by Dani Collins
Her brothers left and she sat down to work.
A knock sounded a few minutes later.
Most of Trella’s security detail were women so they’d been given much-deserved vacation time, rather than coming to work where they would have been hampered in performing their regular duties. When the family was together like this, in a secure location, they needed fewer guards anyway.
Maurice was outside this door and she paused to listen, expecting him to ask for identification.
Nothing.
Weird. Unless he already knew the person knocking?
Angelique faltered, suddenly paralyzed with nerves, then forced herself to rise and open the door.
She caught her breath.
He looked so exotic in his bisht and gutra.
She had studied menswear to design her brother’s wedding cloaks, but even though she’d taken great care with them, Kasim’s was obviously of royal quality and tailored by hands that were intimately familiar with the engineering of such garments. His robe fit his shoulders perfectly. It was stark black with its V opening trimmed in gold, his white gutra framing his face and secured with a cord of matching gold.
He had let his beard grow in, but it was trimmed to a sexy frame that accentuated his mouth and the hollows of his cheeks. The contrast of white and black and gold made his eyes look all the more like melted dark chocolate.
He stole her breath.
His expression flashed something that might have been exaltation as he looked at her, but it was quickly schooled into the stern, confrontational look he’d worn the day she had met him.
“You can’t be here,” he said.
She searched for the woman she’d been in her office that first day, the one who had stood up to this man, but it was far harder to find her backbone when he looked right through her and saw all her weaknesses.
Her weakness for him.
Somehow she managed to speak despite the earthquake gripping her.
“You’ll feel differently when I tell you what brought me here.”
Instantly alert, he stepped in, crowding her into stumbling backward. His expression was grave as he firmly closed the door behind him and left his hand flat on the carved panel. His lips barely moved as he said in an undertone, “Pregnant?”
“What? No!” Her heart fishtailed, then did it again as his mouth tightened.
Disappointment? Don’t be stupid, Angelique.
He smoothed his expression into something aloof and pitiless, sweeping his gaze around the empty lounge. He tensed and swore under his breath.
“Are you alone?”
As his gaze slammed back into hers, practically knocking her onto her back, her skin tightened with anticipation and a rush of heat hit her loins.
“My m-m—” How was she supposed to speak when he looked at her like that? “Mama is asleep in her room,” she blurted, pointing to the one closed door. “Trella will be back any minute.” Quit making me think you still want me.
His nostrils flared and he swung away, moving into her lounge like he owned it, which he did. He cast a glance around to take in the litter of tablets and purses, her open mending kit and his young sisters’ dresses in vivid green and yellow.
“Damn you for coming,” he said, pitching his voice low, but it was still overflowing with restless emotion. “What do you think you’re accomplishing?”
Angelique moved to her purse and dug for the velvet pouch, hand shaking as she offered it to him.
* * *
Kasim hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how they’d ended things, the bitterness of it. He hated that the acrimony would be even deeper after this. He had lived in that sort of thorny forest all his life and knew how unpleasant it was.
That Angelique had forced his hand and was making him reject her outright, forcing her to leave his country, seemed cruel on her part—which was the last word he would use to describe her. He hadn’t expected this of her and that made it doubly hard to accept and behave as he knew he must.
Yet there was only the anticipation of pain as he stood here. Duty and reputation hung like anvils and pianos over his head, but in this moment, the bleak anger that had consumed him had become radiant light in her presence.
Angelique turned, expression solemn, and stood where the stained glass poured colors over her golden skin and pale blue dress.
He drank in the picture she made. Memorizing it.
Then she offered something to him and her expression was so grave, so filled with deep compassion, it made his heart lurch. All the hairs on his body stood up as he took the pouch and poured its contents into his hands.
He recognized the workmanship if not the piece. New. Better than anything else he’d made yet. His brother had definitely found his calling in this.
The piano landed.
She knew.
“Your family knows this is why you came?” His mind raced while cold sweat lifted in his palms. He tried to imagine how he would contain this, but his mind was as empty as the shifting dunes in the desert. Old protectiveness warred with fresh, fierce aggression while betrayal washed through him.
“No,” she dismissed, barely speaking above a whisper. Her eyes stayed that soft, mossy green. “They think I decided to brave the wedding. That’s all.”
“How did you find him?”
“He came to me. Asked me to bring that to you for Hasna.”
Trella walked in, making both of them start guiltily. Kasim let his arm fall so his sleeve fell over his fist where he clutched the pendant. He slipped it into the side pocket of his robe.
Trella’s gaze flicked between them, sticking upon her sister’s pale face. “Shall I come back?”
“No,” Kasim said on impulse, probably a self-destructive one. “You can tell your family that she’s with me.” He clasped Angelique’s hand in an implacable grip.
“Kasim—”
“We have to talk.” He had to ensure Jamal would stay dead. That’s what he told himself, even though he knew at a cell-deep level that he could trust Angelique with this secret. She hadn’t told her family, had she?
