Hot-Blooded Husbands Bundle

by Michelle Reid

  A fleet of limousines stood in line along the concrete jetty waiting to speed everyone off to their various destinations. Accepting thanks and saying goodbye took over an hour. One by one the cars pulled up and took people away in a steady rota. Sheikh Abdul and Zafina first—relieved, Leona suspected, to be getting away from a trip that had not been a pleasant one for them, though their farewells were polite enough.

  Sheikh Imran and Samir were the next to leave. Then she turned to smile at Sheikh Jibril and his wife, Medina, who made very anxious weight of their farewell, reminding Hassan several times that he had complete loyalty. In Jibril’s case money talked much louder than power. He had no desire to scrape his deep pockets to pay Sheikh Raschid for the privilege of sending his oil across his land.

  Raschid and his family were the last ones to leave. As with everyone else it would be a brief parting, because they would come together again next week, when they attended Sheikh Kalifa’s anniversary celebration. Only this time the children would be staying at home with their nurse. So Leona’s goodbyes to them were tinged with a genuine regret, especially for Hashim, who had become her little friend during their cruise. So, while she was promising to come and visit with him soon, she missed the rather sober exchanges between the others.

  Eventually they left. Their car sped away. Rafiq excused himself to go and seek out Faysal, and Hassan said he had yet to thank his captain and walked away leaving her standing there, alone by the rail, feeling just a little bit rejected by the brevity with which he had treated her.

  Something was wrong, she was sure, though she had no idea exactly what it could be. And, knowing him as well as she did, she didn’t expect to find out until he felt ready to tell her. So with a shrug and a sigh she went off to follow Hassan’s lead and thank the rest of the staff for taking care of everyone so well. By the time they came together again there was only time left to make the dash to the airport if they wanted to reach Rahman before nightfall.

  Rafiq and Faysal travelled with them, which gave Hassan the excuse—and Leona was sure it was an excuse—to keep conversation light and neutral. A Lear jet bearing the gold Al-Qadim insignia waited on the runway to fly them over Saudi Arabia and into Rahman. The Al-Qadim oasis had its own private runway. A four-wheel drive waited to transport them to the palace whose ancient sandstone walls burned red against a dying sun.

  Home, Leona thought, and felt a lump form in her throat because this was home to her. London…England—both had stopped being that a long time ago.

  They swept through the gates and up to the front entrance. Hassan helped her to alight. As she walked inside she found herself flanked by two proud males again and wanted to lift her head and say something teasing about abayas, but the mood didn’t allow for it somehow.

  ‘My father wishes to see us straight away.’ Hassan unwittingly explained the sombre mood. ‘Please try not to show your shock at how much he has deteriorated since you were last here.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, oddly hurt that he felt he needed to say that. Then she took the hurt back when she saw the old sheikh reclining against a mound of pillows on his favourite divan.

  His sons strode forward; she held back a little to allow them the space to greet him as they always did, with the old sheikh holding out both hands and both hands being taken, one by each son. In all the years she had known Sheikh Kalifa she had never seen him treat his two sons less than equal. They greeted each other; they talked in low-toned Arabic. They touched, they loved. It was an honour and a privilege to be allowed to witness it. When the old sheikh decided to acknowledge her presence he did so with a spice that told her that the old spirit was still very much alive inside his wasted frame.

  ‘So, what do you think of my two warriors, huh?’ he asked. ‘They snatch you back with style and panache. A worthy woman cannot but be impressed.’

  ‘Impressed by their arrogance, their cheek, and their disregard for my safety,’ Leona responded, coming forward now that he had in effect given her permission to do so. ‘I almost drowned—twice—and was tossed down a set of stairs. And you dare to be proud of them.’

  No one bothered to accuse her of gross exaggeration, because he laughed, loving it, wishing he could have been there to join in. Reclaiming his hands, he waved his sons away and offered those long bony fingers to Leona.

  ‘Come and greet me properly,’ he commanded her. ‘And you two can leave us. My daughter-in-law and I have things to discuss.’

