by Pippa Roscoe
The thought, sounding so much like his father, turned his blood to ice, cutting off any delicious threads of desire in their tracks.
‘I will get some food sent up. I haven’t seen you eat all night.’
‘You think I can eat at a time like this, Odir? Besides, it’s two a.m. You can’t ask the staff to bring you food now.’
‘I am a king, Eloise. I can do exactly what I like.’
She watched him with grim eyes. ‘Yes, and now you are sounding like one king we both once knew.’
‘Have a shower, Eloise. I will call for some food.’
And with that he left the room and disappeared.
* * *
On shaky legs and bare feet Eloise silently padded through the dark room, the soles of her feet sinking into lush carpet so unlike the hard wooden floor of her little flat in Zurich. She passed through to the bedroom, ignoring the panoramic view of London because now it simply reminded her of her husband, looking out on it as if he could own the world and her with it. She looked at the thick pile of bedding that she had thought would accompany her first time with her husband, and wondered if there would ever be anything as mundane as bedding in her future.
She went through to a bathroom that would have certainly fitted her little one-bedroom apartment within its marbled walls. Silver and white clashed with black marble, exploding before her as she turned on the lights.
On autopilot, giving no heed to the fact that she was already obeying her husband’s commands, she turned on the water in the shower area, stepped back, peeled the black silk dress from her body and stood there for just a moment, naked under the glare of the lighting. She presumed that somewhere there would be a dimmer switch that would transform the bathroom light into something less harsh, but Eloise welcomed the brightness. It felt as if it were burning away the darkness from her soul and her skin.
The moment the warm water touched her she sighed—an exhalation that took with it all the thoughts of the last few hours and sent them away from her spent body. As if the touch of the water had brought to life all the small aches and pains that were totally new to her body, she ran her fingers gently over the very places her husband had explored, wondering that his touch had elicited such different reactions from her.
Reactions that had revealed her naïve fantasies of what it would be like to sleep with Odir to be just that. Childish. Not in nature, but in fact. And with the reality of what had passed between them all those fantasies had melted away into nothing, like a passing mist covering the land and being burnt away by the sun.
She had truly been innocent of what passed between a man and a woman. Because, had she not been, she doubted very much that she would have let him touch her even once. And now that she had? Now that he had? She was absolutely, concretely certain that there was no going back. She might not go forward with him—she might still find a way out of this marriage—but there was no doubt that the events of tonight had changed her irrevocably.
She stood beneath the spray, relishing the feel of it because...because she was feeling something. For the first time in years, since even before their marriage, she was feeling something. Just as in the way she had thought the desert had once brought her to life, Odir had drawn forth a vision of herself, powerful and desirable, from somewhere she had thought buried deep. It had been incredible, and her body still vibrated with the hum of pleasure they had shared.
She felt it strengthen her. Reshape her into someone who had perhaps started to grow in Zurich. Building on those months when she had nursed a fragile confidence into being—a confidence that perhaps had led her to this very moment.
Was it possible that they could build the marriage she had once dreamed of? That they could have a true partnership?
She allowed herself a moment to imagine it, to imagine what it would look like. But there were still things that Odir might never understand. Her reluctance to tell him the truth about Jarhan, the truth about her father and the hold he had over her mother, the truth of what no one else had ever wanted to see about the British Ambassador.
* * *
Odir let out a breath he hadn’t realised that he’d been holding. He’d hung up the phone on his personal concierge what felt like hours ago, all the while straining his ears beyond the clipped English accent, waiting to hear the sounds of the shower if only simply to locate his wife within the penthouse apartment.
His wife. A woman he held such different versions of within his mind. The innocent young Englishwoman, delicate and fragile. The cheating bride who had slept with his brother. The incredible woman who had come to life in his arms. So many different façades. And tonight he had broken them all, felt, touched and tasted skin, the flesh and blood beneath it, and there was no turning back.
She had been innocent. But with that realisation came the crashing sense of dread that there were still secrets. Secrets she kept from him...secrets about his brother.
What could be so bad that Jarhan would rather he believed his wife and his brother had been together? The world tipped on its axis again, and a niggling thought about Jarhan came unbidden—one he hadn’t had for years. He needed the world to stop turning. He needed to know.
He stalked through the bedroom, ignoring the stunning view, and emerged into a bathroom he hadn’t yet seen. He wondered that she hadn’t heard him, but realised that the sound of the shower had masked his footfalls. He was greeted by a sight that took his angry breath away.
Eloise stood beneath the cascading water, her pale skin almost merging with the white marble behind it, bearing only the faintest flush of heat to bring her to life. How could he ever have imagined her to be of the same cold, stone material lining the shower walls? How could he ever have imagined her as anything other than flesh and blood?
He watched as the water flowed over the smooth skin of her lithe body, covering it in the way his hands and tongue had done only half an hour earlier. Need stormed through him, sending the shivers of desire that he had wanted only to inflict on her across his body.
