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“She’s pretty, too.” Shafir smirked.
“I don’t want pretty,” his eldest brother argued.
Pretty. Rafiq shied away from the word. Tiffany had thought she was pretty. Not beautiful. Pretty. Rafiq had considered her beautiful.
“I want a woman who will match me,” Khalid was saying. “I don’t care what she looks like. I need a partner … not a pinup.”
“Hey, my wife is a partner,” Shafir objected. “In my eyes she’s a pinup, too.”
Newly—and happily—married, he’d become the king’s ally in the quest to seek a suitable wife for his brothers. Although Rafiq suspected that Shafir was only trying to drive home how fortunate he’d been to find his Megan. If he could find a woman as unique, as in tune with him as Megan was with Shafir, he’d get married in a shot ….
Khalid bestowed a killing look on Shafir, who laughed and helped himself to a cup of the rich, fragrant coffee that the bank’s newest secretary was busy pouring into small brass cups.
“Thank you, Miss Turner.” To his father Khalid added, “I don’t need a list. I will find my own wife.”
Rafiq craned his neck, peering at the list. “Who else is on there?”
“Farrah? She’s far too young—I don’t want a child bride.”
“Leila Mummhar.”
Rafiq’s suggestion had captured his father’s attention.
“Pah.” The King flung out his arms. “Don’t you give him advice. I was certain you’d be married long before Shafir. Now look at you—no woman at your side since your beloved departed.”
“Shenilla and I had … differences.” It was the best way to describe the pushy interest that Shenilla’s father had started to exert as soon as they’d considered him hooked. Shenilla was a qualified accountant, she was beautiful, her family was well respected in Dhahara. On paper it was the perfect match.
Yet he’d run ….
“Differences?” His father growled. “What is a little difference? Your beloved mother and I had many differences while we were courting. We overcame them and—”
“But your marriage was expected,” Rafiq interrupted. “It was arranged between your families from the time you were very young. You could not end such a relationship.”
The king shook his head. “It made marriage no easier. But we worked at it. Happiness is something to strive for, my son, every day of your life. And you were so in love. Ay me, I was so certain that this time it would be right.”
How could Rafiq confess that he’d been sure that Shenilla had been perfect for him, yet once their families had become involved as quickly as he’d fallen in love with her, he’d fallen out again? And it hadn’t been the first time. Before that there had been Rosa and before her, Neela. He wasn’t indiscriminate. His cautious courtships lasted for lengthy periods—that was expected after the care he put into the choice. But just when they got to the point where formalities like engagements became expected, when the pressure to set a wedding date was applied, the love dwindled, leaving only a restless need to escape the cloying trap the relationship had become.
“Khalid, you may object now but you know your duty.” The king patted his firstborn son on the shoulder. “Choose any one of those women and you will be richly rewarded.”
Rafiq eyed the list and thought of the requirements he’d set for women he considered in the past—after all he was a practical man, his wife would have to fit into his world. Wealthy. Beautiful. Well connected. “Yasmin comes from a powerful family.”
Khalid shook his head fiercely. “No, it’s not her family I’d be marrying. And I want more than power, wealth and looks in a bride. She must be able to keep me interested for many years, long after worldly goods are forgotten.”
Interested? Rafiq’s thoughts veered to the last woman who had occupied his bed.
Tiffany had kept him interested from the moment he’d met her. Yes, he’d told her she was beautiful. And he’d meant it. But she was nothing like the other beauties he’d dated. Her features reflected her every emotion, and the graceful way she moved had held him entranced. She certainly fulfilled none of the other criteria he looked for in a wife … she’d never be suitable.
It shamed him that in one short night with little effort she’d stripped him of the restraint and control he prided himself on. It had disturbed him deeply that a woman whom he didn’t love, held no fondness for, a woman he suspected of being a con artist, a blackmailer, could hold such power over him.
She’d insisted she’d had no intention of bedding him; she’d been as deliciously tight as a virgin, yet she’d produced a condom at the critical moment. And she’d lied about deleting the photos she’d taken of him and Sir Julian. The more he thought about it, the more he decided he’d been played for a fool by an expert.
He’d given her his business card.
Fool!
He stared blindly at the list he held until Shafir stretched across the boardroom table and snagged it. His brother studied it … and hooted with laughter, pulling Rafiq out the trance that held him immobile. “I can’t believe Leila is on here—she’s more work than all the bandits that hide on the border of Marulla.”
“It would make political sense—we would be able to watch her relations,” the king growled.
