Desert Princes Bundle

by Sharon Kendrick

  Her skin was pink and her fingertips as wrinkled as starfish by the time she emerged from the bathroom in her nightgown.

  The salon was empty, and in the bedroom the vast bed lay uninhabited—mocking her with its bareness. Alexa knew that she just couldn’t go in there and wait for him like a sacrificial lamb. Instead, she crept silently towards the divan, where last night he had begun his seduction, and there she lay, waiting for what seemed like hours as her heart skittered with apprehension. When he came should she suggest that they talk—properly—and try to do so without blame or recrimination?

  As the minutes ticked by, her nervousness began to seep away slowly replaced by the drugging onslaught of sleep. And Alexa welcomed it—embraced it, almost—for at least sleep would rob her of these tortured thoughts and the aching sense of realisation that the control over her own life seemed to be slipping away from her. Could Gio really force her and Paolo to stay with him in Naples? was her last conscious memory.

  Giovanni walked towards the silent suite, rubbing his fingers against tired temples. After meeting with various Italian dignitaries, his father had summoned him to his private quarters and offered him land on the eastern reaches of the country—and a permanent home if he so desired. But inheritance had been the last thing on Giovanni’s mind. He had been more stirred by the impact of sharing time with this man who did not have time on his side.

  They had talked long into the night, until the Sheikh had grown tired and there had been only one thought dominating all others in Giovanni’s mind.

  That Paolo should never experience the absence of a father figure as he had done.

  ‘Do you blame me for not having acknowledged you sooner?’ the Sheikh had asked him quietly.

  Giovanni had given his father a rueful smile. ‘It is not my duty to apportion blame—only to learn from the experience.’ He had agreed that he would return soon to Kharastan and to discuss the future then. He yawned. A wedding, a true reconciliation and the proud presentation of his only son to his brand-new family. Yes, it had been one hell of a day—and it was not over yet. Symbolically, Giovanni knew that one final test lay ahead, and he felt the sudden anticipatory hammer of his heart.

  Did Alexa wish to be his wife in the fullest sense of the word?

  The corridors to their suite were almost deserted, and when he walked through the dimly lit rooms he found her lying curled up on the divan, swathed in bedlinen. He felt the knife-twist of anger and frustration deep in his gut, and a sudden weariness, too. Oh, foolish woman! Did she not realise that he had made a vow, and that his arrogant Neapolitan pride would never allow him to go back on it?

  Did she not realise that up until now he had been handling her with kidgloves?

  And that now she stood to lose everything?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THOSE last few days in Kharastan taught Alexa the true meaning of isolation—and she was quickly made aware that her refusal to share Giovanni’s bed had effected a kind of stand-off between them. Something was different, and it was her husband’s attitude towards her. Gone was the gleam of desire, and the teasingly provocative remarks, and Alexa realised the truth in the saying that indifference was death.

  His demeanour was haughty and icy towards her. If he was sexually frustrated then he was too proud to show it—and much too proud to ask her to change her mind, or to try and change it for her. She was left in no doubt of how it felt to be an outsider.

  In a world full of privilege—to be royal was always to be top of the heap, no matter which society you were in, and in that Kharastan was no different from any other.

  Giovanni was the favoured son. The Sheikh’s son. Yes, she was afforded courtesy and respect because she was his wife, but more importantly because she was Paolo’s mother. Yet deep down she knew that if Giovanni chose to withdraw his support then she would be cast aside. Cut socially adrift and left to flounder.

  No one was actually rude to her, but she sensed a certain coolness and a sense of detachment—almost as if they considered it a waste of time to include her in any important discussions about the future, because she would not be part of that future.

  Alexa began to question whether she had been too hasty. Whether she was using sex as some kind of weapon. And so much of sex was in the head, wasn’t it? At least that was what they said, especially about women. By deliberately sleeping on the divan on the night of the wedding itself, she seemed to have wounded Giovanni’s macho male pride in a way she hadn’t really appreciated. His eyes had glimmered at her coldly the following morning, and Alexa had been left feeling strangely empty and confused—questioning whether she’d done the right thing.

