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Salman had found himself saying yes, bizarrely overriding his conscious intent to say no. He’d known on some deep level that one day he’d have to come home to face his demons, and it appeared the time had come. He’d put his completely incomprehensible decision down to that, and not to a latent sense of duty, or to passing time…or to the fact that since he’d seen Jamilah at that party a year ago he’d felt restless.
Even now he could remember the visceral kick in his chest when he’d turned in that corridor in the Hussein Palace and seen her standing before him like a vision, like something from a dream he’d never admitted having.
He’d only realised in that moment, as a kind of sigh of relief had gone through him, that in all the intervening years since Paris he’d gone to the Sultan’s party every year hoping to see Jamilah…and he had not welcomed that revelation.
Salman’s face darkened. She should have always been firmly off-limits—a woman he should have turned his back on—but he hadn’t been able to resist. Even though he’d known that she’d been way, way too innocent for his cold heart he’d still seduced her in Paris, taken her innocence, proving to himself once again how debauched he really was.
And, not content with that, then he’d cruelly broken her heart. A bleakness filled his belly at remembering the pale set of her features that day. The incredible hurt in those beautiful eyes. He’d watched her innocence and joy turn into an adult’s bitter disillusion right in front of him, even as he’d been telling himself that he was doing her a favour.
He reassured himself that he’d saved her—from him and other men like him. Because he himself was beyond saving. He’d seen the face of evil and that would taint him for ever, and anyone around him, which was why he never allowed anyone too close.
Yet all that knowledge hadn’t stopped him from kissing Jamilah at the Sultan’s party. He’d only had to imagine her with that ineffectual date of hers and he’d been overcome with a dark desire to stamp her, brand her as his. His body throbbed to life now, making him shift uncomfortably; she’d tasted as sweetly sensuous as she had when he’d first kissed her in Paris, when he’d known he was doing the wrong thing but had been overcome with a lust so intense it had made him dizzy.
With an effort he forced his mind away from the disturbing fact that in the past year no woman had managed to arouse his once insatiable libido. But merely thinking of Jamilah now was doing just that, as if to taunt him, because she was the last woman he could ever touch again. If he had any chance of redeeming a tiny morsel of his soul it would be in this.
Salman knew Nadim suspected something had happened between them, and of course he didn’t approve. The protective warning had been implicit in Nadim’s voice in their last conversation. ‘You’re unlikely to see much of Jamilah. She lives and works down at the stables, and is extremely busy with her work there.’ And that, Salman told himself now, suited him just fine—because the mere thought of even seeing a horse or the stables sent clammy chills of dread across his skin. He wouldn’t be making a visit there any time soon.
With that thought lingering as the helicopter started to descend over the lush watered Merkazadi castle grounds, reality hit Salman, and claustrophobia surged along with panic. He fought the urge to tell the pilot to turn around. He was strong enough to withstand a month in his own country. He had to be. He’d heard far worse stories than his; he’d been humbled over and over again. He owed it to those who had trusted him with their stories to face this.
Not for the first time in his life did he wish that he could resort to the easy way out of drugs and alcohol.
He sighed deeply as the distinctive white castle came into clear view, the ornate latticed walls and flat-roofed terraces all at once achingly familiar and rousing a veritable flood of memories, some terrifying. He would get through this as he’d got through his life up to this point—by distracting himself from the pain.
‘Miss Jamilah—he stumbled out of the helicopter with his shirt half undone and torn jeans. He looked like a…a rock star, not the second in line to rule Merkazad.’ The main housekeeper screwed up her wizened face and spat out disgustedly, ‘He is nothing like his brother. He is a disgrace to—’
‘Hana, that’s enough.’ They were in a meeting to discuss the domestic schedule of the castle while Nadim and Iseult were away, and Jamilah was having a hard enough time just functioning since she’d heard Salman’s arri
val in the helicopter the previous day.
The older woman flushed brick-red. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jamilah. I forgot myself for a moment…’
Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Look, he’s only here till Nadim and Iseult get back…and then everything will be back to normal.’
Yeah, right.
The housekeeper’s face lit up. ‘And next year we will have a new baby in the castle!’
Jamilah let her prattle on excitedly, and hoped the dart of hurt she felt lance her wasn’t apparent on her face or in her eyes. She loved Nadim, and she loved Iseult, who had become a very close friend, but much to her ongoing shame she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of their exuberant happiness.
In truth, when Nadim had told her they would be going to Ireland to see Iseult’s family while they still had time before the birth, Jamilah had felt a tinge of relief. To bear witness to their intense love and absorption every day was becoming more and more difficult. And it had only intensified with news of Iseult’s pregnancy some six months previously. Nadim hardly let Iseult out of his sight, and cosseted her like a prize jewel. Jamilah knew it drove Iseult crazy, but then she was as bad he was—visibly pining for her husband if he was away from her side for more than an hour.
Jamilah’s relief that she would have some respite had been spectacularly eclipsed when Nadim had casually mentioned over dinner that Salman would be taking over as acting ruler while they were gone.
She’d not missed the way Nadim and Iseult had looked at her intently for her reaction; they hadn’t asked questions after her bizarre behaviour at the Sultan’s party last year, but it had been obvious it had something to do with Salman.
She was proud of the way she’d absorbed the shock into her body and kept on sipping her wine, willing her hands not to show a tremor. She’d said nonchalantly, ‘That’s nice. It’s been so long since he came home…’
Nadim had said gently, ‘You could go to France, if you like. Check up on the stables there?’
Jamilah had tensed all over and sat up straight. ‘No.’ She was aghast that they might think she would crumble, or that she would let Salman’s presence affect her work. She’d shaken her head and sealed her fate. ‘Not at all. I won’t be going anywhere. We’re far too busy here…’
But now, when Hana stood up and asked, ‘Will you come to the castle to talk to the staff?’ Jamilah almost shouted out another visceral no, and had to calm herself.
She smiled and said, as breezily as she could, shamelessly playing to Hana’s pride, ‘Why would I need to come to the castle when you have it all in hand so beautifully? We’re busy here at the stables with some new arrivals…you can call me if anything comes up.’
To her intense relief Hana didn’t argue, and left. Jamilah sank back into her office chair, feeling as edgy as a new colt, her heart racing.
A month.
