by Tessa Radley
“This always works for us.”
Not today. Jealousy mushroomed into rage. “You haven’t seen the photos in today’s paper.”
“What, a photo of me with the daughter of a man who donated to a cause I am a founding patron for?”
“It didn’t look that innocent.”
“Her hand was on my arm. I did not touch her. Pah, that’s the paparazzi—always on the lookout for a scandal.”
There was a ring of truth in his impatience.
But Tiffany had learned young that there was no whiff of smoke without a raging inferno someplace. A picture of her father with an adoring starlet in the gossip rags usually escalated into a passionate affair with the young actress in question not long after.
And Rafiq had admitted the first night they met that women found him charming. She had been warned.
Turning in her chair, Tiffany pulled the newspaper out from where she’d tucked it away on the seat beside her and unfolded it, spreading it out on the table, to glance at the image again.
She stared hard. Rafiq was facing into a camera, his expression carefully blank. No smile for the woman at his side. No glow of romance. Was Rafiq really different from her father? She wanted desperately to believe he was, but she had no intention of fooling herself that she could change such a man.
Perhaps the woman in the newspaper was indeed no more than a woman whose family he knew, a family who had donated a large sum to a good cause he sponsored.
She set the paper aside.
Rafiq was watching her. He hadn’t even spared the paper a glance—he obviously didn’t care what she believed. The ache in her chest that had begun when she’d first seen that picture intensified. It was an ache that was starting to concern her greatly.
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked suddenly.
“The kind of love that the poets wail about?” Rafiq grimaced. “Probably not. But the kind of love that makes me desire a woman? Then yes, several times—with a number of highly suitable women.”
His candor caused a fresh stab of sharper pain.
Well, she’d asked, hadn’t she? She could hardly complain when she didn’t like the reply.
Shoring up optimism, she said, “But you never married any of them.”
“I considered marrying one or two.”
Tiffany blinked. “You did? So what stopped you?”
He shrugged, then glanced away, his lashes falling to mask his unfathomable eyes. His hair shone in the light of the morning sun that streamed through the high windows above and into the dining room. “The pressure of expectation. I only had to show a small amount of interest in a woman for my family, her family and the newspapers to start setting wedding dates.”
His honesty startled her. She wished she’d never asked. “You felt trapped.”
He met her gaze squarely. “Yes.”
“Yet you have asked me to marry you—demanded that I marry you, in fact. After what you just told me, how do I know you’re not going to back out at the last moment if you start to feel pressured?”
“I have to marry you,” he pointed out. “You are with child—my child, you assure me.” Then he smiled, his eyes crinkling, and her breath snagged in her throat. “And, at this stage, you have the advantage that your father hasn’t produced marriage agreements for me to sign.”
“And I’m supposed to be relieved by that?”
He laughed.
Tiffany didn’t.
It was starting to occur to her that she had a much bigger problem on her hands than she’d ever dreamed. The man who’d asked her to marry him had been caught by the oldest trick in the book: pregnancy. And, worse, he was every bit as terrified of being trapped as she was of being cheated on.
“Do you expect a marriage of convenience?” he asked.
She did a double take. “You mean no sex?”
Rafiq was a passionate man. Their night together had proved that beyond a shadow of doubt. She wouldn’t have picked him for a man who could survive the sexless wasteland that a marriage in name only would be. Unless he planned to go to other women…despite his marriage vows. The ache inside her intensified.
With a firm shake of her head, she said, “I don’t know why I said that. It’s irrelevant. I don’t want the kind of marriage we’d have.”
“Then we can have a different kind of marriage.” His eyes grew lazy and he tugged the hand that he was holding, propelling her closer. Her chair scraped across the highly polished wooden floor. “With lots of sex.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
Before she could finish setting him right, his mouth closed over hers, full of ardor. Tiffany tasted coffee and desire. Deliciously tempting. She edged nearer. Closing her eyes, she sagged against him.
His body was hard against hers. He was aroused, she realized. She pulled away. “No!” Her voice was sharp. “I don’t want that kind of marriage, either.”
“You might think a marriage of convenience would work for the child’s sake. You might think you want a romantic fairy tale.” His eyes had darkened, coal-black, piercing. “But what I’m offering is the exactly the kind of marriage you want.”
She wrenched herself out of his arms. “You don’t know me. You have no idea what I want!”
His lips curved up, and his eyes smoldered. “Then why don’t you tell me exactly what you want, and I will do everything in my power to give it to you.”
Little frissons of excitement ran up and down her spine. It annoyed her that he could control her body’s response so easily. “I’ve told you before—I don’t want you. I want to marry a different kind of man altogether, someone—”
“Ordinary.” The sexy smile vanished. “You’re chasing a chimera, Tiffany. Maybe you even believe it, but one day you will discover what I know already—that you have deceived yourself. You do not want anyone ordinary.”
Tiffany pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. Forcing herself to laugh, the kind of light, careless laugh her mother gave when she pretended to dismiss her father’s flirtations as inconsequential, she said, “So I suppose you’re going to tell me exactly what kind of man I do want?”
