The Sultan's Harem Bride

by Annie West

  He shook his head. Amazing how some memories stayed fresh. His parents had soured his view of marriage and taught him that so-called love was a curse to be avoided at all costs. Was it any wonder he’d been in no hurry to find a bride? Shackling himself to a life partner, even in a carefully arranged transaction devoid of romance, was a step he’d put off for years.

  ‘I protected Samira as much as I could.’

  ‘They hurt her?’ Horror edged Jacqueline’s voice.

  ‘Not intentionally. But she suffered. One minute she was petted and fussed over, and the next they were too busy screaming at each other to notice her. The poor kid never knew what to expect from day to day.’

  ‘Nor did you.’

  He blinked. Was Jacqueline taking his part?

  ‘I was older. I’d learned to cope. But for a long time Samira thought she was to blame for their unhappiness, or when one of them stalked out and wasn’t seen for weeks. She had nightmares for years, night terrors, they called them. I used to sit with her and try to keep her safe.’

  ‘Surely you had a nanny or someone to look after you?’

  Asim smiled humourlessly. ‘We had plenty, but they never lasted. Either my mother sacked them because she believed they were seducing our father, or he sacked them because he believed they were spying for her.’

  Asim rolled his shoulders.

  ‘The details don’t matter. I just wanted you to understand that Samira has always been vulnerable. She was caught in the middle of our parents’ wrangling and she was distressed by it.

  ‘They were never happy for long and when they were apart they spent their energy trying to best the other. Eventually my mother decided to use Samira to help her cause.’ Asim breathed deep, ploughing his hand through his hair. He hated thinking of his parents.

  ‘I found her being quizzed by a “friend” of our mother. The woman was a journalist and she put words into Samira’s mouth, twisting innocent statements into appalling accusations about our father. Samira was thirteen and distraught, trying to set the record straight and horrified at the way everything she said was distorted.’

  ‘That’s awful! No wonder you don’t like reporters.’

  Asim permitted himself a tiny smile. ‘Some more than others. I’ve learnt they’re not all tarred with the same brush.’

  Jacqueline’s eyes met his and heat punched low in his belly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Our father stopped the story, but years later rumours circulated. It was too late to worry about them. Our parents died suddenly in an accident and I had more urgent things to worry about than sourcing lies in gossip columns.’ Accession to the sultanate at twenty-five, in a country damaged by his father’s ineffectual rule, had been no picnic.

  ‘The point is Samira blamed herself.’

  ‘She was just a child! No decent journalist—’

  Asim lifted his hand. ‘I know. But ever since then she’s had a horror of dealing with the press.’

  ‘That was why she was adamant about me being interviewed tonight instead of her.’ Jacqueline nodded slowly. ‘She said she usually managed with a smile and a “no comment”.’

  ‘That worked until Jackson Brent.’ Asim watched his hands clench into fists. This time he felt no remorse at the tide of loathing that filled him. If he didn’t know it would make things worse for his little sister, he’d enjoy taking the actor apart with his bare hands.

  ‘A smile and no comment is probably the best thing she could have done,’ Jacqueline said. ‘It lifted her above the rest of the players in that little drama. It showed she has class and integrity. She won a lot of sympathy.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have to win public sympathy!’ The words slid out between gritted teeth.

  ‘I know, Asim. I understand.’

  He met Jacqueline’s eyes over the fire and there it was again, that arc of energy, that link between them, as real as if she’d touched him. He read her regret and somehow it calmed him.

  ‘What you don’t know is the full story. I spoke to Samira before I came here and she agreed to me telling you.’ He’d hated even asking.

  ‘I know enough.’ Jacqueline frowned. ‘Her boyfriend, her lover...’ she paused on the word and Asim wondered what she was thinking ‘...had an affair with his married co-star. Her husband caught them and is dragging his wife through an acrimonious divorce. Now the press are dragging up every detail of both their marriage and the relationship between Samira and Jackson Brent.’ She spread her hands. ‘Since Samira is gorgeous and talented, plus she’s a princess with wealth and an exotic background, it’s not surprising the press want her story.’

