A flare of anger and hurt crossed her features, before being abruptly doused. Then she pushed herself away from the wall and brushed past him without a word.
He tried to tell himself it was better this way.
He failed.
Chapter Five
Safira threw the newspaper she was reading away and stalked to the window that looked out over one of the palace’s small, green courtyards. A fountain played in the center of it, the sound drifting peacefully in the still, hot air.
But she didn’t feel peaceful.
It didn’t make it easier that the papers were full of everything she’d feared. Headlines about her “tantrum” in the ballroom and her suitability to be sheikha. Questions about Altair and whether he was doing the right thing for the country, especially considering the current fragility of the peace he’d managed to negotiate. Those who wanted a Kashgari on the throne were unflattering in their comparisons with her parents¸ openly doubting her ability to rule. Those who didn’t were appalled at Altair’s choice.
A couple of days ago the reports would have made part of her hopeful Altair would give up this marriage nonsense and let her go.
Yet now they didn’t. They made her angry instead.
You should not take to heart what those fools say about you. They are ignorant.
Altair’s words from the night before drifted back to her, so unexpectedly understanding, especially considering how furious with her he’d been.
He was right though. After all, what did she care what they thought of her? At the ball last night she’d been tired and afraid, and overwhelmed. Yes, she’d probably overreacted to the hurtful comments of his court.
But did that really make her so unsuitable? Unstable and not worthy as a successor to the legacy her parents had left behind?
Altair does not think that. Why else would he make you his sheikha?
The problem with that, though, was that Altair wasn’t marrying her because she was suitable or otherwise. He was marrying her only for her name and the blood in her veins. Not that she cared about that either.
You cared last night in the hallway.
She shivered, her whole body reacting to the memory, her skin becoming tight and hot, a persistent ache between her thighs. She could still feel his hand there, touching her, his finger inside her. Still feel his teeth against her throat and his long fingers around her wrists. The powerful, lean strength of his body against hers.
Her cheeks burned at the same time as her body ached.
Now she knew what those sounds in the night, in the desert had been, the sighs and the soft moans she’d heard from the tents around hers. Now she knew what kind of release she’d sought.
God, she’d never realized pleasure like that could feel like flying. Like streaking across the sands on the back of a wild horse, holding on for dear life as her heart beat fast and adrenaline burned like fire in her blood.
She’d never realized it could feel like freedom.
It made her feel like herself for the first time in years. Not the “princess”. Not the precious vase on the shelf, but Safira. Touchable. Real.
Ah, but she had to stop thinking about it. Because if she thought about the pleasure, she’d then have to think about what happened after it. The closed look on Altair’s face as he’d released her and stepped back. How untouched he’d seemed, as cold and expressionless as ever, while she’d had to lean against the wall to stop from slipping to the floor, her knees so weak she could hardly keep herself upright.
Safira glared at the fountain, her cheeks hot, only this time it wasn’t with embarrassment or pleasure, but humiliation.
She’d let her guard down again, like she had in his office. Revealed herself too freely. And since he obviously found that distasteful, perhaps she needed to take a leaf out of his book. Be calm and distant. Cultivate the same cold, emotionless front as he did.
Would that make him happier? Would that make the rest of the court happier?
Do you care?
Something slipped down inside her, a determination.
Yes. She did care. Last night she’d decided to accept her destiny and not only that, to be worthy of it. And, no, it hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try again, that she couldn’t try harder. After all, didn’t her parents’ memory deserve better?
Reflexive doubt about her own ability gathered inside her at the thought, but she refused to examine the feeling. If she pretended it wasn’t there, then it wouldn’t be.
Staring at the fountain for one long moment more, Safira squared her shoulders, turned, and headed toward the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, showered and clean, her hair brushed and sleek in a tidy braid down her back, she finally opened the door to the large walk-in closet she’d ignored for the past four days straight. There was a large array of clothes hanging there, bought and chosen especially for her by one of his staff, both western in style and traditional. None of it was to her taste in the slightest, but it was all very appropriate to her position and that, she supposed, was the point.
After impatiently sorting through racks of dresses and gowns, she eventually decided that something traditional would be the best option and would make her intentions clearer.
She pulled on a long robe of deep blue silk, belting it with the gold sash that accompanied it. Then she bound a veil of shimmering golden silk over her hair. She didn’t know quite how to tie it properly since she’d never had to do it before, but after five minutes of fiddling she’d managed to fix it so it wouldn’t fall off at least.
Moving at last to the massive dressing table near the bed, she began to sort gingerly through the makeup that was arranged on top of it. She’d never worn makeup, but she remembered a little of what they’d put on her the night before. Perhaps she could do something similar? Yet after a minute or two of examining the little bottles and tubes and palettes of color, she decided she was better off leaving that to the professionals. She’d probably end up looking like a child’s drawing of a face and she definitely didn’t want that.
