Their Impossible Desert Match (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  The doors opened and he felt relief—relief to be able to step further away from her, to stop breathing in her scent, to be able to resist the impulse to touch her, just because she happened to be standing right in front of him.

  ‘Many of these are relevant to your country,’ he said, indicating one tapestry that hung opposite the elevator, dimly lit with overhead lights to preserve its beautiful threads.

  She studied the pictures, a look of fascination on her features. He led her through the area, showing some of his favourite pieces.

  ‘You sound as though you know this place like the back of your hand,’ she said after ten minutes.

  He smiled. ‘I do. I came here often as a child. I loved to sit up here and read while my parents attended to business at parliament. I was fortunate that they indulged my every whim.’ He laughed.

  Her tone was teasing. ‘Are you saying you were spoiled?’

  ‘Actually, I wasn’t.’ He grinned. ‘Only in this aspect—my mother found my love of books amusing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because for the most part, I preferred to be out of doors. I hated restriction. I liked to run and ride and swim and climb. In that way, I was cast in my father’s image. But then, here at the library, I saw the opening to all these other worlds and found a different way to run and be free.’

  She was transfixed by his words, her expression completely engaged by what he was saying. ‘It was a catalyst for them. Seeing how I loved these texts, how they opened my eyes and mind—I still remember the conversation between them, travelling back to the palace one night, when my father remarked that every child should be able to lose themselves in a library as I seemed to want to.’

  Johara paused, looking at a small book with a golden spine and beautiful cursive script.

  ‘They were right.’ Her voice was small.

  ‘Was this similar to your own childhood?’

  A beat passed, a pause which seemed somehow unnatural. ‘I...spent my childhood undertaking ceremonial duties on behalf of the palace,’ she said calmly. But too calm, as though her voice was carefully neutralised to hide any real feeling. He didn’t speak, sensing that she would continue only if he stayed silent.

  He was right. ‘My mother died when I was six. I have vague memories of attending events with her. But after she passed, I was expected to take on her role.’ Her smile was laced with mockery. ‘Something you know about.’

  ‘At such a young age?’

  ‘I didn’t question it at the time. My amalä had focussed a lot of my education on etiquette, socialising, on how to speak and be spoken to.’ She shrugged as though it didn’t matter. ‘It was second nature to me.’

  ‘But you were still a baby.’

  She laughed. ‘I was old enough.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘There wasn’t much time for libraries and reading, nor even for studying. None of which was deemed particularly important for me anyway.’

  Amir stopped walking, something like anger firing through him. ‘So your education was sacrificed in order for you to cut ribbons and make speeches?’

  ‘I sit on the board of many important charities and foundations,’ she contradicted defensively, then dropped her head in a silent sign of concession. ‘But yes. Essentially, you’re correct.’

  ‘And your brother?’ He couldn’t conceal his anger then. It whipped them both, drawing them closer without their knowledge.

  ‘Mal had an education similar to yours, I imagine. Well rounded, with the best tutors in various subjects being flown in to instruct him. He was taught to be a statesman, a philosopher, to govern and preside over the country from when he was a very young boy.’

  Amir wanted to punch something! ‘That’s grossly unfair.’

  Johara’s eyes flashed to his; he felt her agreement and surprise. ‘It’s the way of my people.’

  ‘It’s as though nothing has changed for your people in the last one hundred years.’

  She lifted her shoulders. ‘And Ishkana is so different?’

  He stared at her as though she had lost her mind. ‘Yes, Ishkana is different. You’ve seen the facilities we’ve created. You’ve heard me talk about the importance of books and education for children. Have you heard me say, at any point, “for boys”, as opposed to “children”?’

  She didn’t speak. Her eyes held his, and something sparked between them.

  ‘My grandfather made inroads to gender equality, but he was hampered—if you can believe it—by public opinions. By the time my father was Sheikh, the Internet had been born, and a homogenisation of attitudes was—I would have thought—inevitable. My mother was progressive, and fiercely intelligent. The idea of her skill set languishing simply because women weren’t seen as having the same rights to education as men...’

  ‘I am not languishing,’ she interrupted. ‘I get to represent causes that matter a great deal to me.’

  He stared at her, not wanting to say what he was thinking, knowing his assessment would hurt her.

  ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Say what you’re thinking.’

  Surprise made him cough. How could she read him so well? What was this magic that burst around them, making him feel as though they were connected in a way that transcended everything he knew he should feel about her?

  ‘Only that it sounds to me as though your representation is more about your position and recognisability than anything else.’

  She jerked her head back as though he’d slapped her and he instantly wish he hadn’t said such a cruel thing. He shook his head, moving a step closer, his lips pressed together.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t.’ She lifted a hand to his chest, her own breathing ragged. ‘Don’t apologise.’

  They stood like that, so close, bodies melded, breath mingling, eyes latched, until Johara made a sort of strangled noise and stepped backwards, her spine connected with the firmness of a white marble wall.

