The Sheikh's Prize

by Lynne Graham

  ‘I appreciate you viewing the episode that way,’ Saffy breathed in a muffled undertone. ‘But Emmie can’t see it like that. She still doesn’t want anything to do with me.’

  ‘As I’ve never met her, you’ll have to talk to her about that. Put it out of your mind now,’ Zahir urged, stunning dark golden eyes welded to her troubled face, a smile slashing his wide sensual mouth. ‘and stop blaming yourself for something that was outside your control.’

  Her spirits picked up as if a bubble of happiness had been released inside her. He knew what she had done and it hadn’t shocked him or made him see her as a cruelly irresponsible and selfish person. And most miraculously of all, he had made her feel better with one smile. She gazed back at him, her heart thumping hard inside her chest, an agony of feeling squeezed tight inside her. She wanted so badly to touch him, could feel her breasts heavy, the tender tips straining inside her bra while a warm honeyed heat built between her legs. It was pure lust, she told herself defensively, watching his eyes flame gold, and lust was a practical basis for a practical marriage.

  ‘If we weren’t in view of hundreds of people, you would be horizontal,’ Zahir purred hungrily, the erotic note in his sensual drawl tugging at her senses.

  ‘As you said, we have all the time in the world,’ Saffy burbled, relieved that he could still respond to her, want her. ‘I did think that the way you behaved yesterday meant that, now that I’m pregnant, I had lost my appeal,’ she told him baldly.

  Zahir laughed with rich appreciation. ‘Is that a joke?’

  Saffy stiffened. ‘No.’

  ‘Knowing that’s my baby inside you makes me want you more than ever,’ he breathed with a husky sensual edge to his voice, surveying her in a way no woman could have misunderstood or doubted, his hunger unashamed.

  Although her colour heightened, Saffy relaxed, reassured that she was still an object of desire. In reality, she wanted a great deal more from him, she acknowledged inwardly, but it was early days and she could be patient. After all, she loved him. She couldn’t lie to herself any longer about that. She had married him because she wanted to be his wife again, not only because of the child she carried. She wasn’t quite the clear-headed, unselfish person she had pretended to be inside her own mind, putting her child’s needs first. She wanted Zahir, she loved Zahir, and somehow she was going to make their marriage work so well that he found her indispensable. Furthermore, she wasn’t going to cripple herself with wounding suspicions about other women, past infidelities or indeed anything from that era, she swore fiercely to herself. This marriage was a new beginning, not a rerun of mistakes and misunderstandings made long ago.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE ROYAL PALACE was a vast building dating back hundreds of years and extended and renovated by every successive generation of Zahir’s family. Even from the outside Saffy could see changes everywhere she looked because the massive courtyard fronting the palace entrance, once a parking area for military vehicles and limousines, had been transformed into beautiful gardens full of graceful trees being industriously watered to keep them healthy in the heat. Glorious flowering shrubs bloomed in every direction and fountains fanned water to cool the air in terraced seating areas. The gardeners at work fell still and lowered their heads respectfully as the limo passed by. When the late King Fareed had driven past, everyone had fallen down on their knees at his insistence and she was relieved that Zahir had clearly brought an end to that kind of exaggerated subservience.

  ‘It looks so different,’ she commented as the limo drew up outside the huge arched entrance. ‘Much more welcoming.’

  ‘It’s so big we initially thought of knocking it down and constructing something more fit for purpose. After all, I don’t live like my father with hundreds of servants and guards, but it is an historic building and, since the family only requires part of it to actually live in, the government uses one wing and official events are staged here. We will still have total privacy though,’ he asserted. ‘Don’t worry about that. And, of course, you’ll be free to redecorate and do anything you like with our wing of the palace. I want you to feel at home here this time.’

  Saffy decided that she would pretty much come to like and accept any place Zahir called home. Besides, their baby had been conceived in a tent. A palatial tent, to be sure, but a tent nonetheless. Her lush mouth quirked at the recollection. That was a secret that would probably never be shared.

