Hot-Blooded Husbands: the Sheikh's Chosen Wife. Michelle Reid

      ‘Don’t be difficult,’ he censured. ‘I want you here, within touching distance when I explain.’

      But she didn’t want to be within touching distance when he said what she knew he had to say. ‘You are about to go home, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes,’ he confirmed.

      It was all right challenging someone to tell you the truth when you did not mind the answer, but when you did mind it—‘So this is it,’ she stated, finding a short laugh from somewhere that was not really a laugh at all. ‘Holiday over…’

      Out there the sun glistened on the blue water, casting a shimmering haze over the nearing land. It was hot but she was cold. It was bright but she was standing in darkness. The end, she thought. The finish.

      ‘So, how are you going to play it?’ she asked him. ‘Do you drop me off on the quay in the clothes I arrived in and wave a poignant farewell as you sail away. Or have I earned my passage back to San Estéban?’

      ‘What are you talking about?’ Hassan frowned. ‘You are my wife, yet you speak about yourself as a mistress.’

      Which was basically how she had been behaving over the last two weeks, Leona admitted to herself. ‘Inshallah,’ she murmured.

      The small sarcasm brought him back to his feet. As he strode towards her she felt her body quicken, felt her breasts grow tight and despised herself for being so weak of the flesh that she could be aroused by a man who was about to carry out his promise to free her. But six feet two inches of pedigree male to her five feet seven was such a lot to ignore when she added physical power into the equation, then included mental power and sexual power. It really was no wonder she was such a weakling where he was concerned.

      And it didn’t stop there, because he came to brace his hands on the rail either side of her, then pushed his dark face close up to hers. Now she could feel the heat of him, feel his scented breath on her face. She even responded to the ever-present sexual glow in his eyes though it had no right to be there—in either of them.

      ‘A mistress knows when to keep her beautiful mouth shut and just listen. A wife does her husband the honour of hearing him out before she makes wildly inaccurate claims,’ he said.

      ‘You’ve just told me that our time here is over,’ she reminded him with a small tense shrug of one slender shoulder. ‘What else is there left for you to say?’

      ‘What I said,’ he corrected, ‘was that our time here alone was over.’

      The difference made her frown. Hassan used the moment to shift his stance, grasp both of her hands and pry them away from the death grip they had on her arms. Her fingers left marks where they had been clinging. He frowned at the marks and sighed at her pathetically defiant face. Then, dropping one of her hands, he turned and pulled her over to the table, urged her down into the chair he had just vacated and, still without letting go of her other hand, pulled out a second chair upon which he sat down himself.

      He drew the chair so close to her own that he had to spread his thighs wide enough to enclose hers. It was a very effective way to trap his audience, especially when he leaned forward and said, ‘Now, listen, because this is important and I will not have you diverting me by tossing up insignificant comments.’

      It was automatic that she should open her mouth to question that remark. It was predictable, she supposed, that Hassan should stop her by placing his free hand across her parted lips. ‘Shh,’ he commanded, ‘for I refuse to be distracted yet again because the anguish shows in your eyes each time we reach this moment, and your words are only weapons you use to try and hide that from me.’

      ‘Omniscient’ was the word that came to mind to describe him, she thought, as her eyes told him she would be quiet. His hand slid away from her face, leaving its warm imprint on her skin. He smiled a brief smile at her acquiescence, then went so very serious that she found herself holding onto her breath.

      ‘You know,’ he began, ‘that above all things my father has always been your strongest ally, and it is for him that I am about to speak…’

      The moment he mentioned Sheikh Khalifa her expressive eyes clouded with concern.

      ‘As his health fails, the more he worries about the future of Rahman,’ he explained. ‘He frets about everything. You, me, what I will do if the pressures currently being brought to bear upon me force me to make a decision which could change the rule of Rahman.’

      ‘You mean you have actually considered giving up your right to succession?’ Leona gasped out in surprise.

      ‘It is an option,’ he confessed. ‘And one which became more appealing after I uncovered the plot involving you, which was aimed to make me do as other people wish,’ he added cynically. ‘But for my father’s sake I assured him that I am not about to walk away from my duty. So he decided to fret about my happiness if I am forced to sacrifice you for the sake of harmony, which places me in a frustrating nowin situation where his peace of mind is concerned.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured.

      ‘I don’t want your sympathy, I want your help,’ he stated with a shortness that told her how much he disliked having to ask. ‘He loves you, Leona, you know that. He has missed you badly since you left Rahman.’

      ‘I didn’t completely desert him, Hassan.’ She felt pushed into defending herself. ‘I’ve spoken to him every day via the internet.’ Even here on the yacht she had been using Faysal’s computer each morning to access her e-mail. ‘I even read the same books he is reading so that we can discuss them together. I—’

      ‘I know,’ Hassan cut in with a wry smile. ‘What you say to him he relays to me, so I am fully aware that I am a bully and a tyrant, a man without principle and most definitely my father’s son.’

      ‘I said those things to tease a laugh out of him,’ she defended.

      ‘I know this too,’ he assured her. ‘But he likes to make me smile with him.’ Reaching up, he stroked a finger along the flush of discomfort that had mounted her cheeks. ‘And let me face it,’ he added, removing the finger, ‘your communication with him was far sweeter than your communication with me.’

      He was referring to the letters he’d received from her lawyer. ‘It was over between us. You should have left it like that.’

      ‘It is not over between us, and I cannot leave it like that.’

      ‘Your father—’

      ‘Needs you,’ he grimly inserted. ‘I need you to help me ease his most pressing concerns. So I am asking you for a full and open reconciliation of our marriage—for my father’s sake if not for yours and mine.’

      Leona wasn’t a fool. She knew what he was not saying here. ‘For how long?’

      He offered a shrug. ‘How long is a piece of string?’ he posed whimsically. Then, because he could see that the answer was not enough, he dropped the whimsy, sat right back in his seat and told her curtly, ‘The doctors give him two months—three at most. In that period we have been warned to expect a rapid deterioration as the end draws near. So I ask you to do this one thing for him and help to make his passage out of this world a gentle one…’

      Oh, dear heaven, she thought, putting a hand up to her eyes as the full weight of what he was asking settled over her. How could she refuse? She didn’t even want to refuse. She loved that old man as much as she loved her own father. But there were other issues here which had not been aired yet, and it was those that kept her agreement locked inside.

      ‘The other wife they want for you,’ she prompted, ‘am I to appear to accept her imminent arrival also?’

      His expression darkened. ‘Do me the honour of allowing me some sensitivity,’ he came back. ‘I have no wish to sacrifice your face for my own face. And I find it offensive that you could suspect that I would do.’

      Which