Leila sniffed. ‘None of that makes sense.’
‘Hear me out.’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘So you walk away from this woman, telling yourself that you’ve made the best and the only decision you could possibly make. But you’re not sure. In fact, you’re starting to realise that you’ve just done the dumbest thing imaginable, when she turns up at your home in London. And you look at her and realise what an idiot you’ve been. You realise that here you have a chance for happiness right in front of your eyes, but you’re scared. And then...’
His voice tailed off and she saw his features harden.
‘Then?’
‘Then she tells you she’s pregnant and you’re even more scared. Because this is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it means you can be together legitimately without having to delve too deeply into your own emotions. Yet on the other...’
‘Gabe!’ Her anger forgotten now, she leaned forward—wondering what on earth could have put such a haunted expression on his face. ‘Will you please stop talking in riddles? The fact is that you lied about seeing your father and nothing can change that.’
‘No. Nothing can change that. But what if I told you there was a reason why my mother kept his identity from me?’ He raked his fingers back through his plastered hair and his fingertips came away wet. For a moment he just stared at them, as if he might find some kind of answer gleaming back at him from that damp, cold skin.
‘After she died, I felt angry and bitter—and guilty too. But I went to London and I started working and, as I told you, success came pretty quickly.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘You told me.’
‘I embraced my new role as a successful businessman but sometimes—not often—I would think about my father. I couldn’t eradicate the curiosity which still niggled away at me. I didn’t know if he was dead or alive. I wanted to confront him. I wanted to know why he’d abdicated all his responsibilities towards me. I wanted to tell him that a woman had died sooner than reveal his identity.’ He clenched his fist, as if he wanted to hit something. Or someone. ‘I guess I was looking for someone to blame for her death. Someone who wasn’t me.’
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I was rich by this point. Rich enough to find anyone I wanted and it didn’t take long to track my father down in Marseilles, which is where he’d moved to when he’d left Provence. And suddenly I understood my mother’s behaviour. I understood why she’d wanted to protect me from him. Why she’d feared his influence on me...’
His words tailed off as if he couldn’t bear to say them but Leila leaned forward, her wet hair falling over her shoulders as she peered into his face. ‘What, Gabe? What?’
‘Which particular title shall I give him? Gangster or hoodlum?’ he questioned bitterly. ‘Because he answered to both. He was an underworld figure, Leila. A powerful and ruthless individual. I discovered that he had killed. Yes, killed. I discovered this when we met in Paris and not long afterwards he was gunned down in some gangland shootout himself. That photo was taken by one of his associates and it’s the only one of us together. Time after time I went to burn it, but something always stopped me and I still don’t know what that something is.’
‘Oh, Gabe,’ she whispered, her voice distorted with shock and pain. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I couldn’t. Don’t you see, Leila?’ His eyes were blazing as his voice cracked with emotion. ‘His blood is my blood. And it’s our baby’s blood too. How could I knowingly pass on a legacy like that to you? How could I possibly tell the sister of the Sultan about her baby’s forebears? Not just a grandmother who had committed suicide, but a grandfather who was a murderer. How could I subject you to a life of fear that those tainted genes will have been passed down to the next generation?’ There was silence for a moment as his eyes burned into hers. ‘I’m damaged, darling. Badly damaged. Now do you understand?’
Leila nodded. Yes, she understood. She understood this powerful man’s pride and fear, but also about his deep desire to protect. And Gabe had been trying to protect her. From hurt and pain and worry. He had been trying to protect their baby too—from the heartache and fear that evil might be inherited, like blue eyes or the ability to draw.
He wanted to reach out to her, but he didn’t know how.
She looked into his haunted face and her heart went out to him, but she knew that this was her golden opportunity and that she must not shrink from it. She had wanted to be his equal, hadn’t she? And she wanted to be strong.
So show him that you’re still there for him. Love him the way you really want to love him. Why let him shoulder this burden on his own, when you’re more than willing to share it with him?
Her voice was low and trembling as her words came tumbling out. ‘Do you have any idea of the history of Qurhah?’ she demanded.
He looked at her as if this was the last thing in the world he had expected her to say. ‘I can’t see how that is relevant.’
‘Can’t you? Actually, it’s very relevant. I’ll have you know that my family is descended from mighty warriors and ruthless tyrants. There have been Al-Maisan sultans conquering neighbouring lands ever since our people first settled in the desert, and there has been much bloodshed along the way. Nobody’s history is whiter than white, Gabe. Not yours and especially not mine.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s not the same,’ he said stubbornly.
She laid her hand on his arm. ‘It is the same—just different. Our baby isn’t a clone of your father, you know. Nor of you—or me. Our baby is unique and I know for sure that the best and only legacy we can give him—or her—is love. We must love this baby with all our hearts, Gabe. Even if you don’t feel that way about me—do you think you can find it in your heart to love our baby?’
