by Olivia Gates
She quaked in his hold, her depths gushing in response, unable to muster strength or coordination to snatch her hand away. Not wanting to. Wanting to cup him, map the hardness she wouldn’t come close to encompassing, go down on her knees before him, expose him, feel him, taste him, worship him. Only him.
But for him, it wasn’t and would never be only her.
The knowledge bled out of her. “You just want sex. Any good-looking woman would do.”
“So I’m indiscriminately promiscuous and terminally shallow.” Before she could define his reaction as mocking or insulted, he went on, his pupils fluctuating, giving his eyes the look of flickering flames. “But if sex with any ‘good-looking woman’ will do, and we both know I can take my pick of the best-looking who exist, why do I want it with you?”
“Why indeed.” And that was a legitimate question. She had no solid theories why he had before, beyond the lure of her total eagerness for him and the why-not factor. Now, she could think of one reason. She said it out loud. “Maybe it’s the novelty of a woman you can’t have.”
“Ah, a challenge to jog my jaded senses.” He took the pillow she was holding like a shield, swung it with an effortless flick to the sofa, reached out a hand to her hair, wound a thick lock over and over his fingers, then tugged. Gentle enough not to hurt her, inexorable enough to show her where he wanted her. Against him. He had her there, from breast to calves, his erection pressing into her hip, one leg between hers, rubbing, sawing, until all she wanted was to open them, beg him to end the torment, do all the things he’d threatened, all the things he’d promised. Then his whisper poured into her brain. “I already had you. I have you again. And I’ll have you again. And again. And all the time.”
She pushed against him, her breath burning, everything shaking out of control. “No. You won’t.”
He let her go, left her to stumble with the force of her unopposed struggle, smiled at her. “Are you sure about this?”
“I won’t let you have me. Not like this.”
“Like what? In total hunger, giving you ecstasy?” His certainty, its truth, sent response surging like lava inside her. “Is this what you’re objecting to? Too much satisfaction? Maybe you want something a bit…racier, riskier? Maybe some domination, a tinge of danger, of pain? I can oblige you. I probably will, after all this time. I’m not feeling anywhere near gentle. But then, I’m sure you won’t want me to be.”
She sank deeper in the mire of desire and desperation. “No, Farooq, I don’t want this.”
The translucency of his eyes fogged, his lips stretching to reveal teeth perfect but for too-sharp canines. “You want nothing more than this. You want nothing but this.”
She couldn’t deny his verdict. But she had to know. “What changed your mind? You were cold, angry…”
His lips remained frozen in that smile that filled her with dread and lust and anticipation. “I’m still cold and angry. It will probably make it all the more explosive.”
She raised her hands, an attempt to dilute his convictions, stop her capitulation from being total. “If you think I’m riling you, if you think I can enjoy force…”
He barked a laugh. “Force? The only force I ever used was what I needed to unlock you from around my body.”
“That was when there was only goodwill between us, not this—this malice. Don’t make it change your mind about the marriage in name only you proposed.”
He raised his eyebrows in mock bafflement. “Were we in the same scene back there in your apartment? When did I propose or even imply that ‘in name’ bit? We were tearing at each other within hours of meeting, and now that we’re married, you think it a possibility to keep our hands off each other?”
“We only got married for Mennah.” She tried again, desperate to hang on to her separateness, knowing that this time, if she surrendered, there’d be nothing left of her.
“That we married for Mennah, that I would have never married you if not for her, has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been burning for sixteen months, needing to feel you underneath me, writhing and screaming your pleasure as I pound into you. No matter how we came to be married, we are. I’m your husband. And I want you. You will share my public life as my wife, and you will be my mistress again in private. And I will do everything to you, with you, for you. Everything, Carmen. And then more.”
Her legs gave out. She went down like a demolished building, missed the sofa, ended up on the floor leaning on it. She looked up at him, fighting the urge to beg him, if not for the tenderness he’d lavished on her before, then for some assurance what he felt wasn’t a cold lust that would consume her to ashes.
