She hardly knew what to say—how to respond. It was as though a stranger sat in front of her—not the remote, self-contained, preoccupied man who was her father. The man she would have been hard put to it to say had any feelings at all.
Patting his bony shoulder again, she gave it what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze. ‘Why don’t I make us both a nice cup of tea? We’ll have it in the living room, then I’ll nip out to the supermarket to get you some supplies for the fridge.’
‘Are you in a hurry tonight, Gina?’ The moisture beneath the pale eyes had been dashed away, and now his eyes glimmered with warmth…affection, even.
‘No, I’m not in a hurry. Why?’
‘Would you—I mean could you stay for a while? We could—we could talk. You could tell me a bit more about your work at the auction house.’
Was this some kind of breakthrough in their difficult and sometimes distant relationship? Why now, when it had been three years since she had lost her mother? Had it taken him that long to realise that he’d really loved Charlotte? That he loved his daughter?
Gina didn’t know right then whether she felt hopeful or angry. Shrugging off her raincoat, she folded it over her arm, then crossed to the still open study door. ‘I don’t have to rush off. I’ll go and put the kettle on. Why don’t you go into the living room and make up the fire? The house is chilly.’
In the kitchen, staring at the peeling paintwork and the cupboards that she guessed were as bare as Mother Hubbard’s, Gina filled the kettle at the sink and plugged it in. Before she realised it, her eyes were awash with tears. To find her father dejected, sad and reminiscing about her as a child was disturbing enough, but earlier on today her senses had received another jolt.
She’d been asked to work with a team of researchers on the provenance and history of a valuable jewel from Kabuyadir. Just the name of the place had the power to arouse the most potent of memories, and make her ache for a man whose skin was imbued with the scent of the desert, whose eyes burned with a passion that had consumed her from the very first glance—a man Gina had reluctantly had to say a premature goodbye to that magical, unforgettable night three years ago, because she’d been returning to the UK to see her mother in hospital.
When Charlotte Collins had passed unexpectedly away shortly afterwards, it had knocked Gina for six. It had also heightened her overwhelming sense of responsibility towards her father. So much so that when Zahir had rung her for the second time from Kabuyadir, in the days following the funeral, she had determinedly decided to put their night of wonderful passion and kismet behind her to focus instead on an academic career. Her father had told her that her mother would have wanted to see her make a resounding success of it.
With tears burning her eyes, and a lump in her throat the size of Gibraltar, Gina had declined Zahir’s heartfelt pleas to return to Kabuyadir soon and told him she was sorry— what had happened had been wonderful, but the idea that they could be together wasn’t remotely realistic. Now that she was back in the UK it was her career that had to be her focus, not some love affair she’d be completely foolish to trust in.
Even as she’d been speaking she’d felt as if a stranger had taken over her body and mind…a despondent stranger who certainly didn’t believe in love at first sight or happy-ever-after. When more time had passed, she’d continued quietly, he would see it that way, too, she was certain.
Zahir’s parting words had broken her heart. ‘How could you do this to me, Gina…to us?’
CHAPTER TWO
WALKING into the serene courtyard garden, where the air was heavily hypnotic with the perfume of drowsily alluring blossoms, Zahir saw his sister sitting on the long wooden bench beside the pretty ornamental pond. Her sad gaze was as far away as ever, in a land he couldn’t reach.
Beneath his black jalabiya, Zahir’s taut abdominal muscles clenched uneasily. They had always been close, but since Farida had lost her husband Azhar six months ago she had become withdrawn and uncommunicative, and all the joy had vanished from her almond-shaped dark eyes. Would he ever see it again? He hated to think he might not. There wasn’t anything he owned that he wouldn’t give to see her happy once more. With their parents gone all they had now was each other…
‘Farida?’
Her glance barely acknowledged him before returning to its dreamlike examination of the pond.
‘I am going into the city today on business, and I thought you might like to go with me? We could stay overnight at the apartment and have dinner at your favourite restaurant. What do you think?’
‘I would rather stay here, if you don’t mind, Zahir. I don’t feel like facing the city crowds today—even if it is only from behind the tinted windows of your car.’
Zahir’s responding sigh was heavy. Since he had lost his father and inherited rulership of Kabuyadir he was looked to—and indeed expected—to dispense wisdom, guidance and help to the people of his kingdom. But apparently not to his own sister. As far as that aspect of his rank and power was concerned he was all but useless.
‘What will you do with yourself here all day on your own?’ He tried hard, but couldn’t quite keep the frustration out of his voice.
She shook her head and would not look at him. ‘I will do what I usually do. I will sit here and remember how happy I was with Azhar, and know that I will never be happy again.’
‘You should have had your marriage arranged, as is the custom!’ Zahir flashed irritably, pacing the stone flags surrounding the pond. ‘Then it would not have been such a blow to you when you lost your husband. This—this marrying for love was a mistake. Has our tragic history not taught you that?’
Now Farida did look up at him. ‘How can you say such a terrible thing, Zahir? Our parents did not have an arranged marriage, and they knew the kind of joy and happiness that made them the envy of everyone. Have you forgotten how it was with them? Father told me once that loving our mother made him feel more complete and content than anything material this world could ever do.’
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Zahir came to a standstill beside her. ‘And he was a broken man when she died. So broken that he followed her soon after. Have you forgotten that?’
‘You have changed, Zahir, and it worries me just how much,’ Farida told him sadly. ‘Your rule of Kabuyadir is exemplary, and would have made Father proud, but your rigid rule over your heart has made you cold and a little bitter, I think. Remember the prophecy of the Heart of Courage that has been in our family for generations? It says that all the sons and daughters of the house of Kazeem Khan will marry for love—not for strategic or dynastic alliance. Remember?’
Knowing he had already set plans in motion for the sale of that cursed jewel, Zahir flinched a little. ‘Yes, yes—I remember. But I personally will not be adhering to that. In fact my business today involves preliminary negotiations with the Emir of Kajistan for the hand of his daughter in marriage. She has just turned eighteen, so is eligible. It is a good match, Farida…sensible.’
‘You plan to marry the dull-witted plain daughter of our neighbour? Are you mad? She will drive you crazy in a matter of hours, let alone days!’
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, but because it will be a marriage of convenience I am not bound to spend every waking hour with the lady. She will have her own interests and I mine.’
‘And what will they be, I wonder? Regularly visiting the beauty parlours in the big city in the hope that they will have some transformative elixir that will render her beautiful? I believe in the power of magic, brother, but I would have trouble believing in a magic as powerful as that. It would be like hoping for a powder to turn a mule into the most elegant of Bedouin thoroughbreds!’
‘Farida!’ Zahir was quick to show his displeasure at this insult to his potential bride, but underneath his