He shook his head and for a minute his face was contorted with pain. ‘What a brute of a man you must think I am,’ he declared bitterly, ‘that I would be incapable of feeling something for an innocent scrap of humanity.’
‘Not a brute,’ she said gently. ‘A man who has been wounded—badly wounded. But I am your wife and I am going to help you heal, but I can only do that if you let me. If you can bear to open up your heart, Gabe—and let me in.’
She saw a muscle flickering at his temple as he caught hold of her wet shoulders and looked into her face.
‘Only if you can you forgive me,’ he said. ‘Can you ever forgive me for what I have done, my darling Leila?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said softly, her hand reaching up to touch the hard contours of his face. She ran her fingertip along the high slash of his very Slavic cheekbones and the firm curve of his lips. She looked into the pewter eyes and her heart turned over with love. One day soon she would tell him to learn to understand his father, and then to let the bitterness go. That there was a little bit of bad in the best of people, and a little bit of good in the worst.
But not now.
Now she must be focused on the most important things.
‘We’re both very cold and very wet,’ she said as she snuggled up against him. ‘Do you think we should go home?’
Gabe stroked a straggly strand of damp hair away from her face and smiled, but the lump in his throat meant that it took a moment or two before he could speak. ‘Right here is home,’ he said unevenly. ‘Wherever you are. I love you, my compassionate and passionate princess. I love you very much.’
He tapped on the glass and the car moved away, and that was when he started to kiss her.
EPILOGUE
‘HE LOOKS VERY Qurhahian,’ said Gabe as he gazed into the crib where the sleeping infant lay.
Leila smiled, giving one last unnecessary twitch of the snowy cashmere blanket which now covered the crescent curve of Hafez’s perfect little foot. ‘Do you know, that’s exactly what Murat said to me today.’
‘Did he?’
She nodded as she looked down at their tiny son. His skin was faintly tinged with olive and already he had a hint of the slightly too-strong nose which had been the bane of her life, but which Gabe always told her was the most beautiful nose in the world. Deep down she suspected that her husband was relieved to discover that their firstborn looked more like her than him. But Leila was confident that, with time, his few remaining reservations about his heritage would melt beneath the power of her love.
Today had been Hafez’s naming ceremony, here in the palace in Simdahab where she’d grown up—and it had been the most glorious of visits. All the servants had clucked excitedly around the princess’s new baby. That was when they hadn’t been buzzing round the Western guests who had flown out for the occasion and who mingled with the dignitaries and kings from the neighbouring desert countries.
It had been a day of immense happiness and joy, but Leila thought that Murat seemed rather pensive and she wondered if it was because the woman he had been destined to marry had found happiness with another man.
She put her arms around Gabe and pressed her lips to his cheek. ‘My brother said something very strange to me today.’
‘Tell me.’ He started to kiss her neck.
Leila closed her eyes as shivers of sensation began to whisper over her skin. ‘He said that at least there was another generation of the Al-Maisan family, in case he never produced an heir of his own. He seemed to imply that he would never marry—and that he’d be contented with a long line of mistresses instead.’
Gabe smiled as he brushed his mouth over her scented skin. Hadn’t he once thought that way himself? When his heart had been so dark and cold that it had felt as if a lump of ice had been wedged in his chest. ‘All it takes is the right woman,’ he said. ‘And once she comes along, it seems that a man will happily change his entire life to please her. Just as I have done for you.’
‘Oh, darling,’ she said, closing her eyes with dreamy pleasure as she thought back to everything that had happened to them since Hafez had been born.
They had sold his apartment and moved to a large house overlooking Hampstead Heath, because Gabe realised that Leila had been right. That his minimalistic high-rise apartment was no place to bring up a baby—it had suited a phase of his life which was now over. Hafez needed grass and flowers, she had told him firmly. He needed a nearby nursery and hopefully a school he could walk to.
So a studio had been built for her in the basement of their new house, from which she would work as a freelance photographer. That way she got all the pleasures of working, but none of the regular commitment which would keep her away from their son.
Gabe lifted his hand and stroked back the glorious fall of hair from her face so that it streamed down over her shoulders in a cascade of ebony. The roseate curves of her lips were an irresistible invitation, and he kissed her with a steadily increasing hunger before drawing away from her.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I know. The feeling is shared and returned.’
‘And there’s a spare hour to fill before the palace banquet,’ he said a little unsteadily. ‘Shall we go to bed?’
She opened her eyes. ‘You’re insatiable.’
‘I thought you liked me that way.’
‘I like you any way I can get you,’ she whispered back. ‘But preferably without any clothes on and nobody else around.’
‘You are a shameless woman, Leila Steel.’
‘Lucky that’s the way you like me,’ she teased.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I never stop reminding myself how lucky I am.’
And this was the greatest of the many truths he’d discovered in a life now lived without pretence, or fear or regret.
Next week was his birthday but he wouldn’t be seeking to blot out the past with a bottle of Scotch and oblivion. He would be embracing the golden and glorious present with his wife and their beloved baby son.