He had to stop this. He couldn’t allow his hunger for her to take root or he would be driven to madness.
‘If you don’t tell me what is going on with my brother I will call him myself and bring him here.’
She let out a cry, turning so quickly she almost slipped on the wet tiles.
Cursing, he grabbed a towel, leaned in through the water and turned it off, paying no heed to the way his shirt sucked in the warm droplets as she jerked away from the proximity of his touch, which angered him more than he could say.
‘Cover yourself. I mean it. If you don’t tell me what is going on I’ll get Jarhan in this apartment in less than two minutes—even if Malik has to drag him here—whether you are dressed or not,’ he warned, flinging the towel at her. ‘Two minutes, Eloise. You have two minutes.’
And with that he stalked from the bathroom.
* * *
Eloise looked at the pool of black silk on the floor and although she didn’t want to put it back on she knew that it would be better than the thick white cotton towel that barely managed to cover her thighs.
From the moment Odir had issued his command it had taken only a second for her skin to turn from delightfully warm to ice-cool. But she wouldn’t allow herself to be cowed. She would meet him as his equal.
Her regained composure threatened to dissolve when she realised that she couldn’t find her thong, and she cursed the flush of desire that sprang up and painted her cheeks at the memory of how Odir had used it so effectively to bind her in a position to his liking, from where he could gain the deepest access with his tongue.
The throb at her core burst to life once more, and only now could she know that the only thing that would assuage that need was him. Her husband. Buried deeply within her until she felt nothing else—nothing but him all around her and inside her.
‘I’m waiting.’
His voice cut through the room and through her desire.
She dropped the towel and
stepped into the dress, pulling it over her chest and sensitised nipples, the silk fabric unusually warm from the steam of the shower.
Eloise knew that Odir wouldn’t stop until he had the truth of that night. But how could she tell him? How could she trust him not to go through with what was Jarhan’s greatest fear? Had Odir not already proved just how far he would go for the security of his country? Would he choose that over his brother?
She stepped into the living room, gazing around her at the sight of it, finally lit up for the first time that night. ‘Luxury’ was not enough to describe the surroundings she found herself in.
She cast a glance at the mountains of food that had been delivered in her absence and laughed. She couldn’t help herself.
‘What is so funny?’ Odir asked, looking up from the stack of papers he held in one hand, the pen that was poised to strike against some unsuspecting words in the other.
‘It’s lobster,’ she replied.
‘And?’
‘And I’m allergic to seafood. You would kill me before I’ve even had a chance to conceive those heirs you so desperately want.’
‘If I’d wanted you dead, Eloise, it could have been arranged,’ he said under his breath, sounding rather like a stroppy child instead of a soon-to-be king.
‘I’m sure of it,’ she replied in an equally droll tone. ‘You used to threaten anyone in the palace with such a fate were they even to look as if they would refuse your command.’
‘I didn’t ask for the lobster. I just told them to bring up some food. It’s not as if I don’t have a million other things to be worrying about.’
‘Other than me?’
‘Yes, Eloise. I have a funeral to plan, a country to save, and a press briefing that is written so badly it makes my teeth hurt. I’m afraid your dietary requirements are a little low down on my list of priorities.’
‘Makes your teeth hurt?’
‘You were the first person I told about my father’s death. In a little under six hours I am supposed to address the world’s press. And this,’ he said, waving the papers in the air, ‘could have been written better by my five-year-old cousin.’
Rather than the anger that had dominated his tone in the last few hours, Eloise was surprised to find a note of confused helplessness in his voice.
‘Where is Anders? Doesn’t he usually handle this kind of thing for you?’
‘Anders’s wife rather inconveniently decided that today, of all days, would be the perfect time to give birth to their child. And whilst I may be many things, I could not in all conscience demand that he give up his station in the maternity wing.’
‘Well, I doubt she did that on purpose.’
‘You’d be surprised.... She doesn’t like me much.’
‘I can’t imagine why,’ she replied, with a great deal of scepticism.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, given that Anders accompanied you on every single diplomatic visit you deemed fit to make in the two months I was at the palace, it’s a wonder she was able to get pregnant in the first place.’
All Odir could offer in response was a rather undignified grunt.
‘Did you want me to look at it?’ she asked, offering an olive branch.
No matter what had passed between them, what still might pass between them, he was her husband. The pain and the hurt that they’d caused each other didn’t take away from the fact that once they had been close, had shared confidences. And she knew that this must be hard for him.
‘Would you? You used to put together the briefings for the foundation and you were always good at...’ He waved his hand in the air, as if communicating with the press was a frippery he could do without.
‘Ouch, that must have hurt!’ she said.
‘What? Offering you a compliment?’
A smile teased the corners of her mouth. She held out her hand for the briefing and sank into one of the suite’s chairs. As far away from the lobster as she could get.
She scanned the prepared speech as Odir placed a call to remove the offending foodstuffs from their suite.
‘Are you hungry? I suppose someone could always call for a pizza.’
