Hot-Blooded Husbands Bundle

by Michelle Reid

  ‘Rafiq should be doing this with us,’ Leona said to Hassan when she realised that his brother was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘He has other duties,’ he replied, then turned his attention to the next person to arrive at the doors to the great hall. A great hall that was slowly filling with people.

  Sheikh Abdul arrived without his wife, Zafina, which seemed a significant omission to Leona. He was subdued but polite to her, which was all she could really expect from him, she supposed. They greeted Sheikh Jibril and his wife, Medina, Sheikh Imran, and of course Samir.

  When Sheikh Raschid Al-Kadah and his wife, Evie, arrived, there were some knowing glances exchanged that made Leona want to blush. But the real blushing happened every time Hassan glanced at her and his eyes held the burning darkness of their secret.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, looking quickly away from him.

  ‘I cannot help it,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, try.’ A sudden disturbance by the door gave her someone new to divert her attention, only to have her heart stop in complete surprise.

  Two men dressed in black western dinner suits, white shirts and bow ties. She flicked her eyes from one smiling male face to the other, then on a small shriek of delight launched herself into the arms of her father.

  Tall, lean and in very good shape for his fifty-five years, Victor Frayne caught his daughter to him and accepted her ecstatic kisses to his face. ‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me? Ethan—’ One of her hands reached out to catch one of his. ‘I can’t believe this! I only spoke to you this morning. I thought you were in San Estéban!’

  ‘No, the Marriott, here.’ Her father grinned at her. ‘Thank your husband for the surprise.’

  Hassan. She turned, a hand each clinging to her two surprises. ‘I love you,’ she said impulsively.

  ‘She desires to make me blush,’ Hassan remarked, and stepped forward, took his wife by her waist, then offered his hand to his father-in-law and to Ethan Hayes. ‘Glad you could make it,’ he said.

  ‘Happy to be here,’ Ethan replied with only a touch of dryness to his tone to imply that there was more to this invitation than met the eye.

  Leona was just too excited to notice. Too wrapped up in her surprise to notice the ripple of awareness that went through those people who had dared to believe rumours about her relationship with her father’s business partner. Then, with the attention to fine detail which was Hassan’s forte, another diversion suddenly appeared.

  People stopped talking, silence reigned as Rafiq arrived, pushing a wheelchair bearing Sheikh Khalifa ben Jusef Al-Qadim.

  He looked thin and frail against the height and breadth of his youngest son. A wasted shadow of his former self. But his eyes were bright, his mouth smiling, and in the frozen stasis that followed his arrival, brought on by everyone’s shock at how ill he actually looked, he was prepared and responded. ‘Welcome…welcome everyone,’ he greeted. ‘Please, do not continue to look as if you are attending my funeral, for I assure you I am here to enjoy myself.’

  After that everyone made themselves relax again. Some who knew him well even grinned. As Rafiq wheeled him towards the other end of the room the old sheikh missed no one in reach of his acknowledgement. Not even Leona’s father, whom he had only met once or twice. ‘Victor,’ he greeted him. ‘I have stolen your daughter. She is now my most precious daughter. I apologise to you, but I am not sorry, you understand?’

  ‘I think we can share her,’ Victor Frayne allowed graciously.

  ‘And…ah…’ he turned his attention to Ethan ‘…Mr Hayes, it is my great pleasure to meet Leona’s very good friend.’ He had the floor, as it should be. So no one could miss the messages being broadcast here. Even Leona began to notice that something was going on beneath the surface here. ‘Victor…Mr Hayes…come and see me tomorrow. I have a project I believe will be of great interest to you…Ah, Rafiq, take me forward, for I can see Sheikh Raschid…’

  He progressed down the hall like that. As Leona watched, she gently slipped her arm around Hassan’s waist. She could feel the emotion pulsing inside him. For this was probably going to be the old Sheikhs final formal duty.

  But nothing, nothing prepared her for the power of feeling that swept over everyone as Rafiq and his father reached the other end of the hall where Sheikh Khalifa’s favourite divan had been placed upon a raised dais, ready for him to enjoy the party in reasonable comfort.