And he would be telling Leila how much he loved her, just as he did every single day of his life. His beautiful Qurhahian princess who had brought his heart to life with the power of her love. Just as the rains fed the dormant flower seeds, to bring the desert miracle to the Mekathasinian Sands.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from WHEN FALCONE’S WORLD STOPS TURNING by Abby Green.
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Presents title.
You want alpha males, decadent glamour and jet-set lifestyles. Step into the sensational, sophisticated world of Harlequin Presents, where sinfully tempting heroes ignite a fierce and wickedly irresistible passion!
Enjoy eight new stories from Harlequin Presents every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
PROLOGUE
RAFAELE FALCONE LOOKED at the coffin deep inside the open grave. The earth they’d thrown in was scattered on top, along with some lone flowers left by departing friends and acquaintances. Some of them had been men, inordinately upset. Evidently there was some truth to the rumours that the stunning Esperanza Christakos had taken lovers during her third marriage.
Rafaele felt many conflicting emotions, apart from the obvious grief for his dead mother. He couldn’t say that they’d ever had a close relationship; she’d been eternally elusive and had carried an air of melancholy about her. She’d also been beautiful. Beautiful enough to send his own father mad with grief when she left him.
The kind of woman who’d had the ability to make grown men completely lose all sense of dignity and of themselves. Not something that would ever happen to him. His single-minded focus was on his career and rebuilding the Falcone motor empire. Beautiful women were a pleasant diversion—nothing more. None of his lovers were ever under any illusions and expected nothing more than the transitory pleasure of his company.
His conscience pricked at this confident assertion—there had only been one lover who had taken him close to the edge but that was an experience he didn’t dwell on...not any more.
His half-brother, Alexio Christakos, turned to him now and smiled tightly. Rafaele felt a familiar ache in his chest. He loved his half-brother, and had done from the moment he’d been born, but their relationship wasn’t easy. It had been hard for Rafaele to witness his brother growing up, sure in the knowledge of his father’s success and support—so different from his own experience with his father. He’d felt resentful for a long time, which hadn’t been helped by his stepfather’s obvious antipathy towards the son that wasn’t his.
They both turned and walked away from the grave, engrossed in their own thoughts. Their mother had bequeathed to both her sons her distinctive green eyes, although Alexio’s were a shade more golden than Rafaele’s striking light green. Rafaele’s hair was thicker and a darker brown next to his brother’s short-cut ebony-black hair.
Differing only slightly in height, they were both a few inches over six foot. Rafaele’s build was broad and powerful. His brother’s just as powerful, but leaner. Dark stubble shadowed Rafaele’s firm jawline today, and when they came to a stop near the cars Alexio observed it, remarking dryly, ‘You couldn’t even clean up for the funeral?’
The tightness in Rafaele’s chest when he’d stood at the grave was easing slightly now. He curbed the urge to be defensive, to hide the vulnerability he felt, and faced his brother, drawling with a definite glint in his eye, ‘I got out of bed too late.’
He couldn’t explain to his brother how he’d instinctively sought the momentary escape he would find in the response of an eager woman, preferring not to dwell o
n how his mother’s death had made him feel. Preferring not to dwell on how it had brought up vivid memories of when she’d walked out on his father so many years ago, leaving him a broken man. He was still bitter, adamantly refusing to pay his respects to his ex-wife today despite Rafaele’s efforts to persuade him to come.
Alexio, oblivious to Rafaele’s inner tumult, shook his head and smiled wryly. ‘Unbelievable. You’ve only been in Athens for two days—no wonder you wanted to stay in a hotel and not at my apartment...’
Rafaele pushed aside the dark memories and quirked a mocking brow at his brother, about to dish out some of the same, when he saw a latecomer arrive. The words died on his lips and Alexio’s smile faded as he turned to follow Rafaele’s gaze.
A very tall, stern-faced stranger was staring at them both. And yet...he looked incredibly familiar. It was almost like looking into a mirror. Or at Alexio...if he had dark blond hair. It was his eyes, though, that sent a shiver through Rafaele. Green, much like his and Alexio’s, except with a slight difference—a darker green, almost hazel. Another take on their mother’s eyes...? But how could that be?
Rafaele bristled at this stranger’s almost belligerent stance. ‘May we help you?’ he asked coolly.
The man’s eyes flickered over them both, and then to the open grave in the distance. He asked, with a derisive curl to his lip, ‘Are there any more of us?’
Rafaele looked at Alexio, who was frowning, and said, ‘Us? What are you talking about?’
The man looked at Rafaele. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
The faintest of memories was coming back: he was standing on a doorstep with his mother. A huge imposing door was opening and there was a boy, a few years older than him, with blond hair and huge eyes.
The man’s voice sounded rough in the still air. ‘She brought you to my house. You must have been nearly three. I was almost seven. She wanted to take me with her then, but I wouldn’t leave. Not after she’d abandoned me.’
Shamed in the Sands Page 15