of lashes in her hand. “One to go.”
He made quick work on the second set.
“You’ve done this before,” she said, as he took a step back, putting distance between them, but not enough distance. He was so big, so intimidating, that she found his nearness overwhelming.
“I haven’t, but I’ve watched enough girlfriends put on make up to know how it’s done.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching his. “And you have no say in the sentencing?” she asked.
“I have plenty of say,” he answered. “I am the king. I can make new laws, pass laws, break laws...but breaking laws wouldn’t make me a good king or a proper leader for my people. So I, too, observe the laws of Saidia, and am committed to upholding them.”
“Could you ask the judge to be lenient with me?”
“I could.”
“But you won’t?”
He didn’t answer right away, which was telling, she thought.
“Would you ask for leniency for another woman?”
His broad shoulders shifted. “It would depend on who she was, and what she’d done.”
“So your relationship with her would influence your decision?”
“Absolutely.”
“I see.”
“As her character would influence my decision.”
And he didn’t approve of her character.
Jemma understood then that he wouldn’t help her in any way. He didn’t like her. He didn’t approve of her. And he felt no pity or compassion because she was a Copeland and it was a Copeland, her father, who had wronged his family.
In his mind, she had so many strikes against her she wasn’t worth saving.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. The pain was so sharp and hard it cut her to the quick.
It was almost like the pain when Damien ended their engagement. He’d said he’d loved her. He’d said he wanted to spend his life with her. But then when he began losing jobs, he backed away from her. Far better to lose her, than his career.
Throat aching, eyes burning, Jemma turned back to the mirror.
She reached for a brush and ran it slowly through her long dark hair, making the glossy waves ripple down her back, telling herself not to think, not to feel, and most definitely, not to cry.
“You expect your tribal elder to sentence me to prison, for at least five years?” she asked, drawing the brush through her long hair.
Silence stretched. After a long moment, Sheikh Karim answered, “I don’t expect Sheikh Azizzi to give you a minimum sentence, no.”
She nodded once. “Thank you for at least being honest.”
And then she reached for the bottle of make-up remover and a cotton ball to remove what was left of her eye make-up.
He walked out then. Thank goodness. She’d barely kept it together there, at the end.
She was scared, so scared.
Would she really be going to prison?
Would he really allow the judge to have her locked away for years?
She couldn’t believe this was happening. Had to be a bad dream. But the sweltering heat inside the tent felt far too real to be a dream.
Jemma left her make-up table and went to her purse to retrieve her phone. Mary had informed the crew this morning as they left the hotel that they’d get no signal here in the desert, and checking her phone now she saw that Mary was right. She couldn’t call anyone. Couldn’t alert anyone to her situation. As Jemma put her phone away, she could only pray that Mary would make some calls on her behalf once she returned to London.
Jemma changed quickly into her street clothes, a gray short linen skirt, white knit top and gray blazer.
Drawing a breath, she left the tent, stepping out into the last lingering ray of light. Two of the sheikh’s men guarded the tent, but they didn’t acknowledge her.
The desert glowed with amber, ruby and golden colors. The convoy of cars that had descended on the shoot two hours ago was half the number it’d been when Jemma had disappeared into the tent.
Sheikh Karim stepped from the back of one of the black vehicles. He gestured to her. “Come. We leave now.”
She shouldered her purse, pretending the sheikh wasn’t watching her walk toward him, pretending his guards weren’t there behind her, watching her walk away from them. She pretended she was strong and calm, that nothing threatened her.
It was all she’d been doing since her father’s downfall.
Pretending. Faking. Fighting.
“Ready?” Sheikh Karim asked as she reached his side.
“Yes.”
“You have no suitcase, no clothes?”
“I have a few traveling pieces here, but the rest is in my suitcase.” She clasped her oversized purse closer to her body. “Can we go get my luggage?”
“No.”
“Will you send for it?”
“You won’t need it where you are going.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted to protest but his grim expression silenced her.
He held open the door. The car was already running.
“It’s time to go,” he said firmly.
Swallowing, Jemma slid onto the black leather seat, terrified to leave this scorching desert, not knowing where she’d go next.
Sheikh Karim joined her on the seat, his large body filling the back of the car. Jemma scooted as far over as she could before settling her blazer over her thighs, hiding her bare skin. But even sitting near the door, he was far too close, and warm, so warm that she fixed her attention on the desert beyond the car window determined to block out everything until she was calm.
She stared hard at the landscape, imagining that she was someone else, somewhere else and it soothed her. The sun was lower in the sky and the colors were changing, darkening, deepening and it made her heart hurt. In any other situation she would’ve been overcome by the beauty of the sunset. As it was now, she felt bereft.
She’d come to Saidia to save what was left of her world, and instead she’d shattered it completely.
The car was moving. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the handle on the door and drew a deep breath and then another to calm herself.
It was going to be okay.
Everything would be okay.
Everything would be fine.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
He said nothing.
She blinked again, clearing her vision, determined to find her center...a place of peace, and calm. She had to keep her head. There was no other way she’d survive whatever came next if she didn’t stay focused.
“Where does this elder, Sheikh Azizzi, live?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on a distant dune. The sun was dropping more quickly, painting the sky a wash of rose and red that reflected crimson against the sand.
“Haslam,” he said.
“Is it far?”
“Two hours by car. If there is no sandstorm.”
“Do you expect one?” she asked, glancing briefly in his direction.