“Father, we don’t want the trouble that her uncles would bring.” Rafiq shook his head as he referred to the spats that the two sheikhs were infamous for waging. “Pick someone with less baggage.”
Khalid fixed his attention on Shafir. “Maybe I should do what you did … choose a woman with family on the other side of the world. That way I will have no problem with my inlaws.”
Suppressing the urge to grin, Rafiq waited for his father to launch into a tirade about the sanctity of family. But his father wore an arrested expression. “Rafiq, did you not say that Sir Julian Carling has a daughter?”
“Yes.” Rafiq thought of the woman he’d once met. “Elizabeth Carling.”
Despite the dislike he’d taken to Sir Julian, there’d been nothing wrong with the daughter. Elizabeth had everything he usually looked for. Wealth, beauty, connections. Yet there’d been no spark. Not like what he’d experienced with Tiffany—if such a wild madness could be termed a spark. It had been more like a conflagration.
At last he nodded. “Yes, she would be a good choice for Khalid.”
“Add her to the list,” his father commanded Shafir. “Rafiq says her father is coming to Dhahara to inspect the site for the new Carling Hotel. Her father is a very wealthy man.” King Selim gave his eldest son an arch look, and leaned back in his chair. “I will invite Lady Carling and his daughter, too.”
Even as Khalid glared at him, the young secretary reappeared in the doorway, concern in her eyes. “The CEO of Pyramid Oil is here for his appointment. What shall I tell him?”
“That’s right, run, before I kill you for adding to the pressure,” his brother muttered, but Rafiq only laughed.
“Discussing your future took the heat off me, so thanks.”
Khalid snorted in disgust.
Still grinning, Rafiq turned to the young secretary. “Miss Turner, give us five more minutes—by then I will be done.”
Tiffany stepped out of the cab into the dry, arid midday heat of Dhahara. Hot wind redolent of spices and a tang of the desert swept around her. In front of her towered the Royal Bank of Dhahara. The butterflies that had been floating around in her stomach started to whip their wings in earnest.
Sure, she’d known from his gold-embossed card that Rafiq would be an important man. President, Royal Bank of Dhahara. But not this important.
Yet coming here had been the right thing to do. She’d never doubted her path from the moment the doctor had confirmed her deepest fear. But being confronted with the material reality of where Rafiq worked, knowing that it would be only minutes before she saw him again, made her palms grow moist and her heart thump loudly in her chest.
She paid the driver and couldn’t help being relieved that she’d had the foresight to check into a city hotel and stow her luggage in her room before coming here. Pulling a filmy scarf over her hair, she passed the bank’s uniformed guard and headed for the glass sliding doors.
Inside, behind the sleek, circular black marble reception counter, stood a young, clean-shaven man in a dark suit and white headgear. Tiffany approached him, determined to brazen this out. “I have an appointment.”
His brow creased as he scanned the computer screen in front of him, searching for an appointment she knew would not be listed for today … or any day. Finally he shook his head.
But Tiffany had not come this far to be deterred. She held her ground, refusing to turn away.
“Call Rafiq Al Dhahara.” Her conjuring up the name she’d memorized from the business card caused him to do a double take. “Tell him Tiffany Smith is here to see him.” She mustered up every bit of authority that she had. “He won’t be pleased if he learns you sent me away without bothering to check.”
That was stretching the truth, because Rafiq might well refuse to see her. Even if he did agree to speak to her, he would certainly not be pleased to find her here in Dhahara.
But the bank official wasn’t to know that.
Tiffany waited, arms folded across a stomach that was still behaving in the most peculiar fashion, as it fluttered and tumbled over.
He picked up a telephone and spoke in Arabic. When he’d finished, his expression had changed. “The sheikh will see you.”
The sheikh?
Oh, my. This time her stomach turned a full somersault. “Sheikh?” she spluttered. “I thought he was—” she searched a mind gone suddenly blank for the impressive title on his business card “—the president of the Royal Bank of Dhahara.”
The bank official gave her a peculiar look. “The royal family owns the bank.”
“What does that have to do with Rafiq?”
He blinked at her casual use of his name, and then replied, “The sheikh is part of the royal family.”
Before she could faintly repeat “royal family,” the elevator doors to the left of the marble reception counter slid open, and Rafiq himself stepped out.
His face was haughtier than she remembered, his eyes darker, his cheekbones more aristocratic. Sheikh? Royal family? He certainly looked every inch the part in a dark suit with a conservative white shirt that even in this sweltering heat appeared crisp and fresh. Yet his head was uncovered, and his hair gleamed like a black hawk’s wing. After all the soul-searching it had taken to bring her here, now that she faced him she couldn’t think of a word to say.
