by Jane Porter
No.
She wouldn’t be helpless, and she wouldn’t be pitied, or mocked, either.
She’d suffered enough at the hands of her father. He’d betrayed them all; his clients, his business partners, his friends, even his family. He might be selfish and ruthless and destructive, but the rest of the Copelands weren’t. Copelands were good people.
Good people, she silently insisted, stretching out one leg to unzip the thigh-high boot. Her hand was trembling so badly that it made it difficult to get the zipper down. The boots were outrageous to start with. They were the stuff of fantasy, a very high heel projecting a kinky twist, just like the fashion layout itself.
They would have been smarter doing this feature in Palm Springs instead of Saidia with Saidia’s strict laws of moral conduct. Saidia might be stable and tolerant, but it wasn’t a democracy, nor did it cater to the wealthy Westerners like some other nations. It remained conservative and up until two generations ago, marriages weren’t just arranged, they were forced.
The tribal leaders kidnapped their brides from neighboring tribes.
Unthinkable to the modern Western mind, but acceptable here.
* * *
Jemma was tugging the zipper down on the second boot when the tent flap parted and Mary entered with Sheikh Karim. Two members of the sheikh’s guard stood at the entrance.
Jemma slowly sat up, and looked from Mary to the sheikh and back.
Mary’s face was pale, her lips pressed thin. “We’ve a problem,” she said.
Silence followed. Jemma curled her fingers into her lap.
Mary wouldn’t meet Jemma’s gaze, looking past her shoulder instead. “We’re wrapping up the shoot and returning to the capitol immediately. We are facing some legal charges and fines, which we are hoping to take care of quickly so the crew and company can return to England tomorrow, or the next day.” She hesitated for a long moment, before adding even more quietly, “At least most of us should be able to return to England tomorrow or the next day. Jemma, I’m afraid you won’t be going with us.”
Jemma started to rise, but remembered her boot and sat back down. “Why not?”
“The charges against you are different,” Mary said, still avoiding Jemma’s gaze. “We are in trouble for using you, but you, you’re in trouble for...” Her voice faded away. She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to.
Jemma knew why she was in trouble. What she didn’t know was what she’d be charged with. “I’m sorry.” She drew a quick, shallow breath and looked from Mary to Sheikh Karim. “I am sorry. Truly—”
“Not interested,” he said curtly.
Jemma’s stomach flipped. “I made a mistake—”
“A mistake is pairing a black shoe and a blue shoe. A mistake is forgetting to charge one’s phone. A mistake is not entering the country illegally, under false pretenses, with a false identity. You had no work permit. No visa. Nothing.” Sheikh Karim’s voice crackled with contempt and fury. “What you did was deliberate, and a felony, Miss Copeland.”
Jemma put a hand to her belly, praying she wouldn’t throw up here, now. She hadn’t eaten much today. She never did on days she worked, knowing she photographed better with a very flat stomach. “What can I do to make this right?”
Mary shot Sheikh Karim a stricken glance.
He shook his head, once. “There is nothing. The magazine staff must appear in court, and pay their fines. You will face a different judge, and be sentenced accordingly.”
Jemma sat very still. “So I’m to be separated from everyone?”
“Yes.” The sheikh gestured to Mary. “You and the rest of the crew, are to leave immediately. My men will accompany you to ensure your safety.” He glanced at Jemma. “And you will come with me.”
Mary nodded and left. Heart thudding, Jemma watched Mary’s silent, abrupt departure then looked to Sheikh Karim.
He was angry. Very, very angry.
Three years ago she might have crumbled. Two years ago she might have cried. But that was the old Jemma, the girl who’d grown up pampered, protected by a big brother and three opinionated, but loving, sisters.
She wasn’t that girl anymore. In fact, she wasn’t a girl at all anymore. She’d been put to the fire and she’d come out fierce. Strong.
“So where do felons go, Sheikh Karim?” she asked quietly, meeting the sheikh’s hard narrowed gaze.
“To prison.”
“I’m going to prison?”
“If you were to go to court tomorrow, and appear before our judicial tribunal, yes. But you’re not being seen by our judicial tribunal. You’re being seen by my tribe’s elder, and he will act as judge.”
“Why a different court and judge than Mary and the magazine crew?”
“Because they are charged with crimes against Saidia. You—” he broke off, studying her lovely face in the mirror, wondering how she’d react to his news, “You are charged with crimes against the Karims, my family. Saidia’s royal family. You will be escorted to a judge who is of my tribe. He will hear the charges brought against you, and then pass judgment.”
She didn’t say anything. Her brow creased and she looked utterly bewildered. “I don’t understand. What have I done to your family?”
“You stole from my family. Shamed them.”
“But I haven’t. I don’t even know your family.”
“Your father does.”
Jemma grew still. Everything seemed to slow, stop. Would the trail of devastation left by her father’s action never end? She stared at Mikael suddenly afraid of what he’d say next. “But I’m not my father.”
