by Jane Porter
Jemma held her breath as she felt his fingers against her temple. His touch was warm, his hand steady as he used the tip of his finger to lift the edge of the strip and then he slowly, carefully peeled the lashes from her lid. “One down,” he said, putting the crescent of lashes in her hand. “One to go.”
He made quick work on the second set.
“You’ve done this before,” she said, as he took a step back, putting distance between them, but not enough distance. He was so big, so intimidating, that she found his nearness overwhelming.
“I haven’t, but I’ve watched enough girlfriends put on make up to know how it’s done.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching his. “And you have no say in the sentencing?” she asked.
“I have plenty of say,” he answered. “I am the king. I can make new laws, pass laws, break laws...but breaking laws wouldn’t make me a good king or a proper leader for my people. So I, too, observe the laws of Saidia, and am committed to upholding them.”
“Could you ask the judge to be lenient with me?”
“I could.”
“But you won’t?”
He didn’t answer right away, which was telling, she thought.
“Would you ask for leniency for another woman?”
His broad shoulders shifted. “It would depend on who she was, and what she’d done.”
“So your relationship with her would influence your decision?”
“Absolutely.”
“I see.”
“As her character would influence my decision.”
And he didn’t approve of her character.
Jemma understood then that he wouldn’t help her in any way. He didn’t like her. He didn’t approve of her. And he felt no pity or compassion because she was a Copeland and it was a Copeland, her father, who had wronged his family.
In his mind, she had so many strikes against her she wasn’t worth saving.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. The pain was so sharp and hard it cut her to the quick.
It was almost like the pain when Damien ended their engagement. He’d said he’d loved her. He’d said he wanted to spend his life with her. But then when he began losing jobs, he backed away from her. Far better to lose her, than his career.
Throat aching, eyes burning, Jemma turned back to the mirror.
She reached for a brush and ran it slowly through her long dark hair, making the glossy waves ripple down her back, telling herself not to think, not to feel, and most definitely, not to cry.
“You expect your tribal elder to sentence me to prison, for at least five years?” she asked, drawing the brush through her long hair.
Silence stretched. After a long moment, Sheikh Karim answered, “I don’t expect Sheikh Azizzi to give you a minimum sentence, no.”
She nodded once. “Thank you for at least being honest.”
And then she reached for the bottle of make-up remover and a cotton ball to remove what was left of her eye make-up.
He walked out then. Thank goodness. She’d barely kept it together there, at the end.
She was scared, so scared.
Would she really be going to prison?
Would he really allow the judge to have her locked away for years?
She couldn’t believe this was happening. Had to be a bad dream. But the sweltering heat inside the tent felt far too real to be a dream.
Jemma left her make-up table and went to her purse to retrieve her phone. Mary had informed the crew this morning as they left the hotel that they’d get no signal here in the desert, and checking her phone now she saw that Mary was right. She couldn’t call anyone. Couldn’t alert anyone to her situation. As Jemma put her phone away, she could only pray that Mary would make some calls on her behalf once she returned to London.
Jemma changed quickly into her street clothes, a gray short linen skirt, white knit top and gray blazer.
Drawing a breath, she left the tent, stepping out into the last lingering ray of light. Two of the sheikh’s men guarded the tent, but they didn’t acknowledge her.
The desert glowed with amber, ruby and golden colors. The convoy of cars that had descended on the shoot two hours ago was half the number it’d been when Jemma had disappeared into the tent.
Sheikh Karim stepped from the back of one of the black vehicles. He gestured to her. “Come. We leave now.”
She shouldered her purse, pretending the sheikh wasn’t watching her walk toward him, pretending his guards weren’t there behind her, watching her walk away from them. She pretended she was strong and calm, that nothing threatened her.
It was all she’d been doing since her father’s downfall.
Pretending. Faking. Fighting.
“Ready?” Sheikh Karim asked as she reached his side.
“Yes.”
“You have no suitcase, no clothes?”
“I have a few traveling pieces here, but the rest is in my suitcase.” She clasped her oversized purse closer to her body. “Can we go get my luggage?”
“No.”
“Will you send for it?”
“You won’t need it where you are going.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted to protest but his grim expression silenced her.
He held open the door. The car was already running.
“It’s time to go,” he said firmly.
Swallowing, Jemma slid onto the black leather seat, terrified to leave this scorching desert, not knowing where she’d go next.
Sheikh Karim joined her on the seat, his large body filling the back of the car. Jemma scooted as far over as she could before settling her blazer over her thighs, hiding her bare skin. But even sitting near the door, he was far too close, and warm, so warm that she fixed her attention on the desert beyond the car window determined to block out everything until she was calm.
She stared hard at the landscape, imagining that she was someone else, somewhere else and it soothed her. The sun was lower in the sky and the colors were changing, darkening, deepening and it made her heart hurt. In any other situation she would’ve been overcome by the beauty of the sunset. As it was now, she felt bereft.
