Kitabı oku: «His Innocent Temptress», sayfa 3
“He’s very…direct.”
“Blunt,” Hannah translated.
“Maybe a little stern.”
“Rigid,” Hannah amended.
Alex grinned. “Opinionated?”
“If that’s your opinion,” she shot back, then almost gasped when Alex laughed. What was she doing? She was teasing with him, bantering back and forth. And it was fun. “Want to go for the gold?” she heard herself ask. “And number one of the top ten reasons Hugo Clark is not exactly a barrel of laughs is…?”
Alex’s grin faded as he sat forward, propped his chin on his hands and looked at her. Through her.
She waited, trembling, wishing she’d kept her big mouth shut.
“He doesn’t appreciate what he has?” Alex asked at last, his voice low, intimate.
Hannah bowed her head, concentrated on pleating her napkin in her lap, then mentally slapped herself for fidgeting and folded her hands on the edge of the table. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Wrong. Somebody should have noticed sooner,” Alex told her sincerely, then rocked her to her core by adding, “I should have noticed sooner. Life with Hugo hasn’t been a picnic, has it, Hannah-banana?”
He reached across the table, took her hands in his. “I’m glad you came home, Hannah. And I’m glad we’re here tonight, as adults, rather than as the sometimes rotten kids some of us used to be. Not you, but me. Let me make it up to you.”
“Make it up to me?” Hannah’s mouth was so dry she was surprised she could even form words. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, exactly,” Alex said, releasing her hands and handing her a fork so that she could eat the cake in front of her. “And I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of do-gooder, or a penitent making up for past sins. Still, I do remember the way you were pretty much on the outside of things growing up, even if you were younger than I, and Cade and Mac as well. I remember you coming to The Desert Rose with your dad just about once a week, and I remember the way we used to tease you.”
Hannah poked the fork into the cake, breaking off a piece but not daring to lift it to her mouth just yet. “It wasn’t so bad. Except maybe the day Mac tossed me into the watering trough. It was hot, and he said I looked like I needed some cooling off. He was just having fun, and I couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve at the time. I think I thought it was fun, too, until everybody else started to point and laugh.”
Alex winced. “Where was your dad?”
“Standing there, laughing,” Hannah told him, remembering how her father had laughed with the boys, as if it had all been a very funny joke, until she’d stood up in the trough and everyone could see that her white T-shirt had become pretty close to transparent after her dunking. Then he’d grabbed her by the elbow, dragged her to the truck and lectured her all the way home about how real ladies don’t show everyone “their wares” like common sluts.
Hannah frowned now and decided maybe she’d been closer to thirteen the day of the dunking. She wasn’t sure, but she did know she woke up the next morning to see a training bra lying on the bottom of the bed. She’d looked at it, then cried for hours, wishing her mother would please come home and tell her what to do with it.
Some time after that, she’d wished her mother home again to explain what was happening to her body, why she was bleeding and feeling so sore and sick. She couldn’t ask her father, she already knew that. So she had searched his bookshelves until she found one that explained what “going into heat” meant. Until tenth-grade biology class, she’d actually feared that each time she “went into heat” the boys in her class would know and try to go after her like stallions.
What a fear-ridden childhood she’d had. Alone, lonely and filled with fear. And all the time made very well aware that she was as worthless and shiftless and potentially wanton as her mother.
“Hannah? Hannah, what are you thinking? You have such a strange look on your face.”
“Hmm?” she said, coming out of her private thoughts, to realize she’d finished her cake, and to become aware that she’d been lost in those private thoughts while Alex sat there, ignored. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said quickly, reaching for her water glass and knocking it over on the table. “Oh! Look what I’ve done!”
Alex calmly patted the wet spot with his napkin, telling her, “It’s all right, Hannah. Look—” he said, knocking over his own water glass “—we might just be starting a new after-dinner ritual, washing the tablecloth while it’s still on the table.”
Hannah’s eyes were wide as she looked at what he’d done. “Well, that’s just plain silly.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Alex agreed, and then he smiled. He smiled so completely and happily that Hannah smiled with him, and a part of her that never seemed to relax slowly warmed, defrosted and allowed her to laugh in real enjoyment.
Alex laughed with her, laughed even louder when the waiter came rushing over to the table with a pile of dry napkins to blot the spills. “We’ve started a new tradition,” he told the waiter. “After-dinner spills. What do you think? Will it ever catch on?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir,” the waiter said sternly. “I’ll get your check.”
