by Morey, Trish
“I just can’t imagine. Isn’t it hot? Actually it must be exceedingly hot. Is there a word beyond hot?”
He laughed again. She liked the sound of it. She smiled in reaction, not at all miffed that he was laughing at her questions.
“Oh, it’s hot. Even with the special suits we wear.”
He explained briefly how they dealt with fire.
Ella listened, fascinated in a horrified way. “You could get killed doing that,” she exclaimed at one point.
“Haven’t yet,” he said.
She detected the subtle difference in his voice. He was no longer laughing. Had someone been injured or killed fighting one of those fires? Probably. The entire process sounded extremely dangerous.
“They don’t erupt often,” he said.
“I hope there is never another oil fire in the world,” she said fervently. “No wonder you wanted to go swimming last night. I’d want to live in the sea if I ever survived one of those.”
“That is an appeal. But I’d get restless staying here all the time. Something always draws me back to the oil fields. A need to keep the rigs safe. And a sense of need to return burning wells to productivity. Duty, passion. I’m not totally sure myself.”
“So it’s the kind of thing you’d do even if you didn’t need to work?”
He laughed again. “Exactly.”
She stopped. “This is as far as I usually go,” she said.
“Ben al Saliqi lives here, or he used to,” Khalid said, turning slowly to see the house from the beach. Only the peaks of the roof were visible above the trees that lined the estate, a soft glow from the lamps in the windows illuminating the garden.
“How do you know that?” she asked. There was hardly any identifying features in the dark.
He turned back to her. “I spent many summers here. At my grandmother’s house,” he said. “I know every family on the beach—except yours.”
“Ohmygod, you’re one of the al Harum men, aren’t you? I’m your tenant, Ella Ponti.”
CHAPTER TWO
“MY TENANT?” Khalid said.
“I rent the guesthouse on your grandmother’s estate. She was my patron—or something. I miss her so much. I’m so sorry she died.”
“She rented out the guesthouse? I had no idea.”
“I have a lease. You can check it. She insisted on drawing one up. Said it would be better for us both to get the business part out of the way and enjoy each other’s company. She was wonderful. I’m so sorry she died when she did. I miss her.”
“I miss her, as well. I didn’t know about this,” Khalid said.
“Well, I don’t know why you don’t. Haven’t you been running the estate? I mean, the gardener comes every week, the maids at the house keep it clean and ready.”
“This is the first I’ve visited since her death. The servants know how to do their job. They don’t need an overseer on site.”
“It’s the first visit in a long while. You didn’t visit her the last few months she lived here. She talked about her grandsons. Which are you, Rashid or Khalid?”
“Khalid.”
“Ah, the restless one.”
“Restless?”
“She said you hadn’t found your place yet. You were seeking, traveling to the interior, along the coast, everywhere, looking for your place.”
“Indeed. And Rashid?”
“He’s the consumed one—trying to improve the business beyond what his father and uncles did. She worried about you both. Afraid—” Ella stopped suddenly. She was not going to tell him all his grandmother had said. It was not her business if neither man ever married and had children. Or her place to tell him of the longing the older woman had had to hold a new generation. Which never happened and now never would.
“Afraid of what?” he asked.
“Nothing. I have to go back now.” She began walking quickly toward home. How was she to know the mysterious stranger on the beach was her new landlord? She almost laughed. He might hold the lease, but he was nothing like a landlord. He hadn’t even visited the estate in more than a year. She knew, because she’d never seen him there and she’d live here for over a year and had heard from his grandmother how much she wished to see him beyond fleeting visits in the capital city.
He easily caught up with her. Reaching out to take her arm, he stopped her and swung her around.
“Tell me.”
“Good grief, it’s not that big a deal. She was afraid neither of her grandsons would marry and have children. She was convinced both of you were too caught up in your own lives to look around for someone to marry. She wanted to hold a great-grandchild. Now she never can.”
“She told you this? A stranger.”
Ella nodded. “Yes. We became friends and had a lot of time to visit and talk. She came to the guest cottage often, interested in what I was doing.” And had been a rock to lean against when Ella was grieving the most. Her gentle wisdom had helped so much in those first few months. Her love had helped in healing. And the rental cottage had been a welcomed refuge. One guarded by the old money and security of the al Harum family. Ella had found a true home in the cottage and was forever grateful to Alia al Harum for providing the perfect spot for her.
Sheikh Khalid al Harum came from that same old money. She hadn’t known exactly what he did but it certainly wasn’t for money. No wonder his grandmother had complained. It was a lucky thing he was still alive.
“And what were you doing?” he asked, still holding her arm.
“Working. You could call her a patron of the arts.”
“You’re a painter?”
“No, glassblower. Could you let me go?”
Ella felt his hold ease. His hand dropped to his side. She stepped back and then headed for home. So much for the excitement of meeting the stranger. She could have just waited until she heard him at the main house and gone over to introduce herself.
Now she wanted to get home and close the door. This was the grandson who was always roaming. Was he thinking of using the house when in the capital city?
