‘Inshallah, indeed,’ Raschid murmured ruefully, and went away to prepare what he had been brought here specifically to say.
An hour later Evie was with her children, Medina and Zafina were seated quietly in one of the salons sipping coffee while they awaited the outcome of the meeting taking place on the deck below, and Leona and Samir were kitting up to go jet-skiing when Sheikh Raschid Al-Kadah decided it was time for him to speak.
‘I have listened to your arguments with great interest and some growing concern,’ he smoothly began. ‘Some of you seem to be suggesting that Hassan should make a choice between his country and his western wife. I find this a most disturbing concept—not only because I have a western wife myself, but because forward-thinking Arabs might be setting such outmoded boundaries upon their leaders for the sake of what?’
‘The blood line,’ Abdul said instantly.
Some of the others shifted uncomfortably. Raschid looked into the face of each and every one of them and challenged them to agree with Sheikh Abdul. It would be an insult to himself, his wife and children if they did so. None did.
‘The blood line was at risk six years ago, Abdul.’ He smoothly directed his answer at the man who had dared to offer such a dangerous reason. ‘When Hassan married, his wife was accepted by you all. What has changed?’
‘You misunderstand, Raschid,’ Jibril Al-Mahmud quickly inserted, eager to soothe the ruffled feathers of the other man. ‘My apologies, Hassan, for feeling pressed to say this.’ He bowed. ‘But it is well known throughout Rahman that your most respected wife cannot bear a child.’
‘This is untrue, but please continue with your hypothesis,’ Hassan invited calmly.
Flustered, Jibril looked back at Raschid. ‘Even in your country a man is allowed, if not expected, to take a second wife if the first is—struggling to give him sons,’ he pointed out. ‘We beg Hassan only take a second wife to secure the family line.’ Wisely, he omitted the word ‘blood’.
‘Hassan?’ Raschid looked to him for an answer.
Hassan shook his head. ‘I have the only wife I need,’ he declared.
‘And if Allah decides to deny you sons, what then?’
‘Then control passes on to my successor. I do not see the problem.’
‘The problem is that your stance makes a mockery of everything we stand for as Arabs,’ Abdul said impatiently. ‘You have a duty to secure the continuance of the Al-Qadim name. Your father agrees. The old ones agree. I find it insupportable that you continue to insist on giving back nothing for the honour of being your father’s son!’
‘I give back my right to succession,’ Hassan countered. ‘I am prepared to step down and let one or other of you here take my place. There,’ he concluded with a flick of the hand, ‘it is done. You may now move on to discuss my father’s successor without me…’
‘One moment, Hassan…’ It was Raschid who stopped him from rising. Worked in and timed to reach this point in proceedings, he said, ‘I have some objections to put forward against your decision.’
Hassan returned to his seat. Raschid nodded his gratitude for this, then addressed the table as a whole. ‘Rahman’s land borders my land. Your oil pipeline runs beneath Behran soil and mixes with my oil in our co-owned holding tanks when it reaches the Gulf. And the old ones criss-cross our borders from oasis to oasis with a freedom laid down in a treaty drawn up and signed by Al-Kadah and Al-Qadim thirty years ago. So tell me,’ he begged, ‘with whom am I expected to renegotiate this treaty when an Al-Qadim is no longer in a position to honour his side of our bargain?’
It was an attack on all fronts. For Rahman was landlocked. It needed Behran to get its oil to the tankers that moored up at its vast terminals. The treaty was old and the tariffs laid down in it had not been changed in those thirty years Raschid had mentioned. Borders were mere lines on maps the old ones were free to ignore as they roamed the desert with their camel trains.
‘There is no question of altering the balance of power here in Rahman,’ It was Sheikh Jibril Al-Mahmud who declaimed the suggestion. He looked worried. Crown Prince Raschid Al-Kadah was not known as a bluffing man. ‘Hassan has our complete loyalty, respect and support.’
‘Ah,’ Raschid said. ‘Then I am mistaken in what I have been hearing here. My apologies.’ He bowed. ‘I believed I was hearing Hassan about to step down as his father’s natural successor.’
