Kitabı oku: «Midnight on the Sands: Hajar's Hidden Legacy / To Touch a Sheikh / Her Sheikh Protector», sayfa 3

He only looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“What about you?” she asked. “Do you have a light you’re aiming for?”

His hands curled into fists again and his gaze shifted slightly, his throat working. “I’m glad you see a light, Katharine. For me, there is only darkness.” He looked down then, shifted his focus to the computer screen that sat on his desk. “Now that we have all that settled, I have work do to.”

CHAPTER FOUR

KATHARINE hated being at a loose end. She never was back in Austrich. Her days were packed from start to finish. She reviewed their budget for charitable contributions, went to committee meetings and spent time volunteering at the largest hospital in the country. She never had a moment of her own, and that was fine with her. It made her feel … it made her feel useful.

But in Hajar there was nothing to do. No, specifically, in the palace there was nothing to do. She could only read for so long during the day before her eyes felt scratchy, and it was too hot in the middle of the day to do anything in the garden. She’d been out earlier, cutting flowers to add to the vacant vases she’d noticed when she’d first arrived. But the weather had moved past the point of sweltering, so now she was wandering the halls, staying cool thanks to the thick stone walls and that lovely air-conditioning they’d put in when they’d brought the palace out of the dark ages.

She was used to much cooler weather, crisp mountain air, not air that burned your lungs like fire when you sucked in a breath. Another part of the arrangement she hadn’t calculated. Not back when she’d been intending to marry Malik in the true sense of the word, and not when she’d come and proposed to Zahir.

Everything was so different. And she was starting to feel different.

A loud curse and shattering porcelain broke the lull of boredom she’d fallen into.

She quickened her pace, weaving through the labyrinthine halls until she saw Zahir, standing in front of the massive stone table that was placed against the wall there, the antique vase she’d place flowers in earlier shattered into uncountable, unfixable pieces. The flowers didn’t look like they’d survived the attack.

He looked up, his eyes black with rage. “Did you do this?”

“Did I do what? Maul those flowers?”

“Did you put the flowers here?”

“Yes, I put them in three vases that were empty. Here, in my room and in the entryway. Is that a dungeon offense these days?”

He walked over the ruined vase, his hard soled shoes grinding the shards of ceramic into powder, his gait uneven, the slight limp more pronounced than normal. “Do not change things like that without my permission.” He spoke slowly, his voice low, deadly. “You had no right to do this.”

A trickle of fear dripped through her, followed by a flood of anger that washed it away with its hot, fast tide. She stood, hands planted on her hips. “Don’t be such a … “

“Beast?” he growled.

“I was going to say bastard, but whatever works best for you. You might not mind living in that dark, sparse palace but I do. And it’s my home now, per your royal command, and it’s going to be my home until the end of our arrangement. I am not asking your permission to make changes in my own home.”

“It is not your home, latifa, make no mistake.”

“Is this some kind of stupid testosterone thing? Have I impinged on your territory there, lone wolf?” Anger was controlling her now, making her reckless, making her heart pound hard.

“Do not mock me.”

“Then don’t behave in a way that’s so … mockable.”

“You don’t understand. If you move things … “

“I didn’t move anything I … “

“You moved this.” He slammed his hand, palm down, onto the stone table.

“And?”

“And I ran into the damn thing!” he roared.

His words echoed in the corridor, hanging there between them, the reality slowly sinking into her mind. It stopped any response she might have had cold in her throat.

He lifted his hand from the table and she noticed, for the first time, that his palm was bleeding. Both of his palms were bleeding.

“What … ?”

“Stay back.”

“Zahir … “

He swallowed. “I know where things are in my home. I should not have to worry about anything being misplaced.”

She felt dizzy, mortified. A heavy weight crushed her chest. She had moved the table out from the wall, maybe two inches, so that the blossoms wouldn’t be squished. Such a stupid, shortsighted thing.

Now it made sense. Now she could picture it. Him coming out of his room, turning left. It would have been in the line of his blind eye, where he could not see. And he would have no reason to think anything had changed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muted. “Your hands …” She almost choked. He had fallen into the glass after knocking the vase over. What if he had hit his head? All because she’d wanted to add flowers to the room.

