The Sheikh's Virgin Hostage: Seducing her was never part of the plan...

by Clare Connelly

Rebecca spent the following morning stressing about her next confrontation with Tariq, and wondering what she should do. It was only when Monique, her chief attendant and protocol advisor, informed her that the Emir had travelled to Fattid on urgent business that she could relax a little.

  He was gone, and she could try to find her feet, and some inner-peace, before he returned. As if that would be possible! Visions of the previous night danced on her eyelids, and she felt her pulse quicken with remembered pleasure.

  She had to distract herself, or she’d beg her husband for a repeat performance when she next saw him. And she hoped she could hold on to some pride in their marriage.

  The palace was enormous. Ten thousand rooms, each more ornately decorated than the next. She latched onto the thought in the hope that it would be just the distraction she needed. “I would like to explore the palace after lunch, Monique,” Rebecca’s voice was firm. She expected opposition, but Monique surprised her.

  “Of course, your highness.”

  “Rebecca. You must continue to call me Rebecca, Monique.” She corrected immediately.

  “But you are now the Queen,” Monique sounded far from pleased with the idea.

  Rebecca frowned. “You’re royalty too, aren’t you?”

  Monique shrugged her slender shoulders. “I am the niece of a Sheikh. I am high born, rather than royal. Too high born to pursue my chosen career, and not high born enough to make any real difference.”

  “What is your chosen career?” Rebecca asked with genuine interest as she scooped a little baba ghanoush onto a pita bread.

  “Journalism. It is not appropriate, I have been told.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rebecca bit into her lunch. “You must be able to do something.”

  “For the next month, I am here to help you adapt to royal life. Beyond that,” she shrugged again, “we shall see.”

  Rebecca finished the small vegetarian meal, and stood. The food she had eaten so far had been delicious, but she’d stuck to safe choices and not eaten too much. It was a world away from the simple fare she was used to.

  “A security escort will accompany you, Your Highne- Rebecca.” Monique looked past Rebecca and signalled to one of the Assani army, standing by the door to the women’s dining room.

  “Thank you,” Rebecca flashed a small smile at her exotic looking attendant. She was grateful beyond words that she hadn’t insisted on accompanying Rebecca on her mission of exploration. What Rebecca needed most was time to find her feet. She needed to marshal her thoughts and develop a new defence against Tariq. She simply couldn’t fall apart with hunger every time he was near her. Particularly when it was so obviously a one sided attraction.

  Assan was a progressive Arab state. Women in the cities wore western style clothes, albeit unstintingly modest, and so Rebecca had dressed in a simple grey business suit with a pale pink t-shirt underneath. These were her own clothes, and it felt like a rebellion against everything Tariq had accused her of being the night before, to dress in her simple school teacher garb.

  If she was after his excessive wealth, she would have already stocked up on designer loot. Instead, she’d bought only the wedding clothes and some new underwear. She colored, remembering the thoughts that had prompted her to select so many stunning lace lingerie sets. It was safe to say that those fantasies could be put out to pasture.

  She sighed heavily as she went from room to room, careful not to touch, but just look. She asked her security escort in halting Arabic for the name of some of the paintings she didn’t recognise, but his responses were too fast for her fledgling grasp of the language. And so she reconciled herself to it being a silent tour.

  Once Rebecca had started to discover the vast beauty of the palace, she didn’t want to stop. She had never been in a building with such history and culture. As they moved away from the royal wing and took a long corridor through the back of the palace, Rebecca saw a small group of children, playing in the courtyard beyond. They were running around and laughing, despite the heat of the midday sun. All were running but one, she noticed with sadness. Behind the group of children was another child, sitting in a rustic looking wheelchair. It was, in fact, a seat that had been turned into a wheel chair with the addition of what looked to be bicycle wheels. She frowned and turned to her security guard.

  “How do I get out there?” She asked in English. And then, at the quizzical expression on his brow, she pointed to her chest and then to the courtyard.

