Desert Orchid: The Desert Princes: Book 1 (26 page)

As his heavy body lay on top of her, it was difficult to breathe, but Charisse didn't care. Yes, he was difficult to live with, too bossy and dominant. But she wouldn't change a single thing about him. She loved and was loved. What more could any woman ask for?

He was punishing himself.

To turn the screw even more, as a penance for not being open and honest with her, Khalid had promised himself to never, ever fall asleep in her arms. As he did every night, in the unending hours before dawn, he sat in a chair in the corner of the bedroom, and watched his wife, the love of his life, sleep.

They'd found and shared something very rare today.

He knew he didn't deserve her.

How could a man like him be given the extraordinary gift of her love?

A man who'd killed two beautiful young girls. Girls who'd been on the cusp of womanhood, who'd had their whole lives ahead of them. Lives snuffed out because of a single act of unutterable selfishness.

He closed his eyes, bowing his head in a shame so deep, so dark, it ate up another little piece of his soul every single day he lived.

Six years ago, life for an El Haribe prince had been good, too good. He'd partied too hard, played too hard, and it had caught up with him in the most brutal way. Hindsight was a wonderful thing. At twenty-four he'd been spoilt, and reckless, and stupid. However, his behaviour, his choices, were his responsibility, not the responsibility of two young girls.

He'd never forgive himself for what happened that day.

Not that he could remember a single thing, and Khalid didn't know whether to be grateful for that or not. His memory about the preceding two weeks, and a month after the accident, was wiped clean. He'd been in a coma, and was told the memories may never return. But he'd never forget the moment his father had told him Jamila was dead and buried. And so was her best friend, Mia.

Gone.

Killed.

By him.

His mother had been a broken woman, a living ghost, who visited him twice a day in hospital. And he couldn't bear to see the stun of loss, the suffering, on her beautiful face. He couldn't bear Sarif's pity wrapped up in grief, either.

But when he'd been told the hellish truth that he'd been drinking before he'd got into the big growling beast of a speed boat, and had driven two girls to their death, something inside him had died that day, too. He'd asked endless questions of the universe. Why had they died and he'd lived? He didn't deserve to live. He certainly didn't deserve to live and be happy. In the days and weeks after he'd regained consciousness, looking at the faces of his family every day had slowly killed him. He couldn't stand to see his father's condemnation, his disappointment, in what his youngest son had become. Of course, his family had forgiven him. Forgiveness is what families do. But he'd pushed them away. And in the process he'd lost himself in bitterness and self-pity.

He'd moved to Europe.

Spent months partying hard in Cannes before moving permanently to London, where he'd partied even harder. Christ, he hadn't even been able to spend his way to destitution. His paintings shocked many, but they'd thrilled the art world, especially the critics. Who'd have thought it? He couldn't even fucking ruin himself. He'd made so much money, he hadn't even touched his inheritance. So he'd thrown himself into the role of the dark desert prince, the reprobate who'd shamed his family and his people.

And he'd had women, plenty of women; he'd banged hundreds of them until even that basic pleasure had dimmed.

Before Charisse, he hadn't had a woman in over a year. Of course, no one would believe it. Even his own brother had assumed he'd had two women in his bed the night he'd come to London to bring him back home. The women had been models who liked to party, and who swung both ways. So if Khalid wasn't in the mood to shag one or both, they'd been happy to take care of themselves. And didn't mind an audience as he painted them. But he'd long ago become tired of that scene.

His art had evolved into a contemporary symbolism that the critics drooled over.

Now, he desperately wanted to paint Charisse.

Naked.

Of course, she wasn't having it.

Another wave of self-loathing crashed over him, and he held his head in his hands.

She loved him, believed in him.

All those years ago, he'd needed someone to believe in him. He'd desperately needed someone to have faith in him during the pain of his hospital days, and during the nightmare months of his convalescence.

He'd no idea what this letter from Amir she'd been talking about meant. How the hell could his uncle have believed in him? Whatever Khalid demanded from Charisse, even her thoughts, she was prepared to share. And he knew, deep in his heart, that she wanted the same from him. She deserved nothing but the truth.

But not yet.

Surely he could enjoy these precious days with her? There was plenty of time to tell her truth about the pathetic excuse for a man that she'd married. And he knew for an absolute certainty that once she learned the exact circumstances around the accident she would never forgive him for killing her sister, an event that had brought disaster and horror to her door.

Charisse stirred in their vast bed, her hand fluttering out to reach for him.

With a sick heart and a dark shadow on his soul, Khalid crept into bed to hold her tight.

She burrowed into his side as he inhaled the scent of her hair, her skin.

With eyes wide open, he just lay there and waited for dawn.

Charisse smiled as Rufus wagged his entire body in a fit of ecstasy as Khalid stroked his shaggy head.

They'd arrived home to Onuur, to the white palace, three hours before.

Boris refused to leave Charisse's side. Filled with unconditional love, the wolfhound's hazel eyes never left her face for an instant.

She'd expected a warm welcome from Yasmin and Sheik Abbas, but the tribes had gathered along the mountain plateau, their campfires burning for as far as the eye could see. The peoples of Onuur needed to see their King and Queen.

And now the Sheiks were assembling in a meeting room in the palace.

Sarif was chairing the meeting.

He'd taken Arabella's advice, and brought in a team of ex-military intelligence and specialists who were liaising with the head of Onuur's security team.

"Are you ready for this?" Khalid's sharp eyes found hers, and Charisse nodded as he took her hand.

