The Sheikh’s Bargain Bride(30)
“I thought so. When will the lies cease?”
Long silent moments drew longer but neither moved nor spoke before he rose, turning to her only once. “I will have a car come for you within the hour.”
A cool blast of air enveloped her as he drew open the door to the tent and went outside without a further word.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zahir watched Anna leave, her stiff figure unmoving in the back seat of the four-wheel drive. She didn’t turn around.
He looked away deliberately. He chose not to see any more but he couldn’t choose not to hear the sound of the retreating vehicle as it revved and roared over the stony ground, down through the twists and turns of the wadi before emerging onto the plains. Taking his lying wife with it.
Four years. For four years she’d kept the fact that he was a father secret from him. How could he ever forgive her?
It was Anna being true to form: lying and disloyal.
He’d thought he could overlook it, somehow come to terms with her character that was so opposite to his own. But now this, on top of his brother’s death.
How could he ever trust her again?
He looked out beyond the vehicle to the smudge of mountains that indicated where the palace was. There was nothing between the two sets of mountains except desert. He breathed deeply of the dry heat that swept off the plains, striving to neutralize the bitterness and anger that he could feel filling his veins.
This was his life: guardian of his people and his family and his land. He’d never wanted a child. How could a cold man care properly for one? If ever he had any softer feelings, they had been knocked out of him by the loss of his mother and the fighting he’d thrown himself into for years. They’d made him the man he’d become; one not fit to be a father. And not fit to be a husband. But he was both now and his control of the situation was slipping away as surely as the sand through his fingers.
Confusion, anger, frustration at his inability to control the situation engulfed him. But he’d never run, or hidden from anything. He’d face things but not yet, not while he couldn’t control his feelings.
Anna closed her dry eyes against the stinging dust. She couldn’t have cried if she’d wanted to. The shock of his emotional retreat left her numb. How could she have been such a fool to believe he’d understand?
When the car stopped she opened her eyes slowly and gazed up at the palace walls that soared high all around them, a soft yellow against a brilliant cerulean sky. It was the same place she’d come to weeks ago and yet it wasn’t. Now, it was home.
She didn’t see the building in isolation any more, but in relation to the plains, to the hidden oases and communities of the desert. It was a part of Zahir’s world, not enclosed within itself.
She half-laughed to herself—another strategy no doubt, to make her feel she wasn’t trapped. But she felt more trapped than ever and it had nothing to do with any buildings or countries, any physical boundaries. She was obsessed with someone who didn’t care for her and never would.
It was gone midnight by the time Zahir returned. But instead of going directly to his own room he went to Anna’s. He knew she’d be there—either not expecting his return or not wanting, or being able to, face him again. But she would have to face him because he wanted answers.
Starlight lit Anna’s bright hair. Darkness and shadows pooled all around but her hair seemed to glow dull silver under the incandescent light of the stars. She looked like a fallen angel lying there, disheveled as if dreaming disturbing dreams, the sheet twisted around her shifting legs, her arms reaching out for something that was beyond her.
He felt the now familiar grip in his chest as if whatever it was that she was reaching for she’d found—within him. He stepped back, shocked by the depth of his need. The sound of his feet on the floor must have awoken her because she suddenly sat upright, still dazed by sleep.
“Zahir?”
“How can you be sure he isn’t Abduallah’s child?”
She pushed herself up in bed, pushed her hair out of her eyes and sighed. “Believe me, I know. I am one hundred percent positive that you are Matta’s father.”
He felt his shoulders relax with relief. When she’d first told him he’d been angry because he was scared he wouldn’t be enough for Matta. But the anger had swiftly disappeared, followed by a fear that there may have been a mistake—that Matta wasn’t his—and he could no more bear that than live in exile from his home.
“Did Abduallah believe Matta to be his?”
“No.”
Zahir felt a further surge of relief tainted with guilt.
“He knew Matta to be mine?”