The Sheikh Who Blackmailed Her: Desert Prince, Blackmailed Bride / The Sheikh and the Bought Bride / At the Sheikh's Bidding

From the way he said it Gabby knew the same could not be said of everyone. ‘Were many hurt?’ she asked quietly.

‘One fatality,’ he said, placing his cup down on a level stone with an exaggerated care that did not quite hide the tremor in his hand. He thought of the boy who had died in his arms. Later he must speak to the mother who had lost her son. ‘Twenty injuries. Five of those are critical; one man lost an arm.’

She watched as he passed a hand across his eyes. The need to wrap her arms around him and offer the comfort that would obviously be rejected was so intense that it took every ounce of her self-control to stay put. She could feel his pain in her bones.

‘I’m sorry.’ This was a prince, she realised, who took duty to a very personal level. He really cared.

He flicked her a half-smile that was very white in his grime-streaked face. ‘They have been airlifted out now. A helicopter will be back for you presently.’

‘You’re not coming?’

He shook his head. ‘I must stay.’

She didn’t even try and persuade him otherwise. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to change his mind.

‘What about my princess lessons?’

Rafiq felt something move and twist inside his chest as he looked at her, her hair a wild halo, the dark smudges under her eyes making them seem huge. Swallowing, he shook his head. ‘I think you have had a baptism of fire into our culture, so we will skip the cutlery lesson.’

‘Did I pass?’

He looked at her in silence for a moment, then rose to his feet. ‘Yes, you passed.’

CHAPTER NINE

PAUL’S good-looking face lit up when he saw her. He rushed forward and enfolded Gabby in a bear-like hug, before sweeping her off her feet and twirling her around in a circle.

‘Put me down, you idiot,’ she begged, laughing. ‘Thank you,’ she said, smoothing down her hair which, thanks to the ministrations of a hairdresser who must be famous because he only had one name, hung like a smooth silky curtain down to her waist.

‘Thank me?’ Paul shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Thank you.’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘I don’t know how you did it, sis—but, thanks.’

Her eyes slid from his. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she protested. She had wondered whether to tell Paul the truth, but had decided on balance not to. It would be pointless. Why make him feel guilty? Always supposing he actually took her seriously.

‘That’s not what the Parker guy said. He said you were Wonder Woman.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘No,’ Paul agreed, checking out his reflection in the mirror. ‘I might keep the beard,’ he mused, rubbing his hand against the sparse, patchy growth on his lower face. He appealed to Gabby. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think no.’

Paul sighed. ‘You’re probably right. The chicks don’t dig facial hair,’ he added with a mock leer.

‘Must you use that word?’ she asked with distaste. ‘While it annoys you—yes.’

Gabby rolled her eyes. ‘So, what did Mr Parker say about me?’

‘It’s always about you, isn’t it …?’ Paul teased. ‘Actually, the guy had an idea that you must have friends in high places. I put him straight. Mind you, I did start to wonder when they sent that car to pick me up. You should have seen it—about twenty feet long, and inside …’ He let out a long whistle and shook his head. ‘Then I realised.’

‘You did?’

He nodded. ‘They’re buttering me up.’

‘They are?’

‘Obviously.’

Gabby shook her head and looked bemused.

‘God, Gabby, you are so slow sometimes. They’re afraid of bad publicity. And—Is that chocolate?’ Distracted, he picked up a bar of chocolate that was amongst the contents that had spilled out of Gabby’s bag onto the table.

He mimed a roll of drums and said dramatically, ‘My first food as a free and exonerated man.’ He shoved a large chunk into his mouth, rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘Heaven,’ he said, before adding, ‘The thing is, they don’t want me suing them for false imprisonment or something.’

Gabby’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything like that, are you, Paul?’ she asked uneasily.

‘All I want to do is go home.’

Gabby’s shoulders sagged in relief. ‘You’re booked on the six-thirty flight this evening.’

‘Six-thirty? That barely gives me time to use room service.’ Paul flung himself down on the nearest sofa and threw a grateful look at Gabby. ‘You’re a miracle-worker, sis.’ His expression sobered as he asked, ‘How are Mum and Dad?’

‘You can ask them yourself later today.’

‘It’s been tough on them.’

She nodded. ‘They’ve coped well enough.’

‘Is there cable? Do you think I could get the match?’ Paul wondered.

Gabby, thinking of the anxiety she’d suffered, imagining him in some cell with no window, regarded Paul with amused exasperation. He had just been through an experience that would have traumatised most and permanently scarred some for life, and all he could think of was a soccer match. And it wasn’t an act either.

It must be nice, she reflected wistfully, to go through life with such a laid-back attitude.

‘Was it terrible? Prison?’ Gabby asked, feeling as usual like the responsible adult present, even though Paul was six years older than her.

Paul began to scroll through the channels, stopping when he found a cartoon he proclaimed to be his favourite.

‘If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.’

‘Turn down the empathy, Gabby, it’s not good for your blood pressure. I’ve not got post-traumatic stress or anything. What is there to say? It’s not meant to be nice, is it? It’s prison. But it wasn’t as bad as it might have been, and I knew I’d get out. I hadn’t done anything, and anyhow I had the A team on the job.’ He shot her an affectionate grin.

Gabby responded, marvelling at the way he had shrugged off his imprisonment the same way he shrugged off anything unpleasant that ever happened to him. Paul was, she reflected, nothing if not resilient.

‘You look different.’

Gabby was amazed that he had noticed. ‘You think so?’

‘New dress?’