by Jane Porter
Kahlil’s jaw tightened, a small muscle popping close to his ear. “He lives off his trust fund. It’s his fund, his choice.”
“You set up the trust fund. Not your father. That was your doing.”
“And if it was?”
She missed the raspy pitch, his deepening inflection, too caught up in her own emotions to read Kahlil properly. Because if she had heard the caustic note in Kahlil’s voice, she would have immediately known she was entering very dangerous territory.
“Kahlil, I understand the blood is thicker than water part, but he’s not good for you. He’s not loyal—”
“He’d said you’d say this. He bet me a thousand sterling pounds that you’d attack his loyalty, and his integrity. I owe him.”
Bryn swallowed hard. “When did he say this?”
“Earlier. In my office. Before I went to change for dinner.”
So Amin had approached Kahlil privately, rushing to reach him when she wasn’t around. What a snake, what a cruel, poisonous snake. “He’s a liar, Kahlil.”
Kahlil sat forward, weight resting on his elbows, robe parting at the chest, displaying the bronzed plane of muscle. “Tell me, did anything happen between you two? Anything unflattering…anything possibly incriminating?”
She felt chilled to the bone. My God, what had Amin told Kahlil? “No! No. I can’t stand him. He makes my skin crawl.”
“Two lies, Bryn, two lies tonight. How can I possibly ever trust you?”
Bryn stood frozen, stunned. Her mouth worked, lips quivering, her brain struggling to sift through the truths and motivation. “I don’t know what lies you’re talking about.”
“Lie number one—I asked you earlier if you had a problem with Amin and you said no. Lie number two— I asked you moments ago if something had happened between you and my cousin, and you said no.” His eyes were riveted on her face, no mercy in his harsh expression. “Amin told me about your little…infatuation. It’s been three years, enough time has passed, why can’t we discuss it?”
She went to him, knelt before him, placed her hands on his knees. “Kahlil, I’ll tell you why I don’t like Amin. He destroys people, destroys the truth. I’ve never known anyone to twist the truth the way he does. I thought he was my friend but he’s not. I confided in him, and spent time with him, but there was no sordid relationship.”
“No kiss?”
“No. Never.” She rose up higher on her knees, begging him to listen, to understand. “I wasn’t attracted to him. I had you. But it made him angry. He wants to punish us—”
“Why would he do that?” Kahlil barked.
Gently she reached up, touched his jaw, pained by the way he flinched from her touch. Yet she didn’t draw her hand away, she continued to caress his chin and the warmth of his mouth. “Maybe because he envies our happiness.”
Kahlil caught her hand in his, holding it immobile. His gold eyes pierced her, searching for the truth. “If he betrayed me, I want to know. If he took advantage of you, he will be punished. Is there something else I should be aware of?”
What was she to accuse Amin of? Assault? Rape? She’d sent him a note, asking him to meet her. It was essentially at her invitation that he came to her room. How could she explain Amin’s threatening behaviour and still justify her own?
She couldn’t.
“No,” she said at length, sitting back slowly on her heels. “There is nothing else.”
“I do not want you and Amin to be alone again. No more confidential talks. No more cups of tea or whatever you used to do. My wife must be above reproach. My wife must conduct herself in a manner befitting a princess. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“In one week we say our vows,” Kahlil said slowly, enunciating clearly, “and this time, no secrets, no lies. No runaway brides.”
The week passed with unusual swiftness. Bryn spent her days with Ben, nights with Kahlil, and saw virtually nothing of Amin. In fact, after going three days without a single glimpse of Kahlil’s cousin, Bryn wondered if perhaps Amin had returned to Monte Carlo. She grinned, liking the thought. No more Amin, no more of his threats, no more worrying about his twisted intentions.
Amin, however, only got passing attention. Kahlil dominated her thoughts. It was almost as if he was superimposing himself on her life. He had moved her permanently into his room at night, located Ben’s nursery in a nearby suite and took most meals with Bryn, and whenever possible, with his son also.
