‘My people will not accept her and they will not respect me if I am seen to forgive her.’
‘Some won’t!’ Ibrahim challenged. ‘But there are many who will respect you a whole lot more—your son included.’
And the king looked at his youngest son, the one he could not read, the one he had accused of being the weakest when he had wept in the desert and just would not stop. The child that wept till it choked him, till he vomited, when his body should have been spent, when he should have curled up and accepted his lesson. Still Ibrahim had not, because he would not give up on what he believed in, and the king saw then the strength in his son.
‘I love Georgie,’ Ibrahim said. ‘She will be my wife, and without her by my side, I will not return to Zaraq. I will never return and neither will our children.’ He meant it. The king knew his son meant it. ‘If I am to be a prince, she is to be royal—as my mother should be.’
‘You can’t just give it all away.’
‘I just have.’ There wasn’t a trace of regret in his voice and Georgie closed her eyes as she listened and learnt just how much he loved her.
‘You cannot just turn your back—the desert calls …’
‘There is no call from the desert. The call was from my heart.’
‘Don’t mock the ways of old.’
‘But I’m not,’ Ibrahim said. ‘The desert knows what it is doing, because it brought us together. It’s the ruler who is blind.’ He was done with his father. Now he just had to find Georgie, but even before he turned round she was there beside him and she took his hand, not just for him but because she was still intimidated by a king.
‘Is this what you want for him?’ the king challenged, and Georgie wasn’t so strong.
‘You don’t have to give it up, Ibrahim. We can work something out. I know how much you love it.’
‘They have to love me too,’ he said, and it sounded a lot like her. ‘I would be a good prince, a loyal prince. I can help them move forward and bring much-needed change, but only if they want all of me, and a part of me will always be with you.’ He meant it, Georgie realised, he truly meant it. Gone was the tension and doubt. There was no fight inside him, no wrestling with himself, and without a glance backwards he walked from the house, taking Georgie with him.
‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ Georgie asked.
‘Do you?’ Ibrahim checked, for the first time in his life bordering on embarrassed, because all that she wanted he could not now give her. ‘You won’t even be half a princess.’
‘Am I yours?’ Georgie asked, and he nodded. ‘Are you mine?’ she checked, and he closed his eyes and nodded again.
‘Then I have everything.’
She looked down at his fingers coiled around hers, to the darkness and light that they made, then up to his eyes and the talent behind them—and there was her palace.
She had her prince.
EPILOGUE
‘THE hard part will soon be over.’
Ibrahim meant the formal part of the wedding, but as she smiled back at him, it meant something more too.
The hard part was long over, but if it reared up again, she could face it.
Could face anything with Ibrahim by her side.
‘Soon,’ Ibrahim said, ‘we can go to the desert.’ Now he looked forward to his time there. Now he understood that it was wiser than anyone could begin to understand.
But his mind did not linger there. This night his attention was on Georgie. She didn’t like the spotlight, the limelight, and he shielded her from it as best he could, and thankfully, though it was their wedding, there was another couple that dimmed the glare just a touch.
Zaraq was celebrating two happy couples today, Georgie and Ibrahim and also their king with his queen.
The people had always loved her, had mourned her son on her behalf, and now she was back, glowing and radiant. She sat at the table by his side as the king read his speech.
He was proud of his country and people and he thanked them for sharing this day, and he was thankful to his wife too, especially, he added on a whim, for her patience. Even Ibrahim managed a wry laugh and then his father looked right at him and he was proud as he thanked both his youngest and the wildest, even for rebellion, because challenge was good, the king said, it was how we learned. And he smiled at Georgie and thanked her too—because she had taught him so much.
Then the hard part was over and seemingly now they could enjoy.
Except Georgie couldn’t.
She stood at the stop of the stairs, heard the beat of the music and the crowd urge them on, the procession that danced them, and his hand in hers.
‘I can’t do this.’
‘You are doing it,’ Ibrahim said, because she could walk if she wanted to and that would be enough, but he knew she was capable of much more. ‘You’re doing it now.’
Had the king been so jubilant at Felicity’s wedding, so happy and proud?
She could see her mother, smiling, and the radiant face of Sophia, who was home now, and her sister glowing.
But more than that there was Ibrahim beside her and halfway down the steps, with him beside her, Georgie found her rhythm, found she could dance, even terribly, and still he adored her.
She was as she was, perfect to him.
Which gave her courage she had never imagined she could have.
To dance those last steps and accept the love that surrounded her and not care if she stumbled or fell, because Ibrahim was there to catch her. And she was there too for him.
She danced the zeffa, moved toward him and away from him, danced around him and beside him, felt the beat in her stomach that spread down her thighs to her toes, and now she could give in to it and then there was contact and she rested in his arms.
‘Take me to the desert.’
‘Soon,’ Ibrahim said, because still there was duty, so they danced one more dance then two and then headed to a loaded table, where Georgie took her time to select from the lavish spread.
He watched nosy, bony fingers pick up a pomegranate, he saw the servant move in with a knife, but he took over and tore the fruit in two.
