Promised to a Sheik (12 page)

When he'd thought in the abstract of being married, he'd never considered how much he would enjoy sharing his life, his thoughts, his dreams with another person.

“Now that the oil negotiations are no longer an issue, I'm hoping to spend more time with you,” he said. The negotiations had concluded the day before, with the signing of new agreements and the promise of continuing prosperity for the people in Gaspar.

“That would be very nice,” she replied, looking up at him again. “Although I'm not complaining, it doesn't seem like I've seen much of you.”

Again he tightened his arm around her. “Unfortunately, there has been too much business lately and not enough pleasure, but hopefully things will quiet down now and I'll have some leisure time.”

He smiled as she stifled a yawn. “And now, I think perhaps it's time for the sheik and his wife to call it
a night. It's been a long day, and, as I recall, you had one of your nightmares last night.”

Her cheeks colored. “And I'm sorry for waking you up,” she replied.

“I'm not sorry that you woke me up,” he replied. “I'm just glad I can be there to hold you and soothe you when those night terrors hit.” Again her eyes grew moist, and he thought it was probably a result of too much party and too little sleep.

“I will have Rashad take you to our quarters, and I will be up in just a little while. There are some people I need to say goodbye to.”

He gestured to his aide, who stood nearby. Rashad was instantly by their side. “Rashad, would you please escort Elizabeth to our quarters?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Rashad replied.

Omar watched as Rashad and Elizabeth made their way toward the doors to the ballroom. It took them several minutes to reach the doors because she stopped again and again to speak to people, to shake a hand and offer a smile.

“She is delightful.”

Omar turned to see his father standing next to him. “Yes, she is, isn't she.”

“She will bring good things to the palace, things like laughter and joy.”

Omar smiled. “She's already brought that to me.”

Sheik Abdul nodded. “She reminds me of your mother.”

Omar looked at his father in surprise. It was the first time he could ever remember his father even
mentioning Omar's mother. But before he could say or ask anything more, Sheik Abdul walked away.

It was some time later that Omar sat at his desk in his official office, checking to make certain there was nothing that needed to be attended to before he joined Elizabeth in their private quarters.

He leaned back in his desk chair, thinking of the mother he had never known. What little he knew about her, he'd learned from Hayfa and Rashad, not from his father. What he found even stranger than his father's mention of his mother was the wistfulness he'd thought he heard in his father's voice.

“Nothing more than my imagination,” he murmured aloud as he checked his wristwatch. It was nearly two, and he was exhausted. But, of course, not too exhausted to hold his wife in his arms, fill his senses with her and make tender, passionate love to her.

On impulse, he opened his desk drawer and took out the picture of Elizabeth, the photo that had been taken so many years ago at the cotillion where she'd first bewitched him.

Before he'd gone to Texas to claim her as his own, he'd thought the photo a good one. But there was no way a photograph could effectively capture the special sparkle of her beautiful eyes, the warmth of her generous smile or the impish dancing of the beauty mark just above her luscious lips.

He frowned, staring at the photo. The beauty mark. In the picture it was on the right side of her lips. But that wasn't right. Omar had kissed that beauty mark
a dozen times in the past two weeks—and it was on the left side of her lips.

Unless she'd had plastic surgery to move a beauty mark from one side of her face to the other, which seemed highly preposterous, the woman who had married him was not Elizabeth Fiona Carson.

He picked up the phone on his desk and quickly punched in the numbers that would connect him to his aide. “Rashad, I'm in the main office. Bring me my marriage certificate.”

 

Haley Mercado stood in Harvey Small's office talking to her FBI contact on the phone. “Gotta go,” she exclaimed hurriedly when she heard the sound of footsteps just outside the office. She had just hung up the receiver when Harvey came in.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “It seems like lately every time I come in, you're here and on my phone.”

Haley drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. She placed her hands on her hips in her best imitation of her alter ego, Daisy. “Maybe if I wasn't working so many hours for you, I'd be able to conduct my social life on my own time.”

