Secrets of the Oasis

by Abby Green

  Something inside Jamilah wasn’t obeying her mental command to just shut up. ‘It was more than that… What we had was different. You spoke to me, spent time with me when you wouldn’t with anyone else… This last three weeks…I thought what we’d always shared had grown into something…’

  A look of forbidding cold bleakness crossed Salman’s face, and finally Jamilah curbed her tongue, wondering why on earth she was laying herself bare like this.

  ‘You followed me around like a besotted puppy dog for years and I never had the heart to tell you to leave me alone. This last three weeks was about lust, pure and simple. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman and I desired you. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  That was it. Whatever feelings Jamilah might have harboured for Salman over the years froze and withered to dust inside her. He’d also destroyed any halcyon memories she’d had of a bond between them. She forced words out through the excruciating pain. ‘You don’t need to say any more. I get the message. Whatever heart you may have once had is clearly gone. You’re nothing but a cold bastard.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Salman agreed, with an indefinable edge to his voice.

  Jamilah finally managed to move, and turned round to go, stepping out of the destruction of the fallen shopping around her. She couldn’t even attempt to pick it up.

  At the door she heard Salman say, with cynicism ringing in his voice, ‘Say hello to my beloved brother and Merkazad for me. I don’t intend seeing either any time soon.’

  Or you. He didn’t have to say the words. They hung in the air. Jamilah opened the door and walked out, and didn’t look back once.

  One year ago.

  The Sultan of Al-Omar’s birthday celebrations were as lavish as ever. They were taking place in the stunning Hussein Palace, which was in the heart of the glittering metropolis of B’harani, right on the coast of the Arabian peninsula, about two hours drive from mountainous Merkazad.

  One of the Sultan’s aides had been pursuing Jamilah on and off for years, and she’d finally relented and agreed to come to the party as his date. Her belly clenched now, because she had to acknowledge that the main motivation behind her decision to come was because Salman was going to be there.

  Each year the tabloids across the globe exulted in reporting feverishly on which A-list beauty he’d decided to take as his new mistress. He never came to the party with anyone, but he always left with someone.

  Her date had left her side for a moment in the thronged ballroom. It was the first night of celebrations which were meant to be for family and close friends only, but approximately two hundred people milled about the room.

  Jamilah’s skin prickled, and she cursed herself for her rash decision. She’d taken it because in all the years since she’d last seen Salman in Paris she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head, and she’d started having dreams again. Dreams of when she was six years old and standing at her parents’ grave, when Salman had come to take her hand and infused her with a strength so palpable she’d never forgotten it.

  She knew it was ridiculous, but she’d fallen in love with him at that moment. And even though she’d long since disabused herself of the notion that that childish love had grown and developed into something deeper, she couldn’t help her heart clenching at the evocative memory.

  She cringed inwardly now when she thought of how her teenage years had been lifted out of the doldrums every time Salman had made a visit home from school in the UK, and she, tongue-tied and blushing, had been reduced to a puddle of hormones. But then his visits had become more and more infrequent, until he’d stopping coming home at all, turning her world lacklustre and dull.

  She didn’t have to be reminded of how Salman had regarded her lovesick attentions. It was bad enough that her motivation for going to Paris to study had had as much to do with the fact that Salman lived there than because it had always been her father’s wish that she study in his home city. And she’d paid heavily for that decision.

  Bitterness flooded her.

  The dreams were the last straw. She couldn’t go on like this, so she’d hoped that if she came to the party, if she saw Salman living the debauched lifestyle of the notorious playboy Sheikh that he was, he’d disgust her and she’d be able to move on. At least enough to feel some measure of closure.

  She’d imagined greeting Salman with a look of practised surprise, a tiny smile of recognition. Not a hint of the emotional turmoil she’d suffered these past years would show on her face or in her eyes. She’d ask him how he was, while affecting a look of mild boredom, and then, with a perfunctory platitude, she’d drift away and that would be it. She would be over him. And he would be left in no doubt that their brief affair meant nothing to her at all…

  Except it hadn’t happened like that. As she’d been leaving her room she’d looked up from her bag, distracted, to see a tall, dark, broad figure in a tuxedo ahead of her. She’d nearly called out, because she’d thought it was his brother, Nadim. They shared the same height and build. But then she’d realised her mistake and it had been too late as a sound emerged from her mouth.

  She’d had a first fleeting impression of him, cutting a lonely, solitary figure, and then he’d turned round with a frown on his face which had only grown more marked as he’d registered who she was. Jamilah had been too shocked and stunned at being faced with him like that in an empty corridor to say anything.

  He’d rocked back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his trousers, and whatever fleeting hint of vulnerability she might have sensed about him had been smashed to pieces as his gaze had dropped down her body with lazy, sensual appraisal. ‘Jamilah…we finally meet again. I was wondering if you’d been avoiding me.’

  His deep, drawling voice had impacted upon her somewhere deep and visceral, and for one awful moment Jamilah had been transported back in time to that devastating evening in Paris, in his apartment. She’d given up any hope of sticking to the script she’d perfected in her head. With an iron will, she’d struggled to regain composure and sent up silent thanks for the armour of a designer dress and make-up. She’d forced herself to move, stride forward, fully intending to walk past him, but he’d caught her arm and the feel of his hand on her bare skin had caused her to stumble.

