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

The Desert Bride of Al Zayed by Tessa Radley

She should not be allowing Tariq to kiss her like this.

Tariq needed a wife who would do her duty… and that woman was not her. So what on earth was she doing responding to her soon-to-be-ex like this?

She tore out of his arms and put half the length of the room between them. “I don’t want this.”

“Liar.” His voice was flat, his face expressionless. The light in his golden eyes had been extinguished. “You responded to me.”

He was right. But she couldn’t afford to let him know that. “Maybe I’d have responded to any attractive man.”

“Any man?” It was a soft snarl, dangerous. “Like the one waiting for you back in Auckland?”

Jayne’s heart thumped in her chest, so loudly she feared he might hear. “Your lack of trust is the reason why I don’t want to be married to you any more.”

“Do you blame me?” His mouth tightened. “No, don’t answer that. Our marriage is over. In a month you will have your divorce.”

Best Man’s Conquest by Michelle Celmer

“You don’t look happy to see me,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to try to make the best of this. I expect you to do the same.”

“How do you suppose we go about doing that?”

“I think we should agree to avoid each other whenever humanly possible. After this week, we never have to see each other again.”

A corner of his mouth twitched but he held the smile inside. “Sounds like a good idea.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “So that’s it?”

“Sure.” It did sound like a good idea. For her. But the way he saw it, he was long overdue for a little payback. Some good old-fashioned revenge.

If keeping his distance was what she really wanted, for the next week he would be stuck to that woman like glue.

THE DESERT BRIDE OF AL ZAYED

by

Tessa Radley

TESSA RADLEY

loves travelling, reading and watching the world around her. As a teenager Tessa wanted to be an intrepid foreign correspondent. But after completing a bachelor of arts and marrying her sweetheart, she became fascinated with law and ended up studying further and becoming a lawyer in a city practice.

A six-month break travelling through Australia with her family re-awoke the yen to write. And life as a writer suits her perfectly: travelling and reading count as research and as for analysing the world…well, she can think what if all day long. When she’s not reading, travelling or thinking about writing, she’s spending time with her husband, her two sons – or her zany and wonderful friends. You can contact Tessa through her website, www.tessaradley.com.

Dear Reader,

But now it’s time to go out and meet – even embrace:) – new characters. Learn about them. What they like. What they loathe. And most importantly what happens to them when they fall in love…

I found it very hard to write this letter – mostly because I’ve reached the end of the BILLIONAIRE HEIRS trilogy about cousins Zac, Angelo and Tariq. And I don’t really want to say goodbye to these gorgeous men. Not yet. Nor do I want to say goodbye to Pandora, Gemma and Jayne. I’ve spent so much time with these people over the past months that they’ve become a part of my life.

Because at the heart of it all it’s fabulous to create people who, after a rocky beginning, end up falling in love – and convincing readers that their love will last a lifetime. And sometimes, like Jayne and Tariq, they don’t get it right the first time around. In The Desert Bride of Al Zayed Jayne and Tariq have a second chance at love…and a chance to get it right.

Take care,

Tessa

PS: Don’t forget that you can find out more about my upcoming releases over at www.tessaradley.com. Please come and visit!

I grew up surrounded by inspiring women.

My mother, Ria, who always stays true to

herself. As well as Sophie and Esme who

give so generously of themselves.

Thank you all for your love.

Much thanks to Melissa Jeglinski and Karen

Solem for giving me the freedom to write.

And Abby Gaines, Karina Bliss and

Sandra Hyatt – thank you for never being

farther than a call away!

One

“I want a divorce.”

The moment she’d blurted the words out, Jayne felt her pulse quicken. She squeezed her eyes shut…and waited. The silence on the other end of the line was absolute.

“No.”

The answer rang with finality over the vast distance that separated Zayed from New Zealand. Tariq’s voice was smooth and deep and very, very cool. Like ice. Tingling shivers of apprehension started to dance along Jayne’s spine. She recognised that sensation. It meant trouble.

