The Sheikh's Jewel. Melissa James
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friendship or comfort with her, had rarely if ever shown any emotion in front of her—and remembering how she’d reacted, then and just now …
For three years she’d constantly punished him for his reaction—one born of intense grief and suffering, a reaction she could readily understand … at least she could understand it now. During the most painful time of his life, he’d needed one person to be there for him. He’d needed someone not to abandon or betray him, and that was exactly what she’d done. He’d come to her that day, and she’d treated him with utter contempt, a most unwanted husband, when he’d been the one to salvage her pride and give her the honour she deserved.
No wonder he’d never tried to touch her, had never attempted to make love to her, even on the one occasion she’d gone to his room to ask him to come to her bed!
But had she asked? Even then she’d been so cold, so proud, not hesitating to let him know how he’d failed her over and over. Give me a child and remove this shame you’ve forced on me all this time, she’d said.
With a silent groan, she buried her face in her hands.
The question now was, what could she do to make him forgive her, when it was years too late to undo the damage?
Harun was climbing into the jet the next day when he heard his name being called in the soft, breathless feminine voice that still turned his guts inside-out.
She might be your wife, but she can’t stand you. She wants Alim—even more, now she knows he’s alive, and as heroic as ever.
The same old fight, the same stupid need. Nothing ever changed, including his hatred for his everlasting weakness in wanting her.
Lust, it’s nothing more than lust. You can ignore that. You’ve done it for three years. After a few moments, struggling to wipe the hunger from his face, he turned to her. Afraid he’d give himself away somehow, he didn’t speak, just lifted a brow.
With that limber, swaying walk, she moved along the carpet laid down for him to reach the jet from the limo, and climbed the stairs to him. Her eyes were enormous, filled with something he’d never seen from her since that wretched night a year ago when he could have had her, and he’d walked away. ‘Harun, I want to come with you.’
A shard of ice pierced his heart. Amber hated to fly, yet here she was, ready to do what she hated most. For the sake of seeing Alim? ‘No.’
She blinked and took an involuntary step back at his forceful tone. ‘But I want to—’
He couldn’t stand to hear her reasons. ‘I said no.’
Her chin shot up then, and her eyes flashed. Ah, there was the same defiant wife he’d known and ached to have from three feet or three thousand miles of distance for so long. ‘Damn you, Harun, it’s all I’m asking of you.’
Harun turned his face away. Just looking at her right now hurt. For the first time she was showing him the impulsive, passionate side he’d believed slumbered deep inside her, and it was for Alim.
Of course it was for Alim; why should he expect anything else? In all these years, she’d only shown emotion once: when she’d asked—no, demanded—that he end her public shame, and give her a child. When he’d said no, she’d sworn at him for the first time.
But she’d just sworn at him again.
‘You still care for him so much?’ he asked, his voice low and throbbing with the white-hot betrayal he barely managed to hide.
She sighed. ‘I’m not nineteen any more. I’m your wife. Please, just give me a chance. It’s all I’m asking.’
A chance for what? he wanted to ask, but remained silent.
Something to the left of him caught his attention. Her bags were being stowed in the hold. With a sense of fatalism, he swept a hand before him. ‘By all means, come and see him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your care.’
No part of her touched him as she pushed past him and into the jet. Her chin was high, her eyes as cold as they’d always been for him … except on that fateful night last year—and a moment ago, because she wanted to see Alim.
Damn her. Damn them both.
Yet something like regret trailed in the wake of the warm Gulf wind behind her. Harun breathed it in, refusing to yet again indulge in the wish that things could be different for them. It was far too late.
She was sitting upright and straight in the plush, wide seat, her belt already buckled. He sat beside her, and saw her hands gripping the armrests. He’d seen this on the times they’d had to go to another country for a state visit. She really hated flying.
His hand moved to hers, then stopped. It wasn’t his comfort she wanted.
During the final safety check of the jet the silence stretched out. The awkwardness between them was never more evident than when they sat side by side and could find nothing to talk about: he because all he could think of was touching her and hating himself for it, and she presumably because all she wanted was to get away from him, as fast and as far as possible.
How she must hate this life, trapped in this submissive woman’s role, tied to a man she despised.
‘You are not Brother Number Three.’
Startled, he turned to face her, prompted by a tone of voice he’d never known from his cold, proud wife. The fierce words seemed to burst from her; the passion he’d always felt slumbering in her came to blazing life in a few restrained words. ‘I’m sorry I ever said it, and sorrier still that you heard stupid words said in my own shock and grief, and took them so literally. I humiliated you before my father, and I’m sorry, Harun.’
Surprise and regret, remembered humiliation, yearning and a dozen other emotions flew around in him, their edges hitting him like the wings of a wild bird caged. He could only think of one thing to say, and he couldn’t possibly say it to his stranger wife. What am I to you now? As ever, he resorted to his fall-back, the cool diplomacy that told her nothing about what he was thinking or feeling. ‘It’s all right.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s not all right between us. It never has been, and I never knew why. But we’ve been married for three years. In all this time, why didn’t you try, even once, to talk to me?’ Touching his cheek, she turned him to face her before he could school his stunned surprise that her hands were on his skin. ‘I always wanted to know why you hated me. You were outside the door that day.’
Taken aback, he could only answer with truth. ‘I don’t hate you.’
An encyclopaedia could be written on the doubt in her eyes. ‘Really? You don’t?’
Reluctant understanding touched a heart shrouded in ice too long. ‘No,’ was all he said.
She sighed. ‘But you don’t trust me. You won’t treat me even as a friend, let alone your wife.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were a servant when I heard your footsteps behind the door. I would never have done that to you—don’t you know that?’
Her face was vivid with the force of her anger and her regret. She thought she wanted to know about his emotions—but she didn’t have a clue. If he let out one iota of his feelings, it might break a dam of everything he’d repressed since he was eight years old.
I need you to be strong for me again, little akh, Fadi had said at his mother’s funeral, only three months after their father died, and Alim had stormed off within minutes of the service beginning. We have to stand together, and show the world what we ‘re made of.
I need you to stay home and help me, little akh, he’d said when Alim was seventeen, and his first race on the circuit gave him the nickname the Racing Sheikh. What Alim’s doing could change the nation for us, economically and socially. You can study by correspondence, right? It won’t make a difference to you.
I need you to come home, little akh. I