“Don’t move things,” he said again, a tremor running through his rough voice as he stood looking at her, black eyes fierce, his chest rising and falling sharply.

She tried to speak again, to say more impotent words of apology, but he turned and left her there, alone in the hall, pain spreading through her chest.

Not exactly a stellar way to start the day.

The best thing to do would probably be going after him But she didn’t want to. She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from her own uselessness. From the whole situation. She hadn’t ever resorted to that tactic before, and she wasn’t going to do it now.

On a shaky breath, she bent down, careful to avoid the glass, and gathered the flowers back up. She felt sick, defeated. Like the kind of idiot woman her father imagined her to be. Although, failing at household tasks like decorating might make her even lower on his personal totem pole.

For one, terrifying moment, she believed it. She believed she couldn’t really do anything right. That she couldn’t do this.

No. You have to. You will do this.

Her own personal pity party wasn’t the important thing here anyway. What did matter was what that had cost Zahir.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the empty space, her throat tightening over the words.

He didn’t want to hear it from her, she knew that. He walked with a slight limp, one he did his best to mask, but she had noticed it. And she knew that something like this, something that forced him to acknowledge a weakness, a limitation, was the worst of nightmares. It was his pride that had suffered worst of all.

She just knew it, deep in her bones, as sure as she knew anything about herself.

She’d caused a problem, made a mistake, and now she was going to fix it.

* * *

Zahir took his fury, his humiliation, out on the pool in his gym. At least in the water his movements were smooth. He knew the length, knew just how many strokes it took to get to the end. Here there was no limp, his sight didn’t matter.

He stopped and gripped the edge of the pool cursing loudly, dragging his hand and droplets of water down his face, his palm burning where his flesh had been left raw and cut by the broken vase. But he welcomed that pain. Physical pain meant little to him. He’d survived more of it than any man should be able to.

But making such a fool of himself, showing such weakness, that was a true blow. He never did that. Now he had done it twice with her.

He looked up and saw pale, delicate ankles, then up farther to a set of shapely legs. Had she been any closer to the edge of the pool, he would have been treated to a lot more.

The woman had no sense of boundaries. “What is it you want, latifa?”

He tightened his jaw, grinding his teeth. His towel was across the gym, and she was there, standing, staring. Another chance to shock herself with his ravaged body? She hadn’t run the first time, but he did not go out of his way to show the scars that marred his body. Not out of vanity. But because they shamed him. Reminded him, every day, in every way, that he was less than he had been. That he shouldn’t be here.

Survivor’s guilt, his first doctor had called it. Naming it didn’t change anything. How else was he supposed to feel? Should he forget? Move on from the event that had taken everyone? If he forgot, who would remember? Who would carry it with them? He felt as though he was keeping them here. Anchoring them to this world.

Impossible, he knew. And yet the feelings remained.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

He placed his palms flat on the rough cement surrounding the pool, welcoming the pain it brought, the distraction, as he hauled himself out of the water in one fluid motion, bracing himself for the less than agile feeling that came with having his own two feet beneath him. Putting weight on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to him.

Her eyes were glued to his torso and he fought the urge to cover himself. A strange, weak response. It should not concern him, what she thought of his body, of the scars that marked his skin, the deep groove that showed the loss of muscle and strength in his thigh.

He simply stood for a moment, daring her to look away. She didn’t. But then, she never did anything he expected—why should she start now? He would almost be disappointed if she descended into predictability. Almost.

He reached over to the nearby towel rack to pull off a black towel, dragging it over his chest, then around to his back. She watched him the whole time, and he felt his body responding to the open, female appraisal. It had been so long since he had felt a woman’s hands on his skin, and just as long since one had looked at him as though he were a man.

No one, other than his physician, had ever seen his body uncovered since the wounds had healed. Amarah had seen him when they were fresh. When there had been a hope of healing. They had been too much for her to handle then. Or, perhaps she could have handled the scars if the attack had only stolen his physical attraction. If it had not taken the very soul of who he was. Good that she’d run early so he hadn’t had the chance to bring her down with him.

