Rafiq, then. No, not Rafiq! she all but shouted at herself. Oh, why could there not be some more women in this wretched house of Al-Qadim? Why do I have to be surrounded by men?
Maids. There were dozens of maids she could call upon—all of whom would be just as proficient at belting out the message across the whole state.
As if she’d conjured her up a knock sounded on the door and one of the maids walked into the room. She was carrying a dress that Leona had ordered to be delivered from one of her favourite couturier’s in the city.
‘It is very beautiful, my lady,’ the maid said shyly.
And very red, Leona thought frowningly. What in heaven’s name had made her choose to buy red? Made by a local designer to a traditional Arabian design, the dress was silk, had matching trousers and thobe, and shimmered with beautifully embroidered golden threads. And she never, ever wore red!
‘The sheikha will shine above all things tomorrow night,’ the maid approved.
Tomorrow night, Leona repeated with a sinking heart as the maid carried the dress into her dressing room. For tomorrow night was the night of Sheikh Kalifa’s anniversary celebration, which meant she had a hundred guests to play hostess to when really all she wanted to do was—
Oh, she thought suddenly, where is my head? And she turned to walk quickly across the room towards the telephone which sat beside the bed.
Pregnant.
Her feet pulled to a stop. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot then sprang free again, catching at her breath. It was a desperate sensation. Desperate with hope and with fear and a thousand other things that—
The maid appeared again, looked at her oddly because she was standing here in the middle of the room, emulating a statue. ‘Thank you, Leila,’ she managed to say.
As soon as the door closed behind the maid she finished her journey to the telephone, picked up her address book, flicked through its pages with trembling fingers, then stabbed in a set of numbers that would connect her with Evie Al-Kadah in Behran.
Hassan was fed up. He was five hours away from home, on his way back from Sheikh Abdul’s summer palace, having just enjoyed a very uncomfortable meeting in which a few home truths had been aired. He should be feeling happy, for the meeting had gone very much his way, and in his possession he now had the sheikh’s copy of one ill-judged contract and the satisfaction of knowing the man and his wife now understood the error of their ways.
But it had required a five-hour drive out to mountains of Rahman to win this sense of grim satisfaction, which meant they now had to make the same journey back again. And Rafiq might feel he needed the physical exercise of negotiating the tough and challenging terrain but, quite frankly, so did he. He felt tense and restless, impatient to get back to Leona now that he could face her with an easy conscience.
So the flat tire they suffered a few minutes later was most unwelcome. By the time they had battled in soft sand on a rocky incline to jack the car up and secure it so they could change the wheel time was getting on, and the sun was beginning to set. Then, only a half-mile further into their journey, they became stuck in deep soft sand. And he couldn’t even blame Rafiq for this second inconvenience because he had taken over the driving for himself. Proficient though they were at getting themselves out of such difficulties, time was lost, then more time when they were hit by a sandstorm that forced them to stop and wait until it had blown past.
Consequently, it was very late when they drove through the gates of the palace. By the time he had washed the sand from his body before letting himself quietly into the bedroom he found Leona fast asleep.
Did he wake her or did he go away? he pondered as he stood looking down on her, lying there on her side, with her glorious hair spilling out behind her and a hand resting on the pillow where his head should be.
She murmured something, maybe because she sensed he was there, and the temptation to just throw caution to the wind, slide into the bed and awaken her so he could confide his suspicions then discover whether she felt he was making any sense almost got the better of him.
Then reality returned, for this was not the time for such an emotive discussion. It could backfire on him and deeply hurt her. And tomorrow was a day packed with strife enough for both of them, without him adding to it with what could be merely a foolish dream.
Anyway, he had some damage limitation to perform, preferably before this new development came into the open—just in case.
So, instead of waking her, he turned away, unaware that behind him her eyes had opened to watch him leave. The urge to call him back tugged at her vocal cords. The need to scramble out of the bed and go after him to confide her suspicions stretched nerve ends in every muscle she possessed.
But, no, it would not be fair to offer him hope where there might be none. Better to wait one more day until she knew for sure one way or another, she convinced herself.
So the door between their two rooms closed him away from her—just as it had closed him away before, when he had decided it was better to sleep elsewhere than risk another argument with her.
Maybe he was right. Maybe the common sense thing to do was stay out of each other’s way, because they certainly didn’t function well together unless they were in bed!
They had a battleground, not a marriage, she decided, and on that profound thought she turned her back on that wretched closed door and refused to look back at it.
The next day continued in much the same fashion. He avoided her. She avoided him. They circulated the palace in opposing directions like a pair of satellites designed never to cross paths. By six o’clock Leona was in her room preparing for the evening ahead. By seven she was as ready as she supposed she ever would be, having changed her mind about what to wear a hundred times before finally deciding to wear the red outfit.
When Hassan stepped into the room a few minutes later he took her breath away. Tall, lean and not yet having covered his silky dark hair, he was wearing a midnight blue long tunic with a standing collar braided in gold. At his waist a wide sash of gold silk gave his body shape and stature, and the jewel encrusted shaft belonging to the ceremonial scabbard he had tucked into his waistband said it all.
Arrogance personified. A prince among men. First among equals did not come into it for her because for her he was it—the one—her only one. As if to confirm that thought her belly gave a skittering flutter as if to say, And me, don’t forget me.
Too soon for that, too silly to think it, she scolded herself as she watched him pause to look at her. As always those dark eyes made their possessive pass over her. As always they
liked what they saw.