  After that, he remained exaggeratedly cool towards her as they made all the preparations for her trip to Naples, and she supposed that his demeanour was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. So why did it niggle away at her? Wasn’t this what she’d wanted? To show him that she would not be bought, like some kind of modern-day concubine?

  But it went much deeper than just the act of sex itself. Of course the sex worked—it always had done—and she suspected there wasn’t a woman on the planet who wouldn’t be turned on and satisfied by Giovanni. It was what the sex stood for that scared her. Functional, emotionless sex was scary—it felt insubstantial. After it was over it left her feeling less than—as if she would disappear if she wasn’t careful—and maybe that was what he really wanted.

  But, nonetheless, she caved in to his wishes to go to Italy—because she didn’t have the strength or the resources to do otherwise. Arrangements had already been made for Paolo to transfer to a small bi-lingual school in Naples, which had lemon trees growing all around it and a white rabbit called Blanco, which the children took in turns to pet and which her son had fallen in love during their visit. And that was the main reason she intended to give Naples a chance. She tried to put it into words to Teri, during their brief return to England to tie up all the loose ends.

  ‘My happiness is all linked with Paolo’s,’ she admitted tentatively. ‘It’s not something separate from him. And he wants the change, Teri—he wants it badly. He loves his…Papà…which is exactly as it should be.’ She said the words with determination, as she knew they should be said—though wasn’t there a tiny, horrible part of her which wanted Paolo to declare that he never wished to see Giovanni again? It would certainly make life easier.

  ‘And he loves Italy, too,’ she continued. ‘Who wouldn’t—especially when you’re his age? Everyone makes a fuss of him out there, and not just because he’s Giovanni’s son—they genuinely seem to love children. They pinch his cheeks and try to give him sweets. Then there’s the weather, of course—and the swimming pool. It’s going to be like a permanent holiday for him.’

  No, the decision had been made. They were going to Naples—and no amount of avoiding sex with Giovanni in Kharastan was going to change his mind. He had made that quite clear. Thus the court case and custody battle would now be avoided.

  Paolo was excited—desperately—and Alexa knew she should not minimise the impact of such a gigantic lifestyle-change on her son. At the moment he saw only the rich and exciting aspects of the move, but doubtless he would miss his homeland, and all his little friends. She had to make the transition easy for him, and bury whatever she was feeling deep inside her.

  But when they arrived in Naples and Giovanni drove them through the winding streets—past cafés, cathedrals and archaeological excavations—Alexa began to relax a little, remembering the bustling and colourful impression that the city had made on her when she’d arrived as an impressionable twenty-something.

  Paolo was gazing wide-eyed out of the car window, but Alexa found that she kept wanting to snatch a look at the hard, chiselled lines of Giovanni’s dark profile.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s changed much,’ she observed, trying to concentrate on the lively chaos outside and not his cool manner towards her.

  Giovanni shot her a glance as he hit the flat of his hand
on the horn, in typically Neapolitan fashion. ‘Look beneath the surface and you’ll find that everything changes,’ he said obliquely, as the car began to climb the hill which led out of the crowded city centre towards Vomero, and the family home. ‘A lot of money has been poured into the city. The poorer areas are being regenerated—a huge clean-up campaign has been instigated. Napoli has had a face-lift—and she wants the world to see it.’

  ‘Are we nearly there, Papà?’ piped up Paolo.

  Giovanni smiled. ‘Si, mio bello. Nearly here,’ he said, glancing down at his son, his heart turning over with love—and then he caught sight of Alexa’s pale face in the driving mirror, and his hands tensed on the wheel. ‘Remember this?’ he questioned harshly, as a tall pair of electronic gates opened to reveal the elegant façade of the palazzo beyond.