“I would have stayed and made you beg for everything you’re pretending not to want, but I have to meet my uncle now. I won’t be coming back, so you have our bed for yourself for the night. I won’t see you again, as is our custom, until the ceremony.”
He turned away, strode to the hall. At the connecting arch, he tossed over his shoulder.
“Get all the rest you can. You’ll need it.”
Nine
Carmen lay on her face on the massage-table, staring at her hands. Her skin had turned into reddish brown lace of extreme intricateness, a different design on each hand. It was as if she was turning into an alien species. A very pretty one, though.
“This is my best mehndi henna ever!” Ameenah exclaimed, marveling at her handiwork. She raised shining black eyes to Carmen, her smile displaying her lovely teeth and nature, deepening her dark beauty. “But then it’s your input that turned it into a masterpiece. It is ingenious, how you designed those patterns made of somow’el Ameer Farooq’s name in all the languages you know.”
Yeah. She’d gone all-out, to borrow a word of his.
Ameenah rose from her kneeling position before her. “I so hope he’ll decipher your homage without being told.”
Carmen only smiled. She was hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Writing his name all over her body was something she’d done for herself, on an unstoppable impulse, as if she’d feel closer to him this way, say all the things she couldn’t and had never been able to say out loud, make all the confessions he had no use for.
She rose, put on her clothes, marveling at how she’d been able to strip almost naked in Ameenah’s presence to get her henna done. Just like her husband, Ameenah made her, and Mennah, feel they’d known her forever, could depend on her. She already had in so many things during the day. Her wedding day.
After Farooq left her last night, she was too agitated to do anything, let alone sleep. But Ameenah breezed in, all smiles and welcome, bearing the list Farooq had given her to perform on Carmen in preparation for the wedding. And the wedding night.
After her first pensiveness and reluctance, Ameenah’s cheerfulness and enthusiasm infected her, made everything feel so much better, even fun.
She threw herself into the spirit of things, surrendered to Ameenah’s mastery of coddling as she carried out her crown prince’s directives. With the help of Salmah and Hend, her daughters, she sorted through her things for Carmen, got her acquainted with the mind-boggling facilities in the palace. Then, while Carmen fed Mennah dinner and answered e-mails, they went out, returned with a rack of clothes from which to choose a wedding outfit.
She’d known this was coming. She should have been surprised at the range and lavishness of the outfits and nothing more.
She did more. She burst into tears. She, who’d never shed a tear even when her mother had died, who hadn’t known what crying was until after she’d left Farooq. But she’d never thought she’d wear a wedding dress again, and for it to be something of this caliber, in which to marry Farooq…
The good part was the ladies were totally sympathetic. More, it seemed she won their hearts by displaying such human frailty, such emotional involvement. Ameenah let her know it was only fitting that Farooq married a woman who so deeply recognized the blessing of marrying him, who worshipped him as he deserved to be worshippe
d.
At the sight of the clothes, Mennah crawled at top speed, hurled herself among them, yelling in excitement at the feel of the rich layers of cloth, at the colors, no doubt recognizing the sheer decadence of each creation. She tried to chew and taste her favorites and, clever baby that she was, the one she chewed hardest was the one Carmen felt had been created for her.
An incredible burnt red-orange the exact color of her hair three-piece Pakistani/Indian/Arabian-design creation, it had a jamawar silk corset top with wide shoulder straps and a concealed zip closure at the back. It was scalloped on all edges, more elaborate at a décolleté that dipped just above her cleavage. It was heavily hand-embroidered with intricate floral designs of silver and gold thread and embellished in sequins, beads, pearls, crystals, semiprecious stones and appliqué in every shade of turquoise, azure and sky-blue, all the shades of her eyes. It had echoing armbands that rained gold beaded tassels, with matching chiffon veils attached that cascaded to her hands.
The skirt was a trailing lehenga of turquoise chiffon over shimmering azure silk taffeta lining, its embroidery and embellishments echoing the top’s, in coral, ruby and garnet shades with scalloping at the hemline. The third piece was a veil dupatta in dual shading of coral/crystal-blue with scalloped, heavily embellished borders and vivid azure edging on the corners.
