The Fierce and Tender Sheikh by Alexandra Sellers Read Free Book Online Page A

djellaba and green keffiyeh and a magnificently beautiful woman with black hair like a cloud down her back walked together, leading the group. They were tall and straight, and she couldn’t seem to look away from them.
    â€œThe Sultan and Sultana,” said Sharif. “Your cousins.”
    Something kicked in her chest.
    The door of the aircraft opened at last, and Shakira stood for a moment looking out into the brilliant sunshine, at all the strangers who were not strangers. She swallowed, dropped her head, and tried to breathe, but her chest was too tight. She felt as if she were dying. She, who prided herself on her fearlessness. She had defied angry security men in shops, she had leapt from moving trucks…but now fear choked her.
    She turned blindly towards Sharif, standing a few yards away, watching her with grave eyes and a mouth that was half smiling. Unconsciously she stretched out her hand to him, and he felt it as if tiny yearning tendrils reached for his heart.
    â€œYou come with me,” she pleaded.
    The Cup Companion stepped over to her. “They are your family, Shakira,” he said, gently turning her to the door. “They are waiting for you.”
    She looked out. They were all there. Her family. Her family . The little crowd called and waved to her, and she heard her name, her true name, on a dozen smiling lips. It was pronounced with love, as if she were someone precious, someone to cherish.
    â€œShakira!” they cried. “Welcome home, Shakira!”

Five
    A sweet wind was blowing, bringing the soft smells of the desert to her nostrils. The heat was dry; her tears evaporated even as they formed on her cheeks.
    The tall, dark man in the white djellaba, his green keffiyeh lifting in the breeze, moved to the foot of the steps and stood looking gravely up at her. And with a blow that struck her heart, Shakira recognized the eyes in the stern, noble face.
    A wordless cry warbled from her throat, and she dashed down the steps and stopped in front of him.
    â€œWho are you?” she whispered. “Are you—”
    â€œI am your cousin Ashraf,” said the Sultan simply.
    â€œOh, you look like my father!” she cried, and that other, beloved face was sharp and clear in her memory, as it had not been for too long.
    Shakira stood for a moment, not knowing how to deal with the powerful feelings that rose up in her. After a lifetime without closeness she had no instinctive way to express the overwhelming mixture of love, joy, pain and almost terrifying relief.
    Ashraf broke the tension by wrapping her in a tight embrace. “Welcome home, Cousin,” he said.
    For a moment she resisted, her thin body tensing as if for an attack. Then a strange, unfamiliar sensation burst up, driving a sob into her throat: the human comfort of touch. Hot tears burned her eyes, too powerful to resist, though deep instinct told her it showed a dangerous weakness.
    Crying in front of so many people! How they would treat her now—they would take all the drinking water, steal her food! And yet—the arms around her felt so safe, like something she remembered feeling, long ago….
    Before she had time to sort out such conflicting emotions, Ashraf released her to be embraced again, this time by the magnificently beautiful woman with the cloud of black hair, whom she had seen from the plane.
    â€œI’m Dana, Ash’s wife,” Shakira heard. “Welcome! We are so happy and thankful to have found you at last. What a terrible time you’ve had! But you’re safe with your family now.”
    Hani had always been able to contain his tears. Sometimes he had felt that his soul was so dry tears would never happen to him again. In the camps that was a good thing.
    Shakira, though, could not stop her tears. From that moment of learning her true name, she seemed to have lost her power over her emotions, over the feeling that flooded from her eyes. And now, held in the tall