by Trish Morey
‘No, this is his home. The only home he knows. Besides, you don’t know the first thing about children. You wouldn’t know how to raise one properly if they came with a manual, let alone out in some desert somewhere. I won’t let you take him. I won’t let you take him anywhere.’
‘Then I won’t give you a choice. We will take this to court if that’s the way you prefer to play it, princess. Imagine the fun the tabloids could have with that little custody battle: Party Girl Princess Steals Baby. Your father would be so proud of his firstborn daughter on reading that.’
She swallowed, the picture he painted too vivid, the consequences too great. For the first time since the onset of her rebellious adolescent years there were the fragile beginnings of a decent father-daughter relationship between the King and her. He still would never understand the circumstances of her becoming mother to not one, but two illegitimate children. That had been her fault too, for never wanting to reveal the truth, but they were at last coming to some kind of decent relationship.
She could not bear it if that fledgling relationship were threatened. And it was so unfair! ‘I never stole Chakir!’
‘No. You just stole three years of my child’s life from me. His first steps; his first words; his first smile. Did you celebrate his birthdays? I hope you enjoyed them.’ He glared at her. ‘Enjoyed them enough for the both of us.’
His words bit deep, the accusations hitting home. All those milestones she’d enjoyed and celebrated, she had never once realised were in fact crimes against the absent father. ‘You didn’t want a child,’ she said, more like a whimper, in her crumbling defence.
‘You didn’t give me a choice!’
‘I tried,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think I tried? Don’t you remember that day?’
‘I remember you asking if I wanted a child. I said no. I don’t remember you telling me you were already pregnant.’
She wound hands through her hair, twisting it so tightly it pulled on her scalp, welcoming the pain in the hopes it might blot out some of the emotional pain. But it was futile. ‘So we can work something out,’ she said, scrabbling for solutions. ‘Maybe you could visit some weekends or go out for the day? There’s a market every Tuesday in Fivizzano, the village at the foot of the mountain, and there’s always the beach at La Spezia. It’s not far.’
‘Or there’s a court in Rome where I will be given full custody of my son when I tell them how unsuitable you are to be a mother to my child.’
Was he serious? He’d actually fight her in court for custody? Her jaw dropped open, her mind stunned by the lengths he would resort to. But who was he kidding? Did he really imagine himself the model father? ‘You really believe for one moment that they would give custody to you, a man who has spent most of his life in front of a roulette wheel? A man who doesn’t even own a home? Not even the famed Sheikh of Spin could find a positive spin in your reputation. You’d be laughed out of court.’
He swatted away her protest with one hand like he was swatting at an annoying insect. ‘Then maybe we should put it to the test. Which one of us, I wonder, has the most to lose in going public?’
‘You bastard!’ she snapped. For there was no question in her mind which one of them would come off worst. She could not risk the exposure and the inevitable muckraking that would follow. And she could not risk anyone uncovering the truth about Hana when she had promised Sarah she would not tell.
Oh God, what if they took Hana? What if she lost them both?
Tears pricked at her eyes. How could he do this to her? Was his need for revenge so great? Did he hate her so very much? ‘You wouldn’t do it,’ she whispered, hoping he would realise he was costing her even just in his threats. ‘You couldn’t.’
‘Of course I would, if you continue to try to keep my child from me.’
‘Bahir, please,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t do this. You can’t take him. He doesn’t know you.’
‘Whose fault is that? Not mine. He will come with me to the desert. I will teach him how to ride and how to hunt. I will teach him the ways of his Bedouin forefathers.’
‘But he’s just a baby. He’s barely three years old. He’s too young for such a trip.’
‘I was born in a tent in the desert! I grew up there. How, then, can he be too young?’
She couldn’t take any more in. She was beyond stunned—already punch-drunk and reeling from the emotional roller-coaster she had been on for the last twenty-four hours—but this latest piece of news sent her mind spinning. She had spent months with this man and never once had he hinted at his origins. But when had they ever spent their time talking? In the dizzy heights of their relationship, nothing had mattered beyond the two of them and their own private sensual world, filled with the taking and giving of pleasure, and it was only now, when their relationship was already ancient history, that she was gleaning any insight into his past.
But that still didn’t mean he could take her son away from her.
‘Don’t do this,’ she said. ‘You can’t expect to just take Chakir away from me and off to some desert somewhere. You don’t know the first thing about children and you’re a stranger to him. He would be terrified. And it would be irresponsible of me, as a mother, to simply hand him over to you and let you take him.’
He said nothing, his eyes savage, his jaw grinding together, taking his time as if weighing up the truth in her words. Time she couldn’t afford to waste.
‘You see,’ she argued, ‘it won’t work. He wouldn’t go with you. It would be inhuman do that to him.’
‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll do it your way. I want the two of you packed and ready to leave by ten tomorrow.’
‘The two of us?’
‘Of course,’ he said, looking at his watch as if suddenly bored with the conversation. ‘If it will be so problematic—if the child will not come by himself—then clearly you will just have to come too.’
‘No, Bahir,’ she said, reeling again from this latest twist. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘On the contrary, I think it’s an excellent solution.’
