She thought he might kiss her, so badly she wanted to taste him again, she thought he might pull her just a little further in, but all he did was torment her with a slow appraisal that made her feel faint. He breathed in her scent, though he did not touch her physically, but to have him so close made her feel weak and, whatever his assessment, he was right to assume he could kiss her; he could touch her; he could have her right here on the balcony, and that, Georgie thought in a brief moment of clarity, was a very good reason to say goodnight.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she croaked.
‘Then go now,’ Ibrahim warned, which was wise.
She took the baby monitor from the ledge, walked to her room and made herself, forced herself, not to turn round, but there was little sanctuary in her bedroom.
She took off her dress and lay naked between cool sheets, knowing there was just one door between them and wondering if he’d pursue her—already she knew what her response would be.
But he didn’t.
He left her burning, aroused and inflamed as once she had left him, as perhaps was his intention, Georgie realised. Maybe he did want her on her knees, begging, just so he could decline.
Thank God for the baby monitor.
An electronic chastity belt that blinked through the night and made lots of noise, and, far from resent it, Georgie was grateful to have it by her side.
For without it she’d have roamed the palace, looking for his door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘YOU wanted to see me.’ Ibrahim strode into the king’s plush office ten minutes early. Yesterday’s reprieve from his father had come more as an irritation than a relief to Ibrahim. He did not avoid things and though he wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, he would rather it was over.
That he state his case and move on.
‘Have a seat.’ The king’s voice was tired rather than assertive, which was unusual, but what came next was a complete surprise. He had expected to be met with a tirade, a challenge, but it was the father, not the ruler who met his eyes. ‘You were right.’
‘I’m always right.’ Ibrahim smiled, perhaps the only one of the sons who dared and sometimes could get away with cheeking his father. ‘Can I ask about what?’
‘I should have informed your mother.’ The smile faded from Ibrahim’s face as his father continued. ‘She deserved better than to hear it from her son, or the news, or my secretary.’
She deserved better, full stop, Ibrahim wanted to add, but knew better than to push it.
‘She would not come to the phone this morning to accept my apology, so I am heading there to deliver it in person.’
‘You are leaving Zaraq now?’ It was almost unthinkable. The streets were awash with celebration, this was Zaraq’s greatest day, and his father was leaving?
‘I will be home in time for his discharge from hospital and I will visit the baby this morning. The people do not necessarily have to know. And if they do find out …’ The king gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I am visiting my wife to share in person the joyous news.’ He looked at his son, at the youngest but the deepest, the one, out of all of them, he could read the least. ‘You don’t look pleased.’
‘Why would I be?’
‘Since my illness I have been going to London more often. Your brothers are pleased to see your mother and I getting on … but not you.’
‘No.’ Ibrahim was honest, to his detriment at times, but he was always honest. ‘I don’t like my mother being treated as a tart.’
‘Ibrahim.’ There was a roar that would surely have woken Azizah, but Ibrahim didn’t even flinch. ‘Never speak of her like that.’
‘That is what you make her,’ Ibrahim said. ‘For years you ignored her.’
‘I housed her, she had an allowance.’
‘Now you lavish her with gifts, fly over there when you are able …’ He lifted his hands and danced them like a puppeteer and just sat as his father came round the table and raised his fist to him. ‘Go ahead,’ Ibrahim said, ‘but it won’t silence me—it never has before.’ As his father dropped his fist, Ibrahim continued his tirade. ‘You expect her to be home, to drop everything when you deign to come over, yet at important times, at family times, she cannot be present—what would you call her then?’
‘I don’t need your approval.’
‘That is good,’ Ibrahim said, ‘because you will never get it.’ He stood and his father ordered him to sit.
‘I would prefer to stand.’
‘I did not dismiss you. There is more to discuss.’
‘As I said, I would prefer to stand.’
