a few minutes ago his smallest touch had infused her with that need to feel him deep inside her, now she could not remember what the need felt like. As she waited for him to finish administering to her wooden form, she noticed that his passion had died too.
‘I suppose I had better know if there is anything else you haven’t bothered to tell me,’ she murmured eventually.
His pause before speaking could have been a hesitation over his answer, or it could have been a simple pause while he switched off the shower. ‘Just the names of our guests,’ he said. ‘And that can wait until we have dealt with the more urgent task of drying ourselves and getting dressed.’
With that he opened the shower door and stepped out to collect a towel, which he folded around her before offering her another one for her hair. For himself he reached for a towelling bathrobe, pulled it on and headed for the door.
‘Hassan…’ she made him pause ‘…the rest of this trip and your father’s celebration party—am I being put on public show for a specific purpose?’
‘Some people need to be shown that I will not be coerced in any way,’ he answered without turning. ‘And my father wants you there. This will be his last anniversary. I will deny him nothing.’
At Hassan’s request, she was wearing a calf-length white silk tunic studded with pearl-white sequins that shimmered when she moved. In accordance with Arabian tradition, the tunic had a high neckline, long sleeves and a pair of matching slender silk trousers that covered her legs. On her head she had draped a length of fine silk, and beneath it her hair had been carefully pleated into a glossy, smooth coronet. Her make-up was so understated you could barely tell it was there except for the flick of black mascara highlighting the length of her eyelashes and the hint of a gloss to her soft pink mouth.
Beside her stood the Prince. Dressed in a white silk tunic and gold silk top robe, on his head he wore a white gutrah ringed by three circles of gold. To her other side and one short pace behind stood Rafiq, dressed almost exactly the same as his brother only without the bands of gold. And as they waited in the boat’s foyer, Leona was in no doubt that the way they were presented was aimed to make a specific statement.
Sheikh Hassan ben Khalifa Al-Qadim and his wife the Sheikha Leona Al-Qadim—bestowed upon her at her request, for the woman of Arabia traditionally kept their father’s name—were ready to formally receive guests, whether those guests were friends or foes.
Rafiq was their guardian, their protector, their most respected brother and trusted friend. He possessed his own title, though he had never been known to use it. He possessed the right to wear the gold bands of high office, but no one had ever seen them circling his head. His power rode on the back of his indifference to anything that did not interest him. His threat lay in the famed knowledge that he would lay down his life for these two people standing in front of him, plus the father he loved without question.
His presence here, therefore, made its own loud statement; come in friendship and be at peace; come in conflict and beware.
Why? Because the first person to tread the gangway onto the yacht was Sheikh Abdul Al-Yasin and his wife, Zafina. Hassan and Rafiq knew that Sheikh Abdul was behind the plot to abduct Leona, but the sheikh did not know the brothers knew. Which was why he felt safe in taking the bait handed out for this trip—namely a meeting of the chiefs during a cruise on the Red Sea, in which his aim was to beat Hassan into submission about this second wife he was being so stubborn in refusing.
What none of them knew was that Leona suspected it was Sheikh Abdul who had planned her abduction. Because she knew about Nadira, his beautiful daughter, who had been held up to her many times as the one chosen to take that coveted place in Sheikh Hassan’s life as his second wife.
‘Ah—Hassan!’ The two men greeted and shook hands pleasantly enough. ‘You will be pleased to know that I left your father in better sorts than of late. I saw him this morning before I caught my flight to Cairo.’
‘I must thank you for keeping him company while we have been away,’ Hassan replied.
‘No thanks—no thanks.’ Sheikh Abdul refused them. ‘It was my privilege—Leona…’ He turned towards her next, though offered no physical contact as was the Arab way. He bowed instead. ‘You have been away too long. It is good to see you here.’
‘Thank you.’ She found a smile, wished she dared search for the comfort of Hassan’s hand, but such shows of weakness would be pounced upon and dissected when she was not there to hear it happen.
‘Rafiq.’ His nodded greeting was distinctly wary. ‘You made a killing with your stock in Schuler-Kleef, I see.’
‘My advice is usually sound, sir,’ Rafiq replied respectfully. ‘I take it you did not buy some for yourself?’
‘I forgot.’
Through all of this, Sheikh Abdul’s wife, Zafina, stood back in total silence, neither stepping forward to follow the line of introduction nor attempting to remind her husband of her presence. It was such a quiescent stance, one that Leona had grown used to from the women of Rahman when they were out in the company of their men.
But it was a quiescence that usually only lasted as long as it took them to be alone with the other women. Then the real personalities shot out to take you by surprise. Some were soft and kind, some cold and remote, some alive with fun. Zafina was a woman who knew how to wield her power from within the female ranks and had no hesitation in doing so if it furthered her own particular cause. It was due to her clever machinations that her son had married another sheikh’s most favoured daughter.
She’d had Hassan marked for her daughter, Nadira, from the day the child had been born. Therefore, in her eyes, she had every reason to dislike Leona. And, tranquil though she might appear right now, Leona could feel resentment flowing towards her in waves.
‘Zafina.’ She stepped forward, deciding to take the polite stand. ‘You are well, I trust? Thank you for taking time out of your busy life to join us here.’
‘The pleasure is all mine, Sheikha,’ the older woman replied. But then her husband was listening and so was the coveted Sheikh Hassan. ‘You have lost weight, I think. But Sheikh Khalifa tells me you have been sick?’
Someone had told her at any rate, but Leona suspected it was not Hassan’s father. Thankfully other guests began to arrive. Sheikh Jibril Al-Mahmud and his timid wife, Medina, who looked to her husband before she dared so much as breathe.
Sheikh Imran Al-Mukhtar and his youngest son, Samir, arrived next. Like a light at the end of a tunnel, Samir put the first genuine smile on everyone’s face because he broke right through every stiff convention being performed in the yacht’s foyer, and headed directly for Leona. ‘My princess!’ he greeted, picked her up in his arms then swung her around.
‘Put her down,’ his father censured. ‘Rafiq has that glint in his eye.’
‘Not Hassan?’ Samir questioned quizzically.
‘Hassan knows what belongs to him, Rafiq is merely overprotective. And everyone else simply disapproves of your loose ways.’
And there it was, tied up in one neat comment, Hassan noted as he watched Leona laugh down into Samir’s handsome young face. Al-Qadim and Al-Mukhtar set apart from Al-Mahmud and Al-Yasin. It promised to be an interesting trip. For the first time in two weeks they used the formal dining room on the deck above. White-liveried stewards served them through many