  Rafiq bent and lifted his father into his arms and carried the frail old man up the steps then gently lowered his father down again. As he went to straighten, the sheikh lifted a pale bony hand to his youngest son’s face and murmured something to him which sent Rafiq to his knees beside the divan and sent his covered head down.

  The strong and the weak. It was a painful image that held everyone in its thrall because in those few seconds it was impossible to tell which man held the strength and which one was weaker.

  ‘Hassan, go to him,’ Leona said huskily. ‘Rafiq needs you.’

  But Hassan shook his head. ‘He will not thank me,’ he replied. And he was right; Leona knew that.

  Instead Hassan turned his attention to causing yet another diversion by snapping his fingers to pull a small army of servants into use.

  They came bearing trays of delicately made sweets and Arabian coffee and bukhoor burners, which filled the air with the smell of incense. The mood shifted, took on the characteristics of a traditional majlis, and the next time Leona looked the dais was surrounded by the old sheikhs from the desert tribes sitting around on the provided cushions while Sheikh Khalifa reclined on his divan enjoying their company.

  Hassan took her father and Ethan with him and circulated the room, introducing them to their fellow guests. The timid Medina Al-Mahmud attached herself to Leona’s side like a rather wary limpit and, taking pity on her, Leona found herself taking the older woman with her as they moved from group to group.

  It was a success. The evening was really looking as if it was going to be a real success. And then from somewhere behind her she heard Sheikh Abdul say, ‘A clever ploy. I am impressed by his strategy. For how many men here would now suspect Mr Hayes as his lovely wife’s lover?’

  She pretended not to hear, smiled her bright smile and just kept on talking. But the damage was done. The evening was ruined for her. For it had not once occurred to her that her father and Ethan were here for any other purpose than because Hassan wanted to please her.

  Evie appeared at her side to save her life. ‘Show me where I can freshen up,’ she requested.

  As Leona excused herself from those she was standing with, a hand suddenly gripped her sleeve. ‘You heard; I saw your face. But you must not listen,’ Medina advised earnestly. ‘For he has the bad mouth and his wife is in purdah after Sheikh Hassan’s visit yesterday.’

  Sheikh Hassan’s visit? Curiouser and curiouser, Leona thought grimly as she took a moment to reassure Medina before moving away with Evie Al-Kadah.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Evie quizzed.

  ‘Nothing.’ Leona dismissed the little incident.

  But from across the room Hassan saw the green glint hit her eyes and wondered what had caused it. Had Evie let the proverbial cat out of the bag, or was it the timid Medina who had dared to stick in the knife?

  He supposed he would soon find out, he mused heavily, and redirected his attention to whoever it was speaking to him, hoping he had not missed anything important.

  The evening moved on; the old sheikh grew tired. His two sons appeared by the side of his divan. He did not demur when Hassan gently suggested he bid goodnight to everyone. Once again Rafiq lifted him into his wheelchair with the same gentleness that would be offered a fragile child. His departure was achieved quietly through a side door, as the old Sheikh himself had arranged.

  Leona was standing with her father and Ethan as this quiet departure took place. ‘How long?’ Victor asked her gravely.

  ‘Not very long,’ she answered, then chided he
rself because Sheikh Khalifa wished his thirtieth celebration to be an occasion remembered for its hospitality, not as his obituary.

  It was very late by the time people began leaving. Even later before Leona felt she could dare to allow herself a sigh of relief at how relatively pain-free the whole evening had turned out to be.

  Which suddenly reminded her of something she still had to do that might not be as pain free. Her heart began thudding as Hassan came to take her hand and walk her towards the stairs. She could feel his tension, knew that his mind had switched onto the same wavelength as her own. Hand in hand they trod the wide staircase to the floor above. The door to the private apartments closed behind them.

  ‘Did Evie bring—’

  ‘Yes,’ she interrupted, and moved right away from him. Now the moment of truth had arrived Leona found she was absolutely terrified. ‘I don’t want to know,’ she admitted.

