Her sister sounded so ferocious that Jayne couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. For the first time in a week, the tension that had been winding up in her chest subsided. Her sister would always be there for her. Family. Sisters. A sacred bond.
“I suggest you don’t say that to Tariq’s face.” Just the thought of his freezing expression, the way he would look coldly down his elegant bladed nose, was enough to make Jayne chuckle again.
“You won’t be here for my first day of school.” Amy’s desolate wail cut into Jayne’s moment of good humour. Instantly all laughter dried up. Bending down, she swept Amy up until the little girl’s eyes were level with hers.
“But I’ll be thinking of you,” Jayne promised. “I’ll even know where you’ll be sitting. Remember? You, mom and I went together to check your new school out?”
“I s’pose,” Amy said reflectively. “And I’ll have the pencils you bought me.” She already sounded more cheerful. Jayne smiled at her sister over Amy’s head, her throat tight.
A hoot sounded.
“Daddy’s ready.” Amy wriggled out of Jayne’s arms.
Helen rushed over and then Jayne was wrapped in her sister’s warm arms. “Take care, Jayne.”
“I will.” Jayne held on for a moment. A kiss on her sister’s cheek and then she freed herself and picked up her bag. “I’d better not keep Nigel waiting. Look after yourself—and the girls. I’ll e-mail photos, I promise,” she called to Helen and Samantha as she hurried out the door. From beside the car, Jayne gave them a last wave before getting into the idling car where her brother-in-law waited to take her to the airport.
Finally Jayne let herself admit she wasn’t looking forward to the long flight that lay ahead. And she dreaded the coming confrontation with the man who waited for her at the journey’s end.
The chilly air-conditioning in the international airport at Jazirah, the capital of Zayed, took the edge off the searing heat that shimmered over the runways outside the terminal building. A deferential official took charge of Jayne the instant she presented her passport and whisked her through customs. He retrieved her luggage and showed her to a plush seat in a sheltered alcove off the arrivals concourse, murmuring that he’d be back shortly.
Jayne attempted to assure him that she was quite capable of organising her own transport, but he grew increasingly agitated. He was obviously concerned by the fact that she was travelling alone. Zayedi men could be extremely protective, to the point of being overbearing. So Jayne subsided with a shrug and watched him scurry away.
Pulling the white chiffon scarf out the side pocket of her handbag where she’d tucked it in before leaving Auckland, Jayne looped it around her neck. It wasn’t a hijab, but it would do. Zayed was more modern than its neighbouring states, some of the youth even wore jeans, but most women still adopted conservative dress. Jayne knew that the narrow black trousers and casual geometric patterns of the black and white shift dress she wore over them were acceptably modest…even if they were straight out of this season’s budget fashions in Auckland, a far cry from the traditional jilbab and colourful kaftans so many older married Zayedi women wore.
From where she sat, Jayne could see the long wall of glass that separated the airport from the drop-off zone outside. A fleet of shiny black Mercedeses were parked there, reminding her of the extent of the wealth in this desert sheikhdom.
A commotion a way down the concourse attracted her attention. Jayne rose to her feet to get a better look. A knot of uniformed men were causing a stir. Her gaze narrowed. She recognized those uniforms, they belonged to the Emir of Zayed’s palace guard. They held some very unpleasant associations. The last time she’d seen the red and khaki colours had been here, at this airport, when the men wearing them had been charged with making sure she left Zayed.
Behind them she caught a glimpse of a tall man in a dark suit. His sheer imposing height and the familiar tilt of his head caused her heart to leap. Tariq. Jayne froze, her muscles tight, and her head swam with the sudden light-headedness caused by the panic that swirled through her.
He was coming closer. Her pulse grew choppy, loud in her ears. His head turned and their eyes connected. The first thing that struck her was that his eyes were still the colour of pure, molten gold. The second was that they were not the least bit welcoming.
Tariq raked her from head to toe, and his lip curled. Instantly all the old insecurities crashed back. She was plain Jayne Jones, in the everyday chain-store shift dress that she’d worn over her most comfortable black trousers for the flight.
The antipathy directed at her caused Jayne to stumble backward. Nothing had changed. Her husband detested her. The earth rocked under her feet and she glanced away, disconcerted. And caught sight of the red carpet. Of the trio of little girls holding posies. But it took the black print on the brightly coloured banner two women were unfurling to jolt her into disbelief. Welcome Back Sheikhah, it read.
This dog-and-pony show was intended for her.
In a flash the reason for the official’s agitation became clear. Her first meeting with Tariq was going to be conducted under public scrutiny. Jayne’s palms grew clammy and her pulse started to race.
No.
She gave the gathering crowd a wild glance, took in the scaffolding with the mounted television cameras, clearly here to film her return. She was so not prepared for this hullabaloo. She’d come to meet Tariq, to talk in private about their divorce.
Tariq was walking with purpose. Backed by the squad of the palace guard, he looked dangerous, resolute. But Jayne knew that whatever the reason he’d demanded her return to Zayed, it had nothing to do with the love they had once shared.
She cast a frantic gaze around. People were milling forward, crowding around the red carpet, the guards and the powerful, commanding man in the heart of all the fuss. No, she hadn’t come to be part of this…circus.
She wanted to meet Tariq on her terms. In private. Without an audience.
Two cameramen with huge cameras mounted on their shoulders that sported the local TV network logo rushed ahead of Tariq to capture the moment for the news. They blocked Tariq from her view.
Cautiously Jayne edged forward. No one was looking in her direction. With a surreptitious movement, she hitched the sheer scarf off her shoulders and draped it across her hair, then hoisted up the Louis Vuitton bag, a legacy from her past life with Tariq. Keeping her head down, she made quickly for the double sliding doors that led out of the airport. They hissed open and she escaped through.
The heat hit her like a wall. Oppressive. An inferno compared to the coolness in the airport and the temperate weather she’d left behind in Auckland. Jayne thought she heard a shout. She didn’t look back. Instead she kept her head down and increased her pace. A taxi was parked behind the string of Mercedeses.
As she broke into a run a taxi driver straightened from the low railing he’d been leaning against and parted his lips into a smile that revealed stained yellow teeth separated with chunks of gold. “Taxi?” He opened the rear door and music blared out.
“Yes,” she gasped, deafened as she fell into the backseat. When she didn’t bother to haggle over the rate, his smile grew wider still. “Take me to the palace. Please.”
The smile withered and he shot her a lightning-fast once-over glance, before climbing into the driver’s seat and turning the radio down a notch.
“Hurry,” she said, peering anxiously out the window beside her.
The motor roared, drowning out the radio for a moment, and her unsuspecting rescuer swerved out onto the strip of concrete road.
Driven by an impulse she could not explain, Jayne turned back to stare through the rear window at the glass doors through which she’d escaped.