Marrying the Scarred Sheikh Read online

  He burst out laughing.

  Ella frowned. It had not been a funny question.

  “So you’re all right in that department, I guess,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “So what’s the problem?”

  He leaned over, his face close enough to hers she felt the warmth of his breath. She could barely see his eyes in the dark. “As I said, you saw me this morning. What woman would get close enough for me to use those other parts?” he asked very softly.

  She stared into his eyes, as dark as her own, hard to see in the dim light of the stars. “Are you stupid or do you think I am? You’re gorgeous except for a slight disfiguration on one side. You sound articulate. I expect you are well educated and have pots of money. Why wouldn’t someone fall for you? Your grandmother thought you should be married. Surely she’d have known if there was a major impediment.”

  “I do not wish to be married for my money. I have a temper that could scare anyone and, I assure you, looks count a lot when people are looking for mates. And my grandmother saw only her own happy marriage that she wished replicated for her grandsons.”

  “So again I say what’s the problem?”

  “Maybe you are stupid. This scar,” he said, reaching for her hand and trailing her fingers down his cheek, pressing against the puckered skin.

  He let her hand go and she left it against the side of his face. The skin was warm, though distorted. Lightly, she brushed her thumb against it, drifted to his lips which had escaped the flame. Her heart pounded, but she was mesmerized. His warmth seemed to touch her heart. She felt heartbreak for his reasoning. He was consigning himself to a long, lonely life. She knew what that was like. Since Alexander’s death, hadn’t she resigned herself to the same?

  But the circumstances were different. She had loved and lost. Khalid needed to feel someone’s love, to know he was special. And to keep the dream his grandmother had so wanted for him.

  Khalid was shocked. Her touch was soft, gentle, sweet. Her thumb traced a trail of fire and ice against his skin. No one had touched him since the doctors had removed the last of the bandages. When he released her, he expected her to snatch her hand away. It was still there. The touch was both unexpected and erotic. He could feel himself respond as he hadn’t in years.

  “Enough.” He knocked her hand away and took a step back. “Tell me what it would take to get you to leave the guesthouse.”

  “Four years,” she replied, and turned to resume her walk.

  He watched as she walked away along the sea’s edge. She was serious. At least at this moment. She didn’t want money. She wanted time.

  Why was she here? Was there anything in his grandmother’s things that explained why she’d befriended Ella Ponti and made that one-sided deal with her? He hadn’t gone through all her papers, but that would be his next step first thing in the morning.

  He remained standing, watching. She didn’t care if he walked beside her or not. If this was her regular routine, she’d been coming for nightly walks for a year. She didn’t need his company.

  Why had he come out tonight? He usually kept to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sought out a woman’s company. Probably because it would have been an exercise in futility. Ella had seen him in broad daylight. Tonight it had been like the last two: wrapped in darkness he could almost forget the burn scar. She had treated him the same all three nights.

  Except for her touch tonight.

  Shaking his head, he almost smiled. She shocked him in more ways than one. Was the reaction just that of a man too long without a woman? It had to be. She had done nothing to encourage him. In fact, he couldn’t remember another woman standing up to him as she had, both tonight and earlier this morning. Deal with it, she’d said, dismissing his demand she leave as if it were of no account.

  Which legally it proved to be. Maybe he’d stop pushing and learn a bit more about his unwanted tenant before pursuing other avenues. She intrigued him. Why was she really here? Maybe it was time to find out more about Ella Ponti, young widow living so far from her native land.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MAYBE she had finally gotten through to him, she thought as she walked alone. He had not followed her. Good. Well, maybe there was a touch of disappointment, but not enough to wish he was with her.

  She clenched her hand into a fist. His skin had been warm, she’d felt the strong line of his jaw, the chiseled outline of his lips. Not that she wanted to think about his lips—that led to thoughts of kisses and she had no intention of ever kissing anyone else. It almost felt like a betrayal of her love for Alexander. It wasn’t. Her mind knew that, it would take her heart a bit longer to figure that out. She still mourned her lost love.

