Banished to the Harem

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Maybe it’s too soon for peace?’ Natasha said aloud to them, except her heart craved it.

  No, there was no peace to be had at the cemetery, so she took a bus home and had a long bath to warm up.

  Anticipating packing for her holiday, Natasha had pulled out all her clothes, and late that afternoon she tackled the mountain strewn over her bedroom. But Rakhal and their brief encounter was still there at the back of her mind, and he was so much nicer to think about than her problems closer to home that she allowed herself a tiny dream …

  What if she had said yes to him?

  What, Natasha wondered, did you wear for dinner with the Crown Prince Sheikh of Alzirz?

  Nothing that was in Natasha’s wardrobe, that was for sure. Except as she hung up her clothes there it was—still wrapped in its cover. She had never really known what to do with it. It was to have been her bridesmaid’s dress for Mark and Louise’s wedding, but Louise had called the wedding off a week before the date, which had left Mark devastated. It was then he had started gambling—or rather that was what he had told Natasha when he’d come to her for help. Now she wondered if it had been the reason for Louise calling things off.

  She had been so angry with Louise for destroying her brother. The car accident resulting in the death of their parents had been devastating, but the upcoming wedding, though hard to look forward to at first, had been the one shining light—Mark and Louise had been together for years, and her calling it off had had the most terrible effect on Mark.

  Yet now Natasha was starting to wonder if Mark had been the one who had destroyed himself—if his gambling problems were in fact not so recent.

  She hadn’t spoken with Louise since the break-up. Louise had always been lovely, and for the first time Natasha allowed herself to miss her almost-sister-in-law. She resisted the urge to call her, because Louise didn’t need to be worried with Mark’s problems now.

  Instead, Natasha slid open the zip and pulled the dress from its cover. As she gazed at it she wished again that things had turned out differently.

  It was gold and very simple, with a slightly fluted hem that was cut on the bias, and thin spaghetti straps that fell into a cowl neck. It would be wrong to pull it on with wet hair and an unmade-up face, for if ever there was a dress that deserved the full effect it was this one.

  So Natasha dried hair and then smoothed it with straighteners. Louise had wanted her to wear her hair up. It was the only thing they had disagreed on, but of course it was to have been Louise’s day, and so she would have won. Natasha took her thick red hair and twisted it, securing it on the top of the head with a clasp, then put on make-up as best she could. She took out her mother’s earrings and necklace, holding the cool pearls in her hand for a moment. Natasha rarely wore jewellery for the same reason she didn’t wear perfume: it irritated her skin. But today she made an exception and put the jewels on. It should still be her mother wearing them. How Natasha wished that she could rewind a year, because things had been so much simpler then.

  But if she started crying she might never stop, so Natasha looked in the mirror instead. The dress was stunning and Louise had been right—with her hair up it was even more so. The necklace and earrings were the perfect final touch and, again as Louise had assured her, she didn’t look like a traditional bridesmaid. More … Natasha looked again and gave a smile. Had she said yes to Rakhal, this was what she would have worn, for now she was fit for a prince.

  Still he played on her mind—but then why wouldn’t he? He had been the one saving grace in a pretty miserable day. And then she heard a knock at her door.

  Perhaps it was Mark bringing over the money? Or an aunt dropping round to mark the one-year anniversary of her parents’ passing?

  While normally she would have run down the stairs to answer, given how she was dressed Natasha held back and went to the window. She peeked through a gap in the curtain. Peering down into the street, she saw a limousine—but even before that she knew it was him.

  Had known at some level that she had been dressing for him.

  That this morning their attraction, or whatever it was that had occurred, hadn’t all been in her imagination, that he had felt it too.

  And now Rakhal was at her door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RAKHAL had spent the day trying to forget Natasha. He had completed the most pressing of his appointments and then peered through the impressive list of female contacts in his phone.

  This evening none of them had appealed.

