The Sheikh's Princess Bride

by Annie West

  She must have made some sound of distress for Tariq swung around.

  Her heart dipped as she read the familiar signs when he saw her—the instant stiffening of his shoulders, the guarded expression, the distance he somehow put between them even without physically moving.

  Samira grabbed harder at the door jamb.

  ‘Hello, Tariq.’ Her voice was husky but firm and she jutted her chin higher.

  ‘Samira, shouldn’t you be resting?’

  Her mouth twisted mirthlessly. She was always being told to rest when she wanted to be with him.

  ‘I want to see my baby. Between you and the staff I barely get any time with her.’ Bitterness made her exaggerate. She wanted to lash out at Tariq, sick of this distant politeness that was all they shared now.

  She breathed deep, seeking calm.

  For so long she’d craved a child, believing it would fill the stark emptiness within. And it was true; Layla was the light of her life. The tenderness she felt whenever she looked at her daughter had no comparison.

  But too late Samira had realised a baby couldn’t make her whole. Only she could do that, except she’d made the mistake of giving away a vital part of herself to Tariq. The man who’d never be the husband she wanted because he was still in love with his dead wife. The man who viewed her not with love but as a responsibility.

  Shoring up her strength, she walked into the room, not even flinching at the careful way Tariq passed their baby over so as not to touch Samira.

  She compressed her lips, biting down the reproach that hovered on her tongue.

  What was the point in berating him? He couldn’t help what he felt. In other circumstances she’d be full of admiration for a man so loyal to his one true love.

  Something wrenched deep inside and she turned away, blinking back hot tears as Layla nuzzled at her breast. Love for her little girl filled her, yet even that couldn’t bring peace.

  She was trapped in a web of her own devising.

  ‘Goodnight, Tariq.’ She didn’t look at him. Slowly, her body cramped with a soul-deep ache, she settled in the low chair by the crib and undid the belt of her robe.

  * * *

  Tariq’s hands clenched as he watched Layla suckle at her mother’s breast. He never tired of the sight, despite the raw discomfort it brought him. Who’d have believed watching a woman feed a baby would be so arousing?

  Not just any woman but Samira.

  Even with dark circles under her eyes and her skin pale with tiredness, his wife made him hard with wanting. More, she twisted his gut in knots.

  He tried to do the right thing, to keep some physical distance while she recuperated from childbirth. Just remembering that labour made his belly churn.

  It had been excruciating torture, watching Samira suffer, and pretending to a confidence that all would be well when at the forefront of his mind was the memory of Jasmin’s lifeless face after her emergency delivery.

  Even now, weeks after Layla’s birth, he woke in a sweat most nights from nightmares where Samira didn’t survive. Where nothing the doctors did could save her, because Tariq hadn’t got her to the hospital soon enough.

  The image of her when he’d burst into the bathroom and found her in labour still haunted him. She’d looked so vulnerable. If he’d needed anything to shore up his resolve to keep his distance until the doctor said intimacy was safe, it was that.

  ‘You’re still here?’ Samira looked up, a frown on her delicate features.

  He stiffened. ‘It’s late. There’s nowhere else I need to be.’

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, then turned instead to watch Layla.

  As if he wasn’t there.

  Tariq scowled. He wasn’t used to being dismissed. Even if his self-imposed rule was to avoid being alone with her so as not to be tempted into doing something he shouldn’t.

  This was different. This was Samira withdrawing from him. Not physically, but mentally. She’d been like this since the hospital.

  Tariq hated it. Every instinct clamoured that this wasn’t right.

  He’d told himself after the baby was born they’d resume the relationship they’d had before. Surely he’d imagined the love he’d seen in her face months earlier? For she’d shown no evidence of it since. If anything, her partiality for Roussel’s company, never enough to provoke gossip, but still marked, seemed to indicate he’d been mistaken about that.

  Yet, right from that first day home from the hospital, things had gone wrong. Tariq had excused himself to let Samira rest, finding one reason after another to keep away. When he’d finally returned, timing his appearance with that of the twins and their nanny, there’d been no welcome in Samira’s eyes. She’d looked bruised with fatigue and there was an unfamiliar blankness in her expression as she’d listened to his excuses about catching up with work. As if she just didn’t care.

  That had shocked him. Though they’d grown apart before the birth, he’d always felt Samira cared for him. Her indifference was a blow he couldn’t shrug off. It bothered him more than he’d thought possible.

  He’d refrained from pressing her, understanding she needed time to recuperate; making excuses, knowing she must be exhausted from labour. He’d found more and more work to occupy him, giving her the space she needed.

  But it wasn’t working. Something was horribly wrong.

  The spark had gone out of her, the vibrant energy that was an essential part of Samira. Her eyes no longer tracked him across the room and he hadn’t seen her smile in weeks.

  His belly hollowed. He missed that. Missed the way her eyes used to light up when she saw him; how she’d lower those long, lustrous eyelashes to screen her expression when she realised he’d noticed her hungry stare. How her pulse had fluttered faster when he took her hand, even when they were in a receiving line at a royal function.

