Only then did he reach out for her. He needed to know her—every part of her, needed to press it into his memory. His hand hesitated briefly before his fingers pressed lightly to her temples before brushing down her face, her neck. There he stayed, fascinated by the solid push of skin containing her pulse—the beat of her heart. But he couldn’t touch that tiny patch of skin—it held too much that he wanted. It put fear into his heart because it seemed so fragile a thing to contain so much life.
Then her hand came over his and wove her fingers into his and pushed them high above them together, a union of flesh, bone and sinew in the soft light of the drizzly afternoon. She twisted their hands first one way and then the other. His dark brown skin a stark contrast to her moon-white flesh; his large, muscled fingers and hand obedient to the sway and pull of her slender white fingers.
Then she pulled their hands to her lips and closed her eyes and kissed their joint fists. She opened her eyes and continued to gaze at their hands as tightly entwined as a heart.
“Something’s changed.”
Her words were so soft they seemed to come from an echo of his own thoughts. When she looked at him he realized the words were hers. He nodded.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t. You won’t like it.”
“That’s never stopped you telling me things before. Try me.”
How could he put into words how much she was to him now, how he felt their lives and souls were entwined in a way that he knew would be repugnant to the woman who had always stated that her one desire was to live independently of people, of family, to be free. It would be the one thing that would drive her away. And he could never use force to keep her again.
“I’ll show you instead.”
She’d never before heard his voice so tender, never felt his touch so tentative as if exploring the unknown. Whether he was unsure of her reaction or of his own, she didn’t know. All she knew for certain was that something had definitely changed within him.
She knew that he felt responsible for his brother’s death, guilty that his harsh world-view had trapped his brother in a life from which he could have rescued him, if he’d only been more open. It was as if the knowledge had crack the tough outer shell with which Zahir faced the world.
He held himself above her and kissed her lingeringly on the lips. His knees positioned between hers, wedging open her legs, she felt the pulse of her body there, as he kissed the pulse in her neck and then down further. He cupped each hand under her breasts and suckled each nipple in turn until he was satisfied. But she wasn’t. She moaned and lifted up her hips to wrap her legs around his. But he wasn’t ready yet. He smiled and shook his head as he dipped his mouth to kiss her lower, much lower, sucking and nipping her sensitive skin and tasting her arousal until she shook and cried out his name.
It was her turn now and she swiftly slid down the bed and took him fully into her mouth, wanting to taste him as he had tasted her. She felt his buttocks clench under her hands as she pulled and sucked him into her mouth, loving the feel of his shaft against her lips, loving the taste of him against her tongue, and loving the fact that his control was finally breaking down.
She pulled her mouth away and looked at the end of his dark shaft upon which a drop hung, suspended, a jewel for her alone. Her body shook with need and his, too, was trembling now. His hands lowered to come around her bottom and lift her up so that he could enter her but she stopped him, her focus entirely on that drop. Slowly, so slowly she extended her tongue and lapped at the end of his shaft: that drop slipping down her throat like the most exquisite liqueur.
He groaned and pushed her back, her bent legs flat against her body as he entered her up to the hilt with one swift movement. There was no hesitation now. He pumped into her, not waiting for her reaction but in the moment with her and they came together for the first time, Zahir crying out Anna’s name loudly in relief as if he’d lost her and only just found her.
It was late by the time Anna awoke. She’d been dreaming of the desert—its wide, open spaces, its shimmering heat and the palace built into the side of the mountain, solid and dominating. She had a residual feeling of peace and sighed, her eyes opening to the soft mellow of the Parisian sunset. The sense of peace deserted her immediately as it became replaced by panic. She’d felt happy, easy, at home in her dream. Her heart beat quickly. She could never feel at home there because it wasn’t her home. She looked over at Zahir who lay beside her unusually for him, quite still, looking up into the flickering pink light of the low sunlight filtering through the leaves. Qawaran was Zahir’s home and hers only for as long as he wanted her there. She had to remember that and usually, during the day, she did. It was only in her dreams that feelings of security crept up on her.
Suddenly a sense of panic gripped her. Something had happened in his mind. She knew it had. It had begun with the discovery of his brother being gay and it had ended with their love-making. It had a different quality about it that day: a sadness, a sense almost of desperation, of taking the moment rather than observing the moment. With vivid clarity Anna suddenly saw that it had ended. Zahir had finally worked through his need for her. That’s why the urgency had gone; that’s why he was quieted. She was no longer required.
She lay there in shock, not wanting to move, not wanting to prompt him into action, into speech that would reinforce her fears.
She almost flinched when she felt his hand reach over for hers and grip it tight in a fist then release it. She jumped up and collected her clothes.
“Where are you going?”
She shook her head—unwilling to talk, to confront what she knew to be true—and got dressed.
“Where are you going?” he repeated.
“Just out for a walk.”
Zahir opened his mouth to speak—whether to ask further questions, whether to suggest he accompany her—she didn’t know because he closed his mouth before saying anything. Further proof that he didn’t want her.
