‘Yes, madam.’
Frosty. Disapproving. She turned away from him, telling herself she didn’t care. She continued to tour the gallery, each painting deserving far more attention than she gave it. She couldn’t focus on anything other than Amir.
* * *
‘My mother used to play the piano,’ Amir said quietly. ‘She was very good. When I was a child, I would listen to her for hours.’
Johara reached for another grape, grateful that they were—finally—alone. It had taken a heck of a lot of logistics but they’d managed to find a way to give all of their servants the slip, so that they could now sit, just the two of them, in his beautiful private hall that he’d brought her to the first morning she’d arrived. The morning he’d asked if she was pregnant. How much had happened since then!
‘Do you play?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I think her musicality escaped me.’
‘Music can be taught,’ she pointed out.
‘The techniques can be, but not the passion and the instinct.’
Johara smiled. ‘Remind me never to play if you’re in attendance.’
‘You play piano?’
‘Yes.’ She reached for another grape, but before she could pluck it from the vine he caught it and held it to her mouth instead, his eyes probing hers as he pushed it between her lips. Passion and desire were like flames, licking at the soles of her feet.
‘Strangely, it was one of the things I excelled at.’
‘Your dyslexia didn’t make it difficult for you to read music?’
‘Impossible.’ She laughed. ‘But I hear something and can play it.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be.’
He lifted another grape to her mouth.
‘It’s just the way my brain is wired.’
‘I want to hear you play.’
She leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. ‘And yet, I just said I won’t play for you.’
‘And what if I ordered you to?’ His voice was mock-demanding.
She laughed. ‘You and what army?’
He moved closer, grabbing her wrists, pinning them above her head as he used his body to press her backwards. ‘Haven’t you heard? I’m King of all I survey.’
‘Including me?’ she asked, breathless, lying on her back with Amir on top of her, the weight of him so pleasing, so addictive.
‘Definitely you.’
‘Ah, but I’m not one of your subjects,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m the enemy.’
He stared at her, his look serious. ‘Not my enemy.’
It was strangely uplifting, but she didn’t want to analyse the meaning behind his statement, because it would surely lead to disappointment. She kept her voice amused.
‘My allegiance has to be earned.’
He smiled lazily, releasing one hand while keeping her wrists pinned easily in the other. He traced a line down her body, over her breasts, finding the peaks of her nipples and circling them before running his hand lower, and lower still, to capture the fabric at the bottom of the long dress she wore.
‘I can think of one way to ensure loyalty.’
‘Oh?’
‘Let me see, first, if you are a lady of honour.’
She laughed. ‘A what?’
‘If you are true to your word.’
‘Oh!’ Heat stained her cheeks. She held her breath as his fingers crept up the satiny skin of her inner thigh and found what he was looking for—nakedness. She had gone without underpants for him. And she’d hoped he’d remembered her parting statement, and that the thought had driven him as wild as it had her.
His answer was everything she’d hoped for.
‘Well?’ she asked huskily.
‘Just as promised.’ He spoke with reverence. Their eyes met and something shifted inside her heart.
His dark head dipped down, his tongue stirring her to a fever pitch of longing, making her ache for him, reminding her of the maze, of everything they’d shared together since, of everything they were. Pleasure, passion, power; her blood was exploding with needs, her pulse too fast to be contained. She pushed up, needing him, wanting more than he could offer, craving the satisfaction she knew it was within his grasp to give. His mouth moved faster and she shattered, her fingertips driving through his hair, her mouth capable of shaping only two syllables: Am and Ir. Over and over and over she cried his name, as though it were an invocation that could ward off what they both knew was coming.
But she refused to think of the future, about what would happen in two days’ time, when her tour was at an end and the flight took her back over the mountains to Taquul, and the future that was waiting for her.
She couldn’t think about that. Not when there was this pleasure to be relished and enjoyed.
* * *
He knew they needed to move, to leave this sanctuary. He was Sheikh and, despite the fact he answered to no one, he couldn’t simply disappear for hours at a time without arousing suspicion. His absence would be noticed. So too, he imagined, would hers.
But the weight of her head on his chest was so pleasant. Just for a little while longer, he wanted to keep the doors to this room shut, to lie as they were: naked on the scatter pillows, the heady fragrance of trees and flowers and the sound of flowing water creating their own world and atmosphere. It was a masjid first and foremost and here he felt that he was worshipping Johara as she deserved to be worshipped.
‘Will you come to my room tonight?’
The question surprised him—he hadn’t intended to ask it, but he didn’t regret it.
‘Sure.’ Her voice, though, was teasing. ‘I’ll just let your guards know I’m popping in for a quick roll in your bed. That won’t raise any eyebrows whatsoever.’
He laughed, shifting so he could see her face. ‘There’s a secret way.’
She met his gaze. ‘Into your room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ And then, realisation dawned. ‘For exactly this purpose.’
Another laugh. ‘Yes.’
‘So you...sneak lovers in...regularly?’
