A Bed of Sand

by Laura Wright

  Fifteen

  Rita Thompson had courage.

  It had been a big trait of her mother’s. The woman had been known to rise from the ashes in times of crisis, and do what needed to be done—say what needed to be said—regardless of the consequences. And no matter how badly she had wished to escape the discomfort of a confrontation, running away with things left unresolved just hadn’t been an option for her.

  This had been an invaluable, though difficult, lesson for Rita through the years. But things had always turned out better for it in the end.

  She hoped today would be no different.

  As she walked into the palace and took the stairs to her room, Rita heard her mother’s voice in her head. She was urging her daughter to go to Sakir, apologize for how she’d handled things with Zayad and tell him what was in her heart.

  Rita knew full well her regrets would not be taken with any sense of forgiveness, just as she knew her feelings of love would not be reciprocated. But when she arrived at the suite door, she didn’t flinch. She turned the knob and went in.

  She didn’t see Sakir at first, and she wondered if he had gone to another part of the palace and had his things sent to him—or if he was already on his way to the airport. But then he walked out of the bedroom.

  He had changed from caftan to jeans and a white shirt. He looked so handsome, so angry, so lost. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and cry her way to absolution, but she was no child. She would handle things as a grown woman, without entreaty and tears.

  She swallowed the grapefruit-size lump in her throat and began. “I screwed up. Really screwed up. I’m sorry.”

  He lifted his chin. “It is forgotten.”

  Everything in his gaze, everything in his manner, screamed the opposite. “I doubt that.”

  “The bottom line is I have Emand Oil and you have your partnership. We will focus on this.”

  His words cut deep. She couldn’t care less for the partnership. She wanted him to understand why she did what she did. And if God was handing out miracles, she wanted Sakir to give in to his feelings—feelings she knew in her soul were there, behind the thorny wall around his heart.

  She wanted him to love her.

  She walked over to him, stood a few feet away. “Sakir, we need to talk. I mean, really talk.”

  “I have much to do.”

  “It’ll take a minute.”

  “I have papers to go over before we leave in the morning.”

  Leave in the morning…

  The shock of that statement assailed her, dropped on her heart like a steel weight. Yes, they were getting on a plane tomorrow.

  Back to real life.

  Back to Paradise, Texas, and working and living under the pretense that this whole marriage—the nights of lovemaking and the days of friendship—had been a sham.

  Rita took a deep breath. “Fine, but at least hear me out before you go.”

  He clipped her an impersonal nod. “Speak then, but understand, my heart is lost to you.”

  Pain seared into her soul at his words. But she knew she had to say what she’d come here to say. Sakir needed to hear it. He needed to hear the truth.

  “The people of this country love you,” she said. “Your brother loves you. And I love you.”

  His eyes blazed green fire; his nostrils flared.

  Rita released a shaky breath. “I understand your fears about losing those you care about. The pain is unimaginable, I know—”

  “You do not know anything,” he replied in a voice taut with fury.

  “I lost my mother when I was young, Sakir,” she countered vehemently. “Believe me, I know.”

  This statement stopped him cold. For a moment, the ire on his face dropped away and genuine interest took its place. For once, perhaps he was thinking about her family and not his own painful history.

  “I am sorry about your mother,” he said at long last.

  “Thank you.”

  “But it is different.”

  She agreed. “I know. When she died I was very angry, but I didn’t blame anyone else for her death.”

  Rage filtered back into his gaze. His glanced at the door. “What more have you to say?”

  What more besides, “I love you.”

  The midmorning sun inched its way into the room from the terrace windows, bathing both her and Sakir in its light.

  “I went to your brother because I care about you,” Rita explained.

  Sakir scoffed at this.

  “You can believe it or not. But it’s the truth.” She cocked her head, tried to get through to him with words and eyes filled with tenderness. “You needed the help, the push, whatever you want to call it—you needed it to get past this darkness you live in.”

