been away too long. It is good to see you here.'

'Thank you.' She found a
smile, wished she dared search for the comfort of Hassan's hand, but such shows
of weakness would be pounced upon and dissected when she was not there to hear
it happen.

'Rafiq.' His nodded
greeting was distinctly wary. 'You made a killing with your stock in
Schuler-Kleef, I see.'

'My advice is usually
sound, sir,' Rafiq replied respectfully. 'I take it you did not buy some for
yourself?'

'I forgot.'

Through all of this,
Sheikh Abdul's wife, Zaflna, stood back in total silence, neither stepping
forward to follow the line of introduction nor attempting to remind her husband
of her presence. It was such a quiescent stance, one that Leona had grown used
to from the women of Rahman when they were out in the company of their men.

But it was a quiescence
that usually only lasted as long as it took them to be alone with the other
women. Then the real personalities shot out to take you by surprise. Some were
soft and kind, some cold and remote, some alive with fun. Zafina was a woman
who knew how to wield her power from within the female ranks and had no
hesitation in doing so if it furthered her own particular cause. It was due to
her clever machinations that her son had married another sheikh's most favoured
daughter.

She'd had Hassan marked
for her daughter, Nadira, from the day the child had been born. Therefore, in
her eyes, she had every reason to dislike Leona. And, tranquil though she might
appear right now, Leona could feel resentment flowing towards her in waves.

'Zafina.' She stepped
forward, deciding to take the polite stand. 'You are well, I trust? Thank you
for taking time out of your busy life to join us here.'

'The pleasure is all
mine, Sheikha,' the older woman replied. But then her husband was listening
and so was the coveted Sheikh Hassan. 'You have lost weight, I think. But
Sheikh Khalifa tells me you have been sick?'

Someone had told her at
any rate, but Leona suspected it was not Hassan's father. Thankfully other
guests began to arrive. Sheikh Jibril Al-Mahmud and his timid wife, Medina, who
looked to her husband before she dared so much as breathe.

Sheikh Imran Al-Mukhtar
and his youngest son, Samir, arrived next. Like a light at the end of a tunnel,
Samir put the first genuine smile on everyone's face because he broke right
through every stiff convention being performed in the yacht's foyer, and headed
directly for Leona. 'My princess!' he greeted, picked her up in his arms then
swung her around.

'Put her down,' his
father censured. 'Rafiq has that glint in his eye.'

'Not Hassan?' Samir
questioned quizzically.

'Hassan knows what
belongs to him, Raflq is merely over-protective. And everyone else simply
disapproves of your loose ways.'

And there it was, tied up
in one neat comment, Hassan noted as he watched Leona laugh down into Samir's
handsome young face. Al-Qadim and Al-Mukhtar set apart from Al-Mahmud and
Al-Yasin. It promised to be an interesting trip. For the first time in two
weeks they used the formal dining room on the deck above. White-liveried
stewards served them through many courses, and the conversation around the
table was pleasant and light, mainly due to Samir, who refused to allow the
other men to sink into serious discussion, and even the other women unbent
beneath his boyish charm.

But Leona was quiet. From
his end of the table Hassan watched her speak when spoken to, smiling in all
the right places. He watched her play the perfect hostess in that easy,
unassuming way he remembered well, where everyone's needs were predicted and
met before they knew they were missing something. But occasionally, when she
thought no one was attending her, he watched the corners of her mouth droop
with short releases of the tension she was experiencing.

Sad. Her eyes were sad.
He had hurt her with his dripping-tap method of feeding information to her. Now
here she sat, having to pretend everything was perfect between them, when really
she wanted to kill him for waiting until the last minute to spring all of this.

His heart clenched when
he caught sight of her impulsive grin as she teasingly cuffed Samir for saying
something outrageous. She had not laughed with him like that since the first
night they'd been together again. No matter how much she had smiled, played,
teased—loved him—during the last two weeks, he had been aware of an inner
reserve that told him he no longer had all of her. Her spirit was missing, he
named it grimly. It had been locked away out of his reach.