by Jane Porter
“You have no business being here.”
“But I live here.” He smiled. A thin, flat, hard smile.
“Not in this part of the palace. These are my private rooms, part of the women’s quarters.” Although that didn’t stop him last time.
Amin’s smooth handsome face creased before quickly clearing. He lifted a hand, gesturing to the sun and sky. “We’re outside, and all this belongs to Allah.”
Finally her legs found the strength and she pushed up from her chair, glancing in Ben’s direction where he’d followed a ladybug beneath the breakfast table. “Then we shall go inside.”
“I’m surprised you’re not happier to see me. We have…unfinished business.”
She stiffened, her gaze locking on the curve of Ben’s small back, the shape of his hand as he prodded the spotted ladybug into flight. “There is no business between us, and I will not let you ruin my life again.”
Amin followed her gaze, his heavily lashed eyes narrowing as he focused on Ben. “A handsome child.” He drew aside the lace tablecloth. “He looks rather like me.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t believe Amin had the gall to say such a thing. “I don’t see the resemblance.”
But Amin was grasping Ben by the shoulders and lifting him to his feet. Bryn’s heart leaped in her chest. It made her skin crawl seeing Amin put his hands on her son.
“It’s there in the eyes,” Amin said, roughly tilting Ben’s head back, before twisting his head one way and then the other. “His nose and mouth, like mine. He could be mine, couldn’t he?”
Meet fire with fire, she told herself, resisting the urge to grab Ben and run. “It’s only natural for you to see a family likeness.” Reaching for Ben, she firmly drew him away from Amin against her own body, shielding him within the circle of her arms. “As Sheikh al-Assad’s first cousin you have many of the same characteristics.”
“Yes, his first cousin.” Amin’s eyes glittered like ice. “How lucky we are to have each other.”
“Luckier than you deserve.”
“You really shouldn’t take that tone with me,” he drawled, taking seat in the chair opposite the one she’d just vacated. He stretched out his legs and crossed his arms behind his head, revealing his solid gold Rolex watch. “I take it you’ve never told him about us.”
“There is no ‘us,’” she answered sharply. “Never has been.”
“Darling Bryn, how can you say that? We were once quite close.” His lips pursed, eyebrows rising suggestively. “Very, very close.”
“Not that close.”
“You invited me to your room.”
She had, but not like that. Not the way he was making it sound. Hand shaking she reached for Ben, needing to touch him, needing to find strength. “You know I only wanted to talk.”
“Do I?”
She felt sick, dreadfully sick, the realization that this was one nightmare that wouldn’t end. Amin was evil, the worst kind of evil, and she didn’t know how to deal with him.
“I’m taking my son inside.” She clasped Ben’s hand in hers and squeezed it, fearing for him, for her, for Kahlil. If she let him, Amin would destroy everything again.
“Darling, you can run, but you can’t hide.” Amin’s perfect English followed her. “I’m back, and I’m waiting.”
Bryn pushed Ben inside the door to her bedchamber, and locked it, before sinking to the ground and covering her face with her hands. She felt hot and cold and violently ill. Please God, no, don’t let him do this to me again…
Small hands pulled her own away from her face. “Mommy?”
Bryn heard his voice, saw his face but felt such unspeakable horror and dread that she could only manage the briefest of smiles, her lips stiff, unyielding. “It’s okay, baby.”
But it wasn’t okay. It was anything but okay.
“You can’t go in there now—”
Bryn brushed past Rifaat, throwing open the doors to the suite of rooms that housed the palace office. Computers, huge color monitors, phones, faxes, file cabinets, security cameras…the office came equipped, no old world palace in this modern suite.
Two secretaries startled, covered heads lifting from their keyboards. A third assistant appeared from an inner office. All stared at Bryn.
She didn’t care. “Where is he?” she demanded, her gaze sweeping the dark paneled walls, deep red Persian carpet, the massive oil painting depicting a feudal war-lord sacking a walled city while horrified people ran from burning buildings.
