Tamsin had wanted to come here on her own. To prove she could. To show she was strong enough to succeed in a man’s world.
To prove she could keep breathing with a heart shattered into pieces.
She followed the man down the hall and stepped into the reception hall, holding her long robes above the floor. A veil covered her hair, out of respect for the man she was about to see, and she entered with her back straight and her head held high.
She padded across the thickly embroidered carpets. Above her, the soaring ceiling was painted with volutes and interlacing patterns. Elegant furniture filled the room. The Sheikh sat at the center on a silken sofa, smoking a hookah. A low desk was in front of him and a male servant stood behind him silently.
He looked up, but made no effort to rise. “Ah, my nephew’s runaway bride,” he said in cultured English, regarding her with bright, inquisitive eyes. “I am curious to know why you would wish to see me. Please sit down.”
She took the nearby chair he indicated. On the plane from Madrid she’d practiced phrases meant to charm and cajole, but now she was far too nervous to be anything but blunt. “Thank you. I’ll get right to the point.”
He nodded.
“My brother has decided to retire from Winter International, so I am taking over the company. I’ve come to ask you to keep the business deal you had with Sheldon—to sell us this year’s harvest of argan oil on credit, interest-free.”
“And why should I do that, miss? Have you returned to Morocco to marry my nephew?”
“No.”
He shrugged expressively. “The deal included a bride.”
“And my family has provided you with one.” Heart pounding at her own audacity, she met his eyes. “This morning, my brother’s wife, Camilla, left Sheldon to be with your nephew. As I understand from her call to my brother, she has been seeing Aziz secretly for weeks. She filed for divorce just hours ago—with the assistance of your lawyers, I believe. She has told Sheldon she intends to marry Aziz, which I believe you yourself already know.”
He blinked, then gave her a slow smile. “You are very quick.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind and marry my nephew? You seem far more useful than the bride he has chosen for himself.”
She hid a shudder. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“I know there are rumors that he killed his first wife, but those are lies. She died in an accident. I saw it. Does that sway you?”
She shook her head. “But I’m glad to know, for Camilla’s sake.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Do not be too glad for her. My nephew is not a murderer, but he is hardly a paragon. It is a hard life he will give her. I suspect that she is more in love with my wealth than with him and, as she has no social connections and is unlikely to produce an heir, I can only guess that a voracious appetite in … other pursuits drives them together. A most unpromising match, in my view, but—” he shrugged ironically, “—who am I to stand in the way of love? You are correct, young woman. Your family has indeed given my nephew a bride. So I am bound by honor to fulfill my end of the deal.”
He snapped his fingers. His servant brought him a ledger and a pen, which he spread across his desk. Less than five minutes later, Tamsin walked out of the kasbah in amazement. She had everything she’d wanted.
Then she looked up.
No, she didn’t have everything she wanted. Not even close. Her heart leapt into her throat as she watched Marcos climb out of a dusty truck parked near the wadi. He tossed a rucksack over his shoulder and, slamming the door, headed towards the kasbah.
Then he saw her. He stopped so abruptly that his boots kicked up a cloud of dust, and stared at her as if she were a ghost.
“Tamsin.” He licked his lips uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”
“Marcos,” she whispered. Her whole body trembled as she took a step towards him. She’d spent all day crying as she’d traveled here, telling herself to forgethim, trying to remember every horrible thing he’d ever said or done. Seeing him now sent her reeling. She wanted to take him in her arms, kiss his troubled face and tell him that she loved him. She wanted to beg him again to give up his desire for revenge, to love her instead.
But his face had already hardened. “If you’ve come to try and stop me from getting justice against Aziz, you’ve wasted your time. I won’t let him live unpunished while my family is dead. He has to pay.”
It was the hard, cold slap in the face that she needed. Beg him to love her, just so he could reject her again? No.