“You want me.”
Eight
As his stark words disappeared into a void of resounding silence, Rafiq knew at once he’d been far too forthright. Honeyed sentiments about love were what women wanted, not the honest, unvarnished truth.
Tiffany looked shaken. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. At last she found her voice. “Your arrogance knows no bounds.”
Heat expanded inside his chest. “Have you forgotten where the conversation ended up last time you called me an arrogant jerk?” he asked softly, getting to his feet.
By the golden fire in her eyes he saw that she remembered. Perfectly.
“It won’t end up in the same place this time.”
He cocked an eyebrow, and gave her a slow smile as he advanced. “You are certain of that?”
“Absolutely!”
“I relish a challenge.” And he watched the dismay dawn on her face with masculine satisfaction.
“Wait…” Tiffany backed up until the table was behind her. She held up her hands. “I didn’t mean for you to interpret my statement that you were arrogant as a challenge to get me back into your bed—”
“You agree it will be too easy?” He kept coming, until her hands were flat against his chest. Could she feel the thud of his heart against her palms? He was intensely aware of the touch of her fingers through the silk of his shirt.
“Definitely not.”
Despite his growing arousal, Rafiq was starting to enjoy himself. He suppressed a grin. “And that is a challenge for me to prove how easy it will be?”
She did a double take.
“No! I mean—” She paused, clearly fearful that he’d taken her denial as a fresh challenge.
“Hush.” He placed a finger against her lips. “It’s why I’m such a good negotiator.”
This time he allowed him
self a smug grin.
Her retort was cut off by the appearance of an aide at the door. “Your Highness, your office called. The first appointment for the day has arrived.”
Rafiq glanced down at his watch. He had no intention of telling Tiffany that Sir Julian had arrived in Dhahara, not while he was trying to convince her to marry him. “He is early. My secretary is away. Please let Miss Turner, her assistant, know I will be in shortly.”
After the aide had left, all teasing humor faded. Leaning forward he said, “Tiffany, what happened between you and me that night in Hong Kong—” Rafiq caught her hand in his “—should never have happened. It was dishonorable.”
She stared levelly back at him. “I’ve got as much to lose as you—I have no intention of telling the paparazzi about our night together…or the life we created.”
Rafiq threaded his fingers through hers, aware of the quiver of her fingers. “I’m relieved to hear that.” She opened her mouth to object. He continued quickly, “That night should never have happened. I don’t know why—” He broke off and shook his head.
He still didn’t understand what had happened to him that night. How he’d lost control so fast. Why it lingered in his mind…tempting him to repeat the experience, to the point where he couldn’t wait to marry Tiffany and get her back into his bed.
Finally he said, “It doesn’t change the fact that I will take responsibility for my actions.”
She glanced up sharply. “Are you saying that you’re prepared to believe that the baby is yours?”
Rafiq shook his head slowly. “I do not say that.” Yet. “But I am prepared to concede that it is possible, and for that reason I am prepared to marry you.”
“Even though it makes you feel trapped?”
He hesitated, then decided to let her believe it. He’d already told her he wanted her. She didn’t need to know the full extent of the sexual power she held over him. He thought of her every waking moment. He’d never experienced anything like it. What harm would it do to let her think he was marrying her only out of duty? “We will discover the truth when the baby is born. Until then we will not talk of this again. It is about time you met my family, don’t you think?” He smiled at her. “I will arrange for them to gather at Qasr Al-Ward, my brother’s home—I think you will like it there.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait—you can’t drop a bombshell like that and leave.”
“I’ll answer your questions later.”
Rafiq raised her hand and kissed the back. She gasped. It seemed as if he wasn’t the only one affected by the sensual tie that bound them.
“If I don’t leave now, I will be late for my appointment. I will send a car for you at five o’clock. Be ready. Tonight we will plan our wedding.”
Rafiq had spoken the truth.
Tiffany lay in the marble bath with its dolphin faucets, soaking to relax her aching neck muscles, and admitted the truth to herself. She’d been fooling herself, she wanted him, only him. Only he had ever aroused an emotion that she could label possessiveness. Only Rafiq had ignited the heat within her that made her melt when he was near her.
She’d come to Dhahara to build a bridge to the future for her unborn daughter. She’d discovered a man she was no longer sure she would be able to walk away from.
So why didn’t she throw caution to the wind and marry him? Because she still clung to part of her dream. She wanted more than a father for her child, and a lover for herself.
She wanted a man to marry her not because she was pregnant, not because she carried a royal heir, but because he loved her. But that dream was the biggest fairy tale of all.
The reality was that once Rafiq discovered how much the tabloids stalked her fickle father, it would outweigh the scandal of an illegitimate heir being born into the royal family. It was unlikely that he would need any second urging to drop her like a hot potato.
Sir Julian Carling had an agenda.
Rafiq sensed it as soon as the other man greeted him as he stepped into the bank’s wood-paneled boardroom. As soon as the discussions about the new hotel were out the way, Sir Julian pounced.
“My daughter, Elizabeth, was very taken with you, Rafiq.”