So she settled for the most inane.
“Hi.”
“Tiffany.”
The sphinxlike gaze revealed no surprise. He’d told her he never wanted to see her again. Ever. Now she stood before him, shifting from one foot to the other. The displeasure she’d expected was absent. Typically, he showed no emotion at all. The wall of stony reserve was as high as ever.
He bowed his head. “Please, come with me.”
If it hadn’t been for one never-to-be-forgotten night in Hong Kong, she’d never have known that his reserve could be breached.
That night …
The memory of the catastrophic extremes, heaven and hell, pleasure and shame, still had the power to make her shudder.
Tiffany had been sure nothing would make her contact him again. Nothing. But she’d been so wrong. She pressed her hand to her belly.
Her baby.
He ushered her into the elevator. Unexpectedly, the elevator dropped instead of rising. Her stomach rolled wildly. Tiffany gritted her teeth. Seconds later the doors opened to reveal a well-lit parking level where a black Mercedes-Benz idled, waiting. Rafiq strode forward and opened the rear door.
She hesitated. “Where—?”
His dark gaze was hooded. “There is no privacy here.”
He was ashamed of her.
Despite a tinge of apprehension Tiffany swallowed her protests and, straightening her spine, stepped past him and slid into the leather backseat.
She’d come to Dhahara because of her baby. Not for herself. Not for Rafiq. For their unborn child.
She couldn’t afford to let fear dominate her.
For her daughter she had put aside her desire never to encounter Rafiq again. For the baby’s sake, she would keep her relationship with Rafiq cordial. Unemotional. Her daughter deserved the right to know her father. Nor could she allow herself to indulge in wild notions that he might kidnap her child, hide her away.
He was a businessman. He’d told her he’d been educated in England and the United States. He headed a large bank. Even it if was a position he’d gotten through nepotism, neither he—nor his royal family—could afford the kind of international outcry that would come from taking her baby from her. He was a single man—or at least she hoped he was—what would he do with a baby?
The silence was oppressive. Fifteen minutes later the Mercedes came to a smooth stop, and the rear doors opened. Rafiq’s hand closed around her elbow—to escort her or ensure she didn’t escape? Tiffany wasn’t sure. As he hurried her up a flight of stairs, she caught a glimpse of two guards in red berets standing in front of stone pillars that flanked a vast wooden front door. Then the door swung inward and they were inside a vaulted entrance hall.
She gazed around, wide-eyed. Despite the mansions she’d seen, this dwelling took luxury to new heights. “Where are we?”
“This is my home.”
A hasty glance revealed magnificent dark wooden floors covered in Persian rugs, original art hanging on deep blue walls. Refusing to be impressed, Tiffany focused her attention on Rafiq. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
His lips quirked, and something devilish gleamed in his eyes. “Talk? Our best communication is done in other ways. I thought that must be why you are here.”
Damn him for the reminder.
Tiffany compressed her lips. “I need to talk to you.”
“Whenever we talk, it seems to cost me money.” The humor had vanished, and he gave her a brooding look.
His words only underscored what she already knew: he thought her the worst kind of woman. What would he say when he discovered she was pregnant with his child? A frisson of alarm chilled her.
“I haven’t come all this way for money, Rafiq.”
“I’m very relieved to hear that.”
He strode down a hall hung with richly woven tapestries that held the patina of age. Tiffany resisted the urge to slow and inspect them.
“But for the moment I will reserve judgment,” he was saying. “I will be more convinced of that once I have heard what you have to say to me.”
He didn’t believe her. He thought this was about money.
“Hey, I sent you a check for what you gave me,” she protested. She hadn’t wanted to be in his debt.
“Sure you did.”
“I sent it last week. Maybe it’s still in the mail.” She’d meant to send it earlier. Discovering she was pregnant had wiped all other thoughts out of her head. But now she was seriously starting to wish that she had called … not come all this way to give him the news about his impending fatherhood.
Yet it had seemed the right thing to do. She’d wanted to break the news in person, not over the phone separated by thousands of miles, unable to register the nuances of his expression. And certainly not by an e-mail that might go astray.
This was too important. Her child’s whole life, her baby’s relationship with her father, would be determined by the course of this conversation.
And she wasn’t about to let Rafiq Al Dhahara cause her to regret the decision she’d made to come here to tell him.
