poker game.
The king’s eyes narrowed further as he glared at his remaining son without a hint of affection.
‘Your problem, Tair, is you have no vision. You do not think on the grand scale, but of such things as a water-treatment plant…’ His sneer registered utter contempt for such a project. ‘You exchanged those mineral rights for a water-treatment plant instead of a new yacht!’
‘Not just a water-treatment plant, but an undertaking to recruit locally whenever possible, a training programme for our people and fifty per cent of the profits for them once they have recouped a percentage of their initial outlay.’
The deal he had renegotiated had not made the international firm he was dealing with exactly happy. They had been under the impression he was there to rubber stamp the contract as it stood, but they had at least viewed him with grudging respect as they had walked away looking like men who were not quite sure what had just happened to them.
Of course, Tair conceded, he’d had the element of surprise on his side. Next time—though considering his father’s reaction that might not be any time soon—he would not have that advantage.
But Tair was not a man to avoid challenges.
‘Profits!’ His father had dismissed those intangible projected figures with a snap of his swollen fingers. Overindulgence had left its mark on his coarsened features and his once athletic body. ‘And when will that be? I could have had the yacht next month.’
His suggestion that it would perhaps be no great hardship to make do with last year’s yacht had not been received well! And though Tair had not expected, or fortunately needed, praise, the lecture had been hard to take.
It was much easier to accept the censorious finger his uncle waved in his direction because Tair knew that, unlike his own father, King Hakim’s remonstrance was well intentioned. His uncle was a man who had always put the welfare of his people above his own comfort and would be able to appreciate what Tair was trying to achieve.
‘Remember the next time you feel the urge to fly into a desert storm…alone…that you are all your father has left.’
It was hard to tell from his manner which action appalled his uncle the most: the danger of the desert storm or the fact his nephew had not travelled with an entourage of hundreds as befitted his station in life.
‘There are responsibilities in being heir.’
Tair inclined his head in courteous acknowledgement of the royal rebuke. ‘I am new to the role, Uncle, so I’m bound to make some errors.’
From the moment Tair had become heir to the throne many had considered his life public property and he accepted this, but there were some freedoms that he was not willing to relinquish. He needed places, moments and people with whom he could be himself in order to preserve his sanity.
‘But you are not new to fobbing off old men. Do you think I don’t know that you smile, say the right things and then do exactly what you want, Tair? However I know that, despite your action-man antics, you are aware of your duties. More aware than your brother ever was. I know one should not speak ill of the dead, but I say nothing now that I would not have said to his face and nothing I have not in the past said to your father.
‘Malik did nobody any favours when he turned a blind eye to your brother’s scandals and as for the dubious business dealings…?’ Clicking his tongue, King Hakim shook his leonine head in disapproval. ‘I have always been of the opinion that your country would have been better off if you had been born the elder.’
It wasn’t often that Tair struggled for words, but, more accustomed to defending his actions from criticism, he was stunned to uncomfortable silence by this unexpected tribute from his uncle.
It was Beatrice who came to his rescue.
‘I wouldn’t mind getting my pilot’s licence one day.’
The innocent comment from a heavily pregnant and glowing princess successfully diverted her father-in-law’s attention from his nephew—as Tair was sure it was intended to—and began a good-natured joking debate among the younger generation around the table that centred on the hotly disputed superior ability of men to master any skill that required hand-eye co-ordination.
Everyone joined in except the mouselike English girl, who either through shyness or total lack of social skills—Tair suspected the latter—had barely spoken a word throughout the meal unless directly addressed.
The second silent party was Tariq.
Tair’s irritation escalated and his suspicion increased as he watched the pair through icy blue eyes.
Tariq was the man who had it all, including a wife who adored him, a wife who was carrying his first child.
Tair’s expression softened as his glance flickered to the other end of the table where Beatrice Al Kamal sat looking every inch the regal princess even when she winked at him over the head of her father-in-law the king.
He turned his head, the half-smile that was tugging at his own lips fading as he saw that Tariq was still staring like some pathetic puppy at the English mouse.
Tair’s lip curled in disgust. He had always liked and admired the other man, and had always considered his cousin strong not only in the physical but also in the moral sense. Tair had felt it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man when Tariq had met and married the glorious Titian-haired Beatrice after a whirlwind romance.
If two people were ever meant to be together it was Beatrice and Tariq. Their clear devotion had touched even Tair’s cynical heart, and made him hope in his less realistic moments that there was such a soul mate waiting for him somewhere, though even if there was it seemed unlikely they were destined to be together.
His future was intrinsically linked with that of the country he would one day rule. What his country needed and deserved after years of neglect by his father and Hassan, who had both been of the opinion the country was their own personal bank, was political and financial stability. It was Tair’s duty to make a marriage that supplied both. Improving transport links and dragging the medical facilities of Zabrania, the neighbouring country to Zarhat, into the twenty-first century were more important things than true love.
He directed another icy glare at his cousin, and considered the other man’s stupidity. Tariq didn’t seem to have a clue as to how lucky he was!
Didn’t the man know he had it all?
And even if he wasn’t insane enough to risk his marriage by actually being unfaithful—though in Tair’s eyes the distinction between fantasy and physical infidelity was at best blurred—he was obviously stupid enough to risk hurting Beatrice by being so damned obvious.
Even a total imbecile could have picked up on the signals his cousin was being so mystifyingly indiscreet about hiding, and Beatrice was far from stupid.
It was totally inexplicable to Tair that Tariq could have so little respect for his wife that he would insult her this way, and for what…?
He allowed his own scornful gaze to drift in the direction of the English girl, who was clearly not the innocent she seemed because no man acted like Tariq without some encouragement. Tair tried and failed to see something in the mouselike girl that could tempt a man like Tariq…or for that matter any man!