‘Take me to the desert,’ Georgie said, because she hadn’t been there since that night and her womb ached for him.
And Ibrahim was about to remind her, but he checked himself. Yes, there was duty, except he had other priorities today. They had posed for the photos, had waved to the crowds, had feasted and danced—had done every last thing Georgie hated—and his duty was now to her.
‘You can’t just leave,’ her mother chided, as Ibrahim spoke with the king. ‘You can’t leave midway through your own wedding.’
‘Yes, she can.’ Felicity hugged her sister as Ibrahim returned.
‘What did he say?’ Georgie asked, but it was too noisy for him to answer. They were supposed to dance again, and with the end in sight, she did. Out of the palace and to a waiting helicopter, and they flew into a desert that looked like an ocean and for a while there were no words, just his kisses as they flew over it.
‘What did he say?’ Georgie asked, when finally they were alone in the desert and she still worried that they’d caused trouble. ‘What did the king say when you told him we were leaving?’
‘To look after you.’ Ibrahim replied. ‘Which, I told him, goes without saying.’
She stepped into his tent and braced herself for servants, for Bedra, for bathing and petals and all the drama that was a royal wedding, consoling herself that in an hour or so they could escape to bed, but it was Ibrahim lighting the lanterns that led them.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Gone,’ Ibrahim answered. ‘It’s just you and me and no one waiting, no one watching to make sure we’re safe …’ He looked at his bride, at the broken mould that was Georgie, and he wouldn’t change a single thing just to have this moment. ‘Which you are.’
Safe in the desert, alone with him.
The Sheikh’s Destiny
Melissa James
MELISSA JAMES is a born and bred Sydney-sider who swapped the beaches of the New South Wales Central Coast for the Alps of Switzerland a few years ago. Wife and mother of three, a former nurse, she fell into writing when her husband brought home an article about romance writers and suggested she should try it—and she became hooked. Switching from romantic espionage to the family stories of Mills & Boon was the best move she ever made. Melissa loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at [email protected].
This book is dedicated to Vicky, my beloved sister-in-law, who never once denigrated this job I love and, despite dyslexia, bought and read every book I’ve had released. To a wonderful sister and dearly beloved aunt to my kids, thank you for showing us what true courage under fire means. We think of you and miss you every day. 2nd December 1963–9th October 2009
To Michelle, Donna and Lisa, the ‘angels’ who nursed Vicky through her illness, giving her last months dignity and love despite work and family commitments. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I can only invent heroines—but each of you is one in the eyes of our family and all the many who loved Vicky.
Prologue
The road to Shellah-Akbar, Northern Africa
THEY were closing in on him. Time to open throttle.
Alim El-Kanar shifted down into low-gear sports mode, in the truck he’d modified specially for this purpose. He wasn’t letting the men of the warlord Sh’ellah—after whose family this region had been named—take the medical supplies and food meant for those the man made suffer, so he could keep control and live in luxury. Alim wasn’t going to be caught, either—that would be disaster, but for the people of this region, not him. As soon as Sh’ellah saw the face of the man he’d taken hostage, he’d hold Alim for a fabulous ransom that would keep them in funds for new weapons for years.
When he had the ransom, then he’d kill him—if he could get away with it.
But Sh’ellah hadn’t yet discovered who Alim was, and he gambled his life on the hope the warlord never would. Even the director of Doctors for Africa didn’t know the true identity of the near-silent truck driver who pulled off what he called miracles on a regular basis, reaching remote villages held by warlords with medicine, food and water-purifying tablets.
With a top-class fake ID and always wearing the male headscarf he could twist over his famous features whenever he chose, he was invisible to the world. Just the way he liked it.
Who he was—or what he’d been once—mattered far less than what he did.
He always gave enough medicine to each village to last six to eight hours. Then, when Sh’ellah’s men came for their ‘share’, most of it was gone; they took a few needles, some out-of-date antibiotics, and strutted out again.
The villagers never told Alim where they hid the supplies, and he didn’t want to know. They kept just enough bread, rice and grain out for Sh’ellah’s men to feel smug about their theft. To Sh’ellah, such petty control made him feel like a man, a lion among mice.
Even Alim, flawed as he was, would be a better leader—
Don’t go there. Grimly he shifted down gear, following the indented tracks in the scrubby grass on what was loosely called a road to the village of Shellah-Akbar. He’d had tyres put on this truck like the ones used in outback and desert rallies so he could fly over rocks and sudden holes the wind made in the dusty ground. He also had a padded protective cage put inside the cab, much like the one he’d had in his cars when he was still The Racing Sheikh.
He’d once been so ridiculously proud of the nickname—now he wanted to hit something every time he thought of it. His fame and life in the fast lane had died the same day as his brother. The only racing he did now was with trucks with much needed supplies to war-torn villages. And if the term ‘sheikh’ was technically correct, it was a privilege he’d forfeited after Fadi’s death. It was an honour he’d never deserve. His younger brother Harun had taken on the honour in his absence, marrying the princess Fadi had been contracted to marry. Harun had been ruling the people of his principality, Abbas al-Din—the lion of the faith—for three years, and was doing a brilliant job.
