The Sheikh's Jewel. Melissa James
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where you aren’t welcome.’
The heat in her cheeks turned painful. ‘Of—of course you’re welcome,’ she stammered. ‘You’re my husband.’
He shrugged. ‘So says the imam who performed the service.’
Knowing what he’d left unsaid, Amber opened her mouth, and closed it. No, they weren’t husband and wife, never had been. They hadn’t even had one normal conversation, only cold accusation on her part, and stubborn silence on his.
Didn’t he know how much it hurt that he only came to her rooms at night when the gossip became unbearable, and that he timed the hour and left, just as he had on their wedding night? Oh, she’d been cold and unwelcoming to him, mocking him with words and formal curtsies, but couldn’t he see that it was only because she was unable to stand the constant and very public humiliation of her life? Every time he was forced to be near her she knew that soon, he’d leave without a word, giving her nothing but that cold, distant bow. And everyone in her world knew it, too.
‘I didn’t come here to start an argument.’ He kept his gaze on her, and a faint thrill ran through her body, as delicious as it was unwelcome—yet Harun was finally looking at her, his eyes ablaze with life. ‘Alim’s shown up at last,’ he said abruptly.
Amber gasped. Alim’s disappearance from the clinic in Bern three years ago had been so complete that all Harun’s efforts to find him had proven useless. ‘He’s alive?’
Harun nodded. ‘He’s in Africa, taken by a Sudanese warlord. He’s being held hostage for a hundred million US dollars.’
Her hand fluttered to her cheek. ‘Oh, no! Is he well? Have they hurt him?’
The silence went on too long, and, seeing the ice chips in his eyes, she realised that, without meaning to, she’d said something terribly wrong—but what?
Floundering for words when she couldn’t know which ones were right or wrong, she tried again, wishing she knew something, anything about the man she’d married. ‘Harun, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Pay the ransom in full, of course. He’s the true Sheikh of Abbas al-Din, and without the contracts from the oil he found we’d have very little of our current wealth.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m going to Africa. I have to be there when he’s released, to find out if he’s coming home. And—he’s my brother.’
She’d expected him to say that, of course. From doing twelve hours of mind-numbing paperwork to meeting dignitaries and businessmen to taking up sword and gun, Harun always did what was right for the country, for his people, even for her, at least in public—but she hadn’t expected the catch in his voice, or the shimmer of tears in those normally emotionless eyes. ‘You love him,’ she muttered, almost in wonder.
He frowned at her. ‘Of course I do. He’s my brother, the only family I have left, and he—might come home at last.’
The second catch in her stranger husband’s voice made her search his face. She’d never seen him cry once since Fadi’s death. He’d never seemed lonely or needy during the years of Alim’s disappearance, at least not in her presence. But now his eyes were misty, his jaw working with emotion.
Amber felt a wave of shame. Harun had been missing his brother all this time, and she’d never suspected it. She’d even accused him once of enjoying his role too much as the replacement sheikh to care where Alim was, or if he was alive or dead. He’d bowed and left her without a word, seconds before she could regret her stupid words. She’d wanted to hurt him for always being so cold, so unfeeling with her—but during the past three years she’d been able to call or Skype with her family daily, or ask one sister or another to visit. She’d left him all alone, missing his brother, and she’d never even noticed until now.
The sudden longing to give him comfort when she knew he’d only push her away left her confused, even frightened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in the end—a compromise that was so weak, so wishy-washy she felt like an idiot. ‘I hope he does come home, for your sake.’
‘Thank you.’ But it seemed she’d said the wrong thing again; the smile he gave her held the same shard of ice as his eyes. ‘Will it make a difference to you?’
Taken aback, she stammered, ‘W-what? How could Alim’s return possibly make any difference to me?’
Harun shrugged, but there was something—a hint of fire beneath his customary ice with her. She didn’t know why, but it fascinated her, held her gaze as if riveted to his face. ‘He surrendered himself to the warlord in order to protect the woman who saved his life, a nurse working with Doctors for Africa. Very courageous of him, but of course one expects no less from the Racing Sheikh. Soon Alim will become the true, hereditary sheikh he should have been these three years, and I’ll be back to being—Brother Number Three.’
By this point she wondered if any more blood could possibly pool in her face. Ridiculous that she could feel such envy for a woman she’d never met, but she’d always yearned to have a man care enough about her to make such a sacrifice. To know Alim, the man who’d run from her, could risk his life for another woman—
Then, without warning, Harun’s deliberate wording slithered back into her mind like a silent snake, striking without warning. Frowning, she tilted her head, mystified. ‘What did you mean by that—Brother Number Three?’
‘It took you long enough to remember. Thinking of Alim, were you?’ He lifted a brow, just a touch, in true understated irony, and, feeling somehow as if he’d caught her out in wrong behaviour, she blushed. Slowly, he nodded. ‘I thought you might be.’
Her head was spinning now. ‘You just told me he’s alive and has been taken by a warlord. Who else should I be thinking about?’ He merely shrugged again, and she wanted to hit him. ‘So are you going to explain your cryptic comment?’
It took him a few moments to reply, but it wasn’t truly an answer. ‘You figure it out, Amber. If you think hard, you might remember … or maybe you won’t. It probably was never very important to you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said before she could stop herself.
His gaze searched hers for a few moments, but whatever he was looking for he obviously didn’t find. For some reason she felt a sense of something lost she didn’t know she’d had, the bittersweet wishing for what she never realised she could have had.
Before she could ask he shrugged and went on, ‘By the way, you’ll be needed for a telecast later today, of course, my dear. We’re so glad Alim’s alive, of course we’re paying the ransom, et cetera.’
The momentary wistfulness vanished like a stone in a pond, only its ripples left behind in tiny circles of hurt. ‘Of course,’ she said mockingly, with a deep curtsy. ‘Aren’t I always the perfect wife for the cameras? I must be good for something, since you endure my continued barrenness.’
His mouth hardened, but he replied mildly enough, ‘Yes, my dear, you’re perfect—for the cameras.’
He’d left the room before the poison hidden deep inside the gently-spoken cryptic words hit her.
Brother Number Three.
Oh, no—had it been Harun standing behind the door when she’d discussed her unwanted marriage—no, her unwanted groom—with her father?
She struggled to remember what she’d said. The trouble was, she’d tried to bury it beneath a blanket of forgetfulness ever since she’d accepted her fate.
Brother Number Three … how am I to face this total stranger in the marriage bed?
Her father’s words came back to haunt her. He’s been left completely alone … in deepest mourning …
And he’d heard her father discuss