The Desert Lord's Love-Child. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 at their beginnings, they ensure you aren’t short-changed or victimized if anything goes wrong. You entered a relationship before observing only the dictates of romantic rubbish, and where did it lead you?”

      “Out the other side without owing anyone anything. To freedom with dignity. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

      He leaned forward, scooped her up, brought her to rest half over him in one move, one of her legs pressing against his hardness. He kept her gaze tethered as he whispered, soft and inescapable, “Name your mahr, Carmen.”

      She lay against him, flayed by his warmth and breath, suffering a widespread neurological malfunction. “I can name anything? You once told me you’d meet any demands I made.”

      His hand weaved in her hair, his eyes intent on her lips. “Anything. As long as it isn’t something unreasonable.”

      She tried to sit up, felt him expand at her wriggling. “Let’s see, what can be unreasonable enough for you? How about your fleet of jets? And a hundred million dollar token?”

      He ground her harder into his erection. “Done. And done.”

      This jolted her enough to break the body meld. “Whoa. So not done. I was joking. You know the concept, don’t you?”

      His eyes glowed like slits into an inferno. “I appreciate a slap and tickle as much as the next man, Carmen, but this is no joking matter. Your mahr is something only you can estimate, and it is something I’m honor-bound to give you.”

      She ran her hands through her hair, raised them. “Okay, okay. How about a blinding stone in an obscene size?”

      “You will have my mother’s betrothal jewelry and whatever you wish of Judar’s royal jewels. This is your shabkah, not your mahr. Shall I consider my fleet and the sum you specified your choice?”

      She shot up sitting straight. “You certainly shall not. What would I do with a fleet and a hundred million dollars?”

      His pout was cynicism itself. “You want investment advice?”

      “Listen, I’m not cut out to be a businesswoman or a shopper, so assets and money would be wasted on me.” His eyebrows rose, spoke volumes. She cried, “Does this mahr have to be material?”

      He threaded his fingers together. “As long as we’re alive, yes. When we’re ghosts you can have an immaterial one.”

      “Clever. You know what I mean. Can’t it be something … moral?”

      “Material things can be quantified. And they last.”

      “If you think so,” she scoffed, “then I feel sorry for you.” “Says the woman who married for ‘moral’ considerations only to find out how lasting those were. And what would the ‘something moral’ you want to ask of me be? Love?”

      The word, his ridicule as he threw it at her, skewered her. “We agreed that doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it doesn’t matter.” “Then what do you want?”

      She took a deep breath, asked for something as impossible. “A clean slate.”

      Eight

      In a life that had exposed him to betrayals, danger and conspiracies of world-shaking scope, few things ever took Farooq by complete surprise, by storm. If fact, only three things had.

      They all involved Carmen.

      The way he’d felt when he laid eyes on her. Her telling him she’d had enough of him and walking out. And now, her request.

      A clean slate.

      She was asking him to surrender his anger, to deny his memory, to erase his knowledge of her crimes. She wanted to start fresh. What СКАЧАТЬ