‘Indeed no such thing ever crossed our minds.’ You could almost see Sheikh Jibril shifting his position into the other camp as he spoke. ‘We are merely concerned about future successors and question whether it is not time for Hassan to consider taking steps to—’
‘As the old ones would say,’ Raschid smoothly cut in, ‘time is but a grain of sand that shifts in accordance with the wind and the will of Allah.’
‘Inshallah,’ Sheikh Jibril agreed, bringing Sheikh Abdul’s house of cards tumbling down.
‘Thank you,’ Hassan murmured to Raschid a few minutes later, when the others had left them. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘There is no debt,’ Raschid denied. ‘I have no wish to see the spawn of Sheikh Abdul Al-Yasin develop in to the man who will then deal with my son. But, as a matter of interest only, who is your successor?’
‘Rafiq,’ Hassan replied.
‘But he does not want the job.’
‘He will nonetheless acquire it,’ Hassan said grimly.
‘Does he know?’
‘Yes. We have already discussed it.’
Raschid nodded thoughtfully, then offered a grim smile. ‘Now all you have to do, my friend, is try to appear happy that you have achieved your goal.’
It was Hassan’s cue to begin smiling, but instead he released a heavy sigh and went to stand by the window. Outside, skimming across the glass-smooth water, he could see two jet-skis teasing each other. Leona’s hair streamed out behind her like a glorious banner as she stood, half bent at the knees, turning the machine into a neat one-hundred-and-eighty-degree-spin in an effort to chase after the reckless Samir.
‘The victory could be an empty one in the end,’ he murmured eventually. ‘For I do not think she will stay.’
Raschid’s silence brought Hassan’s head round. What he saw etched into the other man’s face said it all for him. ‘You don’t think she will, either, do you?’ he stated huskily.
‘Evie and I discussed this,’ Raschid confessed. ‘We swapped places with you and Leona, if you like. And quite honestly, Hassan, her answer made my blood run cold.’
Hassan was not surprised by that. East meets west, he mused as he turned back to the window. Pride against pride. The love of a good, courageous woman against the—
‘In the name of Allah,’ he suddenly rasped out as he watched Leona’s jet-ski stop so suddenly that she was thrown right over the front of it.
‘What?’ Raschid got to his feet.
‘She hit something,’ he bit out, remaining still for a moment, waiting for her to come up. It didn’t happen. His heart began to pound, ringing loudly in his ears as he turned and began to run. With Raschid close on his heels he took the stairs two at a time, then flung himself down the next set heading for the rear of the boat where the back let down to form a platform into the water. Rafiq was already there, urgently lowering another jet ski into the water. His taut face said it all; Leona still had not reappeared. Samir had not even noticed; he was too busy making a wide, arching turn way out.
Without hesitation he wrenched the jet-ski from Rafiq and was speeding off towards his wife before his brother had realised what he had done. Teeth set, eyes sharp, he made an arrow-straight track towards her deadly still jet-ski as behind him the yacht began sounding its horn in a warning call to Samir. The sound brought everyone to the boatside, to see what was going on.
By the time Hassan came up on Leona’s jet-ski, Rafiq was racing after him on another one and Samir was heading towards them at speed. No one else moved or spoke or even breathed as they watched Hassan take a leaping dive off his
moving machine and disappear into the deep blue water. Three minutes had past, maybe four, and Hassan could not understand why her buoyancy aid had not brought her to the surface.
He found out why the moment he broke his dive down and twisted full circle in the water. A huge piece of wood, like the beam from an old fishing boat, floated just below the surface—tangled with fishing net. It was the net she was caught in, a slender ankle, a slender wrist, and she was frantically trying to free herself.
As he swam towards her, he saw the panic in her eyes, the belief that she was going to die. With his own lungs already wanting to burst, he reached down to free her foot first, then began hauling her towards the surface even as he wrenched free her wrist.
