by Diana Palmer
An hour later he let himself out of the apartment, leaving a brief, terse note behind to explain that he was making all the arrangements for her to go to Paris before he left for the Caspian Sea. They could discuss the divorce at some later time. He signed it with his initials and had to fight not to go back into his bedroom and look at the exquisite sight of his young wife in bed.
He'd shared that bed with his beloved Margo, and he felt like a traitor, an adulterer. Margo was dead, and he was alive. He realized that he had to face the future, but he couldn't do it now, in the shadow of that exquisite experience with Brianne. He had to get away, to think, to reason it out. He had to!
Brianne woke and found the note. It didn't surprise her. He was feeling guilty again. She went to the piano and looked at the smiling face in the photo.
"I love him, too," she told it. "What am I going to do?"
As she spoke the words from a breaking heart, she realized that there was only one thing
she could do. She had to go to Paris and give Pierce enough time to make a decision about their future. She hoped and prayed that he made the right one, for both their sakes. In the meantime, she hugged the sweet memory to herself and thought that, if she had to, she could live on last night for the rest of her life.
Chapter Sixteen
Eve Brauer and her young son Nicholas set up housekeeping in a nice stucco house outside Jacksonville, near the Atlantic shoreline. Brianne spent a few days with her mother and Nicholas before she left for Paris. Eve and Brianne had entered into a tentative new relationship, a little strained on both sides. Eve was devastated to find herself with a husband facing a stiff prison sentence and also with no money to support herself.
The following week, one of Tate Winthrop's men went to Paris with Brianne: an older agent with a wife in the military. She almost grinned at the idea that Pierce had done that deliberately, to remove any chance of her getting too chummy with her bodyguard. But if he'd been jealous, she reasoned, he'd have gone to Paris with her. He hadn't phoned or written since his abrupt departure from the apartment. Oddly, she drew comfort from that If he'd been able to be indifferent or cool about it, surely it wouldn't have bothered him to get in touch with her. The fact that he hadn't gave her hope.
He did go out to the drilling platform in the Caspian Sea and stayed there for several weeks, without a single word to his absent wife. He ached for her night after lonely night, despite his determination to forget what had happened.
Brianne enrolled at the Sorbonne, surprised to find that her application had already been accepted and her classes assigned. Fortunately, her French was adequate for her course of study, most of which involved numbers, anyway. She buckled down and buried her broken heart in hard work.
About the fourth week since their return from the Middle East, she started losing her breakfast. The following week, she fainted at the sight of a cut finger in her biology lab during a dissecting experiment. The sixth week, she stopped hiding her head in the sand and went to see a physician. It seemed there was a reason for all her symptoms, and it wasn't strain or overwork.
Coincidentally, she had an unexpected visitor on the one day she was ill enough to skip classes and stay home in her luxurious Paris apartment.
The apartment building had perfect security, of course; Pierce wouldn't have let her stay anywhere else. So the buzzer in the apartment sounded when the security guard downstairs was asked where she could be found.
"There is a gentleman down here asking for you, madame" came the softly accented voice. "He wishes to impart news of a Monsieur Sa-bon..."
"Oh, please, send him right up!" Brianne said without hesitation. She'd wondered where her captor was since his return to his own country. Apparently things were settling down there, because the defeat of the mercenaries and the return of the ruling sheikh, as well as the oil consortium's discovery of enormous oil reserves, had become front page news.
She brushed her long hair and pulled a gold-and-white caftan over her nightgown to meet her visitor. It wasn't a revealing garment; it looked much more like a lounge dress than a bathrobe.
When the door buzzer sounded, she opened the door at once, expecting a dignitary from Sa-bon's country. Instead, there was Philippe Sa-bon himself, in a gray Italian suit that looked as if every thread in it was placed with the utmost care.
He smiled at her surprise, pulling the scars on his cheek tight, so that they were white and noticeable against his swarthy complexion. He produced a bouquet of white roses and baby's breath and handed it to her.
"I may not be welcome, but I had to come, to see for myself how you are," he commented, not revealing the joy it had given him to hear her voice excited at the prospect of news about him.
"You're very welcome," she said with a smile, cradling the roses. "Do come in and sit down. Would you like coffee?"
He held up a hand. "I wish to put you to no trouble..."
"It won't be. Therese!" she called and the young maid came out and was given instructions. "And slice some pound cake, Therese. Our guest may be hungry."
"I am, indeed," Philippe replied as he studied her drawn face with a narrow, clinical gaze. "You look pale, and I am sure you have lost weight."
"A little, perhaps," she said noncommittally.
He leaned forward, with mischief in his dark eyes. "Come home with me and live in my harem," he challenged. "I will have the servants feed you sweetmeats and marzipan until you are a proper size!"