  He could, if he’d chosen to, have returned to the exclusive London club he often frequented, where he was assured of a warm welcome from any number of young socialites who would be only too happy to spend a night in a prince’s bed.

  He’d chosen not to.

  Instead he had headed down to the hotel bar, taken a seat in a plump leather chair. In a moment a long glass of water had been placed in front of him, for here in London, it was his drink of choice. Less than two minutes later, another option had appeared. Blonde, beautiful, her smile inviting.

  With but a gesture of his hand he could have invited her to join him or have a drink sent over to her.

  It was that easy for Rakhal.

  Always.

  Both here and at home.

  He’d thought of the harem that served his every need—the harem that would still serve him even after his marriage—and suddenly he’d been weary with easy. He was bored with no thrill to the chase.

  He’d gestured to the bartender, who had walked over ready to take his order, to serve the blonde a glass of champagne, but Rakhal had delivered other instructions.

  Now the car he had summoned waited as he knocked again at her door. Rakhal did not have time to play games, and neither did he have time to take his time. And yet here he was. All day she had intrigued him. All day his first taste of rejection had gnawed. Perhaps she was already in a relationship? he had pondered. But something told him she was not. There was a shyness to her, an awkwardness he found endearing. Rarely was effort required from him with women—perhaps that was the novelty that had brought him here.

  He decided that the novelty would quickly wane, but that thought faded as soon as she opened the door.

  It was as though she’d been waiting for him—had somehow anticipated his surprise arrival.

  Appealing before, she was exquisite now. Her hair was dry, its true colours revealed: the colours of a winter sky in Alzirz as the sun dipped lower over the desert, reds and oranges and a blaze of fire. His only qualm was that he wanted to see it worn down—would see it worn down, Rakhal decided, before the night’s end.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Natasha had had her panic upstairs and was as calm as she could manage now—as casual as she could hope to be when dealing with the sudden arrival of Rakhal.

  ‘I said that I would pick you up at seven.’

  ‘And I told you I had plans …’ Natasha started. Yet she did want time with this intoxicating man and her refusal was halted. For all day she had regretted saying no to him, all day she had wished she had said yes, and now she had her chance. ‘Actually, my plans have changed …’ She hoped her make-up hid her blush as she lied. ‘My friend isn’t feeling well.’

  ‘Well, now that your plans have changed …’ He knew she was lying, and he would not ask her to join him again. He had asked her once, had even come to her door. Now he stood silently awaiting her decision, for it was up to Natasha now—he did not beg.

  The decision was an easy one. He was even more beautiful than she remembered him from this morning. He was wearing an immaculate charcoal-grey suit and his hair, messy that morning, was now swept back. The bruise on his eye had turned a deep purple, and Natasha felt her nails dig into her palms as she resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, to run her fingers over the slight swelling at his left cheekbone. It was bizarre the effect he had on her. Never had a man made her more aware of her femininity.

  Natasha swallowed, for he made her aware of her sexuality
too, in a way no one ever had—certainly not Jason. She was filled with a sudden desperation for the night not to end—and it would, Natasha knew, if she did not go with him now. It would end this instant if she did not simply say yes.

  ‘I’ll get my bag.’ Natasha hovered a moment, unsure if she should ask him in—embarrassed to do so, but worried it would be rude not to. ‘Do you want to—?’

  ‘I will wait here,’ Rakhal interrupted. He wanted their night to start, and was not sure if she lived alone. If she did—well, he did not want to ruin any tentative progress with a kiss delivered too soon. It would be hard not to kiss her. He was already growing hard.

  He turned out to face the street, to look at the neat hedges and the houses. He tried to fathom her, tried to work her out just a little, surprising himself because for once he had a need to know more about the woman he would be spending the night with.

  She found a bag and quickly filled it with her purse and keys, then took a moment more to steady herself than to check her make-up. She found a jacket that didn’t really do justice to the dress. Even though it had stopped raining it was a cold, clear night, and she really couldn’t go out with bare arms, so she slipped it on and walked down the stairs. She could see his outline in the front doorway as he waited for her to be ready.

