The Sheikh's Undoing (14 page)

‘That’s a pretty lukewarm endorsement,’ she said.

His black eyes gleamed as he captured one of her fluttering hands and directed it towards his mouth. ‘I thought honesty was our mantra?’

‘Maybe it is, but sometimes a woman needs a little fabrication.’

‘No need for fabrication,
kalila
,’ he said. He brushed her a brief kiss as their car drew to a halt outside the glittering frontage of the Granchester Hotel, but if the truth were known he was finding this very feminine need for reassurance a touch too
domestic
for his taste. Had it been wise to extend this invitation? he wondered. Or was Izzy now reading far more into it than he’d intended her to read? Maybe he should have made it clearer that
there was no real significance behind the meeting with his brother. ‘You look absolutely stunning,’ he drawled. ‘Didn’t I tell you exactly that just an hour ago?’

Yes, he had, Isobel conceded. But a man said all kinds of things to a woman when he had just finished ravishing her in the middle of his big bed …

Their spontaneous lovemaking had left her running late—but maybe it was better not to have had time to fret about her appearance when she’d been nervous enough already. She was wearing a new dress in grey silk jersey, and its careful draping did amazing things for her figure. She’d teamed the dress with high-heeled black suede shoes, and on Tariq’s instructions had left her hair hanging loose. She’d wondered aloud if the wild cloud of Titian curls was not a little too much, but he had wound his fingers through its corkscrew strands and told her that it was a crime to hide it away.

Her only adornment was the opals he had brought her back from America, and they sparkled rainbow light at her throat and dominated the subdued palette of her outfit.
The gems he’d chosen for her himself …
How could such beautiful gems possibly be unlucky? she asked herself, her fingertips reaching up to touch the cool stones as a doorman sprang to open the car door.

The private elevator zoomed them up to the penthouse suite, and when the door was opened by a man who was unmistakably Tariq’s brother all Isobel’s expectations were confounded.

He had the same hawk-like features as Tariq—and the same knockout combination of ebony hair and glowing olive skin. But he was casually dressed in dark trousers, and although he was wearing a silk shirt he was tieless. Isobel had been expecting to be greeted by a servant,
so her curtsey was hastily scrambled together and ill-prepared. But King Zahid smiled at her as he indicated that she should rise.

‘No formality,’ he warned. ‘That is my wife’s instruction, and I dare not disobey!’

‘Why, Zahid—you sound as if you are almost under the thumb,’ mocked Tariq softly.

‘Perhaps I am. And a very beautiful thumb it happens to be,’ murmured Zahid.

‘You’ve changed,’ observed Tariq, creasing his brow in a frown. ‘You’d never have admitted to something like that in the past.’

‘Ah, but everything changes, Tariq,’ said Zahid. ‘That is one of life’s great certainties.’

For a moment the light of challenge sparked between the eyes of the brothers, and for a moment Isobel caught a glimpse of what the two men must have been like as children.

‘Come this way,’ continued Zahid, leading them into an enormous sitting room whose floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the park.

And there, with a baby on her knee and another crawling close by on the floor, was the English Queen Francesca, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a slightly harassed smile on her face. She had a snowy blanket hanging over one shoulder, and was holding a grubby white toy polar bear, at which the sturdy baby on her lap kept lunging.

Isobel blinked. The last thing she’d expected was to see a queen in blue jeans, playing nursemaid!

‘No, please don’t curtsey, Izzy—we’re very relaxed here,’ said Francesca with a wide smile. ‘But if you want to be really helpful you could pick up Omar before
he tries to eat Zahid’s shoe! Azzam has already tried! Darling, I do wish you’d keep them out of reach.’

Rather nervously, Isobel bent to scoop up the black-haired baby, aware that one of these precious boy twins was the heir to the Khayarzah throne. A robust little creature, Omar was wearing an exquisite yellow romper suit which contrasted with his ebony curls. He took one long and suspicious look at the woman now holding him, then gave a shout as he began to tug at her hair.

