The aircraft steps were lowered and Frankie was suddenly stricken by an overwhelming sense of fear as she stared up into the harshness of his shadowed features. He was going! He was going and she might realistically never see him again. In all the years which lay ahead, this might be her last glance at his beloved face. Because she realised something else, too. That their friendship of so many years had been irreparably shattered by the end of their affair. And that hurt almost more than anything else.
She took a tentative step forward, not knowing what she was going to say but knowing that she needed to touch him one last time. Just to feel the warm brush of his skin …
‘Zahid?’
‘What?’ He could read the unbearable sadness in her eyes but he kept his distance, knowing that if they touched he would be lost. Instead, he shrugged. ‘What can I say, other than that I’m sorry?’
‘S-sorry?’ The lump in her throat was threatening to choke her. ‘You mean you regret what has happened?’
Zahid’s mouth hardened. Yes, of course he regretted it—because their affair had given him a taste of a paradise he sensed he would never know again. But the tentative buckling of her rose-pink lips made something inside him melt and revise his opinion. For how could he regret something which had given him so much joy, and fulfilment? He shook his head. ‘Of course I don’t regret it,’ he whispered. ‘I’m just sorry that I can’t offer you anything more.’
‘Zahid.’ Her eyes were now brimming with tears and she wanted to blurt out that she would be satisfied with whatever he was able to offer her. That she would be contented to be his London mistress if she could continue being his lover—no matter how short and how snatched his visits might be. But Frankie knew that was not the answer. Wouldn’t she become increasingly dissatisfied if her sheikh tossed out ever big2er scraps of his time, until there was no respect or love left between them? Far better to part now, while the memories were sweet—no matter how much it hurt to do so.
‘Zahid,’ she said again, knowing that there was something she needed to tell him—even if it meant that she made herself even more vulnerable in the process.
‘What?’ he questioned grimly.
Say it, she told herself fiercely. Say it so that he will never be in any doubt of the truth. ‘I just want you to know that I love you, my darling. I love you so much.’
Zahid flinched, for it was like having his heart pierced with the sharpest of all swords. ‘I know you do,’ he answered softly. ‘Just as I love you. Now go. Go before …’ She nodded as she heard the sudden break in his voice. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she whispered.
‘Goodbye, Francesca.’ He turned on his heel and began to walk away from her, scarcely aware of the aide who appeared and informed him that a jet was being fuelled for his return journey to Khayarzah. All Zahid registered was the sight of Francesca’s plane as it took off into the star-filled Moroccan sky and he stood watching it until it had disappeared.
And only then did he board his own plane with a heavy heart—before going straight to the washroom and locking the door.
For there were very few places where a king could cry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘WILL there be anything else, Your Royal Highness?’
Zahid stared at the aide who was standing in front of him with a questioning look on his face and realised that he had been lost in thought. That he had sat through an entire meeting to discuss the opening of the new horse-racing track and that most of it h
ad gone right over his head. Again.
This could not go on.
Flexing and then unflexing his long fingers, he shook his head. ‘No, there will be nothing else.’
‘We still need to discuss the opening ceremony,’ reminded the aide delicately.
‘I said, not now,’ snapped Zahid and could not miss the unmistakable glance which shimmered between his two closest advisors. They were wondering what the hell was the matter with him lately. Why he seemed to have the attention span of a fly and why nothing seemed to bring him pleasure.
Hadn’t he been wondering the same thing himself?
Abruptly, he stood up—a movement which brought the assembled group leaping to their feet. And bitterly Zahid recognised that it was a sign of ignorance if you failed to acknowledge what, deep down, you knew to be the truth. Because the reason for his discontentment and heavy heart was as clear as the bright Khayarzah morning.
He missed Francesca.
He missed her in a way that he imagined a man might miss his limb if it had been torn from his body, leaving him shocked and bleeding.
Hadn’t he thought that it would be easy? That by doing the right thing by his country, he would soon forget about the sapphire-eyed friend who had burrowed her way into his heart? Somehow, he had imagined that duty would bring some kind of consolation, in the form of some sort of peace of mind. But duty had so far failed to deliver.
Hadn’t he done everything he could to stop himself from thinking about her? Thrown himself into every task with a fervour which had astonished his palace staff—as if sheer hard work might provide him with some kind of sanctuary? And when that had failed, hadn’t he taken his horse and ridden him in the cool of the desert evening—ridden him harder than he could remember riding for years? But physical exhaustion, sweat and dust had done little to alleviate the terrible emptiness which filled him like a vacuum.
The other night, his brother Tariq had even called from London, on some flimsy pretext—but Zahid had known immediately that the subtext was to enquire how he was. Did that mean that word had got back to him that the ruling sheikh was out of sorts? And did such rumours not threaten to bring instability to Khayarzah? Maybe the ridiculous irony of the whole sorry mess was that the right thing might turn out to be the wrong thing?
His face darkened with rage, and the thought that he could be harming his beloved country was enough to spur him into immediate action. Gathering together his aides, he told them that he was making a short trip to England—and by the following day his Gulfstream jet was touching down outside London.