Shackled to the Sheikh Page 3

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. I’ll fill you in on what I do know when you get here.’

  Tora slipped her phone away and glanced once more at the man she’d left sleeping on the bed, the man who’d blown her world apart and put it back together again more times than she would have believed possible in just one night. She shouldn’t be sorry there wouldn’t be one more time, she really shouldn’t. No, no regrets. It was a one-night deal and now that night was over. She gathered up her discarded shirt and skirt and abandoned underwear and dressed silently in the bathroom.

  Leaving this way was better for both of them. At least this way there was no chance of an awkward goodbye scene. No chance of anyone expecting too much or appearing hopeful or needy.

  He seemed like the kind of man who’d be relieved she wasn’t going to hang around and argue the point.

  She picked up her shoes and spared one last glance towards the bed.

  One night with a stranger.

  But what a night.

  He’d done what he’d promised to do. He’d blotted out the pain and the anger of her cousin’s betrayal. He’d taken her from feeling shell-shocked and numb with grief and for a few magical hours he’d transported her away from her hurt and despair to a world filled with unimaginable pleasure.

  He’d made her forget.

  She let the door snick behind her.

  It was going to be a hell of a lot harder to forget him.

  * * *

  He woke with a heavy head from too little sleep and with a dark mood brewing yet still he reached for her. There were things he had to do today, facts he had to face from which there was no escaping—headaches, each and every one of them—but the lawyer and the vizier and the headaches could wait. There was something he wanted more right now in this drowsy waking time before he had to let the cold, hard light of day hit him, as he knew it soon would. Someone he wanted more.

  His searching hand met empty sheets. He rolled over, reaching further, finding nothing but an empty bed and cold sheets and not the warm woman he was looking for. He cracked open an eyelid and found no one.

  Now he was wide awake. ‘Tora?’ he called. But there was no answer, nothing but the soft hum of the air conditioner kicking in as the temperature rose with the sun outside.

  ‘Tora,’ he repeated, louder this time, on his feet now as he checked the bathroom and the living room. He pulled back the curtains in case she’d decided to take coffee out there so as not to waken him. Morning light poured into the room, and he squinted against the rising sun, but the terrace, like every other part of the suite, was empty.

  She was gone, without so much as a word.

  She was gone, before he was ready.

  Before he was done with her.

  He growled, a vein in his temple throbbing while his dark mood grew blacker by the minute.

  Until he remembered with a jolt the revelations of yesterday and his black mood changed direction. He glanced at the clock. He had a meeting to get to.

  He’d been angry when the lawyer had told him that he’d arranged it—too blindsided by the lawyer’s revelations to think straight, too incensed that someone other than himself was suddenly pulling the strings of his life—but now he welcomed this meeting with this so-called vizier of Qajaran. Maybe he would have the answers to his questions.

  Only then, when he was convinced, would he agree to take on this baby sister—no, half-sister—the product of a father who’d abandoned Rashid as a toddler, and a woman he’d taken as his lover.

  Only then would he agree to take on guardianship of her, to take responsibility for her now that both her parents were dead, and to fill the void in her life, and wasn’t that the richest thing of all?

  Because how the hell was he supposed to fill a void in anyone’s life when there’d been nobody to fill the void in his?

  Thanks for that.

  He cast one last glance back towards the rumpled bed as he headed to the shower, the bed that bore the tangled evidence of their lovemaking. How many times they’d come together in the dark night, he couldn’t remember, only that every time he’d turned to her she’d been there, seemingly insatiable and growing bolder each time.

  No wonder he’d been angry when he’d found her gone.

  No wonder he’d felt short-changed.

  But one night was what he’d wanted and it was better this way. She’d more than served her purpose. He’d lost himself in her and she’d blotted out the shock and pain for a while, but now he needed a clear head and no distractions. He thought back to the night that was. She’d been one hell of a distraction and he would have been hard pressed to send her on her way. It was better that she’d saved him the effort.

  * * *

  Kareem was not as Rashid had envisaged. He’d imagined someone called a vizier to be a small man, wiry and astute. But the man the lawyer introduced him to in his dark-timbered library was a tall, gentle-looking giant of indeterminate age who could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. He looked the part of a wise man, perfectly at ease in his sandals and robes amongst a city full of men wearing suits and ties.

  Kareem bowed when he was introduced to Rashid, his eyes wide. ‘You are indeed your father’s son.’

  A tremor went down Rashid’s spine. ‘You knew my father?’

  The older man nodded. ‘I did, although our dealings have been few and far between of late. I knew you, too, as an infant. It is good to meet you again after all these years.’

  The lawyer excused himself then, leaving the two men to talk privately.

  ‘Why have you come?’ Rashid asked, taking no time to get to the point. ‘Why did you ask for this meeting?’

  ‘Your father’s death raises issues of which you should be aware, even if I fear you may find them unpalatable.’

  Rashid sighed. He was sick of all the riddles, but he was no closer today to believing that this man they were talking about actually was his father than when the lawyer had dropped that particular bombshell yesterday. ‘You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to convince me. My father died when I was just a child.’

