Read Online Forbidden: The Sheikh's Virgin by Trish Morey - Free Book Online
Authors: Trish Morey
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apart was there a chance she might forget.
She was behind the wheel of one of the cars before anyone could stop her. The doors locked as she clutched hold of the steering wheel, feeling sick to her stomach as she looked down at the dashboard and its assortment of dials and gauges. Escape was suddenly more complicated, and she cursed Hussein for not letting her learn to drive. She’d had only two lessons before he’d discovered her secret. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing as she’d wished a thousand times before that he’d had her beaten, instead of an innocent man, wishing that he’d hurt herrather than an innocent kitten. But hurting her had never been Hussein’s way. Not physically, anyway.
Rafiq was shouting something, and she looked around through the haze of her tears to see him close, perilously close, the two drivers running behind, their arms flapping as uselessly as their white robes. Two driving lessons would have to be enough. She’d learned the basics in those. Start. Go. Stop. How difficult could it be?
She threw the car into ‘drive’ and pressed her foot hard down on the accelerator. It moved like a slug, and she slammed her fist against the steering wheel. ‘Come on,’ she urged, and floored her foot again, this time remembering the handbrake at the last moment. She jerked it up, releasing it, and the car lurched forward. She spun the wheel, spraying sand behind her in an arc, and took off in the direction the family had disappeared. She would catch up with them, plead with them to let her return to Shafar with them. It was not as if she was going to keep the car. The family had only just gone. They couldn’t be too far ahead.
The vehicle snaked down the rutted track, difficult to follow and worse so through the blur of tears. He thought she’d married Hussein because she’d wanted a trophy husband? How could he think that, even if she had betrayed him? He should never have been there. Eleven months longer in the desert and he would probably have been over her. He wouldn’t have cared so much that she’d gone. A year in the desert and he’d probably have grown out of her, been relieved she was no longer an issue for him on his return.
A fresh flood of tears followed that thought, refusing to be staunched. He should never have come back early from the desert! He should have stayed away. Then he wouldn’t have seen her. And then she wouldn’t have been forced to lie to him. Forced to try and prove it…
She sniffed. She’d played her hand too well and convinced him with her words and her actions that she’d never loved him. And somehow that had been the cruellest blow of all. For hadn’t he seen her family gather around her, as if she was more a prisoner than a bride? Hadn’t he witnessed his own father in the audience, smirking as his plans to rid himself of another woman unworthy of being his daughter-in-law had gone even better than he had expected?
A wail erupted from her throat, chopped up into sobs as the car bounced over the rutted track.
And hadn’t he seen the sickness on her face at the reception, when Hussein had made her touch him—there—while Rafiq was watching?
How could he not have seen that? And he’d believed her lies, believed what his eyes had told him, and now he hated her. Damn him!
The car bounced and bucked its way along the desert track, past a sign that was behind her before she could read it, the wheel jerking out of her hands at times, the tyres finding it hard to get traction on the sandy hill. She couldn’t remember a hill, but surely they had passed this way earlier, hadn’t they?
All she could see through the mists of her vision was sand and more sand, red and endless, and if there were tyre-tracks anywhere the wind had long since blown them away.
Where was the track? Surely it was here somewhere. She blinked the tears from her eyes. Surely she hadn’t lost it? Fear gripped her, and she pushed her foot harder down on the accelerator,
She was behind the wheel of one of the cars before anyone could stop her. The doors locked as she clutched hold of the steering wheel, feeling sick to her stomach as she looked down at the dashboard and its assortment of dials and gauges. Escape was suddenly more complicated, and she cursed Hussein for not letting her learn to drive. She’d had only two lessons before he’d discovered her secret. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing as she’d wished a thousand times before that he’d had her beaten, instead of an innocent man, wishing that he’d hurt herrather than an innocent kitten. But hurting her had never been Hussein’s way. Not physically, anyway.
Rafiq was shouting something, and she looked around through the haze of her tears to see him close, perilously close, the two drivers running behind, their arms flapping as uselessly as their white robes. Two driving lessons would have to be enough. She’d learned the basics in those. Start. Go. Stop. How difficult could it be?
She threw the car into ‘drive’ and pressed her foot hard down on the accelerator. It moved like a slug, and she slammed her fist against the steering wheel. ‘Come on,’ she urged, and floored her foot again, this time remembering the handbrake at the last moment. She jerked it up, releasing it, and the car lurched forward. She spun the wheel, spraying sand behind her in an arc, and took off in the direction the family had disappeared. She would catch up with them, plead with them to let her return to Shafar with them. It was not as if she was going to keep the car. The family had only just gone. They couldn’t be too far ahead.
The vehicle snaked down the rutted track, difficult to follow and worse so through the blur of tears. He thought she’d married Hussein because she’d wanted a trophy husband? How could he think that, even if she had betrayed him? He should never have been there. Eleven months longer in the desert and he would probably have been over her. He wouldn’t have cared so much that she’d gone. A year in the desert and he’d probably have grown out of her, been relieved she was no longer an issue for him on his return.
A fresh flood of tears followed that thought, refusing to be staunched. He should never have come back early from the desert! He should have stayed away. Then he wouldn’t have seen her. And then she wouldn’t have been forced to lie to him. Forced to try and prove it…
She sniffed. She’d played her hand too well and convinced him with her words and her actions that she’d never loved him. And somehow that had been the cruellest blow of all. For hadn’t he seen her family gather around her, as if she was more a prisoner than a bride? Hadn’t he witnessed his own father in the audience, smirking as his plans to rid himself of another woman unworthy of being his daughter-in-law had gone even better than he had expected?
A wail erupted from her throat, chopped up into sobs as the car bounced over the rutted track.
And hadn’t he seen the sickness on her face at the reception, when Hussein had made her touch him—there—while Rafiq was watching?
How could he not have seen that? And he’d believed her lies, believed what his eyes had told him, and now he hated her. Damn him!
The car bounced and bucked its way along the desert track, past a sign that was behind her before she could read it, the wheel jerking out of her hands at times, the tyres finding it hard to get traction on the sandy hill. She couldn’t remember a hill, but surely they had passed this way earlier, hadn’t they?
All she could see through the mists of her vision was sand and more sand, red and endless, and if there were tyre-tracks anywhere the wind had long since blown them away.
Where was the track? Surely it was here somewhere. She blinked the tears from her eyes. Surely she hadn’t lost it? Fear gripped her, and she pushed her foot harder down on the accelerator,
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