Desert Fantasies (Mills & Boon M&B): Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh

by Morey, Trish

  “I live nearby,” she replied. “But you do not. I don’t know you.”

  “No. I’m here on a visit. I think.” He looked back out to sea. “Quite a contrast from where I’ve been for the last few weeks.”

  She turned to look at the sea, keeping a safe twelve feet or so of space between them.

  “Rough waters?”

  “Desert. I wanted to see the sea as soon as I got here. I’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours straight, am dead tired, but wanted to feel the cool breeze. I considered going for a swim.”

  “Not the safest thing to do alone, especially after dark. If you got into trouble, who would see or hear?” Though Ella had gone swimming alone after dark. That had been back shortly after Alexander’s death when she hadn’t thought she cared if something happened or not. Now she knew life was so precious she would not wish harm on herself or anyone.

  “You’re here,” he said whimsically.

  “So I am. And if you run into trouble, do you think I could rescue you?”

  “Or at least go for help.” With that, he shed the robe, kicked off the shoes he wore.

  Startled, Ella watched. Was he stripping down to nothing to go for a swim?

  It was too dark to know, but in a moment, he plunged into the cool waters of the Gulf and began swimming. She had trouble following him with her eyes; only the sounds of his powerful arms cleaving the water could be heard.

  “So I’m the designated life guard,” she murmured, sitting down on the sand. It was still warm from the afternoon sun. Sugar-white and fine, at night it nurtured by its warmth, soft to touch. She picked up a fistful letting it run between her fingers. Idly she watched where she knew him to be. She hoped he would enjoy his swim and not need any help from anyone. She hadn’t a clue who he was. For tonight, it was enough he had not had to swim alone. Tomorrow, maybe she’d meet him or maybe not.

  Ella lost track of time, staring out to sea. So he came from the desert. She had ventured into the vast expanse that made up more of Quishari than any other topography. Its beauty was haunting. A harsh land, unforgiving in many instances, but also hiding delights, like small flowers that bloomed for such a short time after a rare rainstorm. Or the undulating ground a mixture of dirt and sand that reminded her of water. The colors were muted, until lit by the spectacular sunsets that favored the land. Once she’d seen an oasis, lost and lonely in the vast expanse of the desert. But her fervent imagination found it magical. Water in the midst of such arid harshness.

  She wished she could capture that in her own work. Show the world there was more to the desert than endless acres of nothing. She began considering plans for such a collection. Maybe she’d try it after finishing her current project. Tomorrow was the day she tried the new technique. She had the shape in mind of the bowl she wanted to make. Now she had to see if she could pull it off. Colors would be tricky, but she wanted them to swirl in glass, ethereal, hinting and tantalizing.

  She felt relaxed as the moment ticked by. It was pleasant in the warmth of the night, with the soft sound of the sea at her feet and the splashing in the distance. Would the man ever get tired?

  Finally she heard him approach. Then he seemed to rise up out of the water when he stood in the gradual slope. She rose and stepped back as he went directly to where his robes lay and scooped them up.

  “You still here?” he asked.

  “As designated life guard. Enjoy your swim?”

  “Yes, life giving after the heat of the desert.” He dried himself with the robes, then shrugged into them.

  She turned. “Good night.”

  “Thanks for keeping watch.”

  “I don’t know that I would have been any help had you gotten into trouble,” she said, turning and half walking backward to continue along the shore.

  “Shall I walk you home? It would be easy enough for me to do.” He stood where he was, not threatening.

  “No.” She did draw the line there. She knew nothing about the man. It was one thing to run into a stranger on the beach, something else again to let him know where she lived—alone.

  “I might be here tomorrow,” he said.

  “I might be, as well,” she replied, then quickly walked away. She went farther down the beach and then cut into a neighbor’s yard. She didn’t want to telegraph her location. Hopefully he couldn’t see enough in the darkness to know which path she’d taken. She walked softly on the edge of the neighbor’s estate and soon reached the edge of the property she rented. Seconds later she was home.

  Khalid watched until he could no longer see her. He had no idea who the woman was or why she was out after midnight on a deserted beach. He was dripping. Taking a last look at the sea, or the dark void where it was, with only a glimmer of reflected starlight here and there, he turned and went back to the house his grandmother had left him last summer. Her death had hit him hard. She’d been such a source of strength. She’d listened to his problems, always supportive of his solutions. And she had chided him often enough to get out into society. He drew the line there. Still, he cherished her wisdom and her sense of fun. He would always miss her.

  He thought about the woman on the beach. He could only guess she wasn’t all that old from the sound of her voice. But aside from estimating her height to be about five feet two inches or so, he didn’t know a thing about her. The darkness had hidden more than it revealed. Was she old or young? Slender, he thought, but the dress she wore moved in the breeze, not revealing many details.

  Which was probably a good thing. He had no business being interested in anyone. He knew the scars that ran down his side were hideous. More than one person had displayed shock and repulsion when seeing them. Like his fiancée. Damara had not been able to cope at all and had fled the first day the bandages had been removed and she’d seen him in the hospital after the fire.