“He’s on a conference call,” Rifaat answered sharply, placing his body between hers and a partially open door.
Rifaat’s heroic measures were unnecessary. Kahlil, dressed in Western clothes, black turtleneck and olive-green check trousers, appeared immediately in the inner office doorway, his broad shoulders filling the narrow space.
“What’s going on in here?” He held a cordless phone to his chest. His black hair was ruffled, and his deep voice crackled with impatience.
“Nice painting,” she snapped, furious with Amin, Rifaat, Kahlil, all of them. She’d forgotten the politics of the palace, the sheer implausibility of getting anything accomplished…at least if you were a woman.
“You interrupted an OPEC meeting to talk about my painting?”
“No.” She drew a deep breath, her confidence suddenly flagging. “Your cousin Amin is back.”
“Yes, I know, and he told me he saw you in the garden today.” Kahlil’s brows drew together. “He said you chatted for a few minutes and introduced Ben. Is there a problem?”
The way he put it, the visit between her and Amin sounded quite amicable. He wanted it to be amicable. Amin was his cousin after all, one of his closest relations. “No,” she faltered, “I just wasn’t sure you knew he’d returned.”
“You’re pleased then? He reminded me that you two were once such good friends.”
She felt sick, her skin clammy. Trust Amin to begin planting poisonous seeds! She struggled to think of something that wouldn’t be incriminating. She wasn’t ready to tell Kahlil about Amin’s assault. She needed to think of a way to share with him her own weaknesses and failings first. “I…yes, it’s always a pleasure to see your family. I just wished you had been the one to introduce Ben.”
“We’ll have dinner tonight. I’ll make sure he joins us. Ben, too. I’ll take care of formal introductions then.”
Alarm bells sounded in her head. She wouldn’t expose Ben to Amin again. She could handle Amin, as long as Ben wasn’t present, subjected to Kahlil’s cousin’s cruelty and games. “I know you like to eat late. It’s really too late for a little boy. What if just the three of us had dinner? Better yet, maybe you and Amin would prefer to have dinner alone tonight.”
“The three of us,” Kahlil said firmly. “It wouldn’t be a celebration without you.”
Anxiety tangled her in knots. “What are we celebrating?”
“All of us being together again. Just like old times.”
Lalia formed a crown on Bryn’s head of silvery-blond ringlets, the blond strands smooth, gleaming with a scented pomade. She dressed her in a slim white gown with a plunging neckline, which was more daring than most and a narrow silk skirt beaded with hundreds of tiny seed pearls.
“You look like a queen,” Lalia said admiringly, handing Bryn a mirror.
But gazing at her reflection, Bryn didn’t see a queen—she saw her worry, her eyes wide, anxious, her forehead knit, her lips pressed so tightly that white lines etched on either side of her pink mouth.
She was to meet Kahlil in his dining room in half an hour. But she had to speak to him first, before Amin appeared.
Bryn appeared at Kahlil’s bedroom door without invitation. He frowned at her sudden appearance but didn’t rebuke her. Yet his expression darkened when she mentioned she’d rather have a quiet dinner with him without Amin being present.
“You object to my cousin?” he asked shortly, tightening the black-and-gold belt worn over his whit
e crisp trousers, and casting a narrowed glance in her direction.
“I’m more comfortable alone with you.” She squirmed at her inability to be more direct. She wanted to tell him about Amin, but needed to approach the subject carefully. She needed Kahlil’s trust, first, and a stronger bond.
“But I’ve already asked him to join us. It would be impolite to break the engagement now. That is, unless there’s a reason why he shouldn’t be included.” Kahlil paused, a pregnant silence. “Bryn?”
She shifted uneasily, wondering if this was some kind of a test. What did Kahlil want her to say? “I…I’m not feeling very sociable tonight, that’s all.”
“But you look beautiful.”
The compliment was edged with savagery. Bryn swallowed nervously. Something wasn’t right. Kahlil didn’t seem himself, or at least, not like the man she’d woken up with this morning.