  “Alexander,” she whispered. It took a second for her to recall his dear face. She panicked. She couldn’t forget him. She loved him still. He’d been the heart beating in her. But his image wavered and faded to be replaced by the face of Khalid al Harum.

  “No!” she said firmly. She would dismiss the man from her thoughts and concentrate on something else, anything else.

  Wildly, she looked around. Out to sea she spotted a ship, gliding along soundlessly in the distance. Was it a cruise ship? Were couples and families enjoying the calm waters of the Gulf? Would they be stopping in one of the countries lining the coast? Maybe buy pearls from the shops or enjoy the traditional Arab cuisine. Maybe couples would be dancing. For a moment she regretted she’d never dance again. She was young to have loved and lost. But that was the way life was sometimes.

  She had her art.

  Stopping at last, she gazed at the ship for a long moment, then glanced back up the beach. Khalid al Harum stood where she’d left him. Was he brooding? Or just awaiting her return. She studied his silhouette and then began walking toward him. She had to return home. It was late and she’d had enough turmoil to last awhile.

  When she drew even she stopped. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait four years,” he replied.

  That surprised her. Was he really going to stop pressuring her? Somehow she had not thought he’d give up that easily. Yet, maybe he was pragmatic. The lease was valid. She had the law on her side—even against a sheikh. Dare she let her guard down and believe him?

  “Since we’ll be neighbors for the time, might as well make the best of things,” he said.

  That had her on instant alert. He didn’t strike her as someone who settled for making the best of any situation unless it suited his needs and demands.

  “And how do we do that?”

  “Be neighborly, of course.” He walked beside her. “Surely you visited with my grandmother from time to time.”

  “Almost every day,” she said. “She was delightful. And very encouraging about my work. Did you know you have one of my early pieces in your house?”

  “What and where?”

  “The shallow vase in the foyer. It’s a starburst bowl. Your grandmother liked it and I gave it to her. I was thrilled when she displayed it in such a prominent place.”

  “Maybe I’ll come by one day and see your work.”

  Ella wasn’t sure she wanted him in her studio or her house. But she probably had to concede that much. If he truly stopped pushing her to leave, she could accept a visit or two.

  “Let me know when,” she said.

  Khalid caught up on some e-mail the next morning and then called his brother. Rashid was the head of Bashiri Oil. Khalid was technically equal owner in the company, along with an uncle and some cousins, but Rashid ran the business. Which suited Khalid perfectly. He much preferred the oil fields to the offices in the high-rise building downtown.

  “What’s up?” Rashid asked when he heard his brother’s voice. “Are you still in Hari?”

  “No, I’m at Grandmother’s estate. Did you know she rented out the guesthouse last year?”

  “No. Who to?”

  “An artist. Now I’m wondering why the secrecy. I didn’t know, either.” Another reason to find out more about Ella Po
nti.

  “Good grief, did he convince her to sponsor him or something? What hard-luck story did he spin?”

  “Not a he, a she. And I’m not sure about the story, which is the reason for the call. Can you have someone there run a background check? Apparently Ella has an airtight lease to the premises and has no intention of leaving before the lease expires—in four more years.”

  “A five-year lease? Have someone here look at it.”

  “Already done. It’s solid. And she’s one determined woman. I offered her as big a bribe as I could and she still says no.”

  “So, look for dirt to get her out that way.” Rashid suggested.

  “No, I think I’ll go along with it for a while. I just want to know more about her. I respect Grandmother’s judgment. She obviously liked the woman. But she also knew her and I don’t.”

  There was a silent moment before his brother spoke again. “Is she pretty?”

  “What does that have to do with a background check? She’s a widow.”

  “Oh. Sure, I’ll have one of the men call you later and you can give him what you have to start with. Bethanne and I are dining with Mother tonight…care to join us?”