  There was a pause, a distinct hesitation in which Hassan looked ready to argue the point. The old man looked up at him and his son looked down; a battle of the eyes commenced that made Leona frown as a strange kind of tension began to sizzle in the air. Then Hassan conceded by offering a brief, grim nod and left, with Rafiq making the situation feel even stranger when, as he left with him, he placed a hand on Hassan’s shoulder as if to reassure him that it would be okay.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she enquired as she reached down to brush a kiss on her father-in-law’s hollowed cheek.

  ‘He worries about you,’ the old sheikh answered.

  ‘Or he worries about you,’ she returned.

  He knew what she was referring to and flicked it away with a sigh and a wave of a hand. ‘I am dying,’ he stated bluntly. ‘Hassan knows this—they both do. Neither likes knowing they can do nothing to stop it from happening.’

  ‘But you are resigned?’ Leona said gently.

  ‘Yes. Come—sit down here, in your chair.’ Discussion over, he indicated the low cushion-stuffed chair she had pulled up beside his divan years ago; it had remained there ever since. ‘Now, tell me,’ he said as soon as she was settled, ‘have you come back here because Hassan bullied you into doing so, or because you still love him?’

  ‘Can it be both?’ she quizzed him.

  ‘He needs you.’

  ‘Rahman doesn’t.’

  ‘Ah,’ he scathed, ‘that stupid man, Abdul, thought he could force our hand and soon learned that he could not.’

  ‘So it was Sheikh Abdul who plotted to take me,’ Leona murmured ruefully.

  Eyes that were once a rich dark brown but were now only pale shadows sharpened. ‘He did not tell you,’ he surmised on an impatient sigh. ‘I am a fool for thinking he would.’

  ‘Maybe that is why he didn’t want to leave me alone with you,’ Leona smilingly replied. ‘Actually, I had already guessed it,’ she then admitted, adding quietly, ‘I know all about Nadira, you see.’

  The name had a disturbing effect on Sheikh Khalifa: he shifted uncomfortably, pulled himself up and reached out to touch her cheek. ‘Rahman needs my son and my son needs you. Whatever has to happen in the future I need to know that you will always be here supporting him when I can no longer do so.’

  Strange words, fierce, dark, compelling words that sealed her inside a coating of ice. What was he saying? What did he mean? Was he telling her that Nadira was still Hassan’s only real option if he wanted to continue in his father’s footsteps?

  But before she could ask him to elaborate, as after most brief bursts of energy, Sheikh Khalifa suddenly lay back exhausted against the cushions and, without really thinking about it, Leona slipped back into her old routine. She picked up the book lying face down on the table beside him and began reading out loud to him.

  But her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was filling up with contracts and Hassan’s method of feeding her information on a need-to-know only basis. She saw him as he had been that same morning, relaxed, at peace with both her and himself. Then Raschid had begged a private word. When he’d eventually reappeared later it had been as if he had changed into a different man—a tense, preoccupied and distant man.

  A man who avoided eye contact, as if he had something to hide…

  The old sheikh was asleep. Leona put down the book.

  Doubts; she hated to feel the doubts return. It was no use, she told herself, she was going to have to tackle Hassan about what Zafina had said to her. Once he had denied ev
erything she could put the whole stupid thing away, never to be dredged up again.

  And if he didn’t deny it? she asked herself as she left the old sheikh’s room to go in search of the younger one. The coating of ice turned itself into a heavy cloak that weighed down her footsteps as she walked in between pale blue walls on a cool, polished sandstone flooring.

  She didn’t want to do this, she accepted as she trod the wide winding staircase onto the landing where pale blue walls changed to pale beige and the floor became a pale blue marble.

  She didn’t want to reveal that she could doubt his word, she thought dully as she passed between doors made of thick cedar fitted tightly into wide Arabian archways, the very last one of which led through to Hassan’s private suite of offices.