“He’s not very happy,” Hannah said, watching the waiter walk off, his spine rigid. “I guess that means you’ll have to leave him a big tip.”
“Oh, yeah,” Alex said, nodding. “A really big tip. But it was worth it to see you smile, hear you laugh. You do both much too seldom, Hannah.”
She dropped her gaze, then dared to look up at him again. “Don’t do that or I’ll get all nervous again, and I don’t think there’s a tip large enough to cover me knocking over the entire table when I stand up. And that’s possible, you know, knowing my history.”
“Hannah Slip-on-a-banana,” Alex said, also sober once more. “I wonder—how much do you think that name had to do with your little mishaps? It’s got to be really difficult to be graceful when everyone’s waiting for your next misstep. After a while, you’d have to start believing everyone’s right, and just plain give up trying.”
Hannah melted. Right there in the restaurant, with the waiter placing a burgundy leather folder in front of Alex and waiting until he’d produced a credit card to pay the check, Hannah Clark melted. He knew, Alex Coleman knew. For the first time in her life, she felt as if someone understood her, even cared about her, cared enough to consider how she got to be the local joke, the clumsy child, the awkward adolescent, the shy teenager. The oldest virgin in Texas, perhaps in all of the United States.
“Do…did you really mean it earlier when you said you’d like to make it up to me—you know, for that stuff we talked about?”
Alex pulled back her chair and helped her to her feet, then led her out of the restaurant. “Yes, Hannah, I did,” he said as he fished in his pocket for his keys, then opened the door into the night. “Why? Have you thought of a way I could begin repaying you? Tipping over my water glass seems somehow inadequate.”
How would she say it? Could she say it? She couldn’t believe she was even thinking it.
“Well,” she said at last, once they were in the car, “there is something…”
Chapter Three
The last time Alex had nearly run his own car off a road had been when he had just turned sixteen and decided that driving and smoking menthol cigarettes “went together.” He’d taken his first drag, choked, dropped the cigarette between his legs and nearly taken out Mrs. Rafferty’s hand-painted mailbox.
This time it was a U.S. mailbox at the corner of Fifth and Main that nearly bit the dust. But then, he was older now, and the shock had been bigger. Therefore, the mailbox should be bigger, too.
“You…you want me to what?” he said as he recovered, slowed the vehicle to look over at Hannah in the darkness.
She had sunk down in the seat, sitting on her spine, her head on her chest. “You did ask,” she said in a small voice.
“Well, hell, yeah—but what kind of answer was that? I mean, you could give a guy a little warning. You know, something like, ‘Hey, Alex, I’m going to drop a bomb now. Maybe you’ll want to duck and cover.”’
“Never mind, okay?” Hannah said, pushing herself upright once more. “Forget it. Just—forget it.”
“Forget it? How am I suppose to forget it? You just asked me to rid you of your…to…you want me to—oh, hell, Hannah. You can’t still be a virgin. You’re what—twenty-six, twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-eight,” she told him, her high-buttoned blouse choking her, half from sliding down in the seat and partly because she may just have swallowed her tongue. She wasn’t quite sure. But if she choked to death in the next five seconds, she really didn’t think that would be a bad thing. “I’m twenty-eight and never been more than kissed. It’s embarrassing.”
“How? Nobody knows but you. And now me,” Alex added, shaking his head. “And that’s another thing, Hannah. Why me?”
“Good question,” Hannah mumbled, mortified. What had gotten into her? She hadn’t had any wine, so she couldn’t use drunken stupidity as an excuse. “It’s just that…well, you did ask what you could do for me. And you said I could ask anything, anything at all, and I…well, I really would like your help.”
Alex pulled up in the small cement parking lot beside the veterinary office and cut the engine. “My help. Hannah, it isn’t as if you asked me to change a tire or help you move—which I think you ought to consider, not that it’s any of my business. But asking me to…to—”
“Make me a woman is how I think I said it,” Hannah said, helping him and cringing at the same time. The only thing worse than saying the words again would be to hear him say them.
“Yes, that,” Alex said, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Is it really so necessary to you?”
Hannah nodded. “Maybe it’s stupid, but yes, I do think it’s necessary.” She turned toward him, trying to explain. “It’s time I grew up—all the way up. I thought I had, but then I came home, and I’m right back where I started. Unsure of myself, wondering who and what I am. Falling back into old patterns, probably unhealthy patterns. I still feel like a girl. A young, clumsy little girl. I’m twenty-eight, Alex. Twenty-eight! It’s time I grew up.”
