A Sheikh of Her Own

Bridget: Imagine me invited to a fairy-tale house party right on the Mediterranean for three whole weeks! I am in total awe. The mansion is luxurious beyond belief. The parties are amazing. But I’m enjoying the quiet times with the lonely little boy. His father is amazing, but so far out of my reach I don’t even try. I’ll leave that to the sophisticated socialites fawning all over him. I will cherish, however, the kisses we shared.

Rashid: I’m jaded, I admit. And intrigued with the quiet little mouse of a woman who spends more time in my garden with my son than with the rest of the guests indulging in every lavish extravagance imaginable. Is she genuine? Or another gold-digger trying a new way to land a ring on her finger?

If you like fairy-tale romances in exotic locales, you'll love A Sheikh of Her Own. Delve into your copy today and be swept away with romance.

Bridget felt like a fifth wheel. She should have ridden with Aunt Donatella and Antonio. She'd definitely return with her aunt and let Francesca and her sheikh return to his wonderful home and not be jealous that she herself would be returning to her flat in San Francisco and taking up her life again without her beloved papa.

The simple service at the grave site was brief and moving. As she turned away for the last time Bridget caught a glimpse of the tombstone for Isabella Rossi, her father’s first wife and Antonio’s mother. Her papa had his wish. He was buried by his precious Isabella. Not by Bridget’s mother where Bridget thought he should have been. He and her mother had been married far longer than he’d been to Isabella. But he’d been so insistent at the end, she’d agreed.

Poor Mama, she thought. Even in death Papa wasn’t hers.

Bridget continued along the pathway conscious of Rashid following closely.

Francesca stopped to speak with one of their other cousins.

“What will you do now?” Rashid asked as Bridget stopped near the car that had brought her aunt.

“Return home. There's nothing for me here,” she said gazing around at the peaceful cemetery. The old lichen-covered tombstones and monuments were so unlike the neat pristine headstones where her mother was buried. This cemetery was far older and much farther from home.

“Yet you brought your father here,” he said gently.

“He insisted. He knew he was dying and made us promise to bring him back to the place he’d been born.”

She was trying to imprint the setting on her mind. She wouldn’t be this way again any time soon. Another regret. She could have visited his grave as often as she did her mother’s had he been buried in California.

“You'd rather have buried him in San Francisco,” Rashid stated quietly.

“My mother's buried there. She was his wife, too.” Bridget couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice.

He looked back at the grave site. He'd read the stone beside the grave during the service.
“Isabella was his first wife?”

“Yes, she's Antonio’s mother. Molly O’Brien was mine. Hired to take care of his baby son when his beautiful Isabella died. Later they married and had me.”

Bridget had heard the story all her life. On the surface it sounded so romantic. But her papa had never fully loved her mother and Mama knew it. How hard had that been--to live with a man who loved a woman long dead?

“Do you work in San Francisco?” Rashid asked, leaning against the limo, studying Bridget with dark eyes that seemed to see beyond what others saw.

She looked away, disturbed by the emotions he brought out in her. “I’m a librarian at a branch in the Sunset district. I have a small flat nearby.”

“You didn't live with your father, then.”

She shook her head. “Maybe I should have. I've wonder for several months if I would have seen he was sick before he admitted it. Maybe I could have done something.”

“Most likely not.”

She looked at him. “What would you know about it?”

“What do you think you could have done?”

“I don’t know, taken him to the doctor sooner or something.”

She looked into his dark eyes again and felt the world tilt slightly. Rashid’s broad striking good looks made a perfect foil for Francesca. Together they made a perfect couple, both gorgeous and self-assured.

Had he and Francesca spent hours at the beach or beside a pool on their vacation? A tan like that didn't spring up overnight. What else had they been doing that the funeral interrupted?

For a moment a pang of envy hit Bridget. She’d love to have some wonderful, sexy man sweep her away to some romantic hideaway and make wild passionate love day and night.

She’d always thought she’d like to see the south seas. But a place on the Mediterranean could be as romantic.

