he?’
She nodded as she looked down at their tiny son. His skin was faintly tinged with olive and already he had a hint of the slightly too-strong nose which had been the bane of her life, but which Gabe always told her was the most beautiful nose in the world. Deep down she suspected that her husband was relieved to discover that their firstborn looked more like her than him. But Leila was confident that, with time, his few remaining reservations about his heritage would melt beneath the power of her love.
Today had been Hafez’s naming ceremony, here in the palace in Simdahab where she’d grown up—and it had been the most glorious of visits. All the servants had clucked excitedly around the princess’s new baby. That was when they hadn’t been buzzing round the Western guests who had flown out for the occasion and who mingled with the dignitaries and kings from the neighbouring desert countries.
It had been a day of immense happiness and joy, but Leila thought that Murat seemed rather pensive and she wondered if it was because the woman he had been destined to marry had found happiness with another man.
She put her arms around Gabe and pressed her lips to his cheek. ‘My brother said something very strange to me today.’
‘Tell me.’ He started to kiss her neck.
Leila closed her eyes as shivers of sensation began to whisper over her skin. ‘He said that at least there was another generation of the Al-Maisan family, in case he never produced an heir of his own. He seemed to imply that he would never marry—and that he’d be contented with a long line of mistresses instead.’
Gabe smiled as he brushed his mouth over her scented skin. Hadn’t he once thought that way himself? When his heart had been so dark and cold that it had felt as if a lump of ice had been wedged in his chest. ‘All it takes is the right woman,’ he said. ‘And once she comes along, it seems that a man will happily change his entire life to please her. Just as I have done for you.’
‘Oh, darling,’ she said, closing her eyes with dreamy pleasure as she thought back to everything that had happened to them since Hafez had been born.
They had sold his apartment and moved to a large house overlooking Hampstead Heath, because Gabe realised that Leila had been right. That his minimalistic high-rise apartment was no place to bring up a baby—it had suited a phase of his life which was now over. Hafez needed grass and flowers, she had told him firmly. He needed a nearby nursery and hopefully a school he could walk to.
So a studio had been built for her in the basement of their new house, from which she would work as a freelance photographer. That way she got all the pleasures of working, but none of the regular commitment which would keep her away from their son.
Gabe lifted his hand and stroked back the glorious fall of hair from her face so that it streamed down over her shoulders in a cascade of ebony. The roseate curves of her lips were an irresistible invitation, and he kissed her with a steadily increasing hunger before drawing away from her.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I know. The feeling is shared and returned.’
‘And there’s a spare hour to fill before the palace banquet,’ he said a little unsteadily. ‘Shall we go to bed?’
She opened her eyes. ‘You’re insatiable.’
‘I thought you liked me that way.’
‘I like you any way I can get you,’ she whispered back. ‘But preferably without any clothes on and nobody else around.’
‘You are a shameless woman, Leila Steel.’
‘Lucky that’s the way you like me,’ she teased.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I never stop reminding myself how lucky I am.’
And this was the greatest of the many truths he’d discovered in a life now lived without pretence, or fear or regret.
Next week was his birthday but he wouldn’t be seeking to blot out the past with a bottle of Scotch and oblivion. He would be embracing the golden and glorious present with his wife and their beloved baby son.
And he would be telling Leila how much he loved her, just as he did every single day of his life. His beautiful Qurhahian princess who had brought his heart to life with the power of her love. Just as the rains fed the dormant flower seeds, to bring the desert miracle to the Mekathasinian Sands.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from WHEN FALCONE’S WORLD STOPS TURNING by Abby Green.
PROLOGUE
RAFAELE FALCONE LOOKED at the coffin deep inside the open grave. The earth they’d thrown in was scattered on top, along with some lone flowers left by departing friends and acquaintances. Some of them had been men, inordinately upset. Evidently there was some truth to the rumours that the stunning Esperanza Christakos had taken lovers during her third marriage.
Rafaele felt many conflicting emotions, apart from the obvious grief for his dead mother. He couldn’t say that they’d ever had a close relationship; she’d been eternally elusive and had carried an air of melancholy about her. She’d also been beautiful. Beautiful enough to send his own father mad with grief when she left him.
The kind of woman who’d had the ability to make grown men completely lose all sense of dignity and of themselves. Not something that would ever happen to him. His single-minded focus was on his career and rebuilding the Falcone motor empire. Beautiful women were a pleasant diversion—nothing more. None of his lovers were ever under any illusions and expected nothing more than the transitory pleasure of his company.
His conscience pricked at this confident assertion—there had only been one lover who had taken him close to the edge but that was an experience he didn’t dwell on...not any more.
His half-brother, Alexio Christakos, turned to him now and smiled tightly. Rafaele felt a familiar ache in his chest. He loved his half-brother, and had done from the moment he’d been born, but their relationship wasn’t easy. It had been hard for Rafaele to witness his brother growing up, sure in the knowledge of his father’s success and support—so different from his own experience with his father. He’d felt resentful for a long time, which hadn’t been helped by his stepfather’s obvious antipathy towards the son that wasn’t his.
They both turned and walked away from the grave, engrossed in their own thoughts. Their mother had bequeathed to both her sons her distinctive green eyes, although Alexio’s were a shade more golden than Rafaele’s striking light green. Rafaele’s hair was thicker and a darker brown next to his brother’s short-cut ebony-black hair.
Differing only slightly in height, they were both a few inches over six foot. Rafaele’s build was broad and powerful. His brother’s just as powerful, but leaner. Dark stubble shadowed Rafaele’s firm jawline today, and when they came to a stop near the cars Alexio observed it, remarking dryly, ‘You couldn’t even clean up for the funeral?’
The tightness in Rafaele’s chest when he’d stood at the grave was easing slightly now. He curbed the urge to be defensive, to hide the vulnerability he felt, and faced his brother, drawling with a definite glint in his eye, ‘I got out of bed too late.’
He couldn’t explain