The last thing she needed was to draw any attention to herself, from Harvey or anyone else. If her cover was blown, her life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel, but it wasn't just her own life she worried about. Pain pressed against her chest, and she consciously tried to will it away.

“I don't give a damn if I'm interfering with your
social life. You can consider this office off-limits from now on.”

“No problem,” Haley said with a forced flippancy as she left the office. It was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. Although for the past several months she'd been using the phone to talk to her FBI contact, she knew the FBI would simply figure out another way.

Still, the moment she was out of Harvey's sight, tears welled in her eyes.

The stress of the past couple of months suddenly seemed too much to bear, and she couldn't control the tears that spilled down her cheeks. All of a sudden her heart was overflowing with all the losses of her life.

The death of her mother and the estrangement from her family were aches deep inside her, but it was the memory of a single night of passion with the man she'd always cared about, and the result of that night, that caused so many tears to fall.

She raced for the employee lounge, needing to get herself under control before starting work. She was grateful to find herself alone, and sank into a chair at one of the tables, fighting for control.

But control was just out of her reach, and she realized the tears that were impossible to stanch had been building inside her for a very long time.

She fumbled in her purse for a tissue as sobs racked her. Her arms ached with emptiness and her heart felt as if it were breaking in two. The tears came faster and faster.

“Hey, girl,” Ginger said as she came into the break room. “How's it going?” She stopped and looked at Haley, then sat at the table across from her and grabbed one of her hands. “Daisy? What's wrong?”

Haley couldn't speak. Ginger's fingers tightened around hers, and her youthful face shone with the concern of a good friend.

Haley drew a deep breath as her sobs began to subside. The need to talk about at least a part of her pain was intense, and she knew if she could trust anyone, she could trust this young woman.

“Ginger, if I tell you something, you have to promise me you won't repeat it to anyone.”

Ginger's light blue eyes didn't waver from Haley's. “You know you can trust me, Daisy,” she replied.

Haley closed her eyes, remembering the sweet scent of baby powder, the snuggly warmth that had once filled her arms—a scent, a warmth now gone.

She opened her eyes, needing to share some of the pain, needing to talk about the heartache that had been a part of her for too long. “You know the baby girl who was found on the golf course six months ago?”

Ginger frowned in confusion. “Sure. Everyone was talking about it when it happened. The last I heard, they still hadn't found out who the mother is.”

“I am,” Haley said softly, and again the pain came over her in waves. “Her name is Lena and I'm her mother.”

She saw the shock that darkened Ginger's eyes, felt it through the fingers that clutched hers.

“What?”

Haley pulled her hand from Ginger's and wiped her cheeks. “She's mine. I arranged for her to be left on the golf course.”

She thought of that day so long ago when she'd arranged with Carl Bridges, a judge and her trusted friend, to take baby Lena while she worked undercover. At the time the FBI had arranged for her to work with them, she'd been tormented with fear for her child, and placing her on the golf course where her father was to be playing golf seemed a good plan.

Unfortunately, Lena's daddy hadn't played golf that day. In fact, nobody seemed to know where Luke Callaghan was. So, baby Lena had wound up with Flynt Carson.

“But why?” Ginger asked incredulously. “Why would you leave your baby on the golf course?”

More than anything, Haley wanted to tell Ginger everything, about her real identity and how she was working undercover and helping the FBI by decoding cryptic conversations. But she knew these were things she couldn't tell Ginger. They might put Ginger in danger.

So, instead, in halting words interspersed with tears, she spoke about the ache of not having her baby with her, the ache of knowing everything that she was missing in Lena's life with each day that passed.

“I gave her up for her own safety,” she finished by saying.

Once again Ginger reached for her hand and squeezed it tight. “Daisy, what's going on? What kind of trouble are you in?”

Haley shook her head. “I can't tell you anything more, Ginger. I know it sounds overly dramatic and you have no reason in the world to believe me, but if I tell you anything more it might put you in danger.”

