by Lynne Graham
Ella’s eyelashes fluttered and then lifted on a dimly lit room.
An ornate canopy hung over the bed. The edges of the fabric were fringed and tasselled and swinging a little in the breeze. She identified the source of the breeze as the whirring fan in the background and put a hand up to discover what was covering her nose.
‘Don’t touch the oxygen mask!’ Zarif warned her, suddenly appearing by the side of the bed and giving her a fright.
Ella blinked up at him as though he were a mirage. Muddled and confusing images of the sword dance, the wedding and the guests were racing through her mind faster than the speed of light until she recalled the last ignominious moment in the cloakroom, after which everything became a complete blank.
‘What happened?’ she whispered limply, focusing on his lean, darkly handsome face, paying special notice to the black spiky lashes that heightened the effect of his stunning dark golden eyes. Evidently, his mood hadn’t improved because he still looked bleak and forbidding as hell.
Disconcertingly, Zarif sank down with confusing informality on the side of the bed and closed an imprisoning hand over hers as it crept inexorably towards the irritating oxygen mask again. ‘You almost died.’
‘That’s not possible,’ Ella told him, shifting her arm and only then noticing the IV attached.
‘We believe you are allergic to shellfish.’
‘I’m not allergic to shellfish. I’m not allergic to anything,’ Ella proclaimed.
‘You may not have been until today but you are allergic now. The shellfish pastries you ate before the wedding are the most likely explanation and when you are better you will undergo tests so that we can discover what it is safe for you to eat. You went into anaphylactic shock. I thought you were drunk...and all the time you were ill,’ Zarif breathed in a hoarse undertone of remorse, dark eyes blazing gold over her flushed face, his lean hand tightening over hers. ‘If Halim’s doctor had not been present and able to administer an immediate shot of adrenalin, you could have gone into cardiac arrest.’
Ella breathed in slow and deep. ‘But I didn’t. I’m fine,’ she told him quietly. ‘What a thing to happen in public—you must’ve been very embarrassed.’
‘Embarrassment was the least of my concerns,’ Zarif admitted. ‘I wronged you. I made an unjust assumption and you suffered for it. Hanya told me you’d drunk a lot of alcohol.’
Ella stiffened. ‘That is a lie. Belle gave me one drink. It may have been a large drink but there was only one and I didn’t finish it.’
‘It is immaterial. I should naturally have given you the benefit of the doubt. It is my duty to look after you and I failed and it could have cost you your life,’ he breathed harshly.
‘How on earth could you have known that I was going to suffer a severe allergic reaction to something I ate?’ Ella asked ruefully. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It was just bad luck.’
‘Nonetheless, we will be very, very careful about what you eat in the future,’ Zarif decreed. ‘Dr Mansour warned me that another attack could be fatal. He asked me to call him as soon as you wake up.’
In a daze, Ella watched Zarif unfurl his cell phone and within minutes the middle-aged doctor put in an appearance. He confirmed that it was possible to suddenly become allergic to a substance that one might have eaten for years without ill effects but while urging her to exercise caution he was considerably less dramatic about her prospects than Zarif had been. Zarif, Ella registered, was in still in shock at her collapse and blaming himself for it. The oxygen mask removed because she was breathing easily and the IV removed because she faithfully promised to drink lots of water, she levered herself up against the pillows once they were alone again.
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘I suppose it’s no use telling you that I’m usually as healthy as a horse.’
‘I owe you an apology,’ Zarif murmured tautly. ‘I misjudged you. I should have realised that you were genuinely ill.’
‘How could you have?’ Ella parried uneasily. ‘I didn’t realise what was wrong with me either.’
‘You need to rest now,’ Zarif told her simply. ‘Could you eat something first? You’ve had very little today.’
Ella identified the hollow sensation inside her as hunger and smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, I am hungry.’
Servants brought food while Ella watched Zarif from below her lashes. He had removed his headdress and his luxuriant black hair was tousled as though he had run his fingers through it several times. He needed a shave as well, black stubble cloaking his stubborn jawline and somehow highlighting the effect of his beautifully modelled mouth. In truth, still clad in the gold robes that glimmered richly even in the lamp light, he looked utterly amazing and beautiful and she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him.
‘You should’ve stayed with your guests,’ Ella remarked uncomfortably, struggling to rein in her overpowering reaction to his lean, lithe, dark good looks.
‘I’m your husband. You should always be my first priority,’ Zarif fielded in surprise. ‘What sort of husband would behave otherwise?’
Ella was silenced while she mulled over that response. He certainly seemed to feel a lot more married than he had the day before. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She wasn’t sure. She picked pieces from the various dishes spread on trays around her on the bed and ate with an appetite that surprised her. When Belle and Betsy arrived to visit her, she greeted them with an apologetic wince.
‘I’m a real party pooper, aren’t I?’ she sighed.
‘I should never have given you that vodka,’ Belle commented guiltily. ‘It’s my fault that Zarif initially assumed that you were tipsy.’
‘I’d blame Hanya,’ Betsy said, disconcerting Ella with that frank opinion. ‘I think she convinced Zarif that you had drunk enough to be dancing on tables. She quite deliberately misled him to make you look bad.’
