Sexy Sheikh Bundle (Harlequin Presents)

by Sharon Kendrick

  She could still recall the amused look on his face at her prim response, long after he was gone.

  Dinner was a subdued affair. Saleem ignored her for the most part, directing most of his conversation at Khaled, which suited her just fine. Not that she was interested in chatting too much to Khaled either. While there were questions she wanted to ask, about his family and the history of Jebbai, she was still too shaken by the episode in the workroom. The last thing she needed to do was show him any encouragement.

  It was easier to look more interested in the food. The array of spiced meats, salads and dips was laid out invitingly on the low table between them as they reclined on colourful silk cushions. She tried to focus on the spread, to sample the different tastes, all the while biding her time until she thought it was safe to excuse herself and withdraw to bed.

  But her thoughts were elsewhere. She’d flung her relationship with Paolo in Khaled’s face, a convenient defence in fending off his unwelcome advances, but she’d stumbled over the word ‘boyfriend’ as if it had been an effort. Why didn’t that bother her more when it hinted that the problems they’d dredged up during their argument were more deep-seated than she’d thought? Why was it so hard to even think of Paolo as her boyfriend now?

  They would talk some time after her return, he’d promised. She should hold that thought. Instead, on some deeper, instinctive level, she suspected their relationship was already beyond salvage.

  Her thoughts in turmoil with the stresses of the last few days, she allowed herself one tiny cup of thick, sweet coffee before she sensed her opportunity to excuse herself. She stood, hoping to make a smooth getaway.

  ‘Sapphire, you’re not leaving us already?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Khaled,’ she replied, trying to ignore the long, hard glare she earned from Saleem, ‘it’s been a long day and I wish to get started early in the morning.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I should have realised. Is there anything else that you need?’

  ‘Only some idea when I might get to meet your bride. It would be good to at least talk to her about the design before I get too far along the process.’

  Saleem uttered something rapid-fire and urgent in Arabic. Khaled answered simply and briefly in English, ‘No,’ at which response Saleem’s nostrils flared and he rose from the cushions, muttering a few more words in his cousin’s direction as he stormed out without another glance at her.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ she asked, recalling Khaled’s warning not to upset his cousin.

  He shrugged. ‘Saleem is…anxious, as are we all, for the welfare of the bride. Now is not a good time. I will let you know when she is available.’

  ‘Is she in the palace?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘She is already here, but she is not yet ready for the excitement of the wedding. It is too early. I will tell you when.’

  ‘But it will be soon?’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed, it will be soon.’

  It would have to do. She bade him goodnight and turned to go. Work on the dress would have to commence as best it could. And some time soon she’d have to hope for a series of fittings, while there was still time to make any adjustments if necessary.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Everyone who is a guest of the palace receives a gift.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m working here—’

  He held up his hand in a stop gesture. ‘It is necessary. You are still my guest. And you will receive traditional Jebbai garments as your gift. You would not think of offending Hebra’s finest dressmakers surely? They are most honoured to be designing something for you, a famous designer from the fashion capital of Milan.’

  ‘No,’ she conceded. ‘Of course I wouldn’t want to offend them. Thank you.’

  ‘Good,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘Someone will be sent to measure you for them tomorrow morning. Goodnight.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SAPPHY threw herself into her work over the next few days. She organised her staff, planning a schedule and putting those she could to work immediately. She’d never had so many people to work on her designs so in one way it was luxury, in another it was a challenge keeping them all occupied and coordinating what they were doing.

  But they were excellent. It was clear straight away that Khaled had supplied her with top dressmakers and seamstresses, expert at sewing and beading. Some she’d been able to set tasks immediately, to work on the delicate veil, or bead the intricate panels that would be inset later into the dress. Even the language difficulties she’d expected didn’t eventuate.

  And while she hadn’t been permitted to meet with the bride, she’d been provided with a set of measurements, allowing her to draft the pattern and run up a model in a simple fabric to test the design. And now, one short week after her arrival in Jebbai, the dress itself was starting to take shape.

  Her new life was taking shape too, already assuming some kind of pattern. In the mornings she took breakfast in her suite, usually fresh fruit with dates, dried figs and creamy yoghurt, while she arranged her schedule for the day.

  Then she would work solidly until four or five o’clock, depending on the day’s progress. While her staff took a midday break she in spected their work, which was for the most part faultless, and that ensured better than anticipated progress.

  Azizah would let her know when it was time for the evening meal and, as she had on the first evening, she would join in a shared meal with Khaled and Saleem. Khaled would ask after her health and seek a report on the dress, and she would tell him what he wished to know.

  She was still reluctant to open up and talk freely with Saleem present—somehow she didn’t feel comfortable with him knowing anything about her and it was clear he didn’t welcome her input. So for the most part she left the two men to discuss matters amongst themselves and she’d then excuse herself after coffee, removing herself while doing her best to ignore Saleem’s frosty glare and Khaled’s hooded gaze.