  ‘That is what your father wanted you to believe,’ the older man said.

  ‘Wanted me to believe?’

  ‘I take your point,’ the vizier conceded, his big hands raised in surrender. ‘It would be more correct to say that he wanted the entire world to believe he was dead. I did not mean to give the impression that he was singling you out.’

  Rashid snorted. And that was supposed to be some kind of compensation?

  ‘And my mother?’ he snapped before the other man could continue. ‘What of her? Is she similarly living out a life of gay abandon somewhere else in the world, having tossed her maternal responsibilities to the winds?’

  The vizier shook his head. ‘I almost wish I could tell you she was, but sadly no, your mother died while you were in infancy, as you are no doubt aware. I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I know this must be difficult for you, but there is more. Much more.’

  Rashid waved the threat in those words away. ‘I already know about this so-called sister, if that’s what you’re referring to.’

  ‘Atiyah? Yes, she is on her way here now, I believe. But I was not referring to her.’

  He frowned. ‘Then what? In fact, why are you here? What do you have to do with my father’s affairs anyway?’

  The older man regarded him levelly, his eyes solemn. ‘I know you were brought up,’ he said, slowly and purposefully, as if sensing Rashid’s discomfiture, ‘believing your father to have been a humble tailor, killed in an industrial accident...’ He paused, as if to check Rashid was still listening.

  He was listening all right, although it was hard to hear with the thumping of his heart. Today he’d expected answers. Instead all h
e was getting was more of the madness.

  ‘In actual case, your father was neither. Your father was a member of the Royal House of Qajar.’ He paused again. ‘Do you know much of Qajaran?’

  Rashid closed his eyes. He knew the small desert country well enough—his work as a petroleum engineer had taken him there several times. It had a problematic economy, he was aware, like so many countries that he visited, not that he had paid this one much more attention than he paid any of them. He had learned early on in his career that it was better not to get involved in the affairs of state when one was a visiting businessman.

  But for Rashid’s father to have been a member of the House of Qajar—the father he’d believed to be nothing more than a tailor—then he must have been a member of the royal family...

  The wheels of his mind started turning. ‘So who was my father?’

  ‘The Emir’s nephew...’ the vizier paused again ‘...and his chosen successor over his own son who he judged as being too self-centred and weak.’

  His nephew? His chosen successor? ‘But if what you say is true...’ Rashid ground out the words, still not convinced by the story he was hearing ‘...why was he living here in Australia? What happened?’

  The older man took a sip of his milk and returned it to its coaster, every move measured and calm and at odds with the turmoil Rashid was feeling inside.

  ‘Your father was an accomplished polo player,’ the vizier said, ‘and while he was overseas competing in one of his polo competitions, the old Emir died suddenly.’ He paused on a breath, the silence stretching out to breaking point. ‘Some would say too suddenly, and, of course, there was some suggestion at the time that the timing was “convenient”, but nothing could ever be proved. By the time your father had arrived home, the Emir’s son had announced his ascension to the throne and moved the palace forces squarely behind himself. Your father knew nothing of this and was placed under house arrest the moment he returned to the palace. But your father was popular with the people and questions were inevitably asked about his disappearance—uncomfortable questions when all of Qajaran knew he was the favoured choice for Emir—and so Malik announced he was to be appointed special adviser to the Emir while deciding privately that it would be better to have him out of the way completely.’

  ‘So they exiled him?’

  ‘No. Malik was nowhere near that merciful. The plan was to kill him but make it look like an accident. A helicopter accident en route from the mountain palace to where the ceremony would take place.’

  Air hissed through Rashid’s teeth.

  ‘Fortunately your father had a supporter in the palace. My predecessor could not stand back and let such a crime happen. They secreted bodies from the hospital morgue and when the time came, they parachuted to safety and the helicopter duly crashed, its cargo of dead burned beyond recognition, assumed to be the pilot and the true heir to the throne. Clothing from a small child was found in the wreckage, jackals assumed to have made off with the remains.’

  Rashid felt chills down his spine. ‘A small child,’ he repeated. ‘Me.’

  The vizier nodded. ‘You. The new Emir was leaving nothing to chance. But your father’s life came at a cost. To protect the lives of those who had saved him and his son, he had to swear he would never return to Qajaran, and he would live his life as an exile with a false identity. Your names were both changed, your histories altered, but, even so, as a father and son you would have been too recognisable together, and so, in order to keep you safe, he had to cut you free.’

  Rashid’s hands curled into fists. ‘I grew up alone. I grew up thinking my father was dead.’’

  The vizier was unapologetic. ‘You grew up in safety. Had Malik suspected even one hint of your existence, he would have sent out his dogs and had you hunted down.’

  Rashid battled to make sense of it all. ‘But Malik died, what? Surely it’s a year ago by now. Why did my father keep silent then? Why did he not move to claim the throne then if he was still alive?’

  The older man shrugged and turned the palms of his hands up to the ceiling. ‘Because he had made a solemn promise never to return and he was a man of honour, a man of his word.’