“Don’t worry.” She straightened, pressing her fingernails into her palms to distract herself from the ache in her heart. “I’m not here for you. I came to see the Sheikh about the argan oil.”
“Oil?” He blinked at her as if she’d just spoken in Greek. “What are you talking about?”
“The business deal. I told you. I’m trying to save Winter International.” She gave him a brittle smile. “So far, so good. The Sheikh agreed to sell me the entire harvest on credit.”
He shook his head with a frown. “But how did you get here? I told Amelita—”
“You told her to get me the first flight out of Madrid, and she did.” She held up her hand. “This is just a stopover. I’ll barely make it to Agadir before my flight leaves for London. And, for what it’s worth, I intend to pay you royalties for your father’s formula. As soon as I can get the company stabilized, I will pay you every pound plus interest.”
He looked shaken. “But it’s not your debt to repay.”
“It’s my family’s obligation, which means it’s now mine. If you still have a desire to destroy us, there’s nothing I can do. Just as there’s nothing I can do to stop you from drowning in your own hatred.”
His jaw tightened as he pulled his rucksack higher against his shoulder. “You were willing to throw your life away to save your sister’s. What is the difference between that and what I’m now forced to do?”
She shook her head incredulously. “You really don’t see the difference?”
“No. We both want to protect the people we love.”
“You’re not protecting them. You’re avenging them. Your family would never have wanted this life for you. They would have wanted you to forgive and have a life of your own. Not to punish yourself as you’ve done for the last twenty years. The way you’ve chosen, always looking back, always angry and vindictive—it’s a living death, Marcos.”
His expression changed. “After what Aziz nearly did to you—what he did to his first wife—don’t you think he should suffer?”
“You’re the one who deserves to stop suffering,” she snapped. “Why can’t you see that?”
“Tamsin—”
“And, for what it’s worth, Aziz isn’t a murderer, just a thief. The Sheikh told me he didn’t murder his wife, he witnessed the accident. So if you intend to punish him for stealing the formula, you might as well come after me too, since it’s my company that profited most from the theft.”
His face contorted. “I would never hurt you, Tamsin. Never. You could be the mother of my child.”
“No.” Blinking hard so he wouldn’t see her tears, she forced out the words. “I’m not pregnant. I just found out for sure. So that’s one thing you don’t need to worry about. Don’t worry about me either. I’ll never trouble you again.”
She turned away, heading towards her small rental car, which was parked near the stone houses in the palm grove.
“You’re really not pregnant?” he asked. “You’re telling me the truth?”
She turned back to face him. His face was half-hidden by shadows in the fading dusk.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s the truth.”
He clenched his jaw, rubbing his forehead. The muscles revealed by his tight T-shirt were hard and strained. She knew every inch of his body so well. Too bad he’d never really let her know his soul. Remembering everything good between them, she fe
lt like crying.
Almost, she thought. She’d almost known him. She’d almost been pregnant. They’d almost had a chance at a life together.
“Goodbye, Marcos.” She turned away.
He grabbed her arm. “Tamsin, wait.”
She could feel the touch of his hand up and down her arm, up and down her whole body. She didn’t look at him. She was afraid that, if she did, she’d grab hold of him and never let go. “What do you want?”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. “I … I don’t want to lose you.”
Sucking in her breath, she whirled to face him. Was it possible that he had changed his mind? That he’d realized the futility of revenge and wanted to truly experience life—a life filled with forgiveness and joy?
Raking his hand through his hair, he licked his lips. “Look, just stay with me. After I deal with Aziz, we can talk. Find a middle ground. Perhaps you and your sister could come and live in Madrid. Then we could be together. We could … date.”
Her heart, which had soared at his first words, fell hard to the ground. He hadn’t told her he loved her. He hadn’t asked for a commitment. He was still so focused on what had happened twenty years ago that he wasn’t even willing to travel to London for her sister’s sake. He was still intent on revenge and obviously not willing to change.