He heard her hurt and wondered at his body’s response to it. He wanted to draw her into his arms and tell her she had nothing to be jealous of. He’d never been with a woman like her. He doubted he ever would be again.
‘No, Johara. Never.’
‘Oh. Then why...?’
‘Because my room has been the Sheikh’s room for many hundreds of years.’ He lifted his broad shoulders. ‘And whichever palace concubine my predecessors decided to amuse themselves with would arrive via a secret tunnel.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘You’re not serious.’
Her innocence made it impossible not to smile. ‘Perfectly.’
‘But...’
‘But?’
‘Well, it’s a security risk, for one,’ she huffed.
‘It is not a corridor anyone knows about.’
‘Want to bet?’
He arched a brow, waiting for her to continue.
‘It seems to me like the kind of thing your enemies would pay a lot of money to learn about.’
‘The palace is guarded like a fortress.’
‘I know that.’
‘It’s safe.’
‘I know that too.’ She gnawed on her lower lip, her eyes clouded, but after a moment she sighed, surrendering despite her first response. ‘Well? How do I find it?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘THIS PLACE IS...’
She looked around, wishing she didn’t find the room so incredibly sumptuous and sensual. ‘I mean...’
His smile was sardonic. ‘Yes?’ But he knew how she felt. Shirtless, wearing only a pair of slim-fitting black trousers, he prowled towards her, capitalising on the overwhelm a space such as this had gi
ven her.
The carpets were a deep red in colour, the furnishing a similar colour, velvet, with gold details. There were chairs but in the middle of the space, making it very obvious exactly what the room was to be used for, was the most enormous bed Johara had seen. It could easily accommodate ten people.
Her mouth felt dry as she stepped towards it, studying it with a curiosity she couldn’t resist.
‘What’s that?’ She ran her finger over an ornate brass hook that hung in the centre of the bed’s head.
‘For handcuffs.’
She spun around to face him, oddly guilty. ‘Handcuffs?’ The question squeaked out of her.
He prowled closer, and the nearer he got, the faster her pulse went. She bit down on her lip as he grabbed her wrists, rubbing his thumb over them. ‘Or rope. Or silk. Whatever your preference.’
Her eyes moved back to the bed, as desire ran the length of her spine.
‘Does it tempt you?’
She shivered quite openly now, lifting her eyes to his, uncertainty in their depths. Yes, she wanted to say. It tempted her—a lot. But only with him! It was a fantasy she’d never had before—never even thought to have. But with Amir, the idea of being tied up and made love to was, perhaps, the most intoxicating thing she’d ever contemplated.
So she clung to outrage instead, because she was aware of how dangerous her supplication had become, how completely she’d surrendered to Amir and his ways.
‘I just can’t believe there’s a place like this in your palace. A harem!’
His smile showed he knew exactly how she felt, and why she was intent on denying it.
‘It hasn’t been used since my great-grandfather’s reign.’
She looked away, her eyes betraying her and straying to the hook once more, her nipples straining against the silk fabric of her bra.
She was fighting a losing battle.
‘So what do you do when you’re dating a woman?’ she prompted, needing to focus on something other than this overtly sexual room, and the hook that would accommodate handcuffs just perfectly.
He tilted his head, waiting for her to continue. ‘Are you asking if I bring women here?’ he prompted, gesturing to the bed.
‘God, no.’ She shook her head urgently, not wanting that image in her mind. ‘I just meant...do you date, publicly? Can women come to your room?’
‘I can do whatever I want,’ he said gently. ‘I’m Sheikh.’ He pressed a finger to her chin, lifting her face to his. ‘It is for you that we must be secret about this—and for the sake of the peace treaty.’
She nodded. ‘So if I were just some woman you’d met, you’d have me delivered to your room whenever it suited?’
His laugh was little more than a growl. ‘You make it sound so archaic. So one-sided. If you were just a woman I’d met,’ he corrected, ‘I would invite you for dinner. We would share a meal and then I would ask you if you wanted to come to my room. The choice would be—as it is now—yours.’
Her heart turned over in her chest. She had the suspicion she was being combative and she didn’t know why. Something was needling her, making her frustrated and wanting to lash out.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said truthfully, lifting her fingers to his chest and pressing them there. ‘I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I just didn’t expect this room to be so—’
‘Confronting?’ he suggested. Then, ‘Unpalatable.’
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. ‘Palatable,’ she corrected, so quietly it was barely a whisper.
In response, he pulled her hard against him, and before she could draw breath he was kissing her as though everything they cared for in this life depended on it. Her body moulded to his like it was designed to fit—two pieces carved from the same marble. She felt his heart racing in time with hers, thudding where hers was frantic, a baritone to her soprano.
Time and space swirled away, concepts far in the distance, as he stooped down and lifted her easily, kissing her as he cradled her against his chest, carrying her through this room and into a corridor that was wide but dimly lit. She felt safe. She felt whole.