“Having sex doesn’t make you a grown-up, Hannah. Just ask all the teenage mothers, if you don’t believe me.”
“You…you’d be careful,” she said, averting her gaze once more, grateful for the relative dark inside the vehicle, even with the streetlight shining at the corner. “You wouldn’t let that happen to me.”
“No, of course I wouldn’t let anything like that happen to—what the hell am I saying? Hannah, no. It’s a crazy idea. I’m sorry, but it just is.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Just forget I asked. And you’re right, it is a crazy idea.”
“So you’re not going to go out hunting for someone else to…to make you a woman?”
Hannah bowed her head, bit her lips. She’d been right. It was worse when he said it.
“Hannah? Answer me. You are going to give up the idea, right?”
She looked over at him in the darkness. He couldn’t know, must never know. She’d rather go to her grave a repressed virgin than give herself to anyone but this man she’d dreamed of all her life. All she’d wanted was this one time, this one memory, before she went back to her unfulfilled and unfulfilling life. Was that too much to ask? Apparently it was.
“Hannah? Would you please answer me?”
“Good night, Alex,” she said, opening the door and quickly hopping out of the vehicle. “I had a wonderful time.”
“Hannah!” he called after her as she ran toward the door. Then he sat back in his seat and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. “Damn it! Now what do I do?”
THE THRONE ROOM in the great palace of Sorajhee, located in the capital city of Jeved, had always been one of the most beautiful chambers, its simple Moorish architecture accented with golf leaf, its tall, ornamental windows looking out over the perfect blue of the Persian Gulf.
From this room, from the jewel-encrusted throne set at the top of a pedestal surrounded by steps on which the guilty, the penitent and the hopeful petitioner had all prostrated themselves, the Jeved family had ruled for generations.
Today the air in the throne room was tense, almost trembling, as Azzam, ruler of Sorajhee, looked down at his counterpart from Balahar, King Zakariyya Al Farid.
“Will you speak, my friend, or only continue to pose, impressing me with your power, which is no less or greater than mine own?” King Zakariyya Al Farid turned away from Azzam and walked to the gilt chair that had been set out for him, his white robes flowing around him as he sat, placing his forearms on each arm of the chair. “Well, Azzam? Do we talk like men or must I remind you that I am here as your invited guest?”
“More of a guest who invited himself, Zak, don’t you think?” Azzam stood, motioning for one of his servants to bring another gilt chair and place it near Zakariyya’s. “Very well. We will talk, old friend,” he said as yet more servants brought a small table to place between them, then loaded it down with golden plates filled with figs and dates, small, rich squares of baklava and a pot of strong tea. “We will talk of what the nightingale has told me.”
“How poetic. And what has the nightingale told you, my friend?”
“Whispers, my friend. Whispers of Farid planning to unite Balahar with the enemy of Sorajhee. I would slit the nightingale’s throat, should I know this to be the truth, that the alliance between Balahar and Sorajhee is no more.”
“What alliance would that be, Azzam? That dream was no more the day your brother died, my friend. I know that, the world knows that, and you most certainly should. Our last treaty was made more than fifty years ago, and never did have teeth,” Zakariyya said, selecting a fig, turning it in his bejeweled fingers as if inspecting it, then popping it into his mouth.
He was a large man, with large appetites, but his oil-rich country was still small, just a dainty nibble for any larger country with its own appetite that wished to swallow it up. The age-old, tenuous and outmoded treaty with Sorajhee of both Azzam’s and Zakariyya’s fathers’ time no longer kept Balahar safe, and Zakariyya knew it. Azzam knew it. The time to act had been decades ago, and had passed along with Azzam’s fallen brother, that brother’s fallen sons.
King Zakariyya kept his expression carefully blank as his mind became busy. There was no good, strong alliance. So why this meeting? What purpose would it serve? Or had his spies been doing more than repeating women’s prattling? Was there truth to that gossip about Queen Layla, about the sons? Had he cast out his political nets on the strength of that gossip, in hope, and now stood ready to reap a great catch?
“You declared that there would be no political alliance, by deed if not by word, Azzam,” he continued, “even knowing of Ibrahim’s secret agreement with me that a son of Jeved would wed a daughter of mine, to insure our alliance. Now the sons of Ibrahim and both their parents are dead these many years—ask others to believe your lies that they are in seclusion, my friend, not me—and you have only daughters.”