“Has it been suggested that earlier care would have saved his life?” Rashid asked.

It took Bridget a moment to reply. The fantasy of sunbathing by the sea vanished. She shook her head. “No, but I still worry I should have done something.”

“What does your brother think?”

“That nothing could have been done.”

“Your father was older than most fathers of a woman your age,” he commented.

“He was over forty when Antonio was born. Even older when I came along. He immigrated to California as a young man and had to make his way in the world before he could start his family. He built one of the finest restaurants in Little Italy, near Columbus Street. And another one near the Wharf. When he had money enough, he returned home to find a bride. His beautiful Isabella was fifteen years younger, but such a love they had.”

Rashid’s eyes held a hint of sardonic amusement. “Or so the story goes. You sound as if you’ve heard that before,” he said.

She nodded. “He spoke often of his beautiful Isabella—especially after my mother died. I guess he didn’t think I’d mind, but I wish he’d loved my mother as much.”

Francesca looked up, seeing her with Rashid. She waved and began heading their way, only to be stopped by another small group of friends.

“I’m sure their marriage was satisfactory for both. Not everyone marries for love as you westerners think,” Rashid said.

“You don’t believe in marrying for love?” Bridget knew she read too many romance novels, but to her the greatest bond in life was love. She'd loved her father and mother. She adored her older brother and her cousin. Close friends also were loved. How much more love would she and her husband share--once she found the right man?

“There are many reasons for marriage. Love is fleeting. Or nonexistent. Strong foundations can be built on other grounds,” he said.

“Like what?”

She couldn’t believe she was debating love and marriage at the edge of a cemetery with a sheikh. She’d barely met the man. She'd probably never see him again after today—unless he and Francesca were serious about each other.

Did Francesca know he held such cynical views of love?

“Arranged marriages have been the norm in my country for generations. Dynastic reasons are strong bonds. Merging families for financial reasons insures the continuation of many bloodlines.”

Bridget looked at Francesca. Maybe she’d misread the situation. Maybe this was no different from any other fleeting relationship her cousin had over the years. She couldn’t imagine her settling for less than passionate brilliant love if she ever decided to get married.

“So you're not looking for marriage anytime soon?” Bridget said, trying to understand the relationship.

“I've been married.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You have? What happened?”

“She died.”

“Oh.” Bridget didn’t know what to say. He certainly didn’t seem particularly sad about the fact. Yet she didn’t know him at all so how could she gauge his feelings?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“As was I. Fatima was a beautiful woman. Accomplished. And a delight to be with. I miss her.”

How sad he and his wife didn’t get to share their lives together for more years than they had had.

“I’ll get a ride back with Aunt Donatella. Francesca said you needed to get to the airport,” Bridget said after a moment.

The sooner she got away from Rashid, the better for her equilibrium. He was like a movie star, someone to dream about, but as far out of her experience as landing on the moon. That hint of awareness that plagued her was probably due to heightened emotions because of the funeral. Tomorrow she’d laugh at the notion of being attracted to her cousin’s friend.

She had to pack and get ready for her own flight home in the morning. She didn’t need to know more about Rashid. If his and Francesca’s friendship developed into something more, she’d learn about it in due time. And if not—

“You'd be welcome to come stay with your cousin. I know you both grieve for the loss of your father. She spoke fondly of him on the flight here. Maybe a week or two in a new location would help ease the transition. Give you some breathing space before you return to life without your father in it,” Rashid said.

She was struck by his insight. She dreaded the return to San Francisco, to her flat only a few blocks from the home her father lived in. There was so much to do with packing up his things, deciding whether to live in the family home or sell it. Her father had left it to her and left the restaurants to Antonio with a stipulation that she receive twenty percent of the profit each year.

She needed to move on without her papa’s comforting presence in the background.

Had Rashid felt a similar kind of loss when his beautiful wife died?

Bridget looked at her cousin. She’d love to spend a couple of weeks with Francesca. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d spent more than two or three days together. Francesca rarely came to San Francisco. Her work was in Italy and other European countries. Bridget’s was in California.