Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (44 page)

The calendar ticks on relentlessly. One morning I wake up to realise it’s now six weeks since I last saw Nijad and I wonder, not for the first time, just how much longer I can go on like this. But my ability to move forward revolves around that damn contract. Rubbing my red and gritty eyes, sore after yet another restless night, I realise it’s time to take the final step to annul the document. Nijad is most definitely lost to me, and I have to accept the marriage is over. He hasn’t visited the palace or made any effort to make contact. I know he’s alive and kicking only from the sparse reports his brothers receive. I’m hanging on to something that I lost a long time ago. I can’t keep torturing myself when there’s no hope left.

Today, with my new determination, I’m in a different
frame of mind as I get up, dress and go to my office having accepted Nijad is gone from my life. Now I have to plan my future. Coming up to my second trimester into my pregnancy and it’s only just hitting me that this baby is real. It’s not just me now; I’ve got to live for him or her. What life would be best for my child? One in Amahad where family will, at least, surround it, even if that can’t include its father, or one in England where I’d be alone?

I go to my office, but for the first time in weeks I don’t turn on my computer. Up to now I’ve tried to distract myself by getting involved in numbers and money trails, the familiar data I’ve lived with all my life. Now I’ve got decisions to make. It’s time to face life head-on, instead of hiding and hoping it will all sort itself out. I brush away the tear that drops from my eye as I realise the implication of that thought. I’ve finally accepted I’ll never see the man I love again or, at least, not when I’d be able to claim any relationship with him.

Leaning back in the large office chair, I rest my tired eyes for just a moment, and the effect of all my sleepless nights catches up with me. I’m exhausted and drained, but my decision has brought me some peace. Relaxing probably for the first time in days, I drift into sleep, but only to experience the same dream that haunts me each night. This time, when I jerk awake just before the final fatal blow, it’s with the sight seared on my brain of Nijad’s eyes as they appeared in my nightmare: manic, like a fiend escaped from hell. I shudder violently. Why do I have this same nightmare, night after night? Nijad’s so scary in the dream I can almost feel the blows on my body when I awake. Idly, I rub my shoulder as if he had actually hurt me.

Then I start. Nijad is six foot three; he towers above me. His weight is almost double mine, and his well-developed muscles far stronger. Chantelle was the same size as me; that’s what he told me, wasn’t it? What were the injuries he had catalogued? Cracked ribs, broken jaw, and a broken arm … I twist sideways in the chair, trying to imagine the pain that would cause, and how much movement she’d have. If she was high on cocaine, or maybe running on adrenalin, perhaps the pain wouldn’t register so much, but she only had the use of one arm. So how would she have been capable of picking up a heavy lamp and striking him hard enough to knock him out and cause a concussion? Either she was very, very lucky, or something just wasn’t adding up.

Nijad can’t remember attacking her. He has no memory of it. He says he’s blocked it out.
But perhaps he can’t recall the attack because he didn’t do it?
The man I know isn’t capable of such vicious and sustained violence. I know he isn’t! I don’t care what everyone else thinks. I know it’s not logical that I feel so strongly about his unfair conviction when I’ve only known him such a short time. But I honestly believe that there, in the desert, I got to know the real man. And the man I came to know would never, ever, hurt a woman.
What if they’d been someone else there?

As soon as the idea hits me it takes hold. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Wasting no time, I leap to my feet and run through the palace until I reach the emir’s suite. I pause; is it right to go directly to the monarch? Should I talk to Jasim first? But a burst of rage comes over me that they’ve condemned Nijad on the flimsiest of evidence. His family wrote him off, and now they must be made to reconsider. With a strong sense of purpose, I breeze into the anteroom leading to the emir’s office and demand to be let in to see him immediately. Imperiously, I order that Kadar and Jasim be summoned as well. The ruler’s personal assistant tries his best to dissuade me, explaining that the emir is meeting with the tribal leaders. But that only pours fuel on the flames. Those men would happily have seen me murdered by the man I was forced to marry, and I have no time for them. The secretary cowers as, leaning over the desk, I repeat my demand. Confronted by a force of will, which right now probably equals that of the ruler, together with my rapidly rising voice as my anger takes hold, he meekly trots off to see if the emir will grant me audience.