  Through gritted teeth, Sakir uttered, “I needed no help. Especially regarding Zayad.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of pushing him out of your life again,” she said, her tone imploring him to listen. “He’s all the family you have left.”

  Something close to vulnerability shone in Sakir’s eyes at that declaration.

  “If you do,” Rita continued, “you’ll regret it for as long as you live.”

  “I do not indulge in regret, Rita.” He lifted a brow. “For anything or anyone.”

  Rita exhaled heavily. “You can toss out all these self-righteous one-liners and pretend none of this matters to you, but I know better.”

  “How is it you know?” he bated.

  “I know because I see you, Sakir. I see you and your heart.”

  His green eyes narrowed and hardened. “Just because we fell into bed a handful of times does not mean you know who I am.”

  Rita felt as if she’d been stabbed. Her stomach threaded into knots and she could hardly catch her breath. No one had ever said something so cruel to her. Out of pain, fear, resentment—it didn’t matter. Sakir had crossed a line today and no matter what happened, things between them would never be the same again.

  Just as she would never be the same again.

  He stared at her, still proud and unaffected. “Is there anything more you wish to say?”

  “Only this.” She mustered up every ounce of aplomb she possessed and looked him straight in the eye. “I quit.”

  And this time, with a bruised heart and a numb spirit, she was the one who turned and walked away.

  What he needed was a smooth cigar and a very tall glass of whiskey.

  Sakir sat in the worn leather chair his father had always used to think on important matters. He’d been cooped up in his father’s study in the back section of the palace tower for close to three hours now—doing nothing, saying nothing, trying like hell to erase everything he’d heard and said today.

  He was very good at that.

  He had erased the past decade from his mind with ease. He had thought one day should be nothing to him.

  He had been wrong.

  As she had from the first moment they had met, the moment he had kissed her at their wedding altar, the moment he had first slid inside her body and the moment she had taken him in search of figs, Rita Thompson had insinuated herself into his mind and held steady.

  He could not get her eyes out of his memory, just as he could not expunge the repulsive words he had uttered to her. Words that had meant to shock, to hurt, to drive away this woman who had come to mean far too much to him.

  And he had succeeded.

  With eyes filled with pain, she had told him that she would no longer be working in his employ.

  Bitter laughter fell from Sakir’s lips. He had lost her heart and her mind. And her love…

  He growled, let his head fall into his hands.

  This was a good thing, the right thing. He did not want this woman’s love. He did not want such a burden. Yet every time he played those four daunting words— I love you, Sakir—over in his head, his chest seized and his body ached for her.

  He drove his hand through his hair. Dammit, he had been a fool for bringing her here, for ma
king that agreement. Marriage, even one crafted on subterfuge, was a very risky undertaking. And he had taken the leap without a thought. All he had seen was Emand Oil, spurning his brother and getting close to a woman he had longed to touch and taste for years.

  In truth, he deserved whatever wounds he got.

  All thoughts died right then and there, as suddenly a sword whizzed past his head and dropped onto the table beside him, the steel blade smashing against the wood with a loud clatter.

  “Let us resolve this.”

  Sakir whirled around, saw his brother standing over him and threw him a sneer.

  Zayad’s grin held no humor, either. In fact, he looked ready to do battle. “Unless all that time in America has left you soft.”

  Through clenched teeth, Sakir uttered, “You provoke me?”

  Zayad inclined his head. “I do.”

  The anger that raged inside Sakir, the anger that had been eating at him for too many years to count, rushed to the surface in electric currents. His blood pounded in his veins, and his every muscle tensed.

  Sakir and his brother had worked with swords for many years, both excelling at the art. But today, at this moment, they were not playing a child’s game. This was a battle, true and without fear.

  “Not here.” Sakir grabbed the sword and held it to his side. “Not in our father’s room.”

  “Agreed.”