“Of course, I believe you,” Ginger replied. “And I know this, Daisy—I know the kind of loving person you are, and I know only the threat of harm could make you give up your baby girl.”

They were words Haley wanted, desperately needed to hear, an affirmation that she'd done the right thing in securing Lena's safety.

“Daisy, is there anything I can do? Any way I can help you?” Ginger asked.

“Pray,” Haley said softly. “Pray that I'll be with my baby soon.”

I
t had been a magical night, Cara thought as she got into bed to await her husband. She'd felt like a princess in a fairy tale, and Omar had been her knight in shining armor.

The food had been delicious, the band had played everything from traditional Gaspar music to Latin rumbas and good old rock and roll. Yes, it had been a magical night, but she knew the real magic was yet to come.

Two weeks. For two glorious weeks she had been his wife and every day had been like a fantasy. Although his days had been busy with the business of running his country, the early mornings and the evenings had belonged to her.

They had spoken of their future, making plans, teasing about the children they would have and how they would raise them. They'd watched movies together while cuddling together on the big, overstuffed sofa.

Now she stretched languidly across the sheets, thinking of the night to come, a night that promised more of Omar's passion.

A shiver of delight raced up her spine as she re
membered the way his dark eyes had caressed her throughout the evening. He'd touched her often, as well, during the celebration, a hand on her back, caressing her arm, stroking her cheek, as if he'd been unable to help himself, and she'd reveled in each of them.

Her heart thudded in anticipation as she heard the door to the bedroom open, then close. A small lamp cast a golden glow to the room, and through the gauzy curtains surrounding the bed, she could see him approach.

He tore the curtains aside, and she sat up as she saw the expression on his handsome features. These were not the features of her loving, gentle husband; rather, his was the countenance of a desert warrior.

“Get up,” he commanded, his voice harsh, his eyes glittering with a daunting darkness.

“Why? What's wrong?” She sat up, but he moved away from the bed, allowing the curtain to fall back into place.

Hurriedly she got out of bed and pulled on her robe, her eyes on him. He stood at the doors that led out to the garden, his back to her.

She approached where he stood and placed a hand on his back. “Omar?” He stiffened at her touch and when he whirled around to face her again, she instinctively took a step backward.

At some point from the time she'd left him, he'd removed the turban he'd worn to the celebration. His black hair was mussed, which usually gave him a
charmingly boyish look, but there was nothing boyish about him now.

Not only were his eyes angry, but his entire body seemed to seethe with the emotion. His mouth was a tight slash of suppressed rage.

“You ask me what's wrong? Why don't you tell
me
what's wrong, Cara?” He spat her name as if it were a filthy curse.

The blood seemed to leave her body, replaced by an icy chill, as she realized he knew the truth. Oh God, this wasn't the way it was supposed to happen, she thought frantically. She had wanted to pick the time, the place so she could make him understand. She drew a deep breath, fighting for composure.

“Omar, I wanted to tell you…I tried to tell you…” She reached out a hand toward him again, needing to connect with him, to get past the blackness, the near soullessness of his gaze.

He stepped away from her touch, as if finding the very idea of her hand on him repugnant. “You have made a fool of me, dishonored me and my position.” He spat the words angrily. “You have made a mockery not only of me, but of the institution of marriage. Everything we have shared has been based on a lie.”

“That's not true,” she protested, fighting the tears that threatened. She'd desperately hoped she'd be the one to tell him the truth, that she could explain it all to him rationally and make it all be okay. “Everything we've shared has been based on love.”

“Love?” He laughed bitterly. “Don't flatter your
self, Cara. I don't love liars and you are a liar, a woman without honor.”

Each of his words was like a bullet shot into her heart, evoking tears of pain and regret. “Omar, I know I should have told you the truth before we married. And every day since our wedding, I've wanted to tell you the truth, but I was afraid.”

She could tell by the implacable expression on his face that there was nothing she could say to alleviate his anger. He was immersed in it, wearing it like an impenetrable mantle around him.

