Secrets of the Oasis

by Abby Green

  As if to contradict him a memory rose up of Jamilah—the kinship he’d always felt with her, the way that for a long time she’d been the only person he could tolerate being near him and, in Paris, the ease with which he’d allowed her to seduce him to a softer place than he’d inhabited for as long as he could remember. If ever. And then the way he’d callously told her that it had been nothing, that she’d imagined them having some sort of bond. His skin prickled at being reminded of that now, and with ruthless efficiency he pushed it aside and focused on that moment with his brother again.

  ‘This is your home, Salman!’ his brother had shouted at him. ‘I need you here with me. We need to rule together to be strong.’

  Salman could remember how dead he’d felt inside, how removed from his brother’s passion. He’d known that day would be his last in Merkazad. He was a free man. Since he’d been that eight-year-old boy, since the awful time of their incarceration, he’d felt aeons older than Nadim. ‘Brother, this is your country now. Not mine. I will forge my own life. And I will not have you dictate to me. You have no right.’

  He’d been able to see the struggle that had run through Nadim, and silently he’d sent out a dire warning: don’t even go there. And as he’d watched he’d seen the fight leave Nadim. The weight of their history ran too deep between them. Salman felt bitter jealousy every time he looked at his brother and knew his integral goodness had never been compromised, or taken away, or violated. Salman’s had when his childhood had been ripped away from him over a three-month period that had felt like three centuries.

  Salman knew Nadim blamed himself for not protecting him all those years before. And even though Salman knew that it was irrational, because Nadim had been as helpless as he had, he still blamed Nadim for not saving him from the horrors he’d faced. In a way, he wanted his brother to feel that pain, and he inflicted it with impunity, knowing exactly what he was doing even while hating himself for it.

  Blame, counter-blame and recrimination had festered between them for years, and it had only been last year, when Salman had seen Nadim at the Sultan of Al-Omar’s birthday party, that he’d noticed a subtle change within himself. They’d spoken for mere tense moments, as was their custom when they met once or twice a year, but Salman had noticed a sense of weightlessness that he’d never felt before.

  He grimaced, his eyes seeing but not seeing the vista of his own country unfold beneath him in all its rocky glory. The fact that he was flying over it right now, about to land in mere minutes, spoke volumes. A part of him still couldn’t really believe that he was coming to Merkazad for a month in Nadim’s stead, while he and his pregnant wife went to spend time in Ireland, where she came from, before they returned to have their first baby.

  A ridiculous and archaic law said that if Merkazad was without its Sheikh for a month then a coup could be staged by the military to seat a new ruler. This law had been put in place at a time when they’d faced numerous and frequent attacks, to protect Merkazad from outside forces.

  They’d been in this position only once before, when their parents had died and an interim governing body had been set up until Nadim had come of age. Luckily the army had been steadfastly loyal to their deceased father and to Nadim.

  But Nadim had confided to Salman that since his marriage to Iseult some people were proving hard to win round, were disappointed that their Sheikh hadn’t picked a Merkazadi woman to be his wife. He’d been concerned that until his heir was born their rule might be vulnerable for the first time in years. But if Salman was there in his place there would be no question of dissent.

  Salman had found himself saying yes, bizarrely overriding his conscious intent to say no. He’d known on some deep level that one day he’d have to come home to face his demons, and it appeared the time had come. He’d put his completely incomprehensible decision down to that, and not to a latent sense of duty, or to passing time…or to the fact that since he’d seen Jamilah at that party a year ago he’d felt restless.

  Even now he could remember the visceral kick in his chest when he’d turned in that corridor in the Hussein Palace and seen her standing before him like a vision, like something from a dream he’d never admitted having.

  He’d only realised in that moment, as a kind of sigh of relief had gone through him, that in all the intervening years since Paris he’d gone to the Sultan’s party every year hoping to see Jamilah…and he had not welcomed that revelation.

