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Bryn closed her eyes, praying for a miracle, praying that somehow she could disappear with Ben, prevent this terrible moment from happening. Instead Kahlil came to a standstill beside her, towering above them, the legs of his dark trousers just inches from her bent head.
“Would you care to explain?” Kahlil asked quietly, his accent pronounced, his English formal, just the way they’d taught him in boarding school.
Her stomach heaved. Her teeth began to chatter.
But Ben, so young, so innocent, lifted his dark head, and stared at Kahlil, wide brown eyes fixed intently on his father’s angry face. “Mommy, who is that man?”
CHAPTER FOUR
WITHIN minutes of boarding the Learjet, the engines roared to life and they were off, taxiing down the runway, lifting from the ground. The sparkling lights of Texas fell away, and the night ominously purple-black, stretched silently before them.
Bryn wrapped her arms more snugly around Ben, her nerves close to breaking. She was grateful he finally slept, his thousand questions during the drive to the airport so innocent and yet so troubling. Where are we going, Mommy? Will we stay at a hotel? Can we go swimming?
Can we go swimming?
Oh God, what a question! For him this was an adventure, an exciting break from the day-to-day. He was with his mommy, he was on an airplane, and he’d been given a glass of soda pop. What else could a three-year-old want?
She closed her eyes, a lump sealing her throat, tears not far off. Everything she’d fought for the last three years had been lost. Ben’s safety was now in question. It all depended on Kahlil.
And Kahlil had said nothing since they boarded his plane two hours ago. But she knew him well enough to read his mood, his hard features set in sharp, tight lines, his temper barely leashed. Oh, he was angry. No, he was more than angry, he was livid.
She swallowed hard, swallowing around the lump, feeling as though she was choking, fear, panic, regret knotting inside her, making her completely crazed.
What would happen now? What would Kahlil do?
Ben stirred fretfully, protesting her tense grip. More gently she shifted him, slowly rocking in the leather lounge chair.
Ben relaxed again, his small body curling more closely against her, his soft cheek settling against her breast.
She felt his breath, and his shudder, as he sighed in his sleep. Her heart ached, her love for him almost too painful, too intense. Had her parents felt this way about her? And if so, why hadn’t she known it?
She’d been without her parents now nearly as many years as she’d spent with them and their memory was blurring, not their faces as they appeared in photographs, but their voices, the inflections, the conversations they’d had with her. She remembered their love for their work, their passion for the desert and the nomadic people of the Middle East, but she couldn’t recall the things they’d said to her, the little things about her interests, her needs, her dreams.
But it wasn’t her needs that were important now, it was Ben. His interests. His needs. And she vowed now, as she had since his birth, that he’d have security. He’d be safe. He’d feel loved.
She pressed another kiss to the top of his warm brow before smoothing a fistful of black hair back from his flushed face. He was beautiful, jet-black hair, dark eyes, perfectly made. So much like Kahlil…
“When is his birthday, Bryn?”
Kahlil knew. It was obvious Ben was his. They shared the same eyes, nose, beautiful curve of cheek and jaw. Even though Ben was young you could see the hints of the man he’d be.
Hot tears scalded her eyes. “May 8.”
Kahlil didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She could feel his swift mental calculations and he added it up for himself, their wedding, the months between, the birth of Ben. She’d conceived him after their honeymoon when all she wanted was to be alone and naked with Kahlil, skin on skin, fingers and lips, bodies and hunger. She’d wanted him, all of him, with passion and desperation, her heart awakening, her senses stirred. She’d never felt so alive.
“My son,” Kahlil said flatly, gaze hooded, lips pressed into a fierce line.
“Yes.”
Kahlil rose from his leather armchair and crossed the cabin, moving to a small table between them. He selected a piece of dried fruit from the silver tray. “You,” he said quietly, “have made a terrible mistake.”
Venom filled his voice. He would make her suffer.
“So silent, Princess al-Assad. An evening of protests and now silence.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze from the apricot in his fingers. He was squeezing it, flattening it in the press of his fingers, just as he longed to mash her, force her to submit. With an effort she dragged her gaze from the fruit to his face. “I’m sorry.”
He popped the apricot into his mouth, chewing it slowly, swallowing after a long moment. “You are only sorry you were caught.”
She wondered at the truth in that. Was that the only reason she felt such overwhelming sorrow?
Again she thought of her parents, their love for each other, their love for their work, very little room for her. Had she kept Ben from Kahlil out of selfishness? Had she kept Ben a secret to ensure she had someone of her own to love?
But a choice like that, selfish, blind, would have only hurt Ben. “No. That’s not true,” she said, forcing herself to speak. “Everything I’ve done has been done to protect Ben.”
“You think I’d hurt my son?” Kahlil’s tone was so cold it cut. “Is that the kind of man you think I am?”
No, but he was blind, at least when it came to his cousin. Kahlil favored Amin. Always had, always would.
Ben could be hurt by Amin. If Amin would attack her, why would Ben be exempt?
“Your silence speaks volumes,” Kahlil said cuttingly, fresh contempt in his voice and the hard lines of his face. His features were perfectly imperial—strong high forehead, long, straight nose, firm mouth with just a hint of sensuality and a square, stubborn chin.
“I was thinking of Ben,” she answered softly, drawing him closer. “Everything is changing for him.”
“As it should.”
“He’ll be frightened.”
“He’ll be fine. He has me now.”
Kahlil wouldn’t remove her from Ben’s life, would he? He wouldn’t hurt her—or Ben—like that, would he?
Brilliant pain streaked through her, her breath catching as tears burned her eyes. “I’ll do anything you ask, just be gentle with him. He’s still so young—”
“I can see that for myself. I can see his devotion to you, too. I would not hurt him, Bryn. I would not wound my own flesh.”
She bowed her head, struggling to contain the swell of emotion. “We’re going to Zwar then?”
“We should land in Tiva in six hours.”
And Amin? Was he there? Would he be waiting? “Your family…do they know I’m coming?”
“My father’s dead,” Kkalil said shortly. “He died almost two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You don’t read newspapers?”
She tried to avoid any mention of Zwar, tried to barricade her from her old life with Kahlil. “I’m sorry,” she repeated helplessly.
“My cousin, Mala, the one that was about your age, she’s in London now, finishing graduate school. So she won’t be there. The rest are scattered.”
“And Amin?”
Kahlil shot her a quick, hard glance. “He lives abroad. Prefers Monte Carlo’s nightlife to Tiva.”
Relief swept through her, wave after wave of the sweetest news she’d heard in days.
Kahlil poured himself a drink. “Want one?” he asked, lifting the liqueur decanter.
“No. Thank you.”
The golden liquid gleamed in the brandy glass. “Tell me about my son.”
That’s right. Kahlil was a stranger to Ben. She felt a pang of remorse. It was a terrible thing to do to him. But had there been a choice? Was there another option she hadn’t thought of?
“I’d like to know him,” Kahlil added softly, his features tightening, his expression bleak.
The pang of remorse grew, widening to grief. “Ben is three going on eighty,” she said carefully. “He’s what I call an old soul. One of those children that are born knowing everything already. He’s very gentle, very loving. There isn’t a mean bone in his body.”
