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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      The taxi driver glanced in the rear mirror. “No one is following.”

      But Jayne’s apprehension didn’t ease and the knot in her stomach grew tighter. Tariq was going to be fit to be tied. She shivered, then reason set in.

      It was his own fault. He should have warned her. He should never have sprung that spectacle back at the airport on her. She gave her casual outfit a quick once-over. At least then she would’ve had the chance to dress up a little. Make the best of the little she had. Not that clothes and a little bit of makeup could bridge the gulf between them. They were too far apart. In every way.

      She tried to set the worry aside, tried to tell herself that the sooner she met with Tariq in private and got it over with the better. But even that didn’t help. Jayne’s fingernails bit into her palms. She’d explain. She’d tell him that—

      The sudden swerve of the taxi threw Jayne against the door, and she gave a shriek of fright. The driver leapt out of the car and Jayne could hear shouting.

      When she emerged from the back of the car, her heart pounding, a shocking sight met her eyes. A youth was sprawled on the road, his bicycle lying on its side. He was groaning.

      “Oh, my heavens.” Jayne moved toward the victim but the taxi driver grabbed her arm.

      “Wait, it could be a set-up…”

      “How can it be a set-up? He’s hurt!”

      The youth was screaming now. A basket, its lid off, lay on the road and a clutch of ginger chickens were clucking in terror.

      “Is he okay?” Jayne’s first concern was for the youngster. “Did we hit him?”

      “No, no. The idiot—”

      The youth interrupted with a deluge in Arabic. Jayne held up her hand. “Is he hurt?”

      The taxi driver rattled off and the boy muttered, shaking his head. Relieved Jayne said, “What about his bike?”

      “No problem.”

      A crowd had started to gather. Quickly Jayne peeled some notes out of her bag.

      “U.S. dollars.” The youth’s eyes lit up as he reached for them.

      The taxi driver started to protest, Jayne handed him the next set of notes. “You can leave me here.” She’d had enough of his driving.

      “But the palace?” He looked suddenly nervous.

      Jayne waved a hand. “Don’t worry about taking me to the palace.” She’d have a better chance of surviving on her own. Jayne looked left and right, hitched her handbag over her shoulder and grabbed the handle of her suitcase.

      Down the street she could see the flower souq, the market where blooms were brought early each morning. Across the road a pension-style hotel attracted her eye. It looked modest and unassuming, the kind of place where a woman alone would be safe from unwelcome attention. She could stay there for the night. And tomorrow she’d be better prepared to face Tariq, rested and refreshed. She started to feel better.

      A hand brushed her arm. Jayne tensed and spun around, then relaxed. The taxi driver thrust a grimy square of cardboard at her. Jayne glanced down. Mohammed al Dubarik and a scrawl of Arabic characters followed by some numbers that clearly belonged to his cell phone. With a final flash of yellowed teeth and bright gold, he departed in a roar of dust.

      Jayne shoved the card into her bag and looked both ways then hefted up her bag to cross the street. The curious crowd, sensing the drama was played out, started to disperse. Pulling the chiffon scarf more securely СКАЧАТЬ