  The domestic staff greeted them at the end of the long hall and she was given more flowers, which were in turn taken from her as if she could not be expected to carry anything for herself. Zahir closed a relaxed hand round hers and walked her into a big reception room where a man and a woman awaited them.

  ‘Hayat…’ Saffy greeted his sister, several years his senior, warmly, registering that the delicate youthful brunette she had once met was now a more rounded woman in her thirties, but she still had the same warm, friendly smile. Hayat was quick to kiss her on both cheeks and offer good wishes. Saffy had never got to know the older woman that well because when she had first been married to Zahir, Hayat and her husband had been living in Switzerland.

  ‘And since he was only a boy when you last met him, this is my younger brother Akram.’

  She would have known Zahir’s brother immediately by his close resemblance to her husband, but she was not impervious to the look of hostility in his rather set face as he murmured a strictly polite welcome that was neither sociable nor encouraging. But Saffy kept the smile on her face, reminding herself that it was early days and that, after the divorce five years earlier, Akram might consider her a particularly bad match for his brother, the king. Or maybe Akram was less than impressed by the fact that she was already pregnant, although if that was the case he ought to remember that conception took two people, not one, she thought ruefully.

  Zahir carried her off again, one hand closed round hers as if he was keen to retain physical contact and, certainly, she had no objection retaining that connection. She had never been in the wing of the palace he took her to, was happy to be invited to explore and was pleasantly surprised by how contemporary the décor was there. Back in the old dark days of King Fareed’s occupation, the parts of the palace she had known had rejoiced in a preponderance of over-gilded furniture, brightly coloured wallpaper, fussy drapes and half-naked statues. But now all that was tasteless and garish had been swept away as though it had never been.

  ‘Did your father ever live here?’ she asked awkwardly.

  ‘No,’ Zahir said succinctly. ‘I didn’t want to occupy his wing at the front…too many bad memories. It’s government offices now.’

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Saffy confided, brushing back filmy drapes and opening French windows that led out into a spacious garden courtyard full of lush colourful plants. ‘It will be perfect for the baby to play in.’

  ‘One last place to show you,’ Zahir murmured, tugging her impatiently back indoors to walk her down the corridor, while she tried to compute the sheer number of rooms that she now had the right to regard as part of her new home. He flung open the double doors at the foot like a showman. ‘Our room. I had it freshly decorated.’

  Our room, she repeated inwardly, thinking that phrase, which once had unnerved her, now had a good, solid, reassuring sound to it. The big room was breathtaking in the morning sunshine, furnished with a simply huge bed dressed in white and covered with more pillows and cushions than anyone would ever want to move before slipping between the sheets. Masses of white flowers filled several vases and perfumed the air with their abundance. The effect was light, bright and designer chic. Twin bathrooms led off the bedroom, one with a family-sized Jacuzzi in the corner.

  ‘I’m already picturing you in there,’ Zahir muttered huskily from behind her, his breath warming her cheek as he settled his lean hands on her rounded hips.

  ‘Are you indeed?’ Sliding round to look up at him, Saffy lifted her hands to his face and curved them to his exotic cheekbones. Dear heaven, those
eyes of his got to her every time, she conceded dizzily as he bent his handsome dark head and circled her lush mouth slowly, teasingly with his own and her heart skipped a beat. ‘I’ll only get in with company.’

  His cell phone hummed and Zahir winced. ‘Hold that thought,’ he urged, digging it out of his pocket to speak in his own language.

  And that fast the moment of intimacy was over. He inclined his head at an apologetic angle and told her that something needed his attention and he would see her later. Saffy suppressed her disappointment, conceding that their lives would often be interrupted by his duties and knowing she would have to get used to the fact. She returned to exploring their wing of the palace. A manservant brought her luggage. There was a complete dream of a clothing closet installed in the room next door and she smiled, smoothing shoe shelves and glancing into what could only be custom-built units. Knowing Zahir must have ensured that so much was prepared for her in advance gave her a warm feeling deep down inside.

