“I don’t … What do you mean that someone was you?”
“What do you think?” He’d never seemed so remote, so untouchable. In stark contrast to the man who’d held her, kissed her, pushed inside her and made the stars fall down around her in a glorious, glittering shower. “I went to the rebels and told them everything. And that night they came into the palace and killed your parents. They killed my father.”
Hearing it a second time did not make it any easier or her understanding any clearer. She wanted to touch him, press herself against him to warm herself up. But she didn’t, wrapping her arms around herself instead. “Why?” Her voice was a mere whisper. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I was a foolish boy,” he said, the words dripping with contempt. “Because I wanted something I should not have wanted.”
“What something?”
But he was already turning away from her, adjusting his bowtie, smoothing back the thick silk of his hair. Turning himself back into the sheikh. “Get dressed and join me back at the party. I will not ask again.”
Some part of her wanted to go after him, catch his arm. Make him stay and tell her everything. But there was another part, a part that had broken the night her parents had sent her away, that wanted to let him go and never see him again.
That part won and she stayed still as he walked away, going back to the party without a backward glance. As if he’d never held her in his arms or been inside her. As if what they’d done hadn’t mattered to him in the slightest.
She shivered, feeling cold and exposed, going over to where she’d left her gown crumpled on the ground. Pulling it back on, her fingers shook as she tried to pull the zipper up. When it caught on the fabric and she heard the distinctive sound of tearing material, she felt the prickle of tears at the backs of her eyes.
She took a harsh breath, willing herself not to cry.
He’d told her the truth, but it was a truth she’d never wanted to hear. And it ruined what had just passed between them.
The way he’d touched her … Like he was letting loose the passion inside her, freeing it all, making her soar. And then he’d freed his own and for one glorious moment, for the first time since she could remember, she hadn’t been alone.
Not the way she had as the only, difficult child of royalty. Or the orphaned princess who’d never been part of the tribe out in the desert.
She’d been with him. With someone as wild and as passionate as she was.
It had felt like coming home after a long and difficult journey.
She’d thought things had changed between them. That the barriers between them would vanish. But they hadn’t. All making love had done was prove that there were even more barriers between them than she’d ever thought possible.
Safira covered her face with her palms, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
Why was she crying? She should be angry instead. She should be furious and out for his blood. Yet it felt as if he’d sunk a knife in her side.
He killed your parents. He betrayed them. He pushed this country into civil war.
The heat from their lovemaking had vanished, leaving her shaking and utterly bewildered. She hadn’t felt so bereft since she’d been shoved into the arms of a stranger the night she’d been taken from the palace.
Because of him …
She lowered her hands, scrubbing at her eyes, wiping away any evidence of her distress. Going back to the party was impossible. Her dress was torn and no doubt her makeup was all over the place. But apart from any of that, she couldn’t act like nothing had happened. She couldn’t pretend to be his perfect princess, not tonight at least.
A thought struck her then. Was this why he was so remote? Why he cultivated this reserve? Why he kept everyone at a distance? So he could protect the truth and pretend it didn’t matter that he’d betrayed his king and his country?
But no, that didn’t fit with what she knew about him. He put his country first, put being sheikh first. And she’d heard the brittle edge in his voice as he’d told her the truth.
What he’d done had mattered to him.
And now he’s trying to fix it.
Another hard truth. Hadn’t he told her once that it was only what you did that mattered? His actions had hurt an entire country and so now he was acting to heal it.
But nothing can fix what happened to you. Nothing can replace what you lost.
An unworthy, selfish thought and yet it stuck in her mind like a thorn.
Safira smoothed down her dress. Then turned and headed not toward the party but in the opposite direction.
* * *
She didn’t come back and he wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry. No doubt she’d need time to work through what he’d told her, come to terms with it somehow.
Making it through the rest of the function shouldn’t have been a trial and yet somehow it was.
He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the shock in her eyes, all the desire and warmth draining away from her face. Or the ache that had deepened in his chest in response.
He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about how she’d felt in his arms, all that wild passion that burned inside her set free. How she hadn’t held back, welcoming it. Welcoming him.
There was nothing cold about her, nothing contained. There never had been, not from the first moment he’d seen her.
That is why you want her so very badly.
Altair shook hands and smiled and entered into yet another conversation designed to quell the fears of frightened investors. No, he could not afford to think of her and what attracted him to her. Could not afford to think of what they’d done in that courtyard and how her breath had felt against his skin. How she’d turned her face into his neck and held on tight to him.
He’d had his one moment of passion and that was the end of it. And after what he’d told her, he would never have it again.
His father would have been so proud.
The function extended for a couple of hours longer than he’d anticipated and it was nearly midnight by the time he found his way back to his own apartments.
The lights of his bedroom were on, the sheets turned down, the room cool, just the way he liked it.
And Safira was sitting in the center of his bed.
He froze, something inside him clenching hard.