  Salman’s face darkened. She should have always been firmly off-limits—a woman he should have turned his back on—but he hadn’t been able to resist. Even though he’d known that she’d been way, way too innocent for his cold heart he’d still seduced her in Paris, taken her innocence, proving to himself once again how debauched he really was.

  And, not content with that, then he’d cruelly broken her heart. A bleakness filled his belly at remembering the pale set of her features that day. The incredible hurt in those beautiful eyes. He’d watched her innocence and joy turn into an adult’s bitter disillusion right in front of him, even as he’d been telling himself that he was doing her a favour.

  He reassured himself that he’d saved her—from him and other men like him. Because he himself was beyond saving. He’d seen the face of evil and that would taint him for ever, and anyone around him, which was why he never allowed anyone too close.

  Yet all that knowledge hadn’t stopped him from kissing Jamilah at the Sultan’s party. He’d only had to imagine her with that ineffectual date of hers and he’d been overcome with a dark desire to stamp her, brand her as his. His body throbbed to life now, making him shift uncomfortably; she’d tasted as sweetly sensuous as she had when he’d first kissed her in Paris, when he’d known he was doing the wrong thing but had been overcome with a lust so intense it had made him dizzy.

  With an effort he forced his mind away from the disturbing fact that in the past year no woman had managed to arouse his once insatiable libido. But merely thinking of Jamilah now was doing just that, as if to taunt him, because she was the last woman he could ever touch again. If he had any chance of redeeming a tiny morsel of his soul it would be in this.

  Salman knew Nadim suspected something had happened between them, and of course he didn’t approve. The protective warning had been implicit in Nadim’s voice in their last conversation. ‘You’re unlikely to see much of Jamilah. She lives and works down at the stables, and is extremely busy with her work there.’ And that, Salman told himself now, suited him just fine—because the mere thought of even seeing a horse or the stables sent clammy chills of dread across his skin. He wouldn’t be making a visit there any time soon.

  With that thought lingering as the helicopter started to descend over the lush watered Merkazadi castle grounds, reality hit Salman, and claustrophobia surged along with panic. He fought the urge to tell the pilot to turn around. He was strong enough to withstand a month in his own country. He had to be. He’d heard far worse stories than his; he’d been humbled over and over again. He owed it to those who had trusted him with their stories to face this.

  Not for the first time in his life did he wish that he could resort to the easy way out of drugs and alcohol.

  He sighed deeply as the distinctive white castle came into clear view, the ornate latticed walls and flat-roofed terraces all at once achingly familiar and rousing a veritable flood of memories, some terrifying. He would get through this as he’d got through his life up to this point—by distracting himself from the pain.

  ‘Miss Jamilah—he stumbled out of the helicopter with his shirt half undone and torn jeans. He looked like a…a rock star, not the second in line to rule Merkazad.’ The main housekeeper screwed up her wizened face and spat out disgustedly, ‘He is nothing like his brother. He is a disgrace to—’

  ‘Hana, that’s enough.’ They were in a meeting to discuss the domestic schedule of the castle while Nadim and Iseult were away, and Jamilah was having a hard enough time just functioning since she’d heard Salman’s arri
val in the helicopter the previous day.

  The older woman flushed brick-red. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jamilah. I forgot myself for a moment…’

  Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Look, he’s only here till Nadim and Iseult get back…and then everything will be back to normal.’

  Yeah, right.

  The housekeeper’s face lit up. ‘And next year we will have a new baby in the castle!’

  Jamilah let her prattle on excitedly, and hoped the dart of hurt she felt lance her wasn’t apparent on her face or in her eyes. She loved Nadim, and she loved Iseult, who had become a very close friend, but much to her ongoing shame she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of their exuberant happiness.

  In truth, when Nadim had told her they would be going to Ireland to see Iseult’s family while they still had time before the birth, Jamilah had felt a tinge of relief. To bear witness to their intense love and absorption every day was becoming more and more difficult. And it had only intensified with news of Iseult’s pregnancy some six months previously. Nadim hardly let Iseult out of his sight, and cosseted her like a prize jewel. Jamilah knew it drove Iseult crazy, but then she was as bad he was—visibly pining for her husband if he was away from her side for more than an hour.