When Ameenah moved to the next item on the list, adjusting it to fit her, Carmen threw herself into the pleasure of handling such exquisiteness, letting her sewing skills loose. Among them they turned it into a custom-made creation in under an hour. The enjoyment lasted until it was time for the next item on the list.
Choosing the accessories.
From Farooq’s mother’s jewelry. And Judar’s royal jewels.
Ameenah and half a dozen guards escorted Carmen to a gigantic vault deep underneath the palace. As she stepped inside, she knew how Ali Baba had felt on entering the cave of the forty thieves.
Beyond dazzled at the treasure she thought reason enough to have an invasion mounted on the palace, on Judar, she hesitantly chose a set matching her outfit’s colors. She wouldn’t have been able to choose based on anything else. It was a twenty-four-karat gold-lace Indian-style choker with a design undulating to a central pendant reaching below her collarbone, matching shoulder-length earrings, bracelet and anklet. All pieces were inlaid in aquamarines, sapphires and rubies, with eight-point star motifs with a diamond center, one karat each in the necklace and a ten-karat stone in the pendant.
She still wanted to be reassured that Farooq had been serious when he’d said she could wear them. Ameenah insisted she owned them.
And she panicked. “Who’d want to possess something that needs to be kept in a vault and guarded by an army round the clock?”
“Now you are the crown prince’s wife,” Ameenah said sagely. “Without a stitch of possessions, you’re worth far more, would be ransomed for a hundred times the royal jewels’ worth.”
Carmen was stunned that she hadn’t realized this before. “God, you’re right. I’m still thinking as an ordinary person, thinking how vulnerable I’d be if people knew I possessed something of that value. But we’re not ordinary anymore. Mennah and I have become two of the most coveted targets in the world.”
“This is true of every member of the royal family,” Ameenah soothed. “But it’s a potential that has never come to pass. And it will never be a consideration for somow’ek or somow’el Ameerah Mennah. Beyond the invisible protection Maolai Walai’el Ahd will provide for you, no criminal or power in the world would touch a hair on your heads anyway. No one would risk his wrath. Or that of somow’wohom, Shehab and Kamal.”
She conceded that, her alarm subsiding. No one would be stupid enough to piss off any of those all-for-one-and-one-for-all men at all, let alone that much.
On returning to Farooq’s apartments, Carmen took a bath with Mennah in one of the magnificent bathrooms spread with marble and gold, then collapsed into a bed by Mennah’s crib. She woke up eight hours later and Ameenah started the henna even as Carmen and Mennah had breakfast, to give it time to dry and stain.
Ameenah wasn’t happy that the color wouldn’t ripen to its deepest for the ceremony or even for the wedding night, but said, “There’s tomorrow night, and the night after, then a lifetime of joy in your husband-and-prince’s arms, as he enjoys you and your efforts to make yourself beautiful for him and pleasures you in turn.”
Carmen simulated a smile for the kind woman. Even if she could confide in her, she wouldn’t burden her with her despondency. Whatever awaited her with Farooq wasn’t a lifetime of anything. She probably had until he was sated and avenged. There was no point in projecting how soon that would be.
As he’d said to her two days ago, there wasn’t a choice here…
Mennah scampered off the sofa, wrenching Carmen to the present, and dashed toward the polished brass tray table laden with multicolored, hand-painted-in-gold tea glasses.
To her baby’s chagrin, Carmen intercepted her, scooped her up, turned to Ameenah. “Okay, I’d say its time to bring in your team.”
They were coming to childproof the living quarters, and to make adjustments to the bedroom suite per Farooq’s instructions.
She hadn’t spent the night there. She’d only taken a look inside. The sparsely furnished suite was as big as the whole apartment outside, with soaring domed ceiling, ringed by the same Arabian-style columns and arches, permeated by an overpowering male influence in every brushstroke and article. His.
She wondered about the “adjustments” he’d ordered. The place looked perfect as is. But she wouldn’t be around to see them being installed, being busy starting the dressing up procedure.
She’d see them soon enough, though.
The wedding was in two hours.