  She’d looked up at him, and her treacherous heart had beat fast—too fast. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Salman. Why on earth would I be avoiding you?’

  An inner voice answered: Because he broke your heart into tiny pieces and you’ve never forgotten it.

  Jamilah noticed then that faint grooves were worn into the brackets of his mouth. His eyes were hard—far harder than she remembered them being.

  ‘Because I’ve never seen you at the Sultan’s party before.’

  Jamilah wrenched her arm free. ‘This isn’t exactly my scene. And, not that it’s any of your business, I decided to come tonight because I was invited by—’

  ‘Ah, Jamilah, there you are. I was just coming to collect you.’

  With a rolling wave of relief, Jamilah saw her date approach. She let him come and put a proprietorial arm around her shoulder, for once not minding the way men seemed to find it impossible not to stake their claim. And with a few words of muttered incoherency to Salman she let herself be led away, leaving Salman behind.

  Now she stood amongst the throng that had gathered after the sumptuous dinner—a dinner Jamilah had had to force down her throat—horribly aware of Salman’s intense and assessing gaze from across the table.

  To her utter relief, at that moment she spotted Sheikh Nadim and his date, an Irish girl called Iseult, who had come to work in Nadim’s stables after he’d bought out her family’s stud farm in Ireland.

  Jamilah went to join them, and she could see their concerned looks as they took in her pale features. She felt light-headed. And then Iseult confirmed it by asking, ‘Jamilah, what is it?’

  Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘Nothing at all.’

  But Jamilah could feel whatever blood was left in her face drai
n southward when she saw Salman approach with narrowed eyes. No escape. How had she ever thought this would be a good idea?

  Muttering something about finding her date, Jamilah fled across the room and out to the patio through open doors, where thankfully few people milled about. She rested her hands on the stone balustrade and sucked in deep breaths, only to feel every cell in her body react when she sensed his presence behind her.

  She turned slowly and saw that the patio was now empty, as if the sheer force of the tension between her and Salman had repelled everyone else.

  Not caring how she might be giving herself away, Jamilah said unevenly, ‘Leave me alone, Salman.’

  His voice was harsh against the silence. ‘If you’d wanted to be left alone you should have stayed in Merkazad.’

  Jamilah’s mouth twisted to acknowledge that uncomfortable truth. To think she’d ever thought that she could cope with this… ‘Ah, yes, because you never come home.’

  His eyes flashed but he didn’t deny it. ‘Exactly.’

  For a long moment neither one said anything, and then Salman took a step forward. Jamilah’s heart lurched, and she noticed that the patio doors had been closed.

  He said, with a rough quality to his voice that resonated deep inside her, ‘You’re even more beautiful than I remember.’

  Jamilah forgot about escape and glared at Salman. His compliment fell on deaf ears. There was an unmistakably predatory gleam in his eyes and Jamilah railed against it. He had no right. His face was cast into shadow, so she couldn’t make out his expression. ‘The last time you saw me you told me I was beautiful, Salman—or don’t you remember telling me why you took me to bed?’

  ‘You were undeniably beautiful then, but now there’s a maturity to your beauty…an edge.’ There was something achingly wistful in his voice for a moment, which caught Jamilah off guard.

  She forced a mocking smile to numb lips. ‘You should be able to recognise cynicism when you see it, Salman. After all you’re the King of the Cynics, aren’t you? Always coming to the Sultan’s party empty-handed and walking away with the most beautiful woman here. Do you still stick to your three-week rule, or was that privilege afforded just to me? Tell me, how long did the lovely Eloise last?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Salman stepped closer then, out of the shadows, and when Jamilah saw the starkness of his beautiful features she nearly forgot everything. He blocked out the light behind him.

  ‘I thought you would have got over that by now.’

  Jamilah emitted a strangled laugh. ‘Got over it?’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I got over you long ago. I don’t have anything to discuss with you—so, if you don’t mind, my date will be looking for me.’

  ‘He’s no man for you. He’s a runt—an obsequious yes-man to the Sultan. What are you doing with him?’ Salman asked.

  Jamilah was belligerent. ‘What do you care? He’s perfect. The alpha male lost any fascination for me a long time ago.’

  She went to walk around Salman, but once again he caught her arm. ‘Tell me, do you shout out his name in ecstasy?’ he asked silkily. ‘Do you rake his back with your nails, pleading with him never to stop?’

  He didn’t have to say it, but the words hung between them: do you tell him you love him? As if held back by the flimsiest of walls, images and sensations flooded Jamilah’s body and mind. She was unaware of Salman putting his hands on her arms and drawing her back in front of him. Unaware of the intent in his dark gaze. Unaware of the way his eyes dropped down her body, and unaware of the guttural moan as he drew her into him and his head lowered to hers.

  She only became aware when the hot brand of his mouth seared hers, plundering and demanding, forcing her soft lips apart so that his tongue could snake out between her small teeth and suck hers deep. Jamilah had no defence. Desire burned up through her like a living flame and hurled her into the fire.