  It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but at least now she was becoming used to the routine and learning not to feel so uptight in their presence.

  Tonight something was different though. She looked around the dining room at the appointed time but no cold stares returned her own. Khaled sat alone amidst the plump cushions.

  ‘Come,’ he said, beckoning her to join him.

  ‘Saleem?’ she asked, lowering herself opposite.

  ‘Is away.’ He poured her a glass of tea. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with just me for tonight.’ He handed her the small glass and held on, even when she’d moved to take it from him.

  Her eyes found his and caught the crinkle at the sides.

  He was laughing at her.

  ‘Lucky me,’ she said, wresting the glass from his grasp, suddenly ruing Saleem’s absence. His resentful disposition seemed suddenly preferable to Khaled’s unwelcome jibes. ‘Tell me,’ she said, looking to wipe the smug look from his face and regain the initiative, ‘how is your fiancée?’

  With coffee came Sapphy’s chance to make her usual quick exit.

  ‘Are you in a hurry to leave?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ she lied, when all she wanted to do was escape. Dinner had been tense after their early jibes and more than once she’d caught his brooding eyes fixed on her, surveying her. But why?

  ‘Then come,’ he said, rising from the cushions and holding out his hand. ‘I want to show you something.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, as he led her into a part of the palace she’d never been before. He’d taken her through a seeming labyrinth of passageways, up and down short stairways and turning this way and that, so much so that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to find her way back by herself.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, finally leading her through a large, richly decorated doorway. She followed him through and stepped
into another world.

  Lush greenery surrounded her, softly lit with torches flickering shadows against the ferns, palms and vines. Scented flowers perfumed the air, sweet and rich. They were in a large courtyard, completely enclosed by the palace, but the foliage was so tall in places that you could imagine you were miles from civilisation. From somewhere unseen came the splash of water, setting a musical backdrop, while the exotic call of birds settling down for the evening provided an accompaniment.

  ‘It’s the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen,’ she said as she wandered along the marble-paved walkways lined with clipped shrubs and stone. She recognised a few of the plants and bushes—myrtle, bay trees, even a grove of orange trees, their coloured fruit standing out against the foliage as brightly as ornaments on a Christmas tree.

  He reached up alongside her and plucked one of the oranges from the tree and handed the heavy fruit to her solemnly.

  ‘The best oranges either side of the Tigris,’ he said before he twisted off another for himself, studying it, weighing it in his hands as he talked.

  ‘This was my mother’s favourite place. My father had it planted for her as a wedding present.’

  She looked up at him. It was the first time he’d ever referred to his parents. Apart from Saleem, she knew nothing at all of his family. She touched his forearm gently.

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  Even in the muted light, she saw the darkness swirl in his eyes, felt the tension in his corded arm, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to respond. Then he uttered a deep sigh and turned down the path, taking her with him.

  ‘My mother was a Frenchwoman, a model turned successful actress. And very, very beautiful. My father saw her on the screen and fell in love with her at first sight. He went to Paris and wooed her and brought her back to be his wife.’

  A French mother. An Arab father. And no doubt a university education in Europe somewhere. His blend of accents suddenly made sense. No wonder he’d been so difficult to place.

  ‘What happened to your mother’s film career? Did she continue making movies?’

  ‘Not once she married my father.’

  ‘She gave it all up? She left everything behind, her career, her stardom, to come here and be someone’s wife?’

  ‘Does that surprise you? My father was a very good-looking man. He was also very persuasive and he wanted her.’

  ‘But what about what she wanted? Times might have been different then, but didn’t she get some say in it?’

  ‘She wasn’t a prisoner here. She could have left any time. But she fell in love with my father and they were married. They were very happy together. Very happy.’

  She matched his steps along the marble flagstones, marvelling at the constantly changing views at each turn, feeling the magic of the garden permeate her soul. It was so peaceful here, so beautiful. Was it enough, though, to make someone abandon their former life?

  ‘She must have loved him very much,’ she said at last and he nodded silently, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

  Yet for all the apparent romance, there was clearly no happy ending to this story. She could sense it in his mounting tension, she could sense it in the air that fairly crackled around him.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  He brought her to a halt alongside a large tiered fountain, staring without focus at the marble animals, the deer and antelope, the birds and the fish, playfully squirting streams of water from their mouths. It was a work of art but she could tell he saw nothing of the artisans’ skill, nothing of the beauty of the piece as his mind fixed on another event, another time. ‘They were killed by an avalanche,’ he said, his voice strangely flat. ‘They were supposed to be in London but there was a sudden change of plan.’ He paused. ‘They ended up going to the Alps instead…’

  His words trailed off, lost in the burble of the fountain.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She knew it was painfully inadequate but there was nothing more she could offer.

  ‘They should have been in London,’ he asserted, the volume in his voice rising. ‘If they’d been in London, they would never have been swept away. They would never have been killed.’