  His brother, Rashid, had told him more than once he was better off without her if she couldn’t stick after a tragedy. But it didn’t help the hole he’d felt had been shot through his heart when the woman he’d planned to marry had taken off like he was a horrible monster.

  He’d seen similar reactions ever since. He knew he was better off working with men in environments too harsh for women to venture into. Those same men accepted him on his merits, not his looks.

  He had his life just as he wanted it now. Except—he had to decide what to do with the house his grandmother left him. It had been a year. He had put off any decisions until the fresh ache of her dying had subsided. But a house should not sit empty.

  He walked swiftly across the sand to the start of the wide path that led straight to the house. It was a home suited for families. Close to the beach, it was large with beautiful landscaping, a guesthouse and plenty of privacy. The lawns should have children running around as he and his brother had done. As his father and uncles had done.

  The flowers should be plucked and displayed in the home. And the house itself should ring with love and laughter as it had when he and Rashid had been boys visiting their father’s parents.

  But the house had been empty and silent for a year. And would remain that way unless he sold it. It would be hard to part with the house so cherished by him and his family. Especially with the memories of his beloved grandmother filling every room. But he had no need for it. His flat in Alkaahdar suited him. There when he needed it, waiting while he was away.

  As he brushed against an overgrown shrub, his senses were assaulted by the scents of the garden. Star jasmine dominated the night. Other, more subtle fragrances sweetened the still air. So different from the dry, acrid air of the desert. Instantly he was transported back to when he and Rashid had run and played. His father had been alive then, and of course his grandmother. Who knew the odd quirks of fate, or that he’d end up forever on the outside looking in at happy couples and laughing families. That elusive happiness of families denied him.

  Not that he had major regrets. He had done what he thought right. He had saved lives. A scar was a
small price to pay.

  He entered the house through the door he’d left open from the veranda. Bed sounded really good. He’d been traveling far too long. Once he awoke, he could see what needed to be done to get the house ready for sale.

  Ella woke late the next morning. She’d had a hard time falling asleep after meeting the stranger on the beach. She lay in bed wondering who he was and why he’d been traveling so long. Most people stopped when they were tired. No matter, she would probably never see him again. Though, she thought as she rose, just maybe she’d take another walk after midnight tonight. He said he’d be there. Her interest was definitely sparked.

  But that was later. Today, she wanted to try to make the new glass piece that had been taking shape in her mind for days.

  After a quick breakfast at the nook in the kitchen, Ella went to her studio. As always when entering, she remembered the wonderful woman who had sponsored her chance at developing her skill as a glassblower and who had offered to help her sell her pieces when they were ready. She missed her. She pursued her passion two-fold now—for herself and for her benefactor.

  In only moments, she was totally absorbed in the challenge of blending colors and shapes in the bowl she was creating.

  It was only when her back screamed in pain that Ella arched it and glanced at the clock. It was late afternoon—she’d been working for seven hours straight. Examining the piece she’d produced, she nodded in satisfaction. It wasn’t brilliant by any means, but it had captured the ethereal feel she wanted. For a first attempt at this technique, it passed. A couple more stages to complete before the glass bowl was ready for a gallery or for sale. A good day’s work.

  She rubbed her back and wished there was some way she could pace herself. But once caught up in the creative process, it was hard to stop. Especially with glass. Once it was at the molten stage, she had to work swiftly to form the pieces before it cooled. Now it needed to go into the annealer that would slowly cool it so no cracks formed. This was often the tricky part. Especially when she had used different glass and different color mediums that cooled at different rates.

  It would end up as it ended up. She tried to keep to that philosophy so she didn’t angst over every piece.

  Once the bowl was in the oven, she went back to her kitchen, prepared a light meal and carried it to the small terrace on the shady side of the house. The air was cooling down, but it was still almost uncomfortably warm. She nibbled her fruit as she gazed at the flowers that grew so profusely. Where else in the world would she be so comfortable while working on her art? This house was truly a refuge for her. The one place she felt safe and comfortable and almost happy. She’d made it a home for one.

  Thinking about the flat she’d given up after Alexander’s death, she knew she had traded their happy home for her own. It had taken her a while to realize it, but now she felt a part of the estate. She knew every flower in the garden, every hidden nook that offered shade in the day. And she could walk the paths at night without a light. It was as if the cottage and estate had welcomed her with comforting arms and drawn her in.

  So not like the home of her childhood, that was for sure. She shied away from thinking about the last months there. She would focus on the present—or even the future, but not the past.

  Taking a deep breath, she held it for a moment, listening. Was that a car? She wasn’t expecting any friends. No one else knew where she was. Who would be coming to the empty estate? The gardener’s day was later in the week. For a moment she didn’t move. The car sounded as if it were going away. Soon the sound faded completely. Only then did Ella relax.

  After she ate, she rose and walked around the cottage. Nothing seemed disturbed. How odd that the car sounded so near. Had the sound been amplified from the road, or had it been in the drive for some reason?