‘Then so too will I,’ the king said, and he stood and faced his youngest. There was challenge in the air and neither would back away from it. ‘I have been patient,’ the king said. ‘More than patient. But that patience is now running out. You are needed here.’
‘I am needed there,’ Ibrahim retorted. ‘Or will you only be happy when she is completely alone—will her punishment be sufficient when all her children are here in Zaraq?’
‘This isn’t about your mother. This is about you and your duty to Zaraq.’ Ibrahim refused to listen. He turned to go but his father’s words followed him. ‘Your place is here—you can run, but the desert will call you, I know that it is calling you.’
Ibrahim laughed in his face. ‘I cannot stand the desert.’
‘You fear it,’ his father taunted. ‘I see you ride along the beaches and along the outskirts, but this time home you have not been in. If you choose not to listen to that call, then you will listen to me. I am selecting a bride—’
‘I can make my own choices.’
‘You never make wise ones, though,’ the king said to his son’s departing back.
He wanted to leave and he would, Ibrahim decided, just as soon as his father had gone—he did not care to share a flight with his father. He wanted no more of this land, of its rules, and he would not have his wife chosen for him.
He had been right to come back, Ibrahim realised. It reminded him how he could not bear it.
And then he saw her.
A very unwise choice.
Sitting on the sofa, her laptop on her knee, her blonde hair high in a ponytail and with credit card in hand. He saw her blush as he entered, though she didn’t look at him.
He didn’t have to even be there to make her blush this morning.
Just her thought process last night made her burn with shame.
He could have taken her on the balcony, had he chosen to. He could have come to her room and taken her then—what sort of babysitter was she? She wanted to get away from the palace today, wanted to clear her mind before it went back to thinking of him. She’d expected his talk with his father to take for ever, that by the time they were finished she’d be long gone, but instead he walked up behind her.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she tapped on her computer. Most people wouldn’t look, Georgie thought. Most people wouldn’t come up behind you and stare over your shoulder at the page you were on, and even if they did, most people would pretend not to be taking an interest.
Ibrahim, though, wasn’t like most people. Georgie was scared to turn, her skin prickling at his closeness, the air between them crackling with energy.
‘I’m booking a tour.’
‘A tour?’
‘Of the desert.’
‘Scroll down.’
She really couldn’t believe his audacity.
‘Are you always this …?’ She couldn’t even sum it up in one word—rude, nosy? And then when clearly she hadn’t followed his command quickly enough, when clearly she hadn’t jumped to his bidding in time, he leant over her shoulder, moved her hand to the side and scrolled down for himself. In that second Georgie found her word—invasive.
‘An authentic desert experience …’ Every word was mocking. ‘You are staying at the palace, your sister is a princess and you are considering a guided tour?’
‘Felicity is busy,’ Georgie sighed.
‘No. Karim is heading out to the west today to assess the situation with the Bedouins—he wanted her to go with him, and she agreed. She won’t be back till late.’
‘So why aren’t you auditioning for the part of nanny? Didn’t she ask you to watch Azizah today?’
‘She did.’ Georgie gave a guilty blush. ‘But I said no. I said that I’d seen she was busy and had already made plans for the next couple of days.’
‘Bad Aunty.’
‘Good Aunty,’ Georgie said, because she had given this a lot of thought when feeding Azizah overnight. ‘I want to be her aunt, not her nanny. So when Felicity asked this morning if I could watch her, I told her I had plans.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Now I just have to make them.’
‘You can’t go on a tour.’ He shook his head. ‘That is like asking me to dinner and then I have to ring for a take-away.’
He was angry after his talk with his father; restless and confined, and in a moment his mind was made up. ‘I will take you.’
‘I don’t think that’s the best idea.’ Georgie swallowed, imagining Felicity’s reaction.