Leaving the makeup, she stared at herself for a long moment in the full-length mirror, examining the effect.
The same suffocating feeling as she’d had the previous night, when she’d first looked at herself in that golden gown, closed around her throat.
She didn’t look like herself. She looked like her mother.
Isn’t that the point?
Of course it was. If she was going to be a queen worthy of her parents then she had to look the part, didn’t she?
She picked up the necklace she’d torn from her throat the night before and cast onto the dressing table, uncaring whether she’d broken it or not. It was not broken. And when she fastened it around her neck, the jewels glittered, the colors echoing her eyes, the gold echoing her skin.
Now she looked like her mother.
Turning from the disturbing reflection, Safira swept out of the room and down the corridors of the palace, her robe fluttering out behind her, heading straight for Altair’s offices.
When she got there, the door was standing open so she went right in, only to find his desk surrounded by a number of important-looking men.
She stopped as they all turned to look at her, their gazes curious.
Then Altair himself rose from behind the desk, and her heart seized strangely in her chest. He was in western dress today, dark trousers and a pristine white business shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the long, powerful muscles of his forearms and wrists. He wasn’t wearing a tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the bronze skin of his throat.
He looked powerful, physical, and unbearably charismatic, yet at the same time remote and untouchable, projecting the same cool reserve she found so very frustrating.
Then her breath caught suddenly as she realized something.
That hard, cold man wasn’t really him and subconsciously she’d known that the moment she’d met h
im, when he’d held that machete to her throat and she’d caught a glimpse of what lay behind the walls of ice he surrounded himself with.
She hadn’t fully understood the implication of that then, had even thought she’d imagined it. But the hand touching her last night hadn’t been cold. And the mouth that had kissed her throat, the tongue that had licked her skin, had been hungry. And when she’d begged him to touch her, the flames in his eyes had been bright gold.
There had been no walls then, nothing reserved, nothing distant.
He’d dropped his guards. For her.
Did that mean something? And if so, what?
His amber gaze swept over her, cool and impersonal, but she saw the spark of surprise, followed by an intense heat, swiftly contained. And for the first time since she’d left the desert, she felt as if she’d gained something powerful.
She did affect him, the woman she was, not the princess.
She straightened then inclined her head in a gracious bow. “My apologies, your highness,” she said politely. “I did not mean to interrupt. I did not know you were engaged.”
There was an astonished silence.
Safira kept her head bowed and tried not to smile.
“No need for apologies, princess,” Altair said at last, his voice deep and smooth as a caress. “Was there something you wished to speak to me about?”
She raised her head, meeting his gaze for a moment before modestly looking down again. “I can come back later, if you prefer. It is not important.”
Another silence.
“The concerns of my fiancée are always important.” Altair’s voice revealed nothing. “Gentlemen, I believe this can wait. We will adjourn this to a later date.”
There was a murmur of agreement as the men all filed out of the office, all looking curiously at her before the last one shut the door behind him.
Yet another silence fell, and this time it was deeper, more complete.
Slowly, she raised her head and met his gaze. The glow in the golden depths was unmistakable.
She was helpless to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks, the memory of what they’d done the night before still sitting in the forefront of her mind. But if he wasn’t going to look away, then she wasn’t either.
“I have come to tell you,” she said into the silence, since it was clear he wasn’t going to break it, “that you were right. I cannot change my situation, which means I need to accept it.”
The expression on his face gave nothing away. “What changed your mind? The ballroom outburst or the lesson I gave you in the hallway?”
Her face flamed at the reminder, but that too she ignored. “Actually, it was the headlines this morning.”
“Ah. You saw those, did you?”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry, your highness.” A pause. “Altair. I did not mean to do what I did last night in front of your court. I let my … grief at my parents’ death and my anger get the better of me.” She folded her hands, cool and calm. “I will not let it happen again.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze roving over her as if searching for cracks in her armor. “I appreciate your apology,” he murmured eventually. “But that will not allay the rumors or the questions of the general public.”
“I understand that. Which is why I am here to tell you I am willing to make up for my slip.” She held out her hands. “I want to repair the damage I caused. Prove that I can be what you want me to be.” She hesitated a moment because of what it would reveal, then steeled herself. “I want to be worthy of my parents’ legacy.”
There was a silence.
Altair folded his arms, the look in his eyes so intent she could barely breathe. “You think you can be worthy?” His voice was soft but there was iron threaded through it.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, a wave of vulnerability washing over her. Because this was something she had never admitted to anyone.
“I want to be,” she said hoarsely, forcing out the words. “I want to be very much. Will you help me, Altair?”
* * *
Altair stared at her, conscious of a sudden, strange disappointment.
You were hoping she would ask for something else?
He glanced down at his desk, pushing a few papers out of the way in order to mask the emotion.