Jayne gripped the handset until her fingers hurt. “But we’ve been separated for over five years. I thought you’d be jumping for joy at the prospect of a divorce.” And your father, too. She refrained from adding the dig. Mention of his father, the Emir of Zayed, tended to result in arguments—she’d learned that a long time ago. And she didn’t want a battle with no ceasefire in sight, she simply wanted a divorce.

But this was not going quite as she’d planned. From the outset Jayne had intended avoiding any direct contact with Tariq—or his father. She’d phoned the Emir’s chief aide, Hadi al Ebrahim, and had bluntly stated that more than five years had passed since Tariq had banished her from Zayed. Tariq was a citizen of Zayed and their marriage had been conducted in accordance with the laws of his country. According to the laws of Zayed, parties had to be separated for five years before a divorce could be petitioned.

The legal waiting time was over. She wanted to set divorce proceedings in motion. The excruciatingly polite aide had taken her number and promised to call her back.

But the aide’s promised call hadn’t come. Instead Sheikh Tariq bin Rashid al Zayed, her husband—no, her hopefully soon-to-be-ex-husband—had called.

Only to refuse her request.

No. No explanation. No softening the blow. Just a very blunt, very final “No.”

Jayne resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Instead she tried for her most reasonable teacher’s voice, and said, “You haven’t seen me for years, Tariq. Don’t you think it’s time for us both to move on?” From a past that had brought her more pain and anguish than she’d ever anticipated.

“It’s not yet time.”

Jayne’s heart skipped a beat. She sensed all her well-laid plans to start a new degree with the new year, to start dating again, to come out of hibernation and start living a life, unravelling. “Not time? What do you mean it’s not yet time? Of course it’s time. All you need to do is sign—”

“Come to Zayed and we’ll talk about it, Jayne.”

Even over the distance between them the husky sound of her very ordinary name on his tongue sounded sensual and intimate and had the power to make her shiver. It was madness.

“I don’t want to talk. I just want a divorce.” Jayne heard the touch of shrillness in her voice. She could see her brand-new life, her well-laid plans going up in smoke. Damn Tariq.

“Why?” His voice changed, became harsh and abrupt. “Why are you suddenly so desperate for a divorce, my faithless woman? Is there finally a man who objects to having a woman with a husband?”

A brief hesitation. She thought about Neil, the nice accountant her brother-in-law had introduced her to three months ago. He’d asked her out, but she hadn’t accepted. Yet. “No! You’ve got it all—”

“We will meet in Zayed,” her husband decreed. “There will be no divorce. Not yet. But it is possible that the time will come soon. Very soon. We will talk.”

“Tariq—”

But he was already firing information about dates and flights and visas at her. Belatedly Jayne realised that she no longer held her Zayedi passport, she’d left it behind in the bedroom she’d shared with Tariq on that terrible last day. She’d had no intention of ever returning. She’d have to apply for a visa to go to Zayed, which meant at least a week of delay.

“Tariq.” It was a desperate call.

He paused and the sudden silence that stretched between them was shattering.

Jayne swallowed, her mouth dry. Then, more quietly, she said, “Can’t we meet somewhere—” neutral “—else?” Tariq would not come to New Zealand; it was too far. He was a busy man. And she didn’t want him here, destroying her safe haven.

But there had to be other options. Somewhere where she wouldn’t need to revisit those traumatic weeks before the end of their marriage, somewhere she wouldn’t have to walk through the corridors of the lavish palace that had stifled her dreams, or confront the two men who had killed her soul. “What about London?”

“There are…problems…in Zayed. I cannot leave.”

She thought about that for a long moment. “I can’t come to Zayed,” she said at last.

“Can’t or won’t?”

She didn’t answer.

“Then let me make it easy for you. If you don’t come to Zayed, Jayne, I will oppose any application you make for a divorce.”

The words were chilling, even though the tone that delivered them was rich and lingering. The laws of Zayed stated that no divorce could be granted unless the husband consented. As much as it riled her, she needed Tariq’s consent.

Unless she went to Zayed, Tariq would deny her the one thing she wanted above all else: her freedom.