  Asim inhaled slowly, a familiar weight crushing his chest. ‘But what they don’t know, what they must never know, is that Samira was pregnant at the time.’

  ‘Oh, Asim!’ Jacqueline’s eyes bulged, her face a mask of horror. ‘She didn’t...?’

  He nodded, his gut clenching as he remembered his sister, parchment-white and dazed, her face marred by the salt tracks of tears, lying beneath a starched sheet, a nurse hovering. ‘She miscarried just after she arrived here. Whether from the stress or whether it was going to happen anyway, no one could say.’

  Asim had never felt so helpless, so utterly useless, in his whole life.

  ‘I’d always done my best to look out for her. It went against every instinct to do nothing when she hooked up with Brent. But I told myself she had to grow up some time. She had to make her way in the world.’ He dropped his head, torn between shame that he hadn’t done better by Samira and frustration that she’d made him promise not to exact revenge on Brent.

  ‘I wasn’t much of a protector. All I could do was look after her till she recuperated and give her privacy.’ The feeling that the world had spun out of his control, that there was nothing he could do for someone he cared for, wasn’t one he ever wanted to experience again.

  ‘You did the best you could. You did all anyone could.’ Supple fingers closed around his fist and a jolt of power sizzled through him. Jacqueline had moved to sit beside him, he realised. Her arm was across his, her slim frame warming his side.

  Asim clamped his other hand over hers, unwilling to let her slip away again. He didn’t try to understand how her touch, her sympathy, could ease his turmoil. He simply accepted that they did.

  He breathed deep, drawing in the scents of sand and warm, sweet woman, and felt that terrible roiling in his stomach quieten down.

  ‘You were right, Asim. You had to let her go. She’s not a child.’

  He stared at their joined hands. They looked so right.

  ‘Samira was so fragile, so distraught, we feared she might have a complete breakdown. The one thing I knew was she had to be kept safe from the press.’

  ‘And then I turned up, bearding the dragon in his den. No wonder you hated the idea of me staying in the palace.’ She squeezed his hand and, despite everything, Asim’s mouth turned up at the corners.

  ‘I’ve been called many things but never a dragon.’

  ‘Really?’ He caught a lighter note in her voice. ‘But it’s so apt. You’re very fierce and proud, and handsome, in a dangerous sort of way.’

  Asim huffed humourlessly. ‘Don’t forget fire-breathing.’ His hold on her tightened. ‘Jacqueline, I’m ashamed of how I reacted tonight. I saw you with that reporter and I lost it. I should have known better.’

  Jacqui felt the ripple of tension through Asim’s broad shoulder and arm. Regret laced his voice as he squeezed her hand and she felt the last of her fury fade.

  She’d been hurt, unbelievably hurt, but now she understood what had driven Asim and why he’d overreacted.

  ‘I’m not surprised you lost it,’ she murmured eventually. ‘Tonight pressed every one of your hot buttons: your fears for Samira, your need to protect her, your distrust of the press
. Even down to the idea of a female journalist taking advantage of her.’ It all made a skewed sort of logic.

  ‘But you didn’t deserve that tirade. You put yourself out for my sister.’

  Jacqui shrugged. ‘She’s a good friend.’ Amazingly, after just weeks, it was the truth. They had clicked in a way Jacqui never had with another woman. In the past she’d kept to herself, focusing on work, the part of her life where she felt competent, where she fitted. Her friendships had been limited to colleagues and her job meant she was often moving on. Only Imran had been a constant, keeping in touch even when they weren’t working together.

  ‘So I understand now.’ He paused. When he spoke again his voice was gruff. ‘What you did for her—not just managing the press, but posing with her model friends to show off her designs for the cameras—that took real guts.’

  Asim was right. Being photographed with a bevy of beauties had tested her. It was one thing to bask in Asim’s assurances, quite another to parade for the press. Only knowing how much it meant to her friend had kept her there. Samira’s need was greater than hers.