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ she said again, this time quieter, more pained. He echoed her movement, stepping towards her, his body trapping hers where it was, his own responding with a jerk of awareness he wished he could quell.

  ‘You’re right.’ She bit down on her full lower lip, reminding her of the way she’d done that in the maze, and the way he’d sought it with his own teeth. ‘I’m ornamental. Unlike your mother, I’m not fiercely intelligent. I can’t even read properly, Amir. Educating me in a traditional way would have been a waste of effort. So my parents focussed on what I was good at, at my strengths—which is people. I serve my country in this way.’

  He could hardly breathe, let alone speak. ‘You were not even taught to read?’

  ‘I was taught,’ she corrected. ‘But not well, and it didn’t seem to matter until I was much older. At twelve, I sat some tests—and was diagnosed with severe dyslexia.’ A crease formed between her brows. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if they’d discovered it earlier. It’s not curable. My brain is wired differently from yours. I can read—passably—but it takes me longer than you can imagine and it will never be what I do for pleasure.’ Her eyes tangled with his and she shook her head. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘How am I looking at you?’ he interrogated gently.

  ‘As though you pity me.’ She pressed her teeth into her lip once more. ‘I still love books—I listen to recordings whenever I can—and let me assure you, I derive the same pleasure from their pages as you do.’

  He listened, but something was flaring inside him, something he hadn’t felt in such a raw and violent form for a very long time. Admiration. Respect.

  ‘This is why you founded the literacy initiative in New York?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her smile, as he focussed conversation on something that brought her joy, almost stole his breath. ‘To help children. Even children like I was—if a diagnosis can be made early enough—will be spared
years of feeling that they’re not good enough, or smart enough.’

  ‘And you felt these things.’

  Her smile dropped. His anger was back—anger at her parents, and, because they were dead and no longer able to account for their terrible, neglectful parenting, anger at the brother who hadn’t troubled himself to notice Johara’s struggles.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes held defiance. ‘I used to feel that way. But then I moved to America and I came to understand that the skills I have cannot be taught. I’m great with people. I’m great at fundraising. I can work a room and secure millions of dollars in donations in the space of a couple of hours. I can make a real difference in the world, Amir, so please, for the love of everything you hold dear, stop looking at me as though I’m an object of pity or—’

  Something in the region of his chest tightened. ‘Or?’

  ‘Or I’ll... I don’t know. Stamp my foot. Or scream.’ She shook her head. ‘Just don’t you dare pity me.’

  He gently took her chin between his finger and thumb. ‘I don’t pity you, Johara.’ His eyes roamed her face and, in the distance, he could hear the beating of a drum, low and solid, the tempo rhythmic and urgent all at once. It took him moments to realise there was no drum, just the beating of his heart, the torrent of his pulse slamming through his body.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I admire you,’ he admitted gruffly. ‘I admire the hell out of you and damn it if I don’t want to kiss you more than ever right now.’

  Her knees could barely hold her. If he weren’t standing so close, pinning her to the wall, she wasn’t sure she would have trusted her legs to keep her upright. His face was so close, his lips just an inch from hers. She tilted her face, her own lips parting in an unspoken invitation, and she stared at him, hoping, wanting, every fibre of her being reverberating with need.

  ‘How do you make me forget so easily?’

  ‘Forget what?’ Closer. Did she lift onto the tips of her toes or did he lower his face? Either way, her mouth could almost brush his now. Adrenalin surged through her veins, fierce and loud.

  ‘Who you are.’ He threw the words aside as though they were inconsequential, and then finally he kissed her, a kiss that was for him exultant and for her drugging. Her need for him obliterated every shred of rational thought, every ability to process what was happening. But even as his tongue slid between her lips, tangling with hers, and his knee nudged her legs apart, propping her up, her sluggish brain threaded his simple statement together. Who you are.

  Who she was. It was so fundamental—her parentage, her lineage, her place in the Taquul royal family.

  His hands gripped her hips, holding her possessively and almost fearfully, as though she might move away from him; he held her as though his life depended on her nearness. His kiss stole her breath and gave her life. She lifted her hands, tangling them behind his neck, her fingers running into the nape of his hair, pressing her breasts against his chest, her nipples tingling with remembered sensations.

  How do you make me forget so easily?

  But they couldn’t forget. It wasn’t that easy. He was a Haddad and she a Qadir and somewhere over the last one hundred years it had been written in stone that they should hate each other. Yet she didn’t. She couldn’t hate him. He’d done her no wrong and, more than that, she’d seen qualities that made her feel the opposite of hate. She liked him. She enjoyed spending time with him. She found talking to him hypnotic and addictive. And kissing him like this lit a thousand fires in the fabric of her soul.

  But Amir would never accept her. He would always resent her, and possibly hate her. And that hatred would destroy her if she wasn’t very, very careful. And what of her brother if he learned of this? Even her defiant streak didn’t run that deep.

