The Ice Maiden's Sheikh (10 page)

She gazed at him in mounting anxiety. He was so white he looked sick.

“My God, what is it? What can you possibly have done?”

Michael leaned forward, clearing his throat.

“Ellin took me out after I'd cut the deal with the features editor. To the Savoy. We got into celebrating my new future…Jalia, I've never had so much Moët et Chandon poured down me in my life. I got pissed, and I mean completely pissed.”

Premonitory dread shivered her skin. “Oh, Michael!”

He sat shaking his head, white and desperate. “She got the truth out of me. I'm sorry, Jalia. When I sobered up I was just—”

“The truth?” Jalia whispered, but she knew. “The truth about what?”

“That Princess Jalia was so terrified of being forced into marriage by her parents here in Bagestan that she begged her gay friend to pretend to an engagement.”

“Oh,
God!
”

“Ellin really wants to use it, but because the deal I've cut depends on our engagement being real, she can't. She says that's a story that's really got legs—with Princess Noor missing, you know, and pretty well presumed dead.

“People are already suggesting maybe Noor ran to avoid a forced marriage, and Ellin says the story would really give that rumour weight. ‘Imagine how the world would condemn Princess Noor's parents for putting her into the position where she chose death over an unhappy marriage,' she said to me.”

Jalia felt as if all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked from the room.

“So we've got to go on with the engagement, Jalia. I'm sorry, but unless you want the truth blasted all over the front page, we have to go on with it. I'm sorry, love. Sorrier than I can say. You can kick me black and blue if you want, but no blacker than I've already kicked myself.”

Jalia gazed at him, not really focusing on Michael at all. She was thinking how strange it was that she should choose such a moment as this to understand at last that she was in love with Latif Abd al Razzaq.

A
t one end of the private courtyard an arched terrace caught the early sun, and since Noor's and Bari's dis
appearance a communal breakfast had been regularly served there.

Newspapers from around the world were on offer with the coffee, and in addition a radio, television and telephones had been set up.

Knowing what the morning papers would say, Jalia had come down early—but, she saw with dismay, not early enough. Latif was sitting alone at the table, an English paper open in front of him.

At the sound of footsteps, he lifted his head from the newsprint. Jalia's steps stopped abruptly as she saw his face, white and cold and harsh as a judge.

“Latif!” she whispered, her voice catching so that she had to stop and cough.

She had hoped to see him first, to try and explain, but last night there had been yet another reported sighting of Noor, this time on a French ferry. It had taken hours to confirm what they all instinctively guessed, that it was false, and she could not get him alone.

He tossed the paper and his table napkin down, every movement measured and deliberate, and stood. His chair squealed a protest against the tiles.

“So you did not deny your fiancé's story.”

“No, because—I mean, he's not…”

His emerald eyes narrowed with ferocious feeling. “He is not your fiancé?”

His voice was terrible, raw and harsh and angrily contemptuous. Jalia flinched. “Well…”

“The journalist has printed a lie?”

She began to stammer. “Yes. Well, not exactly, but—”

She swallowed and pressed her lips together. She
did not know him. He was an angry, frightening stranger now, his fury lashing around her.

“Make up your mind,” he said, and she had never heard such coldness in Latif's voice before.

“We have to go on pretending for the moment,” she said in a gulp, and under his fierce gaze she stammered out the explanation.

Latif stood looking down at her, his face as unmoved and unmoving as rock, and she realized even before he said it that she was too late. Her understanding had come too late. Her love was too late.

“You use the engagement now as you used it before—to make yourself safe from me,” he rasped. “But you no longer need this fiction. You are safe from me, Jalia.”

“No! Why won't you believe me? It's the truth!”

He shrugged. “It is the truth, then. And what do you want now?”

Her heart beat with dread. She hadn't guessed it would be so hard, that she would have to spell it all out. She hadn't allowed herself to imagine that when she finally told her love Latif would no longer be interested.

“Nothing,” she faltered. “I just wanted you to know how it had happened.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps you've forgotten you once declared an interest in the matter. You said you loved me.”

