Gibran let a silent string of curses unfurl in his brain, but bit his tongue so he didn’t unleash them in the air.
“Do you need more painkillers?”
“No,” he barked. He wanted to be as fully conscious as possible. He needed his wits about him. It half killed him to be lying here, useless, in front of his brothers. Worse yet, he hadn’t even gathered any useful information.
The events in Satya were now creeping back into his mind. He didn’t even get a good look at his assailant, who’d worn a white scarf wrapped around his face when he shot at him from the doorway. “The men with me. Were they injured?” He’d chosen them personally for the strength and loyalty he’d seen in them. They’d trusted him to lead them.
“No. They killed the man who shot you and managed to take another three people in the house prisoner. A man and two women. They’re all in custody two buildings down the street.
“Good.” Relief washed over him, despite the pain stalking his lower body. “Have you learned anything?”
“Yes,” said Zadir. “They people we captured claim to know nothing, as usual, and said they thought you were a robber. They had good reason to be concerned about thieves, because we found gold minted in Tabriq hidden inside seat cushions in the house. Recently minted, like, last year. No way it was their life savings, as they claim.”
“In Tabriq?” Gibran inhaled slowly. Interesting.
“I know,” Zadir continued. “That only makes things more complicated. First Satya, now Tabriq, it doesn’t make sense.”
Or did it? Gibran didn’t feel like spewing theories, though. Not when lives were at stake. “I need to talk to them.” The orderly had unbuckled the leather straps holding his arms and he tried to ease himself up onto his elbows, but the pain became so excruciating that he collapsed back down on the bed.
“You need to take something. Get some sleep. You can talk to them in the morning.”
“I’ll be fine.” He managed, through gritted teeth. He was alive, his injuries would heal, he’d get through this damn mess.
“Gibran, take something.” Now Amahd leaned in, serious as ever. “Sleep will help you heal. Everyone back at the palace will be relieved to hear you’re awake and talking.”
Everyone back at the palace. Including Aliyah. He’d planned on spending tonight in her bed. Maybe even been distracted by the prospect—or spurred to rashness by it.
What would she think of this? Was she worried? Did she feel he’d let them all down? He’d been an idiot to let himself get ambushed.
The brothers ushered the orderly forward, and Gibran saw that he brandished a syringe of something.
“I don’t need it,” he growled, pain shooting up through his torso. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know I’d feel the same way in your place.” Osman leaned in. “But as your brother, I insist that you take it. We need you fresh in the morning.”
He grumbled a little but eventually let the young man plunge the needle into his veins. Then he didn’t even fight much when the sharp barbs of pain dulled and softened, and sweet sleep crept over him again.
“Can I go visit him?” Aliyah had thought of nothing else from the moment she learned Gibran was safely in the small hospital in Nabattur. She wasn’t sure if asking to see him was appropriate, but she had to try. “I could drive myself.”
“Osman said he’s arranging to bring Gibran back here as soon as the doctor say’s it’s okay,” said Sam. They sat around the breakfast table, though only Nasri and Parsia had any appetite at all. “He’s awake and talking, though he’s in a lot of pain. They did another surgery overnight to remove some more bullet fragments from his leg.”
Poor Gibran. He must be miserable laid up in bed unable to do anything. She wanted to press further about going to visit him, but caution made her hesitate. Gibran might be angry if she did anything that revealed their intimacy.
“Let’s draw him some pictures,” said Nasri. “To cheer him up.”
“That’s a great idea, sweetheart.”
“You’ve grown quite close to him, haven’t you?” asked Sam.
Aliyah froze. “Uh, we have spent time together while he was teaching me to drive.” Surely Sam didn’t know about the time they’d spent together in her bed?
It was hard to keep secrets in Ubar. She could barely breathe as she watched for Sam’s reaction, but Sam was busy buttering bread.
“It was very sweet of him to teach you to drive,” said Ronnie. “It shows a softer side of him, when he usually comes across as such a tough guy.”
“Yes.” Aliyah tried not to betray anything with her face or voice. “It was kind of him to take the time.”
“I feel like an idiot for not teaching you myself,” said Sam. “It never crossed my mind that you couldn’t drive.”
“Me either.” Ronnie sipped her coffee. “He’s apparently more thoughtful than us. I feel terrible for him. We’ll have to take this downtime to get to know him better.”
Aliyah knew it was crazy but she felt a tiny flare of jealousy at the prospect of having to share Gibran. She’d been the first person at the palace to speak with him and they’d formed a strange but powerful bond. Their future had always been uncertain at best, but suddenly it felt like their intimacy was over when it had barely begun, shot to shreds in the hills of Satya. It would be hard to even get a moment alone with him now—but she was determined to try.
Gibran wished he were anywhere on earth but here at the royal palace he’d vowed never to come back to. Everyone was being so nice. His brothers stopped by every hour with updates on the captives and the ongoing interrogations, but they wouldn’t let him get out of bed to lead the investigation himself.
He felt trapped and powerless in a way he’d spent his whole life trying to avoid.
And then there was Aliyah. He couldn’t bear for her to see him like this—helpless and useless.