Thinking of home set off the familiar ache. He used to love coming home. Habib Abbas, the people would chant. Beloved lion. They’d been so proud of his achievements.
If the people wanted him to come home, to take his place among his people, he knew an accident of birth, finding some oil or minerals, or the ability to race a car around a track didn’t make a true leader. Strength, good sense and courage did—and Alim had lost the best of those qualities with Fadi’s death, along with his heart and a lot of his skin. He had just enough strength and courage left to risk his neck for a few villagers in Africa. The fanfare for what he did was silent, and that was the way he liked it.
He growled as his usual stress-trigger, the puckered scars that covered more than half his torso, began the painful itching that scratching only made worse. He’d have to use the last of his silica-based cream on the pain as soon as he had a minute, as soon as he lost these jokers—and he would. He wasn’t Habib Abbas, or The Racing Sheikh, any more—but he still had the skills.
Stop it! Thinking only made the itch worse—and the heart-pain that was his night-and-day companion. Fadi, I’m so sorry!
Grimly he turned his mind to the job at hand, or he’d crash in seconds. The protective roll cage inside his truck might be heavily padded with lamb’s wool so if the truck rolled, he could use his modified low centre of gravity shift and oddly placed air bags to flip back right way up—but it wouldn’t help if he was too busted up to keep going.
He checked the mirror. They were still the same distance behind him, forty men packing weaponry suitable for taking far more than a truck. They were too far away from him to shoot accurately, but still too close to shake. He couldn’t do anything clever on this rugged, roadless terrain, like spilling oil to make them slide: it would sink straight into the dirt before the enemy reached the slick, and he’d risk his engine for nothing.
But he had to do something, or they’d follow him right to Shellah-Akbar and take the supplies. He had to find a way to beat the odds currently stacked against him like the Spartans at Thermopylae thousands of years ago.
If he could rig something with the emergency flare…could he make it work?
Alim’s mind raced. Yes, if he added the tar-based chemical powder he kept to help the tyres move over the sand without sliding to the volatile formula inside the flare, and tossed it back, it might work—
He was used to driving one-handed, or steering the wheel with both feet. He shoved a stone on the accelerator, angling it so it kept going steady, and drove with his feet while pulling the flare apart with as much care as he could, given his situation.
He was nearing the four-way junction ten miles from the village, where he must turn one way or another. He had to stop them now or, no matter what clever methods he employed to evade them, they’d know where he was going. They’d use their satellite phones, and another hundred thugs would be at the village before sunset, demanding their ‘rightful’ share of the supplies proven by their assault rifles.
He poured the powder in with shaking hands. He had to be careful or he’d kill them; and, murderers though most of the men undoubtedly were, it wasn’t his place to judge who had done what or why. He’d had a childhood of extreme privilege, the best education in the world. Most of the men behind him had been born in horrendous poverty, abducted when they were small children and taught to play with AK-47s instead of bats and balls.
He’d leave enough food and supplies behind so their warlord didn’t kill them for their failure. Part of the solution or perpetuating the problem, he didn’t know; but in this continent where human life was cheaper than clean water, everyone only had one shot at living, and he refused to carry any more regrets in his personal backpack.
He grabbed the wheel as he neared the far-leaning sign showing the way to the villages, and slanted the truck extreme left, away from all of them. Good, the
wind was shifting again: it was time for a good old-fashioned wild goose chase.
He put the flare together, closing it tight with electrical tape, shook it and opened the sunroof. He lit the flare, counted one-hundred-and-one to one-hundred-and-seven, shoved his foot hard over the stone covering the accelerator as he tossed the lit flare up and backward, and pulled the sunroof shut.
The truck shot forward and left, when the boom and flash came. The air behind him turned a dazzling bluish-white, then thick and black, filled with choking, temporarily blinding chemicals. Screams came to his ears, the screeches of tyres as their Jeeps came to simultaneous halts. He’d done it…Alim arced the truck hard right, back to the crossroads. He didn’t wind down the window to check. He’d either blinded them all, or he’d be dead inside a minute.
Half a kilometre before the junction, he threw out the half-dozen boxes of second-rate supplies he’d been keeping for the warlord’s pleasure. They’d find them when the chemical reaction from their tears would neutralise the blindness. There was no permanent damage to their retinas, only to their pride and their ability to follow him for about half an hour. Factoring in the wind shift, all traces of his tyre tracks should have vanished by then, covered with red earth and falling leaves and branches from the low, thin trees. They’d have to split up to find him, and by the time they reached the village he’d be long gone.
Then a whining sound came; air whooshed, a loud bang filled the cab, and the truck leaped forward as if propelled before it teetered and fell to the left.
Alim’s head struck the side window with stunning force. Blood filled his eye; he felt his mind reeling. One of his specially made, ultra-wide and thick desert tyres had blown. One of the warlord’s men was either not blinded in the explosion, or he’d made the luckiest shot in the world, and blown his back tyre. The only drawback to his special, extra-tough tyres was their need for perfect balance. If one tyre went, so did the truck.
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