is five, Saba is six and Jinan, the eldest, is seven,” Sharif answered.
“They’re babies!”
“My wife went away to boarding school early, too.”
Jesslyn had also gone to boarding school in England, but she’d never enjoyed it, never felt happy about the long school term and the all-too-brief summer and winter holidays. She’d also been terribly homesick at first, but she’d adapted. But then again, she’d been quite a bit older, almost nine when she’d first gone away. And she hadn’t been grieving the loss of a mother, either.
“Maybe they’re too young,” she said carefully. “Or maybe it’s too much, too soon after the loss of their mother.”
Sharif nodded, jaw flexing. “If that were the case they would be happy now that they’re home. But they’re not. They’re still quite withdrawn. It’s as if they’ve become someone else’s children.”
“Maybe it’s not an academic issue at all.”
“I wondered the same thing myself, so I invited a doctor, a specialist in children’s mental health issues, to come meet them, spend the day with them, and the doctor said that children go through different adjustment periods and that eventually they’ll be fine.”
Jesslyn heard the tension and frustration in Sharif’s voice. He genuinely cared about his girls. He wanted to help them. He just didn’t know how.
He said as much when he continued speaking. “That’s why I’ve come to you. You were always so good with children, even back when you’d just started your teacher training in London. I thought that if anyone could help them, it’d be you.”
“Sharif, you know I’m not a therapist, I’m a teacher.”
“Yes, and I need you to teach them. Takia can’t return with her sisters if she doesn’t make up missed and failed coursework, and the other two are struggling in several subjects. You’re to teach all of them. They will attend lessons with you every day. I’ve converted the palace library into a classroom and purchased all the necessary textbooks.”
“I haven’t taught children as young as yours in years,” she reminded him. “My specialty is older children, middle schoolers and high school students, and the curriculum is American based, not UK—”
“That’s fine. I’ve bought teacher’s editions, and should you find you require something else, materials, computers, an assistant to help you, just let me know and it’s yours.”
Why did his reassurance not make her feel better? Why did that niggle of doubt within her just grow? Was it because elementary education wasn’t her area, or because she was afraid of failing when it came to teaching Sharif’s children?
“Sharif, I just want to make sure you understand that in this instance, I am not the best teacher for the job. I spend my days teaching literature, grammar, social studies to eleven-through-fourteen-year-olds. I don’t teach how to read but how to interpret literary themes, how to deconstruct plot structure, character and conflict.” Swallowing quickly she looked up into his eyes. “There are a thousand teachers in Europe more qualified than me—”
“But none more suitable,” he answered, leaning forward to touch the back of her hand.
It was a light touch and yet the brush of his fingers across her skin made her breath catch and her belly knot. His touch was still familiar, achingly familiar. For years he had no place in her heart, her mind or her life, and yet in less than twelve hours he’d changed all that.
“What makes me so suitable?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky, colored with emotions and desire she hadn’t even known she still could feel. Immediately she fought back, reminding herself, he isn’t yours anymore. And you’re not his.
But that didn’t seem to matter right now, not when she was awash in emotions, stirred by desire. It’d been so easy to be his. It’d felt absolutely natural. And she hadn’t known then that what they had was rare and magical. She hadn’t known she would never feel that way about anyone again.
Sharif stared across the room, off into the distance, his eyes so striking, his silver-gray irises framed by the densest black lashes with black winged eyebrows beneath a strong forehead. He was her Valentino of the desert.
“There are advantages to being king,” he said at last, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “It didn’t take me long to appreciate those advantages—everyone bows to you, acquiescing to keep you happy. I’m surrounded by people desperate to please me.”
He paused, frowned, before continuing. “It’s taken me longer to understand the disadvantages. No one wants to earn my disapproval. No one wants to lose a job, a connection, a reward. So people are afraid to tell me unpleasant things and bad news, even if it happens to be the truth.”
He turned now to look at her. “Maybe once I wanted that blind obedience, the adoration of my people, but it was a mistake. What I really needed were people who’d give me the truth.” His expression shifted, growing troubled and remote. “Truth. Whatever it is.”
Truth, she repeated silently, mesmerized by the shadows in his gaze. Those shadows hadn’t been there when she knew him. When they’d been together, he’d been so bold, so confident, so … free.
But that wasn’t the Sharif sitting before her now. No, this man had the weight of the world on his shoulders, weight and worry and a hundred different concerns.
“It hasn’t been easy, I take it,” she said, remembering how she and Sharif had once loved their evenings and weekends, time for just the two of them, time for long walks and talks followed by a stop at the corner video store and then Chinese or curry take-out. They used to hole up in her apartment and sit on her bed and eat Kung Pao chicken with chopsticks and kiss and laugh.
And laugh.
Looking at Sharif she wondered when he’d last laughed. For that matter, when had she?
But maybe that was all part of growing up. Maybe one became a full-fledged adult and let all those romantic dreams go….
“I’m not complaining,” he answered. “I love my country. I love my children. But nothing is easy, no. There are always compromises. Sacrifices. But you’ve had those, too, I’m sure.” His head turned and he looked at her. “Haven’t you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
DESPITE her sumptuous room with the most amazing Egyptian-cotton linens on the bed, Jesslyn couldn’t sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel that fleeting brush of Sharif’s fingers against the back of her hand, a touch that had scorched her then, a touch that burned her still. But it wasn’t just his touch that stayed with her, it was his low voice, a voice that hummed inside her head.
In the dark of her room she felt caught in a time warp, suspended in a moment where they were still together and still very much in love.
After such a fitful night’s sleep, the alarm came too early, jarring Jesslyn awake. For a long moment she sat on the edge of her bed, struggling to get her bearings, and then she remembered she was in a hotel room in Dubai waiting for her morning flight to Sarq.
She