  Jamilah’s relief that she would have some respite had been spectacularly eclipsed when Nadim had casually mentioned over dinner that Salman would be taking over as acting ruler while they were gone.

  She’d not missed the way Nadim and Iseult had looked at her intently for her reaction; they hadn’t asked questions after her bizarre behaviour at the Sultan’s party last year, but it had been obvious it had something to do with Salman.

  She was proud of the way she’d absorbed the shock into her body and kept on sipping her wine, willing her hands not to show a tremor. She’d said nonchalantly, ‘That’s nice. It’s been so long since he came home…’

  Nadim had said gently, ‘You could go to France, if you like. Check up on the stables there?’

  Jamilah had tensed all over and sat up straight. ‘No.’ She was aghast that they might think she would crumble, or that she would let Salman’s presence affect her work. She’d shaken her head and sealed her fate. ‘Not at all. I won’t be going anywhere. We’re far too busy here…’

  But now, when Hana stood up and asked, ‘Will you come to the castle to talk to the staff?’ Jamilah almost shouted out another visceral no, and had to calm herself.

  She smiled and said, as breezily as she could, shamelessly playing to Hana’s pride, ‘Why would I need to come to the castle when you have it all in hand so beautifully? We’re busy here at the stables with some new arrivals…you can call me if anything comes up.’

  To her intense relief Hana didn’t argue, and left. Jamilah sank back into her office chair, feeling as edgy as a new colt, her heart racing.

  A month.

  One whole month of avoiding going anywhere near the castle and Salman. At least here at the stables where she lived she was relatively safe. For as long as she’d known him he’d had an abhorrence of horses, so she knew he wouldn’t come near them.

  She was over him, so the fact that he was right now less than ten minutes away meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

  Jamilah’s phone rang at five-thirty a.m.—just as she was about to go out and do her morning round of the stables to check everyone was where they should be. She was grouchy from lack of sleep and the constant feeling of being on edge. And for the past few days there had been the non-stop clatter of helicopter rotorblades, as numerous choppers took off and landed in the castle’s grounds. Even though it was a fair distance to the stables, some had flown close enough to the horses to spook them for hours. Jamilah had heard through the robust grapevine that Salman was hosting an unending series of parties at the castle.

  Now she gritted her teeth and answered the phone in the office, which was part of her private rooms. All she heard on the other end was hysterical sobbing, until finally she managed to calm Hana down enough to listen for a minute.

  With an icy cold anger rising, she eventually bit out, through a break in the tirade, ‘I’m on my way.’

  Clinging on to that cold rage, to distract her from the prospect of seeing Salman again, Jamilah went outside and got into her Jeep, making the ten-minute journey to the castle courtyard in five minutes, where Hana was wringing her hands.

  As soon as Jamilah stepped out of her Jeep Hana was babbling. ‘All night, every night…such loud music—and the food! It’s too much…couldn’t keep up with the demands and then they started throwing things…in the ceremonial ballroom! If Nadim was here…’

  Gently but firmly Jamilah cut through Hana’s hysterics. ‘Get the staff organised for a clean-up, and get Sakmal here with a coach. I’ll have all these guests out of here this morning.’

  By the time Jamilah had reached the quarters Salman had commandeered for his private use about an hour later her rage was no longer icy but boiling over. She’d just seen the devastation caused by what appeared to be half of Europe’s Eurotrash party brigade, and she’d just supervised about fifty seriously disgruntled, still inebriated people onto a coach, from where they would be delivered into Al-Omar and back home.

  She pushed open the door to Salman’s suite and slammed it back against a wall. The immediate dart of hurt at what she saw nearly made her double over, and that made her rage burn even brighter. At the evidence that he was still affecting her.

