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She’d bewitched him. She with her hellcat ways, temper and tears. So full of fire, her spirit never seemed to break and the fact that she hadn’t bowed to him—that, too—he welcomed, wanting a woman not a doormat. No matter how much he teased her.
He needed a woman like Tally, a woman to stand up to him, be honest with him, give her opinions. He’d been feared by so many, and women either adored him or ran in abject terror. He craved neither pedestal or absolute authority. A relationship was what he wanted, needed, a relationship with a woman like Tally.
Tally reminded him of a past he no longer knew, a past where he’d been fun, carefree, easy. When he was sent to England at six for school, it’d never crossed his mind that he’d return years later sheikh and leader. He’d never wanted to lead. It hadn’t been his dream, or his vision. He’d loved sports. He’d loved studies. He’d loved fun.
Fun. The corner of his mouth lifted, his gaze resting on shimmering Tally. She made him want to join her, made him want to shed his robe and responsibility and just let go. Let go of power and duty long enough to live. Long enough to feel. Long enough to let go of the pain of the past and the man he had become.
But no. That couldn’t be. Horrific things happened in life and Tair had to be prepared for every possibility, had to be aware, alert, vigilant.
Tair’s first lesson in reality was his father’s death. Summoned from the university in Cambridge, Tair came home to a changed world. A world where the West was bad, evil. A world where his father had been killed by a superpower sharpshooter. The jittery soldier had assumed Tair’s father, Sheikh Hassem el-Tayer, was dangerous, a threat, and pulled a trigger too quickly. The foreign governments and their military offered perfunctory apologies but apologies don’t bring men back from the dead.
As if the death of Tair’s father wasn’t hard enough, there were the border wars and the endless bloodshed, senseless bloodshed in Tair’s estimation. Why should Arab be pitted against Arab? Why Berber against Bedouin? Tair had fought to remain impartial—fair—until the war came home while he was in Baraka on business.
The war shouldn’t have come home. Ara should have listened to him. Ara should have obeyed. But no, his Ara had been proud, fierce, beautiful and so sure she could handle anything life threw at her.
Pain flickered through him, orange spots before his eyes and he curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist. All these years and he still remembered, all these years he felt the same shock and despair.
If Ara hadn’t opened the gates for the others…if Ara had just done what he’d always told her to do. If she’d listened, if she’d been less brave…
Tair’s hand opened and clenched again, and as he clenched his fist, the muscles corded all the way up his arm, tightening, squeezing.
He missed them. He’d missed his wife and son more than he could admit, more than he could bear.
Zaki in his arms, Zaki dying, Zaki’s blood running, spilling, no way to save the child he’d loved from the moment of conception in his mother’s womb.
Tair closed his eyes.My son, I have never forgotten you. My son, I will never forget.
“Tair.”
The soft voice, warm, tender, whispered to him and for a moment he could have sworn it was Ara. Ara speaking.
“Tair. What are you thinking?”
But of course it wasn’t Ara. Ara was dead.
He opened his eyes, and even though he knew Ara was gone, he half expected to see her standing there, Ara his brave heart, his courageous foolish dead wife.
“Tair.” Tally had climbed from the pool and she was naked, wet, shivering. “You’re so far away. What are you thinking?”
Tair looked at her, slender, bare, beautiful woman and he held out a hand to her and she came to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was.
Tally felt Tair fold her to him and seconds ago she’d been cold, and yet in his arms she felt warm, nearly as warm as he was. Instinctively she lifted her face, wanting his kiss, needing his kiss, sensing that just maybe he needed her kiss, too. Men were so complicated and simple—male, hard, arrogant, but then tender on the inside with their profound need for a woman’s touch. For a woman’s love.
Hot tears burned the back of her eyes and a lump filled her throat as she felt Tair draw her closer, fitting her naked body to his. She ought to feel self-conscious, ought to feel strange with him but there was nothing strange in being held in his arms, or being close against his heart. He with his wounds across his chest had been wounded in other ways, and she didn’t know what those wounds were but they mattered to her.
