The Sheikh's Destiny (Harlequin Romance)

by Melissa James

  The car wasn’t fancy or designed to draw attention, she noted in relief as the back door opened, and she hopped in. The windows were tinted, and Alim sat in the furthest corner from the people milling around in front of the gates. The dark glass between the driver and passengers was pulled up, creating a sense of intimacy.

  The car took off, purring with the quiet smoothness that screamed expensive. ‘Not quite as loud as the truck or the Jeep,’ she commented, aiming for lightness, her heart pounding hard at the look in his eyes.

  He shook his head, moving closer to her. ‘It’s twenty minutes’ drive to the plane. I never said hello before.’ He tipped up her face and, before she could react, pulled aside the veil she’d replaced after leaving the office, and brushed his mouth over hers, soft, lingering, too soon over. ‘Hello, Sahar Thurayya. I’ve missed you…as you can probably tell.’

  Her pulse beat so fast in her throat; she couldn’t make her tongue move or her mouth open. Their first real kiss…so gentle and chaste—he was treating her with the honour of—

  She closed her eyes. Despair washed through her like a river’s surge, leaving her entire body feeling unclean in the wake of arousal she had no right to feel. One kiss, and she was so alive, so vivid and aching for him—but she could never have him, not as husband or lover. She gulped down the pain in her throat, but still couldn’t speak. All she could do was shake her head.

  ‘No?’ he asked softly. ‘You didn’t miss me? It’s hard to believe, given the greeting you gave me.’ The fingers at her chin caressed her skin. She shivered with the power of his simplest touch, chains far stronger than any Mukhtar could shackle on her. ‘Look at me, Hana.’

  Long moments passed, but the pain only grew worse as she hesitated. She lifted her lashes.

  ‘I know you said it doesn’t revolt you, but that was in a life-and-death situation. This time, I want you to look carefully.’ He pulled his light linen shirt over his head, leaving his chest and stomach bare—revealing the pinkish grafts over twisted scars running across one shoulder, half his chest and down over his stomach. ‘More surgery will help but there’s only so much anyone can do for such extensive second-degree burns. I’m trusting that the nurse in you will be able to refrain from feeling physically ill at the sight of me,’ he said, with a wryness that tore at her heart. ‘I have scars on my thighs as well, since some of the graft skin came from there when a couple of the other patches didn’t take.’

  She didn’t have to ask where the rest of his skin came from. Fadi’s with me everywhere I go, he’d said. Yes, his pride and his pain in one, the eternal reminder of his loss; he did have Fadi with him wherever he went. His brother’s dead body had been his donor.

  More tears rushed up, useless, bittersweet longing and empathy. Her trembling fingers touched his ruined skin, almost feeling the flame that had destroyed his clean flesh. Her fingers drank in the proof of survival against the odds. Oh, the agony he must have suffered!

  His hands covered hers. ‘Do you find me revolting—not as a nurse, but as a woman?’ he said, guttural. ‘If so, it ends here. I’m for ever in your debt, Hana. What happens from here is in your hands. My future rests with you.’

  She heard nothing after the word ‘revolting’. She pulled her hands out from under his, and the quivering grew as she touched him, yearning and pain intertwined. She didn’t realise she’d moved forward, falling into him, until her lips touched the mangled scars on his shoulder, her tears mixing salt to the warmth. And once she’d started, she couldn’t stop; it was beautiful, so unutterably exquisite that the thought of not touching him, not kissing him, was agony. She must, she had to kiss him again…

  ‘Alim,’ she whispered, the ache intensifying, a woman’s hollow throbbing of need for her man, unfamiliar and beautiful and addictive. She kissed the skin of his throat, chest and shoulder again and again, her mouth roaming over what he was now, what he’d always been, and both filled her with the deep anguish of feminine need, because his suffering had shaped him into the man she loved. ‘Alim, Alim.’ Breathless voice filled with the restlessness of desire unleashed, her hands growing fevered in intensity of wanting.