  With every single scrap of willpower she possessed, Johara drew her hands between them and pushed at his chest, just enough to separate them, to give her breathing space.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ She intentionally used his title, needing to remind him of what he claimed she made him forget. ‘Nothing has changed since last night.’ She waited, her eyes trying to read his face, to understand him better. ‘Has it?’

  His eyes widened, as though her reminder had caught him completely unawares. She could feel the power of his arousal between her legs, and knew how badly he wanted her. Yet he stepped backwards immediately, rubbing his palm over his chin.

  ‘You’re right, Princess.’ His smile was self-mocking. ‘That won’t happen again.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘IT’S ONLY THREE more days.’ Malik’s voice came down the phone line, in an attempt to offer comfort. He could have no way of knowing that, far from placating her, the reminder that the week she’d been invited to Ishkana for was halfway over would spark something a little like depression inside her belly.

  She looked out of her magnificent bedroom window over an aviary very like the one in Taquul, and again felt how alike these two countries were—just as Amir had said.

  ‘I know.’ It was the end of a busy day, filled with commitments and engagements. She’d seen so much of the city, met so many politicians and leaders, and the more she saw of this country, the less contented she felt.

  The war had been so futile.

  This was a beautiful country, a beautiful people. They’d been hurt by the past, just as the people in Taquul had been. Not for the first time, frustration with her parents and grandparents gnawed at her. Why hadn’t they been able to find a peaceful resolution sooner? Why had it rested on two men, one hundred years after the first shot was fired?

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s...’ A movement below caught her attention. She swept her gaze downwards, trying to catch it again. Something white in amongst the olive and pomegranate trees below. Another movement. Her heart recognised before her mind did.

  Amir.

  He moved purposefully towards one of the aviaries, his frame powerful, his movements everything that was masculine and primal. He opened the door, and made a gesture with his hand. A large bird, with a wingspan half the height of Amir, flew from the cage and did a circle above his head, above Johara, its eyes surveying what they could, before neatly returning and hooking its claws around Amir’s outstretched arm. Its feathers were a pale, pearlescent cream with small flecks of light brown, its beak tipped in grey.

  ‘What?’ Malik was impatient. ‘Terrible? Awful? Are you hating it?’

  ‘No!’ She had forgotten all about her brother, on the other end of the phone. She shook her head despite the fact he wasn’t there to see her. ‘It’s...wonderful.’

  Amir’s lips moved; he was speaking to the bird. She wished, more than anything, that she could hear what he was saying.

  ‘Wonderful?’ Malik’s surprise was obvious. She ignored it.

  ‘Yes. I have to go now.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll call you another time, okay?’ She pressed the red button on her screen, her eyes fixed on Amir. She could not look away. The dusk sky created a dramatic backdrop to an already overpoweringly dramatic scene. With the falcon perched on his forearm, he looked every bit the powerful Emir. She held her breath as he began to move towards the palace, her eyes following every athletic step he took, her mind silently willing him to look towards her, to see her. And do what? She stared at him as though with her eyes alone she could summon him.

  When he was almost beneath her, he looked up, his eyes sweeping the windows of her suite before locking to her. He stopped walking, and he stared at her as she had been staring at him.

  Hungrily.

  Urgently.

  As though seeing one another were their sole means of survival.

  He dipped his head a moment later, a bow of respect, and her heart stammered; he was going to go away again. She wanted to scream. Impatience and frustration were driving her mad. Since their kiss in th
e library, she’d barely seen him. Brief photo opportunities and nothing more. And at these interludes he was polite but went out of his way to keep a distance, not touching her, his smile barely reaching his eyes before he replaced it with a businesslike look.

  But here, now, the same fire that had burned between them in the library arced through the sky, threatening to singe her nerve endings.

  ‘I...’ She said it so quietly she wasn’t sure he’d hear. And she had no idea what she even wanted to say. Only that she didn’t want him to walk away from her.

  His eyes lifted, held hers a moment, and then he grimaced, as though he was fighting a war within himself. A moment later, he began to walk, disappearing from her view completely. She stamped her foot on the balcony and squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the railing tightly. Her heart was frantic and, ridiculously, stupid tears filled her throat with salt, threatening to douse her eyes. She blinked rapidly to ward them off, hating how he could affect her, hating how futile their situation was. Of all the men she had to meet, of all the men who had the ability to make her crazy with desire, why did it have to be a king who saw himself as her sworn enemy? A man who had every reason in the world to hate her family?

  With a growling sound of impatience she stalked back into the beautiful suite of rooms she’d been appointed, deciding she’d take a cool shower. Three more days. She could get through this. And then what? Forget about Amir?

  Her skin lifted with goosebumps. Unbidden, memories of the maze flooded her mind, filling her eyes with visions of him over her, his handsome, symmetrical face, she felt the movements of his body in hers, and she groaned, the shower forgotten. She closed her eyes, allowing the memories to overtake her, reliving that experience breath by breath until her skin was flushed and her blood boiling in her veins.