  Zayad walked out of the room. Sakir followed, his gaze like that of a hawk’s. They both knew where they were going. The large terrace that spanned the entire third floor had always been used for formal occasions and state dinners.

  Today, it would serve as the field of a final conflict.

  The sun glared down on Sakir’s back as he walked out onto the stone. But he cared little. His mind and his body were set like an animal’s, ready to pounce, to strike. He never looked away from his brother as he positioned himself and waited—for it was the honor of the sultan to begin the match.

  Zayad also positioned himself, then without a word he lifted his brow just slightly.

  It was enough.

  Sakir rushed him, his sword first held high above his head, and then slamming down. Metal crashed against metal.

  Zayad’s footwork was excellent and Sakir was forced back, back against the balcony wall. But he wasn’t about to be defeated so easily. With a grin, he lunged at Zayad. Again, swords clashed as his brother was ready for him and struck back. Hard and heavy.

  The sun beat down on them without mercy. Over and over, back and forth, the two brothers battled. Sweat dripped from Sakir’s brow into his eyes, but he allowed the sting to replenish his energy. And he used all the rage that dwelled inside of him.

  He blocked and slashed and attacked, sparring with Zayad back almost to the railing.

  Suddenly Zayad cried out. Sakir paused, his breathing labored. He watched his brother look down, turn over his hand and stare. Blood dripped from a gash in Zayad’s palm.

  Zayad looked up and gave Sakir a deadly glare. Again he cried out, but this time it was the cry of a warrior.

  Zayad attacked like a man possessed. His sword fell to Sakir’s leg, his waist, his chest.

  Time seemed to hold still as they battled.

  But not for long.

  It was Sakir who howled next, who backed off. Blinding pain seized his arm. Blood seeped eagerly from the rip in his white shirt.

  He looked at Zayad, his brow raised questioningly. Zayad knew that look, knew what it meant and nodded, sweat dripping from his forehead. Shedding blood was enough for them both; they quit and backed off.

  “You have remained quick, brother,” Zayad said through weighty breaths.

  Sakir pressed the palm of his hand to his wound. “And you have remained slow.”

  Zayad chuckled and let his sword fall. “Shall we go again, then?”

  Sakir shook his head and snorted. “I would like that, but alas I am too old.”

  Zayad walked to him and then fell to his backside onto the stone floor. “As am I.”

  Sakir also sat, exhausted. He no longer felt like the man of business, the man of indifference, the man of anger. Sitting here, on the floor with his brother, bleeding and trading gibes, he felt like a child, battled and bruised and ready for a nap.

  The brothers sat in silence for a moment, then Zayad knifed a hand through his wet hair and sighed. “I miss Hassan.”

  Sakir looked away, the pain in his arm nothing to the pain he felt for the loss of his younger brother. “You could have kept him at home.”

  Zayad wiped the blood from his hand onto the stones beside him. “Sakir, do you not remember our brother?”

  “Of course I remember him.”

  “Then you will recall that while on this earth he was a wild little monkey, a proud eagle—he could not be contained.”

  Sakir ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and handed it to Zayad for a makeshift bandage. If he thought back, if he allowed himself to think back on his little brother, he would see a boy just as Zayad had described. Hassan had been as stubborn as the rest of them.

  Sakir glanced up, nodded. “He was a true son of Al-Nayhal, that is certain.”

  Grief moved through Zayad’s gaze. “But for my son, we are the last of this family. Can we not resolve our differences and be brothers once more?”

  No biting comment found its way to Sakir’s lips this time. He had fought a weary battle over the last ten years. Perhaps it was time to throw down his sword and face his fears, accept that his brother had no control over life and death, just as he, Sakir, did not.

  “Perhaps we should resolve this,” Sakir said with just a touch of humor. “For I fear I could not survive another clash of swords.”

  Zayad laughed again. It was a good sound. One Sakir had missed, though he would never admit it aloud. Once upon a time, when his mother and father had been alive, the family had sat together, taken a meal and laughed.

