The sheikh's chosen wife (23 page)

But I need one. I need one
she thought agitatedly.

Ring Hassan, that tiny
voice inside her head persisted. Tell him your suspicions, get him to bring a
pregnancy testing kit home with him.

Oh, yes, she mocked that
idea. I can just see Sheikh Hassan Al-Qadim walking into a chemist's and
buying one of those!

Rafiq, then. No, not Rafiq!
she all but shouted at herself. Oh, why could there not be some more women in
this wretched house of Al-Qadim? Why do I have to be surrounded by men?

Maids. There were dozens
of maids she could call upon— all of whom would be just as proficient at
belting out the message across the whole state.

As if she'd conjured her
up a knock sounded on the door and one of the maids walked into the room. She
was carrying a dress that Leona had ordered to be delivered from one of her
favourite couturier's in the city.

'It is very beautiful, my
lady.' the maid said shyly.

And very red, Leona
thought frowningly. What in heaven's name had made her choose to buy red? Made
by a local designer to a traditional Arabian design, the dress was silk, had
matching trousers and robe, and shimmered with beautifully embroidered golden
threads. And she never, ever wore red!

'The sheikha will shine
above all things tomorrow night,' the maid approved.

Tomorrow night, Leona
repeated with a sinking heart as the maid carried the dress into her dressing
room. For tomorrow night was the night of Sheikh Kalifa's anniversary
celebration, which meant she had a hundred guests to play hostess to when
really all she wanted to do was—

Oh, she thought suddenly,
where is my head? And she turned to walk quickly across the room towards the
telephone which sat beside the bed.

Pregnant.

Her feet pulled to a
stop. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot then sprang free again, catching
at her breath. It was a desperate sensation. Desperate with hope and with fear
and a thousand other things that—

The maid appeared again,
looked at her oddly because she was standing here in the middle of the room,
emulating a statue. 'Thank you, Leila,' she managed to say.

As soon as the door
closed behind the maid she finished her journey to the telephone, picked up her
address book, flicked through its pages with trembling fingers, then stabbed in
a set of numbers that would connect her with Evie Al-Kadah in Behran.

Hassan was fed up. He was
five hours away from home, on his way back from Sheikh Abdul's summer palace,
having just enjoyed a very uncomfortable meeting in which a few home truths had
been aired. He should be feeling happy, for

the meeting had gone very
much his way, and in his possession he now had the sheikh's copy of one
ill-judged contract and the satisfaction of knowing the man and his wife now
understood the error of their ways.

But it had required a
five-hour drive out to mountains of Rahman to win this sense of grim
satisfaction, which meant they now had to make the same journey back again. And
Rafiq might feel he needed the physical exercise of negotiating the tough and
challenging terrain but, quite frankly, so did he. He felt tense and restless,
impatient to get back to Leona now that he could face her with an easy
conscience.

So the fiat tire they
suffered a few minutes later was most unwelcome. By the time they had battled
in soft sand on a rocky incline to jack the car up and secure it so they could
change the wheel time was getting on, and the sun was beginning to set. Then,
only a half-mile further into their journey, they became stuck in deep soft
sand. And he couldn't even blame Rafiq for this second inconvenience because he
had taken over the driving for himself. Proficient though they were at getting
themselves out of such difficulties, time was lost, then more time when they
were hit by a sandstorm that forced them to stop and wait until it had blown
past.

Consequently, it was very
late when they drove through the gates of the palace. By the time he had washed
the sand from his body before letting himself quietly into the bedroom he found
Leona fast asleep.

Did he wake her or did he
go away? he pondered as he stood looking down on her, lying there on her side,
with her glorious hair spilling out behind her and a hand resting on the pillow
where his head should be.

She murmured something,
maybe because she sensed he was there, and the temptation to just throw caution
to the wind, slide into the bed and awaken her so he could confide his
suspicions then discover whether she felt he was making any sense almost got
the better of him.

Then reality returned,
for this was not the time for such an emotive discussion. It could backfire on
him and deeply hurt her. And tomorrow was a day packed with strife enough for
both of them, without him adding to it with what could be merely a foolish
dream.

Anyway, he had some
damage limitation to perform, preferably before this new development came into
the open— just in case.

So, instead of waking
her, he turned away, unaware that behind him her eyes had opened to watch him
leave. The urge to call him back tugged at her vocal cords. The need to
scramble out of the bed and go after him to confide her suspicions stretched
nerve ends in every muscle she possessed.

But, no, it would not be
fair to offer him hope where there might be none. Better to wait one more day
until she knew for sure one way or another, she convinced herself.

So the door between their
two rooms closed him away from her—just as it had closed him away before, when
he had decided it was better to sleep elsewhere than risk another argument with
her.

Maybe he was right. Maybe
the common sense thing to do was stay out of each other's way, because they
certainly didn't function well together unless they were in bed!

They had a battleground,
not a marriage, she decided, and on that profound thought she turned her back
on that wretched closed door and refused to look back at it.

The next day continued in
much the same fashion. He avoided her. She avoided him. They circulated the
palace in opposing directions like a pair of satellites designed never to cross
paths. By six o'clock Leona was in her room preparing for the evening ahead. By
seven she was as ready as she supposed she ever would be, having changed her
mind about what to wear a hundred times before finally deciding to wear the red
outfit.