  The late-afternoon sun was hot. She debated taking a quick swim, but reconsidered. She wanted to walk along the beach tonight to see if the stranger returned. For the first time in over a year, she was curious about something—someone. Not many people shared her love of the night. Did he? Or had last night been only an aberration because of his long trip? Where in the desert had he been? She’d like to visit an oasis or drive a few hours into the desert, lose sight of any signs of man and just relish the solitude and stark beauty that would surround her.

  She needed a car for that. Sighing softly, she considered renting a vehicle for such an expedition. Maybe one day in the fall.

  Ella could scarcely wait until midnight. Very unusual, her impatience to see if the man was there again. For a year she’d felt like she was wrapped in plastic, seeing, but not really connected with the rest of the world. Yet a chance encounter in the dark had ignited her curiosity. She knew nothing about him, except he liked the sea and wasn’t afraid to swim after dark. Was he old or young? Did he live nearby or was he sneaking through the estates to gain access to the private beach?

  Would he be there tonight?

  Promptly at the stroke of twelve, Ella left her home to walk quickly through the path to the beach. Quickly scanning from left to right, she felt a bump of disappointment. He was not there. Sighing softly for her foolishness, she walked to the water’s edge and turned to retrace last night’s steps.

  “I wondered if you would appear,” the familiar voice said behind her. She turned and saw him walking swiftly toward her. His longer legs cut the distance in a short time. No robes tonight, just dark trousers and a white shirt.

  “I often walk at midnight,” she said, not wishing him to suspect she’d come tonight especially to see if he were here.

  “As do I, but mainly due to the heat of the day.”

  “And because you don’t sleep?” she asked.

  He fell into step with her.

  “That can be a problem,” he said. “For you, too?”

  “Sometimes.” Now that he was here, she felt awkward and shy. Her heart beat a bit faster and she wondered at the exhilaration that swept through her. “Did you catch up on your sleep after your trip?”

  “Got a few hours in.”

  “Holidays are meant for sleeping in late and lazing around,” she said, trying to figure out exactly how to ask questions that wouldn’t sound as if she were prying.

  “If I were on holiday, which I’m not, I still require little sleep.”

  “Oh, from what you said…” She closed her mouth.

  “I did come off a job at an oil field west of here. But I’m here on business. Personal business, I guess you’d say.”

  “Oh.” What kind of business? How long would it take? Would she see him again after tonight? Not that she could see him exactly. But it was nice to share the walk with someone, if only for one night.

  “I have some thinking to do and a decision to make,” he added a moment later.

  “Mmm.” She splashed through the water. There was a slight breeze tonight from the sea which made the air seem cooler than normal. It felt refreshing after the heat of her workshop.

  “You speak Arabic, but you’re not from here, are you?” he asked.

  She looked up and shook her head. Not that he could likely see the gesture. “I’ve studied for years, I can understand it well. Do I not speak it well?”

  “Yes, but there is still a slight accent. Where are you from?”

  “Italy. But not for a while. I live here now.”

  “With family?”

  She hesitated. Once again safety concerns reared up. “Do you think I need a chaperone?” she asked, shying away from his question.

  “I have no idea. How old are you?”

  “Old enough.” She stopped and turned, looking up at him, wishing she could see him clearly. “I am a widow. I am long past the stage of needing someone to watch out for me.”

  “You don’t sound old enough to be a widow.”

  “Sometimes I feel a hundred years old.” No one should lose her husband when only twenty-eight. But, as she had been told before, life was not always fair.

  “I’
m sorry for your loss,” he said softly.

  She began walking again, not wanting to remember. She tried to concentrate on each foot stepping on the wet sand. Listen to the sea to her right which kissed the shore with wavelets. Feel the energy radiating from the man beside her. So now he’d think she was an older woman, widowed and alone. How old was he? She had no idea, but he sounded like a dynamic man in his prime.

  “Thank you.” She never knew how to respond to the comment. He hadn’t known her husband. He hadn’t loved him as she had. No one would ever feel the loss as she did. Still, it was nice he made the comment. Had he ever lost a loved one?

  They walked in silence for a few moments. Then she asked, “So what did you do at the oil field?”

  “I consult on the pumps and rigs. My company has a retainer with Bashiri Oil among others to assist when new fields are discovered. And to put out fires when they erupt.”

  “You put out oil fires?” She was astonished. She had seen the pictures of oil wells burning. Flames shot a hundred feet or more in the air. The intense heat melted and twisted metal even yards from the fire. She found it hard to work with the heat in her own studio with appropriate protective gear. How could anyone extinguish an oil well fire? “Is there any job more dangerous on earth?”

  He laughed softly. “I imagine there are. It’s tricky sometimes, but someone has to do it.”

  “And how did you get interested in putting out conflagrations? Wasn’t being a regular fireman enough?”

  “I’m fascinated by the entire process of oil extraction. From discovering reserves, to drilling and capping. And part of the entire scenario is the possibility of fire. Most are accidents. Some are deliberately set. But the important thing is to get them extinguished as quickly as possible. That’s why we do consultation work with new sites and review existing sites for safety measures. Anything to keep a well from catching fire is a good thing. It’s an interest I’ve always had. And since I could choose my profession, I chose this one.”