She quickly swiped at the tears that had escaped her eyes. “I'm sorry, Omar. Please forgive me. I know what I did was wrong, but I wanted to be your wife, I wanted to share your life.”

“You and your sister played a game with my honor, with my future. Perhaps you found the entire thing amusing, a childish game played by twins, but I find nothing amusing about it.”

“No, it wasn't like that,” she exclaimed.

He drew a deep breath, a forceful arrogance on his face.

“It doesn't matter now. It's done, finished. I've seen the marriage certificate and you are legally my wife.”

His gaze was cold and distant. “But don't worry, Cara, I will not divorce you.” His voice was laced with disgust. “You will continue to get your wish of being my wife. In public you will continue to be my loving, supportive wife. We will stand united before the people of Gaspar.”

Cara sighed with a touch of relief. Maybe it was going to be all right, after all, she told herself. He was angry now, but at least he wasn't demanding that she pack her bags and return to Mission Creek.

“And now you may choose whichever guest room you wish to call your own,” he continued. “I will let you know when I wish for you to join me here, but unless you are invited, you are not welcome.”

She stared at him in horror. He was banishing her, banishing her from his bedroom, from any piece of his heart where she might have resided. “Omar, please. Don't do this. Let's talk about this.”

There was no succor in the dark coldness of his eyes as he gazed at her. “You wanted to be married to me and so we are married. But the conditions of our marriage have now changed. You have changed everything with your lie and manipulation. Now go to bed, Cara. I'll have the servants move your personal belongings from this room in the morning.”

He turned away from her, as if he could no longer abide to look at her, and her heart crumbled with despair. She wanted to plead with him, try to make him understand the forces that had driven her to do what she had done.

Did it not count for anything that she had pretended to be her sister because she had fallen in love with him?

Still, she knew now was not the time to try to explain to him. He was beyond angry, and until some of his anger left him, she knew that anything she said would fall on deaf ears.

Surely by morning, after sleeping a night alone, he would soften. Surely by morning he would forgive her and they could continue to build a life together, a life based on love.

With tears still blurring her vision, she walked to the bedroom door, then turned back to look at him.

Once again he stood at the door leading to the garden, only his broad back visible to her. “Omar, I know what I did was wrong, but I was afraid to tell you the truth. I was afraid I would lose you.”

He turned, his face a harsh mask of expressionless granite. “Then, your fear has come true, for you have lost my respect and admiration.” He presented his back to her again.

The fear Cara had faced when Donny Albright pulled out a gun and pointed it at her was the same kind of fear she felt now. It was the fear of her life.

Staring at Omar's broad back, she saw the shattering of the future she'd hoped to build with him, the destruction of dreams she'd wanted to share with him. The fear of losing him ripped through her, and she ran from the room, from him, stifling the sobs that begged to be released.

She didn't choose one of the spare rooms, she simply ran into the guest room closest to the master suite. It was a spacious room decorated in turquoise and peach. The adjoining full bath was luxurious, but she hardly noticed as she grabbed a washcloth from the closet and buried her face in the soft cotton.

She had known he would be upset when he learned
the truth, but she hadn't expected his cold disdain, his unequivocal dismissal of her.

How she wished she could go back in time, back to the moment when he'd first appeared on her doorstep. That had been the time for her full confession, when she should have told him that it was she, and not Fiona, who had been writing to him, she, and not Fiona, who had fallen in love with the beautiful words and the man who had put them together.

But there was no going back now.

She didn't know how long she sat in the bathroom, the washcloth pressed against her face to catch the seemingly endless stream of tears.

Finally, when she was exhausted both mentally and physically, she went back into the bedroom and pulled the spread from the bed, then crawled beneath the cool, crisp sheet.

No scent of Omar lingered in the bed, no welcoming warmth radiated from his body, and her heart ached with the coldness and unfamiliarity of the half-empty bed.