They made their way from his rooms, through the white palace, to the meeting.

A navy blue silk scarf concealed her hair. The matching sheath she wore fell to her knees. The dress had a high neck and long sleeves edged with silver discs at her wrists. The co-ordinating tight pants, and silver flat pumps in butter soft leather completed the outfit. And outfit designed for her by the house of Chanel.

Her people were worried about the murmurs of unrest and the rumours flying through the tribes about Khalid. According to those rumours, he was a drunkard who was behind the attempts on his wife's life. Her people needed to see her, in the flesh, to see for themselves that she was not only alive, but happy with her new life.

And more importantly, happy with her new husband.

Khalid looked spectacular dressed in a thwab with a besht, the ceremonial robes denoting status and royalty. As they descended the magnificent staircases, the servants lining the entrance hall bowed low. It was as if they all let out a collective sigh, and the tension in the palace dissipated. Their relief palpable that their queen was indeed alive and well.

Liveried servants opened huge double doors.

Khalid and Charisse entered the room and all conversation ceased as the sheikhs and Sarif turned to watch them enter. Her gaze wandered over the men gathered around the huge table. For many years Charisse had taken advice from these men. But she'd been Amir's wife then, and even though she knew they trusted her, the nerves in her belly wound too tight.

Khalid kept a firm grip of her hand as they took their place at the top of the table. Public shows of affection between men and women were frowned upon in their culture. But Khalid waited until she was seated before he took her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her cold fingers. And all the while his vivid gaze held hers. Her heart soared as she read the utter devotion and love in his eyes.

She smiled up into his fabulous face.

But more importantly the Sheiks smiled, and so did his brother, Sarif.

Khalid took the seat next to her, and placed her hand in his on top of the table.

Her refused to let her go, even when she raised an enquiring brow.

Her husband's sharp gaze fell on the Sheiks, and his deep voice held no apology.

"Forgive me, gentlemen. But I almost lost the woman I love twice in the past few weeks. I have no intention of releasing her until I know the threat to her and to Onuur has passed. What news of Omar?"

Sarif nodded to Sheik Abbas who had watched their entrance into the room with the eyes of a raptor.

The Sheik was the elected spokesman for the tribes.

"We have reliable information that he is holed up in the mountains of Dhuma. The King is flushing him out as we speak." His growl of a voice became soft as his eyes settled upon her. "I thank God that you survived the attempts on your life, Highness."

Charisse inclined her head, squeezing Khalid's hand to signal she was about to speak.

"If it had not been for the quick thinking and speed of my husband I would not be here with you today. He saved my life. The rumours that are spreading like locusts on the desert wind must be put to rest. Tomorrow, my husband and I shall travel together to visit certain schools. I miss the children, Sheik Abbas."

The Sheik looked to Khalid for confirmation, and Charisse knew that at that moment her husband was being given his rightful place. Khalid nodded once in agreement, even as he gave a gentle squeeze of her fingers. She hadn't warned him of her plan to visit the children since she knew he might argue against it. But it was important that they were seen by the people to be working together and caring for her vital projects.

If Khalid didn't like it, too bad.

If he wanted to punish her later for her decision, so be it.

But now Sarif spoke, "The intelligence we’ve received about Omar is that he belongs to a tribe that was banished from Quaram over forty years ago. He is the third cousin of Yusuf Hassam Nazari," he paused at the collective gasp that went around the room. Nazari was a sociopath, a tyrant, with connections to organised crime, terrorism, and people trafficking. He had a high price on his head. And was believed to be holed up in the Hindu Kush. "Omar was originally trained by the Soviets in brain washing and infiltration techniques. It is most unfortunate that we kept him too close to the heart of our family."

Charisse felt Khalid stiffen and glanced up at his face. He would make a wonderful poker player because his face looked as if it was carved from granite and forcibly reminded her of the first time she’d met him in her apartments.

Sarif continued, "It appears the plan was to kill Charisse, to bring dishonour upon the house of El Haribe. To divide the loyalty of the tribes resulting in civil unrest. Not just in Onuur but throughout the lands of Quaram and Dhuma. Powerful interests have their eyes on our mineral and oil wealth. With the death of King Amir and my father’s continued ill health the jackals decided to strike.

"Unfortunately for them, my brother is a good man and a strong King. My father’s health is improving each day. As for myself, I am to be married to Miss Arabella Faulkner."

Good God
.

How Charisse kept the shock of the announcement from her face, she never knew and by the statue sitting next to her, this was the first Khalid had heard of it.

Of course she was thrilled to have Arabella as a sister-in-law. But she’d seen absolutely no sign of an attraction between Sarif and Arabella. None. Arabella’s family tree was immersed in military service to her country going back generations, all the way back to the Duke of Wellington’s time. With her military contacts and family’s power base in the governments of the United Kingdom and the United States of America, what a power couple she and Sarif would make. And the children of such a union would be a force to be reckoned with in the foreseeable future.

The approval of Sarif’s announcement eased the tense atmosphere in the room.

Sheik Abbas stood.

Those sharp eyes met Sarif’s. "I know I speak on behalf of everyone here and offer my congratulations, Highness. Miss Arabella Faulkner is a strong woman whose bravery and loyalty to the people of Onuur knows no bounds. May you be blessed with many sons."

He turned to Khalid and Charisse and added, "May the whole house of El Haribe be blessed with many sons."

Which, Charisse knew, was the Sheik’s polite way of saying,
‘Get on with it.’