  ‘No, that doesn’t cut it. He still could have told me! He could have sought me out. Why should I have been denied knowing my father was alive because of a promise he’d made to somebody else years ago?’

  ‘I know.’ The vizier exhaled on a sigh. ‘Rashid, I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your father decided it was better that you never knew of your heritage. I sought him out after Malik died. I begged him to reach out to you—I begged him to let me reach out to you—but he refused. He said it was better that way, that you never knew the truth, that it couldn’t hurt you any more than it already had. He made me promise not to contact you while he lived.’

  Rashid shook his head, his jaw so tightly set he had to fight to squeeze the words out. ‘So he decided to keep me in the dark—about everything. Even the fact my own father was still alive.’

  ‘Don’t you think it cost your father—to be cursed with only seeing his son from afar and searching the papers for any hint of where you were and what you were doing? But he was proud of you and all that you achieved.’

  ‘He had a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘He saw all that you achieved by yourself and, wrongly or rightly, he chose to let you remain on that path, unfettered by the responsibility he knew would come if you knew the truth.’

  The sensation of scuttling insects started at the base of his neck and worked its way down his spine. He peered at the vizier through suspicious eyes and asked the questions he feared he already knew the answers to. ‘What do you mean? What responsibility?’

  ‘Don’t you see? You are Qajaran’s true and rightful ruler, Rashid. I am asking you to come back to Qajaran with me and claim the throne.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  RASHID LAUGHED. He couldn’t help but laugh, even though he’d half suspected something similar, but the old man was so fervent and the idea so preposterous. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Please forgive me, but I am not in the habit of joking about such matters.’

  Rashid got the impression the man was not in the habit of making jokes at all, the complete lack of humour in the vizier’s response stopping Rashid’s mirth dead. ‘But I haven’t lived in Qajaran since I was a boy, if what you say is true, because I certainly can’t even remember a time when I did. I have visited it briefly two or three times since at the most. There must be someone better, someone more qualified?’

  ‘There has been a power vacuum since Malik’s death. A Council of Elders has taken over the basics of governing, but there is no clear direction and no one person to take responsibility. Qajaran needs a strong leader, and there can be no one more fitting than the son of the true successor. In the beginning, I know it is what your father wanted for you, to reclaim your birthright, even though with time he changed his mind and wished for you the freedom that he had found. He had made a life here, after all, and I think the longer he was away from Qajaran, the less connection he felt and the less your father felt he owed his homeland.’

  ‘The father I never knew,’ he said, not even trying to prevent the bitterness infusing his voice. ‘If indeed he was my father. Why should I take your word that he was?’

  The old man nodded. ‘I would be concerned if you accepted too quickly the challenge that lies before you. I would think you are attracted to the concept of power, other than the benefit of our peoples.’ He slipped a hand into the folds of his robes and pulled something from a pocket. ‘Malik sought to destroy all likenesses of your father. This one survived.’ He handed it to Rashid.

  It was one of those old photo folders that opened like a card, the cardboard crinkled and dog-eared around the border but the picture inside still preserved. A photo of a
man dressed dashingly in the Qajarese colours of orange, white and red, sitting proudly astride an Arab polo pony, a mallet casually slung over his shoulder as he posed for the camera.

  ‘My God,’ Rashid said, for he recognised his own features in the photograph—his own high cheekbones and forehead and the set of his jaw. The eyes the same dark blue. It could have been him sitting on that horse.

  ‘You see it,’ Kareem said. ‘There is no denying it.’ The old man leaned forward. ‘Your country needs you, Rashid. Qajaran is at a crossroads. Thirty years of a ruler who wasted every opportunity unless it benefited him directly, thirty years of frittering the revenues that came from its industries and rich resources on follies and peccadilloes. It is more by good luck than good management that the economy of Qajaran has not been completely ruined. But now it is time to start building. There is a desperate need for strong leadership, education and reform.’

  Rashid shook his head. ‘Why would the people accept me as leader, when I am supposed to have died in a helicopter crash three decades ago? Why would they believe it is even me?’

  ‘The people have long memories. Malik may have tried to wipe your father from the collective memory of the Qajarese people, but never could he wipe the love of him from their hearts. Truly, you would be welcomed back.’

  ‘When I am supposed to be dead? How does that work?’

  ‘Your body was never found, assumed to be taken by the desert beasts, which means there is doubt. The people of Qajaran are in desperate need of a miracle. The return of you to Qajaran would be that miracle.’

  Rashid shook his head. ‘This is madness. I am a petroleum engineer. That is my job—that is what I do.’

  ‘But you were born Qajarese. You were born to rule. That is in your blood.’

  Rashid stood, his legs too itchy to remain seated any longer, and crossed to a window, watching the traffic and the pedestrians rushing by in the street below. They all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Nobody was stopping them and telling them that their lives up till now had been founded on a lie, and that they must become someone they had never in their wildest nightmares thought they would be. Nobody was telling them they had a tiny sister they were now responsible for—let alone a nation full of people for whom they were now responsible.