  Alexa had only visited the place once, years ago—the cool, dark villa where he’d grown up, which nestled in the hill as if it had always been there. ‘Yes,’ she answered uncertainly.

  Giovanni felt a shiver momentarily chilling his skin. The house had been empty since his mother’s death, and just the smell and feel of it now made him apprehensive as the ghosts of his past floated before him.

  But his waterside apartment was not suitable for the three of them, and this was one of the best locations in which to bring up a family. So he had hired a cook, and a housekeeper who had a son, Fabrizio, who was just a year older than Paolo. At least there would be plenty to keep his son amused, he thought. He could learn football, and Italian, and some warm southern sun would bring the colour to his pale English cheeks.

  ‘He can start school as soon as he likes,’ Giovanni said, during dinner that first evening.

  And what about me? her eyes asked him silently, her fingers crumbling an unwanted piece of bread.

  ‘You can decorate the house and improve your Italian,’ Giovanni said carelessly. ‘Or shop.’

  He made her sound as dispensable as yesterday’s newspaper—which presumably had been his intention.

  The meal was being served outside on the terrace, which looked down the hillside. Stars like bright lamps hung suspended from the night sky, and Naples glittered like a jewelled brooch in the distance.

  Alexa kept looking down to the city, thinking, This is my home now. She wondered if it would ever feel that way—but the thought of the future scared her. What if it stayed like this—with her and Giovanni skirting round each other like strangers who had just met at a cocktail party?

  But that was precisely the pattern of the days to come—with Alexa feeling like the water which had been pushed out to the edge of a whirlpool, while Paolo was sucked further and further into the centre of his father’s life.

  To see her son blossom beneath the sun and the approving eye of his father was both sweet and poignant, and Alexa began to understand that a moral obligation could be far stronger than a legal threat. Because she wasn’t stupid.

  Now that she had stepped back from their heated exchanges she realised that there was no way Giovanni could force them to stay—and that no court would wrench her son away from her simply because his father was rich and powerful.

  But how could she wrench Paolo away—when he was clearly so happy here—take him back to a life which would always seem like a half-life in comparison?

  At night she lay in the cool, scented room she had been given, listening to the massed sound of the cicadas whirring outside her window—but really listening out for Giovanni. Wondering if she would ever hear the creak of his footstep outside, or the sound of her door slowly opening—and then cursing herself for her own foolishness.

  Did she really picture him walking into her room and climbing silently into bed beside her? When he’d already warned her that if she rejected him a second time he would withdraw from her? When he was a combination of two proud and stubborn races—probably the least likely candidate in the world to backtrack?

  Or had she somehow thought that his was an idle threat, and that he’d change his mind and stroke her hair and tell her it was all going to be okay? Hadn’t she realised that the ice she had been skating on was so thin that it was almost transparent?

  Night after night she would turn over, pulling the fine sweet-scented Egyptian cotton sheet over her narrow shoulders and asking herself, couldn’t she go to him?

  But the longer Alexa gave the matter consideration, the more daunting a prospect it seemed. To have to creep into the bed of a man who had only offered you sex as part of an irresistible package to gain his son wouldn’t fill even the most confident woman with much in the way of self-esteem. Wasn’t that settling for crumbs when she wanted the meat of a real relationship, with love and closeness and all the other stuff which went with it?

  But Giovanni didn’t do love. He did jealousy, suspicion and distance. When he was having sex he held something back—hell, he always held something back, whatever he did. Would some women be content with that? Would she?

  She stared up at the ceiling. It was funny how you could tell yourself you wanted x, y and z out of a relationship—but in the end you were defeated by the ache in your body and the emptiness in your heart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘MAMMA, did you know that Naples football pitch is called Stadio San Paolo?’

  Alexa smiled. ‘No, darling, I didn’t.’

  ‘Is that why you called me Paolo?’ her son demanded.