  It had been a long time ago.

  “You will forgive Rita, as well?”

  Sakir shot out of the fog of memory and fairly choked. “What do you say?”

  “Rita is owed an apology, my brother.”

  Sakir did not want to hear such a thing. He bit back. “This is none of your affair. And besides, she had no right—”

  “She had the right of a wife who loves her husband.”

  Sakir snorted with derision. “Wife. She is not my—” He stopped short, stared at his brother. “But I gather you already knew that.”

  Zayad’s brows knit together. “I thought I did. I thought your marriage was not based on love. But now I am not so sure.”

  “What does that mean?” Sakir asked, irritated.

  “You may have married her out of necessity, brother, but much has changed, yes?”

  Sakir opened his mouth to speak, to refute his brother’s claim, then promptly shut it. Although he did not care to confess such foolishness on his part, he could not deny the change in his feelings, either.

  He had married Rita to have respectability with his conservative clients, yes. But somewhere between the plane ride to Emand and the palm tree forest, things had turned and morphed into a genuine affection.

  Zayad glanced down at his wounded hand. “Pride will keep you from this woman you love.”

  “Love,” Sakir said with much flippancy. “What do I know of love?”

  “Not much, that is true. But I am a man with eyes. I see how you look at one another.” He grinned. “There is much feeling there.”

  “Bah.”

  Zayad placed his wounded hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sakir, will you do something for me?”

  “What is it?”

  “For one moment, think of your life without her.”

  It was as though he had been stuck by his brother’s sword once again. But the words Zayad had uttered were far more painful than a mere nick on the arm.

  His life without Rita.

  But no, he would not be without her, he reminded himself. She would be at h
is side, his partner in the firm. All day they would be together. Then, of course, at night they would go their separate ways; she to her home and he to his—

  Sakir stopped right there.

  There would be no working together. He would not see her.

  She had quit her job.

  Under the hot sun, Sakir felt deathly cold. Even when Rita had told him that she quit, he did not think it possible. He did not think of her as gone, out of his life and his bed. Forever.

  He lifted his head to the heavens and cursed into the wild desert air.

  “It is as I thought.” Zayad gave him a brotherly rap on the arm.

  A sharp sting bit at Sakir and he let fly a groan.

  Zayad chuckled. “Sorry, brother. But as you have already seen, no pain compares to the loss of a woman’s favor.”

  “That may very well be.” Sakir shook his head. “But it matters little now.”

  “Why?”

  “I have said foolish, malicious things to her.”

  Zayad stood, offered his brother a hand. “She will forgive you.”

  The look in Rita’s eyes this morning spoke differently. Yes, Sakir knew there was still love there. But she was clearly resigned to his snarls and her decision. Resignation was far worse than being angry.

  Sakir grabbed his brother’s hand. “She would refuse me now.”

  Zayad pulled Sakir to his feet. “I think not.”

  “You do not know her as I do.”

  Zayad shrugged. “You give in, then?”

  One word sat on Sakir’s tongue, refusing to stir. “Never.”

  Sixteen

  She would miss this place.

  Rita stared out the airport’s soaring windows at the desert in the distance. The sun was slowly setting, tossing that exquisite pinky-peach glow her way, making her smile a little sadly. In a million years, she’d never have thought that she’d become as attached to this land as she had. Heck, she was supposed to be a Texan through and through. But Emand had snagged her heart.

  Just as its sheikh had.

  Her heart squeezed, but she forced the feeling away. She’d have to get used to this empty feeling. She’d have to remember that she had no Sakir, no job, no romance. She was going home with nothing, with only the hope of rebuilding her life. Thank goodness her sister Ava’s wedding was just a few short weeks away. Getting lost in last-minute wedding details, helping the nervous bride with her makeup and dress would surely keep Rita’s mind occupied. Then when Ava and Jared finally left for their honeymoon, Rita would get to work on finding a new job.