  It was shocking how well her body remembered his touch—and how hungry she was for it. His hands on her back felt so wonderful. Even more so when they went lower and cupped her buttocks through the fine silk of her dress. He pulled her up and into him, where she could feel the hardening ridge of his desire, and with a soft mewl of frustration she arched against him, wanting more. Burning up with it. It was as if no time had passed at all.

  And all the while their mouths clung feverishly, as if taking a first long drink of water from an oasis in the desert. It was only when Salman pulled her in even closer that an insidious image inserted itself—that of a red-haired woman being held in his arms, being made love to in exactly the same way.

  Suddenly as cold as ice, Jamilah wrenched her head away and pulled free. She stood apart, aghast at how out of control she felt and how hard she was breathing.

  ‘Stay away from me, Salman. There is nothing between us. Nothing. And there never was. You said it yourself. It was just a fling, and I’m not in the market for another one.’

  She whirled around, her dark blue silk dress billowing about her as she stalked to the doors, praying he wouldn’t stop her again. And then she turned back. ‘You had your chance. You won’t get another one. And for your information I’ve called out plenty of names in ecstasy since you, so don’t think what happened just now was anything special.’

  Salman watched Jamilah stalk back into the party and for a moment an almost unassailable wave of despair washed over him. Seeing her again had provoked a maelstrom of emotions within him—emotions he’d not felt since he’d last seen her. He sagged back against the wall, his legs suddenly weak as he registered how intoxicating it had been to kiss her, hold her in his arms.

  How familiar. And how necessary it had been—as necessary as taking another breath. It was as if no time had passed. He wanted her with something close to desperation. On that thought he resolutely stood to his full height again. He’d already seduced her and then rejected her. He had no right to want her again. He never wanted women after he’d had them. So why should she be different?

  His mouth was a grim line as he followed her back into the party. He hoped that she’d been telling the truth when she’d claimed those numerous lovers, because then it would mean that his impact on her had been minimal, and he could ignore the fact that he thought he’d seen vulnerability and hurt in those stunning blue eyes.

  Jamilah knew her parting words to Salman had been a cheap shot, but they’d felt good for a moment—even if they weren’t remotely true. Giving up any pretence of wanting to stay at the party, within an hour she had changed, her face scrubbed clean, and was in her Jeep and heading back to Merkazad.

  Eventually she had to pull over on the hard shoulder of the motorway when tears blurred her vision too much. She rested her head on her hands on the steering wheel. She had to concede that she’d been hopelessly naïve in having thought she could remain unscathed after seeing Salman—and, worse, after kissing him, which she was sure had been nothing more than his cruel experiment to see how she still hungered for him.

  On some level she’d never been able to believe how he’d turned into such a cruel and distant stranger that day.

  She ruthlessly stopped her thoughts from deviating down a self-indulgent path where she’d try to find justification for Salman’s behaviour. He was cold and heartless—he always had been. She’d just been too naïve to see it before.

  She’d often speculated if the cataclysmic events that had once taken place in Merkazad had anything to do with Salman’s insularity and darkness. Years before Merkazad had been invaded by an army from Al-Omar, which had been against its independence. Salman, his brother and their parents had been locked up in the bowels of the castle for three long months. It had been a difficult time for the whole country, and must have been traumatic for Nadim and Salman, but Jamilah had been just two at the time—far too young to remember the details.

  Years after their liberation she’d always been the one allowed to spend time with Salman, when he hadn’t even let his
own brother or parents near. He’d never said much, but he’d listened to her inconsequential chatter—which had developed into tongue-tied embarrassment as she’d grown older. Yet he’d never made her feel uncomfortable. He’d even sought her out the day he left Merkazad for good. She’d been sixteen and hopelessly in love. He’d touched her cheek with a finger, such a wealth of bleakness in his eyes that she’d ached to comfort him, but he’d just said, ‘See you around, kid.’

  It was that bond that she believed had flared to life and blossomed over those three weeks in Paris. And yet if she believed what Salman had said to her there—and why wouldn’t she?—it had all been a cruel illusion. She had to get it through her thick skull that there could be no justification for Salman’s behaviour, and after tonight she had to draw a line under her obsession with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Present day.

  SHEIKH SALMAN BIN KALID AL SAQR looked at the shadows of the rotorblades of the helicopter as it flew across the rocky expanse below him. They undulated and snaked like dark ribbons over the mountaintops, and when he looked further he could already see minarets and the vague outlines of the buildings of Merkazad—and the castle, where he was headed. His home and birthplace. He was coming back for the first time in ten years. Ten long years. And he felt numb inside.

  He could remember the day he’d left, and the blistering argument he’d had with his older brother Nadim, as if it had happened yesterday, despite every attempt he’d made to block it out in the interim. They’d been standing in Nadim’s study, from where he’d been running the country since the tender age of twenty-one. His older brother’s responsibility had always struck fear into Salman’s heart because he’d known he would never have been able to bear it.

  Not because of a lack of ability, but because at the age of eight he’d borne a horrific responsibility for his own people that he’d never spoken about, and since that time he’d cut Merkazad and everyone associated with it out of his heart.