  He waited too while she locked the door, and then they headed to his car. This time it was his driver who came around and opened the door, and there was no man in robes waiting inside when she climbed in. She was nervous at being alone with him.

  Yet he was the perfect gentleman. He took the seat opposite rather than next to her, making polite conversation as the car moved through the dark streets. He did nothing and said nothing untoward—in fact he didn’t even comment on how she was dressed. No doubt he was used to going out with women dressed up to the nines. She wondered how he’d have reacted if he knew just how unusual this was for her, if she’d answered the door in jeans and slippers. Would the outcome have been the same? Would he have waited while she changed …? Would the usual outfits in her wardrobe have sufficed for a night like this?

  She doubted it.

  Yet he had seen her dripping wet this morning, had seen her at her worst, and still there had been want between them. The doubt blurred as she pondered this most stunning man. She could see his hand resting on his thigh, the dark skin, the manicured nails, and then she turned her gaze away when she realised he was watching her too. Her jacket felt like a blanket. The car was too warm. Both these things she blamed for the heat that spread across her body as she admitted her desire. She wanted to press a button, wanted the window to open and the night air to blast her face cool. When they turned a corner and his stretched-out leg rolled just a little nearer to her rigid feet she wanted to lift her feet to his waiting hands, to simply be ravished.

  They pulled up outside a luxurious hotel. As the door opened Natasha saw faces turning and was uncomfortable with this rare scrutiny from onlookers. She was grateful when his hand took her arm, and told herself that it was Rakhal they were looking at as they were welcomed and then led through the hotel and into a restaurant.

  Again he turned heads.

  Natasha knew it had nothing to do with her, for the place was filled with jewelled and made-up women. It was Rakhal who drew the eye, Rakhal who had forks pausing on their way to ruby-red mouths and small murmurs rippling across tables as people attempted to place him. And no wonder, Natasha thought as she took a seat, with his dark looks, his elegance, there was a poise to him that could never truly be taught.

  And tonight she was dining with him.

  The table was beautifully set with white tablecloths and candles, and the silverware and glasses gleamed, yet it was not the luxurious surroundings that unnerved her, but the company that she kept. It wasn’t his title that intimidated either—well, perhaps a bit, Natasha conceded—but really it was the man himself that had her stomach folding over on itself, had her still unsure as to whether she should have said yes to his offer. Because despite the silk of his manners there was that edge to him. She knew she had taken on more than she could ever handle.

  The waiters lavished attention on them, pulling out chairs and spreading napkins over their laps as Rakhal ordered champagne.

  Natasha declined. ‘Not for me, thank you. I’d prefer to drink water.’ Oh, she knew the cost of a bottle of champagne would be nothing to him, but somehow she didn’t want to feel beholden, and she was also mindful that her common sense was somewhat lacking around him. Champagne might only exacerbate the fact.

  Rakhal too, it seemed, was only drinking water, for he cancelled the champagne, ordered iced water and then turned his attention to Natasha. ‘Is there anything you are allergic to?’ he asked. ‘Or anything you particularly do not like to eat?’

  ‘Oh!’ It was a rather unusual question. ‘I’ll just wait to have a look at the menu, thank you.’

  ‘I will make the selections,’ Rakhal responded.

  Natasha felt her lips tighten. She certainly did not want him choosing her dinner for her, and she told him the same. ‘I’d like to wait and see the menu.’

  She was determined to win on this—for this was a man who didn’t usually take no for an answer. Not this morning when she had declined his lift, nor tonight when he had come to her door despite her turning down his invitation to dinner. And now he thought he could choose what she ate. Well, he had chosen the wrong person if that was the case.

  Her voice held a warning when she spoke again. ‘I can order for myself, thank you!’

  ‘I’m sure you can. But I have asked my chef to prepare a banquet, so he needs to know if there are foods to which you are averse.’