On his return, he looks put out but asks me to take a seat and I can only presume the emir has granted my request. When he picks up his phone and it becomes obvious he’s speaking to Kadar’s assistant. I allow myself a satisfied smile. As he starts to dial a second call, the door to the emir’s office opens and out come several men dressed in traditional robes. The colour of the agals around their headdresses denote their status as leaders of their tribes, and some of them I recognise. And one, Sheikh Rais, winks at me when he passes. I’m surprised that they dip their heads towards me so, in return, I bow respectfully as they pass. When I look back up the ruler himself is standing in the doorway to his office, waving me in. Entering the room, I observe the protocol I’ve learned, and wait until the monarch seats himself, before taking the chair he indicates.

He regards me thoughtfully. “Your voice was interrupting my meeting. I am unaccustomed to women screeching outside my door. I take it this is both urgent and significant?”

I knew my voice had been raised, but ‘screeching’? Surely an exaggeration. “I’m sorry for interrupting your meeting, but it’s already long overdue that some matters are brought to your attention.”

He actually chuckles. “It is a welcome interlude. Often business of state can be tedious. I was wondering how to conclude the meeting.” He glances up as the door opens. “Ah, Kadar and Jasim. Thank you for joining us.” The amusement fades from the emir’s face as he turns his attention back to me. “What is so vital and urgent to discuss with us, Sheikha?”

“What’s this about?” Kadar demands, almost at the same time. “I’ve cut short a conference call.”

The emir gestures towards me. “The sheikha has something to say.”

Three men glare at me. The monarchy of Amahad, three men with absolute power in their hands. I’ve tried to rehearse in my head what I want to say, but somehow my reasoned proposal gets muddled up now I’m confronted with these mighty men, and instead of leading up to it calmly I simply blurt out, “He didn’t do it!”

The emir looks at his sons, confused. “Who didn’t do what?” Then he turns his attention to me. “Have I missed something?”

“Nijad! He didn’t attack that woman.”

I see the looks Kadar and Jasim exchange, and read the pity plainly visible in their eyes. The emir just rubs his hand over his head as though annoyed that I’m wasting his time. Realising I’ve only got a short window before he throws me out of his office, I struggle to get my emotions under control and state my case as calmly as I can.

“He couldn’t have done it. It’s quite straightforward. How could a woman with a broken arm and various other injuries pick up a heavy lamp and hit him with it hard enough to knock him out? So hard, I’m told, he was unconsciousness for two days? Nijad is a strong man; he could easily have overpowered her. There must have been someone else there.” I see they are going to argue with me, so I carry on talking quickly before they can interrupt.

“Nijad put a man out of the apartment, but what if he had a key, or if the door had only been on the latch? What if it was a setup? A million pounds is a lot of incentive to take some pain. What if Nijad was hit first, and then the woman beaten to look like he did it? She’d have known there was a very high likelihood you’d pay up to keep a Prince of Amahad out of prison. I don’t believe Nijad hit her at all; I think it was her collaborator. Nijad just isn’t capable of it.” I don’t want to go into embarrassing details, but need to tell them. “That night he came to me in the harem, he was enraged, furious, but he was in control. He didn’t lash out or hit me. He went out of his way not to hurt me.”

“Cara, we know you love him. But you can’t rewrite history.” Jasim shakes his head.

They aren’t listening to me. I want to scream with frustration. Trying to keep my voice steady and reasonable, I attempt to persuade them again. “Just think about it! Did anyone ever question it at the time? Sometimes what you
think
you’re seeing is not the whole truth!” I sigh in exasperation and put my head in my hands. Why can’t they understand what I’m saying? Why can’t they at least think about it? Nobody says anything and, in the silence, I realise I’ve lost. I’m preparing myself to be thrown out, along with my protestations, when I glance up.

