were chests of burnished ebony inlaid with mother of pearl, pierced brass tables and fabulous rugs intricately woven in jewel colours. Plump silk cushions invited rest, while polished lamps cast a subdued and honeyed light. As if a veil had dropped from her eyes, Lucy saw the heritage she was denying her child. The interior of the pavilion was so lovely she yearned for the opportunity to ask Razi for the history of every piece so she could squirrel the information away to tell her baby when the time was right. But how could she do that when he didn’t want idle conversation—and when the time would never be right? How could she ever have a normal conversation with him when she was concealing such a vital piece of news?
He offered her water, which she drank, and then she waited while he went back to the Jeep to collect the picnic he’d brought with them. This gave her an opportunity to look at things more closely, and now she noticed the platters of sweetmeats and the jugs of juice. ‘You planned this,’ she said when he returned.
‘You gave me around five minutes, I seem to remember,’ he said dryly, placing the basket of food on the ground.
And servants would rush to do his bidding, Lucy realised. Razi had everything in the material sense, and yet he seemed to have lost his joie de vivre, along with his capacity to love or even empathise with a fellow human being. How could that be good for his country? How could a fun-free life with a duty-bound father be good for her child?
‘Many of these gifts were left by the Bedouin,’ he explained, oblivious to her concerns. ‘And my brother uses the place sometimes.’
Lucy shuddered at Razi’s mention of the man known as The Sword of Vengeance. ‘You two must be very close,’ she ventured.
‘We trust each other completely.’
What would Ra’id make of her? Lucy wondered. She had to remind herself the great Sheikh probably wouldn’t think about staff at all.
Some of this must have shown on her face, she guessed as Razi dipped his head to stare at her. ‘Are you unwell?’ he demanded.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied, knowing pregnancy had taken hold of both her body and her turbulent thoughts.
‘Here, drink this.’ He poured another glass of water.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she insisted as he stared closely at her. But gullible was one thing Razi had never been.
He was instantly suspicious. There had been too much force behind Lucy’s assurance that she was all right. So what was she hiding? He refused to consider the most obvious explanation. Lucy was too honest to hide something so vital from him. But her eyes were wary and she was very pale …
The desire to protect Lucy and to defend a country combined in a surge of longing. He couldn’t have both and had been right to get her out of the city and away from prying eyes. He could have taken her to any number of places, but had chosen the sultry, seductive setting of the Maktabi Lagoon, a place so rich in ecological treasures he and his brother Ra’id only allowed the passing Bedouin to use it. Why here? Because the desert freed him. This place was his haven when he needed to recall how it had felt to be free. And he supposed that, whatever Lucy’s motives for coming to Isla de Sinnebar, some part of him that still remembered the time they had shared in the ski resort had wanted her to see this special place.
And now he wanted her to stay.
Why shouldn’t she stay?
He argued violently with himself, only to come up with the answer that rules might be made to be broken, but that was not the type of leader he intended to be. But for now he’d make her comfortable. ‘I keep a selection of robes in that chest over there,’ he said, viewing her city clothes with some degree of sympathy.
‘For your visitors?’
There was the faintest edge to her voice that made him smile inwardly. This was the Lucy he remembered: fire beneath the ice. And jealous too? He let that pass. What else could he do when he had changed her? He had always wanted Lucy to have confidence and self-belief, and now she had. ‘The Bedouin leave a selection of robes and other products when they use this trail through the desert,’ he explained. ‘That’s our custom here. If we have more than we need we pass it on to our neighbour—so, please, feel free to choose a robe to wear.’ She was hot and flustered in her workplace armour and would be more comfortable in a loose local robe, plus he’d like to see her wearing one—one last image for him to keep. ‘There’s no one but us around,’ he pointed out. ‘Why don’t you take a dip in the oasis to freshen up and then choose a robe?’
Maybe if she reversed that? Lucy thought as Razi strolled over to the ebony chest. She was still on edge with her mind full of what she had come to tell him. She watched as he raised the lid of a chest and rifled inside before pulling out a shimmering robe. In the palest shade of sky blue, it was embroidered with tiny pearls and diamanté, and was perhaps the most beautiful item of clothing she had ever seen. But as he held it up and the light streamed through it she realised it was completely sheer. ‘Don’t you have anything a little less revealing?’
‘This?’ he suggested, pulling out what was clearly a man’s robe.
‘That’s perfect.’ She nodded, plucking the dark, homespun robe out of his hands. It would go round her three times at a guess.
He was cooking over an open fire when Lucy returned from her swim. He’d had plenty of time to think while she’d been enjoying the lagoon, and every answer he’d come up with to explain her unexpected visit remained the same. He shrugged it off, refusing to believe she’d keep something like that from him.
‘You’re cooking,’ she said with surprise.
‘I still have to eat when I’m in the desert.’ He almost smiled. He hadn’t meant to relax, but the desert did that to him. He never felt more calm than when he was alone in this isolated splendour. He had always thought he was ready to see Lucy too—images already formed and complete in his head—but she never failed to surprise him. This time he sprang to his feet to save her embarrassment. The robe she had chosen to wear was trailing round her feet, and instead of winding the headdress, or howlis, as it was known in Isla de Sinnebar, around her head and face leaving only her eyes on view, she had draped it over her hair like a scarf. ‘Here, let me,’ he offered, risking danger just in touching her—and more of the same in being close. Not that he’d ever shrunk from danger, but when that danger came in the form of a woman he wanted to touch—a woman he had always believed to be pure and uncomplicated and now had his doubts about …
‘I’m not wearing it right?’ she said anxiously.
Taking hold of her water-cooled hands, he moved them away from her head to arrange the yards of fabric. He dragged greedily on her intoxicating wildflower scent while he was covering her face until only her concerned eyes were on view. ‘You are now,’ he said, relieved that her lips were covered. ‘Now all I need is a camera.’
‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘You used to have a sense of humour,’ he reminded her, aiming this over his shoulder as he returned to the fire.
‘And so did you,’ she called after him.
There was a moment of complete stillness between them as if they both accepted this, and then she went inside the pavilion to sort out her clothes, leaving him to see to the food. When she returned he tipped the omelette he had prepared for her onto a palm frond.
‘Eat,’