  Her head began to ache; her throat suddenly felt strange: hot and tight. She was about five yards away when the door suddenly opened and Hassan himself stepped out. Slender white tunic, flowing blue thobe, no covering on his raven-dark head. He saw her and stopped, almost instantly his expression altered from the frowningly preoccupied to…nothing.

  It was like having a door slammed in her face. Her doubts surged upwards along with her blood pressure; she could feel her pulse throbbing in her ears. A prickly kind of heat engulfed her whole body—and the next thing that she knew, she was lying on the pale blue marble floor and Hassan was kneeling beside her.

  ‘What happened?’ he rasped as her eyes fluttered open.

  She couldn’t answer, didn’t want to answer. She closed her eyes again. His curse wafted across her cheeks. One of his hands came to cover her clammy forehead, the other took a light grasp of her wrist then he was grimly sliding his arms beneath her shoulders and knees and coming to his feet.

  ‘Ouch,’ she said as her breasts brushed his breastbone.

  Hassan froze. She didn’t notice because from absolutely nowhere she burst into tears! What was the matter with her? she wondered wretchedly. She felt sick, she felt dizzy, she hurt in places she had never hurt before! From another place she had never known existed inside her, one of her clenched fists aimed an accusing blow at his shoulder.

  Expecting him to demand what he had done to deserve it, she was thrown into further confusion when all he did was release a strained groan from deep in his throat, then began striding back the way from which she had come. A door opened and closed behind them. Lifting her head from his shoulder, she recognised their old suite of rooms.

  Laying her on the bed, he came to lean over her. ‘What did my father say to you?’ he demanded. ‘I knew I should not have left you both alone! Did he say you should not have come back, is that it?’

  Her eyes flew open, tear-drenched and sparkling. ‘Is that what he thinks?’

  ‘Yes—no!’ His sigh was driven by demons. But what demons—? The demons of lies? ‘In case you did not notice, he does not think so clearly any more,’ he said tightly.

  ‘Sheikh Abdul was behind the plot to abduct me; there is nothing unclear about that, as far as I can see.’

  ‘I knew it was a mistake.’ Hassan sighed, and sat down beside her.

  He looked tired and fed up and she wanted to hit him again. ‘You lied to me again,’ she accused him.

  ‘By omission,’ he agreed. ‘And Abdul’s involvement cannot be proved,’ he added. ‘Only by hearsay which is not enough to risk a war between families.’

  ‘And you’ve always got the ready-typed contract involving Nadira if things really do get out of hand…’

  This time she saw the freeze overtake him. This time she got the answer she had been desperately trying to avoid. Sitting up, Leona ignored the way her head spun dizzily. Drawing up her knees, she reached down to ease the straps of her sandals off the backs of her heels, then tossed them to the floor.

  ‘He told you about that also?’ Hassan asked hoarsely.

  She shook her head. ‘Zafina did.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Does it really matter when?’ she derided. ‘It exists. I saw it. You felt fit not to warn me about it. What do you think that tells me about what is really going on around here?’

  ‘It means nothing,’ he claimed. ‘It is just a meaningless piece of paper containing words with no power unless several people place their signatures against it.’

  ‘But you have a copy.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘You had it in your possession even before you came to Spain to get me,’ she stated, because she knew it was the truth even though no one had actually told her so. ‘What was it—firm back-up in case Raschid failed to bail you out of trouble? Or does it still carry a lot of weight around with it?’

  ‘You could try trusting me,’ he answered.

  ‘And you, my lord sheikh, should have tried trusting me, then maybe it would not be the big problem it is.’ With that, she climbed off the bed and began walking away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ He sighed out heavily. ‘Come back here. We need to—’

  The cold way she turned to look at him stopped the words; the way she had one hand held to her forehead and the other to her stomach paled his face. ‘I am going to the bathroom to be sick,’ she informed him. ‘Then I am going to crawl into that bed and go to sleep. I would appreciate it if you were not still here when I get to do that.’

  And that, Hassan supposed, had told him. He watched the bathroom door close behind her retreating figure.