Rafiq could barely recall the debutante he’d met at Sir Julian’s home months ago. Across the wooden boardroom table, he gave the older man a noncommittal smile and put his slimline laptop back in its case. “I’m sure any man would be flattered by her attention.”
Sprawled in the leather-backed chair, Julian said, “She’s coming to Dhahara—the only reason she didn’t come with me now is a work commitment. She’s very involved in the Carling Hotel group, but she’d like to get to know you better. Perhaps, once Elizabeth arrives, we can talk about building a second hotel in one of the desert cities.”
It was a bribe.
Rafiq had not managed to remain unwed for more than three decades without developing an uncanny sixth sense about matchmaking parents. But this time he got the feeling that he was being craftily boxed in by a master operator. Getting to his feet, he made it clear that the meeting was at an end. “Julian, I must inform you that I’m getting married. My bride and I will probably be away when your daughter arrives.”
“Married?” Sir Julian sat up and planted his elbows on the boardroom table, displeasure written all over his florid features. “When I spoke to your father only a few days ago, he suggested I bring Elizabeth to spend time with you. He said nothing about your marriage.”
Because, at the time, his crafty father hadn’t known. Rafiq could have throttled the king. So much for taking up his joking suggestion that Elizabeth Carling might suit Khalid; his father had had another plan altogether.
“My bride and I will be married before the week is out.” Speaking with utmost confidence, Rafiq bent to pick up his laptop case. He would give Tiffany—and the king—no choice in the matter. She’d become a temptation he could not withstand.
“I’ll have to make sure I’m here to celebrate the event.”
“My fiancée wants a quiet, family wedding.” As he spoke, Rafiq wondered whether Tiffany would agree to a marriage without her parents present to give their blessing.
Tiffany didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the fortress of sun-bleached sandstone that rose out the surrounding desert. She peered through the window of the Mercedes-Benz to get a better look.
“Good heavens.”
“Qasr Al-Ward,” Rafiq announced as the black car came to a stop in the graveled forecourt.
“Your brother and his wife live here?”
“Yes, my brother has made his home here—he spends as much time as he can away from the city with his wife.”
Only one wife?
But Tiffany bit back the sarcastic retort as the chauffeur opened the door for her. The stifling heat of the late afternoon closed around her. Alighting from the backseat, she started to worry about the simple white dress she wore. “I’m not dressed up enough.”
“Don’t worry. More often than not Shafir is covered in desert sand. My brother won’t even notice what you are wearing.” There was a gleam of humor in Rafiq’s eyes. “But if what you are wearing concerns you, I am sure clothes can be found that will be more to your liking.”
Shafir Al Dhahara wore flowing white robes with not a speck of dust. But his wife was a surprise. Tiffany found herself enchanted by Megan—and it was clear that Shafir adored his wife.
“I have heard all about you,” said a tall, dark man with liquid-gold eyes coming up to stand behind the couple at the top of the stone stairs that led to the vast front door. “Rafiq, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Well, Tiffany had heard nothing about him—she didn’t even know who he was.
Rafiq waved a careless hand. “Tiffany, this is my brother, Khalid.”
She smiled, and wondered how many more brothers Rafiq had.
As if Khalid had read her thoughts, he said, “There are three of us. I am the eldest and Shafir here is the middle
son. Rafiq is the baby of the family.”
Ha. Some baby!
Tiffany waited for Rafiq to object; instead he gave his brother a rough hug. “Father will be here later. He had a meeting with the council of elders. Now let us go inside.”
The thought of meeting Rafiq’s father, the king, was enough to give Tiffany the shakes. But before she could worry about it any further, Shafir’s wife came up beside her.
“Would you like something to drink?” Megan asked. “It’s going to be a hectic few hours.”
A hectic few hours?
Despite her bemusement Tiffany requested a glass of soda.
“What did Megan mean by ‘a hectic few hours’?” she asked, dropping back to speak to Rafiq.
He avoided her gaze.
She put a hand on his arm to stop him moving away. “Answer me.”
“Ah, look at the lovebirds,” chortled Shafir.
“Let Tiffany and Rafiq alone,” Megan scolded her husband. “Rafiq, you can use your usual suite of rooms. Tiffany, for now, I’ve given you a chamber in the old harem—but don’t let that freak you out.”
Megan’s statement did indeed freak her out. But not the bit about the harem. “A chamber?”
Did Megan mean a bedchamber? They weren’t staying the night, were they? Rafiq had said nothing about that.
Megan nodded. “I’ll send one of the maids to help you dress for the party.”
Help her dress? Tiffany suddenly knew exactly how Alice must’ve felt when she blundered down the rabbit hole. “What party? I didn’t think to bring a change of clothes with me.”
“Your clothes—”
“Megan,” her husband grasped her arm, “you talk too much.”
Megan glanced around, a resigned expression on her face. “Have I put my foot in it again?”
Turning away from his family to confront a silent Rafiq, Tiffany demanded, “What is going on?”
Behind her she could hear Megan saying, “Dammit, I have put my foot in it. Why did none of you bother to tell me that she didn’t know?”