Isobel giggled as she extricated his tiny chubby fingers, all the nerves she’d been feeling suddenly evaporating. You couldn’t possibly feel uptight when you were holding a cuddly bundle like this. He was so
sweet!
She risked a glance at Tariq, but met no answering smile on his face. In fact his expression suddenly looked so
glacial
that she felt momentarily flummoxed. But at least he was now directing the chilly stare at his brother instead of her.

‘Don’t you have any nannies with you?’ Tariq asked Zahid coolly.

‘Not one,’ answered Zahid, giving his wife a long and indulgent look. ‘Francesca decided that she wanted us to have a “normal” family holiday—just like other people.’

‘And you agreed?’ questioned Tariq incredulously.

‘Actually, I find that I’m enjoying the experience,’ said Zahid. ‘It’s useful to be “hands-on”.’

‘I want our children to know their parents,’ said Francesca firmly. ‘Not to be brought out like ornaments, for best. Zahid, aren’t you going to offer our guests a drink?’

Isobel saw Tariq’s face darken. Clearly he did
not
approve of the babies being present, and she noticed that
he kept as far away from his nephews as possible. She wondered how he could possibly ignore such cute little black-haired dumplings, before deciding that it was
his
problem and that she was just going to relax and enjoy herself.

In fact the evening went much better than she could have hoped. She took turns cuddling both Omar and Azzam, and ended up kicking off her high-heeled shoes and helping Francesca bath the twins in one of the fancy
en-suite
bathrooms. Her dove-grey dress was soon splattered with drops of water, but she didn’t care.

They grappled to dress the wriggling boys in animal-dotted sleepsuits, and then brought them in to the men to say goodnight, all warm and rosy and smelling delicious. But she noticed that Tariq’s embrace was strictly perfunctory as each baby was offered up to him for a kiss.

She tried not to be unsettled by his rather forbidding body language as she and Francesca carried the babies through to the bedroom and laid them down in their two little cots. For a while they stood watching as two sets of heavily hooded eyes drooped down into exhausted sleep, and then—as if colluding in some wonderful secret—both women smiled at each other.

Francesca bent to tuck the polar bear next to Azzam, then straightened up. ‘You know, we’ve never met any of Tariq’s girlfriends before,’ she said.

Isobel wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She didn’t really
feel
like his girlfriend—more like an employee, with benefits. But she could hardly confess that to the Sheikh’s sister-in-law, could she? Or start explaining the exact nature of those ‘benefits’? Instead, she smiled.

‘I’m very honoured to be here,’ she answered quietly.

Francesca hesitated. ‘Sometimes Zahid worries about Tariq. He thinks that surely there’s only so much living in the fast lane one person can do. It would be nice to see him settle down at last.’

Now Isobel felt a complete fraud, because she knew very well that Tariq had no intention of settling down. Not with her—and not with anyone. He’d made that more than clear. Because when a man told you unequivocally that he never wanted children he was telling you something big, wasn’t he? Something you couldn’t really ignore. And if she’d been labouring under any illusion that he hadn’t meant it—well, she’d discovered tonight that he had. With his stony countenance and disapproving air, he’d made it pretty clear that children didn’t do it for him.

And if Zahid and Francesca thought that her appearance here was anything more than expedient—that she and Tariq were about to start playing happy-ever-after—well, they were in for a big disappointment.

‘I don’t know whether some men are ever quite ready to settle down,’ she told the Queen diplomatically. ‘He isn’t known as the Playboy Prince for nothing!’

Francesca opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something else, but clearly thought better of it because she shut it again. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and eat dinner. I want to hear all about life in England—the fashion, the films. Who’s dating who. What’s big on TV. I get a whole load of stuff off the internet, of course, but it’s never quite the same.’

And Isobel nodded and smiled, feeling an immense sense of relief that the subject of Tariq’s inability to commit had been terminated.

Dinner was served in the lavish dining room which
led off the main room, its table covered in snowy linen and decorated with white fragrant flowers. Heavy silver cutlery reflected the light which guttered from tall, creamy candles, and the overall effect was one of restrained luxury and taste.

‘This looks wonderful,’ said Isobel shyly, realising that this was the first time she’d been given an insider’s experience of Tariq’s royal life.

