But pride would not let him turn up without the woman he had told his Italian friend about on the phone last week. And surely she wouldn’t be able to resist him, when the two of them were sharing a luxury suite in a romantic riad?
The journey back to the palace was completed in silence and when they arrived Frankie went straight to her suite of rooms to pack. At least she wouldn’t have to wear any more of these stupid tunics with their matching narrow-legged trousers, she thought—until she sat down on the edge of the low divan and bit her lip.
She liked wearing those silky-soft tunics—whose very qualities of concealment meant that a woman could feel curiously liberated when she had them on. It made quite a change not to have to worry about whether your bottom looked big or whether you were showing too much cleavage, or sitting in a ladylike fashion.
She was still sitting there, gulping down the threat of tears, when a perplexed-looking Fayruz arrived to tell her that the car was waiting to take them to the airport and the servant turned to Frankie with a troubled face.
‘You are leaving Khayarzah?’ she questioned.
‘I’m afraid that I’ve got to go back to England, Fayruz.’
‘But …’
The girl’s words tailed off miserably but Frankie knew it was inappropriate to ask what was troubling her. She knew exactly what was troubling her, because she was experiencing similar feelings of misery herself. Fayruz didn’t want her to go—and Frankie herself didn’t want to go. But she had to. The dream she had always nurtured had come true and Zahid had told her that he loved her. And hot on the heels of that wonderful revelation had been her banishment from his kingdom. How on earth could she tell the young servant that without compromising the king and breaking down in floods of tears?
So she embraced Fayruz and said goodbye, promising to send her an English dictionary when she arrived home. And then, with one last look round, she went out to the car, where Zahid was seated in the front, in the passenger seat.
He gave her only the most cursory of greetings and spoke to his driver all the way to the airport. And even though that didn’t surprise her, it didn’t stop her from hurting.
Even on the lavishly appointed Gulfstream jet, Zahid sat working at a table some distance away from her and Frankie wondered if he was going to ignore her the entire weekend. How was he going to introduce her to his Italian friend? Hello, this is Francesca—you’re very welcome to speak to her, but I’m afraid I won’t be doing the same.
The plane landed in the warm spiciness of the Moroccan night, where the indigo sky was peppered with bright stars. Immediately, they were whisked through passport control—but when Frankie raised her head after putting away her passport with trembling fingers, it was to see Zahid subjecting her to a narrow-eyed look.
‘You’ve never been to Morocco before, have you?’ he questioned.
She shook her head. ‘Never.’
Another wave of unwanted guilt washed over him at the sight of her pinched and unhappy face. Had he done that to her? Brought her out here to heal the pain of her broken engagement and then ended up hurting her much more? And himself, he realised. He was hurting with a pain he’d never experienced. ‘It’s a very beautiful city,’ he said heavily. ‘As you will discover for yourself in the morning.’
Frankie tried to concentrate on the loveliness of her surroundings and the pleasure of this brand-new experience as their car drove them through the walls of the ancient city.
The place where they were staying was stunning. It was situated right in the very heart of Marrakech and not far from the hustle and bustle of the lively market they called the Medina. Here, in their riad was a perfect blend of Middle Eastern opulence with every modern convenience you could ever want. There was a massage room and sauna—as well as a floodlit courtyard swimming pool, which glittered gold and turquoise in the moonlight.
And a sumptuous suite with an enormous, low bed.
She stood looking down at it as if it had been covered with a writhing nest of vipers and then Zahid turned to look at her.
‘We could have our first full night together,’ he said softly.
‘We could—but it isn’t going to happen.’
‘Francesca—’
‘I can’t,’ she said simply, because she was only just about holding it together as it was. Imagine if he kissed her—if she let him enter her body again after everything which had happened? ‘I’ll sleep on that divan over there.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Yes, I do. You’re much too tall to be comfortable on it.’
‘Very well.’ His voice was cool, remote. ‘If that is what you wish.’
‘It is.’
But that didn’t stop her heart from aching as she lay sleepless in the big2 hours while Zahid slept, his hawklike face looking oddly soft in sleep as it lay, pillowed by his forearm.
Raffaele arrived next day with his fiancée—but Francesca was too exhausted from lack of sleep to meet them until dinner. She spent most of the day reading while Zahid worked and they communicated with a cool politeness she found far more distressing than the row they’d had in the desert.
Unfortunately, she fell asleep while she was supposed to be getting ready—and so by the time she stumbled downstairs the others were already assembled on the rooftop terrace, drinking from heavy red goblets and nibbling at pistachios.
Zahid’s face was a mask of disapproval as she walked onto the terrace.
‘You are late,’ he said.
Frankie shot him a reproving glance. ‘Zahid, aren’t you going to introduce us?’
Zahid made no attempt to hide his frown. Was there no end to her stubborn behaviour? he asked himself angrily. She had refused to share a bed with him and now she was late. ‘This is Raffaele de Ferretti, a business colleague, and this is his fiancée, Natasha—’
‘Phillips,’ butted in the woman with silky-looking hair and a rather anxious look on her face.