White, he was white with panic, overwhelmed by shock and gasping greedily for breath. She burst out crying, coughing, spluttering, trying desperately to fill her lungs through racking sobs that tore him to bits. Neither had even noticed the two other jet-skis warily circling them or that Raschid and a crewman were heading towards them in the yacht’s emergency inflatable.
‘Why is it you have to do this to me?’ he shouted at her furiously.
‘Hassan,’ someone said gruffly. He looked up, saw his brother’s face, saw Samir looking like a ghost, saw the inflatable almost upon them, then saw—really saw—the woman he held crushed in his arms. After that the world took on a blur as Rafiq and Samir joined them in the water and helped to lift Leona into the boat. Hassan followed, then asked Raschid and the crewman to bring in the other two men on the jet-skis. As soon as the jet-skis left the inflatable, he turned it round and, instead of making for the yacht, he headed out in the Red Sea.
Leona didn’t notice, she was lying in a huddle still sobbing her heart out on top of a mound of towels someone had had the foresight to toss into the boat, and he was shaking from teeth to fingertips. His mind was shot, his eyes blinded by an emotion he had never experienced before in his life.
When he eventually stopped the boat in the middle of nowhere, he just sat there and tried hard to calm whatever it was that was raging inside of him while Leona tried to calm her frightened tears.
‘You know,’ he muttered after a while, ‘for the first time since I was a boy, I think I am going to weep. You have no idea what you do to me, no idea at all. Sometimes I wonder if you even care.’
‘It was an accident,’ she whispered hoarsely
‘So was the trip on the gangway! So was the headlong fall down the stairs! What difference does it make if it was an accident? You still have no idea what you do to me!’
Sitting up, she plucked up one the towels and wrapped it around her shivering frame.
‘Are you listening to me?’ he grated.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Where are we?’
‘In the middle of nowhere where I can shout if I want to, cry if I want to, and tell the rest of the world to get out of my life!’ he raged. ‘I am sick of other people meddling in it. I am sick of playing stupid, political games. And I am sick and tired of watching you do stupid madcap things just because you are angry with me!’
‘Hassan—’
‘What?’ he lashed back furiously, black eyes burning, body so taut it looked ready to snap in two. He was soaking wet and he was trembling—not shivering like herself.
‘I’m all right,’ she told him gently.
He fell on her like a ravaging wolf, setting the tiny boat rocking and not seeming to care if they both ended up in the water again. ‘Four minutes you were under the water—I timed it!’ he bit out between tense kisses.
‘I’m accident prone; you know I am,’ she reminded him. ‘The first time we met I tripped over someone’s foot and landed on your lap.’
‘No.’ He denied it. ‘I helped you there with a guiding hand.’
She frowned. He grimaced. He had never admitted that before. ‘I had been watching you all evening, wondering how I could get to meet you without making myself appear overeager. So it was an opportunity sent from Allah when you tripped just in front of me.’
Leona let loose a small, tear-choked chuckle. ‘I tripped in front of you on purpose,’ she confessed. ‘Someone said you were an Arabian sheikh, rich as sin, so I thought to myself. That will do for me!’
‘Liar,’ he murmured.
‘Maybe.’ She smiled.
Then the teasing vanished from both of them. Eyes darkened, drew closer, then dived into each other’s to dip into a place so very special it actually hurt to make contact with so much feeling at once.
‘Don’t leave me—ever.’ He begged her promise.
Leona sighed as she ran her fingers through his wet hair. Her throat felt tight and her heart felt heavy. ‘I’m frightened that one day you will change your mind about me and want more from your life. Then what will I be left with?’
‘Ethan Hayes is in love with you,’ he said.
‘What has that got to do with this?’ She frowned. ‘And, no, he is not.’
‘You are frightened I will leave you. Well, I am frightened that you will one day see a normal man like Ethan and decide he has more to offer you than I ever can.’
‘You are joking,’ she drawled.
‘No, I am not.’ He sat up, long fingers reaching out to pluck absently at the ropework around the sides of the boat. ‘What do I offer you beside a lot of personal restrictions, political games that can get nasty enough to put your well-being at risk, and a social circle of friends you would not pass the day with if you did not feel obliged to do so for my sake.’