  Alexa’s fingers trembled slightly as she put her coffee cup down in the saucer and met Giovanni’s enigmatic black eyes. ‘N-no. I called you Paolo because it’s a lovely name.’

  Giovanni heaped some marmellata di albicocche onto his bread. ‘I thought I’d take Paolo down to the stadium this morning—Fabrizio, too. Then maybe have some pizza down by the waterside.’ He paused. ‘You want to come?’

  She could see the effort it took for him to ask her, and knew the effort it would take her to maintain a façade of contentment for a whole day down in the city. Sometimes she could carry it off almost without thinking, but others—like today—it felt like a weighty burden which was chained to her shoulders with no chance of shaking it off.

  Alexa shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I thought I’d carry on going through the swatches of fabric for the library curtains—and I’ve found a book on fifteenth Century wall colours.’

  Giovanni shrugged as he finished his breakfast and put his napkin on the table. Naturally she would prefer to sit alone in a dusty library than to spend any time with him. ‘As you wish,’ he said coolly, and stood up. ‘We’ll be back around five.’

  ‘In time for a swim, Papà?’

  ‘Si, bambino.’ Giovanni’s eyes crinkled automatically. ‘In time for a swim.’

  But Giovanni’s heart was heavy as the two of them went off to find Fabrizio—the golden promise of the day ahead tainted with the certain knowledge that he could not go on like this. He stared up at the cloudless blue sky. None of them could. It was not fair—but especially to Alexa. He had seen the sadness behind her smile—a sadness she did her best to conceal, but in a way that only made it glaringly more apparent. Unexpectedly, her silent suffering hurt. Made him feel a tyrant—like some throwback to another time, when powerful men could get their own way by sheer force of will and power.

  Had he really imagined that they could carry on like this—into an unknown future—with Alexa here only on sufferance?

  Yes, he wanted his son full-time—but that was never going to be the case. Not when he had blackmailed his mother and coerced her into staying. No wonder she recoiled from him whenever he walked into the room.

  If it had been any other woman than Alexa he might have tried to seduce her into staying—but that was not an option. And not simply because as a measure to keep her here it would be only temporary. No, it was because he had grown to respect her—to admire her quiet dignity and the way she conducted herself around him and around their son.

  She deserved that respect, but she deserved something else too—and that was her freedom.

>   Giovanni’s eyes narrowed against the sun as a cloud passed over his heart.

  After they’d gone, Alexa set to work. She suspected that Giovanni had been being flippant when he’d first suggested she decorate the villa, but she had seized the task with vigour—partly as a kind of displacement activity, but also knowing she would never get an opportunity like this again.

  The palazzo was old, with dim, muted rooms abounding with superb eighteenth-century art, multicoloured marble and Majolica tiles which were worth a small fortune. There was a formal salone, the dining room, and a more informal room which overlooked the garden, where tall cypress trees rose like stately dark green flames. But it was the library which had captivated her, with its row upon row of leather-bound books—all with their own delicious scent and texture. It was the kind of place she could get lost in—allowing her imagination to run riot among the well-loved novels in different languages and the reference books—some with rich and wonderful illustrations.

  The decor had been badly neglected, and was crying out for some tender loving care. Alexa had managed to find an oil-based paint which exactly matched the original tempera which had adorned the walls. Later, she would show it to Giovanni, to see if it met with his approval.

  And will you be around to see it painted? mocked a small voice in her head. But she shushed it quiet and sat back on her heels to drink in the room’s beauty, and at that moment a shelf which was almost hidden by the fireplace caught her attention.

  She could see the corner of a book sticking out, and closer investigation revealed it to be a photo album. As she pulled it out Alexa stilled, with shock because…Well, because it was a pictorial record of Giovanni’s childhood.

  And it was like staring down at her own son.

  Wasn’t it funny how she could know something on one level—that Paolo’s resemblance to his father was uncanny—but seeing it captured on the page for the first time took her breath away?