She laughed delightedly. "That's the best offer I've had in weeks," she said.
He smiled, too, less abrasive about his limitations than most men would have been. He studied her with soft eyes. "Would that it were so," he said on a gentle breath. "But a harem would bring constant danger of discovery, would it not? Something I would never dare risk."
"You're the son of the reigning sheikh," she reminded him. "Won't you have to have an heir?"
"Certainly." He crossed one long leg over the other and studied her quietly, drinking in her radiant beauty. "Your firstborn will be my heir."
"That's not funny."
"It wasn't meant to be," he said nonchalantly. "My father knows how it is with me, Brianne," he added. "It is a great sorrow for us both. But your husband is dark and the child is likely to be so, as well, with Greek blood in his veins. A kingdom, even a small kingdom, is nothing to turn your pretty nose up at, cherie."
She was stunned. "But why?"
He just stared at her, for a long time. "I think you know-why."
She was still absorbing that when the maid came with a tray of coffee and condiments, and a plate of sliced cake. She put a glass of milk in front of Brianne, who made a face.
"It is good for you," the maid, a widow with three grown children, said firmly. "You drink it."
Philippe eyed the milk with a chuckle. "Does he know?" he asked pointedly.
She sipped the milk with a militant glare. "No, he does not," she said through her teeth. "He doesn't want a child, so there won't be one. God has spoken!"
He burst out laughing. "It amazes me that you could keep it from him," he said, studying her. "You look mysterious and content."
"How would he know? He's sitting out in the middle of the Caspian Sea playing with his oil well."
He put cream in his coffee and sat back on the sofa to sip it. "You should call and tell him to come home."
"As if he would," she scoffed.
"You underestimate your charms," he replied.
She was remembering something that she'd almost let slip away. "When you left us, you said something in Arabic to Tate Winthrop. What was it?"
"Ask him."
"I have no idea where he is," she replied. "Tell me yourself."
He shook his head. "Some secrets should be kept, don't you think?" He finished his coffee. "I came to give you this for your husband," he said, producing a sealed envelope that she took and placed on the side table. "The repayment of his loan," he explained. "And also I came to ask both of you to atten
d my coronation."
Her heart skipped. "Is your father...?"
"No, he's not dead," he said at once. "But he realizes that his health makes it impossible for him to continue as head of state. A sheikhdom is not the same as a kingdom, you understand, but it is a sovereign nation just the same. Now that we will have access to oil money, from our first very successful wells, we must move into the twentieth century. This will not be easy for the various nomadic tribes that make up my nation. It will not be easy for me, either, since my blood is mixed. But these days, such things matter less than the authority and strength of the leader. I hope to be equal to the task."
"Certainly you will," she said without hesitation. She studied his lean, dark face with faint sadness.
"Don't pity me," he said starkly. "I have more than many men. Allah decides these things. One must never fight that which is fated."
“Now you sound Arabian.''
He smiled. "As I should, yes?" He put the empty cup down. "Will you come, with your husband, of course, to see me invested? It is a very ancient ceremony, full of ritual and color."
"I'd like to."
"And Pierce?"
She shrugged. "I'll ask him. When is it?"
"In the spring. Six months from now." He glanced at the flowing caftan under which her child lay. "That might be an awkward time, but if it isn't, I'll make sure all the arrangements are made for you. All three of you, if necessary," he added with a grin.
"We wouldn't have escaped so easily without your help," she told him.
"You wouldn't have been in danger if I hadn't done such an insane thing. At the time, it seemed quite logical."
"Most things look clearer in hindsight," she agreed.
He stood up and so did she. He took both her slender hands in his, and kissed them lightly, before dropping them again. "Keep well. I meant what I told you. If ever you need help, in any way, I am yours to command."
"Thanks," she said sincerely. "But I'll muddle through."
"And take good care of my heir," he added with a smile in the direction of her belly.
After he was gone, she went out to the balcony overlooking the city and stood in the faint breeze, letting it ruffle her hair. She felt sorry for Philippe and sorrier for herself. She was pregnant and alone. Pierce wouldn't even write
or call her. It was as if he'd shut her completely out of his life, at the very worst time. She wondered if she was going to see him before their child was born.
She wouldn't have wondered if she'd seen his face two hours later, when a telephone call interrupted his conference with his drill rigger on the drilling platform in the Caspian Sea.
"She what?" he burst out, his black eyes exploding with rage.
He listened again for a few seconds, cursed and broke the connection. "Get the helicopter pilot up here," he said shortly. "I'm flying out."
"But, sir, there's a gale..."
"I don't give a damn if there's a hurricane. Get him up here!"
Ten minutes later, they were airborne and on the way to the mainland.
It was dark, and Brianne was watching a French news broadcast when the front door of the apartment swung open and Pierce stalked in.