Surely by morning his heart would soften, she told herself. Despite what everyone had told her about sheiks not loving, Cara knew in her heart that Omar loved her. She felt it in his gaze, in his kiss and in his lovemaking. She'd felt it when they spoke of the future, the children they would have and the life they would live.

Or was it simply a crazy hope that made her believe Omar loved her?

She fell asleep with no answer in her heart, only the deep pain of regret and remorse echoing inside her.

 

No familiar birdsong awakened her, no sweetly drowsy strong male arms pulled her close to herald the new day. She had never felt so alone as she did in that first moment of awakeness the next morning.

The events of the night replayed in her mind, and the tears she'd thought spent threatened to erupt again. But she didn't have time for tears. She had a marriage to save.

It was just after six-thirty when she stepped out of the shower and quickly dressed. Omar usually had his morning coffee between six-thirty and seven, and she wanted to be there with him to see if perhaps some of his anger from last night had subsided.

She hurried toward the breakfast nook, her heart thudding madly in her chest as she saw he was already seated there.

Always before, these early-morning moments had been used as a time for them to connect with each other, to talk about their plans for the day.

But it was evident by the newspaper opened before him that this morning was going to be different. “Good morning,” she murmured, testing the waters.

“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was cool, and he didn't look up from the paper.

She poured herself a cup of coffee from the silver carafe on the table, frowning as her gaze lingered on his handsome features. She sipped her coffee, aware
of thick tension in the air, a tension she was desperate to break.

“Omar, could we talk?” she finally asked.

His eyes, so dark, so cold, left the paper and glared at her. “We have nothing to talk about. I said everything I had to say to you last night.”

“I'm not sure what role you expect me to play in your life.”

A smile curved his lips. It was not a pleasant smile. “Your role is to be my good and dutiful wife, to see to my needs and my pleasures.”

“And what do I get in return for being a good and dutiful wife?” she asked.

“The admiration of my people and the riches that are mine.”

“I don't care about admiration or wealth,” she scoffed fervently. She placed her hand on his arm, needing physical contact after a night of isolation and despair.

In the instant that her fingers made contact with his bare arm, she saw a flare of something in his eyes, a spark of warmth. There for a moment, then gone as he moved his arm from her touch and stood.

“I have directed two of the maids to remove your things from the master bedroom. I have a day of meetings and won't be back here until after seven.” He didn't wait for her reply, but turned and left the breakfast nook, taking more than a piece of her heart with him.

 

Omar had never experienced the depth of anger that raged through him, but it was an anger tempered with painful disappointment.

It had taken him hours to fall asleep the night before. He'd tossed and turned, going over every moment of every day he had spent with her, wondering which twin had been with him at which time. Who had written the letters that had so enchanted him?

Over the past three weeks, he'd quoted back to her words she had written to him…but had she been the woman who had written those words, or had her sister?

He'd finally told himself it didn't matter who had done what—the bottom line was he'd been hoodwinked into marrying a woman he hadn't intended to marry.

The marriage was legal and had been consummated, and under no circumstances would he consider a divorce. A divorce would be an admission of a mistake and would undermine his standing with the people of Gaspar.

For better or worse, he was married to Elizabeth Cara Carson, a woman he didn't even remember meeting at the cotillion so long ago.

The moment he stepped out of his private quarters, Rashad was waiting for him. The little man greeted him with a subdued nod, and instantly Omar realized that Rashad knew what was going on.

“Did you know the truth?” he asked as they walked down the grand stairway.

“Yes,” Rashad replied, not even pretending not to know what Omar was talking about.

“How long have you known the truth?”

“Since the day of the marriage,” Rashad replied.

A sense of outrage gripped Omar. “And you didn't tell me?”

“I didn't feel it was my place. You seemed happy.”

Omar wanted to yell at the man who had been as much a friend as a personal aide, but he bit back the terse words.

“I am very angry, Rashad,” he finally said.

“Yes, Your Highness.” They walked for a few minutes. Rashad finally broke the silence. “Will you be very angry for long?”