She’d come to Saidia to save what was left of her world, and instead she’d shattered it completely.
The car was moving. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the handle on the door and drew a deep breath and then another to calm herself.
It was going to be okay.
Everything would be okay.
Everything would be fine.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
He said nothing.
She blinked again, clearing her vision, determined to find her center...a place of peace, and calm. She had to keep her head. There was no other way she’d survive whatever came next if she didn’t stay focused.
“Where does this elder, Sheikh Azizzi, live?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on a distant dune. The sun was dropping more quickly, painting the sky a wash of rose and red that reflected crimson against the sand.
“Haslam,” he said.
“Is it far?”
“Two hours by car. If there is no sandstorm.”
“Do you expect one?” she asked, glancing briefly in his direction.
“Not tonight, but it’s not unusual as you approach the mountains. The wind races through the valley and whips the sand dunes. It’s impressive if you’re not trying to drive through, and maddening if you are.”
He sounded so cavalier. She wondered just how dangerous a sandstorm really was. “The storm won’t hurt us?”
The sheikh shrugged. “Not if we stay on the road, turn off the engine and close the vents. But I don’t expect a sandstorm tonight. So far there appears to be l
ittle wind. I think it will be a quiet night in the desert.”
She tried to picture the still crimson desert as a whirling sea of sand. She’d seen it in movies, but it seemed impossible now. “And so when do we see the judge?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” she echoed, and when he nodded, she added, “But we won’t be there for hours.”
“We are expected.”
His answer unleashed a thousand butterflies inside her middle. “And will we know his verdict tonight?”
“Yes.” Sheikh Karim’s jaw hardened. “It will be a long night.”
“Justice moves swiftly in Saidia,” she said under her breath.
“You have no one to blame but yourself.”
She flinched at his harsh tone, and held her tongue.
But the sheikh wasn’t satisfied with her silence. “Why did you do it?” he demanded, his voice almost savage. “You’ve had a successful career. Surely you could have been happy with less?”
“I’m broke. I needed the work. I would have lost my flat.”
“You’ll lose it anyway, now. There is no way for you to pay bills from prison.”
She hadn’t thought that far. She gave her head a bemused shake. “Maybe someone will be able to—” she broke off as she saw his expression. “Yes, I know. You don’t think I deserve help, but you’re wrong. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not this selfish, horrible woman you make me out to be.”
“Then why did you enter Saidia with your sister’s passport? I can’t imagine she gave her passport to you.”
“She didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so,” he ground out.
Jemma bit down on the inside of her lip, chewing her lip to keep from making a sound.
“I know Morgan,” he added ruthlessly. “Drakon was one of my best friends. And you probably don’t remember, or were too young to notice, but I attended Morgan and Drakon’s wedding five years ago in Greenwich. Yes, you and Morgan might both be brunettes, but you don’t look anything alike. It was beyond stupid to try to pass yourself off as her.”
Fatigue and fear and dread made her heartsick, and his words drilled into her, like a hammer in her head, making her headache feel worse. She pressed her fingers to her temple to ease the pain. “How did you find out I was here?”
He shot her a cool look. “You had a very chatty stylist on the shoot. She sat in a bar two nights ago drinking and talking about the layout, the models, and you. Apparently your name was mentioned oh...a dozen times. Jemma Copeland. That Jemma Copeland. Jemma Copeland, daughter of Daniel Copeland. In today’s age of technology and social media, it just took a couple Tweets and it went viral. One minute I was in Buenos Aires, thinking everything was fine at home, and then the next I was boarding my jet to return home to deal with you.”
He shifted, extending his long legs out, and she sucked in an uneasy breath. He was so big, and his legs were so long, she felt positively suffocated, trapped here in the back of the car with him.
“I wish you had just let me go. We were leaving tomorrow morning anyway,” she said softly. “You were out of the country. You didn’t have to rush home to have me arrested.”
“No. I could have allowed the police to come for you. They were going to arrest you. They wouldn’t have been as polite, or patient, as I’ve been. They would have handcuffed you and put you in the back of an armored truck and taken you to a jail where you’d languish for a few days, maybe a week, until you were seen by our tribunal, and then you would have been sentenced to five, ten, fifteen years...or longer...in our state run prison. It wouldn’t have been pleasant. It wouldn’t have been nice at all.” His expression was fierce, his gaze held hers, critical, condemning. “You don’t realize it, but I’ve done you a favor. I have intervened on your behalf, and yes, you will still serve time, but it will be in a smaller place, in a private home. My assistance allows you to serve your time under house arrest rather than a large state run prison. So you can thank your stars I found out.”
“I’m amazed you’d intervene since you hate the Copelands so much.”
His dark gaze met hers. “So am I.”
CHAPTER THREE
FOR SEVERAL MINUTES they traveled in silence.
