The concession is obviously unexpected.
“Can we walk back to the car this way?” I nod down another alley.
Mollified by my agreement, she nods.
“Our house was near here,” I say, though I couldn’t find it for sure. Not for a million dollars. I know it’s out of the town, on the edges. We had a garden, with a small swimming pool. I used to find stones on the edges of Thakirt and bring them home, pitching them into the water so that I could watch them sink to the bottom, and stare at them deep under water, their beauty both marred and improved by ripples in the aqua surface.
“Was it?” I hear her disapproval and sigh.
“Why don’t you like me, Aliya?”
Her eyes flit to mine, her manner immediately uneasy.
“I am not in the custom of liking anyone I work for,” she says quietly. “I have never considered it to be a quality required for my job.”
“It’s not,” I agree. “But you actively dislike me.”
She doesn’t respond, which is all the answer I need.
“My dad isn’t what you believe. He’s really not.”
Her lips compress and she is silent, apparently determined not to answer.
I echo her sigh and continue walking. There is a market at the end of the street and our security detail of four men tightens around us in a uniform manner, keeping others from coming too close. Despite this, as we cross an intersection, a young boy cycles past, almost knocking Aliya over. He swerves to avoid her, his bike hitting the ground, and I forget for a moment the money and power inherent to my title and scoop down to pick him up, making sure he’s okay. An adult joins us, speaking in rapid-fire Qabidi to the boy, then me, crouching beside me to check the boys’ leg. It’s the work of a second before the security guards are ushering them away, reminding me that I’m different, not simply a woman walking through an ancient town.
I smile as the boy cycles away, more memories flooding me. I was never allowed to ride a bike through the town, but I ran through these streets, just as fast as the boy travels now.
It’s silent as we drive back to the hall, but as the car slows down, almost to a stop, Aliya addresses me.
“I will endeavour to – actively like you, if it is important to you.”
The admission surprises me, and I turn to face Aliya in time to see a small smile on her lips.
“I – will endeavour not to annoy you quite so much,” I quip, indicating the outfit I’d worn today.
“You do not annoy me, your highness. You amuse me.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Really?”
“You are a fish out of water, but you have no intention of learning to breathe.” Her smile softens. “Qabid is different, but wonderful, and our Sheikh is a great man. You should not be so hard on him.”
* * *
To the side of the hall, a tent has been erected. It is muted in colour – burgundy, brown, navy blue with golden tassels and pale ropes tethering it to the desert floor. A rich red carpet is laid out in front, and on either side there are low-set pots, each glowing with flames. Music is being played – a flute and some kind of string instrument I don’t recognise. The sound is soft and gentle, calming. The air is fragranced with food, and my tummy rolls as we approach. Apart from the alum habi I have barely eaten all day. I smile as we get nearer, but then my legs turn hollow as I see him.
My husband.
Sheikh Zahir Al Adari.
He is surrounded by many people, and he is listening to them, nodding, as though their stories are the most important thing he’s ever heard. He lifts his head as I approach, holding a hand up to silence the old woman to his left, speaking to him in words that I can’t quite grasp. She looks to me and then the assembled guests part, those who are standing bow in deference. My cheeks heat.
Zahir indicates the ground beside him. There are no thrones here, only cushions, and one has been left empty for me. I sit on it, my knee brushing his, but I don’t recoil from the contact.
His eyes roam my face, as if looking for the answer to a question I can’t comprehend and then he turns back to the older woman, nodding at her encouragingly.
She begins to speak, but this time Zahir translates for me, his voice low and gruff, the flames in the distance flickering, casting him in a warm, golden light that is answered in every cell of my body. The woman is explaining the difficulties her granddaughter faces. She suffers from dyslexia and there’s no one at her school who is able to help.
After the woman has finished, Zahir turns to me. “What shall we do?”
I blink at him in consternation. “What do you mean?”