  A maid brought her tea and tiny cakes and she sat out in the tranquil courtyard garden below the shade of the palm trees, enjoying the fading afternoon heat and the play of shadows through the palm fronds. For the first time in a long time she felt at peace. Acknowledging her feelings for Zahir had eased her worst insecurities and put paid to her frantic changes of mood because now she knew what lay behind her reactions. They were husband and wife and she was carrying their first child and she was happy. Happy, she thought wryly, unable to recall when she had last felt so happy or indeed an intensity of any emotion: only around Zahir. Had she always still loved him? Had it been his haunting image that prevented her from ever experiencing a strong attraction to another man? Regardless of what had happened between them, she had retained past memories of Zahir that were still clear as day in her mind. He had referred to her once as his ‘first love’ and she knew she wanted to be his first and only love, but the clock still couldn’t be turned back. And nor in many ways would Saffy have wanted to achieve that impossibility, not if it meant returning to the uninformed, bewildered teenager she had been, incapable of consummating her marriage and having to live within the confines of the repressive regime of the late King Fareed.

  Zahir phoned her full of apologies to say that he could not join her before dinner. He reappeared, vital and startlingly handsome, to study her where she sat reading on the terrace. She smiled at him, blue eyes sparkling, and his winged brows pleated in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be furious with me for leaving you alone all afternoon,’ he admitted ruefully.

  And Saffy laughed. ‘I’m not eighteen any more,’ she reminded him gently. ‘And I understand that you have responsibilities you can’t escape.’

  ‘But not the very first day you arrive. In that spirit, I have blocked off two weeks at the end of the month purely for us,’ Zahir told her, his features suddenly very serious in cast. ‘We can travel, stay here, do whatever you like, but there will no other demands on our time.’

  Saffy was impressed that he had already foreseen the necessity for them to formally make space in their schedules to spend time together as a couple. It was an effort and an opportunity he had not tried to organise five years earlier and she appreciated it. A pretty fabulous three-course meal was served to them in the dining room. There was evidently a chef in charge of the kitchens and one out to impress. While they ate, Zahir shared his ambition to promote Maraban as a tourist destination and he asked her if she would be interested in helping to put together a public relations film to show off some of Maraban’s main attractions.

  ‘We have beaches, archaeological sites, mountains,’ Zahir told her persuasively. ‘You could present it. You’re accustomed to being in front of the cameras.’

  ‘Not in a speaking role, at least only occasionally.’ But Saffy was pleased to be offered the chance to do something useful. ‘I haven’t been to any of those places though.’

  Zahir frowned at the unspoken reminder that his father’s determination to conceal their marriage had left her virtually imprisoned within the palace walls. ‘Your eyes will be fresh then, your observations and expectations more realistic. We have a lot to learn about what tourists want. We don’t have many marketing people here,’ he confided. ‘In fact Maraban would still be floundering and trapped in past mistakes if thousands of our former citizens hadn’t responded to my appeal to come home after my father’s regime fell. Many professionals returned from abroad to enable us to tackle the challenge of bringing our country into the twenty-first century.’

  ‘It’s wonderful that people chose to come back and help,’ Saffy murmured, loving the gravity of his lean strong face, the warmth and concern he could not hide when he spoke about the country of his birth.

  ‘But not half as wonderful as having you here with me again,’ Zahir countered, dark golden eyes welded to her as he rose from his chair. ‘Will you come to bed with me now, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Call me Queenie—I’m never going to get used to the other. In answer to your question, I don’t know…’ Saffy angled her head to one side, pretending to think it over even though her heart was racing like a marathon runner’s. ‘Last night you were a no-show.’

  Faint colour darkened his cheekbones. ‘On board our flight, I didn’t think I’d be welcome.’

  ‘Put it this way—I wouldn’t have kicked you out of bed,’ Saffy confided, turning pink.

  With a flashing smile of satisfaction, Zahir crossed the room and snatched her bodily up off the carpet into his arms to carry her down the corridor, a process accompanied by much giggling from Saffy. Halfway towards their bedroom he started kissing her and an arrow of sweet, piercing heat slivered between her thighs, smothering her amusement and awakening her body to desire.