“Oh.” She stopped and turned. Khalid bumped into her. She hadn’t known he was right behind her. His hands caught her so she didn’t fall.
“Are you planning to sell the estate?” she asked.
“It’s something I’m considering.”
“Your grandmother wanted you to have it. She’d be so hurt if you just sold it away.”
“I’m not selling it away. It’s too big for one man. And I’m not in Alkaahdar often. When I am, I have a flat that suits me.”
“Think of the future. You could marry and have a huge family someday. You’ll need a big house like that one. And the location is perfect—right on the Gulf.”
“I’m not planning to ever marry. Obviously my grandmother didn’t tell you all about me or you’d know the thought of marriage is ludicrous. So why would I want a big house to rattle around in?”
Ella tried to remember all her sponsor had said about her grandsons. Not betraying any confidences, not going into detail about their lives, she still had given Ella a good feel for the men’s personalities. And a strong sense that neither man was likely to make her a great-grandmother. The longing she’d experienced for the days passed when they’d been children and had loved to come to her home had touched Ella’s heart. Alia had hoped to recapture those happy times with their children.
“Don’t make hasty decisions,” she said. Alia had died thinking this beloved grandson would live in her home. Ella hated the thought he could casually discard it when it had meant so much to the older woman.
“My grandmother died last July. It’s now the end of May. I don’t consider that a hasty move.”
Ella didn’t know what tack to use. If he wanted to sell, the house was his to do so with as he wanted. But she felt sad for the woman who had died thinking Khalid would find happiness in the house she’d loved.
“Come, I’ll walk you back. You didn’t use the path last night that leads to the hou
se or guesthouse,” he said.
“I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t want to indicate where I lived,” she said, walking back. The night seemed darker and colder. She wanted to be home. So much for looking forward to the evening walk. Now she wished she’d stayed in the cottage and gone to bed.
“Wise. You don’t know who might be out on the beach so late at night.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I know this beach well.” She was withdrawing. There was something liberating about walking with a stranger, talking, sharing. But something else again once actually knowing the person. She’d be dealing with him in the near future. She didn’t know this man. And until she did, she was not giving out any personal information.
A blip of panic settled in. If he sold the estate, where would she go? She had made a home here. Thought she’d be living in the cottage for years to come. She had to review the lease. Did it address the possibility of the estate being sold? She knew Madame al Harum had never considered that likelihood.
As soon as she reached the path, she walked even faster. “Good night,” she said. She wasn’t even sure what to call him. Sheikh al Harum sounded right, or did she use his first name, as well, to differentiate him from his brother who also was a sheikh? She was not used to dealing with such lofty families.
When she reached her house, she flipped on the lights and headed for the desk. Her expenses were minimum: food, electricity and her nominal rent. It wasn’t as if the al Harum family needed her money. But she had needed to pay her way. She was not a charity case. It wasn’t a question of money; it was a question of belonging. Of carrying out her dreams. Madame al Harum had understood. Ella doubted the sheikh would.
She read the Arabic script, finding it harder to understand than newspapers. She could converse well, read newspapers comfortably. But this was proving more difficult than she expected. Why hadn’t she asked for a copy translated into Italian?
Throwing it down in disgust, she paced the room for a long time. If she had to leave, where would she go? She studied the cream-colored walls, the soft draperies that made the room so welcoming. Just beyond the dark windows was a view of the gardens. She loved every inch of the cottage and grounds. Where else would she find a home?
The next morning Ella was finishing her breakfast when one of the maids from the main house knocked on the door. It was Jalilah, one who had also served Alia al Harum for so many years.
“His Excellency would like to see you,” she said. “I’m to escort you to the main house.”
So now he summoned her—probably to discuss her leaving. “Wait until I change.” She’d donned worn jeans and an oversize shirt to work around the studio. Not the sort of apparel one wore to meet with a sheikh. Especially if doing battle to keep her home.
Quickly she donned a dress that flattered her dark looks. It was a bit big; she’d lost weight over the last few months. Still, the rose color brought a tinge of pink to her cheeks.
Her dark eyes looked sad—as they had ever since losing Alexander. She would never again be the laughing girl who had grown up thinking everything good about people. Now she knew heartache and betrayal. She was wiser, but at a price.
Running a brush through her hair, she turned to face the future. Was there a clause in the lease that would nullify her claim if the estate was sold? As they walked across the gardens, she tried to remember every detail about the terms Madame al Harum had discussed.
She entered the house and immediately remembered her one-time hostess. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d visited. It was cool and pleasant. The same pictures hung on the walls. Her first vase from her new studio still held a place of honor on the small table in the foyer, holding a cascading array of blossoms. She’d been so happy it had been loved.
The maid went straight to the study. Ella paused at the doorway for a moment, her eyes widening in shock as she got a good look at Sheikh Khalid al Harum. He looked up at her, catching the startled horror in her expression. His own features hardened slightly and she felt embarrassed she’d reacted as she had. No one had told her he’d been horribly burned. The distorted and puckered skin on his right cheek, down his neck and obviously beneath his shirt, disfigured what were otherwise the features of a gorgeous man. She’d been right about his age—he looked to be in his prime, maybe early thirties. And he was tall as she noted when he rose to face her.