He leans closer, his words brushing my ear, sending goosebumps across my skin. “This is a mukta ba, a sharing. We hear the people’s needs and propose solutions. Can you think of one?”
Talk about being thrown off the deep end! I stare at him, completely lost, shaking my head a little. His smile is encouraging, then he speaks. “My first thought is providing salary bonuses for any teachers willing to undertake additional training for children with specific educational requirements.”
I expel a slow breath, nodding. He says something to a servant behind us and then another woman is ushered forward. She begins to speak to him. This goes on for an hour, until all those in attendance have been seen and heard, and then he stands, holding his hands out for me. I put mine in them, my heart somewhere inside my throat now. When he pulls me up, our bodies briefly brush, and that live wire of electricity takes hold once more.
“What do we do now?” My question is breathless.
“Eat,” he murmurs.
He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together so briefly that I doubt anyone would have seen. It’s the smallest contact, just enough to reassure me at the same time as setting a flock of birds loose in my chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. I’m swirling with confusion and uncertainty. Here in this faraway town, surrounded by people who clearly adore him, I’m starting to forget that he’s a man I’ve sworn I’ll always hate.
“The day is almost done, Amy. Soon we will be alone.”
9
Amy
“SO?”
ALONE AT LAST, I’m aware of him on a cellular level. I move to the other side of this vast bedroom, lifting a bottle of something that looks alcoholic and smelling it. Yes, definitely alcohol, sweet and strong. I pour two measures into the delicate gold cups at its side, carrying them towards him.
“So?” I prompt, handing him the glass.
“You enjoyed yourself today?”
We’re staying in a large house on the edge of the city. It’s not a palace, exactly, but it’s definitely close to a mansion. I don’t remember it from when I was a girl, but then, we lived several suburbs away, so there’s no reason to think I ever came here.
“I did,” I agree, a smile touching my lips. “I could have lost myself in the town for days.”
His eyes regard me thoughtfully. “And you remembered more from your childhood?”
I frown. “Why do you say that?”
“You seemed nostalgic earlier. I presumed memories would come back as you spent time in the place. How can they not?”
“Yes,” I agree. “That’s just how it was being back in Thakirt. Shops were familiar, streets, some parks. There was even a tree with a very curved trunk that I can remember running my hands across as a girl. It was smaller then,” I recall with a husky laugh.
He takes the drink I hold out, keeping his eyes on me as he throws it back in one go. Taking my lead from him, I do the same, but break into a coughing fit as the alcohol incinerates my throat.
“It’s strong.”
He laughs as he takes the glass away. “Yes.” He moves quickly, filling a cup with water and offering it to me. I take a sip, standing close to him as I drink and my coughing dies leaving only the warmth of the alcohol in its place.
“The strangest thing is that these memories had deserted me. For years I could barely remember anything about my life
in Qabid and now –,” My voice peters out, but I shrug, self-consciously. “It’s hard to explain.”
“You’re home.”
My eyes flare wide, the description troubling even when it’s accurate. More contradictions fire through me. I nod uneasily. “In some ways.” I grip the glass simply because the alternative would involve walking to the table to place it down, and I’m reluctant to put space between us even when I know I should. “I didn’t feel any enmity towards you, Zahir. These people treat you like a God.”
His smile is cynical. “These people, perhaps. Opposition comes from the fringes, and it is there, azeezi, even if you wish that were not the case.”
I scrunch up my nose, expelling a slow breath. “It’s not just what I wish. I walked through Thakirt and felt…peace. These people are good and kind. I cannot believe any of them wishes you harm.”
He turns away from me and my heart grows cold, instantly. “Whether you believe it or not, it is the case. I would like to rely on your intuition alone, but I have a billion-dollar military with sophisticated intelligence gathering abilities. There is no doubt that danger lurks here. But with your help, I hope to quell it.”