  ‘Being alone with you is all I’ve thought about all day,’ Zahir admitted, settling her down on the gigantic bed, which she noted was already clear of cushions and turned down in readiness for their occupation. Evidently the staff might be well acquainted with the habits of newly married couples.

  As he cast off his robes and she kicked off her shoes Saffy smiled at his honesty. ‘One-track mind.’

  ‘Always…with you.’ Zahir nuzzled against her slender throat, kissing and licking a sensitive spot below her ear that made her quiver and tightened her sensitive nipples. Then he groaned. ‘I need a shave—’

  Saffy grabbed him before he could spring back off the bed. ‘Not right now,’ she told him squarely.

  Zahir laughed. ‘I don’t want to scratch you.’

  ‘Face facts. I won’t agree to you going anywhere right at this minute,’ Saffy told him, smoothing appreciative palms up over his broad muscular chest and then down very, very slowly and appreciatively over his six-pack abs. ‘This is my time and I’m holding on tight to you.’

  In the moonlight, Zahir’s lean features were taut. ‘You mean that?’

  Saffy’s fingers trailed daringly lower and closed around his bold erection.

  With a roughened groan of satisfaction, Zahir flung himself back against the pillows. ‘You’re absolutely right. Nothing would move me right now.’

  Saffy leant over him, her mane of hair trailing across his abdomen. He said something in Arabic. She pressed her lips to the tiny brown disc of a male nipple and moved in a southerly direction, taking her time as she kissed and stroked her way down his beautiful bronzed body.

  ‘This is our wedding night…’ Zahir muttered thickly. ‘I should be doing this to you.’

  ‘My turn later…right now, I’m in charge,’ Saffy whispered just before she found him with her mouth and his hands lodged firmly into her hair, his hips rising to assist her, and an exclamation of intense pleasure was wrenched from him. Proud of her own boldness, no longer ashamed of the desire he roused in her, Saffy was thoroughly enjoying herself.

  She loved having him in her power, revelled in every response he couldn’t control and experienced a deep sense of achievement when he could no longer stand her teasing caresses and he dragged her up to him and
flipped her over to ravage her lush lips with an almost savage kiss.

  Making love to Zahir turned her on and no sooner had he registered that fact than he rose over her, all masculine, dominant power and energy, and thrust his engorged shaft into the silky wet tightness of her inner channel. She cried out in delight and then he was moving and stretching her, ramping up her level of excitement to an almost unbearable degree. It had never occurred to her that slow and deep could be as thrilling as fast and hard, but he wouldn’t let her urge him on and control the pace.

  ‘No, this we do my way,’ Zahir growled, flexing his hips, sending a shiver of exquisite sensitivity over her entire skin surface, her nipples straining as he shifted position and angle to torture her more.

  He kept her straining on the edge of climax for a long time and the ripples of growing excitement were engulfing her like a flood when, in receipt of one final driving thrust, she found a wild, scorching release that shattered her into shaking, sobbing weightlessness, utterly drained by the joy of the experience. She lay there for a long time afterwards, wrapped in his arms, steeped in pure pleasure, marvelling that they were together again.

  ‘Now perhaps you’ll consider telling me what or who transformed you in the bedroom from the terrified girl I remember into the woman you are now,’ Zahir urged in a roughened undertone that nonetheless shockwaved through her like a sudden clap of thunder.

  In receipt of that request, a little shudder of repulsion travelled through Saffy’s suddenly ferociously tense body. No, she could not do that; no, she could not risk sharing what had happened to her lest it destroy the new bonds they had created. She could feel him waiting for her to speak, literally willing her to speak in that dreadful expectant silence. As the silence continued and she failed to respond the strong, protective arms wrapped round her tensed, loosened and then carefully withdrew and he shifted his lean, powerful body away from hers, forging a separation between them that she could feel aching through every fibre she possessed.