‘You’re forgetting Hana.’
‘No. Not the girl,’ he said with disdain, as if the topic was closed. ‘She stays.’
‘I’m not going anywhere with Chakir and leaving Hana behind. I will not leave any child of mine behind.’
‘Since when? You, the wonderful mother, seemed only too happy to leave your children at home when you gallivanted off alone to their aunt’s wedding.’
‘You think I should have dragged them out of their sick beds to go to a wedding half a dozen countries away?’
‘Chakir was unwell?’
‘They both were, with chicken pox. I wasn’t going to bother going to the wedding at all except Catriona insisted I should go. They were both over the worst by then and she said she’d cope. Only now …’
‘Only now, what?’
Only now she wished she hadn’t gone at all. If she’d stayed at home she wouldn’t have stumbled into Mustafa’s path and needed rescuing. She wouldn’t have needed an escort home and this nightmare wouldn’t be happening now.
She sucked in air. It was happening and somehow she had to deal with it, somehow she had to find a way through, one that didn’t involve him calling all the shots.
One that maybe involved calling his bluff.
‘Only nothing.’ She looked up at him, fired with new resolve. There was a risk, of course, that she could lose everything with this tactic, but she sensed there would always be a risk where this man was concerned. Far better the one that she accepted than the one he imposed on her.
‘Nothing at all. But I tell you this, Bahir. We are a family—Chakir, Hana and me—and I will not leave Hana again so soon. I will not do that to my daughter. Either she comes, or none of us do. And if you don’t like it, you can abandon any plans of taking Chakir anywhere, and you can take me to court. And don’t expect it to be easy, because I will fight you every step of the way.
>
‘And you can feed whatever twisted, sordid little stories you like to the press and let’s just see who ends up with custody when they discover that you have nothing; that you’re just a gambler with no home and no life outside of the casino. Who in their right mind would award such a man custody of a child? What kind of father could he ever be?
‘So take me to court if that’s what you must do, and I will wear the consequences, but don’t think you can make blanket decisions that concern my family and expect me to blindly fall in with them!’
In the end they all went, including Catriona, who had offered to accompany them, an offer Marina had been only too happy to accept. It wasn’t just having someone to help keep an eye the children that she was grateful for, it was having someone along who could be both chaperone and the voice of wisdom should Bahir’s constant presence turn her thoughts more carnal—or, worse still, made her think that Bahir might somehow manage to fit into their small family on a more permanent basis. Catriona was no fool. They had had a long heart-to-heart last night while she had explained exactly how the land lay. Catriona would soon talk sense into her if she looked like wavering.
Bahir grunted as he loaded the last of the bags and she handed him a hamper of snacks for the children. ‘What have you told the boy?’ he asked.
‘I’ve told them that we’re going on a holiday. What did you expect me to tell them?’
‘You didn’t tell him—who I am?’
‘I think it’s a bit premature for that, don’t you? Maybe you might try getting to know him a little first.’
She wandered off as Catriona and the children arrived and he watched the women buckle the wriggling children into their car seats, the older woman climbing up alongside them. That addition to their party had taken him by surprise, but now he was quite happy she was coming. She could look after the girl.
‘Where are we going?’ asked the boy as Bahir climbed into the driver’s seat of the big four-wheel drive. ‘What’s it called again?’
‘Jaqbar,’ he said, looking at the child in his rear-vision mirror, noticing for the first time the fading marks on his gold-olive skin. The girl had them too, peeking out from under her dark fringe and on her cheeks. If he had noticed them earlier he would probably have assumed they were mosquito bites. So Marina had been telling the truth about their illness? He hadn’t known whether to believe her or whether she’d been trying to shore up that ‘good mother’ myth that she liked to espouse.
‘Is it far?’ the boy asked.
‘We’ll be there in time for dinner,’ his mother said.
‘So long?’
‘Don’t forget,’ she added, ‘there’s a plane ride first.’
‘I like planes,’ Chakir said, as the car headed down the mountain. ‘I like it when they take off. Whoosh!’ And his hand took off into the air.
Beside him the girl giggled hysterically, pulling her thumb out of her mouth to make her own hand plane. ‘Whooth!’ And she fell into another burst of giggles.
He caught Marina’s sideways glance, and sensed she was wondering how long he would cope with all this. He merely smiled as he pulled to the side to let the blue village bus heading the other way squeeze past. The girl he could do without, it was true, but he’d be damned he was going to let Marina think he could be no kind of father for his own child. He might be a gambler, but he was a professional one, who had made millions from his work. Why should that make him a bad father? He would enjoy proving that he could be the father his son needed.
After all, if she could surprise him with her strength last night in arguing her own case, then he could only return the favour. And she had surprised him, he reflected. He hadn’t figured on her fighting back. He’d witnessed her arguments crumbling beneath the weight of her guilt—he’d witnessed her almost defeat—and he’d had her in the palm of his hand.
But then he’d told her the girl wasn’t invited and she’d transformed into some kind of lioness defending a prized cub, willing to do anything to do so. And why? What was it with the girl? Why was she so special? Because her father had been special to Marina? Was he the one who owned this house?