  “Ah!” He nodded, leading her towards a glass panel that had a handle. He inserted a brass key and then pushed the door outwards. He said something in Arabic but held his hands over her head.

  “Hat,” she nodded. “Please.”

  He pulled a small radio to his mouth and spoke into it quickly, then followed her out into the paved courtyard.

  “Hello,” Rebecca said to the children. She’d guess they were all aged between five and nine, maybe ten. Even children knew who the pale woman with long blonde hair was, and silence immediately fell.

  “Please,” she said, knowing they wouldn’t understand her words but hoping her tone reassured them. “I just came to watch you play. Carry on.”

  The oldest looking child approached her, holding out a soccer ball that was deflated on one side. It was too hot to play, but the sweetness of his gesture touched her and so she dropped it to the ground and gave it a small kick back. Then, she pointed to a wall near the wheelchair bound child to convey that she was going to sit and watch.

  The oldest child nodded, and said something to the other children. Play resumed.

  “Hello,” she said to the young girl, watching wistfully from the shade of a tree. “I’m Rebecca.”

  “Sheikha,” the young girl said, a little fearfully.

  “Yes, Sheikha,” she agreed. “And you? What’s your name?” She pointed to the girl to help convey her meaning.

  “Fatimah,” the girl said quietly.

  The security escort walked over, hat in hand, and gave it to Rebecca. She placed it gratefully onto her head, already feeling her skin starting to burn in the desert sun. As a school teacher, she couldn’t bear the thought of children missing out on an education, and as the afternoon went on, she realized these children must spend a lot of time playing soccer in the courtyard.

  The next morning, Rebecca went straight to the palace library. It was enormous. Almost like a mausoleum, it was so huge and completely devoid of signs of life. Every book looked priceless. Many were lined with gold. After touring aisle after aisle in a state of wonderment, she found the children’s books.

  They were mostly in Arabic, though some Western Classics were there too. Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl. Lots of wonderful stories. She grabbed as many as she could carry and then headed off towards the courtyard she’d found the children in the day before. “Sheikha,” her security escort called out to get her attention.

  She turned and he held out his hands, indicating that he would carry the books. She frowned. Getting used to a life with servants was going to take a while. He followed two paces behind her, laden with books, as she led the way. The children were all there. As she saw their happy little tribe playing in the morning sun, she let out a small sigh of delight. She hadn’t realized until then how much she’d been wanting to see them again.

  “Hello,” she called cheerily, waving to them. In the space of twenty four hours, they’d forgotten they were supposed to be shy around their new Queen. They came bounding up to see her, and clapped delightedly when she held the books out for them to read.

  One of the books, the Berenstain Bears had been a favourite of hers as a young girl. She remembered her father reading it to her night after night, twice a night some nights. “Let’s sit,” she said to the children, indicating a circle at the base of the tree. She didn’t see the way the security guard frowned at the sight of Queen of Assan sitting on the ground with grubby little palace children.

  She opened the book and pointed to the bear. She said the word Bear in Englis
h, and then pointed to the older child, who repeated it in Arabic.

  They spent the next hour doing this for the whole book, and then again. When her skin could no longer handle the heat, she went inside, in search of Monique.

  “Who are those children? Playing in the courtyard?”

  Monique shook her head. “There are hundreds of children at the palace, your highness. Rebecca. They are the children of the servants who cannot afford to send them to school.”

  “That’s terrible!” Rebecca cried, rubbing her thumb against her finger. “I thought Assan had a mandatory education policy?”

  “We do, but in practice, it is simply not yet possible for all children to attend schooling.”

  Rebecca knew instantly what her focus would be on as Queen of Assan. Education was the cornerstone of any civilised society, and until every child was able to receive proper schooling, she would not flag. She needed something to train her mind on, to stop it from wandering in the direction of her husband. Her very, very conspicuously absent husband.

  Spending time with the young children, learning phrases in Arabic from them and teaching them some English, helped to pass the days. In the back of her mind, she knew she never stopped waiting for Tariq, though. Her mind was filled with possibilities for his disappearance. Had the idea of sleeping with her disgusted him so much that he had gone to seek solace in the arms of another woman? Perhaps one of the beauties who’d warmed his bed in the past?