And yet he expected her to drag her sister across Europe and give up her family’s company to date him in Madrid.
She swallowed. Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.
The momentary light in his eyes faded. Shielding his face from the setting sun, he looked away, clenching his jaw. “Then I guess this is goodbye,” he said finally. “Enjoy your life, Tamsin.”
She swallowed, still fighting the urge to throw herself at his feet, to beg him to love her, to beg him to live. She forced herself to turn from him, whirling away in a flare of long robes before he could see her weep. “Enjoy your death,” she choked out. She nearly ran the rest of the way to the palm grove, then drove down the dusty mountain road as fast as her little car would go. She didn’t look back and didn’t even let herself burst into sobs until the kasbah of Oukenzate was just a memory behind her.
Marcos watched her go until her car was nothing more than a cloud of dust on the mountain horizon.
It was better this way, he tried to tell himself as he turned towards the kasbah. He was no good for her. No good for anyone. Loving him just ruined people’s lives.
But, as he entered the reception hall, his body still hurt as if he’d been pummeled, as if he’d just lost a fight. Stiffly, he greeted the Sheikh with a bow and respectful words in Arabic.
The Sheikh returned his greeting with grave courtesy. “I trust you brought the proof?” he said in English.
“As promised.”
“The council of elders will hear your charges. My nephew must be given the chance to defend himself.”
Marcos frowned. “You’re putting him on trial? I thought my evidence was for you alone.”
He tilted his head, examining Marcos closely. “The charges you’ve made are punishable by death. By our law, my nephew cannot be sentenced without the council’s agreement.”
Death? Marcos was stunned. “I thought the punishment was exile.”
“For theft. But you’ve also accused him of murder. And the law of my desert is an eye for an eye.” The Sheikh motioned to his servant. “Take him outside.”
Feeling dazed, Marcos followed the servant into the courtyard. A dais had been set up at one end and flaming torches lit the darkness of the cooling desert night. An audience made up almost entirely of men sat on rough benches encircling the dais and two empty chairs.
The servant indicated one of the center chairs and left. Aware of the many pairs of eyes affixed to his back, Marcos sat down. He glanced up at the stone walls in time to see Aziz’s hard, angry face staring down at him from a window of the second floor.
“I hope you don’t mind, old chap, but I thought I’d stay for this.”
He turned around to see Sheldon Winter sitting on a bench directly behind him. “What are you doing here?”
Sheldon shrugged. “I came to make sure my sister didn’t need my help, but the Sheikh just told me she already left. Now I’m staying to make sure that wife-stealing bastard gets his just deserts.” Shaking his head in disgust, he looked at Marcos. “As little as I like you, I’m on your side. At least you had the decency to ruin my company rather than seduce my wife.”
Marcos narrowed his eyes. “And you’re really giving up the company? Or did you lie to Tamsin about that?”
“No, she can take the whole damn thing. I never wanted to run a women’s cosmetics company but I thought I had no choice.” Even in the middle of the Moroccan desert, he was wearing slacks and a cardigan as if dressed for the links at St. Andrews’ famous golf course. He wiped the sweat and dust off his balding forehead. “It’s amazing how liberating it is to fail. At work, at home. I have nothing more to fear. No choice but to start over.”
Marcos waved him closer. “Come here, Winter.”
“Yeah? Why?”
As soon as he came within range, Marcos punched him in the face.
Sheldon nearly fell over. He straightened, looking furious. “What was that for?”
“For the bruise on Tamsin’s cheek two weeks ago.”
“Oh.” Sheldon rubbed his jaw wryly. “Guess I deserved it, then.”
Marcos stared at him, blinking. This was the man he’d focused on for twenty years? This was the enemy whom he’d thought of night and day—this prematurely middle-aged, flabby failure of a man?
He glanced back at the empty window. Aziz was even worse. Violent, cruel and greedy. A thief. A liar.
But not a murderer.