Of course, unlike his ex, Katharine wouldn’t be running.

“It means beauty,” he said, discarding the towel, crossing his arms over his chest.

She looked slightly surprised to hear the translation. “Oh. Well, I thought it might mean ‘pain in the rear’ or something.”

A sharp twinge of amusement forced a laugh to climb his throat. “Not quite.”

Full, pink lips curved into a smile and cut through the defense he’d put up between them. She appealed to his body, as a woman did to a man. A whole man. And for a brief moment, he felt as though he were.

It only took a sharp, shooting pain from his diminished thigh muscle to remind him that wasn’t the case. Just like the desert would wilt a rose, he would wither Katharine, would steal the life from her.

Her pretty face contorted. “Oh, no, that’s from the table, isn’t it?”

He jerked his head back. “What?”

“The bruise on your leg and …” She moved toward him and he took a step away. “Your hands.”

“What?”

She moved forward another step. “Let me see them.” She reached out and took one of his hands in hers, palm up, examining the torn skin, moving the tip of her finger around one of his injuries. “Painful?” She was so soft. So warm. Alive.

It made him want to ask why she was touching a dead man. A man who was dead in all the ways that counted.

“Not in the least.” He pulled his hand back, the burn of her touch lingering. “I have endured worse. This is nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing earlier.”

“I was angry.”

“I know. At me. And my flowers had to die a horrible death because of it. Not that I really blame you. I didn’t think, and I’m … I’m very, very sorry.”

He held his hand up. “This? This will heal.” Unlike the rest of him. That was the unspoken portion of that statement, hanging in the air between them.

He stood before her now, defiant, daring her to look away, she was certain. But she couldn’t. He held her captive. He turned away first. “What is it you want?”

“I have … I want you to have dinner with me.” For the first time, she faltered, showed a hint of true nerves and vulnerability. His first instinct, one so long suppressed, was to reassure. And yet he couldn’t figure out a way to do it, couldn’t find it in him.

She pressed on. “I had your chef prepare some of your favorite foods. And some of mine. I thought we might … get to know each other a bit better.”

The last thing he wanted. He needed her life and his life to remain separate, for his routine to be uninterrupted. He needed to keep his control, his order. He didn’t need her making him want to … comfort. Because when the heat spread through him, his control slipped. And when his control slipped …

“How much money will be saved annually by the trade agreements our marriage will enact?”

Confusion flashed through her eyes. And he felt nothing. He embraced that. Embraced the void and the security it offered.

“Ten billion, conservatively.”

He chose his next words carefully, designed to keep distance. Designed to make her as disgusted with him as she should have been from the start. “That is all I need to know about you.”

She looked at him for a moment, eyes glittering, a determined set to her jaw, arms crossed beneath full breasts. “I’ll be there. In the dining hall in half an hour.”

Zahir cursed himself as he buttoned his shirt midstride, making his way through the maze of corridors toward the dining hall. What had happened to routine? And distance?

He cursed again.

He rarely ate in the formal dining area. Only if he was forced to entertain visiting dignitaries. Even then, he tried to send his advisor in his place. He wasn’t the best face to put forward for Hajar. Most of his people—at least those in control of the media—would attest to that. He was no diplomat, no master of fine negotiations. He was a strategist, a planner. He had built up his nation’s economy from behind the doors of his father’s office. But when it came to physical meetings …

He was not the man to handle things in person.

He only had to think of Katharine’s face when he’d slammed his bloody palm down on the table to drive that point home. He had frightened her. And he cared. He had no idea why he cared. Or why the image of her sitting at the table alone in that knee-length, red silk dress she’d been wearing made him feel … anything.

And yet it did. And he could not afford it. He knew it, knew the cost of a weak moment. A weak moment, a lax moment, could mean the difference between life and death. It had for his family. And now … a weak moment could mean the loss of his control.

Still he had come.

He walked through the arched doorway into the ornate dining area. The table was low with cushions lining it on all sides. Katharine was there, at the head of the table, naturally, her pale legs curled beneath her, her expression neutral. Her plate was empty, despite the fact that there was an abundance of food laid out on the table.