“You wanted to see me?” she said, stepping inside. She held his gaze, determined not to comment on the burn, or show how sympathetic she felt at the pain he must have endured. She’d had enough burns herself in working with molten glass to know the pain. Never as big a patch as he had. What was a fabulously wealthy man like he had to be risking his life to fight oil fires?
Her heart beat faster. Despite the burn scar, he was the best-looking guy she’d ever seen. Even including Alexander. She frowned. She was not comparing the two. There was no need. The sheikh was merely her new landlord. The flurry of attraction was a fluke. He could mean nothing to her.
“Please.” He gestured to a chair opposite the desk. “You’re considerably younger than thought. Are you really a widow?”
She nodded as she slipped onto the edge of the chair. “My husband died April a year ago. What did you wish to see me about?”
He sat and picked up a copy of the lease. “This. The lease for the guesthouse you signed with my grandmother.”
She nodded. It was what she expected. He held her future in his hands. Why didn’t she have a good feeling about this?
“How did you coerce her to making this?” he asked, frowning at the papers.
Ella blinked. “I did not coerce her into doing anything. How dare you suggest such a thing!” She leaned forward, debating whether to leave or not at his disparaging remark. “She offered me a place to live and work and then came up with the lease herself so I wouldn’t have to worry about living arrangements until I got a following.”
“A following?”
“I told you, I blow glass. I need to make enough pieces to sell to earn her livelihood. Until that time, she was—I guess you’d say like a patroness—a sponsor if you would. I rented the studio to make my glass pieces and she helped out by making the rent so low. Did you read the clause where she gets a percentage of my sales when I start making money?”
“And if you never sell anything? Seems you got a very cushy deal here. But my grandmother’s gone now. This is my estate and if I chose to sell it, I’m within my rights. I don’t know how you got her to sign such a lopsided lease but I’m not her. You need to leave. Vacate the guest quarters so I can renovate if necessary to sell.”
Ella stared at him. “Where does it say I have to leave before the end of the five years?” she asked, stalling for time, trying to think about what she could do. Panic flared again. It has seemed too good to be true that she’d have a place to live and work while building an inventory. But as the months had gone on, she’d become complaisant with her home. She couldn’t possibly find another place right away—and she didn’t have the money to build another studio. And not enough glass pieces ready to sell to raise the money. She was an unknown. The plans she and his grandmother had discussed had been for the future—not the present.
“I do not want you as a tenant. What amount do you want to leave?”
She didn’t get his meaning at first, then anger flared. “Nothing. I wish to stay.” She felt the full force of his gaze when he stared at her. She would not be intimidated. This was her home. He might see it as merely property, but it was more to her. Raising her chin slightly, she continued. “You’ll see on the last page once I begin to sell, she gets ten percent of all sales. Or she would have. I guess you do, now.” She didn’t like the idea of having a long-term connection with this man. He obviously couldn’t care less about her or her future. Madame al Harum had loved her work, had encouraged her so much. She appreciated what Ella did and would have reveled in her success—if it came.
Sheikh Khalid al H
arum saw her as an impediment to selling the estate.
Tough.
“I can make it very worth your while,” he said softly.
She kept her gaze locked with his. “No.”
“You don’t know how much,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter. I have the lease, I have the house for another four years. That will be enough time to make it or not. If not, I’ll find something else to do.” And she’d keep her precious home until the last moment.
“Or find a rich husband to support you. The estate is luxurious. You would hate to leave it. But if I give you enough money, you’ll be able to support yourself in similar luxury for a time.”
She rose and leaned on the desk, her eyes narrowed as she stared into his.
“I’m not leaving. The lease gives me a right to stay. Deal with it.”
She turned and left, ignoring her shaky knees, her pounding heart. She didn’t want his money. She wanted to stay exactly where she was. Remain until those looking for her gave up. Until she could build her own future the way she wanted. Until she could prove her art was worth something and that people would pay to own pieces.
Khalid listened to the sound of her hurried footsteps, then the closing of the front door. She refused to leave. He glanced at the lease again. As far as he could tell, it was iron tight. But he’d have the company attorneys review. There had to be a way. He did not want to sit on the house for another four years and he suspected no one would buy the place with a tenant in residence. What had his grandmother been thinking?
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the chair his unwanted tenant had used. Ella Ponti, widow. She looked like she was in her midtwenties. How had her husband died? She was far too young to be a widow, living alone. Yet the sadness that had shone in her eyes until the fire of anger replaced it, showed him she truly mourned her loss. And he felt a twinge of regret to be bringing a change to her life.
Yet he couldn’t reconcile her being in the cottage. Had his grandmother been taken in? Was Ella nothing more than a gold digger looking for an easy way in life? Latch on to an old woman and talk her into practically giving her the cottage.