“Not physically, no, but you represent him.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” His jaw hardened. “In Arabic society, one is always connected to one’s family. You represent your family throughout your life, which is why it’s so important to always bring honor to one’s family. But your father stole from the Karims, shamed the Karims, dishonoring my family, and in so doing, he dishonored all of Saidia.”
She swallowed hard. “But I’m nothing like my father.”
“You are his daughter, and you are here, unlawfully. It is time to right the wrong. You will make atonement for your disrespect, and your father’s, too.”
“I don’t even have a relationship with my father. I haven’t seen him in years—”
“This is not the time. We have a long trip ahead of us. I suggest you finish changing so we can get on the road.”
Her fingers bent, nails pressing to the dressing table. “Please.”
“It’s not up to me.”
“But you are the king.”
“And kings must insist on obedience, submission, and respect. Even from our foreign visitors.”
She looked at him, seeing him, but not seeing him, too overwhelmed by his words and the implication of what he was saying to focus on any one thing. It didn’t help that her pulse raced, making her head feel dizzy and light.
The grim security guard at Tagadir International Airport had warned them. Had said that His Highness Sheikh Karim was all powerful in Saidia. As king he owned this massive expanse of desert and the sand dunes rolling in every direction, and as their translator had whispered on leaving the airport, “His Highness, Sheikh Karim, isn’t just head of the country, he is the country.”
Jemma exhaled slowly, trying to clear the fog and panic from her brain. She should have taken the warnings seriously. She should have been logical, not desperate.
Desperate was a dangerous state of mind.
Desperate fueled chaos.
What she needed to do was remain calm. Think this through. There had to be a way to reach him, reason with him. Surely he didn’t make a habit of locking up American and British girls?
�
�I’d like to make amends,” she said quietly, glancing up at Sheikh Karim from beneath her lashes, taking in his height, the width of his shoulders, and his hard, chiseled features. Nothing in his expression was kind. There was not even a hint of softness at his mouth.
“You will,” he said. “You must.”
She winced at the harshness in his voice. Sheikh Mikael Karim might be as handsome as any Hollywood leading man, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
He was a cold man, and she knew all too well that cold men were dangerous. Men without hearts destroyed, and if she were not very careful, and very smart, she could be ruined.
“Can I pay a fine? A penalty?”
“You’re in no position to buy yourself out of trouble, Miss Copeland. Your family is bankrupt.”
“I could try Drakon—”
“You’re not calling anyone,” he interrupted sharply. “And I won’t have Drakon bailing you out. He might be your sister’s ex-husband, but he was my friend from university and from what I understand, he lost virtually his entire fortune thanks to your father. I think Drakon has paid a high enough price for being associated with you Copelands. It’s time you and your family stopped expecting others to clean up your messes and instead assumed responsibility for your mistakes.”
“That might be, but Drakon isn’t cruel. He wouldn’t approve of you...of you...” Her voice failed her as she met Mikael’s dark gaze. The sheikh’s anger burned in his eyes, scorching her.
“Of what, Miss Copeland?” he asked softly, a hint of menace in his deep voice.
“What won’t he approve of?” he persisted.
Jemma couldn’t answer. Her heart beat wildly, a painful staccato that made her chest ache.
She had to be careful. She couldn’t afford to alienate the sheikh. Not when she needed him and his protection.
She needed to win him over. She needed him to care. Somehow she had to get him to see her, the real her, Jemma. The person. The woman. Not the daughter of Daniel Copeland.
It was vital she didn’t antagonize him, but reached him. Otherwise it would be far too easy for Sheikh Karim to snap his fingers and destroy her. He was that powerful, that ruthless.
Her eyes burned and her lip trembled and she bit down hard, teeth digging into her lip to keep from making a sound.
Fear washed through her but she would not crack, or cry. Would not disintegrate, either.
“He wouldn’t approve of me flaunting your laws,” she said lowly, fighting to maintain control, and cling to whatever dignity she had left. “He wouldn’t approve of me using my sister’s passport, either. He would be angry,” she added, lifting her chin to meet Sheikh Karim’s gaze. “And disappointed.”
Mikael Karim arched a brow.
“In me,” she added. “He’d be disappointed in me.”
And then wrapping herself in courage, and hanging on to that fragile cloak, she removed her boot, placing it on the floor next to its mate, and turned to her dressing table to begin removing her make-up.
CHAPTER TWO
MIKAEL SAW JEMMA’S lower lip quiver before she clamped her jaw, biting down in an effort to remain silent, as she turned back to her dressing table.
He was surprised at how calm she was. He’d expected tears. Hysteria. Instead she was quiet. Thoughtful. Respectful.
He’d planned on defiance. He’d come prepared for theatrics. She’d almost gone there. Almost, but then thought better of it.
Perhaps she wasn’t as silly as he’d thought.
Perhaps she might have a brain in her pretty head after all.
He was glad she wasn’t going to dissolve into tears and hysteria. And glad she might be starting to understand the gravity of her situation.