She was wearing that gown he’d last seen in a heap on the ground in the courtyard, the blue making her eyes seem so vivid in her lovely face. With the complex braiding of her hair around her head and the jewels glittering around her neck, she looked as regal as the queen she was descended from.
“What are you doing here?” The question came out more as a demand but he didn’t care. He was far too conscious of the fact that not a couple of hours ago, he’d had her naked in his arms and now she was sitting on his bed. A bed that could all too easily be put to good use.
“What do you think?” She stared at him, challenge in her eyes. “I am here for the truth, Altair. And I am not leaving without it.”
“The truth about what? I already told you what happened.”
“You told me you betrayed my parents. That you’re the reason they died. But you only gave me cryptic comments when I asked why.” She folded her arms. “I’ve spent hours trying to figure out why a man who seems so intent on putting his country first, on rebuilding it, would purposefully betray his sheikh and throw it into civil war. And the only thing that’s clear to me is that none of it makes any sense. So I need you to tell me. I need you to explain.”
He turned away from her abruptly, pulling at his bowtie, needing air.
No one knew the truth about his paternity. No one except his mother and the man who was his biological father. And since his mother had died of cancer and his father in the civil war, there was only him. He hadn’t told a single soul and, really, he could see no reason why he should tell Safira.
Not even because she, out of everyone, deserves the truth?
When her parents were the ones who died? This is part of your penance.
He jerked off his bowtie, threw it negligently down on the low sofa near the bed. Yes, perhaps she deserved to know. He owed her as much after all.
Altair paced to the high, curving windows that overlooked his private garden, the one his father had created as a present to Sheikh Amir. An Italian garden with well-ordered rows of cypresses and perfect stone terraces. There was nothing wild about it, nothing overgrown, very much like Tariq himself.
He stared out into the garden his father had created, the tall, stern shapes of the cypresses highlighted in the night by hidden lighting. Reminding him of who he was supposed to be. The sheikh he’d turned himself into.
Safira remained quiet behind him, waiting.
“I have told no one else this,” he said after a moment. “No one else knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I am not Tariq’s son.” The words were heavy as boulders crashing down a mountainside and he didn’t turn around to see whether their effect was as destructive. If he stopped now he’d never continue. “My mother had an affair with another student while she was studying at university, and when it was found out she was pregnant, she was married off by her family as quickly as possible. My father never knew I wasn’t his biological son and neither did I, not until my mother was dying of cancer. She told me when I was seventeen and made me swear not to tell my father.” He put his hands on the windowsill, keeping his gaze on the cypresses. “Then she told me the name of my real father.”
“Altair, I—”
“Do not,” he said harshly, more harshly than he’d meant. “You wanted to know so I’m telling you.”
There was a rustle of silk behind him, but then she was silent.
“My mother made me promise not to contact him. Told me that I should be loyal to Tariq. But … I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My father was very strict and I was not … an easy child. I was stubborn and strong-willed, and we clashed many times. He infuriated me and sometimes, after I’d heard the truth from my mother, I’d wonder whether my real father was as strict. Whether he was more like me, whether he was more understanding.” He paused, remembering the strange isolation he’d felt after his mother had died and there was only Tariq. The usual dramas of a teenager, naturally.
You feel it even now.
No, how ridiculous. He was a grown man, of course he didn’t.
“I was young. I was stupid,” he went on. “I wanted to know the man who had given me life. And then the rebels came and I found the opportunity right in front of me. My biological father had ended up being their leader and Sheikh Amir needed someone to negotiate with them. I saw this as the perfect moment to contact him, so I volunteered. The sheikh thought I was too young, but Tariq, the man who raised me, said I should be given the chance to prove myself.” He laughed, brittle and hollow. “Tariq was a good advisor, but his trust in me was sadly misplaced. Anyway, I went to the rebel stronghold and met with the leader. I sat down with him and he gave me wine. Meeting him was … everything I dreamed. When I told him who I was, he welcomed me with open arms and I saw myself in him. Saw what I could have had if he’d been the one to bring me up instead of Tariq.” Altair looked down at his hands on the windowsill, at his knuckles turned white with the strength of his grip. This shouldn’t feel painful anymore, so why did it? “We drank many cups of wine as I told him everything about myself, all my hopes and dreams. He told me he was proud of the man I had become and then started asking questions about Tariq. About life at the palace. About the royal family. And I told him everything about that too.”
Altair stopped. There was silence behind him. “You do not want to know the rest.”
“Tell me.” Her voice sounded roughened and husky. “I want to know everything.”
He didn’t turn, kept his gaze on the garden. If she could bear hearing about it, he could bear telling her. “I spent a whole evening with my natural father and then when I returned to the palace, I found it in turmoil. A rebel faction had crept in, had somehow found where your parents were, and murdered them. Tariq had been with them too and had been shot. He died on the way to hospital in the ambulance.” Altair kept his voice even, uninflected. Delivering the facts. “Before he died, he told me that you had been killed, that there were no more heirs. He told me that the country would fall, that there would be war. He …” Altair stopped, his voice seizing all of a sudden, a raw grief clawing a hole in his chest. Forcing it away, he cleared his throat and made himself go on. “He did not ask me what had happened to the negotiations, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes before he died. He knew I had failed him.”
