A Sheikh to Capture Her Heart

by Meredith Webber

  Miryam nodded, then found a tiny scrap of lace handkerchief somewhere in her voluminous robe and wiped her eyes.

  ‘I’ll go but you will be in my heart, forever in my gratitude for what you did.’

  She rose gracefully, touched Sarah on the shoulder then glided away—soundlessly again.

  Sarah mopped her own eyes. The young woman’s gracious words had touched her heart, and once again she wondered about her future.

  Was it too late to go back—to join a paediatric surgical team and start again at the bottom to achieve that old dream?

  She heard the door but no footsteps—not Harry, then—and turning saw another figure robed in black.

  The grey eyes told her all she needed to know even before the woman introduced herself as Hera, Rahman’s mother.

  Uh-oh!

  Sarah put aside the discomfort she felt at this gracious woman’s presence.

  ‘Hera is a pretty name—wasn’t she a goddess in ancient times?’

  Hera smiled.

  ‘The goddess of women and marriage. Our families go back a long, long way,’ she said, and although she possibly didn’t mean as far back as Greek gods and goddesses, she was making a point.

  A ‘keep away from my son’ point?

  An ‘I’m in charge of his marriage’ point?

  Sarah didn’t have a clue, although she didn’t feel any animosity as the woman settled on the couch beside her.

  ‘I wish to thank you for coming to help our family and invite you to stay with us for as long as you like. Your luggage has already been taken to the palace, and my son will bring you there when he finishes his business.’

  Oh, dear—what now?

  ‘That’s very kind but I don’t know that I can stay,’ Sarah began, while her mind searched wildly for an excuse. She was too superstitious to say one of her family was ill in case it came true and she brought illness on someone she loved, but—

  ‘Rahman, or Harry, as I suppose you call him, would be disappointed if you didn’t stay,’ Hera told her. ‘He is looking forward to showing you his country and introducing you to his family—and Rajah, of course.’

  Not wanting to argue that her hanging around was probably the last thing Harry wanted, Sarah seized on Rajah.

  And smiled!

  ‘Yes, I’d like to meet Rajah. Harry talked so much about him, but—’

  ‘But there is something between you and my son that would make things awkward?’

  Sarah could only stare at the woman by her side. How could she know if Harry hadn’t told her?

  The she felt the softness of the woman’s hand on hers.

  ‘Harry is seeing to things now. We women—and women all over the world—make plans for our children, but the children don’t always follow those plans. We know this even as we make our plans, and know not to be disappointed when they don’t work out, because all we want is for our children to be happy.’

  ‘But the plans you had—they’re important for both family and political reasons, aren’t they? Harry loves his country, I can hear it in his voice whenever he speaks of it. He’s not a man to walk away from his responsibilities!’

  Now Hera smiled, her grey eyes twinkling.

  ‘We knew he was going to be different from the beginning. It wasn’t only his passion for an elephant but his insistence on choosing “Harry” for his school name, and his determination to make it to the top of his chosen profession. After the encephalitis, he came back to us a broken man, but now he’s back, and whatever path he’s chosen will probably be tough because he’s not a man who does things the easy way.’

  She paused but Sarah knew there was more coming.

  ‘But whatever he does his family will always be behind him. Always!’

  She repeated the last word very firmly, although Sarah was still trying to fathom the entire conversation, not just the final declaration.

  Uncertain how it had happened, Sarah found herself accompanying the gentle Hera back to the palace in another long, dark limousine. Hera pointed out the city sights, but the city fell behind them as they drove out along a wide, flat road that ran along the shoreline, sunlight dancing off the slightly ruffled blue water.

  ‘I will leave it to Harry to show you around,’ Hera said. ‘But for now you must rest. The flight, the operation... We have been taking advantage of your good nature. And if you need to contact your family to let them know you will be a little late, there is a private phone in your room.’

  If she was dazed by being practically kidnapped by this woman, Sarah was even more dazed—or perhaps dazzled was a better word—by the sight that met her eyes as she entered the palace.

  The floor of white marble, veined with fine threads of gold and stretching, it seemed, forever, was littered with bright rugs. Having left her shoes with others outside the door, Sarah found the rugs so soft beneath her feet it felt like walking on a cloud.

  An arched opening on the left led into a room even more spacious than the entrance hall. Within, a crowd of women in dazzling dresses ceased their chatter when they saw Hera, rushing towards her like a flock of bright budgerigars.

  ‘The baby is all right?’

  ‘The doctor came?’

  ‘Rahman saved the child?’

  The questions flew through the air and, understanding them, and the accents, Sarah realised that all the women must have been educated in England or America.

  Although maybe they spoke French and Spanish and even Russian with equal ease.

  This was a country that would be full of surprises, and now she wanted so much to stay, to talk to the women, listen to the things they talked about, learn just a little about their culture and customs and how they lived in a world that was being fast-tracked into the twenty-first century.

