Page 47 of At the Sheikh's Bidding
With no further words, he took her hand and went out the front door and into the square. It was late now, and the rain had stopped. He took off his jacket and laid it on a bench. Janey almost laughed at his extravagant courtesy, like some medieval knight. But she thought, looking into the face which had become so dear to her, wasn’t he just that? A sheikh of the desert, like a knight from medieval England, accustomed to power, to control, to caring for those for whom he was responsible. Hewaswhat hewas, and that was all good.
“You’re crying,” he said, frowning, putting his arm around her and bringing her close to him. He kissed the top of her head as she pressed her face to his chest, not caring that the tears which erupted from some central part of her soaked his shirt, not caring about anything except she felt safe in his arms. Safe and something else… Something she realized which felt a lot like peace.
Amare didn’t move.Her tears soaked into his shirt and through to his skin, cooling him like a balm. There was nothing for him to say. Nothing for her to say. What he hadn’t told her was that he’d been expecting this. He’d evenhopedfor this. It had been a risky move, but a considered one. In the end, it had been the only way he could think of to get her to admit what it was she was running from, what her worst fears were. But it turned out they were way worse than he’d imagined. But, as he sat there, watching the moon rise over the rain-washed Parisian park, with the woman he loved crying softly now against his chest, he felt a profound sense that everything would be all right. He’d come home, and so had she.
* * *
The next morning,Janey awoke to an empty bed and the sound of Amare’s voice rising from downstairs, followed by the squeal of children. She waited for the familiar sense of panic to fill her, but it didn’t. The sense of peace she’d experienced in the park last night was still with her.
She rolled over and checked her phone. She’d even slept in. Sheneverslept in. Mainly because she hardly slept. But last night, for some reason, she’d slept soundly. For some reason? Who was she kidding? She knew the reason. It was the same reason which had seen her sleep soundly the first night they’d made love together. The reason was Amare. She also knew why. He took away her fears. But they resurfaced at the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread, which snuck out from the dining room and filled the house with its mouth-watering aroma. Her stomach growled.
Breakfast wasas hectic as any other time of day, so it seemed, seated at the dining table surrounded by people, unwilling to allow anyone to finish talking, before butting in and adding something at a tangent. It was dizzying, and more than once Amare reached out and placed his hand over hers in an act of reassurance which she appreciated.
As the multiple conversations continued around her, her mind returned to when she was a little girl.
Her father had always insisted the small family eat breakfast in the formal dining room, even if he wasn’t there. They’d all liked it when he wasn’t there. When hewasthere, her father sat at the head of the table, her mother at the other end, and her and her brother on either side—their every movement scrutinized and commented on. She’d scarcely eaten a thing at breakfast, terrified she choke, or, heaven forbid, drop the silver cutlery with a clatter on the fine crockery. She broke something once. That had been the worst. After breakfast she’d always gone to the kitchen where she’d eat the food she’d refused earlier, seated on the back step of the kitchen, with the sunshine streaming in, looking out at the sea, tantalizingly within touch and yet out of reach. A whisper and a promise of freedom, which she wasn’t allowed.
And here was another breakfast, around the same traditional family table. But that was where the similarity ended. Growing up, the dining room had been silent except for the odd remark between her parents. The children had been expected to remain silent. But not, apparently, here. The children laughed and chattered, totally uninhibited.
Slowly, Janey realized she was relaxing as she leaned over, yet again, to push away the dog who seemed to be more interested in the sausages on her plate than anyone else’s.
“Because he knows he’s not getting ours and he senses you’re a soft touch,” Amare said softly.
Claudine called him over, but he ignored her as Janey’s hand now fondled his silky ears.
“No, he’s fine.” She turned to Amare. “I’mfine.”
He nodded and took a sip of his coffee.
Suddenly one of the children reached over and accidentally nudged a plate which slid towards the edge. Memories of her childhood sent Janey into a panic and she reached out and stopped the plate from crashing to the floor. But, as she did this, she knocked over her full coffee cup and it fell to the wooden parquet floor with a crash, sending black coffee and shards of crockery skittering across the floor.
She jumped up as a shocked silence fell. “I’m so sorry!” Horrified, she fell to her knees and tried to pick up the pieces, anxiety racing through her veins. “I’m so clumsy.” She echoed the words her father would have shouted at her before giving her a beating. She didn’t notice the coffee seeping into the knees of the trousers as she stacked up the pieces, nor the cuts in her hands, until the pools of coffee became stained with red.
“Leave it, really, it doesn’t matter,” said a distressed Claudine, kneeling down beside Janey. “Please, leave it.”
Janey shook her head. “No, I made the mess. I’ll clear it up.” Again, what her father would have said. Tears filled her eyes and she could feel the beginnings of a sob building inside of her.
Suddenly, there was the sound of another smash. She looked up to see Amare had taken his plate and smashed it on the floor. The children giggled and did the same.
Claudine looked from Amare to Janey, shook her head, laughed and jumped to control the dogs while Pierre, in a good-natured way, told everyone to clear out so he could clean up.
Amare ushered Janey into the kitchen, where he poured them both fresh coffee. “Come on, let’s go up to the roof terrace and finish our coffee there. I don’t know about you, but I could do with some fresh air.”
Once in the rooftop garden, Janey only glanced at the amazing view over Paris before she sat down and closed her eyes against the bright sunshine. Her legs felt as wobbly as her emotions.
“I think I owe you an explanation,” she said.
“You don’t owe me anything. But… if you want to talk, talk away.”
He sat back, squinted his eyes against the morning sun, and drank his coffee.
“You see…” She licked her lips as she tried to pluck up the courage to voice things she’d never told anyone. She winced, and Amare reached out and took her hand.
“It’s okay. You’re safe here. You can say what you like.”
She nodded. “You see, breakfast was the one time my father insisted we eat together. He’d be out the rest of the day, at work, having lunch and dinner with business colleagues or one of his mistresses. But breakfasts, for some unknown, no doubt masochist reason, he reserved to bully his family.”
“Your father was a monster,” he said between gritted teeth.
