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He thrust a hand through his hair. How could he disabuse Hussein?
How could he not?
He’d do anything to save Hussein pain. The older man was more than a father to him. Friend, mentor, hero, he’d shown Zahir care, regard and even love when no one else had. He’d brought him up more like a son than a charity case. A not-quite-orphan shouldn’t have warranted the Emir’s personal attention.
Zahir owed him everything: his place in the world, his education, his self-respect, even his life.
He was caught between shattering Hussein’s illusions about his bride and letting her dupe him.
His belly churned. ‘Hussein, I—’
‘I know you’re disappointed, Zahir. You’re eager to take up the post of provincial governor.’
A sliver of guilt carved its way through Zahir’s gut. ‘You know me too well.’
Hussein’s chuckle was like the man himself, warm and compelling. ‘How could I not? You’re the son I never had.’
Something rose in Zahir’s chest, a welling sensation that tightened his lungs and choked his vocal chords. Despite their closeness, the regard between him and Hussein was rarely spoken. Bakhari males left emotion to their womenfolk, focusing instead on masculine concerns such as pride, duty and honour.
‘You make it sound like your time has past. You’re in your late fifties, not your dotage. You’ve got plenty of time to father a son. A whole family.’
And, with a young, sexy bride, nothing was more likely.
Out of nowhere Zahir glimpsed an image of Hussein holding Soraya close, pulling her to him and letting his hands slip over the curve of her hip, the soft fabric of her dress enhancing the femininity of her shapely figure.
He swallowed hard as a jagged spike of pain skewered him. His breath shallowed and he turned to stride down the length of the suite, fighting sudden nausea.
He was tired of being cooped up. He longed for the clean air of the desert, the wide sky studded with diamond-bright stars. The total absence of Soraya Karim.
‘Well, time will tell,’ was all Hussein said. ‘But as for the governorship …’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ Zahir splayed a hand against one wall and stared out at the glittering spectacle of the Eiffel Tower sparkling with a million electric lights. He’d trade it in a second for the light of the moon over the desert, highlighting dunes and silhouetting proud, ancient citadels.
‘Of course it matters. You’ll be the best governor the place has had.’
Silence engulfed them. No doubt Hussein, like himself, was remembering the long period when Bakhara’s largest province had been ruled by a ruthless, decadent and utterly unscrupulous tribal leader. A man who’d tried many years before to increase his prestige by backing a coup to unseat Hussein.
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