  His hands lifted her face. ‘No, no,’ she mumbled in incoherent protest, palms and fingers still caressing him. ‘No, more, I need more…’

  Then she saw his eyes, lashes spiky with tears unshed. ‘My Hana,’ he said, husky. ‘My sweet, healing star, you’ve sealed our destiny.’

  With a cry she pulled him to her, falling backward, his aroused body landing on hers as their lips met. Her fingers twined through his hair, caressed his neck, moving against him and moaning in need, wanting more of him, so much more. So many years feeling half dead, living only for others, existing inside the shadows of fear; now she was alive at last. More kisses, deep and tender, growing more passionate by the moment, and, oh, at last she knew how it felt to be filled with love given and returned…

  The car pulled up. Loud engine noises came from outside. They were at the airstrip. He was hovering just above her, smiling in such tenderness her heart splintered, and she came back to a sense of herself—who she was; what she was.

  What she’d done to him…and to herself.

  The happiness shining in his face shattered in silence. He helped her to sit up, tossed the shirt over his head before the door opened. She shoved the veil back in place, eyes lowered, mouth—foolish, needing mouth—pushed hard together to stop words tumbling out. Not yet, not yet. On the plane. In Mombasa. Anywhere but here and now.

  The plane was a small jet, pure luxury in appointments. She’d never seen anything like it. Strapped into her seat beside him, she looked out of the window, waiting for him to speak, to ask the questions. Praying that, from somewhere deep inside, she’d find the strength to tell him.

  They were in the sky before he spoke. ‘If I know you, you went straight back to work when you arrived at the camp, right?’

  He sounded so ordinary. He was teasing her a little. It was a gift; he was moving past the awkwardness and embarrassment, allowing her time, letting her tell her story when she was ready. And she felt a smile form at the opening; she couldn’t stop it. ‘Well, I did shower and change. Not the best thing for open wounds or sick people, all that mud.’

  ‘It wouldn’t inspire much confidence in your hand-washing methods.’

  She chuckled. It felt surprisingly good, the banter. With Alim, she could be herself, be teasing, silly Hana, and he liked it. ‘You should have seen people’s faces as I walked in. A friend stopped me from coming in, thinking I was a refugee, so dirty and everything crumpled.’

  ‘You definitely smell better now.’ He inhaled close to her. ‘No lavender though. What is that?’ he asked, sounding nostalgic, as if he missed the lavender—and she resolved to wear it again before she could stop the thought. Foolish woman, wanting to please him.

  ‘Spiced vanilla. A local soap made from goat’s milk. You know, Fair Trade and all that. The locals bring carts in and sell to whoever they can.’

  ‘They must be doing well to be able to afford the scent.’

  ‘The director got the original makers in touch with the Fair Trade organisation, and first sales were so good they began branching out into scented soaps. The whole village is part of the industry now.’

  ‘I wonder if we can get Shellah-Akbar interested in some similar kind of project.’

  ‘They have a new nurse,’ she said, sadness touching her. She missed her friends, the sense of accomplishment at seeing babies grow; the serenity of having, not somewhere to hide, but somewhere to belong.

  ‘I’ve had preliminary reports from the region. Sh’ellah’s not happy, even with the money from my ransom.’

  Her stomach thudded. She knew what that meant: he’d been looking forward to having her, and would take it out on whoever he could. ‘Is everyone all right?’

  He covered her clenched fist with his hand, opening it and threading his fingers through hers. ‘Don’t worry, Hana. I told my brother they
helped save my life, the risks they took to cover our traces.’ He added, ‘Harun visited the five villages in the region yesterday. He gave them the choice of ongoing protection or a new home in Abbas al-Din, their own village in a safe, arable area under the sheikh’s personal protection. Given Sh’ellah’s rampages, many of them have chosen to come. Harun’s negotiating with the government to look the other way while our special forces evacuate them.’

  In a region where ‘negotiating’ meant millions changing hands, she wondered how much they were paying to save these people who should mean nothing to them. She held tight to his hand, even knowing she shouldn’t. ‘Thank you,’ she choked.

  ‘My brother is a good man, and a strong ruler.’ He bent to kiss her knuckles. ‘There are advantages to marrying me, Sahar Thurayya,’ he murmured, between husky and teasing. ‘You’ll find more as we go along.’

