‘He and Leona communicate daily by e-mail,’ Hasssan explained. ‘The old man may be too puffed up with excitement to hold back from saying something to her.’
‘In the state you are in, all of this planning may well be a waste of time,’ Rafiq remarked with a pointed glance at his watch. ‘In one hour we arrive in Jeddah. If you do not pull yourself together Leona will need only to look at your face to know that something catastrophic has taken place.’
Hassan knew it. Without warning he sank his face into his hands. ‘This is crazy,’ he muttered thickly.
‘It is certainly most unexpected,’ his brother agreed. ‘And a little too soon for anyone, including the Al-Kadahs, to be making such confident judgements?’ he posed cautiously.
; Behind his hands Hassan’s brain went still. Behind the hands it suddenly rushed ahead again, filling him with the kind of thoughts that made his blood run cold. For Rafiq was right: three weeks was not long enough—not to achieve what he was suggesting. As any man knew, it took only a moment to conceive a child. But which man—whose child?
On several hard curses he dragged his hand down. On several more he climbed to his feet then strode across the room to pull open the door that connected him with his aide.
‘Faysal!’ The man almost jumped out of his skin. ‘Track down my father-in-law, wherever he is. I need to speak with him urgently.’
Slam. The door shut again. ‘May Allah save me from the evil minds of others,’ he grated.
‘I do not follow you.’ Rafiq frowned.
‘Three weeks!’ Hassan muttered. ‘Three weeks ago Leona was sleeping in the same house as Ethan Hayes! It was one of the problems which forced me into bringing her to this yacht, if you recall…’
Leona didn’t see Hassan until a few minutes before they were due to arrive in Jeddah. By then most of their guests were assembled on the shade deck taking refreshment while watching the yacht make the delicate manoeuvres required to bring such a large vessel safely into its reserved berth in the harbour.
In respect of Saudi Arabian custom everyone was wearing traditional Arab daywear, including little Hashim, who looked rather cute in his tiny white tunic and gutrah.
Hassan arrived dressed the same way; Rafiq was less than a step behind him. ‘Hello, strangers.’ Leona smiled at both of them. ‘Where have you two been hiding yourselves all morning?’
‘Working.’ Rafiq smiled, but Hassan didn’t even seem to hear her, and his gaze barely glanced across her face before he was turning to speak to Samir’s father, Imran.
She frowned. He looked different—not pale, exactly, but under some kind of grim restraint. Then little Hashim demanded, ‘Come and see,’ and her attention was diverted. After that she had no time to think of anything but the formalities involved in bidding farewell to everyone.
A fleet of limousines stood in line along the concrete jetty waiting to speed everyone off to their various destinations. Accepting thanks and saying goodbye took over an hour. One by one the cars pulled up and took people away in a steady rota. Sheikh Abdul and Zafina first—relieved, Leona suspected, to be getting away from a trip that had not been a pleasant one for them, though their farewells were polite enough.
Sheikh Imran and Samir were the next to leave. Then she turned to smile at Sheikh Jibril and his wife, Medina, who made very anxious weight of their farewell, reminding Hassan several times that he had complete loyalty. In Jibril’s case money talked much louder than power. He had no desire to scrape his deep pockets to pay Sheikh Raschid for the privilege of sending his oil across his land.
Raschid and his family were the last ones to leave. As with everyone else it would be a brief parting, because they would come together again next week, when they attended Sheikh Kalifa’s anniversary celebration. Only this time the children would be staying at home with their nurse. So Leona’s goodbyes to them were tinged with a genuine regret, especially for Hashim, who had become her little friend during their cruise. So, while she was promising to come and visit with him soon, she missed the rather sober exchanges between the others.
Eventually they left. Their car sped away. Rafiq excused himself to go and seek out Faysal, and Hassan said he had yet to thank his captain and walked away leaving her standing there, alone by the rail, feeling just a little bit rejected by the brevity with which he had treated her.
Something was wrong, she was sure, though she had no idea exactly what it could be. And, knowing him as well as she did, she didn’t expect to find out until he felt ready to tell her. So with a shrug and a sigh she went off to follow Hassan’s lead and thank the rest of the staff for taking care of everyone so well. By the time they came together again there was only time left to make the dash to the airport if they wanted to reach Rahman before nightfall.
Rafiq and Faysal travelled with them, which gave Hassan the excuse—and Leona was sure it was an excuse—to keep conversation light and neutral. A Lear jet bearing the gold Al-Qadim insignia waited on the runway to fly them over Saudi Arabia and into Rahman. The Al-Qadim oasis had its own private runway. A four-wheel drive waited to transport them to the palace whose ancient sandstone walls burned red against a dying sun.
Home, Leona thought, and felt a lump form in her throat because this was home to her. London…England—both had stopped being that a long time ago.
They swept through the gates and up to the front entrance. Hassan helped her to alight. As she walked inside she found herself flanked by two proud males again and wanted to lift her head and say something teasing about abayas, but the mood didn’t allow for it somehow.
‘My father wishes to see us straight away.’ Hassan unwittingly explained the sombre mood. ‘Please try not to show your shock at how much he has deteriorated since you were last here.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, oddly hurt that he felt he needed to say that. Then she took the hurt back when she saw the old sheikh reclining against a mound of pillows on his favourite divan.
His sons strode forward; she held back a little to allow them the space to greet him as they always did, with the old sheikh holding out both hands and both hands being taken, one by each son. In all the years she had known Sheikh Kalifa she had never seen him treat his two sons less than equal. They greeted each other; they talked in low-toned Arabic. They touched, they loved. It was an honour and a privilege to be allowed to witness it. When the old sheikh decided to acknowledge her presence he did so with a spice that told her that the old spirit was still very much alive inside his wasted frame.
‘So, what do you think of my two warriors, huh?’ he asked. ‘They snatch you back with style and panache. A worthy woman cannot but be impressed.’
‘Impressed by their arrogance, their cheek, and their disregard for my safety,’ Leona responded, coming forward now that he had in effect given her permission to do so. ‘I almost drowned—twice—and was tossed down a set of stairs. And you dare to be proud of them.’
No one bothered to accuse her of gross exaggeration, because he laughed, loving it, wishing he could have been there to join in. Reclaiming his hands, he waved his sons away and offered those long bony fingers to Leona.