He growled at the thought of another man making love to Marina while his child lay neglected in his cot nearby.
So much for all her declarations of undying love.
They landed in the heat of Souza, Jaqbar’s capital, shortly before six. ‘We stay here tonight,’ Bahir said as they transferred to a private villa on a palm-studded resort, the air cooled by the spray from a hundred dancing fountains. ‘Tomorrow we journey out to the desert, so you might want to take advantage of the pool. There’s not a lot of water where we’re going.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Chakir, with a child’s curiosity. He watched the boy’s mother warn him with her eyes, but the boy was having none of it. ‘Aren’t you coming for a swim too?’
‘Chakir,’ his mother admonished. ‘It’s not polite to ask so many questions.’
On the contrary, he liked that the boy was bold and not afraid to ask him questions. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, putting a hand to the boy’s head—his son’s head—only to be hit with a sudden jolt of a long buried memory of his father doing the same to him. His long robes had flapped in the desert wind, his face leathery and lined by the sun, his eyes overflowing with love. And for a moment he was rendered speechless. He blinked, clearing his vision of the memories, seeing his dark-eyed son studying him intently.
He smiled. ‘I have some things to organise for the morning, to ensure your camping holiday is the very best one it can be. Maybe later I will be back in time for a swim.’
‘We’re actually camping?’
‘That’s right. Just like I did, when I was a boy.’ Although the tents he had secured were a far cry from the basic squat black tents he remembered as a child. He would not have Marina say he could not provide for his son. He looked over at her now, to where she stood silently watching with something like fear in her eyes. ‘We do want this holiday to be perfect, don’t we?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY were all in the smaller children’s pool when he returned, the children splashing in the shallow water clutching their pool toys, the women close by, ready to reach out a supportive hand if one of the children slipped.
He glanced for a moment at his son, but it was to Marina his eyes were drawn. She was seemingly shrink-wrapped in a red one-piece that showed her long, golden-skinned limbs to full advantage, her black hair restrained in a thick long ponytail that hung, luxuriant, down her back like a heavy cord of silk.
That patch of lycra might have been more than she’d worn two night ago when she’d lain naked and open to him on his bed, but somehow it was also less. For it only accentuated what he knew lay beneath, every glorious curve, every intoxicating dizzy peak, every dip and every dark secret place, so that even now his hands itched to reach out for her, even now his body stirred.
Damn.
She chose that moment to look up and she stilled as their eyes connected, the air between them shimmering, heavy with expectation. Expectation for what? She’d been the one to walk out on him the other night. She’d been the one to walk away. And all ostensibly because he’d implied that she was irresponsible.
Okay, so one of her illegitimate children was his and he might have some responsibility to shoulder for Chakir. But to fall pregnant again so quickly after the birth of his child with another? Hadn’t she learned anything?
If not irresponsibility, it smacked of carelessness at the very least.
Was that why she looked at him that way, then, with her eyes like neon signs atop a seedy nightclub promising untold pleasures of the flesh? Because she simply couldn’t help herself? Because she looked at every man that way?
He cursed under his breath. She had no right to look at him that way! He balled his towel in his hands and flung it to a nearby lounger before striding to the end of the lap pool. Right now he could do with a cool down, and it had nothing to do with the tempe
rature.
‘Bahir!’ he heard his son call just before he hit the water. He just kept right on swimming.
Marina sat with her son at the end of the pool waiting for Bahir to finish churning through the water on his seemingly endless laps. But she didn’t mind how long he took. First, his preoccupation with his laps had given her the chance to cover herself with her sarong. Something about the way his gaze had raked her body had told her that she needed every bit of protection from his eyes that she could get. Secondly, it had afforded her the time to breathe.
And she had needed the time to remember how to breathe.
For the sight of him dressed in nothing more than a pair of swimming trunks and staring at her like he had done two nights ago just before his head had dipped between her legs had damn near shorted her brain.
It was only luck that he’d dived into the pool when he had or she would still be blindly staring—wishing …
The water this end of the pool churned as Bahir’s powerful arms sliced a path through and Marina assumed he was about to tumble-turn yet again before powering back the other direction when instead he took another stroke and glided into the wall.
He came up heaving for air, spinning droplets from his hair with a flick of his head as her son—their son—jumped up and down at the edge of the pool.
‘You swim so fast,’ he said in unrestrained awe, and the hero worship in his voice almost broke Marina’s heart. He had no heroes in his life, she realised, no male role models close enough to them to make an impact. She bit down on her lip, guilt weighing heavily upon guilt.
Bahir hauled his body from the pool with an ease that belied the work his arms had just done, and she had to force herself to look away and not stare in wonder. ‘I bet you can swim faster,’ he said to the boy, grabbing his towel and pressing his face into it. ‘I’ll give you a race right now, if you like.’
Chakir’s face crumpled. He shook his head. ‘I …’ he started, his expression stricken as he struggled with the confession, ‘I can’t swim.’
‘Why not?’ His words, intended for the child, were gentle enough. The black look, on the other hand, was directed squarely at the mother.