  The shock of his words ran through her, his agenda out in the open when she wasn’t ready for it. She dragged in a breath, pulled her hand from his and then said it, hard and blunt. ‘I can’t marry you, Alim.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, calmly enough. ‘Don’t say you don’t love me, Hana, not after the way you kissed me in the car. I won’t believe it.’

  Her stomach knotted; her diaphragm jerked, and she had to hiccup the words. ‘I’m already married.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  A HOLE opened up beneath him, sucking down all his hopes and dreams. Alim stared at the only woman he’d ever loved, thought of all the sacrifices he’d made for her sake, how she’d risked her life for him. ‘You led me to believe you were a widow.’ The tradition was for the sheikh to wed a highborn virgin like Amber—but given the choice he intended to present the people, he’d believed they’d accept her, accept his marriage. But now…

  ‘I know.’ So tiny, her voice, filled with shame.

  ‘You said you had no husband. You said that!’

  She made a frustrated sound. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘What?’ He shook his head, trying to clear it; it felt as if the mud he’d washed off two days before had entered his brain. ‘You either have a husband or you don’t.’

  She wouldn’t look at him. ‘I was married by proxy. I disappeared before they could force me to marry him, and I never returned. So I’m married, but I don’t have a husband.’ Her mouth twisted, and she mock-bowed. ‘Bet you’ve never met a five-years-married virgin before.’

  His mind raced with the information even as his sense of betrayal grew. ‘You danced around the truth. You led me to believe you were free!’

  ‘You asked the first day. You were a stranger. What did you expect, my life story?’ Flat words hit him like a slap, locking him out.

  ‘When I proposed to you—’

  ‘Stated your intention, you mean,’ she retorted with a hard laugh. ‘You never asked me, never proposed…my lord Sheikh.’

  He felt his nostrils flare at the goading title. ‘Okay, so it wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but saving your life was taking up my energy at the time. I thought you’d understand.’

  ‘Oh, I understand. Yet another male knows what he wants, and I’m expected to fall into line, just like Mukhtar! He ruined my engagement to his own brother to cover up what he’d done. He thought marrying me by force would buy my silence. So he told my father and Latif that I’d seduced him.’ She pressed her lips together, and wheeled away. ‘So I’m married, thanks to the El-Kanar family’s male-oriented laws that allow them to buy and sell their daughters like dogs or cattle—and I’m a whore for touching you.’

  Alim didn’t need the dots connected to see the picture. His anger against her, his sense of betrayal withered and died; he saw her manic laughter the other day in its true light. It truly was ironic, as she’d said. He’d accused her of seducing him, just as Mukhtar had, yet she was still a virgin.

  When he could recover his voice, he said, ‘Your fiancé believed his brother?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And your family?’ he asked, the diffidence unfeigned.

  She shrugged. ‘Mukhtar told his family. The scandal devastated my parents, stopped me marrying elsewhere, and ruined my younger sister’s chances of finding a good husband. To save Fatima, Dad went along with Mukhtar’s plan. A woman can’t testify against her husband in Abbas al-Din,’ she finished in bitter mockery.

  Dear God in heaven, what a mess, Alim thought. In Abbas al-Din society, if Hana didn’t marry the man she’d supposedly slept with, she’d be shunned—and the news would reach the community in Australia long before she could return there. So rather than marry a man she despised, she’d chosen to live as an outcast—but she’d lost everything.

  No wonder she’d reacted so harshly to his slightest dictum, or mocked him for taking the lead. No wonder she’d turned him down flat for announcing their marriage as a fait accompli…

  His mind raced to find a solution for her, his saviour, his love. Aching to reach out, to draw her against him and let her know she wasn’t alone, he asked, ‘Do you know where they are? Your family, and Mukhtar?’

  If anything, her back stiffened more. ‘I know you want to help me, but if he finds out where I am…even you can’t interfere between husband and wife.’

  The thought of her as Mukhtar’s wife through lies and treachery sent fury flooding through him, a primal urge to find him and take him apart, piece by piece…but that was the last thing Hana needed right now. Only practical action could help her—and she had no idea of what he could do. ‘What is it you hold over him?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s family now. Exposing him destroys my family.’