  “I’ll take a rain check. I’m going through Grandmother’s things. I still can’t believe she’s gone. It’s as if she stepped out for a little while. Only, she’s never coming back.”

  “Planning to move there?”

  “I was thinking of selling the place, until I found I have an unbudgeable tenant.”

  “Then good for the widow. None of us wants you to sell.”

  “It’s not your place. You got the villa south of the city.”

  “Where I think Bethanne and I will live. You love the sea. Why not keep it?”

  “It’s a big house. You don’t need it—you have your own villa by the sea. Why let it sit idle for decades?”

  “Get married and fill it up,” his brother suggested.

  “Give Mother my love and have someone call me soon,” he said, sidestepping the suggestion. Rashid should know as well as he did that would never happen. But his brother had recently become engaged and now had changed his tune about staying single. He was not going to get a convert with Khalid.

  Ella’s words last night echoed. He shook his head. Easy to say the words in the dark. Harder to say when face-to-face with the scars.

  He hung up the phone and looked again at the vase sitting on his desk. He’d taken it last night from the foyer to the study. It was lovely. Almost a perfect oval, it flared at the edges. From the center radiating outward was a yellow design that did look like a sunburst. Toward the edges the yellow thinned to gossamer threads. How had she done it? It was sturdy and solid yet looked fragile and enchanted. He knew his grandmother had loved it.

  Seeing the vase gave validity to Ella’s assertion she was an artist. Was she truly producing other works of art like this? Maybe his grandmother had seen the potential and arranged to keep her protégée close by while she created. She’d been friendly and helpful to others, but was an astute woman. She must have seen real talent to encourage Ella so much. So why not tell the rest of the family?

  Khalid rose and headed next door. It was time he saw the artist in her studio, and assessed exactly what she was doing.

  He walked to the guest cottage in only seconds. Though it was close, because of the lush garden between it and the main house there was a feeling of distance. He saw a new addition, obviously the studio. How much had his grandmother done for this tenant?

  He stepped to the door, which stood wide-open. He could feel the heat roiling out from the space. He looked in. Ella was concentrating on her project and didn’t notice him. For a long moment Khalid watched her. She wore a large leather apron and what looked like leather gloves that reached up to her elbows. She had dark glasses on and straddled a long wooden bench. At one end a metal sheet was affixed upon which she turned molten glass at the end of a long tube. As he watched, the glass began to take shape as she turned it against the metal. A few feet beyond was a furnace, the door open, pouring out heat.

  Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He studied her. Even attired as she was, she looked feminine and pretty. How had she become interested in this almost lost art? It took a lot of stamina to work in such an adverse environment. It had to be close to thirty-seven degrees in the room. Yet she looked as cool as if she were sitting in the salon of his grandmother’s house.

  Slowly, she rotated the tube. She blew again and the shape elongated. He was afraid to break her concentration lest it cause her to damage the glass globule.

  She looked up and frowned, then turned back to her work. “What do you want?” she asked, before blowing gently into the tube again.

  “To see where you worked.” He stepped inside. “It’s hot in here.”

  “Duh, I’m working with fire.”

  He looked at the glowing molten glass. She pushed it into the furnace. No wonder it was so hot; everything inside the furnace glowed orange.

  She pulled out the molten glass and worked on it some more.

  Khalid began to see the shape, a tall vase perhaps. The color was hard to determine as it was translucent and still glowed with heat.

  He walked closer, his scar tissue reacting to the heat. He crossed to the other side, so his undamaged cheek faced the heat. How did she stand it so close for hours on end?

  “Do you mind if I watch?”

  “Not much I can do about it, is there?” she asked with asperity.

  Khalid hid a smile. She was not giving an inch. Novel in his experience. Before he’d been burned, women had fawned over him. He and Rashid. He’d bet Ella wouldn’t have, no matter what.

  “Did my grandmother build this for you?”