“So why did you rush home from Buenos Aires since you despise the Copelands?” she asked, unable to stifle the question, genuinely curious about his motives.
He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his answer was short, brusque. “Drakon.”
She picked her next words with care. “You must know he won’t approve of you locking me up, for six months or six years. I’m his sister-in-law.”
“His ex-sister-in-law. Morgan and Drakon are divorced, or separated, or something of that nature.”
“But he likes me. He has a soft spot for me.”
Mikael’s lips compressed. “Perhaps, but you’re a felon. Even as protective as he is, he will still have to come to terms with the fact that you broke the law, and there are consequences. There must be consequences. Saidia cannot be lawless. Nor can I govern at whim.” His head turned, and his dark eyes met hers. For a long moment there was just silence, and then he shrugged. “And at last, the Copelands will be held accountable for their crimes.”
Her stomach flipped. Her heart lurched. “You want to see me suffer,” she whispered.
“Your father should have accepted responsibility and answered for his actions. Instead he ran away.”
“I hate what he did, Sheikh Karim. I hate that he betrayed his customers and clients...friends. His choices sicken me—”
“There was a reason your visa was denied. The refusal was a warning. The refusal should have protected you. You should not have come.”
She turned her head and swiftly wiped away tears before they could fall.
No, she shouldn’t have come to Saidia. She shouldn’t have broken laws.
But she had.
And now she’d pay. And pay dearly.
She felt Mikael’s gaze. She knew he was watching her. His close, critical scrutiny made her pulse race. She felt cornered. Trapped.
She hated the feeling. It was suffocating. Jemma’s fingers wrapped around the door handle and gripped it tight. If only she could jump from the car. Fling herself into the desert. Hide. Disappear.
But of course it wouldn’t work like that.
Her father had tried to evade arrest and he’d taken off in his yacht, setting across the ocean in hopes of finding some bit of paradise somewhere.
Instead his yacht had been commandeered off the coast of Africa and he’d been taken hostage and held for ransom. No one had paid. He’d been hostage for months now and the public loved it. They loved his shame and pain.
Jemma flinched and pressed her hands together, fingers lacing. She didn’t like thinking about him, and especially didn’t like to think of him helpless in some African coastal village.
If only he hadn’t run.
If only he hadn’t stolen his clients’ money.
If only...
“The doors are locked,” Mikael said flatly. “There is no escape.”
Her eyes burned. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “No,” she murmured, “there isn’t, is there?”
She turned her head away again, trembling inwardly. It had been such a bad, bad year. She still felt wrecked. Trashed. Devastated by her father’s duplicity and deceit. And then heartbroken by Damien’s rejection.
To have your own father destroy so many people’s lives, and then to have the love of your life abruptly cast you off...
She couldn’t have imagined that her life would derail so completely. One day everything was normal and then the next, absolute chaos and mayhem.
The media had converged on her immediately in London, camping outside her flat, the jo
urnalists three rows deep, each with cameras and microphones and questions they shouted at her every time she opened her front door.
“Jemma, how does it feel to know that your father is one of the biggest con artists in American history?”
“Do you or your family have any plans to pay all these bankrupt people back?”
“Where is all the money, Jemma?”
“Did your father use stolen money to pay for this flat?”
It had been difficult enduring the constant barrage of questions, but she came and went, determined to work, to keep life as normal as possible.
But within a week, the jobs disappeared.
She was no longer just Jemma, the face of Farrinelli, but that American, that Jemma Copeland.
Every major magazine and fashion house she’d been booked to work for had cancelled on her in quick succession.
It was bad enough that six months of work was lost, but then Damien had started losing jobs, too.
Damien couldn’t get work.
Farrinelli cancelled Jemma’s contract as the face of Farrinelli Fragrance. Damien didn’t wait for Farrinelli to replace him too. He left Jemma, their flat, their life.
Jemma understood. She was bad for his career. Bad for business. For Damien. Farrinelli. Everyone.
Heartsick, miserable, she opened her eyes to discover Sheikh Karim watching her.
Tears filled her eyes. She was ashamed of the tears, ashamed for being weak. How could she cry or feel sorry for herself? She was better off than most people. Certainly better off than the thousands of people her father had impoverished.
But she never spoke about her father, or what he did. She didn’t openly acknowledge the shame, either. There were no words for it. No way to ever make amends, either.
“Please don’t think this is a challenge, nor is it meant to be disrespectful,” she said quietly, swiftly dashing away tears before they could fall. “But I did not come here on a lark. I am not a rebel schoolgirl. I came to Saidia because I desperately needed the work. I had thought I’d fly in, work, fly out, and no one would be the wiser. Clearly, I was wrong, and for that, I am very sorry.”
* * *
Mikael listened to the apology in silence. The apology meant nothing to him. Words were easy. They slipped from the tongue and lips with ease.