  ‘Then there were the fireworks.’ Asim shifted and she looked up to see his eyes fixed on her. ‘How did you manage? You hate loud noises.’

  Jacqui lifted her shoulders, arrested by the gleam of warmth in that look. Heat trickled through her where just a short time ago there’d been an arctic chill.

  ‘I don’t know. The first bang nearly had me on the ground, till I realised everyone was looking up and smiling. After that it was easier.’ No point admitting every eruption of sound had jarred through her like the crack of doom.

  ‘You’re a remarkable woman, Jacqueline Fletcher.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘All I did was help Samira choose how to face the public. She just needed a positive angle.’

  Asim shook his head. ‘Don’t downplay it. I know your demons.’ His thumb stroked her wrist. ‘I’ve seen the nightmares and I’ve watched you break into a cold sweat at a sudden loud noise.’

  Jacqui squirmed, trying to move away, but he wouldn’t release his grip.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘But you never talk about it.’

  Her breath snatched in as tension clamped her ribs. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  Asim said nothing. Reluctantly she looked up to find him regarding her through narrowed eyes.

  ‘What? You think everything would suddenly be better if I relived it all?’ Sharp anger rose. He knew nothing about it! She’d been through it all multiple times in counselling.

  ‘It seems to me you’re reliving it anyway. How often do you dream of Imran?’

  Like air rushing from a punctured balloon, Jacqui’s ire bled away. No matter how she tried to escape, the memories crowded back. Memories of that day, the doom-laden sense of guilt and regret, rather than recollections of her friend alive and happy.

  She shook her head, hunching her shoulder.

  ‘Jacqueline!’

  ‘What?’ She met his stare, striving for defiance and finding only pain. She pulled air into her tight lungs. He refused to back down.

  ‘Have you seen a dead body, Asim?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Have you ever seen someone blown apart by a bomb?’ She snatched another breath, the movement jagging pain through her chest. ‘What about a street full of debris, where it’s hard to make out what used to be people? Living, breathing people who just seconds before were—’ Her next breath was a sob and she stopped, sinking her teeth into her lip, trying to fight the trembling that radiated from somewhere deep inside.

  ‘I’ve seen that too,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s unspeakable.’

  Jacqui’s gaze lifted to his and held. She saw old pain and anger, and something that made her feel suddenly not so alone.

  ‘But you weren’t responsible,’ she murmured. Asim was a protector, a statesman, a man who worked for peace in his region.

  ‘Nor were you.’

  Jacqui’s eyes blurred. ‘I led him into it. It was my fault. I had the scoop. I should have checked it out before dragging him in.’

  ‘Why? So it could have been you lying there in a bomb crater and not Imran? How would that be better?’

  Jacqui yanked at his hold but Asim’s grip was implacable.

  ‘Imran has people who grieve for him. Your grandmother, you. People who—’

  ‘And you think no one would miss you?’

  She lifted her shoulders, trying to imagine the reaction of her parents and half-siblings if she’d died. They’d have been shocked but would they really have missed her?

  ‘You’re wrong, habibti.’ A strong hand cupped her face, lifting it till she stared into stormy eyes. ‘We’d miss you—Samira and my grandmother and me. And so would your family.’

  Ridiculously Jacqui felt her lower lip tremble. She didn’t cry except in her sleep when the nightmares devoured her. Yet Asim’s tenderness unplugged the dam of grief she’d held at bay so long.

  ‘He had all his life ahead of him,’ she mumbled. ‘And it was snuffed out because of me. I should have taken precautions—’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Asim leaned closer, his breath warm on her face. ‘It wouldn’t matter what precautions you’d taken. Imran was his own man. He’d have been there with you if there was a chance of a scoop. He lived for his job.’

  His thumb grazed her bottom lip and she swallowed at the tenderness of the gesture.

  ‘You think I don’t know that? He was my friend.’

  ‘But you didn’t know him intimately.’

