The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen: The Sheikh's Chosen Queen / The Desert King's Pregnant Bride

CHAPTER FIVE

AS HE LEFT to take the call, Sharif’s thoughts lingered on Jesslyn.

She’d always been beautiful in that haunting English-beauty sort of way. A heart-shaped face framed by loose, dark curls. Flawless skin. Warm brown eyes. Perfectly arched eyebrows.

But there was something else different, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on but made him look and look again.

Beautiful yes, but more so.

Changed.

More reserved. Distant. Closed.

He’d watched her face, these past few days, as they’d spoken, and she’d treated him the way everyone now treated him—supremely politely. With deference, if not respect. And it didn’t exactly bother him, but he missed the easiness between them. She’d always been the one person who had treated him like a man not a prince.

She’d teased him, laughed at him, loved him.

She’d loved him.

She didn’t anymore. She hadn’t when she’d left him nine years ago. And she hadn’t when she’d begun accepting bribes from his mother.

But that was to come later. He’d get his answers later. In the meantime he was determined to enjoy her beauty and revel in her softness and take what he could. Just as she’d once taken so freely from him.

After Sharif left to take the call Jesslyn anxiously paced the sunny living room with Sharif’s parting words played endlessly in her head.

I think we’ve waited long enough.

What did he mean by that? What had they waited long enough for? And waited too long for what?

Was he referring to the girls? Was he wishing he’d taken action to help them sooner? Or …

Or …

She gulped a panicked breath, fingers squeezing into nervous fists. Was he referring to something far more personal, something that had to do with them?

Almost immediately she squelched the thought. Sharif had brought her here for his children. He wanted her for his children.

But still her heart raced and her body felt too warm and her veins full of fear and hope and adrenaline.

A soft musical sound in the doorway interrupted Jesslyn’s pacing and turning. She watched a young, robed woman, a woman she guessed to be in her early twenties, descend the stairs carrying a heavy tray.

“Something for you, Teacher,” the woman said in halting English as she carried the tray laden with food and flowers and a pot of tea into the living room.

Jesslyn felt some of her tension ease. “Thank you, that’s lovely.”

The woman smiled shyly as she placed the heavy silver tray on one corner of the low tables next to the cream-covered sofa. “I pour?” she asked, indicating the pot of tea.

There was something infinitely endearing about this young woman, and Jesslyn sat down on the couch. “What is your name?”

“Mehta, Teacher,” she answered, kneeling and patting her chest and smiling again, this time revealing two deep dimples in her cheeks.

Jesslyn couldn’t help smiling back. “Mehta, I am Jesslyn.”

Her head bobbed. “Teacher Jesslyn.”

“No, Jesslyn’s fine.”

She bobbed even more earnestly. “Teacher Jesslyn Fine.”

Jesslyn liked Mehta, liked her a great deal. It couldn’t be so bad here, not if she could see Mehta now and then. “Will I see you much, Mehta?”

“Yes, Teacher. I help you every day. With your clothes and bath and tea.” She leaned forward, pointed to the tea. “I pour now?”

Jesslyn’s cheeks ached from smiling. “Yes, please.”

Along with the tea there were crescents of honey-soaked pastry stuffed with walnuts and pistachios, and the ever-popular makroudi, ground dates wrapped in semolina.

Jesslyn was shamelessly licking the sweet sticky honey from her fingers when Sharif reappeared. Mehta, spying Sharif, bowed and slipped soundlessly from the room.

In the meantime Jesslyn watched Sharif descend the pale stone stairs, and she could tell from his expression that he wasn’t happy. His brow was dark and his jaw looked as though it’d been hammered from stone.

Sitting upright, she watched his progress across the floor of her lovely living room, troubled by the anger and frustration in his face.

It struck her that there was something else going on, something he wasn’t telling her, something he didn’t want her to know.

She cocked her head, looked at him, trying to see past his striking good looks to what lay beneath. What was he really worried about? The girls failing academically, or the girls having emotional issues?

“It’s the children, isn’t it?” she asked

He nodded distractedly, his gray eyes burning with fire and frustration. “Yes.”

“Are they hurt?”

“No. They’re safe.” He dropped onto the couch opposite hers, covered his face briefly with his palms and for a long moment said nothing, tension rippling through him in waves. He took a deep breath and then another before finally looking at her. “They’re just not here.”

“When will they be here?”

He didn’t answer but she saw one hand curl, fingers forming a fist.

Did this happen often, she wondered, or was there something else troubling him, something more he hadn’t told her?

“In time for dinner?” she persisted when he didn’t answer.

He shook his head. “Hopefully tonight by bedtime, but realistically, it’ll be tomorrow morning.”

“Hopefully? Realistically? You’re talking about your kids, right?”

Again his eyes flashed with frustration, but he didn’t answer her directly, and his silence troubled her as much as the information he was telling her.

“Sharif, where are they?”

“With their grandmother.”

“Zulima’s mother?”

“Until recently Zulima’s mother lived here, but she’s returned to her family in Dubai. She lives with her second son now.”

“So the children are with your mother.”