She lifted her head and forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Well, I love you, too, Latif. I'm sorry I found out so late, but I have found out. I love you, and I—I
want to be with you, and if that means coming to Bagestan…”

His emerald gaze fixed hers, and for a moment her heart beat with hope so powerful she was almost suffocated.

“You will move to Bagestan for my sake?”

“Yes, if that's what you want. Yes.”

“Jalia, you speak to me as the fiancée of another man,” he said coldly. “Are you not ashamed of such betrayal?”

“I told you, this is being forced on me! I told you what the journalist told Michael….”

“And why did you not come to me before letting this story be printed?”

“What could you have done?”

His eyes narrowed suddenly, so that she gave an involuntary little gasp.

“That is no longer important. Now you have admitted to the engagement, and refuse to deny it. What do you expect me to do now?”

“Nothing! I'm waiting for things to sort themselves out with Noor and Bari first, and we'll find a way to get out of the engagement without a fuss.”

“It is as I said. He wants to marry you. Doesn't he?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Not really.”

He stared at her from unreadable eyes.

She swallowed. “It's not what you think.” Everything was backwards and upside down—how could she explain that Michael's reasons for wanting to marry her were so unlike Latif's? “We'll announce that the engagement's over as soon as—”

“And what shall I do in the meantime?” he demanded contemptuously. “Watch you as the prom
ised wife of another man, and smile, and wait my turn? Or shall we cheat your fiancé as before?”

“Latif, I love you!” How could it all go so wrong? Why couldn't she explain? Why couldn't he understand?

“A weak love, Jalia, if you can be happy to be engaged to someone else.”

“It isn't like that!”

She flung herself against him, her arms reaching around his neck, her face pressing against his throat, her tears hot and wet on her lashes, sobs shaking her. But he stood unresponsive under the embrace, until, utterly shamed, she released him and stood back.

“No, Jalia. I have had enough of humiliation and lies. I have learned my lesson. Now you learn yours.”

His face then she would never forget, not if she made a hundred.

“I hope you'll consider taking a position in one of the universities here,” the Sultana was saying to Mi
chael. “Under Ghasib, of course, the universities suffered from chronic poor funding—he knew good universities would be a source of dissent. Everyone who could studied abroad. But I'm sure you know Ash is very determined to improve the standards.”

On Friday nights, the Sultan and Sultana hosted a family dinner, either in their private apartments or in the private courtyard of the palace. Members of the family and Cup Companions had a standing invitation.

Tonight the traditional
sofreh
was spread on the grass by the tumbling fountain. The first such gathering Jalia had attended had been soon after she and her family arrived in Bagestan, and then her heart had thrilled to the sight of her restored family, so numerous, sitting and lying on the grass while they put away vast quantities of perfectly cooked rice and lamb, bean stew, chicken with pomegranate sauce, and bowlfuls of pomegranate seeds so red and delicious she had felt she was eating rubies.

Tonight she wasn't enjoying herself. Not with Michael here, being welcomed and treated as her fiancé—for they were all in enough grief and turmoil over Noor without Jalia giving everyone more cause for concern.

“Thank you, Sultana. It's an option we'll certainly consider,” Michael said, preening a little under the implied flattery, then went for broke. “I wonder if anything is planned about cataloguing the remains of the old royal collections? I might be very helpful there.”

Jalia had told the Sultana the truth, just a few
minutes ago, when at Dana's suggestion the two women had gone walking together in the garden. It was clear the Sultana had sensed something, and even though the timing couldn't have been worse, Jalia had submitted to temptation.

“I think you're making the right choice,” Dana had said, after hearing her out. “The engagement's public now—there's nothing to be gained from rushing headlong into breaking it. Your image wouldn't be improved by the move, and we can definitely do without another media feeding frenzy right now.”

Jalia sighed. It had been a huge relief to confide in the Sultana. And an even bigger one to know the Sultana didn't think she was
too
much of a fool.

“That being said, however, we have to find a way out of this as soon as possible. I don't know how the gossip about the engagement got going, but it puts you in a very awkward position,” the Sultana had murmured, her eyes wandering towards where Latif sat on the grass. “But we have to talk more another time. Let's get back, or God knows the next story will be about how concerned the Sultana is over the rumours. Not that I think the staff is suspect, but who
is
leaking the rumours?”

