Strangers in the Desert (5 page)

“The queen? No, you aren’t,” he said firmly. “Nor will you be.”

“But if you are king?”

His mouth turned down. “I cannot be formally invested until I am married. It is the law. I am the acting king until the coronation.”

Isabella resisted the urge to roll the cold bottle against her neck and chest. She would never be cool enough, especially now that her heart beat so hard and her skin prickled with the nearness of this man. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You
are
married.”

He slipped the glasses from his face and tossed them down on the seat beside him. His eyes speared her, so hard and cold in the frame of his handsome face. And hot. How did they manage to be hot, as well?

“Twenty-four hours ago I was a widower. You have thrown a bit of a spanner in the works, as the charming saying goes—but we will take care of that shortly. Once we do, I can proceed with the wedding that you have interrupted.”

“Wedding? You’re getting married?”

“This is what I have said.”

Hurt and fury warred within her. Of course he would have moved on, and of course he would have had to remarry if he thought she were dead. But now that she was back? Now that she knew they had a child together?

“Are you in love with her?” she asked. Because if he was, if he’d found someone he adored who adored him in return, how could she stand between them?

And how could she
not
, when her child’s future was at stake?

“That is none of your concern,” he said shortly.

Her heart thrummed. “That means no, then. Because if you were, you wouldn’t mind saying it.”

His fingers drummed the leather seat. “You do not know this.”

“I do,” she insisted. “No one in love minds that question. Unless the relationship is forbidden for some reason.”

His gaze sharpened. “Have you been in love recently, Isabella? Do you speak from experience?”

She dropped her gaze, unwilling to let him see even an ounce of her loneliness over the past couple of years. Her certainty that someone was out there for her, but that she had not yet found him.

“No.”

He gripped her chin in his fingers and forced her head
up. His eyes searched hers. “You belong to me,
habibti.
I would not take it kindly if you have a lover.”

“I don’t see why it would matter,” she said. “You can’t wait to be rid of me.”

Something flashed across his face—and then he abruptly let her go. “Yes, this is true. The sooner it is done, the better. It is time Rafiq had a proper mother.”

It was as if he’d taken a hot dagger and thrust it through her heart. Isabella had to restrain herself from doing violence to him. He was insensitive, brutal, cold.

No doubt she’d be thrown into the depths of Port Jahfar’s dankest prison, should she raise a hand to their king, and yet that wasn’t what stopped her. It was the thought of her baby.

“You are the vilest person I know, do you realize that? Why did you bring me here? Why did you ever come find me if all you wanted to do was shatter my heart like this? You lied when you said I was in love with you. I could never,
ever
have loved a man like you.”

“That’s a very charming speech,” he said. “But you know why you’re here. If I had not come for you, I would be committing a terrible fraud when I take a new wife and queen.”

“Of course,” she said bitterly. “It’s all about
you.
About your feelings and your wants. You could care less about mine. And you damn sure could care less about our little boy’s!”

“Be careful what you say to me, Isabella,” he growled. “Jahfar is not so modern as you might wish, and if you continue to push me, you will find out precisely how ruthless I can be.”

“I think I already know,” she flung at him.

“You really don’t,” he said silkily. “What could be more ruthless than separating a mother and child?”

His eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling with years of sun and wind. She could see the harshness of the desert in his face, the struggle for survival that punctuated life in that wilderness. He was a king, but he wasn’t tame by any standard—would never be tame. She shivered, as if in premonition. His words were coated in ice. “Abandoning a child to grow up without a mother is far more ruthless than anything I have ever done.”

A
DAN
sat at the large carved desk in his office and stared stonily at his private solicitor. “What do you mean, my divorce will take
some
time?”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “The marriage contract with Isabella Maro is very clear, Your Excellency. If she does not agree to the divorce, then only if she is barren can you set aside the contract. This is not an issue, clearly.”

Adan’s blood pressure skyrocketed.

“But there are extenuating circumstances,” the man continued, “and those will be a factor in presenting our case that your marriage should be dissolved, with or without her agreement.”

Adan tossed his pen down on the desk with a sharp crack. Damn her! She was proving to be nothing but trouble after all. He’d read the contract before he’d ever signed it, but, of course, nothing about it had been out of the ordinary. Though it was true that Jahfaran men had much of the power, women were not without protection. He could not divorce her for no reason.

He shoved to his feet and paced over to the window. “What about the coronation?”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “You are married and
can proceed. But no crowned king of Jahfar has ever divorced his queen.”

Adan turned to look at the man. “But
can
it be done?”

He was determined that Isabella was not going to win this battle by default. She was not the sort of woman he wanted to mother his son. Rafiq’s welfare was paramount. There was nothing more important to him.

“I am not certain of it, Your Excellency. There is no precedent to go by.”

“Keep me informed,” Adan said by way of dismissal. The solicitor bowed and Mahmoud showed him out.

Adan’s gut burned with rage at the predicament he now found himself in. But there was something more swirling inside him, some other feeling that had an edge of … anticipation?