“Don’t forget to send me photos of Zayed.”

Jayne had almost reached the front door of her sister’s house, the Louis Vuitton bag clutched in her hand, when the request caused her to pause. She turned to look at the three people gathered in a huddle to see her off, the three people she loved most in the world—her sister and her two nieces. Raising an eyebrow at her elder niece, Jayne asked, “What kind of photos?”

“Of the desert…the palace—anything cool.”

“It’s very hot in the desert, not cool at all. Certainly not as cool as anything here in Auckland.” Jayne kept a straight face as she referred to her older niece’s active social life, then broke into a smile when Samantha poked a pink tongue out. “What do you want the photos for?”

Samantha moved closer. “I’m doing a PowerPoint project on Zayed. Most of my class has never heard of it.”

“I’m sure I can dig up some really up-to-date information while I’m there,” Jayne promised, setting the heavy bag down for a moment and flexing her fingers. Samantha flashed a pleased grin and Jayne restrained herself from rumpling her niece’s sleekly gelled hair. The style was so much more sophisticated than the ponytail Samantha had worn last year. It was hard to believe that in less than a month Samantha would turn thirteen. A teenager.

“Great.” Samantha beamed. “If I can wow my teacher, I might even get an A.”

“Do you really have to go?”

A small hand tugged at her arm. Jayne looked down into the hazel eyes of her younger niece—her goddaughter—and her heart twisted.

“I really have to go, Amy, my sweet.”

“Why?”

Jayne hesitated. Why? She thought of the abortive conversation with Tariq. How to even start to explain? “Because…” Her voice trailed away.

“‘Because’ is not an answer,” Amy replied, her freckled face solemn.

“Quite frankly, I can’t understand why you’re going, either,” Helen chipped in with typical older-sister impatience. “After everything that happened in that godforsaken country, what Tariq and his horrid father did to you, why on earth would you contemplate going back?”

Jayne recognised her sister’s impatience for what it was—concern. “Because I want a divorce—and it looks like going to Zayed is the only way I can get it.”

Tariq had made that clear enough.

“Why Zayed?” Helen asked, her lips tight. “Why couldn’t you have met in London?”

“It wasn’t an option I was given.” Jayne shrugged her shoulders. “That’s Tariq. His way. Or no way.”

“Are you sure he isn’t up to something?” Helen fretted. “I don’t trust him one bit.”

“Hush, don’t work yourself up.” Jayne moved closer to her sister. Helen had never understood the attraction, the fascination that Tariq had held right from the moment that Jayne had walked into him in the Tate Gallery in London and landed ignominiously at his feet. How could she explain the untamed attraction Tariq had held? “There’s no reason to be suspicious. Tariq wouldn’t take me back if I came coated in twenty-four carat gold.”

Helen’s eyes sparked with indignation. In a low voice she murmured so that only Jayne could hear, “He never deserved you.”

Emotion surged through Jayne. She slung an arm around her sister’s shoulder and pulled her close. Helen smelled of talc and roses and the familiar comfort of home. “Thank you. And thank you for all the support you’ve given me. For everything.”

“I don’t want to see you in that state again.” Helen hugged her back fiercely. “Five and a half years ago you were a mess.”

“It won’t happen again,” Jayne vowed, suppressing the sudden stab of apprehension. “I’m no longer nineteen. I’m older now, able to take care of myself.”

“Famous last words. And it better not happen again, because this time I’ll tell Tariq what a—” Helen cast a glance at the girls and lowered her voice “—jerk he is.”

Her sister sounded so ferocious that Jayne couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. For the first time in a week, the tension that had been winding up in her chest subsided. Her sister would always be there for her. Family. Sisters. A sacred bond.

“I suggest you don’t say that to Tariq’s face.” Just the thought of his freezing expression, the way he would look coldly down his elegant bladed nose, was enough to make Jayne chuckle again.

“You won’t be here for my first day of school.” Amy’s desolate wail cut into Jayne’s moment of good humour. Instantly all laughter dried up. Bending down, she swept Amy up until the little girl’s eyes were level with hers.

