A Cinderella For The Desert King. KIM LAWRENCE
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a weakness meant you could guard against it.
His father had lived the last fifteen years of his life consumed by a combination of self-pity and pathetic hope, not accepting the reality of a situation. It had been the man’s downfall.
It would not be Zain’s.
He stared out into the darkness as the scene in his head continued to replay with relentless accuracy.
‘Of course, I’d prefer to marry you, darling, but you never did ask, did you?’ Kayla had reproached with a pout, the truth of her anger showing for the first time. ‘And I put so much effort into being perfect for you. Still, once things have settled we can pick up where we left off in bed, at least, so long as we’re discreet. And that’s the beauty of it all—Khalid isn’t...well, let’s just say he’s in no position to object, as I have enough dirt on him to...’
Zain abruptly closed down the conversation playing in his head.
People wrote bucket lists of things they wanted to do before they died. At nine, practical Zain had penned a list of things he would never do while he lived. Over the years, some had fallen by the wayside—he’d actually grown quite fond of green vegetables, and kissing girls had proved less awful than he’d thought—but others he had rigidly stuck to. The primary one being that he would never allow himself to fall in love or get married—he was determined never to repeat the mistakes his father had made.
Marriage and love had not only broken his proud father as a man but also had threatened the stability of the country he ruled and the people he owed a duty to. Watching the process as a youngster, Zain had been helpless to do anything, the love and respect he once felt for his father turning to anger and shame.
The situation could have had more serious consequences—not that his father would have cared—had the sheikh not been surrounded by a circle of courtiers and advisors loyal to him. Somehow, they had shielded him and managed to maintain the illusion of the strong, wise ruler for the people.
Zain had not been shielded.
He shook his head, aware that he was indulging in a pastime that he would have been the first to condemn in others, and he didn’t tolerate those who lived in the past.
A movement in the periphery of his vision interrupted his stream of thought.
Head inclined in a listening attitude, Zain turned his head and stared hard through the dark towards where the invisible border between Aarifa and their neighbour Nezen lay.
He was on the point of turning away, deciding he’d imagined it, when suddenly it was there again...a flash of light that could be a flashlight, or possibly headlights. The light was accompanied this time by a distant sound that drifted across the moonlit emptiness... It sounded like voices shouting.
This time, lights stayed on. Definitely headlights.
He sighed, feeling little enthusiasm for rescuing what would inevitably turn out to be some damn idiot tourist—they averaged about ten a month—with no respect for the elemental environment. Zain loved the desert but he also had a healthy respect for the dangers it presented.
He sometimes wondered if the deep emotional connection he felt with the land of his birth was made stronger by the fact that, growing up an interloper, he’d had to prove his right to belong.
Things had changed, though sometimes an overheard comment or knowing glance would make him wonder just how much.
Admittedly, no one called him names these days, no gangs egged on by his brother threw stones, excluded him or simply beat him up, but scratch the surface and the prejudices were still there. His existence continued to be an insult to many in the country, especially those members of the leading Aarifan families.
He was more of an annoyance than his mother, who at least was living on another continent. It would have been easier in many ways if he had been a bastard, but his parents had married, not letting a little thing like his father’s already having a wife and an heir get in the way of true love.
Love...!
A growing noise of distaste vibrated in his throat as, with a creak of leather, he heaved himself back into the saddle and turned the horse. That word again. In his mind it was hard to be sane and celebrate something that people over the centuries used to justify...well, pretty much anything from bad choices to full-scale war!
Love really was the ultimate in selfishness.
He didn’t have to look much farther than his own parents to see its destructive power—there was no doubt of his father’s enduring love for his mother, but it was as if their love story had been perfectly designed to increase tabloid turnover.
The sheikh of a wealthy middle-eastern state—married to a wife who had already given him an heir—had fallen for the tempestuous Italian superstar of the opera world, a diva in every sense of the word... Zain’s mother.
Despite its progressive reputation, setting aside a wife was not unheard of in Aarifa—in fact, there were circumstances, even in these more enlightened times, when it would be positively encouraged, and even by the discarded bride’s family if brought on by the need for a male heir, especially when that heir would one day be the country’s ruler.
But Zain’s father had already had an heir and the wife whom he dishonoured by setting her aside came from one of the most powerful families in the country. The humiliation of the sheikh’s betrayal of the family with impeccable lineage was compounded by the unsuitability of the bride Sheikh Aban al Seif took in her stead, and the fact that the unsuitable bride had won over all her critics with her charm and smiles.
A nation had loved her and then fell dramatically out of love with her when she had walked away from her husband and eight-year-old son to resume her career.
The irony was that her humiliated, proud husband, the leader who had never dodged making tough decisions, the man known for his strength and determination, had not fallen out of love despite her betrayal. He’d have taken her back in a heartbeat and both his sons knew this, which perhaps accounted for the fact that they had never been what anyone could term close.
And in many ways, just like their father, Khalid was stuck in the past. His eyes still shone with pure malice when he looked at the half-brother whom he still held responsible for every bad thing that had happened to him and his mother. He still wanted whatever Zain had, be it success, accolades or, now, the woman on his arm. Ultimately it was about depriving not possessing and, once he had whatever it was he coveted from Zain, Khalid usually lost interest.
Would he lose interest in Kayla now he had her?
Zain shrugged to himself in the darkness. It was no longer his concern.
ZAIN HAD COVERED half the distance to the stranded vehicle when he came across signs that made him slow, stop and, after circling, finally dismount to investigate.
He lost the attitude of disgruntled resignation with which he had embarked on the task as he studied the impressions of tyre tracks that stood out, dark in the moonlight. He picked up one of the shell casings that littered the area, holding it in the palm of his hand for a moment before flinging it away and leaping back into the saddle.
It took him ten minutes before he reached the car that stood with its headlights blazing. He yelled out a couple of times before the three men hiding inside revealed themselves, the drift of the hissed exchange between them suggesting to Zain that his ability to speak English without an accent made him friend not foe in their eyes.
Having halted the garbled explanations they all started to share, he demanded they speak one at a time and he listened, struggling to hold his tongue as he heard them describe what was a list of ineptitude that was in his mind approaching criminal, but there was a limit to his restraint.
‘You had a woman with you, out here?’ He could not hide his contempt.