He shoved the thought aside. What was there to anticipate? Isabella infuriated him and the longer he spent in her company, the more he wanted to grasp her by the shoulders and …

Kiss her.

No.
He wanted to shake her, not kiss her.

But you do want to kiss her. Everywhere.

No,
he thought.
No.

He’d kissed her once, and that had been enough. She was poisonous; he would not risk bringing her into Rafiq’s life again. He did not know why she’d left them, but it was undeniable that she had done so. Just as it was undeniable that she now felt guilty for it.

Was guilt the only reason she wanted to see Rafiq, the only reason she claimed to want to be a part of his life? And what would happen when she realized that little boys were energetic and messy, that they needed
love and discipline and parents who put their welfare first?

He would not take that chance. He knew what it was like to have a mother whose love you craved, but who would rather see you when you were cleaned and groomed and dressed like a perfect little boy so she could show you off to her friends.

Her friends would
ooh
and
aah
and pinch your cheeks.

And then you would be sent back to the nursery with your nanny, the woman who would clean your scrapes, wipe your tears and mitigate your fights with your brothers on a daily basis. The woman who really loved you and raised you as if you were her child, because your own mother claimed that children were too much for her delicate nerves.

He did not want that for his son. He wanted a woman who loved Rafiq with her whole heart, and who would never see him as an inconvenience or a burden. Jasmine was that woman, not Isabella.

Not only that, but he was also determined not to be forced into spending the rest of his life with a woman he didn’t trust. A woman he despised.

A woman he wanted so badly he could taste it.

Adan swore under his breath. How could he want her? How could he feel this pull of attraction for her, but not for Jasmine? How could he want to strip that damn blue dress off her body and find her sweet feminine center with his fingers and tongue before plunging deeply into her body in order to slake this craving?

He had never been ruled by desire. Had never allowed his need for a woman to override his good sense. He remembered delighting in Isabella’s body before, but
they’d been newly wed and it was his duty to get her with child.

Liar.

It had been more than that, and he knew it. He’d wanted her then, and he wanted her now. In spite of her lack of personality back then, in spite of her unsuitability now.

He would not act on the compulsion, however, no matter how long the divorce took. There was nothing good that could come of it. He’d been weak when he’d kissed her in Hawaii, but he would not be so weak again.

For Rafiq’s sake, he would not be weak.

Isabella didn’t remember ever having been to the palace before, though for all she knew, she had been. The whitewashed sandstone was inlaid with gold and porcelain tiles until the whole structure seemed to gleam in the sunshine. But that hadn’t been the most amazing thing.

The most amazing thing about the palace was the approach. The marble fountains and statuary, the palms, the lush tropical plants and the acres of green grass that were indicative of fabulous wealth in such a hot and water-conscious country. Port Jahfar sat on the Arabian Sea, but the water had to be desalinated before it could be used to care for plants. And it took massive amounts of water to make grass grow in Jahfar.

After their arrival, she’d been shown to a suite of rooms and left on her own for the past several hours, with the exception of a visit from a doctor who wanted to ask questions about her memory. She’d answered as truthfully as she could. He hadn’t been able to enlighten
her about her condition in any way, but he’d seemed satisfied by her answers.

She’d tried to leave her room afterward, but a servant had been assigned to her whose single duty, it seemed, was to keep her from doing so.

Finally, after exploring her quarters, she’d taken up residence in a window seat that afforded her a view of the sea beyond the palace’s gardens. She was full of restless energy, and frustrated that she had no way to use it. There was no computer, no books, no television, nothing to occupy her time. There was a desk and some writing paper, and there were several seating areas with comfortable furniture, but nothing else of note.

Out of boredom, she decided to sing. First, she sang an old Jahfaran song that her father had taught her. Then she moved into the songs she’d sang at Ka Nui’s. She ran through several of them, letting the songs reach deep into her and pull out the sadness and heartbreak.

This was the first time she’d sung with the knowledge that she was a mother and wife, and the hollowness that had always been there while she sang now made sense. She understood where that core of loneliness was coming from now, and she ached with the knowledge of what she’d lost.

She wanted her child. She wanted to see him and hold him. She didn’t know what it felt like to be a mother, but she could think of nothing else now that she knew she’d had a baby. Always before, she’d been somewhat wary of children. She didn’t know what to say to them, didn’t know how to soothe them or amuse them.

But now, in the space of a few hours, she was surprised at how desperately she wanted to hold a child.

Her child. She wouldn’t know what to say or do, but she would learn.

She
wanted
to learn.

And Adan wanted to deprive her of that. Anger welled up inside her, and desperation. How could she fight a king? She was here so he could divorce her, no other reason. He would hustle her out of the palace and back to Hawaii as soon as it was done. Tonight, perhaps.

She stood up and paced to the door in frustration. She knew she’d find a servant sitting on the other side, but what if he was gone? It might be her one and only chance to escape this room. Isabella jerked open the door—and froze, the song in her throat dying away.

The servant was indeed sitting beside the door, but it was the old woman standing in the corridor, holding a small child, that had Isabella’s full attention.