She instinctively stepped away from him. She couldn’t bear to see the indifference on his face any more and left the room before she made more of a fool of herself than she already had.
She wasn’t gone long. Just long enough for him to pack his things, ready for the morning, and fall back into bed. He felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt before, even when his muscles were screaming after days of forced marching across the parched desert. Then he’d felt a purpose. Now, he felt nothing. Only emptiness.
She’d recoiled from him as if she thought he was trying to contain her, hold her against his will. Well, wasn’t that precisely what had happened? He’d taken her liberty—the one thing she wanted—and she’d left because she needed to regain that space. She’d always told him that, always stated the facts of her dreams baldly. And the facts were now plain. He loved her. She wanted to be free. So, he would give her freedom to her.
The door banged close behind her, driven by the wind. He couldn’t help but smile. Anna couldn’t come or go anywhere incognito, quietly. He heard her hesitate in the sitting room, and the skid of her handbag as she threw it untidily onto the floor. Then her footsteps that sounded weary on the floor boards.
Believing him to be asleep she slipped off her clothes and crept into bed beside him. There was nothing but the chill summer night air blowing out the pale curtains and the tick of his alarm clock beside him. It showed him it was three in the morning. Where had she spent her time? He didn’t know and now knew that it was none of his business.
He didn’t know how long he lay, watching her, watching the city lights flicker through the trees. Outside, Paris was rain-washed, like a water-color painting. Like a painting from the note-book that he’d discovered in the night, while she was away. Small, primitive water-color paintings of scenes of the desert, of Matta and of a bird in flight. The falcon—his falcon—was portrayed both in mid flight, wings flexed against the turbulent air currents that played above the desert, and captured with its hood o
n. The colors downplayed in the latter, that was also a study of a hand, dark, strong and weathered. His hand. It didn’t take a genius to see her desires and fears made manifest in those pictures.
Sleeping on her front, her hair over her flushed cheek, one hand flat against the bed, still warm from his body. The covers were pushed down revealing the pale curves of her shoulder blades and her spine dipping down into the small of her back. Her face wasn’t peaceful in this sleep. Her eyelids flickered as she watched unknown scenes unfold inside her head—scenes that he would never know, but could guess at. He turned from her face, needing respite from the regret that ate him up, and looked out the window down which rain ran in trickles, distorting the world; turning it into a place that was crazed, cracked, like the egg-shell varnish on a masterpiece painting. His need for control had always tainted everything he’d done and everything he’d said. But now nothing was under control; nothing was whole.
He’d seen Anna as someone who threatened to fracture his world and so dealt with her in the only way he could: took her and made her his. Except it hadn’t worked. Instead she’d shattered his control from the inside.
He gently pushed her hair back from her face. She stirred slightly, then settled and went back to sleep.
He felt warmth flood him and he reached out for her, but he stopped himself before he could touch her. It was a warmth that filled him and obliterated any need for control: it controlled him and he didn’t care any more. There was a sense of relief, a shaking out of priorities. Things suddenly seemed extremely simple.
He moved away from her.
So simple now. There was nothing more important than her and what she needed and wanted. And he knew what that was. She’d never made any attempt to hide it. She’d always wanted her freedom: to be who she could be, not who everyone expected her to be.
There was only one thing he could give her now, and that was her independence.
He lay waiting for her to awake. His eyes felt hot from watching, imprinting into his mind her beauty, imprinting into his mind the woman he loved.
Hours drifted past while his mind raced and he listened to her twist and turn; the times when her breathing was disturbed followed swiftly by the deep breathing of sleep. It was only when dawn was beginning that he felt her hand move across the cold divide between them and her knuckles gently stroke his cheek, stopping suddenly short of his eyes.
“You’re crying.” Her surprise made the words light and hazy.
He pressed his eyes tight close. “No. I’m not.”
“Then what do you call water that falls from the eyes. Not Ma-ush-shafa, not healing water?”
“No. The opposite.”
Through closed eyes he felt her lips kiss first one eye and then the other with a tenderness that made his heart ache.
“Open your eyes.”
He didn’t immediately. But when he did, he covered her hand with his and pulled it down from his face.
“What is it?”
He shook his head and rolled out of bed, his head in his hands for a few seconds before he rose and began to dress.
“It’s early. Where are you going?” Her voice was faint as if from miles away. The distance made it easier to do what he needed to do.
“Away. Back to Qawaran.”
“But I haven’t finished my work here. A few more days at least. And Matta?”
“I’m going alone. You stay. Matta can stay for another week and then he will need to return to me. He may return to you later.”
She threw off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed naked and seething. She gripped his shirt with a fist and shook her hand, her eyes blazing.
“So that’s it. You’ve had enough? Well what if I haven’t?”
He was pleased. He barely felt the anger of her spirit and the tumult of her emotions screaming at him. He could barely feel it because they were nothing beside the pain of his own.
“You will have what you’ve always wanted, your freedom.”