He nodded.

Jesslyn was watching his face closely, trying to put the various puzzle pieces together. Sharif was leaving far more unsaid than said. “Why did Zulima’s mother leave? Was there a problem?”

Sharif made a low mocking sound. “Is there ever not a problem here? The two mothers-in-law never did get along. It was always a battle of wills, and my mother tended to win.”

His mother usually won, Jesslyn thought, more than a little concerned about what he was telling her.

Jesslyn knew Sharif’s mother well enough to know that the queen had always been in charge. Sharif’s late father might have been king, but Sharif’s mother was the ruler of the palace.

Sharif’s mother had never liked her. Not as Jamila and Aman’s close friend. And definitely not as Sharif’s girlfriend.

“So where are your mother and the children right now?” she persisted.

“She has a small house on the coast, about an hour and fifteen minutes north from here. It used to be the summer house where we’d go for holidays, but my mother has claimed it for herself.” He reached across to the table, checked to see if she had any hot water left in the pot. There was none and he let the lid fall. Meanwhile his expression grew blacker. “She took the girls there this morning and they’re with her now.”

“Did she not know you’d be returning today?” she asked, thinking that it was going to be hard enough living in the palace without having to contend with Her Highness, Queen Reyna Fehr. Her Highness had actually grown up as a commoner in the Emirates but had made up for her lack of royal connections with stunning cheekbones, a perfect nose and best of all, a very rich father.

“She knew,” he answered tautly. “We talked last night and again this morning. But she does what she wants when she wants and everyone else can be damned.”

Jesslyn bunched an iridescent pillow and held it to her chest. “You and the girls see her often then?”

“Every day. She might have claimed the summer house but this is where she still lives, this is home. She just goes to the summer house when she wants to make a point.”

Jesslyn was having a hard time taking in everything Sharif was telling her. Queen Reyna had never wanted Jesslyn to be friends with her daughters and she’d made that clear in a hundred different ways over the years, but this, this was a relationship between a doting mother and her eldest son. “And what is the point your mother is trying to make?”

Sharif made a rough, mocking sound. “That she’s in charge.”

Things were starting to become clearer. “Does Her Highness know I am going to be working with the girls for the summer?” she asked.

He paused, and that hesitation alone gave Jesslyn her answer.

Sighing, Jesslyn sank back against the low couch and clutching the pillow even tighter, closed her eyes. “She doesn’t know.”

“She knows I was bringing back a tutor.”

She opened her eyes and gave him a pained look. Sharif was in fine denial mode today, wasn’t he?

And maybe, just maybe, this denial mode wasn’t helping the children adjust to their school or their life without their mother.

But before she could find a delicate way to say any of this, Mehta returned with another tray. “Tea, Your Highness,” she said bowing low before Sharif and placing the tray on a table in front of him.

“Mehta, I can pour for His Highness,” Jesslyn said, drawing the tray closer to her so it wouldn’t be in Sharif’s way.

“Yes, Teacher Jesslyn Fine,” Mehta answered with yet another bob of her head before hurrying away.

Sharif glanced at Jesslyn. “Teacher Jesslyn Fine?”

Jesslyn grimaced. “I think she believes Fine is my last name.”

Sharif just looked at her a long moment before shaking his head. “You’re an interesting woman.”

“A euphemism for an odd, peculiar spinster?”

“We know you’re not a spinster,” he flashed, watching her fill his cup. “You’ve had boyfriends.”

“I have,” she said after a moment. “And it seems you have your mother.”

Sharif’s head jerked up and he nearly spilled his tea. “What?”

“You said your mother wants to think she’s in charge, and I’m curious to know, is she?”

Sharif gave her a withering look. “No.”

He might say no, she thought, but if Queen Reyna thought she was, or could be, you had the makings of a classic power struggle, the kind she’d seen between parents many times before, but in this case, the struggle was between father and grandmother. “Are you and your mother disagreeing on how to raise the girls?”

He barked a laugh, ran his hand through his dark hair, his expression tortured. “Not that I know of.”

“Then what?”

He lifted his hands in mute frustration. “There’s something wrong here, but I don’t understand it. I don’t see the children enough to know how they really are. When we are together, they hardly look at me or speak to me. When I ask them a question they do answer, but they stare at the floor the entire time and—” He sighed. “I’ve never known children to behave this way. My sisters certainly didn’t behave this way. I’m confused.”

“So what is it that you really want me to do, Sharif? Teach the children? Be a companion to them? Observe their behavior? What?”

He looked up at her, gray eyes shot with bright silver, and yet there was no light in his eyes right now. “All of the above.”

“So essentially you want a nanny.”

“No, they have a nanny. I need …” His voice drifted off and his forehead creased. “I need you.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but there was something in his eyes, something in his expression that made her heart ache. Impulsively she reached out toward him. She’d meant it to be a friendly touch, warm and reassuring, but instead of touching the loose sleeve of his robe, her fingers grazed his forearm, his bronzed skin warm like the sun, and she shuddered, stunned by the electric heat.

