The Sheikh's Undoing

‘This looks wonderful,’ said Isobel shyly, realising that this was the first time she’d been given an insider’s experience of Tariq’s royal life.

‘A dinner fit for a king!’ said Francesca, and they all laughed as they took their places around the table.

The evening passed in a bit of a blur. Isobel was aware of being served the most amazing food, but it was mostly wasted on her. She might as well have been eating bread and butter for all the notice she took of the exquisite fare. She could hardly believe she was here with Tariq—meeting his family like this. It had the heady but disconcerting effect of almost normalising their relationship—and she knew that was a dangerous way to start thinking. Just because you really wanted something, it didn’t necessarily mean it was going to happen.

So she joined in as much as she could, though she felt completely lost when the two brothers began speaking in their own language.

‘They’re discussing the new trade deal with Maraban,’ confided Francesca.

Isobel put her knife and fork down. ‘Do you speak any Khayarzahian?’ she questioned.

‘Only a little. I’m learning all the time—though it’s not the easiest language in the world. But I’m determined to be fluent one day—just as my sons will be.’

‘They’re such beautiful babies,’ said Isobel, a sudden note of wistfulness entering her voice almost before she’d realised.

‘Not getting broody, are you?’ Francesca laughed.

It was perhaps unfortunate that the brothers’ conversation chose that precise moment to end and Tariq glanced up. He must have heard what they’d been saying, Isobel thought, her skin suddenly growing cold with fear. He must have done. Why else did he fix her with an expression she’d never seen before? A calculating look iced the ebony depths of his eyes which made her feel like some sort of gatecrasher.

‘Of course I’m not!’ she denied quickly, reaching for a glass of water and horribly aware of the sudden flush of colour to her cheeks. Why was he looking at her like that—with his eyes full of suspicion? Did he think she was trying to ingratiate herself with the monarch and his wife? Or did he think she really was getting broody?

One moment she had been part of their charmed inner circle—warmed by its privileged light—and now in an instant it felt as if she had been kicked out and left to shiver on the darkened sidelines.

By the time the evening ended her feeling of despondency had grown—though she managed to maintain her bright air of enjoyment until the car door had closed on them and they were once more locked within its private space.

She settled back in the seat, unable to shake off the feeling of having been judged and found wanting, aware that Tariq did not slide his arm around her shoulder and draw her closer to him. And suddenly she was reminded of that very first time she’d had sex with him. When she’d been driven home—knickerless and confused—after first dropping him off at the Maraban Embassy.

Back then she had been painfully aware of him keeping her at a distance, and he was doing it again now. Even though in the intervening weeks they had been lovers it was almost like being transported back in time. Because nothing had really changed, had it? Not for Tariq. She might be guilty of concocting fast-growing fantasies about how hand-chosen pieces of jewellery meant that he was starting to care for her—but that was just wishful thinking. Like some young girl who read her horoscope and then prayed it would come true.

‘You seemed to be getting on very well with Francesca,’ he observed, his voice breaking into her thoughts.

‘I hope I did all right?’ she questioned, telling herself that any woman in her position would have asked the same question.

‘I thought you carried it off superbly.’

‘Thanks,’ she said uncertainly.

But Tariq leaned back in his seat, unable to dispel the growing sense of unease inside him. The whole evening had unsettled him, and it wasn’t difficult to work out why. Zahid in jeans—with no help for the children—and in a hotel suite which looked as if it had just been burgled.

He shook his head in faint disbelief. It was scarcely credible to him that his once so formal and slightly stuffy older brother was now like putty in the hands of his wife.

But it hadn’t just been the sense of chaos which had unsettled him. Something about their close family unit had opened up the dark space which was buried deep in Tariq’s heart. Watching his brother playing with his children had reinforced his sense of feeling like an outsider. Always the outsider.

He shot Isobel a glance, remembering the way their gazes had met over the dark curly head of his nephew. Had that been wistfulness he’d read in her eyes as she’d held the baby in her arms? Was she doing that clucky thing which seemed to happen to all women, no matter how much they tried to deny it? Especially if they knew that a man was watching them …

But why shouldn’t she long for babies of her own? That was what women were conditioned to do. The most unforgivable thing would be for a man who didn’t want children to waste the time of a woman who did.

He saw that her eyes were now closed. Her cheeks looked as smooth as marble. Her grey dress and the new opals were muted in the subdued light of the car. Only her magnificent mane of hair provided glowing life and colour. And suddenly, in this quiet place, all the things he usually blotted out came crowding into his mind.

He hadn’t given any thought to the future. He hadn’t planned this affair with Izzy—it had just sprung up, out of the blue, and been surprisingly good. But sooner or later something had to give. It wasn’t for ever. His relationships never were. And the longer it went on, then surely the more it would fill her with false hope. She might start seeing a happy-ever-after for them both—which was never going to happen. Wasn’t it better and more honest to end it now, before he really hurt her—a woman he liked and respected far too much to ever want to hurt?

He realised that she had fallen asleep, and although a part of him wanted to lean over and wake her with a kiss he reminded himself that this wasn’t a fairytale.

He was not that prince.

Gently, he shook her shoulder, and her big, tawny eyes snapped open.

‘Wake up, Izzy,’ he said softly.