Far from appearing dismissive, Kadar is looking thoughtful, his hand cradling his chin, his eyes focused on me. His gaze takes in his brother and the emir.

“There wasn’t a full investigation,” he says, as though reminding them. “Nijad stepped up and took the blame. Never once did he question what we’d told him he had done. We settled as quickly as possible, to quiet the press and keep him out of a French prison. If you remember, we had to work at speed before the police drew up their case.” He considered it. “Nijad said nothing other than that he accepted his guilt.”

“Nijad took the blame because everyone seemed to believe he was capable of doing it,” I suggest, softly. “I
know
he isn’t guilty. His injury either needed considerable luck, or else he was struck by someone much stronger than the woman. Everyone told him just one version of what happened. No other explanation was explored or offered. He accepted the facts presented to him, and so did you. And that’s why he can’t remember beating her. Because he didn’t.” Something occurs to me. “What about the forensics? Was the lamp fingerprinted? Didn’t he have any security in his apartment? Did anyone check the tape?”

Jasim’s indrawn breath is audible. “Jon Tharpe looked into it. There was no video recording. Chantelle had deactivated the security system because she didn’t want any evidence that she’d had her dealer there.” He pauses. “Cara, although this was the first time Nijad hurt a woman, he had overeacted violently just some weeks earlier.” He looks at me sadly. “That’s what made us believe him capable.”

I feel defeated. There are obviously things I don’t know.

“His knuckles were grazed,” Jasim continues, “And his blood was on her face. And her blood on his fist.” Suddenly Jasim stops talking, and his eyes flare.

“What is it?” Kadar reads something in Jasim’s expression.

Jasim’s brow furrows as he searches back through his thoughts. “I’ve just remembered something. You know I sold the apartment, but that wasn’t until a year later. To be honest, I never wanted to go there again, wanted to forget it existed. But I got a report from the surveyor, and it showed damage that hadn’t been there before that day. A hole in the wall by the front door.” He pauses, and when he starts again he appears animated and excited. “The surveyor actually noted that it looked like someone had put their fist through it. He laughed when he told me, saying it had to have been someone pretty strong. I didn’t think much of it, just agreed for the repairs to be undertaken. But what if that’s how Nijad injured his fist? Hitting a wall in frustration is much more in line with his character!”

Kadar looks at me strangely, and then after a pause turns to his brother. “The circumstances were different, Jasim, when Nijad attacked the man in the club. His reaction was perhaps over the top, but he was protecting a woman on that occasion. Something perhaps any of us would do. What would you have done, brother, had you been the one to see a woman beaten so?”

He gives Jasim time to think about his answer. “And are you now saying that Nijad could have injured his hand against the wall? If there were someone else there, could he have been set up?”

Jasim looks thoughtful, as if he’s considering the facts in a different way.

When he speaks, he addresses my questions. “There was no time or point in taking detailed forensic evidence. But some work was done. Nijad’s blood was on her face, and on her clothes.”

“Which could have come from his fist had he injured it. And putting a large hole in the wall could easily have opened the skin.”

Jasim continues, “After making the accusation the woman quickly retracted her story to the police when she was offered compensation. The police didn’t investigate further. The authorities could do nothing without a witness. We didn’t follow it up, as we accepted her story. The rush was to keep Nijad from being arrested. The facts seemed to speak for themselves. Jon Tharpe had done what he could; he interviewed the woman himself, and even he was convinced, particularly with the evidence of Nijad’s blood. We asked no further questions.”

His face is drawn, hurt showing as he turns to Kadar. “I was there with him when he woke. I asked no questions, Kadar.” His distress is evident.

Kadar sighs. “I would have done the same, brother. You can’t blame yourself. I trust Jon Tharpe. But what if he’d been fooled by the woman? She had a lot to gain by sticking with her story. If the truth was something different she wouldn’t have ended up a millionaire.”

If a pin had dropped at that moment, we would all have heard it. I’d presented an alternative option and they are, at least, giving it some serious consideration.