Now that he’d given her driving lessons, she had a pretext for coming to see him. They were “friends,” in a public way, and her daughters liked him. Sooner or later she’d be bound to show up, and he wasn’t sure he could bear it. He should be making love to her, not looking up at her from a sick bed.
A knock on the door made him freeze.
“It’s me.” That familiar soft, feminine voice sent a surge of heat and frustration through his pain-wracked body.
He muttered a silent curse. Maybe if he didn’t say anything, she’d go away.
“May I come in?”
After a few seconds of silence, he heard the handle turn and shut his eyes. Apparently she was coming in anyway. He tried to slow his breathing to a reasonable facsimile of sleep as he heard her footsteps cross the floor.
Her scent—honeysuckle sweet—crept into his nostrils as he lay there, trying not to move a muscle.
The bed shifted as she sat her weight on the edge of it, and he tried not to brace himself in response. His ears pricked, despite his efforts to remain motionless, as he waited for her to say something.
But she didn’t. She just sat there. He could hear her breathing, slightly more labored than it should have been, as if she were battling strong emotion.
Dammit! Powerful feelings gathered in his chest, which made it even harder to keep still, and he felt himself grow rigid with the effort of staying immobile.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The gruff reprimand ripped out of him at last.
“You’re awake.” Sweet and surprised, she reached out a hand and touched his arm, which flinched in response.
He opened his eyes just enough to see her outline, but not enough to drink in the dangerous beauty that had drawn him in way over his head. She was crazy to be here. Someone might suspect their affair. “You need to stay away from me.”
“Nonsense.” She frowned. He’d opened his eyes enough to see that. “No one suspects anything.” Now she whispered, intimate and close, and the sound sent unwelcome arousal coursing through him. “They know you gave me driving lessons. They don’t thi
nk it’s odd that I’m here. Are you in a lot of pain?” Compassion shone in her dark eyes.
She planned to totally ignore his demand for her to leave. And her pity was killing him. “Pain is a state of mind.” His voice was a rough growl, but he kept it low in case there were guards outside the door.
“No, it isn’t.” She stroked his arm now, sending shivers of sensation coursing through him. “You don’t have to pretend to be any tougher than you are. It was very brave of you to confront them yourself.”
“It was foolish.” He tried to move his leg, then winced as he realized what a huge mistake that was. He wanted to tug his arm away from her soft touch—which was threatening his defenses—but there was no way to do that without moving his torso and, tough as he prided himself on being, he couldn’t face that much agony right now.
“Osman said you won’t take anything for the pain.”
“I prefer to keep a clear head.”
“I think your head is just stubborn.” A tiny smile played about her soft, pink mouth.
“Maybe so, but it’s kept me alive all these years.” He couldn’t stand the way her soft gaze roamed over his motionless, useless body. “And it’s the only part of me that’s working properly right now.”
“When will you be able to get out of bed?”
He grunted. The doctors had been infuriatingly mysterious about that. He had sensation in all areas, so he wasn’t paralyzed, but they’d told him that putting weight on his legs could wreck his chances of a full recovery.
He didn’t know whether they were lying or telling the truth. He didn’t trust doctors any more than he trusted anyone else.
“A week? A month?”
He realized he hadn’t answered her question. “The first moment I can.” He tried to sound rude. He didn’t want her waiting around, hoping, imagining a continuation of their intimacy.
Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Everything had changed.
“You need to leave me alone. I don’t want to see you.” He didn’t want her sitting around pining for him, imagining that some kind of relationship would grow out of their foolish indiscretions. For all he knew, he wouldn’t recover enough to resume his career.
She needed to get on with her life and forget about him.
“Don’t be silly.” She stroked his arm, sending unwelcome warmth and arousal surging to parts of his body he was trying to forget. “I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to.”
“Then you’d better try harder.” He tried to scowl. He hated being mean to Aliyah. She was so sweet, so innocent. He should despise her for that, or despise himself for how much he liked her. “I’m hardly going to come to your bed when I can’t get out of my own.” He hissed the last words, trying to sound hostile, but keeping his voice low enough not to alert anyone outside.
“I don’t care about that.” Now she stroked his cheek, which must be rough with stubble. “I want to help you recover.”
“Well, I don’t want you to help me. I want you to get on with your life. Without me.”
Aliyah’s face fell. She was listening now. She knew he was serious.
And he was, though saying it half killed him. The thought of her in another man’s arms clawed at him, but she had no business in his.
He’d failed in his mission and made an ass of himself in front of his brothers. While he was determined to solve the mystery still hanging over Ubar, he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here and never come back again, before all this pity and compassion destroyed the parts of him that still worked.
Aliyah withdrew her hand from his arm and wound her fingers together. He saw her shoulders tighten under the pretty pink dress she’d worn to look nice for him.
Pain crept through him that had nothing to do with his wounds. “Leave now, and don’t come back.” He narrowed his eyes and tried to sound as fierce as possible, without alerting anyone in the hallway.
She stood, her eyes now darting around. “I didn’t realize…” Her voice broke. “I thought….”
Here was his chance to finish this for good. To save her. To save himself. “You should have known better.”