  “Mmm,” she mumbled, her lips still around the tube.

  “State of the art?”

  “Mmm.”

  He looked around. Other equipment lined one wall, one looked like an oven. There were jars of crushed glass in various colors. On one table were several finished pieces. He walked over and looked at them. Picking up a vase, he noted the curving shape, almost hourglasslike. The color was pastel—when held up so the white wall served as a background, it looked pale green. When on the table, it grew darker in color contrasting with the wood.

  He wondered how much all this cost and would his grandmother ever have made any money as a return on her investment. She must have thought highly of Ella to have expended so much on an aspiring artist.

  He looked at the other pieces. He wasn’t a connoisseur of art, but they were quite beautiful. It was obvious his grandmother had recognized her talent and had encouraged it.

  When he glanced back at Ella, she was using a metal spatula to shape the piece even further. He watched as she flattened the bottom and then began molding the top to break away from the tube. Setting the piece on the flat bottom, she ran the spatula over the top, gradually curving down the edge. He watched her study it from a couple of angles, then slide it onto a paddle and carefully carry it to the oven. She opened the top doors and slid it in, closing the doors quickly and setting a dial.

  Turning, she looked at him, taking off her dark glasses.

  “So?” she said. Her skin glowed with a sheen of perspiration.

  “Interesting. These are lovely,” he said, gesturing to the collection behind him. Trying to take his eyes off her. She looked even more beautiful with that color in her cheeks.

  “I hope so. That’s the intent. Build an inventory and hit the deck running. Do you know any art dealers?” she asked hopefully.

  Khalid shook his head. His family donated to the arts, but at the corporate level. He had no personal acquaintance with art dealers.

  She sighed and untied her apron, sliding it off and onto the bench. “Me, neither. That was another thing your grandmother was going to do—introduce me to several gallery owners in Europe. Guess I’ll have to forge ahead on my own.”

  “Too bad you can’t ride in on the al Harum name
,” he murmured.

  Her eyes flared at that. Was he deliberately baiting her to see her reaction? He liked the fire in her eyes. It beat the hint of sadness he saw otherwise.

  “I was not planning to ride in on anyone’s name. I expect my work to stand on its own merits. Your grandmother was merely going to introduce me.”

  “Still, an introduction from her would have assured owners took a long look before saying yea or nay, and think long and hard about turning down a protégée of Alia al Harum. She spent a lot of money in some galleries on her visits to France and Italy.”

  “I don’t plan on showing in Italy,” she said hastily.

  Khalid’s suspicions shot up. She was from Italy—why not show in her home country? He’d given what information he had to a person at the oil company to research her background. Now he wanted more than ever to know what brought her to Quishari, and how she’d met his grandmother.

  “Do you think you can sell enough to earn a living?” he asked.

  “Your grandmother thought so. I believe her, so yes, I do. I don’t expect to become hugely wealthy, but I have simple needs, and love doing this creative work, so should be content if I ever start selling.”

  “Have you sent items out for consideration?”

  “No. I wanted to wait until I had inventory. If the pieces sell quickly, I want more in the pipeline and can only produce a few each month. I have a five-year plan.”

  He met her eyes. Sincerity shone in them. It seemed odd to have this pretty woman talk about five-year plans. But the longer he gazed at her, the more he wanted to help. Which was totally out of character for him. He broke the contact and gave a final glance around the studio. Heading for the door, he paused before leaving. “I say give it a test run, send out some of your best pieces and see if they’ll sell. No sense wasting five years if nothing is worth anything.”

  Ella stared out into the garden long after Khalid had left. He made it sound so simple. But it wasn’t. What if she didn’t sell? What if her pieces were mundane and mediocre? She could live on hope for the next few years—or have reality slap her in the face and crush her. She was still too vulnerable to venture forth to see if her work had merit. Madame al Harum had been so supportive. Now she ran into a critic. She had to toughen up if she wanted to compete in the competitive art world. Could she do it?