Isobel could hear him speaking in a lowered voice, so she took the opportunity to head for the bathroom down the corridor—the one he never used. Her heart was racing as she closed the door, and the terrible taste of fear was in her mouth. And she knew that she could no longer put off the moment of truth.
She flinched as she saw the image which was reflected back at her in the full-length mirror. Her face was paper-pale and her eyes looked huge and haunted, but it was her body which disturbed her. Like most women, she was not usually given to staring at her naked self, but even she could see that her breasts looked swollen and the nipples were much darker than usual.
Was she pregnant? Was she?
For a moment she lowered her head, to gaze at the pristine white surface of the washbasin. She remembered how unequivocal Tariq had been about not wanting children—and clearly it hadn’t been an idle declaration. Hadn’t she witnessed for herself how cold he could be when he was around them? Why, he’d barely touched Omar or Azzam the other day—he’d seemed completely unmoved by their presence when everyone else had been cooing around them.
She wanted to sink to her knees and pray for some kind of miracle. But she couldn’t afford to have hysterics or to act rashly. She needed time to think, and she needed to stay calm.
Quickly, she showered and put on jeans and a shirt, feeling the slight tug as she fastened the buttons across her chest.
The silence in the apartment told her that Tariq had finished his conversation, and in bare feet she padded along the corridor to find him standing in his study. He was staring out of the window, his powerful body silhouetted against the dramatic view.
When he turned round, he didn’t comment on the fact that she had showered and dressed. A couple of weeks ago he would have growled his displeasure and started removing her clothes immediately, but not now—and a wave of regret washed over her for something between them which seemed to be lost.
‘Is anything wrong?’ she questioned.
He stared at her, his eyes focussing on her pale skin and anxious eyes, and a heavy sense of sadness enveloped him. What had happened to his smart and wisecracking Izzy? He felt the heavy beat of guilt, aware of the enormity of what he had done. In typical Tariq fashion he had seen and he had conquered. Selfishly, he had listened to the voracious demands of his body and taken her as his lover, refusing to acknowledge the thoughtlessness of such an action.
She had been too inexperienced to resist the powerful lure of lust when it had swept over them so unexpectedly. He should have known better and he should have resisted. But he had not. He had done what he always did—he had taken and taken, knowing that he had nothing to give back.
And now he was left with the growing suspicion that he was going to lose the best assistant he’d ever had. For how could they carry on like this, when much of her natural spontaneity seemed to have been eroded by the affair?
He could tell that something had changed. It was as if she was walking on eggshells. He noticed that she kept biting back her words—which usually meant that a woman was falling in love with him, that she was weighing up everything she said for fear of how he would interpret it. And all these negative feelings would snowball—he knew that, too. How could he possibly face her in the office if her reproachful looks were to continue and the gap between them widened daily?
‘Tariq?’
Her soft voice broke into his troubled thoughts. ‘What?’
‘I wondered if anything was wrong.’
‘Wrong?’
She looked at him questioningly, telling herself that it was her business to know what was going on his life. But deep down she wanted to clear that scary look of distraction from his face. To have him talk to her. Properly.
‘The phone call you’ve just had from Khayarzah?’ she elaborated. ‘I hope everything’s okay with your brother?’
With an effort, he focussed on the conversation he’d just finished. ‘Zahid wants my help with a relative of ours.’
‘Oh?’
‘A distant cousin of mine, from my mother’s side,’ he explained. ‘Her name is Leila, and she’s in trouble.’
Isobel’s face blanched as she wondered if the gods were taunting her. Because hadn’t that expression always been a euphemism for a particular kind of predicament in which a woman sometimes found herself? Was it possible that a cruel fate was about to inflict not one but two unplanned pregnancies on the al Hakam family?
‘Trouble?’ she questioned hoarsely. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘It seems she’s decided she wants to junk university and go off to America to be a model. Can you imagine?’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Zahid thinks that she needs to be shown the error of her ways, and he thinks that I may just be able to sort things out.’
‘I see.’ Isobel nodded. Was she imagining the relief on his face—as if he was anticipating an adventure which would fully occupy him for the foreseeable future? As if he was pleased to have a bone fide reason to unexpectedly leave the country? ‘Why does he think that?’
‘He says that my uniquely west
ern perspective might help persuade her. That I’ve seen enough of that kind of world to convince her that it’s all starvation and cigarettes and people who will try to exploit her.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing that need concern you—but I’m going to fly out later tonight, if you could make sure the new jet is ready for me?’
Two things occurred to her at the same time. The first was that he still came and went exactly as he pleased—becoming her lover had not curtailed his freedom in any way at all. And the second was that she knew there was no way she could announce her momentous news. Not when he was about to go on some mission of mercy for his brother. Not when she hadn’t even had it confirmed. And until she did then surely there was always the chance that it was nothing but a false alarm?
But her decision didn’t give her any peace of mind. She was still left with nagging doubts. Tariq was leaving to go back to his homeland, and suddenly she didn’t know where her place in his life should be. She struggled to a find common ground.