“There will be no divorce. Not yet. But it is possible that the time will come soon. Very soon. We will talk.”
She wasn’t accepting that kiss-off. She had come to Zayed for a divorce. The time was here. She would not allow Tariq to dominate her as he had done in the past. She’d grown up; she was no longer in awe of her powerful husband.
A long soak left her body feeling heavy and languid. At last Jayne summoned the energy to get out of the bath and, wrapped in a soft ivory towel, she made her way back to the sumptuous bedroom where her meagre selection of clothing had been packed into the cupboard by Latifa.
Mindful of the conservative nature of the palace, Jayne chose a long black skirt that clung to her hips before falling to just above her ankles and teamed it with a black top with a vee-neck and long, trumpet-shaped sheer chiffon sleeves. A pair of ballet-style black pumps and she was as ready as she’d ever be to face Tariq.
Downstairs she was surprised to find only Tariq waiting for her in the small salon. He’d shed the dark designer suit and wore a traditional white thobe. It added to his height, emphasised his dark, hawklike features and made him appear more imposing than ever. Jayne hesitated in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”
In the past, facing a room full of strangers she barely knew at the end of the day over the long dinner table had been one of the major strains of life in the palace. Aides and distant family members of the Emir, members of desert clans, all came to the palace to seek advice from the Emir or one of the senior members of the ruling family. And she’d expected the delegation Tariq had met with about the grazing rights earlier today to be here.
“My father is…not well. Many are keeping vigil in the courtyard and antechamber outside his rooms.”
“Oh.” For a brief moment Jayne considered asking what was wrong with the Emir, then she decided against it. It would be too direct a question. Too impolite. And then there was the fact that she was reluctant to become embroiled in an argument with Tariq about his father. Which was where any innocent, well-meaning query would end. Instead she focused on what she’d come for. “Can we talk about finalising the divorce?”
“After dinner,” Tariq said. “You have been travelling, you will need sustenance.”
“I’ll be fine, this won’t take long.” She glanced at him with a frown. He was prevaricating. That was a palace etiquette rule, if it would raise conflict, a matter could not be aired during a meal. “I can’t believe you forced me to fly across the world to talk about a divorce to which I am entitled.”
His expression became distant. “You are not entitled to it, not until I give my consent.”
She gave a snort of disgust. “Surely you’re not going to take that line. It’s antiquated. If this is about your male pride, then you may divorce me. I don’t care. You needn’t have dragged me across the world for this.”
His eyes were hooded. “You will be recompensed for any…inconvenience.”
“That’s not necessary.” She raised her chin. She didn’t need his money. “All I want is the divorce. That will be worth every cent of the trip.”
His brows jerked together. “You will get your divorce. When I am ready. But now we eat.”
Jayne found herself bristling at the command. But she forced herself to take a deep breath and follow him through the French doors onto the terrace outside. Stairs cut into a wall of stone, lined with flaming sconces, led to a secret garden where white flowers bloomed in the waning light. In the arbour, surrounded with white roses, a table had been laid and an array of food spread out.
Nearby a fountain tinkled, the sound of water calming Jayne’s frazzled nerves.
There was huge platter of fruit with dates and wedges of crumbly white cheese that resembled haloumi. Another plate held a selection of flatbreads with hummus, fried kibbe, the spicy meatballs with pine nuts, and a dish of tabbouleh salad. Eyeing the spread, Jayne discovered that she was hungrier than she’d thought.
“Is that falafel?” she pointed to a plate of patties.
“Ta’amiyya. It’s made with fava beans, but it’s not dissimilar to falafel. Try some.”
Jayne did. She selected a little of everything and let Tariq pour her a glass of icy water. After she’d finished eating, Tariq selected two peaches from the fruit bowl to the side of the table. Picking up a sharp knife he deftly cut the peaches into slices. The inner flesh was a ripe golden orange and the juice dripped from his fingertips.
He offered her the plate.
“Oh, I couldn’t, I pigged out.”
“Try them. The taste is sweet, the flesh of the fruit soft and succulent. They were flown in from Damascus today.”
He made them sound utterly irresistible. Against her better judgment, Jayne reached out and took a sliver. Tasted it. The peach lived up to everything he had promised.
“Like it?”
“Mmm.”
His eyes grew darker at her throaty murmur. “You used to make delighted sounds like that when we made love.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you do.” Tariq’s eyes were hooded, but his voice was softer than velvet and caused little shivers to spread through her.
The meal was over. She no longer had to observe social niceties. It was time for a little directness. “I don’t want to remember. I want to go back home, to move on with my life.”
“There was a time when your home was with me—”
She waved a hand, dismissing his claim. “That was another life.”
“So, there is another man…at this new home?”
“I didn’t say that.” But Jayne couldn’t help thinking of Neil, who had waited so patiently, asking her out every couple of weeks, taking her refusals stoically. He was so safe. So different from her overwhelming husband—and that was precisely what made Neil so attractive. He wouldn’t take her to the highs or the lows that Tariq had. He wouldn’t crush her love and her trust and rip her heart out.
“I have no doubt that the sudden urge for the divorce is linked to a man.” Tariq’s savage cynicism took her aback.
“Why does it have to be about a man? I want to move on, get a life.” Jayne swallowed under his quelling gaze. “I want my identity as Jayne Jones back. I no longer want to be associated with you, Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, son of the Emir of Zayed.”
The look he shot her was deadly. “I hadn’t realised I was such a liability.”
“Surely you want to move on, too? Get married? Have children?”
“Maybe.” His face gave nothing away.
A sharp stab of emotion pierced her. His father had wanted Tariq to marry Leila, the daughter of one of the sheikhs who had arrived at the palace earlier today. Both men were counted amongst the Emir’s closest friends. Sheikh Ali was a power in the north of the country. He owned extensive land, controlled oil leases and governed several, at times, unruly clans. And Leila’s uncle, Sheikh Mahood, was related by marriage to a sultan who ruled a bordering state that put out a massive amount of barrels of oil per day. Tariq’s marriage to Leila would solidify the fate of Zayed, making the tiny country more powerful and strategic in the region.
No doubt that marriage would take place once their divorce was final.
“On the way from the airport you said that in the past our relationship was always about what I wanted, about what my family wanted. That it wasn’t about you. I don’t remember it that way.” His voice lowered to throb a little above a murmur. “In fact, I remember sitting on a hard park