  ‘Then leave it for now,’ Hassan answered simply.

  She turned to look anxiously at him. ‘But that’s just being silly.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But tomorrow the answer will still be the same, and the next day and the next.’

  Maybe it was a good thing that the telephone began to ring. Hassan moved away from her to go and answer it. Thirty seconds later he was sending her a rueful smile. ‘My father is restless,’ he explained. ‘Over-excited and in need of talk. Will you mind if I go to him, or shall I get Rafiq to—?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘You go.’ She really was a pathetic coward.

  ‘You won’t…do anything without me with you?’ he murmured huskily.

  She shook her head. ‘Tomorrow,’ she promised. ‘W-when I am feeling less tired and able to cope with…’ The wrong answer, were the words she couldn’t say.

  Coming back to her, Hassan gave her a kiss of understanding. ‘Go to bed,’ he advised, ‘Try to sleep. I will come back just as soon as I can.’

  He was striding towards the door when she remembered. ‘Hassan…My father and Ethan were invited here for a specific purpose, weren’t they?’

  He paused at the door, sighed and turned to look at her. ‘Damage limitation,’ he confirmed. ‘We may not like it. We may object to finding such a demeaning act necessary. But the problem was there, and had to be addressed. Inshallah.’ He shrugged, turned and left.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  INSHALLAH—as Allah wills. It was, she thought, the perfect throwaway answer to an uncomfortable subject. On a dissatisfied sigh she moved across the room to begin to prepare for bed.

  Already tucked out of sight in the drawer of her bedside cabinet lay the offerings Evie had brought with her from Behran. Just glancing at the drawer was enough to make her shudder a little, because the pregnancy testing kit had too much power for her comfort. So she turned away to pull on her pyjamas, slid into bed and switched off the light without glancing at the cabinet again. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, but then it had been a long day.

  When she woke up, perhaps an hour later, she thought for a few moments that Hassan must have come back and disturbed her when he’d got into the bed. But there was no warm body lying beside her. No sign of life in evidence through the half-open bathroom door.

  Then she knew. She didn’t know how she knew, but suddenly she was up and pulling on a robe, frantically trying the belt as she hurried for the door. It was as if every light in the palace was burning. Her heart dropped to her stomach as she began racing down the stairs.

  It was the sheikh. Instinct, premonition, call it what you wanted; she just knew there was something badly wrong.

  On bare feet she ran down the corridor and arrived at his door to find it open. She stepped inside, saw nothing untoward except that neither the sheikh nor Hassan was there. Then she heard a noise coming from the room beyond, and with a sickening thud her heart hit her stomach as she made her way across the room to that other door.

  On the other side was a fully equipped hospital room that had been constructed for use in the event of emergencies like the one Leona found herself faced with now.

  She could not see the old sheikh because the doctors and nurses were gathered around him. But she could see Hassan and Rafiq standing like two statues at the end of the bed. They were gripping the rail in front of them with a power to crush metal, and their faces were as white as the gutrahs that still covered their heads.

  Anguish lurked in every corner, the wretched sound of the heart monitor pulsing out its frighteningly erratic story like a cold, ruthless taunt. It was dreadful, like viewing a scene from a horror movie. Someone held up a hypodermic needle, clear liquid sprayed into the air. The lights were bright and the room bare of everything but clinical-white efficiency.

  No, she thought, no, they cannot do this to him. He needs his room, with his books and his divan and his favourite pile of cushions. He needed to be surrounded by love, his sons, gentle music, not that terrible beep that felt to her as if it was draining the very life out of him.

  ‘Switch it off,’ she said thickly, walking forward on legs that did not seem to belong to her. ‘Switch if off!’ she repeated. ‘He doesn’t want to hear that.’

  ‘Leona…’ Hassan spoke her name in a hoarse whisper.

  She looked at him. He looked at her. Agony screamed in the space between them. ‘Tell them to switch it off,’ she pleaded with him.

  His face caved in on a moment’s loss of composure. Rafiq didn’t even seem to know that she was there. ‘Don’t…’ he said huskily.

