‘Lord Harun, there is a call from the Prince al-Hassan of Saudi regarding the deal with Emirates Oil. He is most anxious to speak with you about the Lord Alim’s recent find of oil.’
‘Of course, I will come now,’ he answered quietly, and walked with his personal assistant back to his office.
When the call was done, his minister of state came in. ‘My Lord, in the absence of the Lord Alim, we need your immediate presence in the House for a swearing-in ceremony. For the stability of the country, this must be done as soon as possible. I know you will understand the anxiety of your people to have this reassurance that you are committed to the ongoing welfare of Abbas al-Din.’
His assistant raced in with his robes of state, helping Harun into them before he could make a reply.
During the next five hours, as he sat and stood and bowed and made a speech of acceptance of his new role, none of those hereditary leaders sensed how deeply their new sheikh grieved for a brother nine years older. Fadi had been more like a father to him.
Could any of them see how utterly alone he was now, since Alim’s disappearance? He hid it behind the face of years of training, calm and regal. They needed the perfect sheikh, and they’d have one for as long as it was needed. Members of the ruling family were trained almost from birth—they must display no need beyond the privilege of serving their people. But during the ceremony, in moments when he didn’t have complete control of his mind, Harun had unbidden visions: of eyes as warm as melted honey, and skin to match; a mouth with a smile she’d smother behind her hand when someone was being pompous or ridiculous, hiding her dimples; her flowing dark hair, and her walk, like a hidden dance.
Every time he pushed it—her—away. He had to be in command.
As darkness fell over the city he sat at his desk, eating a sandwich. He’d left the state dinner within minutes of the announcement of the royal engagement, pleading necessary business as a reason not to endure Amber’s company. Or, more accurately, for her not to endure his company a moment longer than she needed to. He’d seen the look of surprise and slight confusion on her face, but again, he pushed it away.
His food slowly went stale as the mountain of papers slowly dwindled. He read each one carefully before signing, while dealing with necessary interruptions, the phone calls from various heads of state and security personnel.
In quiet moments, her face returned to his vision, but he always forced it out again.
Okay, so Amber was right; he hadn’t looked at her much. What she didn’t know was that he hadn’t dared look at her. For weeks, months, he’d barely looked at her, never spoken beyond politeness, because he’d been too lost in shame that he hungered night and day for his brother’s intended wife. Even her name had filled him with yearning: a precious jewel.
But never until yesterday had he dared think that she could ever become his jewel.
Lost and alone with his grief, unable to feel anything but pain, he’d been dazed when, out of nowhere, Sheikh Aziz wished him to become Amber’s husband. He hadn’t been able to say no. So close to breaking, he’d come to her today, touched by something he hadn’t known in months, years … hope. Hope that even if she didn’t feel the same, he wouldn’t have to face this nightmare alone. Could it be possible that they might find comfort in one another, to stand together in this living death …?
And the overheard conversation was his reward for being so stupid. Of course Amber wanted Alim, his dashing brother, the nation’s hero. As her father had said, what woman wouldn’t want Alim?
A dream of twelve hours had now become his nightmare. There was no way out. She was stuck with him, the last option, the sheikh by default who didn’t even want to be here.
What a fool. Hadn’t he learned long ago that dreams were for other people? For Fadi, there had been his destiny as the next sheikh; for Alim, there was the next racing car, the next glamorous destination, the jets and the women and the adoration of his family and his nation. Habib Abbas: Alim was the country’s beloved lion, their financial saviour since he’d found oil deep beneath the water of their part of the Gulf, and natural gas in the desert.
His parents would have been so proud of him. They’d always known Alim was destined for greatness, as Fadi had said so many times. We’re all so proud of you, Alim.
And yet, he still loved Alim; like everyone else in the country, he’d do anything for his brother. Alim knew that well, which was why he’d just disappeared without a word. ‘Harun will do it better than I could, anyway,’ had always been his casually tossed words when Fadi had needed him for one duty or another. ‘He’s good at the duty thing.’
Harun supposed he was good at it—he’d been raised to think his duty was sacred.
I never know what he’s thinking or feeling. To her, he was Brother Number Three, nothing but an obligation, a means to enrich her country. She was only willing to marry him after being bullied and brought to a sense of pity for his grief by her father.
No, he had no choice but to marry her now—but he had no taste for his brother’s unwanted leftovers. He’d dealt with enough broken hearts of the women who’d been rejected by Alim over the years, calling the palace, even offering themselves to him in the faint hope that he had the power to change Alim’s mind.
Not this time. Never again. I might have to marry her, but I’ll be damned if I touch her.
‘It’s lust, just lust,’ he muttered, hard. Lust he could both deal with, and live without. Anything but the thought of taking her while she stared at the ceiling, wishing he were Alim—
His stomach burning, he found he was no longer hungry, and threw the rest of the sandwich into the garbage.
It was long past midnight before Harun at last reached his rooms. He sent his hovering servants away and sat on his richly canopied bed, ripping the thin mosquito curtain. With an impatient gesture he flung it away; but if he made a noise, the bodyguards watching him from one of the five vantage points designed to protect the sheikh would come running in. So he sat looking out into the night as if nothing were wrong, and grieved in dry-eyed silence.
Fadi, my brother, my father! Allah, I beg you to let Alim live and return to me.
Three days later, the armed rebel forces of the el-Shabbat family invaded Sar Abbas.
CHAPTER TWO
Eight weeks later
‘HABIB Numara! Harun, our beloved tiger, our Habib Numara!’
Riding at the head of a makeshift float—two tanks joined by tent material and filled with flowers—Harun smiled and waved to the people lining the streets of Sar Abbas. Each cheering girl or woman in the front three rows of people threw another flower at him as he passed. The flowers landed on the float filling his nostrils until the sweet scent turned his stomach and the noise of the people’s shouting left him deafened.
Still he smiled and waved; but what he wouldn’t give to be in the