‘It’s a very good idea.’ Ibrahim said, because two days in, his homesickness had gone. Two days in Zaraq and he remembered why he’d left in the first place. ‘You should see the desert—and I would like to go there too.’ He would face his demons head on. The desert did not call him—the desert was not a person or a thing. Yes, maybe he had taken his horse only to the edge this visit or had ridden it on the beach, but he would go to the desert today because he refused to fear it. He would give Georgie her day and then he would leave. ‘I’ll tell them to prepare the horses.’
‘I had one riding lesson nearly a decade ago.’ Georgie said. ‘I’ll stick with my air-conditioned bus.’
‘Then I’ll drive you.’
Insane, probably.
‘Look, I don’t think my sister would approve and it has nothing to do with …’ Her voice trailed off. After all, why shouldn’t she go out with Ibrahim? Especially with what he said next.
‘You have to promise to keep your hands off me, though.’ He said it with a smile. ‘Or our souls will be bound for ever.’ He rolled his eyes as he said it. ‘It’s a load of rubbish, of course—I mean, look at my mother and father. Still we’d better not take that chance.’
‘I’m sure I can restrain myself.’ Georgie smiled back. ‘You’re not that irresistible.’
‘Liar.’ He gave her a very nice smile. ‘I’m saving you for London.’
His presumption did not irritate, instead it warmed. That she might see him again without all the confines brought hope without compromise.
‘Ring Felicity now, tell her you have booked a tour,’ Ibrahim said, ‘with an experienced guide …’
Blushing even though she was on the phone, Georgie did that, but instead of questions and a demand for details from Felicity all she got was guilty relief.
‘What if she finds out?’
‘How would she?’
‘Won’t the staff say something?’
‘I’ll smuggle you out,’ Ibrahim said. ‘I’ll have them pack me lunch. They always pack enough for ten—they are used to me heading out.’
‘Are you sure?’
He wasn’t.
Not sure of anything, and least of all her.
A woman who changed her mind at less than a moment’s notice, a woman his brother had warned him against yet again just this very morning, was serious trouble.
And there was unfinished business, which did not sit well with Ibrahim.
Still, where they were heading, there could be no conclusion, for the desert had rules of it own.
‘I would like to spend the day with you.’
It was the only thing he knew.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE FROWNED at her carefully planned desert wardrobe when she climbed into his Jeep.
Cool capri pants, a T-shirt and flat pumps were clearly not what he had been expecting her to change into.
‘See if your sister has robes.’
‘I’m not wearing them!’ Georgie said. ‘Anyway, on the tour guidelines it said—’
‘That was for a play date. This is the real thing,’ Ibrahim interrupted. ‘You’ll get burnt.’
‘I’ve got sunblock on.’
‘Don’t come crying to me then at 3 a.m.,’ Ibrahim said, and then he changed his mind, gave her a flash of that dangerous smile. ‘Well, you are welcome to—just don’t expect sympathy.’ And Georgie swallowed, because they were flirting and a day in the desert, a whole day alone with him, was something she hadn’t dared dream of and certainly not with him looking like that.
He was dressed for the desert and it was an Ibrahim she had not once glimpsed or envisaged. The sight made her toes curl in her unsuitable pumps, for if her mind could have conjured it up, this was how she’d have envisioned him. A man of the desert in white robes, his feet encased in leather straps and a black and white kafeya that hid his hair from sight and allowed more focus on his face.
‘What?’ Ibrahim asked, as he often did to silence.
‘Bring it back,’ Georgie said, and they were definitely flirting because he smiled as he registered what she meant.
‘Consider it packed.’
They drove for miles, until the road ran out. Then Ibrahim hurtled the Jeep over the dunes, accelerating and braking, riding the dunes like a surfer on a wave. He had been wrong to fear it, Ibrahim decided, because all it was was fairy-tales and sand.
He parked near a vast canyon, with a few clusters of shrubs and not much else.
‘Is this it?’ Georgie asked, curious at her own disappointment.
‘This is it,’ Ibrahim said. ‘You take the rug and I’ll bring the food over.’