When Hassan stepped into
the room a few minutes later he took her breath away. Tall, lean and not yet
having covered his silky dark hair, he was wearing a midnight blue long tunic
with a standing collar braided in gold. At his waist a wide sash of gold silk
gave his body shape and stature, and the jewel encrusted shaft belonging to the
ceremonial scabbard he had tucked into his waistband said it all.

Arrogance personified. A
prince among men. First among equals did not come into it for her because for
her he was it—the one—her only one. As if to confirm that thought her belly
gave a skittering flutter as if to say, And me, don't forget me.

Too soon for that, too
silly to think it, she scolded herself as she watched him pause to look at her.
As always those dark eyes made their possessive pass over her. As always they
liked what they saw.

'Beautiful,' he murmured.

Tell me about it, she
wanted to say, but she couldn't, didn't dare say anything in case the wrong
thing popped anxiously out.

So the twist his mouth
gave said he had misread her silence. 'Forgiveness, my darling, is merely one
sweet smile away,' he drawled as he walked towards her.

"But you have
nothing to forgive me for!' she protested glad now to use her voice.

'Throwing me out of your
bed does not require forgiveness?' An eyebrow arched, the outfit, the coming
occasion, turning the human being into a pretentious monster that made her toes
curl inside her strappy gold shoes. With life, that was what they curled with life.

I love this man to
absolute pieces. 'You left voluntarily,' she told him. 'In what I think you
would describe as a sulk.'

'Men do not sulk.'

But you are not just any
man, she wanted to say, but the comment would puff up his ego, so she settled
for, 'What do they do, then?'

'Withdraw from a fight
they have no hope of winning.' He smiled. Then on a complete change of subject,
he said, 'Here, a peace offering.' And he held out a flat package wrapped in
black silk and tied up with narrow red ribbon.

Expecting the peace
offering to be jewellery, the moment she took possession of the package she
knew it was too light. So...what? she asked herself, then felt her heart
suddenly drop to her slender ankles as a terrible suspicion slid snake-like
into her head.

No, she denied it. Evie
just would not break such a precious confidence. 'What is it?' she asked
warily.

'Open it and see.'

Trembling fingers did as
he bade her, fumbling with the ribbon and then with the square of black silk.
Inside it was a flat gold box, the kind that could be bought at any gift shop,
nothing at all like she had let herself wonder, and nothing particularly threatening
about it, but still she felt her breath snag in her chest as she lifted the lid
and looked inside.

After that came the frown
while she tried to work out why Hassan was giving her a box full of torn scraps
of white paper. Then she turned the top one over, recognised the insignia
embossed upon it and finally realised what it was.

'You know what they are?'
he asked her quietly.

'Yes.' She swallowed.

'All three copies of the
contract are now in your possession,' he went on to explain anyway. 'All evidence
that they were ever composed wiped clean from Faysal's computer hard disk.
There, it is done. Now we can be friends again.' Without giving her a chance to
think he took the gift and its packaging back from her and tossed it onto the
bed.

'But it doesn't wipe
clean the fact that it was written in the first place,' she pointed out. 'And
nor does it mean it can't be typed up again in five short minutes if it was required
to be done.'

'You have said it for
yourself,' Hassan answered. 'I must require it. I do not require it. I give you
these copies for ceremonial purposes, only to show you that I do not require
it. Subject over, Leona,' he grimly concluded, 'for I will waste no more of my
time on something that had only ever been meant as a diversion tactic to buy me
time while I decided what to do about Sheikh Abdul and his ambitious plans.'

'You expect me to believe
all of that, don't you?'

'Yes.' It was a coldly
unequivocal yes.

She lifted her chin. For
the first time in days they actually made eye contact. And it was only as it
happened that she finally began to realise after all of these years why they
avoided doing it when there was dissension between them. Eye contact wiped out
everything but the truth. The love truth. The need truth. The absolute and utter
total truth. I love him; he loves me. Who or what else could ever really come
between that?

'I think I'm pregnant,'
she whispered.

It almost dropped him
like a piece of crumbling stone at her feet. She saw the shock; she saw the
following pallor. She watched his eyes close and feared for a moment that he was
actually going to faint.

For days he had been
waiting for this moment, Hassan was thinking. He had yearned for it, had begged
and had prayed for it. Yet, when it came, not only had he not been ready, the
frightened little remark had virtually knocked him off his feet!

'I could kill you for
this,' he ground out hoarsely. 'Why here? Why now, when in ten short minutes we
are expected downstairs to greet a hundred guests?"

His response was clearly
not the one she had been expecting. Her eyes began to glaze, her mouth to
tremble. 'You don't like it,' she quavered.

'Give me strength.' He
groaned. 'You stupid, unpredictable, aggravating female. Of course I like it!
But look at me! I am now a white-faced trembling mess!'

'You just gave me
something I really needed. I wanted to give you something back that you
needed,' she explained.

'Ten minutes before I
face the upper echelons of Arabian society?'

'Well, thanks for being
concerned about how I am feeling!' she flashed back at him.

She was right. 'You've
just knocked me for six,' he breathed unsteadily.

'And I might be wrong, so
don't start going off the deep end about it!' she snapped, and went to turn
away.

Oh, Allah, help him, what
was he doing here? With shaking hands he took hold of her by her silk-swathed
shoulders and pulled her against him. She was trembling too. And she felt different,
slender and frail and oh, so precious.

He kissed her— What else
did a man do when he was so blown away by everything about her?

'I should not have
dropped it on you like this,' she murmured repentantly a few seconds later.

'Yes, you should,' he
argued. 'How else?'