  Moved by her loyalty in the face of so much loss, he reached out to her, let his hand fall. She didn’t need his love, she needed—

  She needs a miracle, he thought grimly. It was a tangle past unravelling—but he had enough of the puzzle pieces to try to pull at the threads, and see what fell. She hadn’t contacted any of her family in five years; she could only be going by what she knew then, a girl on the run.

  He said the only thing he could say without causing her further suffering. ‘All right, Hana. I understand. I won’t pressure you any further.’

  After a long stretch of quiet, she said huskily, ‘Thank you.’

  She was crying in silence, and, bound by his promise, he couldn’t reach out to her. They sat inches but miles apart. He ached to comfort her, his silence the only gift he could give.

  He’d had such plans for tonight…but now he had other plans to make.

  ‘This isn’t a good idea,’ she said as she entered Alim’s house in Mombasa as the sun began to set. The wide glass doors to the balcony had a gorgeous beach view onto the Indian Ocean, the warm breeze rustling through the palms lining the sand. The crashing of the waves felt like her heart, constantly pushing its tide against the immovable earth of her situation.

  The table was set for two, with candles and soft lighting…

  ‘I’ve arranged for your accommodation in a bed and breakfast down the road.’ Though the words were expressionless, her gaze flew to his face. ‘Your reputation is precious to me,’ he said quietly. ‘As for all this—’ his jaw tightened ‘—I ordered it when I believed we’d be engaged tonight. We might as well eat, and there are two chaperones here. My staff will never tell anyone you were here—and they’ll take you to your accommodation when the meal’s over.’

  What could she say? He was putting her needs above his, and wasn’t blaming her for the ruin of his hopes. ‘All right.’ The words felt choked. ‘Alim, I—I am sorry.’

  His eyes softened as he seated her at the table, removing her veil with such tender hands she wanted to cry. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’

  He’d stopped calling her my star. He hadn’t called her anything at all since he’d stopped fighting for what never existed in the first place. He barely touched her, and when he thought she wasn’t looking his eyes darkened with pain. He’d accepted it was over, before it had even begun—and, irrationally, she f
elt like screaming. Aren’t you going to fight for me?

  Even if Mukhtar didn’t exist, Alim could never marry the daughter of a miner—and she couldn’t become his lover. It would destroy her family, and, no matter what they’d done, she loved them. They were good people, even if they’d put worry about what their world would think above her needs, and tried to hush up what they saw as their daughter’s shame.

  The meal was delicious, rice and curries of the region, lamb and fish with potatoes and traditional spices, and fried plantain. It was a shame neither of them ate much, only using food as an excuse to be quiet.

  Soft music played from the CD, ballads that fitted the sunset, so soft and pretty from this south-eastern beach. After a while, Alim pushed his chair back. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said, with a violent touch.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, relieved to be saying something, anything.

  ‘I can’t pretend like this.’

  ‘I should go,’ she said, soft, sad.

  ‘No.’ He’d pulled back her chair and had her in his arms before she could move away. ‘Don’t go,’ he murmured, his cheek rough against hers. ‘I hate being with you knowing I can’t have you, but being without you is worse.’

  She ached to wrap herself around him, to share the kisses of this afternoon; but the time had gone, the words I’m married had made everything real. ‘This only makes things harder.’

  He held her tighter. ‘Things have changed in my country. Proxy marriages have been illegal in Abbas al-Din since Fadi’s rule. I don’t know if your father knew that—’

  She closed her eyes when they burned. ‘Even if that’s true, I can’t repudiate the marriage after all these years. It would humiliate Dad.’

  ‘He ruined you.’ The words were filled with fury. ‘And don’t you think your running away from the marriage he’d organised for you shamed him publicly, embarrassed the entire family? Don’t you think clearing this matter will be better for them all?’

  ‘He’ll never forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘That’s why I can never go back. And you—you need a suitable wife, a princess who knows how to help you.’ She pulled back to look into his face, his beloved face, one last time. ‘Please, just let me go.’