Hot-Blooded Husbands Bundle

‘And that,’ Leona murmured sagely as she straightened, ‘is most definitely the Al-Qadim charm. Hello, Rafiq,’ she added gently.

‘My lady,’ he returned with a sweeping bow that held Melanie transfixed in surprise—until she realised she was seeing some kind of in-joke being enacted here, because both pairs of eyes were warm with amusement.

Then Rafiq was introducing his son to Sheikh Hassan, who bent to shake Robbie’s hand very formally. When he straightened his eyes made that fleeting contact with Melanie’s again.

It was Robbie who broke this next moment of tension. ‘Where is my new grandfather?’ he wanted to know.

All pleasure—forced or otherwise—instantly dropped away from everyone. Rafiq looked to his brother; his brother gave a reply. ‘He is in his rooms,’ his said quietly. ‘He knows you have arrived.’

‘Is he still ill?’

‘Ah,’ Hassan grimaced. ‘His health is just fine; it is his temper that is threatening to fail him.’

It was automatic for Melanie to reach for Robbie, protecting her son being her paramount need. Rafiq noted the gesture and his expression hardened. ‘You used to be famed for your diplomacy, Hassan,’ he drawled.

‘My apologies.’ Hassan offered Melanie the kind of half-bow she was used to receiving from him. ‘I was referring to our father’s impatience at us keeping him waiting.’

It was a slick recovery, but a lie nonetheless. Rafiq saw Melanie’s giveaway expression, went to claim Robbie’s hand, then slipped his other hand back around her waist. She looked up at him, eyes anxiously searching his for reassurance.

He tried to give it with a small smile. But with his brother and Leona watching them Melanie knew there was little more he could do. They began to walk down a wide corridor between pale blue walls on sand-coloured floors. No one spoke. Even Robbie had picked up on the tension and was quiet.

They entered a room that might have been William’s study in a lot of ways, though it was bigger and lighter and many degrees warmer. In the middle of the room, reclining on a divan, lay an old man whose fragile state tugged at Melanie’s heart. That he was seriously ill was obvious; that he was resigned to that illness was written in his face. He lifted himself as they came towards him, though, sliding his thin body up a high bank of pillows and fixing his eyes on Robbie.

Rafiq went down on one knee to embrace his father. The old man’s fingers held Rafiq’s face as they spoke in low and husky Arabic. What bowled Melanie over most was the wave of love she could feel coming from the two men. It filled the room, tripped her heartbeat, while she waited for them to remember she and Robbie were here. Then Rafiq was turning and beckoning to Robbie. Tears glazed her eyes as she watched her brave son step into the curve of his father’s arm.

An arm settled across her own shoulders. It belonged to Leona Al-Qadim.

‘This is your grandfather, Robert,’ Rafiq was explaining.

‘Does he speak English?’ the boy whispered.

‘Yes,’ the old sheikh answered for himself. ‘I speak many languages. Come…will you take my hand?’

It was an old hand, a gnarled hand. Robbie placed his own hand into it without hesitation and allowed himself to be drawn towards the divan. As he did so he slipped free from Rafiq’s comforting arm and, without needing any prompting, began to talk.

It was his way. Melanie knew that; Rafiq had come to know it. ‘William said that you’ve been sick. Are you doing to die like William? I like your room; it’s nice. Can you play chess? William played chess with me. Have you read all of these books?’

The old sheikh answered each separate question. He fell in love as they all watched. As the questions flowed so did Robbie’s small figure flow into a sitting position on the divan, then he curled until he was almost on the old sheikh’s lap. He was used to old men; he had grown up with one of the very best. To her son there was no fear in age and wrinkles. Melanie had always been aware that Robbie missed William, but she had not realised just how much until she saw how naturally he had drawn close to his grandfather.

Tears blanked out the old man’s image. Rafiq was standing straight and still. Leona’s fingers smoothed one of her shoulders, and somewhere behind her she was aware of Sheikh Hassan’s silent observation.

‘You have a beautiful son, Melanie,’ Leona said softly.

The sound of her voice broke the loaded atmosphere. The old sheikh lifted his eyes and looked directly at her. ‘You denied us all.’

It was a quiet and level accusation, designed to make its point without alarming her son. Rafiq stiffened his body. Melanie didn’t know what to say. The sheikh was right: she had denied them. The guilt of that was going to live with her for a long time.

‘She did not,’ a sober voice inserted. ‘I am afraid it is I who must take the blame for that.’

Rafiq turned to stare at his brother. Leona’s fingers pressed gently into Melanie’s arm.

‘I’m going to take Melanie away now,’ she informed all of them. ‘Robert, would you like to come?’

It was not the voice of choice; little boys recognised these things. He scrambled down from his grandfather’s divan and obediently walked with the women from the room.

‘Don’t shake so,’ Leona murmured softly. ‘My father-in-law is a good man. He just doesn’t know the truth.’

‘Neither does Rafiq,’ Melanie said. ‘I didn’t want him to.’