“But I’ll be thinking of you,” Jayne promised. “I’ll even know where you’ll be sitting. Remember? You, mom and I went together to check your new school out?”

“I s’pose,” Amy said reflectively. “And I’ll have the pencils you bought me.” She already sounded more cheerful. Jayne smiled at her sister over Amy’s head, her throat tight.

A hoot sounded.

“Daddy’s ready.” Amy wriggled out of Jayne’s arms.

Helen rushed over and then Jayne was wrapped in her sister’s warm arms. “Take care, Jayne.”

“I will.” Jayne held on for a moment. A kiss on her sister’s cheek and then she freed herself and picked up her bag. “I’d better not keep Nigel waiting. Look after yourself—and the girls. I’ll e-mail photos, I promise,” she called to Helen and Samantha as she hurried out the door. From beside the car, Jayne gave them a last wave before getting into the idling car where her brother-in-law waited to take her to the airport.

Finally Jayne let herself admit she wasn’t looking forward to the long flight that lay ahead. And she dreaded the coming confrontation with the man who waited for her at the journey’s end.

The chilly air-conditioning in the international airport at Jazirah, the capital of Zayed, took the edge off the searing heat that shimmered over the runways outside the terminal building. A deferential official took charge of Jayne the instant she presented her passport and whisked her through customs. He retrieved her luggage and showed her to a plush seat in a sheltered alcove off the arrivals concourse, murmuring that he’d be back shortly.

Jayne attempted to assure him that she was quite capable of organising her own transport, but he grew increasingly agitated. He was obviously concerned by the fact that she was travelling alone. Zayedi men could be extremely protective, to the point of being overbearing. So Jayne subsided with a shrug and watched him scurry away.

Pulling the white chiffon scarf out the side pocket of her handbag where she’d tucked it in before leaving Auckland, Jayne looped it around her neck. It wasn’t a hijab, but it would do. Zayed was more modern than its neighbouring states, some of the youth even wore jeans, but most women still adopted conservative dress. Jayne knew that the narrow black trousers and casual geometric patterns of the black and white shift dress she wore over them were acceptably modest…even if they were straight out of this season’s budget fashions in Auckland, a far cry from the traditional jilbab and colourful kaftans so many older married Zayedi women wore.

From where she sat, Jayne could see the long wall of glass that separated the airport from the drop-off zone outside. A fleet of shiny black Mercedeses were parked there, reminding her of the extent of the wealth in this desert sheikhdom.

A commotion a way down the concourse attracted her attention. Jayne rose to her feet to get a better look. A knot of uniformed men were causing a stir. Her gaze narrowed. She recognized those uniforms, they belonged to the Emir of Zayed’s palace guard. They held some very unpleasant associations. The last time she’d seen the red and khaki colours had been here, at this airport, when the men wearing them had been charged with making sure she left Zayed.

Behind them she caught a glimpse of a tall man in a dark suit. His sheer imposing height and the familiar tilt of his head caused her heart to leap. Tariq. Jayne froze, her muscles tight, and her head swam with the sudden light-headedness caused by the panic that swirled through her.

He was coming closer. Her pulse grew choppy, loud in her ears. His head turned and their eyes connected. The first thing that struck her was that his eyes were still the colour of pure, molten gold. The second was that they were not the least bit welcoming.

Tariq raked her from head to toe, and his lip curled. Instantly all the old insecurities crashed back. She was plain Jayne Jones, in the everyday chain-store shift dress that she’d worn over her most comfortable black trousers for the flight.

The antipathy directed at her caused Jayne to stumble backward. Nothing had changed. Her husband detested her. The earth rocked under her feet and she glanced away, disconcerted. And caught sight of the red carpet. Of the trio of little girls holding posies. But it took the black print on the brightly coloured banner two women were unfurling to jolt her into disbelief. Welcome Back Sheikhah, it read.

This dog-and-pony show was intended for her.

In a flash the reason for the official’s agitation became clear. Her first meeting with Tariq was going to be conducted under public scrutiny. Jayne’s palms grew clammy and her pulse started to race.