At night Kahlil loved to undress her, seduce her, savor her. He made love so thoroughly that when she finally slept, she drifted off into deep, dreamless slumber. Sometimes he’d wake her in the night to claim her again, but always by morning, he’d be gone, dressed, in his office, conducting business and meetings.
She overheard Kahlil on the phone once. It seemed he was required to participate in a conference, but Kahlil was giving his apologies, explaining he couldn’t go, that leaving Tiva wasn’t an option at the moment.
He wouldn’t leave her alone, she realized, more unsettled than reassured. He didn’t trust her.
She tried asking him about the conference over dinner, attempting to give him reassurance that things would be fine in the palace if he needed to attend. Kahlil nearly snapped her head off. “I will not leave you here alone.”
His voice echoed, his tone razor-sharp. “But I wouldn’t be alone,” she answered mildly. “Rifaat, Lalia, the castle guards, Ben.”
“I’m not going. End of discussion.”
He didn’t touch her that night in bed, and Bryn fell asleep, huddled in a little ball, feeling like a stranger sleeping in Kahlil’s bed but not part of his heart.
Would things never be the same between them again?
The next time he reached for her, he made love with an intensity that left her breathless and dizzy. It was as if he was reclaiming her, branding her, reminding her of possession. She was his. She belonged to him. But he didn’t, wouldn’t, love her.
The morning of the wedding arrived. In her old suite of rooms, Lalia attended Bryn, drawing a bath, then drying her with scrupulous care before applying a perfumed oil to her skin.
Lalia sang as she helped Bryn dress, her dark eyes lit with excitement. “This is a happy day, yes? You marry the Sheikh al-Assad here, nice traditional ceremony, and everyone be very happy.”
Except for Bryn. She wanted Kahlil to show her some sign of affection, some hint that he might have deeper emotions, but he kept everything hidden. Their conversations were banal. The only time they were close was at night in his bed. Otherwise they were practically strangers, distant and detached.
A knock sounded on the door and Lalia went to answer it. She returned with a folded sheet of paper.
Bryn stared at the scrap of paper, darts of anxiety pricking her spine. Only one person had ever passed notes in the palace. Only one person would dare send her a note in the women’s quarters.
Slowly she unfolded the sheet of paper. I must see you. Immediately. No name, but she didn’t need one. She knew the handwriting. Amin.
For a second she couldn’t breathe and then, when feeling returned, she fiercely squeezed her hand closed, crumpling the note. She wouldn’t answer him. He didn’t deserve an answer. He shouldn’t even be here. What was he doing in the palace on her wedding day? Shouldn’t he be back in Monte Carlo, gambling and partying?
Bryn was tempted to send for Kahlil, to confess everything once and for all. Better face the music, get the whole episode with Amin put behind them before they renewed their vows. But she hesitated, feeling the wadded note in the palm of her hand.
Would Kahlil understand if she told him? Would he realize why she’d allowed herself to trust a man like Amin?
No. Kahlil needed no one. He didn’t like weakness in others. He despised it in himself. No matter what she said about Amin, the fact was that he and Kahlil were once inseparable, practically brothers.
Amin had her backed into a corner and he knew it. But she wouldn’t give in, and she woul
dn’t give up. This was her home now, her family. Perhaps she couldn’t speak against Amin, but she didn’t have to play his game, either.
The wedding gown was a pale shade of gold encrusted with precious jewels. It clung elegantly to her slender frame, catching the light as she moved beneath crystal chandeliers and passed ornate wall mirrors. The wedding party was waiting for her outside. Lalia led the way, brimming with excitement. Suddenly a hand clamped around her upper arm and dragged her to a step. “What is that American expression? ‘You can run, but you can’t hide?’”
Bryn watched Lalia continue walking. Her heart raced uncomfortably fast. “You’ve watched too many movies, Amin. Let go of me.”
“We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” But he ignored her, forcibly dragging her down the hall to a discreet door tucked between oversize gilt mirrors.
Amin pulled her into a broom closet and shut the narrow door behind them. “I can make your life hell, if that’s what I choose.”