Aliyah studied him for a long moment, in which he felt his heart burn almost as fiercely as his injuries, then turned and fled for the door—insulted, hurt and probably angry.
Gibran sank back into his pillow, waiting for a surge of relief.
But it didn’t come. The only thing that washed over him was pain that dwarfed the sting of his injuries. Pain like he’d never experienced before and hoped to never feel again.
He’d been a fool to let himself get entangled with Aliyah, just as he’d been a fool to approach that house unarmed. And he didn’t ever plan to be that kind of fool again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“You look sad, Mama.” Nasri nuzzled against Aliyah. It was bedtime and she sat between her girls on the cushions in her bedroom.
“Sleeping Beauty is a sad story.” She tried to conjure a wan smile. Her conversation with Gibran earlier that day seemed to have sapped the lifeblood out of her. “Just think, she’s asleep so long that all her friends and family are long gone by the time she wakes up.” It was pretty pathetic that she tried to blame her cheerless demeanor on a children’s story.
“But she has the prince,” lisped Parsia.
“Maybe he didn’t turn out to be so great, after all.” She tried to sound lighthearted.
“Princes are always good,” insisted Nasri. “That’s why they’re princes. Like Uncle Amahd.”
Aliyah smiled. “Do you think Uncle Amahd will live happily ever after?” She had her doubts about him. He seemed married to his work and uninterested in girls, from what she could tell.
“Oh yes. Definitely.” Nasri nodded. “He’s very kind, and that’s important.”
Aliyah stroked her daughter’s silky hair. Amahd was sweet to the girls, no matter how busy or distracted he seemed, and Nasri was right, that was important.
Gibran had been much sweeter to the girls than he had to her. She must be out of her mind to have fallen so hard for him. Others might blame him but she blamed herself. He’d given her plenty of warnings and even told her to stay away from him. Yet she’d still rushed in, a moth toward the lantern flame that burned so hot and bright she couldn’t resist it.
She realized too late that she’d released a ragged breath.
“Don’t cry, Mama.” Parsia wrapped her tiny plump arms around her. “She lived happily ever after. Princesses always do.”
“Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?” She choked back tears and forced a smile to her lips, then hugged her girls tight. “What shall we read next?”
“The princess and the pea,” said Nasri firmly, producing the book.
“I’m not sure I like that one,” teased Aliyah. “Why does a real princess have to be so fragile that she can feel a pea through a dozen mattresses? Real princesses should be tough and resilient. And they shouldn’t have to prove themselves to anyone.”
Apparently she’d struck a chord as Nasri slid the book to one side and pulled out a colorful story Ronnie had brought from America. The Cat in the Hat. Hmm. That cat reminded her of someone—who had stormed into her life and turned everything inside out and upside down.
The girls loved this story and laughed hard every time they’d read it.
“Do you think the cat is wrong to make such a big mess?” she asked, opening the book. They both leaned in to see the pictures.
“Oh no. He just wanted everyone to have a great time.”
“But what if he didn’t come back to clean up afterwards?”
“But he did!” protested Nasri, always full of strong opinions lately. “And he was very good at cleaning. Don’t worry, Mama. If the cat came to the palace, Parsia and I would clean up everything.”
“Would you really?” She pretended to look amazed. “I might have to put you to the test.”
“We could make the mess for you,” said Parsia with a big smile.
�
�No need. Messes happen when you least expect them.” She kissed Parsia’s forehead and held Nasri close. “But I’m so glad you girls will help put everything right again.”
After lying around in bed for a solid week, Gibran was ready to explode into flames. He finally got up by himself when no one was around and was out hobbling down the hallway before word got to Osman, who rushed out to intercept him.
“At least use the wheelchair we got you. The doctor said you should keep weight off the shattered leg for three months.”
“I am. I’m using a crutch,” he growled. “I need to interrogate the suspects.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, he saw a twinkle of amusement in Osman’s eye. “I know how you feel. I was useless at staying still after I fell off a horse. Sam got so mad with me. Let’s go together.”
Gibran felt a surge of warmth for Osman, who hadn’t patronized him or even seemed suspicious of him lately. “I have a theory.” He confided. “I think the men are in the pay of Darud the Twelfth.”
Osman stopped, almost making Gibran stumble over his crutch. “What? We’ve already invited him to attend the contest!”
“I know. And I think you should go ahead with it.”
They resumed walking—or hobbling, in Gibran’s case. His leg hurt like hell and his pelvis didn’t feel much better, but at least he was out of that damn room.
“Why him?” Osman looked stunned.
“He’d discussed oil leases with the old man.” It felt weird to describe their father that way, but less weird than calling him father. “Even though nothing ever happened, he had expectations and possibly dreams of big profits. Now you turn up and put the brakes on everything. He’s probably watching Amahd drill for the oil that he’s considered his for decades, and it’s being pumped and refined and sold, and he’s left out in the cold.”
Osman frowned. “But he hasn’t said anything.”
“Didn’t he try to renegotiate?”
“Sure, but there was nothing hostile about it. I visited his palace and met with him, more to introduce myself than anything else. When we said no, he simply shrugged.”
Desert Kings Boxed Set: The Complete Series Books 1-6 Page 59