  Two bodies were sprawled on an ornately brocaded couch. An empty champagne bottle and glasses were strewn around them. The nubile blonde woman was caked in make-up, wearing a tiny sparkly, spangly dress. She looked up drunkenly from where she lay beside a sleeping Salman, one arm flung across his bare and tautly muscled chest. Thankfully he was at least wearing jeans.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she slurred in cut-glass tones, ‘who do you think you are?’

  Jamilah strode over, trying to block out the sensually indolent olive-skinned body of Salman, and took the woman’s skinny arm, hauling her up.

  ‘Ow!’

  Jamilah was unrepentant as she marched the sluggish woman over to where two maids hovered anxiously at the door, clad head to toe in black, their huge brown eyes growing wider and wider. Jamilah said with icy disdain, ‘Girls, please escort this guest to the coach, after she’s picked up her things, and then tell Sakmal he can go. That should be everyone.’

  Jamilah shut the door firmly on the woman’s drunken protestations and sighed deeply. She turned round and Salman hadn’t budged an inch. Her heart clenched painfully; he’d always slept like the dead, and now that was obviously exacerbated by his alcohol intake. Her eyes roved over his hard-hewn muscle-packed form. She hated to admit it, but for an indolent, louche playboy he possessed the body of an athlete in his prime.

  Dark stubble shadowed his firm jaw, and a lock of black hair had fallen over his forehead, making him look deceptively innocent. Long black lashes caressed those ridiculously sculpted cheekbones. He looked like a dark fallen angel who might have literally just dropped out of the sky.

  But an angel, fallen or otherwise, he most certainly was not.

  Jamilah clenched her jaw, as if that could counteract the treacherous rising of heat within her, and went to the bathroom where she found what she was looking for. Coming back into the main drawing room, she said a mental prayer for forgiveness to Nadim and Hana for the damage she was about to do to the soft furnishings, and then she threw the entire bucket of icy cold water over Salman.

  Salman thought he was being attacked. Reflexes that had been honed long, long ago snapped into action, and he was on his feet and tense before he really knew what was happening.

  In seconds, though, he had assessed the situation and forced locked muscles to relax. Jamilah was standing in front of him with an empty bucket and a belligerent look on her beautiful face, and something inside him rose up with an almost giddy surge. For the first time since he’d returned he felt centred—not rudderless and sc
arily close to the edge of his control.

  With her hair tied back, no make-up, dressed in a white shirt, jeans and riding boots, she might have passed for eighteen. Her stunning blue eyes were glittering like bright sapphires, and a line of pink slashed each cheek with colour. She was a veritable jewel of beauty compared to the artificially enhanced women who’d been vying for his attention these last few days, and self-disgust curled inside him when he remembered the one who’d eventually fallen into a drunken slumber beside him earlier that morning.

  He’d vowed to order his private jet and get rid of the horde of unwanted guests, realising what a mistake he’d made, but it would appear by the look on Jamilah’s face that it had already been taken care of.

  ‘How dare you?’ Jamilah was saying now, in a suspiciously quivery voice which he guessed had more to do with anger than emotion. ‘How dare you come back here and proceed to turn this castle into your personal playground? Poor Hana is distraught. She has quite enough to be doing without pandering to you and all the Little Lord Fauntleroys you invited to join in the fun. And apart from the chaos and destruction here, your friends’ constant arrival by helicopter has been spooking the horses at the stables.’

  Energy crackled between them.

  Salman rocked back on his heels and surveyed Jamilah with a lazy sweep, up and down. He seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he was soaking wet, and with a gulp Jamilah could see that this was not proceeding the way she’d expected at all. Salman didn’t look remotely contrite, or even drunk. His eyes were as sharp as ever. And on her. She had to consciously not let her gaze drop to where his jeans must be plastered against his crotch and thighs.

  He crossed his arms nonchalantly across his chest, making his biceps bulge, and Jamilah had the very belated realisation that she’d just wakened a sleeping panther. He drawled, ‘Not even a kiss hello to greet me? That’s not very nice, now, is it?’