Azzam half closed his eyes, hiding their expression behind his heavy lids. He would overlook Zakariyya’s less than veiled hint that the sons of Ibrahim had been martyred along with their father. Zakariyya had delivered an even deeper insult to his manhood, or so it would seem if Zakariyya had been able to father any children of his own, which he hadn’t. What was worse? Azzam’s three daughters and the fact that he’d been unable to sire any children at all within his harem, let alone a son—or Zakariyya’s adopted son and daughter, proof that his only wife was barren.
Children were a treasure everywhere, but here, in the Middle East, and with a succession to assure and a country to protect, often with alliances through marriage of royal children, they were essential.
Azzam’s brother had fathered three sons—two at one time—and Rose had proved fruitful enough to have borne many more children, many more male babies, each birth pushing Azzam further and further from the throne he’d coveted, believed to be his right as his father’s son.
“And how is your son, Zakariyya?” Azzam asked, wishing to draw attention away from himself and his daughters. Away from the badly broken alliance between Sorajhee and Balahar.
“Sharif is well, as always. Headstrong, but a good, loyal son,” Zakariyya said smoothly. “We are so grateful to your Layla for bringing him to us as a newborn, gifting us with such a precious honor. My people accept him, love him, and Balahar is stronger for Sharif.”
“My wife meant to assuage some of your wife’s grief when her child was stillborn, and the foundling was in a need as great as your own. I rejoice that Layla showed such a generous spirit, and that your Nadirah found solace with her adopted son. Indeed, you are twice blessed by another’s misfortune, as your adopted daughter came to you only because her American parents perished. She is a woman grown now. How does she fare?”
“Serena is more the Arab than those with the blood of the Middle East flowing through their veins. She is my pride, and her mother’s treasure until that dear woman’s death. She would have been a splendid princess of Sorajhee. But, alas, we all know this to be impossible.”
Azzam lifted a hand to his mouth and gnawed on his knuckle, knowing the moment had come for him to tell Zakariyya what he knew, or at least what he thought he knew. “My friend, perhaps…perhaps it is not impossible for our countries to resume the alliance.”
Zakariyya spread his hands, palms up. It was time to pull in the net and inspect the catch. “My friend, although I have not yet announced it publicly, I have already begun talks with—”
“Not this new political alliance I’ve been told you are considering, Zak. Such alliances are only bits of paper. I’m speaking of a blood alliance. I’m speaking of the promise made between you and my brother. You were right to question the story that Rose and her sons are hidden away in Sorajhee all these years, in seclusion, but you are wrong to believe that I had them killed.”
“Really?” Zakariyya steepled his fingers in front of him and waited, not quite as patiently as it might seem to Azzam. He had allowed rumors of negotiations with another neighboring country, but he had done so only after hearing from his agents in Sorajhee, only in the hope that he would be sitting here today, listening to Azzam’s words.
“There has been treachery, Zakariyya, but not of my making. Treachery, and many lies. I believed them all dead, much as it shames me to admit to being so gullible, so eager to accept news that benefited me. Ibrahim’s American wife may still be alive, her children still alive,” Azzam said quickly, motioning for his chief adviser, Abdul-Rahim, to step closer. “Tell him,” he ordered. “And spare me nothing in the telling.”
“Sire,” Abdul-Rahim said, bowing. “It gives me great pain to repeat the words, knowing they may be true.”
Zakariyya held up his hands, effectively silencing the advisor. He would never admit to the spies he had planted here in the palace, but he saw no reason to draw out Azzam’s humiliation. “Then it is true? I have heard rumors over the years, but since half were that you had the queen and her boys killed, and half were that you keep them imprisoned somewhere, I could be sure of nothing. Ibrahim’s wife, the beautiful Rose—she’s alive? And the sons?”
He sat forward in his chair, no longer bothering to keep up the pretext of kingly unconcern, longing for the words that would tell him the information brought to him was correct. “What of the sons?”
Abdul-Rahim bowed, cleared his throat. “We are sure of nothing, Your Highness. But as Sorajhee comes closer to danger from our neighbors, and as word of Balahar’s negotiations with those neighbors comes to our ears, negotiations that would further weaken us…”
“Yes? Speak clearly, man. You have been given permission.”
