The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [42]
But Tariq Kazahn never let any member of his family forget that they owed everything to the noble Ivanoffs.
“Without them, the Kazahns might still be peasants,” he would roar at his children and later his grandchildren. “Their diamond necklace founded our fortune. The Ivanoffs are gone, many dead, others who knows where? But never forget that our first duty—our loyalty, our sacred obligation, is to the Ivanoffs. When I die, I shall pass that obligation on to you, my children, and then on to your children. This is my legacy to you. A Kazahn must never fail that duty.”
Tariq’s only sadness was that at the age of eleven his son Michael contracted a crippling disease that left one leg withered and useless. As the boy recovered his health he encouraged him to exercise, employing physical-education experts to improve his physique. As if to compensate for his weakness and his shambling gait, by the time he was a young man Michael Kazahn had the torso of a bull. On his specially made saddle, he rode his horse like a member of one of the Tartar hordes of old. He became a crack shot and a great huntsman and was always the life and soul of the family gatherings, for by now his two sisters were married and his parents were grandparents.
The years since their flight from Russia had passed quickly, but Tariq never let his family forget their background and the legacy of loyalty to his beloved Ivanoffs.
Michael was twenty-two years old and had his father’s strong, dark good looks and hot temperament. Han-Su decided he needed a wife to calm him down. She also decided which girl she wanted him to marry.
Refika was eighteen, the daughter of a wealthy Turkish banker and his French wife. She was pretty with dark brown eyes and her mother’s blond hair, and she was well educated with strong ideas. This pleased Han-Su because she knew that the Kazahn men needed strong women.
She planned their introduction cleverly, choosing a sultry summer night with just the tiniest breeze drifting across the Bosphorus. Refika, wearing a pale-green chiffon dress with a jeweled belt encircling her narrow waist, sat between her parents, her ankles demurely crossed. Tariq fixed her with his piercing blue eyes. She was aware that he was observing her every move as they waited for Michael to arrive. His sisters were fluttering about, offering sweetmeats to the guests while their husbands made small talk with Refika’s father, and though Han-Su smiled as she apologized for her son’s lateness, inside she was seething. Michael resented her matchmaking: She knew he must still be with the woman he kept in an apartment in the old city and that he was deliberately late because he wanted Refika to see him walk into the room. He wanted her to see that he was a cripple.
Refika’s eyes met Tariq’s and she smiled at him disarmingly. After walking toward him, she sat at his feet on a low ottoman covered with a fine silk carpet.
“Kazahn Pasha,” she said in her soft, musical voice, “I have heard that you are a man among men, that those who work for you admire your courage as well as your business head. I have heard that everyone who knows you adores you; even that you are known as ‘Sultan’ Kazahn. I can see that you are a handsome man, better-looking than any of the young men I know, but your eyes are fierce when they look at me. This worries me, Kazahn Pasha, because you do not yet know me.”
Tariq’s jaw dropped and he stared at her, taken aback. “Fierce?” he repeated. “No, never … I am only fierce against my enemies or those who would cheat me.”
“Am I your enemy then?” she persisted softly.
“No … of course not.” She