the aide’s promised call hadn’t come. Instead Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, her husband—no, her hopefully soon-to-be-ex-husband—had called.
Only to refuse her request.
No. No explanation. No softening the blow. Just a very blunt, very final “No.”
Jayne resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Instead she tried for her most reasonable teacher’s voice, and said, “You haven’t seen me for years, Tariq. Don’t you think it’s time for us both to move on?” From a past that had brought her more pain and anguish than she’d ever anticipated.
“It’s not yet time.”
Jayne’s heart skipped a beat. She sensed all her well-laid plans to start a new degree with the new year, to start dating again, to come out of hibernation and start living a life, unravelling. “Not time? What do you mean it’s not yet time? Of course it’s time. All you need to do is sign—”
“Come to Zayed and we’ll talk about it, Jayne.”
Even over the distance between them the husky sound of her very ordinary name on his tongue sounded sensual and intimate and had the power to make her shiver. It was madness.
“I don’t want to talk. I just want a divorce.” Jayne heard the touch of shrillness in her voice. She could see her brand-new life, her well-laid plans going up in smoke. Damn Tariq.
“Why?” His voice changed, became harsh and abrupt. “Why are you suddenly so desperate for a divorce, my faithless woman? Is there finally a man who objects to having a woman with a husband?”
A brief hesitation. She thought about Neil, the nice accountant her brother-in-law had introduced her to three months ago. He’d asked her out, but she hadn’t accepted. Yet. “No! You’ve got it all—”
“We will meet in Zayed,” her husband decreed. “There will be no divorce. Not yet. But it is possible that the time will come soon. Very soon. We will talk.”
“Tariq—”
But he was already firing information about dates and flights and visas at her. Belatedly Jayne realised that she no longer held her Zayedi passport, she’d left it behind in the bedroom she’d shared with Tariq on that terrible last day. She’d had no intention of ever returning. She’d have to apply for a visa to go to Zayed, which meant at least a week of delay.
“Tariq.” It was a desperate call.
He paused and the sudden silence that stretched between them was shattering.
Jayne swallowed, her mouth dry. Then, more quietly, she said, “Can’t we meet somewhere—” neutral “—else?” Tariq would not come to New Zealand; it was too far. He was a busy man. And she didn’t want him here, destroying her safe haven.
But there had to be other options. Somewhere where she wouldn’t need to revisit those traumatic weeks before the end of their marriage, somewhere she wouldn’t have to walk through the corridors of the lavish palace that had stifled her dreams, or confront the two men who had killed her soul. “What about London?”
“There are…problems…in Zayed. I cannot leave.”
She thought about that for a long moment. “I can’t come to Zayed,” she said at last.
“Can’t or won’t?”
She didn’t answer.
“Then let me make it easy for you. If you don’t come to Zayed, Jayne, I will oppose any application you make for a divorce.”
The words were chilling, even though the tone that delivered them was rich and lingering. The laws of Zayed stated that no divorce could be granted unless the husband consented. As much as it riled her, she needed Tariq’s consent.
Unless she went to Zayed, Tariq would deny her the one thing she wanted above all else: her freedom.
“Don’t forget to send me photos of Zayed.”
Jayne had almost reached the front door of her sister’s house, the Louis Vuitton bag clutched in her hand, when the request caused her to pause. She turned to look at the three people gathered in a huddle to see her off, the three people she loved most in the world—her sister and her two nieces. Raising an eyebrow at her elder niece, Jayne asked, “What kind of photos?”
“Of the desert…the palace—anything cool.”
“It’s very hot in the desert, not cool at all. Certainly not as cool as anything here in Auckland.” Jayne kept a straight face as she referred to her older niece’s active social life, then broke into a smile when Samantha poked a pink tongue out. “What do you want the photos for?”
Samantha moved closer. “I’m doing a PowerPoint project on Zayed. Most of my class has never heard of it.”
“I’m sure I can dig up some really up-to-date information while I’m there,” Jayne promised, setting the heavy bag down for a moment and flexing her fingers. Samantha flashed a pleased grin and Jayne restrained herself from rumpling her niece’s sleekly gelled hair. The style was so much more sophisticated than the ponytail Samantha had worn last year. It was hard to believe that in less than a month Samantha would turn thirteen. A teenager.
“Great.” Samantha beamed. “If I can wow my teacher, I might even get an A.”
“Do you really have to go?”
A small hand tugged at her arm. Jayne looked down into the hazel eyes of her younger niece—her goddaughter—and her heart twisted.
“I really have to go, Amy, my sweet.”
“Why?”
Jayne hesitated. Why? She thought of the abortive conversation with Tariq. How to even start to explain? “Because…” Her voice trailed away.
“‘Because’ is not an answer,” Amy replied, her freckled face solemn.
“Quite frankly, I can’t understand why you’re going, either,” Helen chipped in with typical older-sister impatience. “After everything that happened in that godforsaken country, what Tariq and his horrid father did to you, why on earth would you contemplate going back?”
Jayne recognised her sister’s impatience for what it was—concern. “Because I want a divorce—and it looks like going to Zayed is the only way I can get it.”
Tariq had made that clear enough.
“Why Zayed?” Helen asked, her lips tight. “Why couldn’t you have met in London?”
“It wasn’t an option I was given.” Jayne shrugged her shoulders. “That’s Tariq. His way. Or no way.”
“Are you sure he isn’t up to something?” Helen fretted. “I don’t trust him one bit.”
“Hush, don’t work yourself up.” Jayne moved closer to her sister. Helen had never understood the attraction, the fascination that Tariq had held right from the moment that Jayne had walked into him in the Tate Gallery in London and landed ignominiously at his feet. How could she explain the untamed attraction Tariq had held? “There’s no reason to be suspicious. Tariq wouldn’t take me back if I came coated in twenty-four carat gold.”
Helen’s eyes sparked with indignation. In a low voice she murmured so that only Jayne could hear, “He never deserved you.”
Emotion surged through Jayne. She slung an arm around her sister’s shoulder and pulled her close. Helen smelled of talc and roses and the familiar comfort of home. “Thank you. And thank you for all the support you’ve given me. For everything.”
“I don’t want to see you in that state again.” Helen hugged her back fiercely. “Five and a half years ago you were a mess.”
“It won’t happen again,” Jayne vowed, suppressing the sudden stab of apprehension. “I’m no longer nineteen.