A Man Without Mercy

by Miranda Lee

‘I think we should go inside,’ he said and steered her back into the living room, shutting the door behind them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said unhappily. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. I told myself to be patient but I’m not a patient man. Now I guess I’ve ruined everything.’

  ‘No no,’ she denied hurriedly, her green eyes glistening as she stared up at him. ‘You haven’t ruined anything.’

  ‘I haven’t?’

  ‘Jack, I’ve been in love with you for ages.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to say anything either, because I was hoping you might fall in love with me in the end. And, yes, of course I’ll marry you, my wonderful, marvellous, adorable, darling Jack.’ And she reached up to lay two warm hands against his still-cold cheeks.

  It was weird, Jack thought, that happiness could make a grown man cry. He struggled to blink away the moisture which suddenly pooled in his eyes. But it was no use. This was one battle he would not win.

  And then it was her hugging him, telling him over and over how much she loved him. They cried together, then kissed, then laughed at each other, calling each other silly fools for not being honest. After that, they went downstairs and opened the champagne to celebrate their happiness before heading back upstairs to cement their love the way couples had been cementing their love since time began.

  The curry wasn’t eaten till later that night. Much, much later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT WAS EARLY summer, three weeks before Christmas. The sky was clear and blue, the air warm and the bride very beautiful.

  Not that his Vivienne was ever anything short of beautiful, Jack thought as he held both her hands and looked deep into her lovely green eyes.

  They were standing on the same balcony where it had begun all those months ago. The marriage celebrant stood with his back to the view whilst the guests gathered on each side of the bride and groom to witness the ceremony. Not that there were all that many guests. Aside from Jack's mother and George, there was only Marion and her new English husband, Will, along with Jack’s two sisters, husbands and children. Of course, Jack’s family already adored Vivienne. But who could not? She was a genuinely lovely person.

  Jack had bought her an engagement ring the very next day after his proposal, a large baguette diamond with emeralds on the shoulders to match her eyes. But they’d waited till Francesco’s Folly’s refurbishment was actually complete to get married.

  Painted white now, with a new terracotta roof, it sat on top of its hill, standing out like a sparkling jewel, surrounded by the lush green of the surrounding bushland. Inside, the rest of the house was totally transformed. Vivienne had given full rein to her design skills, not making any silly compromises just because she would be living there permanently now. It seemed that telling him about her mother’s hoarding had somehow freed her of the anxiety which she associated with clutter, though she still wasn’t fond of rooms being over-furnished or overdone. Less was sometimes more, she’d told Jack.

  As for colour schemes, she obviously preferred neutral colours, with just splashes of accent colours. She had let her head go a bit with the two apartments downstairs, despite still sticking to her base of white walls, white kitchens and white bathrooms. But there was a lot more colour.

  Because children would be occupying the rooms, she’d selected leather lounges and chairs as they were more easy care. And nothing pale: reds and blacks. She’d also used black granite on the various counter tops instead of the brown marble that she’d used upstairs. Again, saying she was thinking of the children, she’d had several bookcases built in to the living rooms to accommodate toys, knick-knacks, photographs and, yes, the odd book or two. Not that children read that much anymore, Jack realised. It was all games consoles and tablets. Jack had been pleased when Vivienne had bought herself a bookcase recently to go in the living room upstairs, a lovely old antique one which was now overflowing with thrillers, none of which Jack had read. Though he kept meaning to.

  Vivienne had never returned to live in Sydney, selling her Sydney apartment to Marion and Will. For a bargain price, Jack thought. Not that he cared. He had plenty of money. They’d decided that once the house was finished Jack would divide his time equally between here and Sydney until he could wind up his business down there and start another building company up in the Newcastle area. Vivienne had already set up her own website for a boutique design business, and was receiving quite a few offers of work. She hadn’t wanted to try for a baby until they were married—and Jack aimed to get onto that project asap. He was really looking forward to becoming a dad—more than he would have thought possible.

  Vivienne giving his fingers a squeeze brought him back to the moment at hand.

  ‘We’re now man and wife,’ she said with a soft, sweet smile. ‘You can kiss me if you like.’

  He kissed her while everyone clapped.

  ‘So where were you when the ceremony was taking place?’ she whispered after his lips lifted enough for her to speak.

  ‘I was thinking about making you a mother tonight.’

  ‘It doesn’t always happen as quickly as that, Jack. We might have to wait months.’

  * * *

  Vivienne was right. She didn’t become a mother that night. Though she did fall pregnant early in the New Year. With a boy.