  Nor had he missed the way she called Layla her baby, not theirs.

  Cold crept along his spine. The gap between them yawned wider each passing day. It was no longer something he could control.

  She’d always wanted a child. Now she had one of her own. Was that why she shut him out?

  Were he and the twins superfluous?

  Tariq’s heart hammered against his ribs. The chill along his backbone turned to a glacial freeze, stiffening every muscle and seizing his lungs.

  It couldn’t be. It was just weariness from the birth. The doctor had advised time and patience. Maybe a change of scenery to lift her spirits. Tariq had planned a visit to the small palace where they’d honeymooned, as soon as he could get away.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ He stepped closer and Samira half-turned her head but didn’t meet his eyes.

  That epitomised all that was wrong between them. Tariq couldn’t seem to reach her any more. It wasn’t anger that ate at him but concern that maybe this was something he couldn’t put right.

  Blanking out the idea, he stepped in front of Samira, willing her to look up.

  ‘Yes?’ Once more her gaze skated towards his face but never settled.

  With infinite effort he managed not to sound gruff. ‘A change of scenery might be welcome. A little break away.’

  Instantly Samira’s gaze meshed with his and he felt the impact of that stare right to the soles of his feet. At last! It was the closest they’d come to connecting since the night the baby had been born. Then she’d looked at him with such softness in her eyes, he’d felt like a god among men.

  Yet now for the first time he had no inkling what she felt. The realisation pulled his flesh tight as the hairs at his nape stood on end. Never, in all the years he’d known her, had Samira been so unreadable, so blank. It was as if a light had been switched off inside her.

  Fear clutched greedily at his innards. He felt like something precious had slipped away from him.


  ‘You must be a mind reader.’ Her voice was low and husky, as if from a tight throat. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  But before he could explain his plans she spoke again. ‘I need to go to Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’ He stiffened.

  She nodded and once more her gaze slid away. He wanted to grab her by the chin and force her to look him in the eye. Then he glanced down at Layla, still feeding at her breast, and pulled himself up.

  ‘Yes. Next week.’

  ‘You want to go to Paris?’ Why there?

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice had that husky quality that always ignited his libido.

  Perhaps he’d panicked needlessly. If Samira fancied a trip to the city women equated with romance, how could he object?

  Relief fizzed in his blood. The doctor had been right. She was just tired. Tariq would see to it her stay in the French capital was memorable. His mind raced with possibilities.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea. Not next week, though. I’ll still be tied up in negotiations. But in another week or two I can manage it.’

  Satisfaction filled him. Everything was going to be okay. His mouth hitched in an approving smile.

  ‘No. I’ll go next week.’ There was no answering smile. If anything, her expression was sombre.

  ‘I’m sorry, Samira. That’s not possible. You know how important this treaty is. I’m doing the best I can to speed things up but I’m needed here.’

  She shrugged. ‘Layla and I can go without you.’

  For the first time in his life Tariq experienced the sensation that the floor had dropped away beneath him. He almost stumbled where he stood.

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Of course I’m serious.’ She tilted her head, as if curious at his reaction.

  What did she see on his face? Outrage? Anger? Fear? For fear was what billowed up in waves from the pit of his stomach. Fear as strong as he’d felt when he’d thought he might lose her in childbirth.

  He was losing Samira. She’d drifted away from him and he had no idea how to grab her back.

  His palms itched with the need to haul her close, imprison her against him and not release her. But that wouldn’t work. She was with him now physically, but mentally, emotionally, she was in some other place. Some place he couldn’t reach.

  Never had the emotional minefield of the female psyche been so unfathomable.

  What did she want from him?

  How could he get back what they’d lost?

  The metallic tang of alarm filled his mouth. Samira in Paris without him? In the city where Nicolas Roussel lived since his contract had finished?

  Tariq tried to banish jealousy, telling himself Samira had more class than to betray him.

  Yet the idea of Samira and Layla alone, apart from him and the twins, filled him with cold, draining dread.

  He shook his head, biting down a terse refusal. It was on the tip of his tongue to forbid her but he knew, whatever his rights as Samira’s husband, that wasn’t the way to win her over. Brute force wouldn’t work, no matter how tempting.

  He’d never felt at such a loss.

  ‘It makes more sense to wait.’ He dredged up a shadow of a smile that threatened to crack the taut flesh of his face. ‘In two weeks I’ll have this wrapped up, I promise.’ He’d do whatever it took to conclude the treaty in record time. ‘Then we can all go together.’

  But she was already shaking her head. ‘There’s no need. I know you’re tied up here.’

  Something flickered in her expression and Tariq’s eyes narrowed. Had she deliberately proposed the visit at a time she knew he couldn’t get away?

  ‘Besides, I’ve already promised—’

  ‘Promised whom?’ Nothing could disguise the raw edge of anger in his words. Who was she meeting? If it was...