“You only think you can.” She bristled, furious that he’d try something like this minutes before the ceremony. She wasn’t afraid. More irritated than anything. Why didn’t Kahlil realize Amin was an underhanded sneak? How could Kahlil tolerate such a person in his life? “You’re a fake, and a phony, and if you continue to make threats I will tell Kahlil everything about you.”
“Don’t push me, Miss America.”
“And don’t you push me! I’m not the naïve bride of five years ago, and I’ve had more than enough of your sordid little games. You attacked me that night in my room, you were going to rape me—”
He caught her by the upper arm, his fingers digging hard into her flesh, hurting her. “You wanted it. You wanted me.”
“Want you? I despise you! And if you don’t let go I will scream bloody murder.”
She reached for the doorknob but he stopped her, pressing himself against the length of her, his hand covering her mouth, another arm around her throat. “I wouldn’t scream, and I wouldn’t go to Kahlil if I were you because he won’t understand. He’s a sheikh, an Eastern man with Eastern thinking. He won’t forgive a wife that’s betrayed him. He won’t forgive you. Ever.”
Bryn bit his fingers and swung out from beneath his arm. “Stay away from me!” she cried, flinging the door open.
Her legs shook as she walked down the hall toward the open doorway where everyone was gathered. She saw the clustered servants but couldn’t think clearly, thoughts tangled, emotions wild, tears pricking her eyes. Amin muddled truth and lies better than anyone she knew.
He also knew her fears, which gave him a horrible amount of power over her. He knew she was afraid of being abandoned. Knew she was terrified of being thrown out and separated from her beloved Ben.
With a trembling hand she smoothed her wrinkled shirt and adjusted her headpiece. Her heart continued to pump wildly and she couldn’t silence Amin’s voice, his words echoing around and around in her head. Kahlil’s a sheikh, he’s Eastern and his thinking is Eastern…
Bryn silently cursed herself, hating that she’d ever shared so much of her feelings with Amin. Amin knew she used to be insecure. He knew she probably still fought that same insecurity now. It didn’t take much to topple one’s confidence. The right words, the right accusations, the right seeds planted…
“No!” She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let Amin do this to them again. He’d come between her and Kahlil once before and he’d destroyed their marriage, but she refused to allow it to happen again. She was stronger this time. More confident. She knew what she wanted and it was Kahlil.
This was her wedding day. She wasn’t about to let anyone—much less Amin—ruin it.
Outside sunshine poured across the smooth tiles and Bryn drew a deep breath, calmer, more focused. Quiet laughter and eager voices surged around her. Everyone was excited about the festivities. She was excited. This was the start to a brand-new life for her and Ben, a brand-new future.
Rifaat and Lalia were waiting for her just outside the door. “Was there a problem?” Rifaat asked, his gaze moving past her, searching the long dark hall.
Bryn forced a smile to her lips, her body still cold but the trembling less obvious. “Everything’s fine.”
Rifaat’s brows knotted, dark slashes above gray eyes. “I thought I saw his highness’ cousin—”
“Yes, you did. I passed Amin in the hall. He was just heading to his room.”
Rifaat’s gaze swept the hall once more before turning to her, surveying her pale composed face. She saw his eyes focus on her neck. His eyebrows flattened. Self-consciously she reached up, touched the spot where he was staring. The skin felt tender. Amin might have bruised her. Her stomach flip-flopped and yet she couldn’t do anything about it now. This was a happy day, a day she’d waited years for. She wasn’t going to let Amin spoil another moment. “Are we ready?” she asked.
“Yes, Princess,” Lalia answered, reaching up to cover Bryn’s mouth and nose with the filmy scrap of fabric. “Time to go. His highness is waiting.”
She joined Kahlil at the palace gate, butterflies replacing her fear, anticipation making her warm, almost too eager. She felt like a real bride—felt jittery and anxious, happy and a little tearful. To become Kahlil’s wife in Kahlil’s country. To marry in his sacred ceremony. To exchange vows in his language.