A shiver runs down my spine, the truth of what he’s saying like a vein of ice. I want to ignore it. I don’t want anything dark to lessen my pleasure in this place and these people. I bite down on my lip, contemplating his pronouncement, wishing I could deny it more emphatically. I can’t.
“This house is beautiful.”
His head dips forward in silent agreement. Nerves spread through me, because all day I’ve been waiting for night to come and now that it’s here, I can’t regulate my body properly. I’m hot and cold, shaking at the knees, moist heat building between my legs, making me want to reach for him.
Thank goodness pride holds me back.
He spins around abruptly, pinning me with eyes that are as dark as the night, watching me intently.
“I made you a promise when we were first married, and I intend to keep it.” He crosses the floor, pressing a finger to my shoulder, watching me through hooded eyes, his cheekbones slashed as if from marble. “I will not touch you unless you ask me to.”
My eyes flutter shut, a wave of desire swallowing me. “Isn’t that a little redundant now?” Heat steals across my face. “After what happened in the cave, I mean.”
“Perhaps,” he concedes, his voice husky. “But I intend to keep my word. I will not make love to you now unless you ask it of me.”
I gasp, aching for him so badly. I’m shaking all over, like a leaf in the breeze. I lift a hand, clutching his robes, breathing in his citrussy masculine fragrance with a shattering sense of longing. I should hate him. I do hate him.
Except…I don’t.
I’m so conflicted about everything to do with Zahir except when it comes to our physical relationship. I want him and there’s no denying that.
“And if I don’t ask you?”
His eyes clash with mine, a battle of the wills, an attempt to read my mindset, to understand my intentions. I carefully keep my expression blanked of my feelings, wondering though if he can feel the quivering of my body, so close to his. Behind him, the bed – large and soft-looking – draws my attention but I ignore it. With a lot of effort.
“Then I will undress, and I will take a cold shower, and I will climb into that bed and stare at the ceiling until I fall asleep.” His finger pads softly over my shoulder and I make a very soft moaning noise, closing my eyes as I surrender to what surely must be inevitable?
“What you did today is all I require of you.”
His words jolt something inside me, so I blink up at him, shaken momentarily from the sensual fog I’d been drifting through.
“Attending public events as my wife, supporting me even when you cannot forgive me for hurting your father – this is our deal.”
“Not sex?”
His smile is mocking. “No, little one. I do not need to blackmail any woman into my bed. If you do not want to sleep with me, that’s your prerogative.”
Acid floods my stomach because I’m no fool. I can follow a logical line of thought and I can only imagine what he’ll do if I refuse him forever. He is not a man to remain celibate, and he would have any number of women at his fingertips, begging to be made love to by him. Just the idea of that turns my stomach. I feel a primal, possessive instinct and understand, for the first time, how the idea of women scratching one another’s eyes out came about.
I bite into my lip, forcing myself to look directly at him. “You said you wanted a baby.”
“And you said you would not consider that yet.” He pauses. “Are you suggesting you’ve changed your mind?”
I shake my head quickly, though the idea is like quicksand. If I hover over it for too long, I fear I’ll lose myself completely.
“Then relax.” He takes the water glass from my hands, strolling with languid ease to the table and placing it down. He turns to look at me and for a moment a rueful smile catches his expression and stops every cell in my body from firing. My heart freezes, my knees lock into place. Desire throbs heavily.
“A cold shower it is.”
But first, just as he promised, he reaches to his side and pulls on something, loosening his robe, watching me as he lowers it completely so that he can step out of it. My throat is dryer than the desert beyond our windows. I can simply stare as he removes every item of clothing he wears, leaving only an immaculate, chiselled specimen of manhood before me.
His tattoos draw my eyes first, then his abdominal muscles, then his arousal, so huge and strong, so powerful, so memories of yesterday – was it only yesterday? – crowd my mind, weakening my knees all over again. He throbs as I watch and my tongue darts out, licking my lower lip, need hammering me from the inside out. My stomach swirls and I ache to pull him against me, but uncertainty holds me still. My mind is nagging me to hold back, to remember that desire has nothing to do with our marriage, even when I yearn for him in a way I’ve never experienced.