  But staying would mean seeing more of Harry, staying would mean seeing Harry knowing what they’d had was over—unable to touch him, to lean into him, to share his bed...

  Unless?

  What had Hera meant when she’d said that Harry was seeing to things?

  And would Hera have asked her to stay—insist she stay—and that Harry show her around if her presence would be an offence to a bride-to-be?

  But being here, being with Harry and not able to touch him, kiss him, sleep with him would be torture.

  These frantic thoughts were tumbling through Sarah’s head as Hera was hushing the women, telling them she would speak with them soon, and summoning a slight young woman to show Sarah to her room.

  ‘You must rest,’ Hera said to Sarah. ‘Your luggage is already in the room, and there is a bell to ring for anything you want. Anything at all!’

  And Sarah believed her, for hadn’t a six-year-old been given an elephant?

  Not that she wanted any exotic creature—only Harry.

  Although here, wasn’t he an exotic creature—so far out of her realm she’d barely known him?

  Although her body had.

  ‘This way,’ a soft voice said, and Sarah sensed she’d said it earlier, while thoughts of elephants and Harry had swirled in her head.

  She followed the woman along the length of the great entrance hall, passing rooms off to both sides, done in different colours, but all with the bright carpets on the marble floors and silky-looking curtains swathing all the windows.

  At the end of the hall they turned down a passage to the right.

  ‘This is for visitors,’ the woman said. ‘Madam Hera says you are to go in Yellow—because of your hair she said, although your hair is red, is it not?’

  Sarah agreed her hair was indeed red, and as some of the women who had surged around Hera on their arrival had touched her hair and murmured to each other about it, Sarah had realised it made her different.

  ‘Maybe she thought the red hair would cla
sh in another colour of room,’ she said, and the woman smiled.

  ‘And maybe, too, it is because Yellow opens to its own courtyard and you can be private.’

  Private alone, or private with Harry?

  Surely his mother wasn’t giving tacit consent to their continuing affair?

  Well, hardly affair. And there was no way they could be having sex in a courtyard at the palace no matter how private it might be.

  Could they?

  No and no and no. It had been a fling and it was over. Harry had duties here, and his position demanded respect, so he could hardly be seen dallying, or even thought to be dallying, with a guest—especially when he was due to marry someone else.

  Sarah looked around a room that could have been lifted out of a very posh decorating magazine, and sighed.

  It was beautiful, no doubting that. Not yellow yellow but more lemon, with some hints of lime thrown in. Pale lemon silk curtains hung across the wide doors that opened onto a covered area outside, with steps leading down to an oasis of green in the small, enclosed garden beyond.

  An embroidered silk spread in the same colour as the curtains covered the bed, where pale lime cushions were piled at the end. The lime colour was repeated in the ornate bedside cabinets and the carved-legged writing desk over by the windows that held the phone and heavy writing paper.

  Through an arch opposite the windows was what must be a dressing room, walls of cupboards with the same lemon silk on the doors, padded and indented by lime-green buttons.

  And through that door a bathroom, the floor and walls the same white marble that provided flooring throughout the palace, with stacks of pale lemon towels on an antique cabinet, a shelf above it containing a range of toiletries to shame most department stores.

  ‘You will be comfortable? I will bring tea and you can rest, Madam Hera says.’

  So what Madam Hera says is law, Sarah thought as the woman left the room. Well, she’d take the tea but she doubted she would rest. There were too many thoughts and impressions swirling in her head. Rahman al-Taraq was there—a little too often—but other things, like right and wrong, and Harry and fiancées, and family, and traditions, swirled in the mix until her brain gave up in sheer exhaustion and she pulled back the coverlet on the bed, flung the cushions to one side, and slept.

  * * *

  So much for not resting. That was Sarah’s first thought when she woke two hours later. A tea tray sat on the little writing desk and to her delight the teapot was insulated and the tea still piping hot.

  Either that or the almost silent servant had come and gone at intervals to replace the pot.

  However, it had happened, the tea was wonderful, and the little pastries, hidden beneath a snowy-white napkin, delicious. So, with something in her stomach, Sarah debated. Did she want to explore the little courtyard, or shower before she went exploring?

  Shower, she decided, but first she had to find her clothes.

  Not difficult when she opened the first cupboard door and saw her things hanging there, her underwear neatly stacked in a drawer beside them.

  But the clothes brought a sigh. She’d packed for an English winter and because she’d been in air-conditioned vehicles or the hospital or this coolly luxurious palace, she hadn’t felt hot, but she was relatively certain it would be hot outside.

  The thought had barely left her when the silent woman returned.

  ‘Madame Hera said there are other clothes you might wish to wear, both European and traditional. You will find them here, and here.’

  The woman walked to the other side of the dressing room and threw open more cupboard doors.

  It was like walking into an upmarket boutique, as the clothes came in all colours, shapes and sizes and all still held store tags dangling from them—though no sign of price!

  Feeling she’d look foolish in a local outfit no matter how the colours called to her after four years of black and white, she chose instead from the first section, sticking to loose linen trousers—black—and a silk shirt.