“Gili, your phone,” Trella urged, handing it to Angelique as Kasim tugged her toward the door.
There’s no point, he thought, as he decided on the fly where they were going.
CHAPTER TEN
A LIFETIME OF taking precautions and Angelique had been kidnapped anyway. Maurice had been left in the dust. Fat lot of good her panic switch would do a hundred miles into the middle of nowhere.
But they were somewhere. As the helicopter lowered into an oasis, tents fluttered under the wind they raised.
Kasim was in the copilot’s seat and unhooked his headgear as they settled on the ground, glancing back to signal she could do the same. The whine of the rotors slowed and dwindled.
“No wonder you were so offended by my audacity that first day.” She leaned to see more of what looked like a scene from an epic Hollywood tale of Arabia. “You are a future king, Kasim. I didn’t fully appreciate that.”
“I am aware,” he said flatly, crouching to circle in front of her and push open the door. He leaped to the ground before holding up a hand to help her exit.
This strong hand had spirited her down a servant stairwell that had felt like a secret passageway. She had allowed it because she had expected to come out in a library or private lounge.
They had wound up in a break room of some kind where men watched TV and read the paper. One had been eating a rice dish. They had quickly stood to attention when Kasim appeared, all plainly shocked so she assumed he never went there and never with a woman whose head was uncovered!
They’d leaped to do whatever Kasim ordered in Arabic and moments later he had tugged her upstairs and out to the helicopter.
She h
ad balked and he’d said, “Get in or I’ll put you in.”
What was she going to do? Set off her panic switch and an international incident? He wasn’t going to hurt her. He didn’t want to extort money from her family.
“Are you flying me out of Zhamair? At least let me get my passport.”
A muscle had pulsed in his jaw. “We’ll be in the desert.”
We. For some reason that had been enough to make her climb into her seat. Minutes later, they’d been chasing their own shadow across the sand.
Now they were at their destination, a pocket of verdant green in an otherwise yellow landscape that was turning bronze with the setting sun. Palms loomed over the tents that showed not the tiniest ripple now the rotors were still. The water mirrored the scene, placid and inviting.
People moved, however, bustling out of one of the biggest tents to stand at the door, heads lowering with respect as Kasim drew her into it.
“This is...” There weren’t words for the fantasy of draped silk and tasseled pillows that surrounded her. Candles had been lit and an erotic incense perfumed the air. A low table with cushions for chairs was set with what looked like gold plates and cutlery. In the distance, music from a lute began.
The bed was low and wide, draped with netting so it was a tent within a tent, sumptuous in its bold colors and swirled patterns on silk sheets, luxurious in its multitude of pillows.
“Where will you sleep?” she asked pointedly.
He gave her the look that said, Take care.
“Well, you’re taking a lot for granted, aren’t you? You may be a future king, but I am not some harem girl you can order to your bed for the night.”
Listen to her, talking so tough when she might as well be a concubine stolen by a barbarian for all the power she had here. And for all the strength she had when it came to resisting him. She was already reacting as she always did, hyperaware of his physique as he shrugged out of his bisht and tossed it aside.
He wore a light thobe beneath and peeled off his gutra, running a hand through his hair, letting go of his veneer the way she had often seen him do when they entered a private space. He was shedding the future king to reveal the man who captivated her.
“Have you ever been a harem girl?” he drawled. “If not, it should be a treat for you to try it. You can dance for me later.”
She was standing near the door with her arms crossed, and did her best to dice and slice him with her stare, but found herself fighting a laugh. The bastard.
“Don’t you dare act like this is funny. My brothers will be beside themselves.”
“So will my father. What was that expression you used after your sister’s antics? Ah yes. They can grin and bear it.” He slouched into the only chair, one with wooden legs, sumptuously cushioned in blue velvet with matching pads on the arms.
Oh, this banter felt familiar and inviting. Poignant. She wanted to let all the harsh edges between them soften.
She couldn’t. He had hurt her and could again, so easily. She ducked her head, avoiding letting her gaze tangle with his.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Because my father wanted you removed from the palace.” He indicated she should move. She was in the way of the servants bringing food.
Forced to step deeper into the tent, she watched as dishes of fruit and bowls of something that smelled rich and spicy were set out for them. When they finished, they looked back at him for further instructions.
He sent them away with a flick of his wrist, as supremely arrogant as Angelique had ever seen him.
Tipping his head against his chair back, he watched her through eyes so narrow his lashes were a single black line.
She shifted her bare feet under the skirt of her dress. Her phone was still in her hand, showing zero bars of coverage. He hadn’t let her pause for a scarf or sandals.
“I would make you my harem girl if I could. Keep you here. That’s how my father started up with Fatina. This is her family.”
“This is their tent?” She glanced at the bed, not sure how she felt about that.
“This is my mother’s. She used it once when they were first married. She doesn’t like the desert. I use it.”