  His vehemence tipped her off. For whatever reason Khaled obviously held himself responsible for his parents’ change of plan. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she offered.

  His eyes blasted cold fury down onto her, his face all brutal angles and harsh planes in the soft light from the torches.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘It’s not me that I blame.’

  He turned and stormed off, leaving the sharp tang of orange peel piercing the turbulent air in his wake. A flash of colour on the ground caught her eye. It was his orange. She picked it up, assuming he’d dropped it in his rush to get away.

  Until she saw the imprints left by his fingers, the angry wounds caused by his nails, puncturing the skin and pulverising the flesh with such force that, compared to hers, the inside of his orange was no more than pulp.

  It had been a mistake to take her there. Instead of making her feel more at ease with him, all he’d done was dredge up the hate from deep inside him until it spilled over, fetid and rank.

  But he would have his revenge. It was now so close he could taste it. And it would be sweeter than he’d ever imagined.

  The dress was nearing completion. It was going to be magnificent, without a doubt the most beautiful wedding dress she’d designed. Even the champagnecoloured silk dress she’d whipped up for her own sister, Opal’s, wedding in Sydney two years ago and that she’d been so proud of couldn’t hold a candle to this design.

  All it now needed was a fitting or two and the seams could be completed, the length tweaked and the finishing touches made. And all Khaled had to do was agree to her request to allow her just one hour with the bride, instead of continually frustrating her with excuses and deferments.

  He’d hardly spoken to her since that strange night a week ago in the gardens when his barely restrained fury had been a palpable thing and his cryptic words still haunted her. For some reason she’d upped the ante on his emotions that night in a way that made her feel that somehow, in some strange and inexplicable way, she was responsible for the death of his parents.

  But that was crazy. She’d grown up on the other side of the world. She’d never had anything to do with the royal family of Jebbai. It didn’t make sense.

  She tried to push these thoughts aside as she sat at her desk, writing postcards in the hour before lunch. She’d sent her staff home early as, until Khaled agreed to a fitting, there was nothing more for them to do. She’d already completed brief greetings for her family, her mother and sisters back in Australia. It was the last postcard she wavered over.

  What should she say to Paolo?

  Her mobile phone was useless out here and in a way she was glad. She wanted Paolo to contact her first. But he hadn’t made any attempt. They hadn’t spoken since their argument in Milan and somehow ‘the weather’s fine, wish you were here’ didn’t cut it. So why couldn’t she think of anything to write?

  Part of her wanted to reach out and repair the damage to their relationship. The other part of her was still angry with him. He’d scared her half mad with his predictions of disaster in Jebbai, done his best to put her off going. And without offering a shred of evidence to support his crazy claims.

  Without a doubt Khaled was a force to be reckoned with. Certainly he had issues with the tragic death of his parents, but was that so unusual?

  Whatever, surely it should be easier to recall exactly how Paolo looked while she attempted to write this postcard? Instead her thoughts were infused with the shadow of a tall, dark-eyed man, brooding and magnetic, emphatic and compulsive. Why did he come to mind so easily when pictures of Paolo were proving so difficult to summon? Why was it so hard to forget about him?

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she c
alled without looking up, expecting Azizah to be returning from some errand or advising her that the midday meal was ready.

  ‘Am I interrupting you?’

  Her head snapped up to where he stood inside the door, looking down at her. She shivered. He hadn’t been in her rooms since the day she’d arrived. Somehow the large room seemed shrunken with him in it. He strode closer to the desk, pouncing on the postcard she was toying with. She hadn’t managed to get further than the address and ‘Dear Paolo’. A nerve in his cheek twitched. Her heart jumped wildly in her chest. They’d never discussed Paolo by name so how would Khaled react to seeing her postcard addressed to him? And would he recall their differences as clearly and as vehemently as had Paolo?

  ‘Missing your boyfriend?’

  Her blood formed an icy crust. ‘Who said he was my boyfriend?’

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘Fair question,’ he said. ‘Maybe “lover” would be more appropriate.’

  Her knuckles tightened as she screwed her fingers tighter around her pen. ‘I haven’t finished that.’

  ‘On the contrary, you haven’t started it. Nothing to say after so long apart?’

  She kicked up her chin. She wasn’t going to discuss Paolo and their relationship with anybody, least of all with Khaled. ‘The dress is just about complete,’ she said, switching topics. ‘When are you going to agree to my request for a fitting with the bride?’

  He flicked the card back down onto the desk. ‘She knows what you’re doing. There’s no rush.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ she said, reiterating his own words for emphasis, ‘there’s every reason to rush. You have two weeks until this wedding and if I can complete this gown now, that’s one major thing out of the way and then I can go home. I need just one fitting with the bride and my work is almost done.’

  He lunged towards the desk and spread his arms down wide around her, his face dipping closer to hers. ‘Are you in such a hurry to return to your lover? Why so, when he has made no attempt to contact you in all the time you have been here?’