“Amin’s on his way to the dining hall now. What am I to tell him?” Kahlil persisted, sliding his arms into his outer robe. “That I’ve changed my mind? That I’d prefer an intimate meal with my wife instead of dinner together?”
“You are the sheikh,” she whispered.
But he didn’t immediately reply, just watched her with the same hawklike wariness he revealed earlier. “All right. Fine. I’ll send word that you and I are to dine alone, but I can’t get out of the evening completely. I’ll invite him for an hour from now. He’ll have coffee and dessert with us.”
It was better than nothing. And perhaps by some miracle, she’d find a way in the next hour to tell Kahlil exactly what had happened all those years ago.
Grilled marinated lamb, peppers, saffron rice. The meal was simple and yet delicious. They sat facing each other on the carpeted floor, pillows behind their backs, a low table placed before them. Kahlil relaxed during dinner, talking easily, telling her stories, and continuously refilling their glasses with strong, burgundy-red wine.
“No more,” she protested laughingly, when he moved to fill her glass again. “You’ll have me doing something silly in no time.”
“Sounds interesting,” he answered, half reclining. “Could I make some suggestions? I recall a very erotic dance you did for me once. If I remember, it required taking off your clothes, one by one.”
She blushed. “I don’t think it’s wise, especially not with your cousin coming.”
Mentioning Amin’s name profoundly changed Kahlil’s mood. He nearly knocked over his gold wine goblet in his haste to rise. “Not a good idea,” he curtly agreed, moving from her to the small sitting area furnished with large overstuffed chairs upholstered in buttery leather.
Bryn rose to gather the dishes and fill the tray.
“Leave it,” he ordered, sinking into one of the massive chairs, his golden gaze hooded, his expression impossible to read. “The servants will do that. You, come sit here with me.”
She wiped her hands on a damp towel and moved slowly toward him. Kahlil’s good mood was gone. He exuded anger, barely leashed tension. What had she said? What had she done?
She smoothed her skirt, preparing to sit in one of the leather chairs.
“Not there. Here.”
Bryn hesitated uncertainly, glancing at his long, powerful legs, the ground, the circle of chairs. “Where?”
“Here,” he repeated, pointing to the carpet. “At my feet.”
“On my knees?”
“Yes.”
Color swept through Bryn’s cheeks, humiliated by the request. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stood rooted to the spot, trembling with shame and rage.
Seconds passed, long seconds passed, one after the other. She swallowed hard. A minute must have finally squeaked by.
Kahlil pointed to the carpet at his feet.
Nerves screaming in protest, she forced herself to move, walking slowly toward him and painfully lowering herself to the floor.
“Closer,” he commanded.
She resisted yet again, smoldering at his imperial tone. He waited. She hesitated.
“Do you have a problem doing my bidding?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know why you want me to sit on the floor when you’re inviting your cousin to join us. A chair would be more appropriate, don’t you think?”
“It strikes me you’re more interested in pleasing Amin than in pleasing me.”
“That’s not so—” She broke off at the sound of footsteps echoing on polished marble.
Amin had arrived. Kahlil gestured for him to come forward.
“Please let me up,” she softly pleaded.
“No.” Kahlil gazed down at her, utterly expressionless. “Stay where you are.”
“You’re unfair.”
“One more word and I shall use you as a footstool!”
Blushing furiously, she slowly sank down, her white silk skirt beaded with pearls billowing gently.
“Closer.”
Blood surging from her neck to her hairline, Bryn slid forward on her knees. Kahlil pointed to the navy cushion decorated with immense gold tassels wedged between his feet. “Here.”
She cast an indignant glance at the pillow. Not just at his feet, she noted, clamping her jaw tightly together, but between his feet, like a dog panting for his master. Kahlil really was taking this king role to an extreme!
Her hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. Bending down, Kahlil tapped the pillow twice, a wordless command. All in front of Amin.
It was like pouring salt in tender wounds.
Her flashing blue eyes met Kahlil’s and his thick black eyebrow lifted, I’m waiting, he seemed to say.
