Maisey Yates - Heir To A Dark Inheritance

“The sheikh?”

“A friend of mine.” His only friend.

“Well, I guess you are sort of newsworthy,” she said.

She had no idea. His relationship with Sayid was only the tip of the iceberg, but he hardly intended to tell her about his past. He had no need to. They would marry, he would install her in the residence of her choice and then he would carry on as he had always done.

He made a mental note to put Leena’s birthday in his calendar. He would attempt to make visits around that time. Failing that he would send a gift. That seemed a good thing to do. And it was a bloody sight better than abandonment.

He put his sunglasses on, prepared to contend with the heat of Attar, a heat he had grown accustomed to over the past six years. He suddenly realized that Jada and Leena weren’t.

He pulled out his cell phone. “Bring the car up to the jet, make sure it is adequately cooled.” It was strange, having to consider the comfort of others. He rarely considered his own comfort. He would have charged out into the heat and walked to where the car was, or walked on to Sayid’s palace himself.

He grimaced. He didn’t especially want to go straight to Sayid’s palace. He would have the driver take him to his own palace.

“Wait until the car pulls up,” he said to Jada.

“Why?” she asked.

“This is not the sort of heat you’re used to.”

“How do you know?”

“Unless you’ve spent years in a North African desert, it’s not the kind of heat you’re used to. I assume you have not?”

“Not recently,” she said, her tone stiff. It almost struck him as funny, but he had the feeling if he laughed vulnerable body parts might be in danger.

“I thought you probably had not.”

When he saw the sleek, black car pulling near the door of the plane, he gave the pilot the signal to open the door. The moment it started to lower, a wave of heat washed inside the cabin.

“You weren’t joking,” she said.

“No, I wasn’t.” The stairs were steep, and he wondered if a woman as petite as Jada could manage a wiggling one-year-old on her way down.

“Give her to me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Do you want to try and negotiate those with her in your arms? If so, by all means.” His discomfort with the situation, with the prospect of holding the child again, made his voice harder than he intended.

“And what makes you think you’ll do better? You aren’t experienced with babies. What if you drop her?”

“I have carried full-grown men down mountainsides when they were unable to walk for themselves. I think I can carry a baby down a flight of stairs. Give her to me.”

Jada complied, but her expression remained mutinous.

“After you,” he said.

She started down the steps and into the car, and he followed after her. There was a car seat ready in this vehicle, his orders followed down to the letter. There should also be supplies for a baby back at his home. Money didn’t buy happiness—he knew that to be true. He doubted he’d felt a moment of true happiness in his life. But money bought a lot of conveniences, and a lot of things that felt close enough to that elusive emotion.

He much preferred having it to not having it. And a good thing, too, as he’d sold his soul to get it.

“Where are we headed?” she asked when the car started moving.

“To my palace.” He looked out the window at the wide, flat expanse of desert, and the walls of the city beyond it. This was the first place he had ever felt at home. The desert showed a man where he was at, challenged him on a fundamental level. The desert didn’t care for good or evil. Only strength. Survival.

It had been a rescue mission in this very desert that had nearly claimed his life. And now it was in his blood.

“You have a palace?”

“A gift from the sheikh.”

“Extravagant gift.”

“Not so much, all things considered.”

“What things?” she asked.

He didn’t know what made him do it, but he unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pulled the collar to the side, revealing the dark lines of his most recent tattoo. The one that covered his most recent scar.

Her eyes widened. She lifted her hand as though she was tempted to touch, to see if the skin beneath the ink was as rough and damaged as it looked. It was. He wanted her to do it. Wanted her to press her fingertips to his flesh, so he could see just how soft and delicate she truly was against his hardened, damaged skin.

She lowered her hand and the spell was broken. “Is that part of that newsworthiness you were talking about?” she asked.

“Some might say.”

“It looks like it was painful.”

“Not especially. I think the one on my wrist hurt worse.”

“Not the tattoo,” she said.

He chuckled, feeling a genuine sense of amusement. “I know.”

They settled into silence for the rest of the drive. Jada stared out the window, her fingers fluffing his daughter’s pale hair. He wondered if she looked like her mother. Her birth mother. He could scarcely remember the woman.

Based on geography he had a fair idea of who she was, but he ultimately couldn’t be certain. A one-night stand that had occurred nearly two years earlier hardly stuck out in his mind. He’d had a lot of nights like that. A lot of encounters with women he barely exchanged names with before getting down to the business of what they both wanted.

He wondered if a normal man might feel shame over that. Over the fact that he could scarcely recall the woman who’d given birth to his child. Yes, a normal man would probably be ashamed. But Alik had spent too many years discovering that doing the right thing often meant going hungry, while doing the wrong thing could net you a hotel room and enough food for a week. He’d learned long ago that he would have to define right and wrong in his own way. The best way he’d been able to navigate life had been to chase all of the good feelings he could find.

Food and shelter made him comfortable, so whatever he’d had to do to get it, he had. Later on he’d discovered that sex made him feel good. So he had a lot of it. He was never cruel to his partners, never promised more than he was willing to deliver. And until recently, he’d imagined he’d left his lovers with nothing more than a smile on their face and a post-orgasmic buzz.

That turned out not to be strictly true. It made him feel unsettled. Made him question things it was far too late to question.

His palace was on the coast of Attar, facing the sea. The sun washed the sea a pale green, the rocks and sand red. And his home stood on the hill, a stunning contrast to the landscape. White walls and a golden, domed roof that shone bright in the midday heat.

Here, by the sea, the air was more breathable. Not as likely to burn you from the inside out.

“This is my home,” he said. “Your home now, if you wish.”

He wanted to take the invitation back as soon as he’d issued it. There was a reason he’d not mentioned the Attari palace in his initial list of homes Leena might live in. The heat was one reason, but there was another. This was his sanctuary. The one place he didn’t bring women. The one place he brought no one.

Not now. Now he was bringing his daughter and the woman who was to become his wife. For the first time in his memory, he seriously questioned the decisions that he’d made.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.