Bella thought about Amira. And then she thought how Zafiq would feel if he lost the mare he’d bred from a foal.
‘Absolutely.’ She helped herself to one more date for courage. ‘Go and distract Yousif and leave the rest to me.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZAFIQ tapped his fingers on the table, only half listening to the interminable discussion on oil prices and investment strategy. Never before had his responsibilities seemed more arduous or his palace more stifling.
Glancing idly out of the window he could see the racetrack he’d had built a few years before. Close to his stables, it offered a training facility as well as a world-class venue for international race meetings.
A lone horse and rider galloped over the turf and Zafiq’s eyes narrowed as he instantly recognised his stallion, Batal.
Batal, who had put Kamal in hospital two weeks earlier.
Having visited the young man daily, Zafiq had given Yousif strict instructions that no one but him should ride the horse.
He was resigned to the fact that the race was lost.
And if the race was lost, so was his beloved Amira.
But someone—he couldn’t see who—was training Batal.
Whoever it was rode well, coaxing an impressive performance from the normally fractious stallion, keeping that leashed power under control with a light hand.
‘That is Hassan.’ His brother Rachid followed his gaze. ‘He has been exercising Batal since Kamal’s fall.’
‘I gave instructions that no one was to ride him but me.’
‘You’ve been incredibly busy. You had good reason not to spend time in the stable.’
Knowing that his reason for not being in the stables had golden hair and long legs, Zafiq felt the dull ache of tension spread across his shoulders. The sweet pull of temptation had been a constant companion since his return from the desert. It ate away at him, challenging his self-control.
‘Hassan is to be praised,’ he said in a neutral tone. ‘I hadn’t realised he possessed such superior riding skills. Perhaps the race is not lost after all.’
‘He has surprised us all.’ Rachid frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it. I have seen him ride many times and he is competent, but not exceptional.’
Zafiq rose to his feet, intrigued by the sudden change in Rachid. Over the past few weeks his brother seemed to have grown in confidence, contributing to affairs of state in a way that he never had before.
Zafiq wondered idly what had caused the change.
Had being left in charge for a short time given him the confidence he’d lacked?
‘Batal has been acting up all week, kicking out his box and misbehaving—’ Rachid strolled to the window and watched the horse gallop around the track ‘—generally suffering from an excess of testosterone.’
All too familiar with the adverse effects of an excess of testosterone, Zafiq gave a grim smile and wondered whether a ride would relieve the almost unbearable tension.
Deciding that anything would be better than remaining in the palace for another day, he concluded the meeting.
He felt trapped. Stifled. The palace felt like a prison, his responsibilities like chains around his body.
‘Is everything all right, Zafiq?’ Rachid lingered behind after the others had left the room. ‘You seem distracted. Are you worrying about the race?’
‘everything is fine.’ This was his life. This was his duty. And he realised that he’d been neglecting his responsibility towards his younger brothers and sisters. ‘I have not seen much of Sahra since I returned from the desert. She eats dinner in the fastest time possible and I’ve received no complaints about her behaviour for several weeks. Should I be worried?’