There was no sound at all behind him.
“It was my fault.” He tried to make himself sound expressionless but the edge of roughness in his voice wouldn’t go away. “Your parents died and Al-Harah was plunged into years of war, all because I was a stupid boy, angry with his father. Because I was only thinking of myself.” He let go of the windowsill and straightened. Turned around because he was being a coward facing away like this. He should be looking her in the eye.
She hadn’t moved from her place on the bed and the look on her face was, for once, impenetrable. Except the deep turquoise of her eyes shimmered as she met his gaze.
“Many, many people died. And all because my heart wanted something it should never have wanted.” He stared straight into those beautiful, beautiful eyes of hers. “That is the truth, Safira.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then slowly, she pushed herself off his bed and came toward him, her gown fluttering out behind her in a swirl of gauzy silken skirts.
He tensed as she got closer and he knew with absolute certainty that he could not let her touch him. That something would happen if she did. Something he would not be able to come back from.
“Stop.” He made the word as flat and final as he could. “You should go back to your own rooms now.”
She paused where she stood, her gaze searching. “Is that why you do it?” she asked after a moment, her soft voice like a shock in the heavy silence of the room.
“Why I do what?” He folded his arms, another barrier between them.
“Why you hold everyone at a distance.”
“I do not—”
“You do. And it’s not just me. You keep everyone at a distance, even your own people. I saw it at the hospital and I saw it this evening. There was a space around you, an invisible line that no one stepped over. No one laughs with you and no one smiles. They respect you, I can see that, but they don’t ever get close.” The jewels around her throat glittered as she swallowed and those shimmering turquoise eyes seemed to be full of grief. “You must be so lonely.”
They were only words and yet they slid through him like the sharpest of swords. A blade so keen he didn’t feel it slide through his flesh until it was embedded deep in his heart. Only then did it hurt. Only then was the pain strong enough to steal his breath.
That should not be a surprise. You’ve always been lonely. That’s why you went to the rebels in the first place.
Anger at himself, at his own desires, at the impossibility of ever having any of them welled up inside him, a vast wave of it. And no matter how he had tried, he couldn’t seem to control it this time.
“You should go,” he said hoarsely. “You should not be around me right now.”
But Safira ignored him, coming nearer instead, closing the distance between them. “No.” Her voice was soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She was only inches away now, so close and so warm. Her hands lifted and before he could move, she’d taken his face between her palms, her fingers cool on his skin. “Did you know that they kept me apart in the desert? That I was never allowed to be part of the tribe because I was the princess? For fifteen years, I was kept guarded and safe, but no one ever touched me. No one ever talked to me. So I know that you’re lonely, Altair, because I’m lonely too. And it hurts.”
/> He reached for her wrists to wrench them away and yet once the warmth of her skin was against his palms he couldn’t let go. Instead he gripped them tight, as if he needed to hold on to her to stop himself from falling. “Did you not hear what I said? I killed your parents, Safira. I plunged this country into war. I nearly destroyed everything and yet all you can talk about is loneliness?”
She had her head tipped back, her gaze on his. Her breathing had accelerated and he could see the shimmer of tears in the corner of her eyes. “I heard. But you cannot take the blame for the ruin of an entire country. It’s too much of a burden to bear.”
“If I had not told that bastard everything, your parents would still be alive!” And so would his own father.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Nothing is certain. But the fact is you went to your biological father because you wanted something from him.” Her voice had gone hoarse. “Every child wants to know their parents. Every child wants to please them. That’s all I ever wanted to do and yet—” She stopped.
But he finished the sentence for her. “And yet you never got the chance.” He did not say what they both knew. She never got the chance because of what he did. Because of his mistake.
“I do not blame you,” she said abruptly. “You did not fire the rifle that shot them. The bullets were not yours. All you did was try to understand who you were.”
“No, you should blame me. You should be furious with me.” He almost shook her because he could bear anything except that terrible look of understanding in her eyes. “You should be taking up a blood feud like the desert tribes do and hounding me. The very last thing you should be doing is absolving me.”
She stepped up to him, so close they were almost touching. “Don’t tell me what to do! If I want to absolve you, I will do it with or without your permission!”
There was a strength in her, he could see it now. He’d thought at first it was pure stubbornness, but it went deeper, ran stronger. A complex combination of courage and acceptance, understanding and recognition.
She is stronger than you.
But then that was no surprise. Unlike himself, she had not been broken. Somewhere out in the desert she had forged for herself a strength that could bend when tested and yet not break. While he’d had to rebuild himself from the man who’d shattered when his father had died. Had to put the pieces of himself back together through sheer force of will. His was a strength that could crush mountains, but it could not be bent from its purpose. As he was beginning to understand, it was too brittle to withstand the slightest pressure.
Never Refuse a Sheikh Page 12