Tamsin was right. Getting vengeance on Aziz today—even the ultimate revenge, death—wouldn’t bring him peace. Because the person Marcos really wanted to punish was himself. And, for the last twenty years, he had.
Marcos took a deep breath, remembering his family, remembering the laughter and love, and the day it had all disappeared. But it wasn’t Sheldon’s fault or even Aziz’s. It was Marcos who had destroyed their lives when he’d run away to start a career in revenge.
But he’d only been twelve. Barely more than a kid. And, for twenty years, he’d been paying for that mistake.
Was it possible that he could just let it go? That he could forgive himself for what he’d done?
I’m sorry. Papá, Mamá, Diego. Marcos closed his eyes. I’m sorry.
As if in response, he felt a sudden peace rush over him. His heart opened, letting in the light.
And he suddenly knew that Tamsin was right. He had to end the darkness. For his family. For Tamsin. For everyone who’d ever loved him.
At that moment a hush fell over the crowd. Sheikh Mohamed ibn Battuta al-Maghrib and five elderly men crossed the dais. The Sheikh spoke ringing words in Arabic, demanding that his nephew come out to face the charges.
Aziz slowly stalked into the other chair, glaring at Marcos with eyes of hate. Marcos had no doubt that the other man would have loved to tear him apart. But why shouldn’t he be angry? Marcos thought. By accusing him of murder, Marcos had lied …
“We will hear the evidence,” the Sheikh said.
No, Marcos thought. He had to end this now, get his car and rush back to Agadir before Tamsin’s plane left for London. He had to tell her he loved her and take her in his arms.
Her love was a candle in the window, guiding him home after a long, cold night.
“Wait,” Marcos said in halting Arabic as he rose to his feet. “Stop the trial.” Looking at Aziz, he took a deep breath. “I was wrong.”
Go in swinging, Tamsin thought for the twentieth time.
She took a deep breath in the privacy of the executive bathroom. The headquarters of Winter International comprised the top four floors of a skyscraper on Old Broad Street, and from the window in the private bathroom she could see the Thames, Tower Bridge and St.
Paul’s far below. All of southern London was at her feet.
She’d never been so scared in her life.
In two minutes she’d be going in to speak to the members of the board. She not only had to convince them to keep the company whole, but to trust the reins to a twenty-three-year-old woman whose only fame came from the clothes she’d worn and the men she’d dated.
More than one board member had already hinted that, argan oil deal or not, they still wanted to sell the company off to try to scrounge some last bit of worth out of the failing business. And, since the Winter family only held forty percent of the privately owned company, her only hope of holding it together was to convince them she could lead Winter International into profitability.
If they gave her the chance, she knew that she could do it. Sheldon’s leadership had left the company’s image sagging. What did he know about women? No one had time for the old two-hour make-up-and-grooming routine any more.
Tamsin knew that modern women had things to do and places to go. They wanted to look good in a hurry. She would propose a new, less expensive line for twenty-somethings, with sparkle and bold color. And a more exclusive line for older women, who had more disposable income and wanted to look sophisticated, ageless, glowing. She’d even thought of a new package for busy young mothers: the signature anti-aging cream, undereye concealer for sleepless nights and smearproof lipstick for kissing toddlers’ cheeks.
She would streamline the divisions and return Winter International to profitability, saving the jobs of her employees by keeping her own salary low—just enough to support herself and her sister in a small flat. Tamsin was willing to work 24/7, to work in the office by day and go to parties by night to promote glamour for W.I.’s image.
Her heart wouldn’t be in it. She’d left her heart somewhere between Spain and Morocco. But she’d learned you could somehow go on living with a broken heart.
Fortunately, her appearance in the mirror gave no indication of her feelings. She looked calm, even chic, wearing a pale yellow suit and slingback crocodile shoes. Her red hair was pulled back into a sleek chignon and her red lipstick was perfect against her pale skin.
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