The advisor folded his hands together in front of him. “It is Her Highness, you understand. Queen Layla. She has…she has become volatile, Your Highness. Agitated. And she has said some things within the harem…”
“Layla is losing her mind, her reason,” Azzam said abruptly, and the advisor bowed again, backing away from the two royals, and quickly took his leave. “My wife is going mad, Zakariyya, and she is saying things that threaten my own sanity.”
Zakariyya popped another fig into his mouth, careful not to look at Azzam, for the man had his pride and that pride must be respected at all costs. Even as the man figuratively bared his breast and groveled before him. Zakariyya had all but invited himself here, to Sorajhee, to learn the truth. He did not feel comfortable watching his old friend fall to pieces. “If you do not wish to continue, I understand.”
“I have to continue. Layla is distressed, and has begun to say things, disjointed fragments that, when strung together, form a necklace of treachery, betrayal and even murder. Allah forgive me, Zakariyya, but I have come to believe that Layla ordered the murder of my brother.”
Zakariyya wiped his fingertips on a damp linen napkin. Now here was something he had not suspected. Still, it was not the news he wished to hear. “You will pardon me, old friend, if I tell you that this information only changes the culprit, not the murder itself. I have always thought Ibrahim was assassinated on your orders. The man beheaded for the crime was only the weapon, not the plan.”
“I would never—” Azzam shrank in his chair, the brother now, and not the king. “No, I won’t lie. Not anymore. It is past time for truth. I organized the demonstration against Ibrahim—that much is true—as I wanted him to realize the people were against any further political alliance with Balahar. Even more, I wanted to stop your secret alliance that would have bound Ibrahim’s son to your yet unborn daughter. Zakariyya, I made no secret of the fact that I, not Ibrahim’s son, should have succeeded him. If his son and heir was also heir to Balahar, I could not have overcome this union to take my proper place. I needed the people on my side, rallying around me. We Jeveds rule at the pleasure of our people, as you know, and I’d hoped to make Ibrahim hear what the people wanted.”
Zakariyya relaxed, now on more comfortable ground. Speaking of political treachery, oddly, was much easier than discussing Azzam’s pain over his wife. “What you believed they wanted, Azzam,” Zakariyya pointed out silkily. “We all know what our people want, what all people want. They want peace. A strong political alliance between our two countries would have gone a long way to assure that peace. The marriage between our families would have completed the job. Now, as the years pass, that peace becomes more and more elusive. This is why I am here, Azzam. This is why you need me now, just as I still need you, since I would rather ally Balahar with Sorajhee than seek elsewhere for protection. Azzam, my Sharif has a great love of American slang. A pity at times, but I remember one phrase he uses that seems apt at this moment. Could it be possible, my old friend, that we cut to the chase? In other words, tell me all that you know and, together, we might see what we can do.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Azzam stood, beginning to pace. “Abdul-Rahim has taken what Layla has said in her ramblings, and combined it with what he learned while interviewing Layla’s servants. If we are to believe what we have heard, Rose is most definitely alive.”
“Where? Where is she?”
Azzam stopped pacing, turned to look at Zakariyya. “Rose tried to kill me, old friend. About a month after Ibrahim died, I found her in my rooms, a knife in her hand. Clearly Rose had lost her mind to grief.”
“Understandable,” Zakariyya said, nodding. “She believed you murdered her husband, and must have been convinced you would murder her sons as well. Were you wounded?”
“Only in my heart,” Azzam said, retaking his seat, curling his fingers around the ends of the chair arms, his knuckles going white. “I will not deny wanting the throne, Zakariyya, but I would never murder my brother or his sons in order to gain it.”
“But Layla would?”
“Yes. Allah forgive us, yes. If her ramblings are to be believed, she pretended to be Rose’s friend and savior, helping Rose to flee the country with her sons, then come back here to unmask me as Ibrahim’s murderer, assure the throne for her sons. Layla probably gave Rose the knife she had with her that night, and helped her get through my guards, all the way to my bedside. And I was blind to it. Blind to it all.”
“You didn’t have Queen Rose brought to trial, executed, that I know. You said only that she and her sons had retired to a life of seclusion and mourning. What did you really do, Azzam? Whatever did you do?”
