The Sheikh Who Claimed Her. Barbara McMahonЧитать онлайн книгу.
windows—so what? He could have been the lowliest member of the crew and she wouldn’t have felt any different about him. Both vehicles were surrounded by security guards, but she’d be an important witness in the piracy trial, Antonia reasoned, so there would have to be precautions taken for her safety. She looked at Saif, who was greeting the paramedic. To her eyes Saif couldn’t have looked more magnificent if he had been wearing the silken robes of her imagination. Even in plain linen he had the bearing of a king. It wasn’t just that he was tall and imposing, or incredibly good-looking. He had such an easy manner—with everyone except her, she realised ruefully. She was apparently invisible now. In spite of everything she had so forcefully told herself, she yearned for a sign from Saif that said she meant something to him.
She would wait a long time for that, Antonia concluded as Saif brought the paramedic over to meet her. ‘Take good care of the patient,’ he said. ‘She’s had a rough time.’
As he spoke Saif didn’t even glance at her, though the paramedic, a much older man, gave her a kindly smile, which she returned before bracing herself to disembark.
‘Kum shams ilha maghrib,’ Saif murmured as she passed within earshot.
‘I’m sorry?’ She didn’t understand and turned to look at him for an explanation.
‘Every sun has its sunset,’ Saif translated, and for the briefest moment she thought she saw regret in his eyes.
That was his gift to her. Saif wanted her to know it had been a special time for him. It was the only gift she could ever want from him, just as leaving him without making a fuss would be her gift to him. ‘You’re right,’ she said so that only Saif could hear. ‘All good things must come to an end.’
And then, conscious that the paramedic was waiting for her, she left the yacht with her head held high.
As the limousine swept up to the steps of the palace he felt the return to reality more keenly than usual, but it altered nothing. The moment he stepped out of the limousine, he was changed. That was how it had to be. This was work. This was duty. This was his life.
The palace was set like a rose-pink moonstone on the golden shores of an aquamarine Gulf. It was an elegant marble paradise, where every luxury man could devise awaited him, and a fleet of servants was devoted to his every whim. He had never troubled to count the bedrooms, and doubted anyone ever had. Soon he would be making a gift of this towering edifice to his people, but until that time he called it home.
He strode inside, greeting people by name as they bowed to him, lifting them to their feet when they knelt in front of him. He loathed the deference some of his fellow sheikhs actively courted, and lived austerely considering his fabulous wealth. He valued all the treasures history had granted him, but he valued his people more.
He bathed and then clothed himself in the costume of power, adopting the shackles of responsibility with each new item. The heavy silk robe reminded him of the weight of duty, while the headdress spoke of the respect in which he held his country and its people. The golden agal holding that headdress in place was his badge of office, like the jewelled sash he wore at his waist. The sash carried his emblem, which he had personally designed as a representation of his pledge to Sinnebar. The rampant lion picked out in flashing jewels was a warning to anyone who threatened his land, and the cold, blue sapphire clutched in its claws was the heart he had given to his country and his people. On the day of his coronation, he had vowed that nothing would alter the pledge of that heart, or disturb the order he had returned to Sinnebar following his father’s chaotic rule. That history had come back to haunt him in the form of a woman long dead, his despised stepmother Helena, something he intended to deal with without delay.
While he was away it appeared a letter had been found in Helena’s room. Written before her death to an elderly maidservant, it contained a photograph of Helena holding a tiny baby girl in her arms. That was why they had called him back so urgently. Trusted advisors could be relied upon to keep this revelation under wraps, but not for long in a palace so heavily populated it was almost like a city in its own right.
The baby wasn’t even his father’s child, but the Italian Ruggiero’s, and should have had no entitlement to land in Sinnebar. But when Helena had died the land had passed in equal part to her children. His father had paid her off, because Helena was the mother of his son. Razi ruled his own country and had returned the land to Sinnebar. Helena’s daughter had not. It enraged him beyond belief to think that a woman long dead, a woman who had brought so much grief to his family while she was alive, could reach out even now from the grave to threaten his land.
He shouldn’t be surprised to find his father had left him one last problem to overcome, Ra’id reflected grimly, checking his royal regalia before leaving the room. They had never seen eye to eye on matters of duty versus the heart.
He left the robing room with a purposeful stride, mentally preparing for the task ahead of him. The prospect of encountering anything connected to Helena was distasteful to him. It was an excursion into a world he had no wish to go to. Helena’s heir should be clearing out her belongings, but the identity of the baby in the photograph had not yet been established. He would read through the documents and see what he could glean. At least it should prove a distraction, he conceded grimly, for a man tormented by the memory of a dancing girl invoking the moon, as he listened in vain for the sound of her voice.
He would never forget his desert-island castaway, Ra’id realised as he paused to admire the elegance of one of the inner courtyards. With its mellow fountains and counterpoint of singing birds, it was possible to hope that there were enough distractions here in Sinnebar, so that in time her voice would fade and her face would slip out of focus, until one day she would be just The Girl—a memory consigned to history along with all the rest. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, breathing in the heavy perfumes of the East, waiting for them to blank out the girl’s fresh, clean scent. When that didn’t happen, he frowned and turned away. The courtyard, with its fretwork screens and carved stone palisades, was made for the type of romance he had no time for. He didn’t even know why he’d stopped here.
His robes rustled expensively as he strode away, the sound of them reminding him at all times of duty. When he reached his office he would read the letter again and study the land deeds. He would not tolerate part of Sinnebar being casually handed over to someone who cared nothing for the land of his birth and who didn’t even live in Sinnebar. He would soon put an end to this outrageous claim and bury Helena’s legacy of turmoil once and for all.
Before transferring Antonia to a luxury hotel, they had advised her to stay in a private clinic for several days, to check for concussion. She’d wanted to say she’d had a blow to the heart, not to the head, but the nurses and staff had been so friendly, and she had welcomed the chance to rest and regroup in such a clean and efficient place.
Her bills were covered, the staff had explained when she’d started to fret about expenses. She’d had no need to ask by whom, Antonia reflected, wandering out onto the balcony of the luxury hotel suite where she had just been transferred to. All of this had been paid for by Saif. It had to be Saif. Who else knew she was here?
Knowing Saif had paid for her care did nothing to ease Antonia’s heartache. The fact that he hadn’t tried to contact her once only rubbed salt in a wound she doubted would ever heal. How could it heal when there was no cure for her feelings for Saif?
The light of another day was fading, coating the city in a honeyed glow. The pink marble walls of the palace were tinted a deeper red as the sun drooped wearily towards the horizon. Leaning over the cool stone balustrade, Antonia pictured her mother catching sight of this same palace for the first time. Surely Helena must have seen the palace? It was impossible to miss the magnificent building on a visit to Sinnebar’s capital, where the palace dominated the cityscape.
Knowing so little about her mother, Antonia could only guess that she was following in Helena’s footsteps. She had to believe that whatever she found in Sinnebar would bring them closer in some small way. She wanted to understand her mother’s early life. She knew that Helena had been very young when she had come to the Gulf, so it was easy to work out that she had probably been a student,