A Cinderella For The Desert King. KIM LAWRENCE
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die a slow and painful death from thirst?’ Rob’s voice suddenly cut in as he made a graceful and yawn-filled ascent from the vehicle.
Abby threw him a look. ‘Seriously, what is the worst that can happen? At least we’ll have a story to tell over dinner when we get home.’
‘Guys.’
They all turned to look at Jez, who grinned broadly as he stabbed a finger towards plumes of dust in the distance. ‘They’ve come back for us!’
Abby sighed and wiped the moisture from her forehead. ‘Thank God!’ She frowned at the sound coming from the direction of the fast-approaching vehicles. ‘What was that?’
The young man shook his head, looking as puzzled as Abby felt. The two older men exchanged sharp glances, Rob turning to her. ‘Maybe you should get back inside, Abby, love.’
‘But—’ This time the sharp cracking noises were louder and Abby felt her initial relief at being found slip away, replaced by the first flurries of fear as she stared at the approaching dust cloud. ‘Was that gunfire?’ she whispered.
‘We’re fine,’ Jez said, shading his eyes. ‘We’re in Aarifa... It’s safe as houses. Everyone knows that.’ Another volley of gunfire cut across his words. He glanced at Abby. ‘Maybe just to be on the safe side you should go inside and keep your head down...?’
* * *
The pure-bred Arab horse picked his sure-footed way through a darkness that was profound, a thick, velvety blackness against which the flowing white robe of his rider stood out.
Rider and animal, at full gallop, moved in harmony across the sand, slowing only when they reached the first rocky outcrop. At a distance, the column of rock seemed to rise vertically from the ground, but in reality the spiralling path to the summit, though not one recommended to someone without a head for heights, was a series of shorter ascents punctuated by relatively flat sections.
The highly bred horse was panting by the time they crested the summit and paused, the animal drawing air through flared nostrils, the rider waiting for the usual sense of peace this spot gave him.
Not tonight though.
Tonight, even the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama—incredible any time of day but especially magnificent at night, set against the backdrop of a velvet sky sprinkled with stars—failed to penetrate or lift Zain Al Seif’s black mood. The most he could claim was the relaxing of a little of the tension in his muscles as he drank in the view, the illuminated ancient walls of the palace with its towers and spires making it visible for miles around. Tonight, however, there were more lights than usual, lights that spread into the old town, built within the shadow of the citadel walls and extended beyond into a geometric pattern created by the brightly illuminated tree-lined boulevards of the modern city with its tall, glass-fronted buildings.
There were a lot more lights tonight because today the city...the whole country, in fact...was celebrating. There had been a wedding. A royal wedding.
And the world loved a royal wedding, Zain reflected, his sensually sculpted lips twitching into a cynical curve. On this occasion, the world minus one.
He couldn’t escape it even here.
The horse responded to Zain’s tight-lipped curse with a snort that was loud in the stillness. His mount, picking up on his own mood, began to paw the ground and dance around in circles that would have sent a less experienced rider catapulting over his head.
‘Sorry, boy...’ Zain soothed, patting the spooked animal’s neck, an action that sent out a puff of the red dust that clung to everything in this desert. He waited for his horse to calm down before dismounting, an action he performed in one supple, well-practised action, his boots making no sound as he landed lightly on the uneven stone surface.
Releasing the reins, he took two steps forward and stood on the edge, not noticing the dizzying drop into blackness as his deep-set electric-blue eyes were drawn to the city’s lights. As he stared the faint smile that had curved his lips disappeared, those same lips flattening into a grim line. His dark, angled brows drew together in a parallel line above his hawkish, narrow nose as he embraced a fresh surge of self-contempt.
He deserved to feel like a fool, because he had been a fool. A complacent bloody fool.
Yes, he’d had a lucky escape but that was the problem—he’d needed luck. He prided himself on being such a great judge of people but the beautiful bride being toasted by an entire country and assorted foreign dignitaries had totally fooled him with her act. The only positive he could see in the situation was that his heart had not been involved. His pride, however, was another matter and it had taken a serious hit.
Of course, now Zain could see the clues, but during the pleasurable six-month affair he had remained oblivious even when he had crossed his own self-imposed very clear line; the progress towards it had been so insidious he hadn’t heard the alarm bells when he had started thinking of what they shared as a relationship... Who knew where that could have led?
Luckily, he never had to find out, because Kayla had got tired of playing the waiting game and when she received a better offer she took it. Zain, still under the illusion they were playing by his rules, had never for a moment suspected that lovely...lovely, poisonous Kayla had been playing him.
She had turned up at his apartment in Paris earlier than expected after her trip home to Aarifa to see her family. He’d been pleased enough to rearrange his schedule so they could spend the afternoon in bed. Afterwards, as he lay in bed, his attention was divided between the laptop propped on his knees and Kayla, who had dressed before taking a seat in front of the mirror and beginning to repair her make-up.
‘You really don’t need that,’ he’d said offhandedly.
They had been enjoying a discreet affair for six months and he had never seen her without her make-up. On the admittedly few occasions they had spent the night together she always vanished to the bathroom before he woke, emerging looking flawless, a silent signal there would be no repeat performance that morning as she didn’t want her hair mussed or her lipstick smudged.
She had turned to him at his words, lipstick in hand and a hardness in her smile he had not seen before. ‘Sweet of you to say but,’ she paused and applied a second layer of red to her lips before standing up and strolling back to the bed, ‘although I was prepared to pretend to like art and opera and even be interested in supremely boring politics for you, I’ve never been prepared to settle for the fresh-faced look you seem to like in your women.’
The shrillness in her laugh had made him wince, so unlike her usual placating style designed to stroke his ego.
‘No-strings-attached sex...did you really believe that was all I wanted? Do you really think we met by accident, that I took that awful pittance-paying art-gallery job because I want a career? Oh, well, at least it wasn’t a complete loss. I certainly never had to pretend with you when we were in bed...’ The concession emerged on a deep sigh. ‘You know, I’m really going to miss this.’
Zain, still processing the contents of her confession, had not yet reacted as she sat down on the edge of the bed and trailed a red fingernail down his bare, hair-roughened chest, but his lips curled in distaste now at the memory.
‘I thought I owed you...’ she paused ‘...well, nothing actually, but I figured one more time, for old times’ sake, wouldn’t hurt. My family are formally announcing my engagement to your brother next weekend, so I’m afraid, darling, we won’t be able to do this for a while. Don’t look so shocked! It is kind of your fault. All I ask is that you try and look a teeny bit heartbroken at the wedding. It would make your brother’s day.’
Now, alone in the desert, Zain felt his lips curl into a thin-lipped smile. He might not have inherited his father’s physical characteristics but it seemed that he had inherited a genetic predisposition to be blind to women’s faults. Then the smile vanished as he scanned the moon-silvered landscape and pushed away