  As for Francesco’s Folly, it was always a happy home, full of laughter and love. Eventually, Jack and Vivienne had four children: two boys and two girls. Vivienne continued to work, though only part-time. And Jack? He gave up being a workaholic and devoted a lot more time to his family. His mother never married George. But they were still happy, living next to each other and going on endless holidays together. Jack's two sisters and their families often came to stay, especially at Christmas, when all the cousins would have a great time together, having barbeques and going to the beach. In fact, lots of people came to stay with them at Francesco's Folly. Marion and Will. Even Nigel and his wife. It was that kind of house.

  Sometimes, on a balmy summer evening, when Vivienne sat on her favourite balcony sipping a deliciously chilled white wine and drinking in the glorious view, she imagined Francesco up in heaven looking down at her and feeling very content that his lovely home was being lived in and loved. And it was in those moments that she would thank God for saving her from disaster all those years ago and sending her a man like Jack to love.

  Her life was not perfect. Whose life was? But it was very good. Very good indeed.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from FORGED IN THE DESERT HEAT by Maisey Yates.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  SHEIKH ZAFAR NEJEM scanned the encampment, the sun burning what little of his skin was revealed. He was as covered as he could possibly be, both to avoid the
harsh elements of the desert, and to avoid being recognized.

  Though, for most, the odds of that would be low out here, hundreds of miles from any city. But this was his home. Where he’d been raised. The place where he’d made his name as the most fearsome man in Al Sabah.

  And considering his competition for the position, there was weight to the title.

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary here. Cooking fires were smoldering, and he could hear voices in the tents. He stopped for a moment. This was no family encampment, but that of a band of highway men. Thieves. Outlaws, not unlike himself. He knew these men, and they knew him. He had a tentative truce with them, but that didn’t mean he was ready to show himself.

  It didn’t mean he trusted them. He trusted no one.

  Especially not now.

  Not now that there was certain to be unrest. Anger, backlash over his installation in the palace. On the throne.

  Back to his rightful position.

  The Gypsy Sheikh’s return had not been met with delight, at least not in the more “civilized” corners of the country. His uncle had done far too efficient a job in destroying his reputation for anyone to be pleased at his coronation.

  If only he could dispel the rumors surrounding his exile. But he could not.

  Because they were true.

  But here, among the people who felt like his own—among the people who had suffered most at his uncle’s hand—there was happiness here at least. They knew that whatever his sins, he had been working to atone.

  Zafar looked out toward the horizon, all flat and barren from this point to Bihar. There was one more place to stop and seek shelter, but it was another five hours’ ride, and he didn’t relish the idea of more time spent in the saddle today.

  He dismounted his horse and patted the animal, dust rising from his black coat. “I think we’ll take our chances here,” he said, leading him to a makeshift corral, where other horses were hemmed in, and opened the gate.

  He closed it, making sure it was secure before walking back toward the main tent.

  One of the men was already coming out to greet him.

  “Sheikh,” he said, inclining his head. “A surprise.”

  “Is it? You had to know I was heading back to Bihar.” A growing suspicion. The desert was vast and it seemed strange to intersect with Jamal’s band of thugs at this particular moment.

  “I may have heard something about it. But there is more than one road to the capital city.”

  “So you had no desire for a meeting with me?”

  The other man smiled, dark eyes glinting in the golden light. “I didn’t say that. We were hoping to run into you. Or, at least, someone of your means.”

  “My means are still limited. I haven’t yet been back to Bihar.”

  “And yet, you do find ways to acquire what you need.”

  Zafar looked the man over. “As do you. Will you invite me in?”

  “Not yet.”

  Zafar knew something wasn’t right. His truce with Jamal and his men was tentative. It was probably why they wanted to see him. He was in a position to put a stop to what they did out here in the desert, and he knew the places they liked to hit.

  They weren’t dangerous men; at least, they weren’t entirely without conscience. And so they were on the bottom of a long list of concerns, but, as was human nature, they clearly believed themselves more important in his world than they were.

  “Then have you gifts to offer me in place of hospitality?” Zafar asked dryly, a reference to common custom out in the desert.

  “Hospitality will come,” Jamal said. “And while we don’t have gifts, we do have some items you might take an interest in.”

  “The horses in the corral?”

  “Most are for sale.”

  “Camels?”

  “Them, as well.”

  “What use have I for camels? I imagine there is an entire menagerie of them waiting for me in Bihar. Cars, as well.” It had been a long time since he’d ridden in a car. Utterly impractical for his lifestyle. They were a near-foreign thought now, as were most other modern conveniences.

  The other man smiled, his teeth brilliantly white against his dark beard. “I have something better. An offer we hope might appease you.”