  Jacqui peered up at Asim, trying to read his expression. ‘If you’re asking whether we were lovers, the answer is no.’

  He shook his head. ‘I wondered that when you first arrived, but as soon as we made love I realised that wasn’t the case. You were a virgin, weren’t you?’

  Jacqui frowned. ‘Did it matter?’ She’d lied so he wouldn’t stop. Because she’d wanted more than anything to be one with him. Her mouth flattened. If only sex was all she wanted from Asim. If only life were so simple.

  ‘It mattered that you shared something precious with me, Jacqueline. Something to be treasured.’

  The gleam in his eyes unnerved her.

  ‘You were talking about your cousin,’ she said briskly.

  For long seconds she thought he wouldn’t accept the change of subject. Finally he spoke. ‘I meant merely that you didn’t know Imran as intimately as someone who’d grown up with him.’

  Asim’s mouth curved reminiscently. ‘Let me tell you about my cousin. He could climb before he could walk and he never walked when he could run. His nickname in the family was “Trouble” because he was always in strife. Luckily he had nine lives, like a cat, because he was regularly falling off roofs or down wells or under horses. He took risks others wouldn’t.’

  ‘Even you?’ Jacqui couldn’t imagine Asim being left behind by his cousin.

  ‘I never seemed to collect the injuries Imran did.’

  So, they’d been as bad as each other.

  ‘When he got older he found a passion in rally driving.’

  ‘I’ve seen the photos.’ Jacqui smiled wistfully. Imran had looked in his element, dusty, dishevelled and elated, leaning against a car that looked as if it had barely survived the rigorous course.

  ‘It wasn’t till he went to college and discovered a love of cameras and film that he became focused. He found his purpose. Some of those stories he got...’ Asim shook his head. ‘He didn’t get them waiting on the sidelines to be assured it was safe.’

  Reluctantly Jacqui nodded. Imran had been up to any challenge when it came to getting a story. That had drawn them together in the beginning. She’d put it down to his commitment to his job, but had there been an element of thrill-seeking too?

  Of c
ourse there had been. But Imran had also been professional, taking appropriate precautions in risky situations, at least when she was around.

  ‘At first I wanted to blame you for his death. I was looking for a scapegoat.’ Her breath snared as he voiced the guilt she’d carried so long. ‘But I couldn’t do it. It just didn’t fit.’ He paused, his eyes capturing hers. ‘You can’t tell me my cousin would have waited for you to reconnoitre the situation alone.’

  Jacqui blinked. When Asim put it like that... But the fact remained it had been her tip-off, her responsibility. ‘I led him into danger.’ She swallowed.

  ‘No.’ Asim shook his head. ‘You told him what you’d learned. If he’d wanted, he could have turned back. Couldn’t he?’ His eyes held hers. ‘Jacqueline?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Is it likely he’d have waited for you to go off alone and track down the story?’

  Under that unblinking ebony stare Jacqui found herself confronting the harsh truth.

  ‘No.’ The word burst out. ‘No, he wouldn’t have waited. But that doesn’t mean I feel any less guilty.’

  ‘Because you survived and he didn’t.’ Asim’s arm curved around her shoulders, drawing her into his warmth. ‘He didn’t die because of you, Jacqueline, but because someone cared more for their own ends than the lives of innocents.’

  ‘I—’ She shook her head, her mouth working.

  ‘It’s okay to grieve for him, habibti, so long as you understand you’re not to blame.’

  Jacqui huddled into Asim’s big frame, drawing comfort. What he said wasn’t new, the counsellor had said something similar, but for some reason it seemed to make more sense. Because Asim had known Imran? Because they were here in the desert Imran had loved? Or because Jacqui was finally ready to move on?

  She buried her face in Asim’s sweater, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin. Tears leaked beneath her eyelids and she wrapped her arms around him, holding tight as he gathered her in and rocked her.

  Jacqui drew a shuddering breath.

  She’d come out here because Asim had broken her heart.