‘This is Francesca,’ Zahid said.
‘Hello,’ said Francesca, and smiled—even though it seemed to take a monumental effort to do so. Just as it took an even bigger effort to get through the meal without breaking down. Especially since Raffaele and his fiancée were clearly on some sort of high. The air was heavy with the sexual tension which seemed to flow between them and which made even more mockery of Frankie’s own life and her situation with Zahid.
By the time the evening was over and she and the sheikh were back in their suite, she stared at him as he closed the door.
‘Count me out for any further encounters like that,’ she said quietly.
‘We have a whole weekend to get through,’ he objected coldly.
‘And I’ll spend it in the suite.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Oh, but I can.’ She stared at him, defying him to challenge her. ‘I can do exactly as I please, Zahid. I’m a free agent, aren’t I?’
And that was that. Frankie stayed in their suite for the rest of their stay and Zahid presumably made excuses for her absence—because as soon as was decently possible the whole miserable visit was cut short.
‘Get your clothes packed,’ he bit out. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
The journey to the airfield was spent with Frankie biting on her lip and trying desperately hard not to break down in front of him. But it wasn’t easy. It felt as if someone had punched a hole in her heart and left it aching and empty. When would this feeling go? she wondered distractedly. How long did it take for love to die?
Their limousine drew up onto the tarmac and she was wondering how they would endure the long flight ahead when, to her surprise and consternation, Zahid said goodbye.
‘Goodbye?’ Sheer panic made all the blood drain from her face. ‘But I thought … I mean, aren’t you supposed to be flying to London with me?’
‘I was,’ he corrected and he looked deep into her eyes, feeling the painful twist of his hear
t as he registered the whiteness of her face. ‘But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think we need endure any more of this painful charade.’
‘Zahid—’
‘No, Francesca. Maybe it’s best this way. Let’s just try and retain some of the good memories, shall we?’ he questioned bitterly—because much more of this and he would do something unforgivable. Like break down in front of her. And what good would that do? It wouldn’t actually change anything.
The aircraft steps were lowered and Frankie was suddenly stricken by an overwhelming sense of fear as she stared up into the harshness of his shadowed features. He was going! He was going and she might realistically never see him again. In all the years which lay ahead, this might be her last glance at his beloved face. Because she realised something else, too. That their friendship of so many years had been irreparably shattered by the end of their affair. And that hurt almost more than anything else.
She took a tentative step forward, not knowing what she was going to say but knowing that she needed to touch him one last time. Just to feel the warm brush of his skin …
‘Zahid?’
‘What?’ He could read the unbearable sadness in her eyes but he kept his distance, knowing that if they touched he would be lost. Instead, he shrugged. ‘What can I say, other than that I’m sorry?’
‘S-sorry?’ The lump in her throat was threatening to choke her. ‘You mean you regret what has happened?’
Zahid’s mouth hardened. Yes, of course he regretted it—because their affair had given him a taste of a paradise he sensed he would never know again. But the tentative buckling of her rose-pink lips made something inside him melt and revise his opinion. For how could he regret something which had given him so much joy, and fulfilment? He shook his head. ‘Of course I don’t regret it,’ he whispered. ‘I’m just sorry that I can’t offer you anything more.’
‘Zahid.’ Her eyes were now brimming with tears and she wanted to blurt out that she would be satisfied with whatever he was able to offer her. That she would be contented to be his London mistress if she could continue being his lover—no matter how short and how snatched his visits might be. But Frankie knew that was not the answer. Wouldn’t she become increasingly dissatisfied if her sheikh tossed out ever big2er scraps of his time, until there was no respect or love left between them? Far better to part now, while the memories were sweet—no matter how much it hurt to do so.
‘Zahid,’ she said again, knowing that there was something she needed to tell him—even if it meant that she made herself even more vulnerable in the process.
‘What?’ he questioned grimly.
Say it, she told herself fiercely. Say it so that he will never be in any doubt of the truth. ‘I just want you to know that I love you, my darling. I love you so much.’
Zahid flinched, for it was like having his heart pierced with the sharpest of all swords. ‘I know you do,’ he answered softly. ‘Just as I love you. Now go. Go before …’ She nodded as she heard the sudden break in his voice. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she whispered.
‘Goodbye, Francesca.’ He turned on his heel and began to walk away from her, scarcely aware of the aide who appeared and informed him that a jet was being fuelled for his return journey to Khayarzah. All Zahid registered was the sight of Francesca’s plane as it took off into the star-filled Moroccan sky and he stood watching it until it had disappeared.
And only then did he board his own plane with a heavy heart—before going straight to the washroom and locking the door.
For there were very few places where a king could cry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘WILL there be anything else, Your Royal Highness?’
Zahid stared at the aide who was standing in front of him with a questioning look on his face and realised that he had been lost in thought. That he had sat through an entire meeting to discuss the opening of the new horse-racing track and that most of it had gone right over his head. Again.
This could not go on.
Flexing and then unflexing his long fingers, he shook his head. ‘No, there will be nothing else.’
