Heart of the Desert. Carol Marinelli
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‘You will be back as a royal prince to share your new knowledge, and your country will be waiting.’
‘No.’ Ibrahim had shaken his head. ‘For formal functions occasionally I will return and, of course, to see my family …’ His father did not seem to understand, so he had spelt it out. ‘My life will be in London.’
But the king had just smiled. ‘Ibrahim, you are going to study engineering. Remember as a child all the plans you had for this country of ours, all you could do for the people.’
‘I was a child.’
‘And now you are a man—you get to make real your dreams. When it is time, you will come back to where you belong.’ Ibrahim had rolled his eyes but the king had just smiled. ‘It is in your blood, in your DNA. You may not want to listen to your father, but the desert has its own call—one you cannot ignore.’
He wanted to ignore it.
For years now he had, but everything had changed when he’d returned for the wedding.
Ibrahim sped the car through the grey Sunday morning, out of the city and into the country. He hugged tight bends and accelerated out of them. His father’s patience was running out, his future awaited him and he raced from it till his tank was almost empty and again rules rushed in.
‘Breathe till I tell you to stop,’ the policeman ordered, and Ibrahim did. He even emptied out his pockets and let the man inspect his boot. He saw the suspicion in the officer’s eyes when everything turned up clean.
‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’ the officer asked again. He had seen Ibrahim’s driver’s licence and was sick of the rich and the young royals who thought the laws did not apply to them. This man was both.
‘I don’t know,’ Ibrahim answered again. Normally it would have incensed the policeman, normally he would have headed back to the car to perform another slow check just to make the prince wait because a fine would not trouble him, but there was something in Ibrahim’s voice that made the policeman hesitate. There was a hint of confusion in this arrogant, aloof man’s tone that halted him. ‘I’m sorry.’ The officer frowned at Ibrahim’s apology. ‘I apologise for not following your laws.’
‘They’re there for your own protection.’ And Ibrahim closed his eyes because, albeit in English now, those were the words that had swaddled him through childhood, through teenage years and into adulthood.
‘I appreciate that,’ Ibrahim said, then opened his eyes to the concerned face of the policeman. ‘Again I apologise.’
‘Is everything okay, sir?’
‘Everything is fine.’
‘I’ll let you go with a warning this time.’
He would rather have the ticket.
As he climbed back into the car, Ibrahim would far rather have paid his dues, accepted the punishment, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact he could afford to—he did not want favours.
Ibrahim drove sensibly, even when the police car left him as he turned into the petrol station. Ibrahim stayed within the speed limit all the way back to London, and as he turned into the smart West London street he did not look at the stylish three-storey house but at the railings in front of it, and the neatly trimmed hedge, to the houses either side and the next house and the next, and he couldn’t bring himself to go in.
Had the policeman been behind him he would have pulled him over again, for Ibrahim executed a highly illegal U-turn and then reprogrammed his sat-nav. His decision was made.
He would get it out of his system once and for all.
The future king was due to be born in a few weeks’ time and he certainly didn’t want to get caught up in all that. He would ride his horses in the ocean and desert for a few days, hear what his father had to say and then he would return to London.
To home, Ibrahim corrected himself.
Despite what his father said, London was his home.
He just had to be sure of it.
His mind flicked to Georgie, to unfinished business, to a woman who did not want the desert, who had been on his mind for far too long now, and another decision was made … he would visit the desert and return, and then he might call her.
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