“Ah.” Of course. She scratched beneath her hair where the back of her neck was damp from perspiration. At least the sun was setting. The heat was beginning to ease.
“After me, my mother was reluctant to have another child. I don’t judge her for that. I watched Fatina go through several pregnancies and she carries like she’s made for the process, but it still looks cumbersome.”
Cumbersome. How enlightened he sounded. She bit her lip against interrupting with sarcasm. The way he was being so forthcoming had her staying wisely silent, curious to hear how much he would tell her.
“When Fatina became pregnant, my father married her. If it was a son, he wanted him born legitimate. An heir and a spare. Mother was incensed. She promptly got herself pregnant with Hasna. She and Jamal are only a year apart. That’s why they were so close.” He had his elbow propped on the arm of his chair and smoothed the side of his finger against his lips. “My father was ambivalent toward Hasna. Still is. He sees little value in females. They are expensive.”
“She’s so sweet,” she was compelled to say. “It’s his loss he doesn’t appreciate her.”
“It is. And I often think that for all the nightmare his having two wives has been, at least she had Fatina. Mother was quite content to shuffle her newborn onto Number Two. The messy years of wiping noses and offering affection. She enjoys Hasna’s company now, but if mother had raised her, we would have had two shrews terrorizing the palace, I’m sure.”
What a way to talk about his mother.
“If she was thrown over because she was afraid to go through childbirth again, can you blame her for her jealousy? Does he love Fatina? That must have been a blow to her, too.”
“She didn’t have to turn into what she did. After Jamal, she quietly fed Fatina birth control pills for years. My father was furious when he found out. He knew by then that Jamal would never—” Kasim’s mouth flattened, face spasming with anguish.
“He told me,” she said, pulled forward a few steps on the silken rug that covered the floor, then halted and curled her toes against the cool material. Jamal wouldn’t marry and produce an heir. That’s what he had been about to say. “It’s terrible that your father couldn’t accept him. Was his life really in danger?”
She didn’t want to believe it. Who hated to such a magnitude?
“From my father’s intolerance, my mother’s jealousy, and latent bigotry in some of our countrymen, yes.” His hand fisted on the arm of his chair. “Do you think I would have taken such extreme steps otherwise? Even I couldn’t risk seeing him.”
He was so impassioned and tortured, she was drawn forward another couple of steps. At the same time, she wondered if Jamal was still in danger and glanced toward the door.
“They have some French, but don’t speak English. And they’ll have given us our privacy by now.”
Privacy? For what? She was here to talk. That’s all.
Wasn’t she?
“How was he?” Kasim’s voice was low and yearning, hopeful, yet worried. When she met his gaze, she saw that same search she had seen in Jamal’s eyes. He longed for news of his family.
“Good. I think,” she reassured, smiling with affection because she had been quite taken with his brother by the time they’d parted. “Homesick, maybe, but he seemed content. I gave him my private number and begged him to collaborate with me on something, but I realize it might be too risky. I won’t tell a soul, Kasim. I swear.”
He dismissed that with a flick of his hand.
“I know you won’t, but it may not matter. If I give Hasna that necklace... His body wasn’t found, obviously.
She and Fatina have held out hope. I had to give them that much. But what now? Do you know how much it has weighed on me that I hurt them like that? My father is no dummy and neither is my mother. Do I come clean? Put his life in danger again? What the hell do I do, Angelique?”
There was so much torment in his expression, her insides twisted painfully and her eyes welled. She threw herself into his lap and slid her arms around his neck, hearing his breath rush in as his chest filled. He clamped hard arms around her and squeezed her into the space against his torso, allowing her to drape her legs over the arm of the chair, then snugging her even tighter into the hollow of his body.
The way he held her pressed more tears out of her so she sniffed and tucked her wet cheeks into his throat.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “It’s not for you to weep over.”
“I’m crying for you,” she said as a little shudder racked through her.
“I am fine, Angelique. My life is not in danger. At worst my father could disown me. I’ll survive.”
She drew back, thinking that men were so obtuse at times. “I’m crying for you. Because you can’t. Can you? Have you ever let go of any of this?”
His brow angled with great suffering and his mouth tightened. “No,” he admitted, and pressed her head to his shoulder. “No, I never have.”
Fresh agony rose in her, spilling from her eyes and releasing as soft, pained sobs.
He stroked his hands over her back and arms, throat swallowing against her forehead, tension easing as he held her and held her while she cried. She cried for him and for them. She cried because he was leaning his heart against hers and his was so heavy, so very heavy, and she wanted to brace it forever, but she knew he wouldn’t let her.
He was strong and disciplined and had responsibilities to a country. She might have room inside her for him, but his life did not have room for her.
Which meant it was pure self-destruction to slide her hand from his neck down to where his heart beat. Setting her damp and salty lips against his throat was both a step out of the pain she’d nursed since their breakup and a willingness to go back to a deeper level of it.