  The thought made her blood run cold, and she did her best to keep busy to stave off the depressing belief she held that he was already breaking the bonds of their marriage. She might have been a virgin, but she wasn’t stupidly naive. Of course he would have a rampant libido, and no doubt he had a very willing harem of women delighted to service it at any time.

  “Your highness,” one of the younger attendants spoke deferentially to Rebecca, interrupting her troubled thoughts. “I have had a communication from the Emir’s staff. His Royal Highness will be returning this afternoon and has requested your presence at a dinner with the ambassador of Sweden and some other dignitaries tonight.”

  With supreme effort, Rebecca managed not to visibly react. Inside, her heart was pounding hard against her chest, and beneath the table, her leg began to tap the floor with speed.

  “I see. Please inform the Emir’s office I will be delighted. In fact,” narrowing her gaze as an idea occurred, “would you please take a note to him for me?”

  The attendant nodded. “Of course, madam.”

  “Excellent. One moment, please.” She moved to the bureau against the far wall and took out a sheet of her monogrammed paper. She tapped the quill pen against the timber surface while she thought of just what to write. Finally, she marked the pages with all the bitterness she still felt at the unjust accusations he’d thrown at her on their wedding night. “Diplomatic dinners are not part of my employment contract. You will receive an additional bill in due course.”

  She folded it up and sealed it with wax. She had been told on her first day at the palace, which she secretly liked to refer to as her Orientation camp, that letters she sealed with a wax stamp would remain completely private. “Thank you, Daliyah,” she smiled at the young girl. “Please hand deliver this.”

  A short while later, Daliyah passed the crisply folded sheet to the Emir. He was in the middle of an important meeting but had bid her to stay in case he needed to respond to the Sheikha. As he read the note, she saw his face flicker with an emotion she’d never observed in their calm and patient Emir.

  “Will there be a reply, sir?”

  “Yes,” he nodded and held a hand up to the diplomat sitting at a large boardroom table. “Excuse me.” He leant forward onto his desk and frowned. How to respond to such impertinence...

  “I would be happy to discuss payment plans.” He scrawled. “Perhaps another instalment like our wedding night?”

  He folded the paper and passed it back to the girl, not bothering to wax seal it. No one dared invade the privacy of the King of Assan.

  Rebecca read his response with fingers that were not quite steady. His mention of their wedding night brought a tumble of emotions crashing over her. Shame. Desire. Need. Hunger. Embarrassment. Anger...and, overriding all those emotions, anticipation.

  Fortunately, the silver lining to having a small gaggle of hand maidens willing to wait on her every move was that she never had to face the difficult decision of “what to wear” ever again. When she returned to her suite of rooms to dress for dinner, Monique had already selected a Dior gown from the rack of designer dresses she’d received as wedding presents.

  Rebecca showered – something she insisted on doing unassisted. “I have been washing myself for a long time, ladies. I can manage just fine without your assistance, thank you.”

  Her small staff did help dress her though. When Rebecca emerged in her fine lace underwear, the youngest three were holding the spectacular dress , ready for Rebecca to step into. She obediently slid her feet through the layers and layers of fabric and waited patiently as they eased it up her long legs and over her hips, lifting the straps in place carefully. It was heavy, and cold, and the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen.

  “It makes your eyes shine,” Monique said appreciatively as they stood back to observe the dress once in place. “It helps that you have the proportions of a catwalk model,” she added, admiring the way the dress hugged the slender Queen’s body in all the right places.

  “Hardly,” Rebecca demurred instantly, seeing only her too-small breasts, and too thin arms.

  Two of the girls set about fixing Rebecca’s hair. Left out, it fell to the small of her back, but they effortlessly styled it so that it was arranged in a loose side bun.

  “Minimal make up,” she stated firmly as they scooped up their tools. Her wedding make up had made her feel like a peacock and she was not keen to repeat that look again.