  He wanted her to accept it. Her throat became a ball of tears as she took those final few steps then looked, really looked down at the ghost-like figure lying so still in the bed.

  No, she thought again, no, they can’t do this to him. Not here, not now. Her hand reached out to catch hold of one of his, almost knocking the nurse who was trying to treat him. He felt so cold he might have been dead already. The tears moved to her mouth and spilled over her trembling lips. ‘Sheikh,’ she sobbed out, ‘you just can’t do this!’

  ‘Leona…’

  The thin, frail fingers she held in her hand tried to move. Oh, dear God, she thought painfully. He knows what is happening to him! ‘Switch that noise off—switch it off!’

  The fingers tried their very best to move yet again. Panic erupted. Fear took charge of her mind. ‘Don’t you dare bail on us now, old man!’ she told him forcefully.

  ‘Leona!’ Hassan warning voice came stronger this time. He was shocked. They were all shocked. She didn’t care.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she urged, lifting that frighteningly cold hand up to her cheek. The fingers moved again. He was listening. He could hear her. She moved closer, pushing her way past the doctor—a nurse—someone. She leaned over the bed, taking that precious hand with her. Her hair streamed over the white pillows as she came as close to him as she could. ‘Listen,’ she repeated, ‘I am going to have a baby, Sheikh. Your very first grandchild. Tell me that you understand!’

  The fingers moved. She laughed, then sobbed and kissed those fingers. Hassan came to grasp her shoulder. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he rasped.

  He was furious. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer, because she didn’t know what she was doing. It had all just come out as if it was meant to. Inshallah, she thought.

  ‘He can hear.’ She found her voice. ‘He knows what I am telling him.’ Tremulously she offered Hassan his father’s hand. ‘Talk to him,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell him about our baby.’ Tears were running down her cheeks and Hassan had never looked so angry. ‘Tell him. He needs to hear it from you. Tell him, Hassan, please…’

  That was the point when the monitor suddenly went haywire. Medics lunged at the sheikh, Hassan dropped his father’s hand so he could grab hold of Leona and forcibly drag her aside. As the medical team went down in a huddle Hassan was no longer just white, he was a colour that had never been given a name. ‘You had better be telling him the truth or I will never forgive you for doing this,’ he sliced at her.

  Leona
looked at the monitor, listened to its wild, palpitating sound. She looked at Rafiq, at what felt like a wall of horrified and disbelieving faces, and on a choked sob she broke free from Hassan and ran from the room.

  Back down the corridor, up the stairs, barely aware that she was passing by lines of waiting, anxious servants. Gaining entrance to their apartments, she sped across the floor to the bedside cabinet. Snatching up Evie’s testing kit, trembling and shaking, she dropped the packet twice in her attempt to remove the Cellophane wrapping to get the packet inside. She was sobbing by the time she had reached the contents. Then she unfolded the instruction leaflet and tried to read through a bank of hot tears, what it was she was supposed to do.

  She was right; she was sure she was right. Nothing—nothing in her whole life had ever felt as right as this! Five minutes later she was racing downstairs again, running down the corridor in between the two lines of anxious faces, through doors and into the sheikh’s room and over to her husband.

  ‘See!’ she said. ‘See!’ There were tears and triumph and sheer, shrill agony in her voice as she held out the narrow bit of plastic towards Hassan. ‘Now tell him! Please…!’ she begged him.

  ‘Leona…’ Hassan murmured very gently.

  Then she heard it. The silence. The dreadful, agonising, empty silence. She spun around to look at the monitor. The screen was blank.

  The screen was blank. ‘No,’ she breathed shakily. ‘No.’ Then she sank in a deep faint to the ground.

  Hassan could not believe that any of this was really happening. He looked blankly at his father, then at his wife, then at the sea of frozen faces, and for a moment he actually thought he was going to join Leona and sink into a faint.

  ‘Look after my son’s wife.’ A frail voice woke everyone up from their surprise. ‘I think she has earned some attention.’