‘Either still asleep or breakfasting in their suites.’
Mentioning sleep had a knock-on effect on him, and in the next moment Rafiq was stifling a yawn. It was only then that Leona recalled his slick retreat from the fray the evening before.
‘Up all night?’ The spike was back in her voice.
He didn’t reply, but the rueful way his mouth tilted suddenly made her think of Spanish dancers. ‘I hope she was good.’ She took a tart stab in the dark.
‘Delightful.’ He smiled. It was yet another blow to her fragile ego that her one solid ally had deserted her last night for another woman. ‘Here,’ he said gently, and began to pour her out a cup of tea. ‘Maybe this will help soothe your acid little tongue.’
Something needed to, Leona silently admitted as she picked up the cup. She had never felt so uptight and anxious, and it all was down to Hassan and surprises she did not want and people she did not want to be with and a marriage she did not—
The slightly sweet scent of Earl Grey suddenly turned her stomach. She must have gone pale because Rafiq began frowning. ‘What is the matter?’ he demanded.
‘I think the milk must be off,’ she explained, hastily putting the cup back on its saucer then pushing it away.
The sickly sensation left her almost as suddenly as it had hit. Problem solved in her mind, she wasn’t convinced when Rafiq picked up the jug to sniff at the milk and announced, ‘It seems fine to me.’
But he rose anyway and went to replace the milk with fresh from the cartons kept in the refrigerator situated just inside the salon. Then Hassan appeared and the incident was forgotten because, after dropping a kiss on her forehead, he went to pull out the chair next to Rafiq, who was just returning to the table with the fresh jug of milk. For a moment Leona was held captivated by how much alike the two men were. Even their clothes were similar, only Hassan wore beige chinos and a black tee shirt.
Men of beauty no matter what clothes they were wore, she mused a trifle breathlessly, knowing that she would be hard put to it to find two more perfect specimens. So why do I love them both so differently? she asked herself as she watched them sit down. Life would certainly have been a whole lot simpler if she’d fallen in love with Rafiq instead of Hassan. No strict calls to duty, no sheikhdom to rule, no onus to produce the next son and heir to his vast power and untold fortune.
But she loved Rafiq as a brother, not as a lover—just as he loved her as a sister. Plus, he had his mysterious dancer, she added wryly, as she poured herself another cup of tea in a clean cup, then reached for a slice of toast.
‘You look pale. What’s wrong?’ Glancing up, she found Hassan’s eyes were narrowed on her profile.
‘She hates surprises.’ Rafiq offered a reply.
‘Ah. So I am out of favour,’ Hassan drawled. ‘Like the milk and the butter…’ he added with the sharp eyes that should have been gold, like a falcon’s, not a bottomless black that made her feel as if she could sink right into them and never have to come back out again.
‘The milk was off, it turned my stomach, so I decided not to risk it or the butter,’ she said, explaining the reason why she was sipping clear tea and nibbling on a piece of dry toast.
Keeping dairy produce fresh was an occupational hazard in hot climates, so Hassan didn’t bother to question her answer—though Leona did a moment later when a pot of fresh coffee arrived for Hassan and the aroma sent her stomach dipping all over again.
Hassan saw the way she pushed her plate away and sat back in the chair with the paleness more pronounced, and had to ask himself if her pallor was more to do with anxiety than a problem with the milk. Maybe he should not be teasing her like this. Maybe no surprise, no matter how pleasant was going to merit putting her through yet more stress. He glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes. Was it worth him hanging on that long?
‘You look stunning,’ he murmured.
She turned her head, her wonderful hair floating out around her sun-kissed shoulders and the perfect heart-shape of her face. Her eyes were like emeralds, to match the one she wore on her finger, glowing with a passion she could never quite subdue no matter how low she was feeling. Kiss me, her small, soft, slightly sulky mouth seemed to say.
‘I am de trop.’ Rafiq broke through the moment and rose to his feet. ‘I will go and awaken Samir and drag him to the gym for an hour before I allow him breakfast.’
Neither bothered to answer even if they heard him, which Rafiq seriously doubted as he went to leave. Then a sound beyond the canvas awning caught his attention, diverting him towards the rail. A car was coming down the concrete quay towards them, its long black sleekly expensive lines giving him a good idea as to who was inside it.
This time he made sure he commanded attention by lightly touching Hassan’s shoulder. ‘Your surprise is arriving,’ he told him, then left as Hassan stirred himself and Leona blinked herself back from wherever she had gone to.
Getting up, Hassan went to capture one of her hands and urged her out of her chair. ‘Come,’ he said, and keeping hold of her hand walked them down the stairs, across the foyer, out onto the shade deck and to the rail beside the gangway, just in time to watch a beautiful creature with pale blonde hair step out of the car and onto the quayside.
Beside him he felt Leona’s breath catch on a gasp, felt the pulse in her wrist begin to race. ‘Evie,’ she whispered. ‘And Raschid,’ she added as Sheikh Raschid Al-Kadah uncoiled his long lean body out of the car.
‘They’re sailing with us?’ Now her eyes were shining with true pleasure, Hassan noted with deep satisfaction. Now she was looking at him as if he was the most wonderful guy in the world, instead of the most painful to be around.
‘Will their presence make your miserable lot easier to bear?’
Her reply was swift and uninhibited. She fell upon him with a kiss he would have given half of his wealth for. Though it did not need wealth, only the appearance of her closest friend and conspirator against these—arrogant Arabian men, as she and Evie liked to call Raschid and himself.
‘After six years, I would have expected the unrestrained passion to have cooled a little,’ a deep smooth, virtually accent-free voice mocked lazily.
‘Says the man with his son clutched in one arm and his daughter cradled in the other,’ mocked a lighter, drier voice.