Abruptly she pulled back, pressing her hand to her breastbone. She’d imagined that fire, she told herself, she’d imagined that wild streak of sensation that had raced up her arm, into her shoulder, into her chest. But looking into Sharif’s eyes she suddenly wasn’t so sure.

There was the same fire in his eyes, a fire that made her remember how it’d been in his arms, beneath his body, in his bed.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his gaze traveling slowly over her hot face.

Fresh heat surged through her cheeks making her skin sensitive and her lips tingly. “No,” she breathed, nervously pressing her hands to her lap. “I just think it’ll be good when your daughters get here. It sounds as though there is much work to do.”

“You will be very busy,” he agreed, his gaze now resting on her mouth as if fascinated by the curve and color of her lips. “Perhaps you should welcome having the rest of the afternoon and night free. Once the girls return you won’t have much time to yourself.”

She felt her lower lip begin to throb as though it had taken on a life of its own. It was all she could do not to cover her mouth. “I just wish it was sooner rather than later. It’s still early in the day and I know you have work to do—”

“I’m sure Mehta would be delighted to show you the library. It’s where you’ll be teaching tomorrow. Feel free to have a look around and examine some of the books I’ve bought.”

“That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ll use the afternoon to begin preparing tomorrow’s lessons. Thank you.”

Rising to his feet he smiled vaguely, amused by her enthusiasm. “So you’ll be fine on your own this afternoon?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Great. I’ll see you at dinner—”

“Maybe we should pass on dinner,” she suggested hurriedly, unintentionally interrupting him. “I’ll have tons of reading to do tonight and I know you’ve a great deal of work.”

He stared down at her, and she had to tilt her head back to see him.

“We’ll talk about the children during dinner,” he said blandly. “That should make you feel better.” He started to leave but paused on the stairs. “And dinner, Jesslyn, is always at seven.”

The afternoon passed far too quickly for Jesslyn. She’d discovered the library and had immediately fallen in love. The room was huge and airy, a beautiful gold dome topping high walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves. The library reminded Jesslyn of some people’s ballrooms, large enough to comfortably hold two couches, two wooden desks, four armchairs and a long antique table with impressively carved legs.

She found the stack of teacher’s editions right away, but before sitting down with those, she looked at the books the children were using. She was familiar with the publisher, and had taught the middle school version of the literature and language books. The material she’d be teaching was simple enough. Her concern was the quantity. There were stacks of books for each child. Math, science, social studies, literature, grammar, foreign language, and then music and art books, too.

Jesslyn carried the stack of children’s books to one of the armchairs and sitting down with notepad and pen, she looked at the number of chapters in each book, and then the number of days between now and school starting, and mapped out a plan of how much could be comfortably covered in each subject.

She was still hard at work four hours later when Mehta lightly knocked on the door. “Ready for a bath, Teacher Fine?” she asked with her dimpled smile.

Jesslyn glanced up quizzically. “A bath?”

“Before dinner.”

“Ah. Right.” Closing the science textbook she wondered how to explain to Mehta that she didn’t feel it necessary to take a bath before dinner. She’d taken a shower that morning and it was just a business dinner. “I have so much to do before tomorrow that I might just wash my face and touch up my hair for dinner.”

Mehta looked at her uncomprehendingly. “No bath?”

“I took one earlier.”

“No bath before dinner?”

Jesslyn set the book down. “I don’t take a bath before every meal, Mehta.”

“No bath.”

“No.”

Mehta’s dark brows pulled. “No dinner?”

“No, I will have dinner. I’m meeting Sheikh Fehr for dinner at seven. We are meeting to discuss business—”

“Dinner with His Highness.”

“Right.” Jesslyn smiled with relief. Finally. They were both on the same page. “Dinner,” she said. “At seven.”

Mehta held up her wrist, tapped her wrist as though there was a watch there. “Half past five. Dinner seven. Bath now.”

Jesslyn sighed heavily. She really didn’t want to argue about a bath with a young member of Sharif’s palace staff. She’d only just arrived and she was going to be here all summer. And from the sound of things she was going to need someone on her side.

“A bath sounds lovely,” she answered with forced cheer as she reluctantly moved all the books off her lap and chair so she could stand. “But I’m not finished with these,” she added. “I’ll want to read them later.”

Mehta was delighted. “Yes, Teacher Fine. Now come.”

Jesslyn hadn’t seen the bedroom before, but following Mehta down the columned hall into the bedroom, she discovered that the bedroom with its spacious antique bed was just as lovely, and even more feminine, than the sunken living room.

The antique bed reminded Jesslyn of a Russian ballet with dramatic floor-to-ceiling pink and rose silk and satin curtains that could be untied and draped around the bed to provide intimacy and seclusion. The bed, built like an oversize daybed, had neither headboard nor footboard but high sides softened with pillows to match the silk panels.

A short silver vase teeming with fragrant pink rosebuds sat on a side table, and Jesslyn bent over to breathe in the heady sweet perfume. It wasn’t easy to grow roses in the blistering heat of the desert, which made these all the more precious.

“Your bath,” Mehta said, standing in yet another doorway gesturing to a room beyond.