She looked down at Mennah who was looking longingly at the glasses, lips drooping at the corners. “Don’t be sad, darling. Everything I do is to keep you safe and happy. It’s all for you.”
“It’s time, ya Ameerati.”
Carmen started. She’d known Ameenah would say that. It still jolted her. Time. It was time.
She was marrying Farooq. A real marriage. At least, real in form, in the physical side. It wasn’t permanent, but who ever entered marriage positive it would last? People only assumed, hoped it would. It made no difference that she was entering theirs ahead in the game, without assumptions, without hope, knowing it wouldn’t. She’d decided to make the best of it. While it lasted.
She was marrying him in a ceremony attended by the king of Judar, by world leaders. And she wasn’t just some jittery, out-of-place, over-her-head waif.
Well, okay, she was. But that was only a part of her. The personal part, the one no one had to know about. She had more components to her. She was also the mother of Judar’s princess. And she was a highly skilled professional, armed with every ability and knowledge to handle such a situation. In fact, it felt as if everything she’d learned and practiced in life had been preparing her for this moment, this event. As he’d said, who better than her? To navigate the rapids of an international gathering, bridge differences, meet disparate expectations?
No one, that was who.
She would honor Mennah, and her new position.
She would honor him.
Closing mind and ears to anything but this high note of her self-addressed pep talk, she walked out.
Ameenah walked behind her, resplendent in her bridal matron gown, carrying Mennah who looked heartbreakingly cute in a getup made in haste to match her mother’s. Ameenah’s daughters followed, heading the procession of her ladies-in-waiting, all stunning with their glowing olive complexion and their dark hair streaming down their backs, their lithe bodies wrapped in exquisite sarilike dresses in azures and golds that complemented her gown.
The wedding was taking place in the southern gardens, where the desert and sea winds remained calm as the night deepened. She’d been informed that Farooq would be waiting for her at the southern en
trance to escort her to where the ma’zoon would write el ketaab, their public marriage certificate. She’d chosen not to have a proxy, to perform the rituals herself. Shehab and Kamal were the two required witnesses again…
Agitation and anticipation congealed. Air, the world, disappeared. Farooq.
He was standing at the wide-open doors. Waiting for her. He was obscured by distance, by shadows. But she saw him, felt him with everything in her. And all she wanted was to run to him, throw herself in his arms, tell him, show him, beg him…
Thunder assailed her the moment she descended the last step. The zaffah, the traditional bridal procession, a unique, instantly recognizable rhythm belted out on doffoof, huge tambourinelike instruments, for two bars before singers joined in, chanting the praises of the bride, congratulating her on her magnificent groom and wishing her eternal happiness. And bountiful progeny.
She managed not to falter, and after making sure the blaring beat hadn’t startled Mennah, she kept walking, head held high, with quick, purposeful steps toward Farooq, who stood with his feet planted apart, his hands linked, waiting for her to have her zaffah, to come give him herself. As she couldn’t wait to do.
When only two-dozen feet remained, he moved out of the shadows. Her heart stopped.
No deceleration, no warning. It just stopped.
And she no longer needed it to beat, to push blood to her brain, to keep her legs moving. They moved on their own, powered by everything about him that demanded her, at once. Her vision didn’t dim. It remained clear and riveted on him.
If she’d thought he’d looked indescribable before, in suits, in any clothes, out of them, Farooq in traditional royal groom costume showed her what a loss for words, for thoughts, really meant.
All she could think was, he was dressed in blues and muted golds shades darker than those in her outfit. He matched her so much, she had to believe he’d done so on purpose.
Her agitation and pleasure sharpened to pain as she devoured every nuance of the heavy silk abaya as it hugged his shoulders, cascaded to his ankles, emphasizing his breadth and height. Its edges, shoulders and cuffs were heavily embroidered in gold and bronze thread and sequins in a paisley cashmere pattern. Underneath it, a striped top in the same colors buttoned down from his Adam’s apple, stretched across his chest, crisscrossed by bronze metal belts. Another six-inch belt spanned his waist, anchoring ceremonial curved dagger and sword sheathed in gold scabbards over bronze pantaloons whose looseness hid none of the potency beneath.