‘But those stupid prawn appetisers would have wrecked your wedding night anyway,’ Belle pointed out sympathetically. ‘And at least Zarif knows the truth now.’
It was only then that it actually occurred to Ella that it was her wedding night and she flushed, amazed that she had so easily forgotten what had earlier dominated her every thought. She exchanged fond goodbyes with her new sisters-in-law and promised to visit them when she was next in London—whenever that might be. As they departed she slid out of the high bed, keen to go for a shower and freshen up. That was when Zarif chose to reappear.
‘I’m going for a shower,’ she told him tightly, murderously conscious of the horribly old-fashioned and shapeless white nightdress that she had been put in after her collapse and hoping very much that Zarif had not been involved in undressing her.
Zarif scanned her tense figure and anxious face. Sheathed in a white cotton gown that could only have belonged to someone either very old or very modest, she looked like an angel with her wealth of blonde hair tumbling round her shoulders and her blue eyes big and bright above her pink cheeks. Doubtless she was worried that he might be selfish enough to try and claim his marital rights regardless of her weakened condition and he straightened his broad shoulders.
‘I’ll sleep elsewhere tonight,’ he told her flatly.
Ella added two and two and made four. ‘This is your room?’
Zarif nodded, brilliant dark golden eyes veiled as if he was reluctant to remind her that she was his wife and that this was their wedding night.
‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you out of your room,’ Ella declared, tense with discomfiture and determined not to prove any more of a nuisance than she had already been. ‘Stay—we’re grown-ups, surely we can share the bed?’
Without another word, she vanished into the bathroom, which she was relieved to discover was infinitely more modern than the one she had used at the start of the day. Indeed the jets
from the power shower stung her out of her lethargy and soon had her reaching for a towel. She had no choice other than to don the same old-fashioned nightie when she was dry. The bedroom was empty when she emerged and she wasted no time in climbing into the bed.
About ten minutes later, Zarif returned to the bedroom, naked but for the towel knotted round his narrow hips. Water droplets still clung to the dark curls of hair scattered across his virile pecs and his hair was still damp, spiked up by a rough towelling. Her attention roamed to the muscled planes of his strong brown back and lean hips before straying without her volition to his heavily muscled torso and the hard, corrugated slab of his flat stomach.
Her mouth ran dry as he extracted something from a drawer and let the towel drop carelessly to the floor, exposing taut brown buttocks. Muscles rippling, he yanked on a pair of black boxers and she suddenly closed her eyes tight, embarrassed that she had been spying on him, ashamed that she could be twenty-four years old and still that naively curious about the male body.
Wouldn’t everything have been easier had she been more experienced? Sleeping with Zarif would then have been no big deal, she told herself. Only to change her mind as she lifted her lashes half a sneaky inch and watched him stroll towards the bed with the predatory grace of a prowling panther, almost stopping her heart dead with excitement in the process. She swallowed hard as he doused the lights and the bed gave beneath his weight.
‘You know if you want to, you can... I’m feeling fine now,’ she told him with startling abruptness, utterly fed up with the ridiculous level of nervous tension he inspired in her and ready to do virtually anything to put it to flight.
Perplexed by that unexpected offer, Zarif flipped over on his side to peer at her, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I can wait until you’re back to full strength. After the day we’ve had, you must be tired. I know I am.’
Heat surged up from Ella’s throat to her hairline and mortification almost choked her. She gritted her teeth. So, he was too tired to be tempted by her. Well, she had offered and he had turned her down. Let it not be said that she could not take rejection on the chin. Punching the pillow beneath her head, she turned her back on him and curled up, eyes wide and stinging like mad.
* * *
When Ella wakened she was alone in the big bed. Rising, she went through the closets and drawers until she found her own clothing. Leaving out lingerie and a sundress, she went into the bathroom to freshen up. When she emerged wrapped in a towel, a maid was changing the bed and as soon as she saw Ella the young woman curtsied and swept open a communicating door to indicate the table laden with dishes in the room next door.
‘Good morning, habibti,’ Zarif drawled, springing upright from the table.
Ella hovered. ‘Good morning. I’d better get dressed.’
‘There is no need. We won’t be disturbed and I would assume that you don’t want cold hot chocolate.’
Taste buds watering, Ella took a step forward. ‘You have hot chocolate?’
A wolfish grin slashed Zarif’s darkly handsome features and his tawny eyes gleamed. ‘I have hot chocolate and croissants for you...’
Ella gave him a huge natural smile and closed the door behind her, tucking in the towel knotted above her breasts and sinking down into a chair. ‘When did you get up?’
‘I go into the office about six and answer my emails while it’s quiet. I like to enjoy a leisurely breakfast.’ He poured the hot chocolate and the rich aroma of it made her sniff in appreciation as she reached for a croissant.
Ella was disconcerted that he had remembered two of her favourite things. The past beckoned and she struggled to fend off memories of their bittersweet time together three years earlier. Back then she had been utterly convinced that he was a romantic and she had been so much in love that even the feel of his hand enclosing hers had lit her up inside like a firework display. She blinked, pushing away the unproductive memories and all recollection of the dreaming, trusting girl she had been. Then as now, she told herself, it had all been about sex and she had better not forget that for a moment.