He knelt at the other end. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No, you’re not. You’re late on purpose.”

“No. I’m here on accident,” he said.

She laughed, an annoyed laugh, if there was such a thing. “What does that mean?”

“That I wasn’t going to come.”

“I see.” She stood up and took her plate with her, walking slowly down the side of the table until she was right in front of him, the view of her legs from his position on the cushions an intoxicating and unexpected sight. She was close enough that he could reach out and touch her. Feel if those long legs were as soft as he imagined.

He had a brief flash, an image in his mind and he braced himself for the inevitable. But it wasn’t a picture of chaos and violence. It was him, curling his fingers around her calf, pressing a kiss to her thigh, running the tip of his tongue up along her skin until …

He clenched his teeth together, fighting to keep himself, his body, on its tight, self-imposed leash.

She sat next to him, her arm brushing his, and his fantasy was disturbed.

“I’m not sitting across the room from you.”

“Why not? Most people would.” He picked a tray up from the table and put some figs, meat and cheese on Katharine’s plate before serving himself.

“I’m not most people.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

She always met his eyes. Always looked straight at him. No one did that. Not even staff who had been here before the attack. Though there were few of those left. It had been too hard for them to stay. Too frightening. Always wondering if the same people responsible for killing his family would come for Zahir. If they would be caught in the cross fire.

Amarah hadn’t been able to look at him. She had tried. She’d worn his ring, was meant to be his wife, had professed to love him. And she had tried to take on the responsibility of caring for him.

He’d been half out of his mind then. Not wholly in the past or present. Not certain of what had happened. Sometimes sickeningly certain of what had happened, everything playing in his mind with horrifying clarity. From beginning to end, like a film he couldn’t stop.

Even now, he only kept it all down with years of practice. Of keeping total, full control over his mind at all times.

Amarah hadn’t been able to endure it. Had not been able to handle the changes that had happened in him. If the woman he loved, the woman who loved him, couldn’t stay … couldn’t face him … it was no surprise when no one else could, either. He was glad, in a way, that no one had ever tried. There was no point bringing them into his personal hell.

“This is my favorite,” she said, reaching past him and picking up a platter. “Obviously it’s not like my mother made it for me, but our chef did. Wild rice with pecans. Not a state dinner type of thing but … sort of comfort food for me.”

“I’ll try it.” He lifted his plate and she served him a portion.

He wasn’t certain he’d ever eaten this way before. It was strangely intimate, serving her, having her serve him. His family had been formal. Distant in many ways. And yet their absence was profound.

“I don’t suppose your mother did the cooking, either?”

The thought of his mother, always so beautiful and serene in her long, jeweled robes, her black hair pinned up in an ornate style, made his chest feel tight. “No. She was good at delegating, though.”

Katharine laughed, happier this time, a sound that worked to loosen the knot inside him. “Oh, me, too. Notice I didn’t claim to cook any of this.” She paused then tilted her head to the side, a shimmering, red-gold wave cascading over her shoulder. “Maybe I will cook someday.”

“Once you reach the light at the end of your tunnel?”

“Yes. Maybe then. I’m going to move out of the palace. Traditionally, an unmarried princess would continue to live there, under the protection of her family, but I suppose a divorcée might do what she wants.”

“You suppose?”

“No one in my family has ever divorced.”

“No one?”

She shook her head, her strawberry waves catching the light. “No. I will be unique.”

“I’m certain you already are.”

“Perhaps too much, to the despair of my father.”

“And you aren’t concerned how that will be received?”

“My mother died when I was ten. My father will be gone soon …” Her voice was thick with sadness. “Only Alexander will be left and he won’t care what I do. You know how younger brothers are.”

He did. He had been one. Looking on Malik with nothing but respect. Never once had he envied him his position. Never once had he wanted to be him. And now look at him. He had stepped into his brother’s life. He was even marrying his brother’s intended bride.

The thought was like burning steel in flesh. Nothing fit in this life. Nothing was his. A constant reminder that the wrong man had lived through the attack on his family. It should have been Malik sitting here with Katharine. Ruling the country as their birth order dictated.

“I do.”