  ‘Your chef?’

  ‘I stay regularly at this hotel and so I ensure there is a chef from Alzirz. Naturally when I’m away the other guests get to sample his delightful cooking, but tonight he is preparing food exclusively for us …’ He watched the movement in her throat as she swallowed. ‘Of course I can have him come out and discuss your preferences, if you’d prefer …?’

  ‘No.’ Natasha shook her head, her face flushed, more than a little embarrassed at the fuss she had made. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  And Rakhal watched her blush, visible even in candlelight. ‘Perhaps I could have somebody write down the ingredients so you can check through them …’ He was enjoying this now.

  ‘Of course not. I’m sure it will be lovely. It is more that I thought you were choosing for me …’

  ‘I am,’ Rakhal said, and watched her rapid blinking. ‘Tonight you are my guest, and you should not be worrying about making decisions. Say I were to come to your house tomorrow for dinner …’ He watched the red darken on her cheeks as she pictured it. ‘Perhaps you would ask my preferences, but you would not give me a menu.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘You would prepare dishes that you thought might please your guest. Well, I do not cook, but I have asked my chef to do the same … to cook with foods that are fresh and flown in from my country.’

  ‘You have food flown in?’ How spoilt was this man? she wondered, taking a sip of her drink.

  ‘And water too …’ Rakhal responded without a qualm. ‘I am served water that is sourced from my home.’

  She paused as she raised the glass to her lips. French champagne probably cost less. And then, as he had since the moment they met, he surprised her again.

  ‘If I am to give wise counsel then I should be nourished by my land …’

  A waiter topped up her glass as the first course was brought: a selection of dips and breads and fruits. Rakhal explained his selections.

  ‘The water is from a spring deep in the desert, and this is what I always start with.’ He picked up a date and a small silver knife. ‘Usually they are served quartered, but I prefer to pit my own.’

  He slid the knife through the shiny fruit and exposed the stone. She felt her stomach curl as he inverted the date and popped the stone out. How, Natasha tried to fathom, could slicing a date be seduc
tive?

  Dates were something her grandmother served at Christmas.

  Dates were prunes.

  Dates were not sexy.

  He dipped it in some oily goo and she watched his long slender fingers swirl it around. Then he lifted it to her mouth and she accepted, trying to touch only the fruit. But her lips met his fingers and she had to force her mouth not to linger, to take the fruit, not to capture his hand and taste his fingers. It scared her, the effect he had on her, the places he took her mind to. And she knew that he knew it as he pulled his hand away.

  As Natasha chewed the rich fruit, she amended her thoughts.

  Dates were sexy.

  ‘It is called haysa al tumreya.’

  His voice was low and for her ears only, and she tasted the hot sauce around the sweet date as she listened.

  ‘The date tree is the most important. It provides shade around the spring …’

  As they ate he told her about the oasis in the desert, about the fruits and ripe peaches for nectar and about the aubergines that made the baba ganoush she tried next. It held a smoky flavour that had her closing her eyes in bliss as she tasted it. He told her about the foods that grew beneath the tall date trees, and she ate and she listened and she looked, and he was intriguing rather than spoilt, and at each turn more beautiful still.

  Rakhal was right. It was nice to be spoiled, not to have to make any decisions, simply to listen and to talk as they shared the sumptuous food. He told her a little about his land, about his life in Alzirz, and she told him a little about herself too—or rather he asked her about her family.

  ‘My parents were killed last year in a motor accident,’ Natasha said. She waited for the flurry of sympathy, but he simply stared and waited for her to go on. ‘I have an older brother. Mark.’

  ‘And he takes care of you?’

  ‘I take care of myself,’ Natasha answered. Aware her response might have been a little brittle, she softened it. ‘It’s been a difficult year, but I manage.’

  She was relieved when they were disturbed by the waiters bringing another impressive course, and then he told her more about the land from which he came. About the palace that looked out to the ocean and the desert abode to which he escaped.