  He got up and strode over to the window beyond which an ink dark evening obliterated everything beyond the subtle lighting of the palace walls.

  So where do we go from here? he asked himself. When Zafina Al-Yasin had picked her weapon, she’d picked it well. For Hassan could think of nothing more likely to shatter Leona’s belief in his sincerity than a document already drawn up and ready to be brought into use should it become necessary. She would not now believe that he had agreed to the drawing up of such a document merely to buy him time. Why should she when he had refrained from telling her so openly and honestly before she’d found out by other means?

  Sighing, he turned to leave the room. It was simpler to leave her alone for now. He could say nothing that was going to change anything, because he had another problem looming, he realised, One bigger and more potentially damaging than all that had tried to damage his marriage before.

  He had a contract bearing his agreement to take a second wife. He had a wife whom he suspected might be carrying his first child. Leona was never going to believe that the former was not an insurance policy to protect him against the failure of the latter.

  ‘Faysal,’ he said as he stepped into his aide’s office, which guarded the entrance to his own, ‘get Rafiq for me, if you please…’

  ‘You look pale like a ghost,’ the old sheikh remarked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Leona assured him.

  ‘They tell me you fainted the other day.’

  ‘I still had my sea legs on,’ Leona explained. ‘And how did you find out about it?’ she challenged, because as far as she knew no one but herself and Hassan had been there at the time!

  ‘My palace walls are equipped with a thousand eyes.’ He smiled. ‘So I also know that when he is not with me my son walks around wearing the face of a man whose father is already dead.’

  ‘He is a busy man doing busy, important things,’ Leona said with a bite that really should have been resisted.

  ‘He also has a wife who sleeps in one place while he sleeps in another.’

  Getting in practice, Leona thought nastily. ‘Do you want to finish this chapter or not?’ she asked.

  ‘I would prefer you to confide in me,’ the old sheikh murmured gently. ‘You used to do so all the time, before I became too sick to be of any use to anyone…’

  A blatant plucking of her heartstrings though it was, Leona could see the concern in his eyes. On a sigh, she laid the book aside, got up to go and sit down beside him and picked up one of his cool, dry, skeletal hands to press a gentle kiss to it.

  ‘Don’t fret so, old man,’ s
he pleaded gently. ‘You know I will look after your two sons for you. I have promised, haven’t I?’

  ‘But you are unhappy. Do you think this does not fret me?’

  ‘I—struggle with the reasons why I am here,’ she explained, because she wasn’t going to lie. It wasn’t fair to lie to him. ‘You know the problems. They are not going to go away just because Hassan wants them to.’

  ‘My son wants you above all things, daughter of Victor Frayne,’ he said, using the Arab way of referring to her, because by their laws a woman kept her father’s name after marriage. ‘Don’t make him choose to prove this to you…’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DON’T make him choose…The next day, those words played inside Leona’s head like a mantra, because she had just begun to realise that Hassan might not be forced to choose anything.

  Sickness in the morning, sickness in the evening, a certain tenderness in her breasts and other changes in her body that she could no longer ignore were trying to tell her something she was not sure she wanted to know.

  Pregnant. She could be pregnant. She might be pregnant. She absolutely refused to say that she was most definitely pregnant. How could she be sure, when her periods had never been anything but sporadic at best? Plus it had to be too soon to tell. It had to be. She was just wishing on rainbows—wasn’t she?

  A month. She had been back in Hassan’s life for a tiny month—and not even a full month! Women just didn’t know that quickly if they had conceived, did they? She didn’t know. At this precise moment she didn’t know anything. Her brain was blank, her emotions shot and she was fighting an ever-growing battle with excitement that was threatening to turn her into a puff of smoke!

  It was this morning that had really set her suspicions soaring, when she’d climbed out of bed feeling sick and dizzy before her feet had managed to touch the floor. Then, in the shower, she’d seen the changes in her breasts, a new fullness, darkening circles forming round their tips. She’d felt different too—inside, where it was impossible to say how she felt different, only that she did.