At the Sheikh's Bidding. Chantelle Shaw
diagnosed a year ago he asked me to marry him to make it easier for me to adopt Kazim. He told me he had no other family and he didn’t want Kazim to grow up in care—like I had.’
She hated talking about her past, and dropped her gaze from Gordon Straker’s face as she continued in a low voice, ‘My mother was a drug addict, who died when I was ten, and I spent the rest of my childhood in the care of Social Services. I was a troubled teenager, and I don’t know where I would be now if I hadn’t been fostered—maybe working the streets to pay for my next fix like my mother,’ she confessed thickly. ‘My foster father worked here at Ingledean, as a gardener, and when Faisal came here with his baby son he employed me as Kazim’s nanny. Despite my background he knew I would love and protect Kazim as if he was my own child.’
She was hurt that Faisal had not been honest with her. He did have a family, and just before he’d died he had made the decision to tell them he had a son. Had he done so because he had begun to doubt her abilities to be a good mother to Kazim? Had he decided that he wanted his estranged family to be involved in the little boy’s upbringing after all?
All her old doubts and insecurities rose up inside her, but Gordon Straker opened the front door and a blast of icy wind whipped into the hall, snapping Erin out of her reverie.
The solicitor gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘You are Kazim’s adoptive mother, Erin,’ he said gently, ‘and no one can take him from you. Only you can decide if it would be in his best interests to have some contact with his family in Qubbah.’
He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped into the snow, but paused to glance back at her. ‘I’ve done a little investigating, and from what I’ve heard Sheikh Zahir bin Kahlid al Muntassir is an astute businessman and a risk-taker, respected on the world markets for his brilliance and daring. He is a man who is used to having his own way, and who pursues his goals with a ruthless determination, yet at the same time many people find him incredibly charming and persuasive—particularly women.’ He gave a faint smile at her sudden heightened colour. ‘All I’m saying is—tread carefully, Erin,’ Gordon Straker warned softly, ‘and don’t let him bully you, my dear.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ Erin replied fiercely.
But as she flew back across the hall to the library, where she had left the Sheikh with her son, a shiver of trepidation ran through her. The moment she had seen Zahir she had been mesmerised by his spectacular looks and powerful sexual magnetism. The man spelt danger, and the predatory gleam she’d glimpsed in his dark eyes warned her to be on her guard.
CHAPTER TWO
ZAHIR turned away from the window and the uninspiring view of snow-covered moors and found Kazim staring up at him, his chocolate-brown eyes wide with curiosity. Slowly he knelt down, so that he was on level with the toddler’s gaze, and pain tugged in his chest. The little boy bore a marked resemblance to both his parents, and the sight of his small, lively face and impish grin made the tragedy of Faisal and Maryam’s untimely deaths seem even more poignant.
The anger and bitterness that had eaten away at Zahir for six long years released its grip on his heart and was replaced by a new emotion that was unexpectedly fierce. Love—pure and uncomplicated—flooded through him, and he reached out and stroked Kazim’s cheek with fingers that shook slightly.
Faisal’s little son was an orphan, but he would never feel alone or unloved. He, Zahir, would make sure of that. Because of his stubborn pride he had left it too late to be reconciled with his brother, but he would love his nephew as if he were his own child. Kazim belonged in Qubbah, and nothing would prevent Zahir from taking him home.
His mind turned briefly to Faisal’s second wife and he dismissed her with a shrug. Erin was an inconvenience he would have to deal with. For now he focused all his attention on his brother’s son.
‘He seems tall for a three-year-old,’ he commented to the cook, who had settled her generous frame into an armchair by the fire.
‘Oh, he is—and strong,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘He’s strong-willed too. Kazim’s an adorable child, but he knows his own mind. Sometimes Erin struggles to cope with his temper tantrums, especially at bath-time.’
Zahir frowned. ‘What do you mean—struggles? Does she lose her temper with him?’
Kazim was a sturdy toddler, but he had been left alone in the world since his father’s death, totally dependent on Erin’s care. Who was this woman Faisal had entrusted with his son? Erin had said that she loved Kazim but he, Zahir, was linked to Kazim by blood, and a wave of protectiveness swept through him.
‘Heavens, no.’ Alice shook her head. ‘Erin is wonderfully patient with him. She really does think of him as her own child—and, after all, she’s the only mother he’s ever known.’
The cook’s words were unwelcome, and Zahir’s frown deepened, but when he glanced up his features were schooled into a disarming smile. ‘I understand that Erin married my brother a year ago, but that she worked for him before that?’
‘Yes. The master employed her as Kazim’s nanny soon after he moved into Ingledean,’ Alice confirmed, opening up like a flower beneath Zahir’s full-on charm. ‘She lived at the gate lodge with her foster parents, but when they retired and moved south to be near their son Erin moved in here. She always loved this house.’ Alice’s voice dropped. ‘After Faisal died there was some unpleasant gossip in the village that Erin had persuaded him to marry her by promising to take care of Kazim because she wanted to inherit Ingledean.’ She snorted. ‘All rubbish, of course—Erin doesn’t have a mercenary bone in her body—but some folk are so mean-minded, and they dug up all that about her past…’
The cook looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Zahir demanded sharply, ‘What about her past?’
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ Alice assured him quickly. ‘Erin had an unhappy childhood, and as a teenager she ended up in trouble with the law. It was a minor offence, I understand. I don’t know much about it.’ Alice trailed to a halt, clearly embarrassed that she had allowed her tongue to run away with her. ‘What I do know is that Faisal trusted Erin,’ she said firmly, as she got to her feet and threw a log on the fire. ‘And although they might not have had a normal marriage, they were very fond of each other.’
In what way had his brother’s marriage not been normal? Zahir wondered curiously. He wanted to force some more answers from the cook, but Alice was looking pink-cheeked and flustered, and with an effort he restrained his impatience. He would phone his personal assistant, Omran, as soon as possible, and instruct him to research Erin’s background. He had grown up in a royal palace where intrigue and gossip were rife, but he knew from experience that even the wildest rumours often contained grains of truth. Omran’s diligence was next to none, and if there were any skeletons in Faisal’s widow’s cupboard they would soon be revealed, he thought grimly.
He turned his attention back to Kazim, and this time his smile was genuine. ‘I brought a present for you,’ he told the little boy, his heart softening when Kazim’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘It’s a toy camel, just like the real camels that live in the desert. How would you like to come to my home in the desert and ride on one?’
Erin pushed open the library door to see Kazim staring at Zahir, utterly spellbound. Zahir was crouched low, so that his face was on a level with Kazim’s, and Erin was instantly struck by the familial likeness between the man and the child. Kazim shared his uncle’s Arabic colouring and silky black hair. An image filtered into her mind of the two of them astride a camel, Zahir’s arms around Kazim as the animal carried them across golden sands.
The picture in her head was so real that she drew a sharp breath. Kazim’s home was here at Ingledean, with her, she reminded herself, fighting the sudden surge of panic that gripped her. She turned to Alice, who was watching Zahir with a dreamy expression on her face that fuelled Erin’s irritation. Okay, so the man looked like Lawrence of Arabia, and his voice was no longer cold and haughty but as warm and sensuous as molten syrup—but that was no reason to drool over him, she thought