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Of course someone could call for a pizza. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute and I’ll have this read.’
* * *
Odir watched Eloise, her long shapely legs hanging over the arm of the chair, bouncing up and down as she held his pen—a pen that had cost more than he was willing to admit—not so delicately between her teeth. Occasionally she retrieved it from the lips he’d spent the previous hour plundering and scored a few marks on the paper, scribbled something in the margin, then returned the pen to her teeth and carried on her perusal.
As he looked on it struck him that the scene was oddly domestic. Rather than feeling invaded, as if she’d intruded on his duties as he’d once imagined she might, he felt...good. It was good to have a second opinion. He could trust her in that. She certainly would not hold back—she hadn’t once since she’d arrived. Until they had come to talk about Jarhan.
‘I did know that you were allergic to seafood. And I hadn’t actually looked at what they’d delivered.’
He didn’t know what had prompted him to say such an inane thing. He just wanted her to look at him. He wanted to see the intensity of her gaze turned on him rather than the briefing.
‘As you said, if you’d wanted me out of the picture... Okay. I’m done.’
‘Already?’
‘It wasn’t that bad, Odir. It got a little unnecessarily wordy in the middle, and I’ve removed some of the repetition. Whoever wrote it...’
He felt his eyes narrow fractionally. It must have been that that tipped her off.
‘You wrote it?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.
‘Don’t. I don’t need to hear any more. I was the one who said it could be better.’
‘Well. Like I said, it wasn’t that bad.’
There was a glint in her eye. One that he almost didn’t want to see go. But he’d meant what he’d said when he’d interrupted her in the shower. He wanted to know what was going on with Jarhan. Beneath his gaze the glint disappeared as she realised that he wasn’t going to let the matter drop.
‘I need to know.’
‘You can’t force him to tell you, Odir. It would kill him,’ she said quietly, putting the papers aside on the table.
‘Again with the dramatics, Eloise. If he can’t tell me, then you will. Just tell me,’ he commanded.
* * *
‘If I tell you, then I need your promise that you will at least hear me out.’
It was on the tip of Odir’s tongue to say ‘no’. To refuse such a promise. But there was something in Eloise’s eyes—a resolution of sorts, a determination. She was suddenly more regal than he had ever seen her and he knew—knew—what kind of queen she would make.
He could see the protectiveness she was showing for his brother in every line of her body. She was like a lioness, protecting her cub, and that was more than he had ever received from anyone in his living memory.
He supressed the thin spike of jealousy that pierced his chest and nodded his assent.
‘I want to hear it from your lips, Odir. Say you promise or I will not say one more word.’
He bit back his frustration and the desire to let out a rather undignified growl. ‘I swear it. I will not speak until you are done.’
‘You were supposed to be away that night, visiting Kalaran.’
He remembered. A sandstorm had prevented them from being able to access the only road that went across the border.
‘We didn’t know that you had been forced to turn back. Only that you had left. After dinner, Jarhan started drinking.’
Odir frowned. ‘Jarhan didn’t drink back then.’
‘He did that night. The reason for your visit to Kalaran was to confirm the plans your father had made for Jarhan to marry one of Prince Imin’s sist
ers—’
‘Plans that disintegrated the moment I found him with you.’
Eloise narrowed her eyes. By God, she was glorious like this. Cutting a king down to size was no easy feat, and she managed it with a simple glance.
‘Yes. They did,’ she said, as if those words contained the answer he was looking for. ‘He was drunk because he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t agree to the marriage you were arranging.’
‘But there was no marriage! We didn’t even know which of Imin’s sisters would be suitable for Jarhan. Why would he object to a marriage before a match had even been made?’
‘Because,’ she said gently, as if preparing him for some great hurt, ‘it wouldn’t have mattered which sister you chose.’
‘Because he was already in love with you?’ he said, hating himself for the fear that lay beneath those words. Hating the fear that clogged his breath but didn’t quite stop his mouth.
‘No, because it wouldn’t have mattered which woman you chose.’
Shock cut through him and he could see the truth in her eyes.
‘My brother is gay?’
His wife nodded.
He needed a minute. He needed a week, a month—a damned lifetime. He needed the years he had spent with his brother back.
‘How could he not tell me?’ he demanded.
She was shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t about you,’ she replied.
Shame and sadness filled him. Not because his brother was gay—not at all. But because of how hard those years must have been for him. For Jarhan not to be able to be himself, not to go after the things he wanted from life. Odir knew something of that. Or at least he understood.
Odir had never been given the luxury of wanting anything other than the throne. And to think that in his heart of hearts he had been jealous of the freedom his brother had been afforded as second son. Now he knew it to be no freedom at all. Farrehed was a deeply traditional country, and he knew how his father would have reacted to the news that Jarhan was gay. Badly. Had he been alive, he would most likely have exiled Jarhan in shame.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Did you think—even for one minute—that I was homophobic? That I would banish my own brother?’