The boy’s eyes were fixed on her, his little mouth hanging open in surprise. Her eyes drank him in greedily. He had the black curls and eyes of his father—but he had her nose and chin. He was the most beautiful little boy she’d ever seen.

She wanted to reach for him, but he suddenly burst into tears.

“Oh, no, please, I’m sorry,” she said, taking a step toward them with her hand held out. But then she stopped, her heart breaking as Rafiq continued to cry. She desperately wanted to hold him and soothe him, but he didn’t know her. He turned his head into the neck of the old woman and wailed.

“It’s not your fault,
sitt,”
she said. “He wants you to sing. We stopped because of the singing.”

Isabella bit back a choked sound that was half sob,
half laugh. Her heart ached, and yet it was swelling with love for this baby who was half hers.

“Of course,” she said. “But why don’t you come in, it will be more comfortable. And then I will sing for as long as he likes.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, as if she were seeing Isabella for the first time. She ran her hand up and down the boy’s back, crooning to him. Then she glanced down at the child in her arms and back at Isabella, as if she were considering something.

“Yes,” she said after a long pause. “We will come.”

Adan shoved back from his desk. It was time to call it a day. After the solicitor had left, he’d spoken with Jasmine and told her the truth of what was going on. She’d been so silent on the other end of the phone. And then she’d said, “Perhaps it is for the best.”

“It is not what I want,” he’d replied. “She is not what I want.”

Jasmine’s warm voice poured through the line like sweet honey. “She is still your wife, and the mother of your child. I think she has been brought back to you for a reason.”

They’d spoken some more, about the wedding, about the necessity of putting any plans on hold and about the coronation. Jasmine was understanding, gracious, and he grew angrier and angrier as he talked to her. Not with her, but with the woman who was forcing him to go through this.

Because he wanted Jasmine to be a mother for Rafiq, and he wanted her now. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of asking her to marry him before, but the truth
was it hadn’t occurred to him until he’d needed to wed for the coronation.

He wanted Rafiq to have a mother, but not just any mother. He’d convinced his old nanny to come out of retirement to take care of his son, and he knew that his boy was in good hands with her. Loving hands. But Kalila was getting old and he felt guilty taking her away from her retirement.

Still, Adan was there every night, spending time with his son, playing with him, reading to him. Rafiq was loved in a way that Adan never had been. His own father had loved him, but he was a proud man incapable of showing true affection to his sons. They were meant to be hard men of the desert, not cosseted young men with a sense of entitlement.

But Adan didn’t believe Rafiq would be any less manly because his father loved him and wanted him to be happy. There was nothing on this earth better than walking into the nursery each night and seeing that little face light up with the purest love he’d ever seen.

Isabella had claimed to love him once. He hadn’t made that up, though she believed he had. He could still remember her saying it, after they’d made love one night. She’d been so young, so naive, and he’d pulled away from her, troubled. He didn’t know why.

Shortly after that, she’d learned she was pregnant. And then the morning sickness took over and he’d left her bed. He’d wanted her to rest, to be healthy, and he’d felt as if his presence disturbed her sleep.

Adan frowned. Had he told her why he’d stopped sleeping with her? Of course she’d known why they weren’t having sex—she’d been too ill to want it anyway
—but had she realized why he’d left her alone in her bed?

It bothered him to think he hadn’t. But what difference would it have made?

The psychiatrist he’d had examine her upon their arrival today could tell him nothing he didn’t already know. Isabella claimed to have no memory of her marriage or of her baby. It was an unusual case, but not impossible. In consulting Isabella’s records, the doctor had frowned and said that she had shown signs of postnatal depression, though her symptoms hadn’t been abnormal at the time.

Baby blues were common enough, he’d said, and resulted from the changing hormones in a woman’s body. Sometimes, the depression got worse and could cause hallucinations or thoughts of harming oneself or one’s baby.

Adan had been shocked. He hadn’t realized that anything could be wrong with Isabella at the time. Then the doctor suggested that she might have tried to commit suicide. Her records up to her disappearance showed no antidepressant usage. If her doctor at the time had believed she was suffering from postnatal depression, he should have prescribed medication to mitigate it.

It was possible, too, that her doctor simply hadn’t recognized the signs. And Isabella would have been more vulnerable to the effect of the hormones on her body without them.

Adan didn’t quite know what to make of all the information, but as he reached the nursery, he firmly shoved thoughts of Isabella aside. All he wanted right now was to hold his son and spend time watching his toddler antics. Adan pushed open the door and went into
the suite of rooms that was overflowing with toys and games.

“Kalila,” he called, but no one answered. He went into the nursery itself, but Rafiq was not in his crib or playing on the floor.

He checked his watch. Kalila and Rafiq were usually here at this time of day. He stood for some moments, wondering, until, like a bolt of lightning, a thought shafted through him.

A terrible thought.

He’d had Isabella put as far from here as he could get her, yet these were still the family quarters and her rooms weren’t on another planet. They were simply down another corridor. He’d stationed a servant to make sure she didn’t leave her room, so it should not be possible that she’d somehow found Rafiq.