  “Not a gift, though.”

  “Items this rare and precious cannot be given away, your highness.”

  “Perhaps you should allow me to be the judge of that.”

  Jamal turned and shouted toward the tent and Zafar watched as two men emerged, holding a small, blonde woman between them. She looked up at him, pale eyes wide, red rimmed. She wasn’t dirty, neither did she look like she’d been handled too roughly. She wasn’t attempting an escape, either, but given their location...there would be no point. She would have nowhere to go.

  “You have brought me a woman?”

  “A potential bride, perhaps? Or just a plaything.”

  “When have I ever given the indication that I’m the sort of man who buys women?”

  “You seem like the sort of man who would not leave a woman in the middle of the desert.”

  “And you would?” he asked.

  “In no uncertain terms, Your Highness.”

  “Why should I care about one Western woman? I have a country to consider.”

  “You will buy her, I think. And for our asking price.”

  Zafar shrugged and turned away. “Ransom her. I’m sure her loved ones will pay much more than I am willing or able to.”

  “I would ransom her, but it is not my intention to start a war.”

  Zafar stopped and turned, his muscles locked tight, his heart pounding hard. “What?”

  “A war, Sheikh. It is not in my best interest to start one. I don’t want those Shakari bastards all over my desert.”

  Shakar was the closest neighboring country to Al Sabah and relations between the two nations were at a breaking point, thanks to Zafar’s uncle. “What does Shakar have to do with this woman? She’s Western, clearly.”

  “Yes. Clearly. She is also, if we believe her ranting from when we first took her, American heiress Analise Christensen. I imagine you have heard the name. She is betrothed to the Sheikh of Shakar.”

  Yes, he had heard the name. He was largely cut off from matters of State but he still heard things. He made sure he did. And clearly, Jamal made certain he heard things, as well. “And how is it I play into this? What is it you want with her?” he spat.

  “We can start a war here, or end one, the choice is yours. Also, with the wrong words in the right ear, even if you take her, but threaten us? We can put you in a very bad position. How is it you ended up with her? The future bride of a man rumored to be the enemy of Al Sabah? Your hands are bound, Zafar.”

  In truth, he would never have considered leaving the woman here with them, but what they were suggesting was blackmail, and one problem he didn’t need. One problem too many.

  So, buy her and drop her off at the nearest airport.

  Yes. He could do. He didn’t have very much money on him, but he didn’t think their aim was to get the highest price off the beauty’s head so much as to seek protection. Zafar was, after all, ready to assume the throne, and he knew all of their secrets.

  He looked down at the woman who claimed to be an heiress, betrothed to a sheikh. Anger blazed from those eyes, he could see it clearly now. She was not defeated, but she was also smart enough to save her energy. To not waste time fighting here and now.

  “You have not harmed her?” he asked, his throat getting tight with disgust at the thought.

  “We have not laid a finger on her, beyond binding her to keep her from escaping. Where would her value be, where would our protection be, if she were damaged?”

  They were offering him a chance to
see her returned as if nothing had happened, he understood. If she were assaulted, it would be clear, and Al Sabah, and by extension the new and much-maligned sheikh, would be blamed.

  And war would be imminent.

  Either from Shakar or from his own people, were they to learn of what had happened under his “watch.”

  He made an offer. Every bit of money he had. “I’m not dealing,” he said. “That is my only offer.”

  Jamal looked at him, his expression hard. “Done.” He extended his hand, and Zafar didn’t for one moment mistake it as an offer for a handshake. He reached into his robes and produced a drawstring coin purse, old-fashioned, not used widely in the culture of the day.

  But he’d been disconnected from the culture of the day for fifteen years so that was no surprise.

  He poured the coins into his hand. “The woman,” he said, extending his arm, fist closed. “The woman first.”

  One of the men walked her forward, and Zafar took hold of her arm, drawing her tight into his body. She was still, stiff, her eyes straight ahead, not once resting on him.

  He then passed the coins to Jamal. “I think I will not be stopping for the night.”

  “Eager to try her out, Sheikh?”

  “Hardly,” he said, his lip curling. “As you said, there is no surer way to start a war.”

  He tightened his hold on her and walked her to the corral. She was quiet, unnaturally so and he wondered if she was in shock. He looked down at her face, expecting to see her eyes looking glassy or confused. Instead, she was looking around, calculating.

  “No point, princess,” he said in English. “There is nowhere to go out here, but unlike those men, I mean you no harm.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?” she asked.

  “For now.” He opened the gate and his horse approached. He led him from the enclosure. “Can you get on the horse? Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t want to get on the horse,” she said, her voice monotone.