‘We still need to discuss the opening ceremony,’ reminded the aide delicately.
‘I said, not now,’ snapped Zahid and could not miss the unmistakable glance which shimmered between his two closest advisors. They were wondering what the hell was the matter with him lately. Why he seemed to have the attention span of a fly and why nothing seemed to bring him pleasure.
Hadn’t he been wondering the same thing himself?
Abruptly, he stood up—a movement which brought the assembled group leaping to their feet. And bitterly Zahid recognised that it was a sign of ignorance if you failed to acknowledge what, deep down, you knew to be the truth. Because the reason for his discontentment and heavy heart was as clear as the bright Khayarzah morning.
He missed Francesca.
He missed her in a way that he imagined a man might miss his limb if it had been torn from his body, leaving him shocked and bleeding.
Hadn’t he thought that it would be easy? That by doing the right thing by his country, he would soon forget about the sapphire-eyed friend who had burrowed her way into his heart? Somehow, he had imagined that duty would bring some kind of consolation, in the form of some sort of peace of mind. But duty had so far failed to deliver.
Hadn’t he done everything he could to stop himself from thinking about her? Thrown himself into every task with a fervour which had astonished his palace staff—as if sheer hard work might provide him with some kind of sanctuary? And when that had failed, hadn’t he taken his horse and ridden him in the cool of the desert evening—ridden him harder than he could remember riding for years? But physical exhaustion, sweat and dust had done little to alleviate the terrible emptiness which filled him like a vacuum.
The other night, his brother Tariq had even called from London, on some flimsy pretext—but Zahid had known immediately that the subtext was to enquire how he was. Did that mean that word had got back to him that the ruling sheikh was out of sorts? And did such rumours not threaten to bring instability to Khayarzah? Maybe the ridiculous irony of the whole sorry mess was that the right thing might turn out to be the wrong thing?
His face darkened with rage, and the thought that he could be harming his beloved country was enough to spur him into immediate action. Gathering together his aides, he told them that he was making a short trip to England—and by the following day his Gulfstream jet was touching down outside London.
The black car he always used when visiting the country had been brought to the airfield and, after briefing his bodyguards, he set off on the familiar roads towards Francesca’s Surrey home, just as dusk was descending.
Fairy lights twinkled in garden bushes and blazed from the windows of the houses he passed—so that the usually subdued suburban roads seemed to resemble some sort of carnival. And then he remembered that it was December, and Christmas—when the whole of the western world seemed to come alight with colour and joy. He glanced down at his watch to read the date.
December twenty-fourth.
The night before Christmas.
Zahid narrowed his eyes. Wasn’t that a big deal? When stockings were hung at the ends of beds and carols sung in churches, and, for some European cultures, a feast of fish eaten at midnight? Wasn’t this the time when families came together to celebrate and to remember? Close units united against the outside world …
For a moment, a terrible wave of longing washed over him and he almost turned back—until he remembered that Francesca had no family with which to sit around a festive table. She was as alone as he was …
But as he turned into the familiar driveway and flashed at the following bodyguards to instruct them to lay in wait by the gates he almost collided with a saloon car which was roaring in the opposite direction.
And in the driving seat, his face tight with fury, was Simon Forrester.
Zahid had only met Francesca’s fiancé once—but once had been
enough to remember the sullen curl of his mouth and the handsome, pampered face. He felt something like a dark rage twisting in his gut.
What the hell was he doing here?
Screeching to a halt in front of the house in a spray of gravel, Zahid leapt out of the car and strode up to the house—hammering on the door until it opened and a startled looking Francesca stood blinking up at him. He saw the colour drain from her face and the tip of her tongue dart out to moisten those petal lips. She looked as if she had just seen a ghost. Or was that guilt he read on her face? he thought grimly.
‘What the hell was that creep Forrester doing here?’ he demanded.
Frankie’s senses were in disarray, her heart beating so loudly that it threatened to deafen her as she stared at her Sheikh lover. Ex-lover, she reminded herself bitterly. And ex for a good reason. Because a man who wanted four wives and who would always be a desert sheikh in the most traditional sense of the word was not the right kind of man for her. She just had to keep convincing herself of that.
She swallowed. ‘You can’t just turn up out of the blue, sounding like some B-rated detective, Zahid!’ she protested. ‘Why … why are you here?’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’ His voice was unsteady as he stared at her and noticed the deep shadows beneath her cheekbones—and how loose the pale sweater and jeans looked on her narrow frame. ‘To talk to you.’
Frankie’s heart gave a flare of hope which she did her best to ignore as she reminded herself of how many nights she had wept into her pillow over him. ‘You mean you want to interrogate me about who I’m seeing?’ she demanded.
‘So you are seeing him?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ A ragged sigh of inevitability escaped from her lips. She knew that she was going to listen to what he had come to say—for how could she turn him away? But one thing was for sure. She was going to be strong. Very strong. The last time he had seen her she had been on the brink of tears and now she needed to show him that she could cope perfectly well without him. ‘You’d better come in.’
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