Now the Sultana was drawing Michael out, like anyone taking the trouble to get to know her cousin's new fiancé. Latif was sitting at the other end of the spread cloth, an irresistible magnet. Jalia couldn't stop her gaze unconsciously gluing to him.

And as if aware of it, his gaze rose and met hers. Jalia's heart leaped into her eyes. Then she gasped and drew back, like someone who has been unexpectedly stung.

His expression was totally indifferent. There was in his gaze no memory of anything between them, no desire, no condemnation, no interest. He didn't even seem to notice that she was a living creature. His glance wandered past, leaving her chilled and shaken.

Oh, how different from that first evening, when the brilliant emerald gaze had been a physical touch on her skin, potent, full of promise and intent. Then it had unnerved her, then she had felt anxious and unsettled, and under threat—not least from her own unrecognized feelings.

Well, Latif's passionate love had had all the staying power of cigarette smoke, and now it was safe to discover what her own real feelings were. Now that she no longer had it, she could admit that his passionate wooing, his approval, the hot possessiveness of his glance had felt like everything she needed to live.

Of course she would never marry Michael, and she had been doubly grateful to hear Dana say the engagement had to be ended soon. But now she saw what filled her with grief—that, whenever that happened, there would be no rekindling Latif's interest.

It was best this way. If she could not resist him—and Jalia was becoming daily more aware how deeply she had been fooling herself about her ability to do that—then thank God he had been made to resist her. She had almost started to believe she could make a go of things in this country.

“I suppose the cataloguing will have to be done sooner or later,” Dana was saying, and Jalia came to with no idea of how long she had been in her trance. “But I doubt if it's high on Ash's list of priorities.”

“It should be,” Michael said, smiling. “The ancient history of Bagestan is enshrined in such treasures, after all. Sultan Hafzuddin's private collection was legendary. It's terribly important to learn what has survived Ghasib's depredations, don't you think?”

The Sultana smiled. “Not quite as important as reestablishing the damaged irrigation system in the villages which had the bad luck to get on the wrong side of Ghasib's agents, I'm sure you'll agree.”

“But I wouldn't be of any use there,” Michael pointed out with a winning smile.

The Sultana inclined her head.

“No, I see that,” she said. Her eyes flicked to Jalia. “I do see.”

 

“Princess!” Latif said, and in her sleep she whimpered his name and instinctively reached for him. “Princess! Wake up!”

The voice was urgent. Jalia came suddenly awake, sitting up almost before her eyes were open. Her bedside lamp threw a soft glow into the shadows. Outside, the first rays of sunrise were lighting the sky.

In the first sleepy moment she could think of only one reason for him to come to her like this.

“Latif!” she sobbed with tearing relief, and reached for him again.

“There's news,” he said harshly, stepping back.

She saw that he was dressed, in jeans and a shirt and thin bomber jacket, and she snapped alert. Her heart pounded, closing her throat.

“Is it Noor? What have they found? Is she alive? Is Bari?”

His eyes ran over her as if involuntarily, making her sharply aware of her sleep-ruffled hair, her bare limbs, how incompletely the silk night-slip covered her breasts.

It was only a moment's weakness. He brought his gaze back to her wide-stretched eyes, her white face.

“The EPIRB of Bari's plane has suddenly started sending a signal,” he said. “From the area of the Gulf Islands.”

“Oh,
alhamdolillah!
” she cried, bursting into tears. “The islands! Oh, Latif, does it mean—they're alive?”

“I hope so, Princess. But we can know nothing till we get to the scene. Two helicopters have been scrambled. Ashraf has asked me to go. Please tell—”

She tossed back the coverlet and slipped to her feet.

“I'm coming with you.”

“No,” he said. “Ash asks that you help break the news to Noor's parents and your own. Dana will meet you in her sitting room in a few minutes.”

Jalia grabbed his arm. “Dana can do it without me. It'll only take me two seconds to put some clothes on. Wait for me. I want—”

Latif's jaw tightened, his eyes flashed. “You are not coming with me! Don't be such a fool! It is no place for you!”

“If Noor is hurt—”

“We will have medics aboard. Do you think the Sultan is a fool?”

She put out a pleading hand. “Latif—”