“I wasn’t dressed for the occasion.”
Anger rose at her flippant response and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Was she so unmoved by the attack? He knew that it would prey on his mind for a long time to come. He had thought that he had no feeling left for his errant wife, that her actions had killed every feeling he’d ever nurtured for her. But the instant he had seen that young dog lay his hand on Jayne, rage—and something else—had rushed through him. He could rationalise the anger, the blind red mist of rage.
She was his woman.
No other man had any right to touch her. Ever.
What he couldn’t understand was his concern for Jayne, the woman who had behaved so atrociously in the past. He couldn’t understand this urge to make such a woman feel safe, to assure her that what had happened out there in the back-streets of Jazirah wasn’t her fault. Even though it would never have happened if she had graciously accepted the welcome he’d arranged.
Before he could work through the confusing threads, Jayne was speaking again, “I don’t intend to stay long. A big welcome like the one you arranged would give the wrong impression and suggest that I’ve returned to stay.” She shrugged. “I thought it for the best to leave.”
“The best for whom? You? It certainly did me no good to be left standing there looking like a fool.”
“You would never look like a fool. But I would’ve. I was ill prepared for the occasion. How do you think I would’ve looked…sounded…on national television?”
Tariq swept his gaze over her, taking in the tension in every line of her body, the way the cheap clothes stuck to her in the heat, the dishevelled hair revealed under the scanty hijab that had fallen away and the white-knuckled hands clasped on her lap. Perhaps she wasn’t as composed as she sounded. Perhaps the attack had shaken her. In the old days she would’ve come apart, started to cry, she’d been so gentle, with her huge, adoring, doelike brown eyes. It had been her gentleness that had caused him to love her. There had been so little tenderness in his own life.
“What are you looking at? I’m sorry if I’m not wearing haute couture. I’m sorry if you think I’m unfit for your company.”
There was an unfamiliar note of annoyance in her voice, and resentment flashed in her eyes. Tariq blinked in astonishment. Where had this come from? Jayne had always been easygoing and eager to please, hero-worshipping him. “Unfit for my company?” he repeated. “I have never thought that. I married you, didn’t I?”
She ran a hand over her face. “Look, I feel like I’ve been flying forever. I’m tired, cranky. The last thing I wanted was a welcome reception with TV cameras, for heaven’s sake.”
“Your apology is accepted.”
He waited and watched the wide brown eyes flash again. He almost smiled. Yes, he could get used to this.
“It wasn’t an apology, it was an explanation why I am less civil than normal.” Her voice was curt. “You should not have sprung that surprise on me. And as for what’s best for me, yes, in the past our relationship was always about what you and your fa—family wanted. I didn’t need that circus back there at the airport. I came here for one reason only, to talk. With you. Alone. To get a divorce. I didn’t want to be welcomed back as your sheikhah. That would be a lie, because I have no intention of staying.”
Tariq gave her a long, level glance. She wanted a divorce. Three months ago he’d have been too eager to grant her that, he would have been grateful to have the gentle, malleable wife, who he tried so hard never to think about, out of his life. But then everything had changed. His father was far from well. He needed her in Zayed at his side. And after his response to her attack and seeing the new flash of fire in her, he was not sure that he’d be letting her go too quickly.
For the first time in his life he was confused. And he didn’t like that bewildering sensation at all.
The palace lay ahead of them, dazzling, stupendous. The sandstone had been bleached over the centuries to a warm and inviting shade of gold. A mirage. Because Jayne knew that behind the walls lay a world of intrigue, politics…and the cold heart of the Emir who had destroyed her.
They drove around the side and under the rising wrought-iron portcullis into a large courtyard paved with cobbles where the Mercedes slowed to a stop. The driver opened her door and Jayne alighted.
Even now, with her confidence rebuilt after more than five long years away, she felt apprehensive as she entered the immense vaulted hallway through the side door.
“I’d like to call my sister to let her know I arrived safely.” Jayne craved the reassurance of Helen’s no-nonsense voice.
“Of course.”
She thought of Samantha’s request for photos. “And is there somewhere I can use for e-mail?”
“Yes, my study is available to you at any time.”
“Thank you.” She directed a small smile up at him.
Tariq went still. His eyes glinted as he came closer. “Jayne—”
“Excellency, it is good that you are back.” The interruption came from an aide wearing a worried frown. “Sheikh Tariq, there is need for your presence. Sheikh Ali has arrived demanding an audience. He has brought Sheikh Mahood, and they have been waiting for you.” The aide was wringing his hands.
Tariq moved away. Jayne felt his withdrawal, and it left a chill, cold feeling in her chest. Her heart sank further at the mention of Sheikh Ali. That was another name she would never have regretted not hearing in her lifetime again. She sneaked a sideways glance at Tariq.
His face had darkened. “Tell them that I will be with them shortly.”
“I’ve already told them that you were welcoming the sheikhah back after a long absence. They do not care about that, they are only concerned about the issue of grazing rights in the northern territories.”
Jayne flinched at Tariq’s short, sharp curse. Then he turned to her. “I need to go. I will see you at dinner.” Tariq’s voice was brisk, businesslike. “We will talk further then. In the meantime, Latifa will show you to your apartments.”
Jayne hadn’t heard the woman’s silent approach. Her face was round with the plumpness of youth, her eyes wide and respectful as she gazed at Jayne, waiting for instruction.
“Wait—” Jayne called after Tariq, but he didn’t hear, because his pace picked up as he strode away to attend to the latest crisis in Zayed, his head bent to listen to the aide beside him.
A sense of loss ebbed through Jayne. She forced it back with effort and turned to the young woman who waited respectfully. “Thank you, Latifa. I’d appreciate it if you showed me to my room. I’m looking forward to freshening up.”
It turned out to be a vast boudoir with stone arched windows that looked out onto the lush palace gardens filled with date palms, fountains and the clinging fragrance of honeysuckle and gardenia.
Jayne kicked off her shoes and toured around the rooms, exploring the crannies before making her way to the large bathroom where Latifa had filled the enormous spa bath. The sweet scent of the crushed rose petals was inviting…intoxicating. One of those little luxuries that seeped the ache out of the soul, made the daily misery of life in Zayed seem bearable.
Ten minutes later, lying back in the sleek, scented water, the realisation that she was back here in Tariq’s world, where she’d sworn never to return, sank in.
Jayne wondered whether there would be chance to talk with Tariq later. Her husband was an important man. He was no figurehead sheikh. His father had always demanded his full involvement in the affairs of the state that he would one day head. Not that the Emir would be in any hurry to relinquish control of his rule.
In