“So, he’ll accept what I’m doing with my life and be … happy for me, I suppose.”

“Have you always resented your duty?”

She sat still then, the only motion the fluttering of her pulse at the hollow of her throat. “I have always accepted that I would marry someone for the sake of my country. When I met Malik … I felt good about what I was doing. It felt right. He was a good man and the alliance between the countries would provide so much protection for both of our nations.”

“And when he died?”

“My heart felt torn in two.”

Katharine looked down at her hands. It was the truth. The day she’d found out about the attacks, she’d felt that it had happened to her own family. She’d grieved the loss of the S’ad al Dins. Had grieved for the country, for the one who was left.

She hadn’t loved Malik, but that didn’t mean his death was painless for her. He had been a good man, one she’d been confident would do the best by his country and hers.

It had been devastating to lose that. And she’d felt aimless. Like she’d been searching for new purpose. Because she’d known, from day one, that it had been her duty to marry advantageously for Austrich.

With that gone, she’d had to find something new.

She had. The past five years she’d had more freedom, more aim than ever before. She’d made changes, had made valuable friendships. Had worked at proving herself in a way that went beyond her worth as breeding stock.

Coming back to the marriage part, that had been jarring. But again, she knew her place. But now … now that she’d tasted something else, something that was hers … it made her want more. It made her want to find out if she might find some contentment there.

“I did not know you felt so strongly for him,” Zahir said, his words stiff, his dark eyes closed off.

“I felt very strongly about the arrangement. That’s one reason I fought so hard for it. It’s the right thing.”

“And yet … since I will give you an out, you’re more than willing to take it.”

Shame made her face hot. “Yes,” she said, the words a whisper.

“What’s changed?”

“The thought that maybe I could have something else. Something more.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “And in the meantime, you make yourself a human sacrifice.”

“Haven’t we both?”

“True. I know why you do what you do. Do you know why I am the Sheikh of Hajar? Why I didn’t pass it to one of my distant relatives?” His voice was rough, his words halting. “Because I am the only one left to fight. And even if I have to fight for my people from a desk, I will do it until there is no more breath in me. Because I’m all that’s left.”

Her heart seized in her chest, the aching, emptiness of his loneliness swept through her, left her breathless. The move to touch him was reflexive, an instinct she couldn’t fight. She covered his hand with hers and his body jerked, but his hand remained there, beneath hers.

He didn’t speak, he only looked at her. But the look in his eyes became more focused as he did. His gaze drifted down to where her hand covered his, so pale next to the deep golden tone of his skin.

“I am sorry about before,” she said, her voice a whisper.

He was silent for a moment, his hand tense beneath hers. “As am I.”

She slid her hand away from his, but she felt the lingering heat from him. From his skin. “I spoke to my father and brother today.”

“And?”

“My father is thrilled, of course, well, in his way, and … Alexander doesn’t really know the circumstances. I don’t want him to. He’d hate to know that I was doing this for him. He’s only sixteen and he simply wouldn’t understand. And neither of them know that this is … temporary.”

“I see. When did you understand you were to marry a man your father selected?”

She laughed softly. The memory of that day was one she tried her best to block out on most occasions. “Maybe twelve.

It came up at dinner. My mother had passed away just a couple of years earlier and Alexander was just a toddler. My father mentioned that he’d begun looking for … I think he used the words appropriate suitors for me. I was appalled.”

“I would imagine so.”

“I had posters of my favorite singer on my wall and I was going to marry him. Somehow I didn’t think a pop star would pass muster.”

She was gratified when his lips turned up into a slight smile. “I would think not.”

“What about you?”

“Malik was the one who had to think about advantageous marriages.”

“Yes, that was meant to be me.”

He looked at his wineglass. “I was going to marry for love.”

Her stomach tightened. Before the attack, he meant. “You still can. After.”

He shook his head. “I think not. I don’t believe in it anymore. And even if I did, I know I can no longer feel it.” He pushed up on the edge of the table, his movements jerky. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Thank the chef,” she said, trying to suppress the sadness that was mounting in her.

“I will.” He inclined his head and turned away from her, leaving her sitting at the table alone.