‘A dinner fit for a king!’ said Francesca, and they all laughed as they took their places around the table.

The evening passed in a bit of a blur. Isobel was aware of being served the most amazing food, but it was mostly wasted on her. She might as well have been eating bread and butter for all the notice she took of the exquisite fare. She could hardly believe she was here with Tariq—meeting his family like this. It had the heady but disconcerting effect of almost
normalising
their relationship—and she knew that was a dangerous way to start thinking. Just because you really wanted something, it didn’t necessarily mean it was going to happen.

So she joined in as much as she could, though she felt completely lost when the two brothers began speaking in their own language.

‘They’re discussing the new trade deal with Maraban,’ confided Francesca.

Isobel put her knife and fork down. ‘Do you speak any Khayarzahian?’ she questioned.

‘Only a little. I’m learning all the time—though it’s not the easiest language in the world. But I’m determined to be fluent one day—just as my sons will be.’

‘They’re such beautiful babies,’ said Isobel, a sudden note of wistfulness entering her voice almost before she’d realised.

‘Not getting broody, are you?’ Francesca laughed.

It was perhaps unfortunate that the brothers’ conversation chose that precise moment to end and Tariq glanced up. He must have heard what they’d been saying, Isobel thought, her skin suddenly growing cold with fear. He
must
have done. Why else did he fix her with an expression she’d never seen before? A calculating look iced the ebony depths of his eyes which made her feel like some sort of gatecrasher.

‘Of course I’m not!’ she denied quickly, reaching for a glass of water and horribly aware of the sudden flush of colour to her cheeks. Why was he looking at her like that—with his eyes full of suspicion? Did he think she was trying to ingratiate herself with the monarch and his wife? Or did he think she really
was
getting broody?

One moment she had been part of their charmed inner circle—warmed by its privileged light—and now in an instant it felt as if she had been kicked out and left to shiver on the darkened sidelines.

By the time the evening ended her feeling of despondency had grown—though she managed to maintain her bright air of enjoyment until the car door had closed on them and they were once more locked within its private space.

She settled back in the seat, unable to shake off the feeling of having been judged and found wanting, aware that Tariq did not slide his arm around her shoulder and draw her closer to him. And suddenly she was reminded of that very first time she’d had sex with him. When she’d been driven home—knickerless and confused—after first dropping him off at the Maraban Embassy.

Back then she had been painfully aware of him keeping her at a distance, and he was doing it again now.
Even though in the intervening weeks they had been lovers it was almost like being transported back in time. Because nothing had really changed, had it? Not for Tariq. She might be guilty of concocting fast-growing fantasies about how hand-chosen pieces of jewellery meant that he was starting to care for her—but that was just wishful thinking. Like some young girl who read her horoscope and then prayed it would come true.

‘You seemed to be getting on very well with Francesca,’ he observed, his voice breaking into her thoughts.

‘I hope I did all right?’ she questioned, telling herself that any woman in her position would have asked the same question.

‘I thought you carried it off superbly.’

‘Thanks,’ she said uncertainly.

But Tariq leaned back in his seat, unable to dispel the growing sense of unease inside him. The whole evening had unsettled him, and it wasn’t difficult to work out why. Zahid in jeans—with no help for the children—and in a hotel suite which looked as if it had just been burgled.

He shook his head in faint disbelief. It was scarcely credible to him that his once so formal and slightly stuffy older brother was now like putty in the hands of his wife.

But it hadn’t just been the sense of chaos which had unsettled him. Something about their close family unit had opened up the dark space which was buried deep in Tariq’s heart. Watching his brother playing with his children had reinforced his sense of feeling like an outsider. Always the outsider.

He shot Isobel a glance, remembering the way their
gazes had met over the dark curly head of his nephew. Had that been wistfulness he’d read in her eyes as she’d held the baby in her arms? Was she doing that clucky thing which seemed to happen to all women, no matter how much they tried to deny it? Especially if they knew that a man was watching them …

But why
shouldn’t
she long for babies of her own? That was what women were conditioned to do. The most unforgivable thing would be for a man who didn’t want children to waste the time of a woman who
did
.