‘Where?’
‘To the picnic table,’ he teased.
‘Ha, ha,’ she said as she stepped out. She knew she was being a bit precious, or just plain shallow—she didn’t want belly dancers or for Ibrahim to produce a hookah. She’d just dreamt of it so, built it up to something majestic in her mind, and all there was … was nothing. She felt the blistering heat on her head and she scanned the horizon, trying to get her bearings, to see the city and the palace behind, or the blue of the ocean that circled the island, but there was nothing but endless sand.
‘What direction is the palace?’
‘That way,’ Ibrahim said, spreading a blanket at the side of the Jeep for shade. She sat down and accepted some iced mint and lemon tea, but her eyes could not accept the nothingness.
‘You want camels?’ He grinned.
‘I guess,’ she admitted. ‘And I’d love to see the desert people.’
‘We might come across some. But most are deeper in the desert.’
‘What is this illness that the Bedouins are suffering from?’ Georgie asked.
‘A virus,’ Ibrahim explained. ‘It is not serious with treatment, and most have been vaccinated. Most in Zaraqua anyway, but out of the city …’ He looked out to the horizon. ‘Beyond the royal tent there is nothing to the west. It is accessible only by helicopter. There is no refuelling point, no roads …’
‘What if they need help?’
‘It is how they choose to live.’ Ibrahim repeated his father’s words, though today they did not sit well in his gut. ‘Ten years ago there was talk, contractors were bought in, proposals made, but the elders protested they did not want change and so, instead we concentrated on the town, the hospital and university.’
He watched her wriggle on the blanket, her capri pants and linen shirt uncomfortable now and her cheeks pink. Instead of saying ‘I told you so’, he headed to the vehicle and retrieved a scarf, which he tied for her, and it was bliss to have relief.
‘Here.’ As he sat down he pulled something from the sand and he handed her a shell. ‘You are protected—that is what they mean.’
‘There really are shells? From when it was ocean?’
‘Maybe,’ Ibrahim sa
id. ‘Or maybe a small animal. There are more questions than answers.’ He smeared some thick white cheese on bread and offered it to her, but Georgie took a sniff and shook her head.
‘I don’t like goat’s cheese.’
‘Neither do I,’ Ibrahim said, ‘when it is from a high-street store. Try it.’ He held it to her mouth and it was a gesture Georgie usually could not tolerate. Despite her healing, still there were boundaries and unwittingly he had crossed one. He held the morsel to her lips, told her what she should eat, only his black eyes caressed her as they did so, and there was, for the first time in this situation, the absence of fear. ‘Try,’ he teased, ‘and my apologies if it is not to your taste.’
It was to her taste; there was a note to it that she could not detect and he watched as those blue eyes tried to work it out.
‘The goats graze only on thyme,’ Ibrahim explained. ‘It makes this a rare delicacy.’
And she tasted other things.
Fruits she had never heard of that had been dried by the desert sun. She felt cool beneath the scarf. She felt brave in his company and not scared of the silence when they lay back on the rug for a while—and she knew he would not kiss her, knew, despite the energy that thrummed between them, that their day must end soon. They had driven for hours and there was only half a tank of fuel, but she wanted something else from the desert.
She wanted more.
‘You would get a greater sense of it if I left you alone.’ He spoke to her as he looked at the sky.
She smiled at him. ‘I’d be bored out of my skull.’
‘No,’ Ibrahim said. ‘That is how they make you fear it.’ His face turned to hers and they lay on the rug, just talking, sure that they would play by the rules. ‘When I was four or five, my father brought me. I was the same as you. Bored with the picnic …’
‘I’m not bored.’ Georgie corrected. ‘I’m not bored with you.’
‘Bored,’ he said. ‘That was how I felt, and unimpressed really, and then my father climbed into the Jeep and his aide drove off. I thought they had forgotten me, that it was a mistake, but, no, it was done to all of us.’
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