a maidservant in whom she confided,’ she said, flourishing the bundle of letters she’d found. ‘No letters were ever forwarded to Rome.’
‘That might be because your mother wrote to her maidservant in English.’
‘And the maidservant could only read Sinnebalese,’ Antonia murmured, understanding. Then her face hardened. ‘The maidservant might not have been able to read English, but she would have understood these.’
She was looking at photographs of herself as a baby in her mother’s arms.
‘I imagine so,’ he agreed.
‘You imagine?’ Antonia bit out, springing to her feet. ‘So why didn’t I receive them?’
‘They were overlooked, perhaps.’ He made a dismissive gesture, but felt a surge of arousal as they confronted each other, both with passions raised. ‘Are you finished here?’ He held the door for her.
She shook her head slowly and her expression suggested she detested him. ‘You have absolutely no heart, do you, Ra’id?’
He neither agreed nor disagreed with that assessment.
‘I give up!’ she flared. ‘And don’t think we’re finished here.’
‘You are finished here,’ he told her coldly, pointing to the door.
She saw his shadow cross the courtyard from the window in her room and felt a pang of regret. Standing in her chaste, cotton pyjamas watching Ra’id stride purposefully towards some unknown destination, she realised he still had the power to take her breath away. If anything, the deep blue robes of office and the Arabian headdress, with its gleaming gold agal holding it in place, only added to Ra’id’s menacing appeal. Though she had tried to hate him, that emotion was far too close to love. But how cold Ra’id had been when he’d looked at her, Antonia remembered; how dismissive.
And he was the father of her child …
As dusk thickened into glutinous night, she agonised over how to tell him. Was he visiting a lover now—perhaps some glamorous and frivolously dressed ladies in his harem? The father of her baby. The thought made her sick—sick and angry. Swallowing deep, she turned away.
Shutting the window to give the air-conditioning a chance to work, Antonia realised sleep was out of the question. How could she sleep with Ra’id in her head? But she had no rights over him; they were practically strangers, strangers who owed each other nothing, and who knew less about each other now than they ever had.
But she missed him, she realised, angrily biting back tears. And what would it bring her, this love of hers, other than distractions and more unhappiness? Antonia Ruggiero in love with the Sword of Vengeance? It sounded ridiculous even to her.
She padded barefoot across the room to her lonely bed. Some might think it generous of Ra’id to allow her to stay in such splendid accommodation, but she suspected it was his way of keeping her close so he would know what she was doing. He was orchestrating her every step, and what hurt the most was the knowledge that she was carrying his baby and couldn’t tell him.
How much closer could they be than parents of a baby? Yet how much further apart? Antonia wondered, trailing her fingertips across crisp, white linen sheets on a bed she doubted she would spend even a moment on.
During the lonely vigil of the long night, Antonia considered what she had learned from looking through what remained of her mother’s possessions. Helena had been very young, both in age and attitude, although she’d already had a son by the ruling sheikh when she’d moved to Rome to marry Antonia’s father. Helena had never been allowed to see her son again. Poor Helena; a girl who had liked pop music and fashion, and who had traded on her looks, believing they were the key to happiness. She had discovered that in the end those looks were her downfall—for no one, especially not the ruling Sheikh of Sinnebar, had wanted beauty without substance when the novelty had worn off.
And, though Ra’id could never be called weak, he was his father’s son, Antonia acknowledged, and that was the type of heartless individual she was dealing with. He couldn’t even look at her without self-loathing, because she represented his one and only failing. Antonia was Ra’id’s one breach of duty, and now she must be punished and driven away. Whatever was waiting for her at the fort, she suspected it was something Ra’id believed would end her quest once and for all and send her flying back to Rome in a panic. In one last act of cruelty, he was determined to be there to see her reaction for himself.
He drove his stallion hard. The horse was well-named Tonnerre, which meant thunder in French. When they galloped from yielding sand to a firmer path leading directly to the mountains, Tonnerre’s hooves struck sparks off the moonlit track.
Then the horse smelled water and it took all Ra’id’s riding skills to persuade the stallion to slow. When Ra’id mastered him, the stallion consented to walk, whinnying and snorting his disapproval. Ra’id loosened the reins, allowing Tonnerre to amble the last half-mile or so to cool him down.
When finally they reached the icy spring that emerged at the foot of the cliff, he sprang down, and, murmuring praise into one alert velvet ear, he removed Tonnerre’s tack and allowed the horse to go free.
Free …
Something he would never be, Ra’id reflected as he leaned against cold, black granite watching his mount suck in water. He had chosen this path, though he would never be free from the ache in his heart. He thought of Antonia, asleep in bed, and had to wonder how one young girl could affect him so deeply. There was no future for them, and she was nothing but trouble. He had decided that the best course of action was to show her what awaited her in the desert, and then she would be pleased to go home, where he hoped she would fight some other cause.
Unwinding the black howlis from his face, he shrugged off his robe and dived into a pool turned frigid by snow-melt from the mountains. His last image before he sank deep was not that of a young girl sighing with passion in his arms but of an aircraft soaring into the flawless Arabian sky, as it carried Antonia and her foolish fantasies back to Rome.
By the time dawn peeped through the shutters, Antonia had drawn up a plan. She would use her own money to convert the citadel she had inherited without having to take anything from the charity’s resources. She could only hope Ra’id might want to contribute his expertise and that of others around him to the project. Without their help, it could just be her best stab at an Arabian retreat, and she wanted it to be authentic down to the last detail. But before she could do any of that she must persuade Ra’id to give her the precious water supply.
She would have to appeal to his better nature and hope he had one, Antonia concluded, drying her hair after her shower. Startled by the sound of approaching hooves, she put down her brush and crossed to the window. Her apartment was on one of the highest floors of the palace, and she could see Ra’id returning to the stables. She knew it was him before she even focused on the man springing down from the ferocious-looking stallion. Even severe black robes only added to Ra’id’s glittering majesty, but it was his barbaric vigour that had called to her before she saw him.
She shrank back. He stared directly at her. Could he feel her too? It was as if he knew she was looking at him as surely as if she had called to him.
Pulling further back inside the room, she grabbed a steadying breath. She was right to think there was some invisible link between them, and wrong to believe it was fading when it had grown.