  ‘That French cabinet minister.’ Samira stared up at him with rounded eyes. ‘She contacted me months ago about a designing a dress for her wedding.’

  ‘You don’t do wedding dresses.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not a conventional bridal dress. It’s her second marriage and she wants something different. I promised when she was here and I’m running out of time.’

  Tariq wanted to bellow that he didn’t give a damn about what sort of dress a foreign politician wanted. He didn’t give a damn about anything but having Samira look at him the way she used to. To feel the sunshine of her smile as she laughed with him and the boys or lay in his arms, sated and content.

  Samira disengaged the now drowsy Layla, revealing one lush breast, its raspberry nipple glistening, and a jolt of need jabbed direct to Tariq’s belly. His hunger for her was so predictable, so strong, he’d given up trying to fight it. But it was nothing compared with his need for that intangible connection between them that had disappeared like rainwater on desert sand.

  Swiftly Samira covered herself and lifted Layla to her shoulder.

  The sight of them together, mother and child, smashed open something hard and tight in his chest. He could almost feel the blood cascade from the unseen wound as he faced the possibility Samira had given up on their marriage.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tariq. We’ll be fine in Paris.’ Samira’s smile was perfunctory. ‘Layla’s nanny will take care of her while I’m busy.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  She shrugged and looked down at their baby. ‘A few days, a week. But you’re right. A change of scenery will be good. I think I’ll stay on for a while. There’s no rush for me to return, is there?’

  Every sinew and muscle strained as Tariq held himself back, forcing himself not to shout that there was every reason for her to return. That she wouldn’t be permitted to leave the country. Her place was here with him and their boys. He had no intention of letting either her or their daughter leave.

  Pain radiated along his jaw from his gritted teeth. But it was nothing to the tearing stab of frustration and fury he felt as he fought for control.

  He told himself he was a civilised man, a husband who understood a wife might need space and understanding after childbirth.

  He would find a way to keep her. He had to. In the meantime...

  ‘Very well. Since you’ve promised the woman, you’d better see her. I’ll have my staff organise your visit.’

  Yet, even though he knew he was doing the sensible thing, the civilised thing, though he knew she’d have the best care from hand-picked staff, his gut knotted.

  He turned and strode from the room before he could give in to the impulse to snatch his wife up, sling her over his shoulder and secrete her in the ancient harem where stout doors and old-fashioned padlocks would keep her just where he needed her.

  Walking away, giving her the breathing space she needed, was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SAMIRA PUSHED THE PRAM along the bank of the Seine, watching the golden lights come on as the sky darkened. A cruise boat went by filled with tourists. Laughter floated across the water and her steps faltered as she remembered Tariq’s deep, inviting chuckle as he relaxed with her and the boys.

  She dragged in an uneven breath. She missed the boys, even after just a day away.

  And she missed Tariq.

  How stupid was that when she saw him so rarely? When they led separate lives?

  Yet there was no escaping the truth, even here in Paris. She was in love with her husband. As for clearing her head and finding a solution by getting away from him, that had been an abysmal failure.

  All her trip to France had achieved was to make her homesick. She wanted to be back in Al Sarath.

  How telling that her adopted country felt like home now. Because the people she loved most were there.

  But
what would she return to? A rapturous welcome from the twins and polite indifference from Tariq.

  She had two options. Go back to the palace and live a life devoted to her children and her work. She’d pretend her heart wasn’t broken but it would be torture being so close to the man she could never have. Or take Layla and leave Tariq and the boys. It would be the scandal of the century. Worse, she’d never be allowed to see Adil and Risay again. Or Tariq.

  Both options were untenable.

  Yet what other choice did she have?

  She looked up to see a couple entwined together in the shadows of the embankment. Abruptly she stopped, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her breath snatched as heat pricked her eyes. Searing emotion blocked her throat as she remembered Tariq holding her like that. As if he’d never let her go.

  How much she wanted from him!

  Too much. She hunched over the pram, pain stabbing low and fierce.

  Out of her peripheral vision she caught a shadow of movement, one of her discreet security detail making sure she was all right. Yet another reminder of Tariq.

  As if she didn’t already have that. Slowly she straightened and glanced down at her daughter’s sleeping face. Layla’s dainty rosebud lips were such a contrast to the determined little chin she’d got from her father. A tremor racked Samira, starting high in her chest and radiating out to weaken her limbs.

  It didn’t matter what she did or where she went, she couldn’t escape her feelings for Tariq. She’d been appallingly naive, proposing marriage to a man whom, she realised too late, she’d been half in love with all her life. She’d been worse than naive in falling for his ‘sex without emotion’ idea. With her past she should have protected herself better. Now it was too late.

  The breeze along the river picked up and she shivered. It was time she got Layla back to the hotel. Past time she came to some conclusion about the future.

  Shoulders slumped, she forced herself to walk on.

  * * *

  Samira had just passed Layla to her nanny for a bath and turned towards her own room when a door on the far side of the suite’s opulent sitting room opened.