It felt right. Felt perfect. But her idea of perfection disappeared when Kahlil stepped aside and she caught a whiff of her least favorite mode of transportation. “A camel, Kahlil?”
Faint creases fanned from the corners of his eyes as he took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “It’s custom.”
She balked beneath the ornate arch festooned with boughs of flowers. “You know how I feel about camels.”
“You had one bad experience, laeela. This one hasn’t bitten anyone in months.”
She glared at Kahlil, giving him the full weight of her disapproval. They were newlyweds when they’d taken that last camel ride. Kahlil’s camel behaved beautifully. Hers dumped her. Flat on her backside and then had the gall to take a bite.
And from Kahlil’s expression she could see he remembered, too. He’d picked the camels on purpose. It was his way of linking her—today—to the past. “As long as he doesn’t spit, too. I don’t want to ruin my hair. Lalia spent two and a half hours making it look like this.”
“On my honor, I won’t let this one spit.”
Her lips twitched. “You can do something about prices of oil, Sheikh al-Assad, but even you can’t control a camel.”
And yet, looking at him now, seeing him dressed in the traditional wedding djellaba, the howli on his head, he never looked more fierce, more Arabic, and more sensual than now. Truthfully, she would have ridden beneath the camel’s belly if he’d asked her.
But he didn’t ask her, thank goodness. He smiled at her, his golden gaze locking with hers. “You look beautiful, have I told you that yet?”
Blood rushed to her cheeks, making her skin hot and tingly. “No.”
“I’ve never met a more beautiful woman in my life. I’m honored you’ve consented to be my wife.”
She couldn’t speak for a moment, couldn’t even swallow, her heart thudding hard, her chest tender with love. She’d never loved any other man the way she loved him. He made her feel real—complete. “I want to make you happy,” she whispered, not trusting her voice.
“You have.”
And for a split second they were the only two alive, the only two breathing, thinking, feeling. She felt the world wrap around them, snug, vivid, perfect. If only it could always be this way.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand, “your camel awaits. And so does our son. My cousin Mala has flown in from London with her children. She’s taken Ben to the ceremony with them and they’re waiting, impatiently, I imagine.”
Once seated on the kneeling camel, house servants crowded behind, filling the courtyard. Lalia rushed forward to adjust Bryn’s elaborate gown. The servant
s cheered as Kahlil took his camel and the cheer turned into music once his camel arose. With flower petals cascading, and the hauntingly evocative music echoing, the camels set off. Bryn lifted her hand, waved to the crowd behind, and caught a tender pink petal in her hand. Her heart beat quickly. This time, she silently vowed, she and Kahlil would last forever.
CHAPTER TEN
THE scene was just like a set from an old movie studio: enormous white tent, tethered camels, luxurious ruby-red Persian carpets lining the shady tent interior. Music and palms, enormous fronds swaying with the late-afternoon breeze. The sun was just setting, as Kahlil had predicted, painting the creamy dunes of sand red, peach, gold.
The ceremony, beautiful as it was, passed in a blur of prayers, blessings, and the joining of their hands. Then it was over and Kahlil was guiding her to the helicopter that had just touched down, Kahlil’s hand in the small of her back, his warmth doing something crazy to her senses.
“Where are we going?” she asked, buckling her seat belt and glancing out the open door to catch a glimpse of Ben. Kahlil had already told her that Ben would be staying at the palace while they were gone, taken care of by the palace nanny and Kahlil’s cousin Mala who had two little boys of her own. Ben was thrilled at the chance to play with other children and yet it was always hard for Bryn to leave him.
But Ben, catching her eye, grinned and waved and she waved back. At least he wasn’t worried about her going away with Kahlil for a few days. He was so confident. So much like his father.
She looked at Kahlil and he met her gaze. “We’re going to a special place of mine,” he said. “A place you’ve never been before.”
“Is it far?” she asked.
She caught the wry curve of his mouth, his expression was boyish, almost exultant. He looked as though the weight of the world had been pulled from his shoulders. “Not unless one’s traveling by camel.”