She relaxed completely, a beautiful heaviness spreading through her limbs. When they entered his room, she spared it only a cursory glimpse, and took in barely any of the details. It was similar to the suite she’d been provided with, but larger and more elaborate. It was also quite spartan. Where hers was filled with luxurious touches, his had been pared back. The mosaics on the floor were beautiful, but there was no art here. Just white walls, giving the windows all the ability to shine, with their view of the desert. Or, as it was now, of the night sky beyond.
He placed her gently onto the bed then stood, looking at her, his eyes showing a thousand and one things even when he said nothing.
Johara smiled and reached for him—her instincts driving her—and he came, joining her in the bed, sweeping her into his arms once more and kissing her until breathing became an absolute afterthought.
* * *
‘You don’t have to do this, sir.’
‘I want to.’ Twelve-year-old Amir fixed his parents’ servant with a look from the depths of his soul. It was a look of purpose and determination. It was a look that hid the pain tearing him into a thousand little pieces.
‘I have identified their bodies, for security purposes,’ Ahmed reminded Amir softly, putting a hand on Amir’s shoulder. His touch was kindly meant; it was then Amir remembered Ahmed had children of his own, not too far apart in age from Amir.
‘I want to see them.’
He spoke with a steely resonance, and it gripped his heart. There was much uncertainty. In the hours since his parents’ death, he’d had to grapple with the change in his circumstances, the expectations upon him. He felt deeply but showed nothing. He was a leader. People looked to him.
‘Amir,’ Ahmed sighed. ‘No child should have to see this.’
He drew himself to his full height. ‘I said I want to see them.’
It was enough. Even Ahmed wouldn’t argue with the Sheikh of Ishkana—for long.
‘Yes, sir.’ He sighed wearily, hesitated a moment then turned. ‘This way.’
The corridor was dimly lit but muffled noise was everywhere. The palace had woken. The country had woken. News had spread like wildfire.
They were dead.
At the door to the tomb where their bodies had been brought to lie, Amir allowed himself the briefest moment of hesitation, to steel himself, and then stepped inside.
Three people were within. Lifelong servants. People who felt his parents’ loss as keenly as he, who grieved with the same strength he did.
‘Leave me,’ he commanded, his eyes falling to his father’s face first. He didn’t look to see that he’d been obeyed. He knew that he had been. Only Ahmed remained, impervious perhaps to the Sheikh’s commands, or perhaps knowing that, despite the appearance of strength, a twelve-year-old boy could not look upon his parents’ crumpled bodies and feel nothing.
He kneeled beside his father, taking his hand, holding it, pressing his face to it, praying for strength and guidance. He moved to his mother next, and it was the sight of her that made a thick sob roll through his chest.
She looked asleep. Beautiful. Peaceful. He put his hands on either side of her face, as though willing her to wake up, but she didn’t.
It was the worst thing he’d had to do, but seeing his parents like that became the cornerstone of his being.
The war had killed them. Taquul had killed them. The Qadirs...
* * *
He woke with a start, his heart heavy, a strange sense of claustrophobia and grief pressing against him, before realising he wasn’t alone.
He pushed the sheets back, staring at Johara in complete confusion. It took him a second to remember who she was, and then it all came flooding back to him—their affair, their intimacy
, the way he’d started to think of her and smile at the strangest of times.
What the hell was he doing? His parents’ visage was so fresh in his mind, the hatred he’d felt that night—and here he was, with a Qadir...
No. Not a Qadir. Johara.
Her name was like an incantation. It relaxed him, pulling him back to the present, reminding him of everything they’d shared in the past week.
She was a Qadir, but she was so much more than that. When he looked at her, he no longer saw her family, her place in the Taquul royal lineage, her birthright; when he said her name he saw only her, not the uncle for whom she’d been named, the uncle who had orchestrated his parents’ murder.
But guilt followed that realisation. He’d promised his parents’ dead bodies he would never forget. He’d promised them he would hate the enemy for ever, and here he was, seeking comfort in Johara’s arms, craving her in a way he should have been fighting against.
He moved to the windows, the ancient desert a sight that comforted him and anchored him, reminding him who he was. He breathed in its acrid air, letting it permeate his lungs. He was a Haddad. He was of this country, this kingdom, he served the people of Ishkana and nothing would change that.
What he and Johara were doing was... He turned towards the bed, her sleeping body making him frown. He couldn’t describe how he felt about her, and this. He knew only that there was a greater danger here than he’d ever imagined.
A knock sounded at the door—loud and imperative. Amir saw that it disturbed Johara and winced, crossing to the door quickly, grabbing shorts as he went and pulling them on. With one quick look over his shoulder, he pulled it inwards. Ahmed stood there, but he was not alone. Zeb, and several guards, were at his back.
Amir pulled the door shut behind himself, shielding his bed and lover from view before consulting his wristwatch. It was almost four. Only something serious would have brought anyone—particularly this contingent of men—to his room at this hour.
‘What is it?’
Ahmed nodded. ‘There’s been an attack.’
Their Impossible Desert Match Page 13