‘I liked most of our friends in Rahman,’ she protested, sitting up to drape one of the towels around her head because the sun was too hot. ‘Those I didn’t like, you don’t particularly like, and we only used to see them at formal functions.’
‘Or when we became stuck on a boat with them with no means of escape.’
‘Why are we having this conversation in this small boat in the middle of the Red Sea?’ she questioned wearily.
‘Where else?’ He shrugged. ‘In our stateroom where there is a convenient bed to divert us away from what needs to be said?’
‘It’s another abduction,’ she murmured ruefully.
‘You belong to me. A man cannot abduct what is already his.’
‘And you’re arrogant.’ She sighed.
‘Loving you is arrogant of me?’ he challenged.
Leona just shook her head and used the corner of the towel to dry her wet face. Her fingers were trembling, and she was still having a struggle to calm her breathing. ‘Last night you promised me a divorce.’
‘Today I am taking that promise back.’
‘Here…’ she held her arm out towards him. ‘…can you do something about this?’
Part of the netting she had been tangled in was still clinging to her wrist. The delicate skin beneath it was red and chafed. ‘I’m sorry I said what I did last night,’ he murmured.
‘I’m sorry I said what I did,’ Leona returned. ‘I didn’t even mean it the way it came out. It’s just that sometimes you look so very…’
‘Children are a precious gift from Allah,’ Hassan interrupted, dark head sombrely bent over his task. ‘But so is love. Very few people are fortunate enough to have both, and most only get the children. If I had to choose then I would choose, to have love.’
‘But you are an Arabian sheikh with a duty to produce the next successor to follow on from you, and the choice no longer belongs to you.’
‘If we find we want children then we will get some,’ he said complacently, lifting up her wrist to break the stubborn cord with the sharp snap of his teeth. ‘IVF, adoption…But only if we want them.’ He made that fine but important point. ‘Otherwise let Rafiq do his bit for his country,’ he concluded with an indifferent shrug.
‘He would give you one of his stares if he heard you saying that.’ Leona smiled.
‘He is an Al-Qadim, though he chooses to believe he is not.’
‘He’s half-French.’
‘I am one quarter Spani
sh, and one quarter Al-Kadah,’ he informed her. ‘You, I believe, are one half rampaging Celt. I do not see us ringing bells about it.’
‘All right, I will stay,’ she murmured.
Dark eyes shrouded by a troubled frown lifted to look at her. ‘You mean stay as in for ever, no more argument?’ He demanded clarification.
Reaching up, she stroked her fingers through his hair again. ‘As in you’ve got me for good, my lord Sheikh,’ she said soberly. ‘Just make sure you don’t make me regret it.’
‘Huh.’ The short laugh was full of bewildered incredulity. ‘What suddenly brought on this change of heart?’
‘The heart has always wanted to stay, it was the mind that was causing me problems. But…look at us, Hassan.’ She sighed ‘sitting out in the middle of the sea in a stupid little boat beneath the heat of a noon-day sun because we would rather be here, together like this, than anywhere else.’ She gave him her eyes again, and what always happened to them happened when he looked deep inside. ‘If you believe love can sustain us through whatever is waiting for us back there, then I am going to let myself believe it too.’
‘Courage,’ he murmured, reaching out to gently cup her cheek. ‘I never doubted your courage.’
‘No,’ she protested when he went to kiss her. ‘Not here, when I can feel about twenty pairs of eyes trained on us from the yacht.’
‘Let them watch,’ he decreed, and kissed her anyway. ‘Now I want the privacy of our stateroom, with its very large bed,’ he said as he drew away again.
‘Then, let’s go and find it.’
They were halfway back to the yacht before she remembered Samir telling her about the planned meeting. ‘What happened?’ she asked anxiously.
Hassan smiled a brief, not particularly pleased smile. ‘I won the support I was looking for. The fight is over. Now we can begin to relax a little.’
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