The Desert Lord's Love-Child. Оливия Гейтс

her who wasn’t impossible to reach. He extended a hand to her. Her hand rose automatically, trembled as his closed around it. His smile turned assessing at feeling the tremors arcing through her. He shook her hand slowly, the fathomless black of his eyes brimming with astuteness and good nature. “I’m Shehab. Second son. Kamal is our baby brother.”

      Said baby brother shot her an implacable look, not following his older brother’s example and extending a hand of acceptance.

      Gathering the rest of her courage, feeling Farooq’s eyes burning the skin off the side of her face, she turned to Kamal. “I’m Carmen. And you don’t look like anyone’s baby brother.”

      Was that a hint of surprise in his eyes now? That someone dared breathe, let alone speak her mind, in his presence?

      “With two years between me and my ‘big’ brother, I don’t feel like such a baby.” Was that a hint of relenting, too?

      “So that’s why you all look the same age.” She cast her gaze between them, shook her head at the magnitude and range of virile beauty displayed before her. “I bet it’s great to have siblings so like yourself, so close in age. I would have loved to have any siblings at all, any family—but there you go. I hope you realize how lucky you are to have each other.”

      The three men exchanged glances, betraying no reaction to her words. She felt it anyway. Surprise. At her words. At their reaction to them. And to her after hearing them.

      When they turned their eyes back to her, it felt as if it was with new insight, more interest. She wasn’t sure she liked the intensified focus she’d provoked.

      She waved between them. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

      “Do what?” Shehab asked, his eyes intent on her.

      She wondered at how relative everything was. Seen alone, Shehab would be intimidating. Among his harsher brothers, he was the one who felt kinder, more approachable, the one she gravitated toward, counting on his leniency, his empathy.

      She exhaled. “Stand around in the open like that, together.”

      “You mean Judar’s heirs in one sniper’s bull’s-eye?” A definite shard of lethal humor glinted in the depths of Kamal’s eyes. “Though we always take every precaution, it has been drilled into us from birth never to put all eggs in one basket, so to speak. Farooq failed to tell us why he made an exception this time.”

      Farooq shrugged, seemingly no longer concerned with the progress of her first meeting with his siblings, playing with Mennah. “I had to coordinate with you face-to-face. As for the rest, I told you everything there is to know.”

      Shehab huffed in mockery. “Aih, you sure did. I have a daughter,” he reproduced Farooq’s voice. “Be there when I arrive. I get married tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow …?” Carmen choked on the word.

      “You didn’t get that telegram, eh?” Kamal sounded as if he relished knowing Farooq hadn’t put her in the picture, either.

      She shook her head, everything getting hazy, the juggernauts surrounding her cutting off air and light and reason. “I got nothing. He only mentioned you to explain your role as witnesses to our—to the-the orfi marriage and … and …”

      Shehab and Kamal stared at her, no doubt feeling her about to snap with anxiety, then turned to Farooq, eyebrows raised.

      Farooq ignored him, his eyes on her, hard with—what? Suspicion? Of what? Her reluctance, her outright panic? Well, surprise. “Do you have any reason for wanting to put off the ceremony?”

      “I—I barely set foot here, I need more time …”

      “You had sixteen months.”

      The endlessness of space around them turned into a vise, crushing her. She’d thought she’d have more time …

      At that moment, Mennah lurched forward, throwing herself into Carmen’s arms. As if she knew how much she needed her, to abort the spiral of agitation, to remind her of why she was doing this.

      Shehab, it seemed, thought it time to end the confrontation. He held out his arms to Mennah, who pitched herself at him, as if continuing a game she’d devised of throwing herself around the circle of her new-formed family.

      “Ana amm.” Shehab held her up, smiles wreathing his face as she wriggled and giggled, performing for her captive audience, pushing her enchantment factor to maximum. “I’m an uncle to this delightful treasure. It’s amazing, humbling, and it puts everything in perspective. We’re uncles, Kamal. Farooq, you’re a father. Ya Ullah, do you realize what a miracle this is? It’s all that matters.” He turned on them, holding Mennah out. “She is.”

      Kamal held out a hand to Mennah, as if unsure whether he could touch her. She grabbed his hand, tried to use it as a chewing toy, before repeating her catch-me maneuver. He caught her, the large hands capable of crushing men trembling, shock and other fierce emotions detonating in his eyes. Pride, protection, possessiveness. He was Farooq’s brother, all right.

      After a few moments of surrendering to Mennah’s pawing, he groaned, “Let’s get those marriage papers signed and sealed.”

      Farooq’s face was satisfaction itself at his unyielding brother’s capitulation, at how Mennah had secured it without effort. He beckoned, and Hashem materialized carrying the chest.

      Farooq took Mennah back from Kamal. Shehab reached for the chest, his eyes on Carmen, as if saying he was on her side. Kamal’s eyes, clearing of the emotions Mennah had provoked in him said he’d be watching her, that one step out of line, even if forgiven by Farooq, would guarantee her a formidable enemy for life.

      Well, one out of two—make that three—was better than zero.

      Farooq pulled her back to him, looked down at her for a moment before he let her have Mennah. “Wait for me in the limo. I’ll coordinate tomorrow’s ceremony with Shehab and Kamal. Then I’ll take you and Mennah home.”

      Home. They were going home. A home she couldn’t even imagine. Farooq’s home. Mennah’s now. Would it be hers? Could it ever be?

      The questions ricocheted inside her until she felt pulped.

      She again tried to let the splendor rushing by distract her. It wasn’t every day that she drove through a city that had materialized out of revolutionary architects’ wildest dreams while retaining its ancient mystery through restored historical sites that blended into the whole, its rawness in preserved natural sights.

      No use. She felt no pleasure at the amazing vistas they were sailing through. Thanks to Farooq. He sat at the end of the couch that ran the side of the limo beside Mennah, who was passed out in her car seat, worn-out by her uncles’ delight and stimulation, by her newfound extroversion.

      “I must know now what you want for your mahr.”

      She lurched. She’d thought he had nothing more to say to her.

      He’d always have something to say to her. Something distressing. This time something she’d only heard about, never imagined could ever be applied to her. The mahr. The dowry. Paid to the bride in exchange for the right to enjoy marital relations.

      She huffed. “Thank you, but I still don’t want a sponsor, even a legalized one. A certain amount of ‘sharing your privileges’ is unavoidable since I’ll live with you and Mennah, but that’s as far as I’m going, so let’s leave it at that.”

      Imperiousness fired his eyes, tempered by tinges of … what? Humor? Deliberation? Astonishment? She had no idea. “The mahr is an obligatory gift from groom to bride. It is your right.”

      “I can’t get my head around the words “obligatory” and “gift” in the same sentence. To my mind they’re mutually exclusive.”

      “Obligations govern relationships, and when observed