He didn’t turn around again. He couldn’t. It might have threatened his resolve. He needed to give her what she wanted. Without that she would always resent him. The door banged shut behind him closing off a part of him forever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The long days of willing the cellphone to ring had turned into weeks and then months where her only respite was her studies. But the pain hadn’t ebbed at all; it had grown if anything—this missing him, this aching.
From her desk she’d watched the green leaves of summer turn into the rich flood of autumn leaves. The summer semester had come and gone and Matta was returning from Qawaran in a week, to start his new school in Paris. And still no word directly from Zahir until now—until the papers that made legal his generosity had arrived—the same day she received confirmation of her exam results.
She looked down at the piece of paper that confirmed her results and felt—nothing. She wanted to share it with someone but there was no-one. Impulsively she dialed Zahir’s number on her cellphone but it reverted to his assistant immediately. It always did.
She switched off her cellphone and flung it across the sofa. He had gone and he wouldn’t even take any of her calls. She sat stiffly, her arms crossed, staring, unseeing across the room.
He’d told her he was giving her her freedom and he had. She looked down with distaste at the papers he’d had sent through to her, strewn across the coffee table: deeds to the Paris house—hers; huge monthly income—hers. She had everything she could want. She looked around at the luxurious house—of the best quality but so simple and honest in its design, so Zahir. She had everything. She had nothing.
He had gone forever.
She repeated the words to herself. Trying to make herself believe them. But she couldn’t. How could so much disappear into nothing? A conjuring trick, magic, maybe. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Like a mirage of water on a hot, dry desert perhaps it was a trick of the light, an imagining that would disappear in time, with nothing greater than a change of light? But she sat watching dust motes barely move in the quiet of the room, watching the late sun slant mellow beams of light over the floor and feeling the quiet emptiness of the place that she knew wasn’t going to change. Because it wasn’t only external; the emptiness also lay within.
She walked over to fridge and plucked out a bottle of champagne—the one she’d chosen to celebrate her exams with Zahir, still imagining that he’d show up. But he wasn’t here was he? It was just her. And she had more to celebrate than her exams. She had her independence that Zahir had given her.
She popped the cork and poured herself a glass. So tense she was nearly shaking, she watched with exaggerated concentration the pale gold liquid effervesce in her glass, her mind remembering Zahir’s last cold exchange with her. She didn’t notice the glass was full and didn’t stop pouring until it was too late. And even then she didn’t care. Simply watched as it flowed over the glass and pooled onto the highly polished wood of the table. What did it matter? She stopped pouring though and just stared at it and swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Of course it mattered.
She swung around and held up the glass to—no-one.
“To me and my success.”
But she didn’t drink. You didn’t drink when you were pregnant—bad for the child. That’s what everyone said.
She felt a wave of nausea overwhelm her at the smell of the alcohol and only just made it into the bathroom in time. Hands still clenching the sides of the bowl, she looked up into the mirror at a face pale, drained, eyes darkly shadowed and lifeless despite the extra life within her.
Who would want her now, looking like this? She’d lost weight again and she knew Zahir liked curves on a woman. Perhaps she’d already been replaced by a woman more curvaceous, less demanding, easier to fit within the strict parameters of his cut and dry life.
Then the fears that had been lurking at the back of her mind surfaced loud and clear.
He might not want you but he will want your baby.
He could want all he liked. He’d never find out. She wasn’t showing much and she’d have to make excuses to Matta for the last few months to stop the cuddles. But she could arrange for him to be in Qawaran during the last few months. Thank God for the Qawaranian robes she still wore. They hid everything. And when the baby was born? She couldn’t even think that far ahead.
She wandered back to the table and flicked the deeds to the house open with the bottom of the glass. Champagne had spilled into the paper, its stain spreading through the expensively textured paper.
“I have everything I’ve ever wanted,” she whispered. “Everything I ever told Zahir I wanted he’s given to me now.”
The silence within the house contrasted to the shouts of children below in the square gardens below.
She turned—tension, anger and frustration merging into one—and threw her glass against the marble fireplace. It splintered into hundreds of pieces, shattering and skittering across the hard, wooden floor.
“Everything!” she shouted. “He’s given me everything except what I wanted all along.”
She jumped up suddenly and tried to warm the chill that seemed to be seeping into her; frantically she rubbed her arms up and down, trying to stimulate the circulation that appeared to have gone into shock.
“No. It’s OK.” She paced. “I wanted freedom. I’ve got freedom.” She stopped, suddenly realizing what exactly freedom meant. “I’ve got freedom from everything. I’m cut off, alone.” She sat down and put her head in her hands. She groaned. She’d never meant that to happen, had never imagined for one minute that she’d actually want to keep her connection with someone.
But he didn’t want to keep it with her. Zahir had done what he’d always set out to do, rid himself of his obsession with her and now he, too, was free. And he’d made the most of it. Hadn’t hung around to celebrate their mutual freedom, but had left as soon as he could.
The Sheikh's Bargain Bride (Desert Kings) Page 13