He begins to walk, a slow, feral gait carrying him across the room. I know I should look away but I can’t. Shamelessly I watch him, drinking in the beauty of his lithe, athletic frame, remembering the way it felt when the weight of his body was pressing me to the ground of the cave. Cravings abound; I do my best to ignore them.
Listening to the gentle falling of the shower water does nothing to ease my fever. Desire stretches through me, haunting me, taunting me, breaking me.
I married him for one reason – I thought that would make this clear cut. The last thing I expected was that we’d be spending this kind of time together, that I’d be fantasising about my convenient husband taking me against the wall of the shower, as water rains down over my face…
“Argghhhh!” I stomp my foot, striding to the window and staring out, my heart rate as elevated as if I’d just run a marathon. This is ridiculous. It’s not as though we haven’t already crossed this line. Would there really be any harm in sleeping with him again?
He ruined your father’s life.
My brain hurts from going over this. Back and forth, again and again, what I should do and what I want. I’m stronger than this – I can conquer physical desire, can’t I?
When he emerges from the bathroom a few moments later, a big black towel is slung low on his hips. Despite the fact I just watched his naked stroll to the bathroom, there’s something so erotic about the sight of him like this. It perfectly captures his masculinity. I stare at him, water droplets beading across his sculpted chest, my eyes round in my face as I find I cannot look away. His expression is mocking, his eyes taunting me to face up to what I want – to admit it to both of us and put us out of our misery.
“What does this mean?” I ask quietly, my legs carrying to me of their own volition, my finger hesitating for the briefest pulse of time before pressing to his chest, where a tattoo is scrawled over his ribcage.
“Can you read it?”
I frown, trying to make sense o
f the Qabidi words, but only one or two of them make any sense. “I don’t think so.”
His eyes flash with mine. He catches my hand, pressing my finger to the inked script. He speaks the words in his native tongue and something warms in my belly, need snaking through me at hearing sounds that stir memories and familiarity, and a deep sense of belonging.
“It translates to ‘reason without passion’.”
I blink, the words familiar. “I’ve heard that before.”
“It’s similar to an Aristotle quote – the law is reason without passion. My father used to say this to me about being Sheikh of Qabid.”
I consider that. “Why?”
“Isn’t it evident?”
“Not to me.”
“There are many things that happen in our lives that can stir us to a passionate response, but as King, my duty is to my country and my people. They are best served if I act from a reasoned position – not one of passion, not one of emotion. I make decisions as to what serves my country based on calm, rational judgement, not heat and feeling.”
My heart turns over in my chest at his explanation, a sense of disappointment and sadness flooding me suddenly.
“Like our marriage,” I murmur with a small nod.
“Exactly.”
From the outside, it might appear that this was a rational choice for both of us, but it wasn’t. Not for me. I married Zahir out of passion – love for my father and a passionate anger at the wrongs that were done against him.
“Passion can guide you to make good choices, Zahir. Feeling that emotion shouldn’t be something you fight against.”
His eyes flare. “Feeling passion is different to acting on it.”
I grimace. “If I’d thought too much about this marriage, I might have resisted it,” I say quietly. I drop my hand, instantly missing the feeling of his warm abdomen. “Passion is the only reason I’m here.”
He is quiet, waiting for me to continue.
“I have been so angry for so long – angry at what happened to my dad, and the pain it caused him.” A muscle jerks in Zahir’s cheek, his jaw tightened as though grinding his teeth together. “I acted on instinct – a passionate need to right a wrong of the past, to fix something I have always hated. If I’d followed your logic, I might have reasoned that my father has a life in the States now, and that I do too. I might have considered things were ‘good enough’ for us, that it wasn’t worth taking the risk of coming to a foreign country and marrying a stranger.”
The Marriage Deal Page 11