No.

She gave the gathering crowd a wild glance, took in the scaffolding with the mounted television cameras, clearly here to film her return. She was so not prepared for this hullabaloo. She’d come to meet Tariq, to talk in private about their divorce.

Tariq was walking with purpose. Backed by the squad of the palace guard, he looked dangerous, resolute. But Jayne knew that whatever the reason he’d demanded her return to Zayed, it had nothing to do with the love they had once shared.

She cast a frantic gaze around. People were milling forward, crowding around the red carpet, the guards and the powerful, commanding man in the heart of all the fuss. No, she hadn’t come to be part of this…circus.

She wanted to meet Tariq on her terms. In private. Without an audience.

Two cameramen with huge cameras mounted on their shoulders that sported the local TV network logo rushed ahead of Tariq to capture the moment for the news. They blocked Tariq from her view.

Cautiously Jayne edged forward. No one was looking in her direction. With a surreptitious movement, she hitched the sheer scarf off her shoulders and draped it across her hair, then hoisted up the Louis Vuitton bag, a legacy from her past life with Tariq. Keeping her head down, she made quickly for the double sliding doors that led out of the airport. They hissed open and she escaped through.

The heat hit her like a wall. Oppressive. An inferno compared to the coolness in the airport and the temperate weather she’d left behind in Auckland. Jayne thought she heard a shout. She didn’t look back. Instead she kept her head down and increased her pace. A taxi was parked behind the string of Mercedeses.

As she broke into a run a taxi driver straightened from the low railing he’d been leaning against and parted his lips into a smile that revealed stained yellow teeth separated with chunks of gold. “Taxi?” He opened the rear door and music blared out.

“Yes,” she gasped, deafened as she fell into the backseat. When she didn’t bother to haggle over the rate, his smile grew wider still. “Take me to the palace. Please.”

The smile withered and he shot her a lightning-fast once-over glance, before climbing into the driver’s seat and turning the radio down a notch.

“Hurry,” she said, peering anxiously out the window beside her.

The motor roared, drowning out the radio for a moment, and her unsuspecting rescuer swerved out onto the strip of concrete road.

Driven by an impulse she could not explain, Jayne turned back to stare through the rear window at the glass doors through which she’d escaped.

His tie flapping with his stride, Tariq strode through the glass doors. Behind him followed the pack of palace guards. Jayne shrank back into her seat. Even from this distance she could tell that Tariq did not look pleased. The angle of his broad shoulders, the set of his head, the impatience in his long stride all showed his fury.

Trepidation coursed through her. This was no longer the young man she’d fallen in love with. This was a different Tariq. Older. Regal. The only son of the Emir of Zayed. A man accustomed to having his orders obeyed.

Jayne closed her eyes in relief at having gotten away. The taxi rocked from side to side as the driver darted through the traffic. Afraid that the roller-coaster motion might make her queasy, Jayne opened her eyes.

“Hey, slow down.”

Jayne sighed in exasperation when her demand met no response, and leaned back into her seat to brace herself for the ride.

The airport was located a distance away from the city. On the left side of the car, the stony desert stretched away as far as the eye could see. On the other side, a narrow strip of land separated the six-lane highway from the azure sea. A couple of minutes later they passed the desalination plant that Jayne knew had cost millions to set up ten years ago.

The taxi driver swerved past a tourist camper van and cut across to the exit. Once away from the highway, they wove through the city streets between old historic buildings and modern glass skyscrapers.

“Are we being followed?” Clutching at the seat belt as they hurtled through an older section of the city between ancient mosques and colourful souqs, Jayne voiced her worst fear.

But the taxi driver didn’t answer. Could he even hear her with the radio blaring? Jayne wished she’d sat up front. But this was Zayed, not New Zealand. Women didn’t sit up front. Not unless they wanted the taxi driver to construe the move as flirtation. While Zayed was a safe country, a woman travelling alone had to take care not to attract unwelcome attention. She shouted the question more loudly.