“I ruled, Zakariyya. I ruled my mourning, shattered country as best I could. And because I was so busy, I allowed Layla to talk me into sending Rose to an asylum for those with illness of the mind. I believed her when she told me the boys had gone to their uncle in America, then all had died in a boating accident. I have believed Layla all these years, but now I know she lied. I turned my head, preferred not to hear, and allowed Layla to make my sister-in-law a political prisoner. I cannot be entirely sure of Rose’s fate anymore, but the sons are still living somewhere in America. Layla stalks the harem nightly, wringing her hands, beating at herself for not having them killed when she had the chance.”
The sons. The sons were also alive. His spies had learned the truth. It was almost more than he could hope to have heard. Zakariyya’s heart sang, but he kept his expression blank. “So now you question the boys’ fates as well? Where is this uncle?”
“Texas,” Azzam said quietly. “Randy Coleman owns a ranch called The Desert Rose there. A horse farm. Arabian horses.” He looked at Zakariyya. “The first stud is retired now, but that stud’s name is Jabbar.”
“Ibrahim’s favorite,” Zakariyya whispered. “I remember. And the boys? Are they there?”
Azzam nodded, unable to speak. “Abdul-Rahim is convinced Coleman’s three sons are Ibrahim’s. Grown men now, all three, and one of them promised to a daughter of Balahar. Your daughter Serena, Zakariyya.”
Zakariyya was quiet for some moments. “You will contact this Coleman?” he asked at last. “Ibrahim’s widow is his sister.”
Azzam nodded. “It will be done in good time, but not yet. I want to do more than simply tell him his sister may be alive, in an asylum somewhere in Europe. Unfortunately, I know not where as yet, but I will. It is my duty to find her, and pray that she is saner than my poor, misguided Layla, who now suffers the fate she wished upon Queen Rose.”
“And if Coleman’s sons are really the heirs of Ibrahim, and the true heirs to the throne of Sorajhee? What then, my old friend?”
Azzam’s expression was bleak. “As it has always been for the Jeved of Sorajhee, as it has been for the Al Farid of Balahar. It will be as my people will. This I promise you, Zakariyya. If the people wish it, I will step aside. There has already been too much pain.”
SHORTLY AFTER DAWN, Alex made his way to the stables to look in on Khalahari and the foal, Khalid. He stood just outside the last stall in the stable that held more than fifty splendid Arabians, and marveled at the sight of Jabbar’s son.
The foal finished feeding, then shook his head and looked straight at Alex. The small animal’s head lifted proudly before it turned away, disdainful of the interruption by a mere man.
“Oh, you’re a prince, all right,” Alex said, grinning. “But learn who is the master here, Khalid. Although I suppose you already have decided that, haven’t you?”
“Morning, Alex,” Mac said, walking toward him down the length of the stables. “I’ve come to see the new stud. Cade told me he’s a beaut.”
Alex turned to look at his brother. Cade’s mirror image. How changed they both were from the small, whimpering, motherless babies that had traveled with him to Boston, to their new lives. The softness of their mother was still in their faces, a gentleness of feature that might be discernible only to Alex, but there just the same, always filling his heart with memories of the woman who had loved them all enough to leave them.
The twins were thirty-one now, the same age their father had been when he’d been cut down, assassinated by some madman who believed bloodshed was the way to peace. While Cade was a major force in the running of the Coleman businesses, Mac had proved himself to be a gifted trainer. It was Mac who trained the boarder horses for the ring, as well as some of The Desert Rose’s own bloodline.
Cade was the playboy, Mac the relentless worker. Cade was a brilliant businessman beneath his banter, and Mac could care less about the business. To him, life was his horses and The Desert Rose. Especially now that he had been unlucky—damned unlucky—in love, and had all but given up on women. Horses he could trust, or so he said.
“May I take a closer look?” Mac asked, already opening the door to the stall and stepping inside. “Ah, Alex, he’s magnificent!” Mac bent down, eye to eye with Khalid, and the foal allowed his attentions, even seemed to welcome them. There wasn’t a horse in the world who didn’t, not when Mac was the man who approached.
Alex smiled at his brother as he leaned on the low door and watched Khalid and Mac bond.
Uncle Randy and Aunt Vi had done a splendid job in raising the sons of Ibrahim Bin Habib El Jeved, for Alex wasn’t so dedicated to his brothers that he believed he had done so well all on his own. He was only a little over a year older than Mac and Cade, but he was still the older brother. He had been given a mission by his mother, and he had always taken his responsibility seriously. Even now, with the twins grown, Alex felt responsible for them, as he had always taken on the role of big brother for Randy and Vi’s daughter, Jessica. Sometimes he thought he felt responsible for the whole world.