But even then, he was still deeply furious with her for knowingly, willfully flaunting every international law by entering a foreign country with a false identity, and then practically stripping in public.
It wasn’t done.
It wasn’t acceptable.
It wouldn’t even be allowed in San Francisco or New York City.
So how could she think it would be okay here?
His brow lowered as his narrowed gaze swept over her. She looked so soft and contrite now as she removed her makeup. It was an act. He was certain she was playing him. Just as her father had played his mother...before bankrupting her, breaking her.
His mother would be alive today if Daniel Copeland hadn’t lied to her and stolen from her, taking not just her financial security, but her self-respect.
Thank goodness Mikael was not his mother.
He knew better than to allow himself to be manipulated by yet another Copeland con artist.
Mikael refused to pity Jemma. He didn’t care if she was sorry. Had Daniel Copeland shown his mother mercy? No. Had Daniel Copeland shown any of his clients concern...compassion? No. So why should his daughter receive preferential treatment?
“Will I have a lawyer present?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“No,” he said.
“Will I have any legal representation?”
“No.”
She hesitated, brow furrowing, lips compressing, somehow even more lovely troubled than when posed on the desert sand in the fur and thigh high boots.
Yes, she was beautiful. And yes, she’d inherited her mother’s famous bone structure, and yes, even in this dim, stifling tent she still glowed like a jewel—glossy dark hair, brilliant green eyes, luminous skin, pink lips—but that didn’t change the fact that she was a criminal.
“Neither of us have lawyers,” he added, hating that he was even aware of her beauty. He shouldn’t notice, or care. He shouldn’t feel any attraction at all. “There is just the case itself, presented by me, and then the judge passes the sentence.”
“You represent yourself?”
“I represent my tribe, the Karim family, and the laws of this country.”
She turned slowly on the stool to face him, her hands resting on her thighs, the pink kimono gaping slightly above the knotted sash, revealing the slope of her full breast. “What you’re saying is that it will be you testifying against me.”
He shouldn’t know that her nipple was small and pink and that her belly was flat above firm, rounded hips.
Or at the very least, he shouldn’t remember. He shouldn’t want to remember. “I present the facts. I do not pass judgment.”
“Will the facts be presented in English?”
“No.”
“So you could say anything.”
“But why would I?” he countered sharply. “You’ve broken numerous laws. Important laws. Laws created to protect our borders and the safety and security of my people. There is no need to add weight or severity. What you’ve done is quite serious. The punishment will be appropriately serious.”
He saw a flash in her eyes, and he didn’t know if it was anger or fear but she didn’t speak. She bit down, holding back the quick retort.
Seconds ticked by, one after the other.
For almost a minute there was only silence, a tense silence weighted with all the words she refrained from speaking.
“How serious?” she finally asked.
“There will be jail time.”
“How long?”
He was uncomfortable with all the questions. “Do you really want to do this now?”
“Absolutely. Far better to be prepared than to walk in blind.”
“The minimum sentence is somewhere between five to ten years. The maximum, upward of twenty.”
She went white, and her lips parted, but she made no sound. She simply stared at him, incredulous, before slowly turning back to face her dressing table mirror.
She was trying not to cry.
Her shoulders were straight, and her head w
as high but he saw the welling of tears in her eyes. He felt her shock, and sadness.
He should leave but his feet wouldn’t move. His chest felt tight.
It was her own damned fault.
But he could still see her five years ago in the periwinkle blue bridesmaid dress at Morgan’s wedding.
He could hear her gurgle of laughter as she’d made a toast to her big sister at the reception after.
“We will leave as soon as you’re dressed,” he said tersely, ignoring Jemma’s pallor and the trembling of her hands where they rested on the dressing table.
“I will need five or ten minutes,” she said.
“Of course.” He turned to leave but from the corner of his eye he saw her lean toward the mirror to try to remove the strip of false eyelashes on her right eye, her hands still shaking so much she couldn’t lift the edge.
It wasn’t his problem. He didn’t care if her hands shook violently or not. But he couldn’t stop watching her. He couldn’t help noticing that she was struggling. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as she battled to get the eyelashes off.
It was her fault.
He wasn’t responsible for her situation.
And yet her struggle unsettled him, awakening emotions and memories he didn’t want to feel.
Mikael didn’t believe in feeling. Feelings were best left to others. He, on the other hand, preferred logic. Structure. Rules. Order.
He wouldn’t be moved by tears. Not even the tears of a young foreign woman that he’d met many years ago at the wedding of Drakon Xanthis, his close friend from university. Just because Drakon had married Jemma’s older sister, Morgan, didn’t mean that Mikael had to make allowances. Why make allowances when Daniel Copeland had made none for his mother?
“Stop,” he ordered, unable to watch her struggle any longer. “You’re about to take out your eye.”
“I have to get them off.”
“Not like that.”
“I can do it.”
“You’re making a mess of it.” He crossed the distance, gestured for her to turn on her stool. “Face me, and hold still. Look down. Don’t move.”