  She’d reached for the white shirt but something seemed to nudge her hand and she lifted out a similar one in emerald green—the colour of the scarf she’d wished for on the island.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at the woman before collecting her own underwear and heading for the bathroom.

  In there, she took a deep breath. She wouldn’t take advantage of these people, kind as they were, but would wear the black slacks and some simple shirts while she was here.

  And she’d use her own toiletries and cosmetics, no matter how enticing some of the expensive body lotions and face creams might look.

  But she did wonder just what happened with this kind of generosity. She had no idea how many guest rooms the place might hold, but if all rooms were supplied with brand-new toiletries for every guest, there must be awful wastage.

  That or the servants must all have perfect skin!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HERA HERSELF CAME to collect Sarah to take her to dinner.

  Sarah had just returned from a short sortie into the courtyard and realised that whatever she wore during the day it would have to cover all her skin, as, at dusk, the air was still hot, so by day the sun must be fierce.

  Although maybe she’d be gone tomorrow.

  Maybe Harry would realise the impossibility of their being here together, and what?

  Ask his mother to rescind the invitation?

  Hardly.

  So he’d avoid her. That would be the best. Hera would ask someone else to show Sarah Ambelia...

  ‘Please don’t think we are offering gifts with the clothes we have for visitors to wear,’ Hera said, after checking out Sarah’s outfit. ‘We have the clothes available for those who don’t intend a visit here and would have nothing suitable to wear. I think it would be best for you to choose some of our traditional tunics and trousers for daytime, to protect your beautiful skin.’

  ‘But—’ Sarah protested, before a small hand on her arm stopped her objection.

  ‘You must not think that anything is wasted. If visitors do not wish to take with them the clothes, or, for that matter, the toiletry items they have used, we pass them on to several houses we have for women from less fortunate circumstances, women who are escaping abusive husbands or families, or who have nowhere else to go.’

  Sarah nodded. She knew such organisations existed back at home, and in Australia, even some that took half-used bottles of shampoo and other toiletries.

  But here?

  Hera must have read her thoughts, for she smiled a little sadly and said, ‘Unfortunately it happens everywhere, my dear. People are people all over the world. But, come, we have only a few of the family in to dinner tonight, but they will be anxious to meet you.’

  Because of the baby? Or to check out suspicions of a connection between her and Harry—Rahman?

  Sarah followed Hera back towards the front of the building, turning off through another arch about halfway down the hall. Although the room was large, it was so full of people she had to wonder just how big the al-Taraq family was if this was just a few of them.

  Then Harry was there—Rahman, for he was in his robes—but the hand that touched hers and fired her skin was definitely Harry’s.

  This was bad, worse than bad—horrendous. How could she be close to him and not look at him, touch him, remember what they’d shared?

  ‘I will not introduce you to all of them at once,’ he said, and she realised she should have added listen to him to the list. ‘But my other sisters and my brother-in-law and a favourite aunt or two—that will do for tonight. Are you up to it?’

  He sounded as if he was flirting.

  But they’d never really flirted.

  Maybe because she’d forgotten how and their attraction had been strong
enough to skip that bit.

  But looking up at him, seeing the smile in his eyes, yes, he was definitely flirting.

  ‘And just how many more relations are there that that will do for tonight?’

  ‘Countless,’ he said, with a chuckle that stirred every nerve in her body.

  Heaven forbid, she was here in a palace, with the man she...loved?

  ‘I don’t think I should be meeting any of them,’ she muttered at him as the possibility that her feelings might run that deep shocked her into anger.

  ‘It is all right, Sarah,’ he assured her. ‘Everything will be fine. Just relax and enjoy yourself.’

  Relax and enjoy herself in a room full of exotic strangers?

  ‘Just for me?’ he murmured, and her bones melted at the smile accompanying the words.

  ‘Why not?’ she responded, deciding he was right. Whatever happened in the future, there was no reason not to enjoy the present—and what a stupendous and astounding present it was.

  So she allowed herself to indulge in the pleasure of Harry’s hand on her elbow, in the warmth of his body close to hers.

  He guided her through the crowd and she nodded and smiled and turned away thanks and praise for her coming to help the family, all the time wondering how many of the women were seeing through their ‘professional colleagues’ act and wondering just how well they knew each other.

  Probably all of them because in between introductions Harry was whispering in her ear, teasing her with memories of other whispers.

  And she was responding, with quick retorts and, well, almost flirting.

  ‘Time for dinner,’ Harry said, giving her elbow a secret little squeeze.

  He ushered her towards the back of the room, and Sarah realised it was nothing more than a very large ante-chamber, opening out through more arched doors to a splendid spacious area, a huge mat already loaded with platters of food dominating the middle of it.

  ‘We do have rooms with dining tables and chairs,’ Harry said quietly in her ear, ‘but tonight with all the women’s gossip antennae twitching in the air, the sheer numbers meant we needed to eat in here.’