She sat up on the sofa where she'd been lounging, still in the pretty white-and-gold caftan, and gaped at him. He was disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned, his tie draped loosely around his neck under his jacket. He looked absolutely dangerous.
"Where is he?" he demanded fiercely.
"He?"
"Sabon! Don't deny that he's been here, I've already checked with the desk!"
She could barely find words. He was eaten up with jealousy. It absolutely oozed from every pore, and the delight she felt almost choked her. She forced words out. "Yes, he came to pay back the loan," she said, and moved to produce the envelope with Pierce's name on it.
He didn't even look at it. He was too preoccupied. "What else did he want?"
"Toto invite us to watch his father hand over control of the government to him," she stammered. "His father is stepping down."
"I don't care to watch him become king or sheikh or whatever the hell it is," he said shortly. "I want to know what he was doing here! He could have mailed the check and sent a message."
"Why are you so angry?" she asked with a wicked little smile.
"Because he told Tate Winthrop that you were the only thing on earth worth losing a kingdom for, that's why!"
So that was it. The mystery. She studied her furious husband with fascination. "Why should you care what he said?" she asked innocently. "You went off to the Caspian Sea to forget about me. I live alone, I go to school alone, I do everything alone. Why shouldn't I have company if I want it?"
"You're married!"
She held up her ringless finger. "No, I'm not," she said. She'd just taken the ring off earlier to wash her hands.
His cheeks went ruddy with temper. His big fists clenched at his sides. "Put the ring back on."
“I took it off and dropped it in the sand back in Qawi. I have no idea where it is," she informed him.
His jaw looked as if he were grinding his teeth. "I'll buy you a new one."
"I won't wear it, if its only purpose is going to be for show," she replied. "Speaking of weddings, when do I get my divorce?" she probed deliberately.
The strain in his face grew worse. "Why? Has Sabon proposed?"
"He would if I asked him to," she said confidently.
"You're married to me. I'm not giving you a divorce."
That was surprising, and absolutely delightful. She stared at him with deliberate hauteur. "Dog in the manger, Pierce?" she taunted.
She saw, actually saw, his control snap. He went toward her like an avalanche, never pausing to count the cost. He tossed her down on the cushions and followed her down. She barely had a second to get her breath before his hard, warm mouth moved onto hers.
He was heavy, but the weight of him was welcome. She reached around his neck and gave in to the ardent fury. It was like coming home. She laughed softly under the crush of his mouth and wrapped herself around him, glorying in his anger, his jealousy, his headlong passion.
"Oh, Pierce, you idiot," she moaned into his hard mouth. "As if I could ever...ever...look at another man after you!"
He heard mat, but he couldn't stop kissing her to analyze it. His body was on fire for her.
He groaned as the kiss grew to a climax, and he felt himself going rigid with aching hunger for her.
Brianne was feeling just as hungry. But even through the unbridled delight, she felt the increasingly familiar discomfort rising into her throat. It was always worse lying flat. She squirmed, fighting nausea, and drew her mouth from under his.
"Damn!" she whispered miserably, swallowing hard. "You have to let me up, darling. I think I'm going to...oh, Lord!"
She pushed at him, surprising him into shifting. She was up and running for the bathroom. She barely made it in time.
He found her at the front of the toilet and suddenly everything made sense. He realized immediately what was wrong with her, and his face paled. All he could think of was that night with her in D.C., and his hunger to make her pregnant But this was too sudden for him to think rationally.
"You said you were taking the pill," he ground out. "You promised, me that you were protected! You lied!" She couldn't answer him. She lifted a shaking hand and waved him away, resting her head on her forearm.
He contained himself long enough to jerk a washcloth from the rack and wet it. He handed it to her, watching as she began to relax. A minute later, she flushed the toilet and managed to drag herself to the sink, to bathe her face and rinse her mouth.
She tried to go around him, because his bulk was blocking the doorway, but he swung her up and carried her into the bedroom, depositing her gingerly on the bedspread, where she lay clutching the cloth to her eyes. He looked like thunder and lightning, and she knew that news of his approaching fatherhood had hit him hard. Very hard. They were right back to square
one.
"Okay, you're right, it's all my fault. Why don't you go back to your oil platform?" she said in a ghostly tone. "Therese is here to look after me. I don't need you!"
He didn't speak. He couldn't manage words. He was torn between indignation and terror. She was pregnant. She was carrying his child. It was a complication he'd been determined to avoid. She hadn't even told him. Was she even planning to?
She moved the washcloth to her dry lips and stared up at him with resignation. The fury in his dark eyes told her how he felt. She didn't need to ask.
She put the cloth back over her eyes. Its cool moisture took the nausea away and soothed the beginnings of a headache.