Zarif withdrew the ring box from his pocket and set it in front of her. ‘I intended to give this to you yesterday but there was no opportunity.’
Ella opened the box to stare down at the magnificent sapphire and diamond ring. ‘What’s it for?’
‘I heard the child at our English wedding ask why you had no engagement ring. I bought it for you three years ago,’ Zarif admitted ruefully.
‘And you don’t mind me wearing it?’ Ella had flushed. He had very much disconcerted her.
‘I want you to wear it, habibti. It was always meant to be yours.’
Ella slid on the ring. It was a perfect fit. He had kept it for three years, maybe even forgotten he still had it until a child’s chatter had reminded him. He was being practical, that was all. He would hardly want to give the ring he had chosen for her to another woman in the future. ‘It’s gorgeous. Thank you,’ she said quietly.
Zarif liked looking at the two wedding rings and the engagement ring on her slender finger. She was his at last, a surprisingly soothing thought. He watched her eat the croissant, crumbs scattering while a look of delight slowly wakened on her lovely face. Within seconds he was hot and hard and when she sipped the chocolate, just a hint of the sweet drink coating her full, soft lower lip as she emitted a soft moan of pleasure, he was ready to rip her out of the chair and carry her to bed. Suddenly all he could think about was seeing that expression on her face while he pleasured her.
‘I want you...’ he husked.
Ella froze like a cornered kitten, blue eyes flying wide as she stared back at him, a tiny pulse beating like crazy just above her collarbone.
‘I meant to wait...I intended to wait,’ Zarif confided thickly as he sprang gracefully upright. ‘But when I look at you, I can’t.’
Her mouth ran dry while the blood in her veins ran hotter than lava. He towered over her, all male, decidedly exotic and stunningly sexy in his pristine robes. Her gaze locked tight to him, her heartbeat quickening, her breath feathering in her throat while her lungs laboured to fill again. That stillness, that primal sexual awareness that engulfed her was exactly what had made mincemeat of her principles when she had first met him. It shocked her that that could happen to her again, cutting through her new maturity, her bitterness and distrust to leave only the mindless yearning she had once suppressed.
As Ella began to rise from her seat Zarif bent his head and claimed a long, intense kiss. His tongue skated across hers and a piercing dart of such primitive longing slithered through her that it was a challenge to stay upright. A strong arm slid to her spine to support her slender frame and he lifted her off her feet with breathtaking ease to carry her back into the bedroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLA SURFACED TO find herself lying on the bed. After that burning kiss she felt a little as if she had been hit with a brick because her brain no longer felt as if it were functioning. Zarif was poised several feet away, stripping off his robes and letting them fall on the rug, his proud dark head already bare. Ella breathed in slow and deep.
It was time, she told her quailing nerves firmly. They were married. This was the deal she had made. Neither love nor liking came into the arrangement. Sex was on the menu, nothing else, and she had to learn to be practical about the fact.
Naked but for his boxers, Zarif was an intimidating sight, a literal power-house of whipcord muscle overlaid with smooth bronzed skin. Her intent gaze skated down over the steely muscles of his formidable chest, down over the little furrow of soft dark hair disappearing below the waistband of his boxers, and screeched to a sudden halt. The bulge of his straining masculinity was larger than she had expected and she tensed, telling herself not to be silly, not to get all worked up about something that other women took in their stride. She wasn’t a c
hild. She might not have had sex before but she was an educated adult and none of her friends had been swept off to paradise by their first-time experience. Once it was done, though, it was done, she bargained with herself, desperate to establish a calmer outlook. Afterwards she would know what all the fuss was about and she would be able to treat such intimacy as a mundane event.
‘I’ve wanted you for so long,’ Zarif admitted, running long supple fingers through the swirling spill of her honey-coloured hair across the pillows. ‘You’re so beautiful...’
Ella very nearly laughed. She could see herself as pretty on a good day but only when she was all done up and her hair absolutely perfect. Certainly she did not compare well to the true beauties she had seen him pictured with in newspapers three years earlier. Zarif was the truly beautiful one, an outstandingly gorgeous male, who had stolen her heart the first time she saw him and broken it the day he proposed, sending her plunging from the heights of happiness straight down into the darkness of despair. In the aftermath she had picked herself up and gone on but the trust he had broken remained broken and she was a much more anxious, suspicious person than she had once been.
His thick silky hair nudged her cheek and then his mouth, velvet and warm, claimed hers again, closing out the rest of the world as though it had never been. There was nothing then but the racing beat of her heart and the tightening at her secret core. Without warning the towel she wore was gone and he cupped her full breasts, his thumbs strumming her engorged nipples to send currents of fire shooting down into her pelvis. Her hips shifted, rose without her volition and at the heart of her she felt tight as a drum and desperate for more.
Zarif drew back, lean, strong features taut. ‘If you truly don’t want this, I will stop. I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want to give, habibti.’
Taken aback, Ella stared up at him, still partially lost in the stirring responses shimmying through her lethargic body.