His dominance mortified her. She couldn’t believe he was forcing her to submit in front of Amin. Torture, that’s what this was, torture.
Irritably, her temper barely controlled, she scooted forward until she finally knelt between his legs, her hands balled in her silk-covered lap.
“That’s better.”
“For whom?” she gritted.
“Shh,” he replied, pressing a finger to her lips. “You don’t want me to enforce my threat, do you? Because surely, laeela, you’d feel even more inelegant as a footstool.”
Amin laughed.
My God, he laughed.
She closed her eyes, held her breath and prayed for the ground to open.
It did not.
CHAPTER NINE
COFFEE was poured by a servant, desserts were passed, and Bryn sat during the boring conversation staring at the carpet in front of her. Amin droned on about his life in Monte Carlo: girls, cars, gambling in the glittering casinos. But finally conversation dwindled and Kahlil eventually bade Amin good-night.
As the door closed behind Amin, Bryn jumped to her feet, her legs stiff, her knees aching. “Well, that was quite impressive! Amin must be amazed by your mastery.”
“Mastery of…?”
“Me,” she snapped, banging her thumb into her chest.
Kahlil leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger to his lips. “Do I have mastery over you?”
“That’s not my point—”
“It’s exactly my point,” he interrupted. “You promised me you’d change, assured me of your loyalty. Tonight was a test. I wanted to see how you’d behave around Amin.”
“Did I pass?”
“Yes. Beautifully.”
“Next time, tell me your intentions. I might be able to fulfil your imperial expectations.”
“Why tell you? So you can play a little game, pretend to obey? Laeela, I don’t want pretense. I want the real thing.”
“Obedience.”
“Surrender.”
She shrugged impatiently. “I’ve given you my body. I’ve agreed to renew our vows. What else can you want? What other proof do you need?”
“Yet you’re angry.”
“Yes, I’m angry. I’m angry you think so little of me that you find it necessary to make me sit there like a lapdog, panting at your feet.”
His golden eyes suddenly gleamed, otherwise his expression remained neutral. �
�One wouldn’t have known you objected to my attentions—”
“Inattention.” She interrupted, correcting him with a scowl. “I wasn’t part of the conversation. You didn’t once look at me.”
He reached out, caught her hands in his, brought one wrist to his lips, kissing the tender skin on the inside. “I’m paying attention to you now.”
“I don’t want the attention now!”
A small muscle pulled in his jaw. “Strangely, darling, your behavior leads me to believe otherwise. Your color is high. Your breathing quick, your lovely lips parted. Truthfully you appear…exhilarated.”
Truthfully she felt overwrought. She was torn between excitement and anger, her skin acutely sensitive to him, her nerves too taut. Just the press of his lips to her wrist sent shiver after shiver streaking down her spine. And now, just like every other time, his touch undid her, her mind going blank, her body throbbing to life.
Dragging her gaze up, her eyes met his. His eyes, amber and flecked with bits of pale gold, glowed. She imagined she could see the fire behind the gold, the passion simmering within. He’d taught her everything about making love, made her body an instrument of pleasure…hers and his. She blushed, heat scorching through her skin, heightening the color in her cheeks.
He kissed her wrist again, his lips lingering against the slender bones, before linking her fingers in his. “We’ll marry,” he said quietly. “We’ll try again to make our marriage work. But first, I think we should discuss a few things, air grievances, wipe the slate clean. Let’s start with you. Why did you leave me three years ago?”
Did they have to do this now? It had to be close to midnight, she was dead on her feet and wanted nothing more than to creep into bed. “Can this wait, Kahlil? I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept well in days.”
“We can’t start a marriage with ghosts hanging over our heads.”
“Perhaps then, we should take some time to explore this, but not so late at night after the most impossibly long couple of days, and not after your cousin has spent two hours bragging about his gambling debts!” She felt her cheeks burn, her temper close to erupting. “Why do you tolerate him away? He’s a leech, Kahlil, he doesn’t even work.”
