The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest: The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest. Michelle Celmer

witless. The Emir had seen her as an interloper, and had taken every opportunity to make her feel like an outsider, until he’d poisoned even Tariq against her.

      The falcon shifted restlessly on the glove, bringing Jayne’s attention back to the bird. She studied the leather jesses bound to her legs. Noor was as captive as she had once been. “Noor wants your attention.”

      “She’s hungry. She wants food.” Tariq moved his other hand into the bucket containing strips of meat. The falcon tensed, her head coming forward, anticipation in every line of her body. Tariq placed the piece of meat on the glove and the falcon lowered her head and took it.

      “Here, give her another piece.”

      Jayne fed it to the bird. This time Noor gave a squawk. Jayne gave the bird a wary look.

      “She won’t eat you.” There was a hint of derision in his tone. “It’s easy to come to an understanding with a falcon. The falcon simply has to stay hungrier.”

      Noor gaped at her again. “I don’t think she likes me.”

      Tariq made an impatient sound. “She’s a bird. Noor doesn’t recognise like or love. She’s interested in having her wants satisfied. She feels no emotion.” He shot her a hooded glance. “A typical woman.”

      Jayne ignored the dig. “She’s so graceful yet so strong.” She moved to stroke the bird, Noor flapped her wings in warning.

      “Careful. She’s a wild animal, a predator. An opportunist. Not a house pet.”

      “Is she hungry? Will you take her out to hunt? Or will she fly away?”

      “She’s eaten sufficient. But even if I took her out she would not fly away. My relationship with Noor is straightforward, based on trust—unlike most male-female interactions. Noor trusts me to feed her. I trust her to return.”

      Jayne felt the jab of the barb. She started to protest. Then gave up. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be drawn. Instead she said, “Your father spoke to me.”

      Tariq’s gaze sharpened. “What did he say?”

      “I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I think he was confused, he thought I was someone else. He called me ‘Lina.’”

      His head went back, and his eyes flared to black. “That’s impossible. You must’ve misheard.”

      Jayne considered him. What was that stark emotion in his eyes? Shock? Disbelief. And why? “What does it mean?”

      “That was his name for my mother.” Tariq’s eyes were as empty as the stony desert she’d passed in the taxi yesterday.

      “Perhaps he wants to see her?”

      “No.” He made a sudden, definite movement. The falcon reacted by flapping her wings and hopping up and down on the glove. “My mother is not welcome in Zayed.”

      Jayne waited. When Tariq failed to add more, she said, “I never met your mother. You never talk about her.”

      “As far as my father and I are concerned, that woman does not exist.”

      “Yet you see your maternal cousins, don’t you?”

      “That is different. Not only are we bound by blood, we are bound by business interests, too. My cousin Zac owns supertankers, I run refineries. There’s a reason for us to get together. My cousins know that my mother is not welcome in my presence.”

      “Well, I don’t think that’s how your father feels any longer. He’s dying. Perhaps he wants to make peace with your mother.”

      “My mother abandoned us—him—for another man. She has her own family—another daughter.”

      There was a flatness to Tariq’s tone that had Jayne shooting him a questioning look. There must be pain about his mother’s desertion. Somewhere. Deep inside him. They’d been married, yet she’d never been aware of this suffering within him.

      “There is no space in her life for me or my father,” he said, feeding Noor another sliver of meat. “Nor would my father want her back.”

      “Perhaps it’s not a case of wanting her back. Perhaps it’s more about wanting to tie off the loose ends in his life before he dies.”

      “You misheard. My father would never want my mother back in Zayed.” The finality in Tariq’s tone warned Jayne that the subject of his mother was better left alone.

      Absently Jayne watched the bird preen, her beak stroking through her feathers, setting them right. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. I just thought you might know who your father confused me with.”

      “It doesn’t surprise me that he confused you.” A hand touched her hair. Jayne’s gaze jerked upward. Emotion flared in his eyes. “You both have long, dark hair and pale ivory skin.”

      “I’ve never seen a photo of your mother.” Jayne was sure his mother would be beautiful. Nothing like her. Ordinary. Plain Jayne.

      “There are no pictures in the palace of my mother. As there are none of you. Both of you treacherous, two-timing—”

      Jayne shifted abruptly. “I’m not listening to this. I was prepared to discuss this in the past. You wouldn’t listen then and I’m not getting caught up in it all over again.” He’d stonewalled her then, breaking her heart. “It’s water under the bridge.”

      Water under the bridge.

      The painful memories exploded inside her. She swung away from Tariq and made blindly for the exit to the mews, to where shafts of silver sunlight broke into the gloomy interior, lighting her escape. No footsteps followed. And she was glad.

      She didn’t want to talk about the baby that she’d carried in her body. The baby she’d lost. It hurt too much. It was something she could never forget, something that stayed with her every day of her life.

      But what choice had she had?

      The day dragged past. Jayne had bought some magazines at the airport in Auckland to read on the plane and she flicked through them listlessly. She itched for a book to read, but Tariq’s library was a place she dared not go. It held too many unpleasant reminders of his distrust.

      So she lay down on the bed and dozed, until every last wisp of jetlag had lifted. When the knock sounded on the door late in the afternoon, heralding Latifa’s entrance, Jayne was ready for a distraction.

      “There are many people in the palace this evening. His Excellency has been kept busy all day.” Latifa’s young eyes were kind and wise beyond their years. “I am sure Sheikh Tariq is looking forward to seeing the sheikhah tonight. There has been much talking today.”

      This was what had driven her mad the first time round. The long days with no sign of Tariq. The absence of anything to do, while the men closed themselves behind high carved wooden doors, wearing sombre expressions. And few of the women she’d met had spoken English, even though some had seemed nice enough. But apart from one or two invitations none had made any overtures of friendship to her.

      In the past Tariq had told her to be patient. That she would make friends in time, that her loneliness would ease.

      If only it had been so simple.

      “Look, this came for you today.” Latifa produced the box with the air of a magician performing a wondrous trick that deserved squeals of delight. Jayne didn’t have the heart not to smile.

      “What is it?”

      “It is most beautiful.” Latifa opened the lid to reveal a caftan and sheer hijab in shades of emerald shot through with bronze thread. “There are shoes to match and pants.” She pulled out the high-heeled pumps like a rabbit from a hat. “And more clothes will arrive in the morning.”

      “I don’t want clothes,” Jayne protested.

      But once dressed, Jayne