  The girls followed her instructions, adding only a hint of blush, mascara and some gloss to her lips.

  What her face lacked in interest, the enormous diamond necklace Monique clipped in place more than made up for. Rebecca fingered it nervously. “Remember, you are Queen,” Monique whispered gently, sensing the Sheikha’s trepidation at this, her first official event.

  Rebecca met her eyes in the mirror and nodded. “Yes. I am.” And when she stood, she looked every bit as regal as she now was.

  As she was escorted to the formal entertaining rooms by a small army of security and her attendants, she mulled over how contrary her mind was. It wasn’t the prospect of her first diplomatic dinner that had her stomach in knots. Far from it. It was the knowledge that tonight she would see Tariq for the first time since their wedding night. That thought alone made her feel weak at the knees.

  “Your highness,” one of the Emir’s staff greeted her at the door. He didn’t acknowledge the rest of her team. She supposed that was protocol, and yet she felt it was a slight, particularly to Monique. “Please, come this way.”

  Rebecca turned and gave Monique a reassuring smile, then slipped through the thick wooden doors.

  With relief, she saw that the gathering was small. Perhaps six or seven men and a matching complement of women. Her eyes scanned the room and stopped the second they crashed into Tariq. He was in conversation with a blonde haired man, and for the first time, she saw him in a completely relaxed state. He was smiling in a way that made his eyes crinkle a little at the corners, and his voice, which carried across to her, was jovial and enthused.

  Rebecca looked away. She would not let him know she’d even noticed his absence. Certainly not that she’d been pining for him.

  “Her Royal Highness, Queen Rebecca Kassis Amari,” the man to her left announced to the room. She felt, rather than saw, the moment Tariq’s eyes came to rest on her face. It was as if some sixth sense was attuned to his every moment. Forcing her legs to carry her into the room, she moved forward a few steps.

  “Your highness,” Tariq’s
voice wrapped around her like cashmere.

  She turned her sky blue eyes on her husband and fixed him with a steady gaze that disguised the anxious state she was in. He moved to meet her, watching as her face remained impassive.

  She was so demure, so perfectly in control of herself. Qualities that a Queen should possess. And yet, looking at her now, for the first time in a week, he longed to pull her back into his arms and make her moan as she had on their wedding night. What deep rivers of passion ran beneath that very beautiful, very untouchable surface.

  With effort, he restrained himself and settled for a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Wealth becomes you,” he said in an undertone, eyeing the designer gown she wore.

  Rebecca pretended she hadn’t heard his insult, but inside, her stomach rolled. She took a tiny step backwards, to create some more space between them. Already, she could feel that unmistakable thrill of longing crashing through her body.

  “Ah, the woman who’s made an honest man of my friend,” the blonde man was only a few steps behind Tariq, a broad smile on his face. He was very good looking, but when Rebecca looked at him, she felt nothing. The fireworks exploding just beneath her skin were reserved for one man, and one man alone.

  “Rebecca, this is Eric Hanssen, ambassador of Sweden.” Tariq said smoothly, standing so close he was almost touching her. Through the fabric of her gown, she could feel the warmth from his body. “Eric and I were at Yale together,” he added. “So we are on a more relaxed footing than you might expect.”

  Yale. She remembered that from his biographical information. And it explained the way he spoke English with an American accent.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, your highness,” Eric said formally, and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Definitely no sparks. Tariq placed a hand in the small of Rebecca’s back and gently guided her forward, introducing her to each of the guests they would be dining with.

  The last to be brought to her attention was Faisal Kassis, a distant cousin of the Emir’s. Rebecca recognised him from their wedding reception. He’d spent most of the night glowering across the room, and when they’d spoken briefly on that night, he’d barely lifted his eyes from her breasts. He was having similar difficulties tonight. If they were back in England, she would have gone as far away from him as possible. Quite simple, Faisal gave her the creeps. But this was not England. It was a state dinner, and she was the Sheikha, representing the Kingdom of Assan and the royal family.