How ridiculous to feel disappointed by the fact that she was here to technically offer her surrender. Especially when this would make his life so much easier. He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to a lifetime of fighting with his wife. It was hard enough keeping his kingdom together, let alone his home.
This was exactly what he’d wanted the moment he’d left the palace for Sayed’s camp. Her acquiescence.
Very good news since he was in the middle of dealing with the PR disaster her outburst the night before had caused.
Last night he’d had to wait before he could go back to the ballroom, since it wasn’t exactly appropriate to return to a party while still obviously aroused. And by the time he’d gotten back there, he’d realized that damage control was going to be impossible.
Already, thanks to smart phones and the Internet, videos of Safira had been transmitted to the gossip-hungry millions. The videos had gone viral and even just this morning one of his PR people had forwarded a propaganda video created by the rebels using sound bites of Safira’s initial outburst. Including her comments on whether people would have preferred if she had died along with her parents.
It was a complete and utter mess, and he’d spent all morning closeted with his advisors working out how—or even if—they could recover from this.
He should be happy she was here, ready to make amends.
But he wasn’t.
Carefully, Altair neatened the pile of papers he’d only just shoved aside, then looked at her, making sure none of his disappointment showed. “You will certainly need to prove yourself after the damage you caused. Because it’s not just headlines and rumors I have to contend with. People took videos of you and parts of those videos have been used to make other videos. Propaganda for the rebels. Fuel to fire another revolution.”
Color washed her face, making her eyes look very blue. Her mouth opened then shut. “I see.”
“Do you see? I do not think you do. You are visible, princess. Every gesture, every expression on your face, every word is recorded and studied and discussed. Dissected and fought over and laughed at. We cannot afford another outburst like that one.”
“You cannot, you mean.”
“No.” He put his hands down on his desk and leaned on them, holding her gaze, willing her to understand. “It is we, Safira.”
She broke eye contact abruptly, looking down at her hands, the very picture of an obedient Al-Harahan princess in her silken robes and shimmering gold veil. And he suddenly had the strangest thought—possibly he preferred her in her dusty robes, holding a knife to his gut.
A second or two of tense silence passed.
Perhaps he should go easy on her, considering how upset and hurt she’d been the night before. But no. She couldn’t break like that again, not in public, and she needed to know why.
You can’t afford her to in private either. Not after what that made you do.
He could still taste her skin even now. Still feel her slick heat against his fingers. Her head had gone back against the wall and she’d cried out, so sensual, so passionate. Before he’d gotten back to the ballroom, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from stopping in the hallway and putting his finger to his mouth. Licking it. Tasting her. She’d been delicious …
But even more than that, her fingers taking his chin and turning him back to face her, hearing her husky voice say “thank you”, seeing gratitude in her eyes.
No one looked at him like that these days and certainly no one ever thanked him.
Ah, but he didn’t need thanks. He needed peace, a hopeful people and a strong country. And he should not be thinking otherwise. What happened with Safira
would not happen again. No matter how angry and grief-stricken she was. No matter how guilty he felt.
Safira looked up again and the glow in her eyes had nothing to do with obedience or respect. Yet it wasn’t anger either. It was more like … fierce determination, the light of battle. “We must present a united front,” she said decisively, coming forward to stand in front of his desk, the silk of her robes fluttering at her sudden movement. “Make some public appearances together to demonstrate my support of you.”
He and his PR team had already decided on such an approach and he found himself curiously impressed that she’d had the same idea too. “Yes, we’ve already organized a couple of public outings over the next few days.” He met her gaze, held it. “You know what that will entail?”
“No more public displays of temper.” She hesitated. “And no more fighting you.” Her throat moved as she spoke and his gaze caught the glitter of jewels. So, she wore the necklace that had caused her so much distress the night before. Was this another display of her contrition? Like the robes and the veil?
If so, she was clearly serious about this.
“Good,” he said. “If you fulfill your end of the bargain, help me clean up this PR mess, then I will give you what you need. Not that you need anything to be worthy of your parents.”
An odd expression crossed her face. “Do you …” She stopped suddenly, as if she hadn’t meant to say anything.
Altair went still, caught by something in her voice. “Do I what?”
She made a quick motion with her hand. “It does not matter.”
Yes, it did. For some reason he found it mattered very much indeed.
Straightening, he moved around the side of the desk to where she stood, ignoring the voice in his head that was telling him that getting close to her was a bad idea.
She watched him come, her eyes widened slightly as he got closer.
“It matters.” He halted right in front of her, staring down into her eyes. “We will be husband and wife. What you say is important.”
“That’s not … the impression I have from you.”
No, he supposed it wasn’t. “I am a king, Safira. And before that I was a soldier. I am not used to considering people’s feelings in the decisions I make.” He paused, not entirely sure what had prompted him to want to explain himself. “But that does not mean what you say is not important, understand?”
Never Refuse a Sheikh Page 8
