Bought by the Sheikh

by Diana Fraser

  Gabrielle could hardly breathe. The air seemed to be sucked from the room. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”

  He frowned. “I want to make you my wife, Gabrielle. Don’t you understand?”

  She shook her head in disbelief and, slipping past him, went to the French windows and gulped in the air, half expecting to see the stars had slipped, that the water had stopped flowing, that there was no perfume in the air. But it was all exactly the same.

  She felt his hand on her arm. It was still sure, as if he’d done all he had to do to secure their future together. Well, he hadn’t. Not by a long chalk.

  “Don’t you understand?” he repeated. “We will marry.”

  She flung off his arm and swung around. “We most certainly will not.”

  His brow lowered, but the certainty didn’t disappear. “Why do you say that? You know we belong together. All that business of you running off with my father’s money was only to make me not want you. Well, Gabrielle, you didn’t succeed. Our future is together.”

  She swallowed down her anger. She needed to make him see. “You talk of business, of future, of success, of need. What you’re talking of is a business merger.”

  He shrugged. “If you’d like to think of it that way—”

  “I do not like to think of it that way!” she interrupted.

  “Then what way do you like to think of it?” he asked smoothly, as if none of her anger or emotion had penetrated him. It made her even madder.

  “I don’t like to think of it in any way whatsoever!”

  He reached out and took hold of her hand gently. She could have pulled it away if she’d wanted to, but it seemed her mental struggle didn’t extend to her hand, which remained enveloped in his. He looked up and checked her stunned expression and then drew her to him with a slight tug. She bumped against him.

  “You can’t deny what we have,” he said in a low voice that sent dangerous thrummings through her body.

  She shook her head and met his gaze steadily now. “I don’t deny it. But I know it’s not enough. You’re no ordinary man, Zavian.”

  “And you’re no ordinary woman.”

  She tugged her hand, but he refused to release it. “But don’t you see?” she asked. “I am. Just that.” This time he allowed her hand to go. “I’m an ordinary woman with ordinary needs and hopes.”

  He frowned. For the first time, the certainty was gone from his eyes. “And what are your ordinary desires?”

  “To marry a man who won’t come to hate me as my foreignness causes rifts in his country, or worse, war.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “I don’t know on what you base this assertion because we have history, and wars all around us caused by less, which proves you’re wrong.”

  “I will make it work.”

  “You alone cannot make it work.” She held up her other hand to stop him from speaking, and he kissed her palm, almost making her forget what she had to say. But it was too important. “This is not about you, not about me, or an ‘us’, it’s about your country and your people. That, Zavian, is what’s important here.”

  “I don’t deny its importance, but—”

  She shook her head. “There are no buts. All you have to do is look at your parents. They married for love.”

  “Love?”

  “Yes, love. Your father told me.”

  Zavian shook his head, but before he could contradict her, she continued.

  “And, at first, all was well, because they didn’t think your mother’s English heritage would matter. But with each passing day, month, year, the pressure it created forced them apart, and forced your country apart, too. If it hadn’t been for her untimely death, goodness knows what would have happened.”

  “That was them, this is us. Times have changed.”

  “Times may have changed, but your people haven’t. The desert Bedouin lead the same life they’ve led for centuries. They still want the security of being led by a royal family of their culture and to whom they belong. Family and tribe is everything. I’m not of your family or your tribe. I’m an outsider, and I always will be.”

  “You’re wrong. Do you think you know my people better than me? Then I will show you.”

  “And how exactly do you propose to do that?”

  He licked his lips, and she knew he had no idea. She nodded. “You don’t know because it’s not possible.” She sighed.

  He gripped her hand as if it were a lifeline. “I will show you, Gabrielle. Tomorrow I will begin to show you that your life is here, with me.”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s not just that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then what else?”

  “I want to marry a man who loves me—not someone who needs me. Needs can be satisfied. Needs pass.”

  There was a moment when she could see the conflict in his eyes as he wrestled with things he’d never before fought with. She wondered if he would open up, if he’d acknowledge the feelings he kept a firm lid on. Because, until he did, they had no future, with or without the support of his countrymen.

  But the moment passed, and the strength and purpose returned to his eyes, and she knew she’d lost him.

  She tugged her hand from his, and this time he let her hand slide away. She wondered if this was a foreshadowing of what it would be like if she did what he’d said and they married. At some point he’d let her slide away, because either he didn’t have any deep feelings for her, or because they were buried so deep that he didn’t even know they were there, didn’t even feel them anymore. She didn’t know which it was, and she had no intention of staying around to find out.

  She stepped outside onto the terrace without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Zavian watched her leave his room. She slipped between two gauzy curtains which trailed over her shoulder, her body dissolving into them as if into a mist, before disappearing into the darkness as if she were a part of it. As if she were a figment of his imagination.

  He didn’t understand her. What had gone wrong? He frowned as he poured himself another drink. He took one swig, scowled and threw the rest away. He didn’t need a drink. There was only one thing—only one person—he needed, and that was her. The trouble was, he couldn’t figure out how to get her.

  He placed the glass on the table and went outside and sat where he had a view of her window, the light now turned off. He let the water and the night air soothe his spirits and mind and let his thoughts drift over his problems, teasing them, hoping they’d unravel. He closed his eyes as he imagined what Gabrielle was doing behind the dark of her closed curtains. His thoughts and feelings only tightened into a knot that would take more than the night air to undo.

  He jumped up and walked inside, pausing only briefly to stare into the darkness, forcing his mind to release the mental image of Gabrielle, naked on the bed.

  He might not know how to get her now, but it would come to him. It had to.

  * * *

  When Gabrielle had received the request to attend a large formal dinner with Sheikh Mohammed—leader of a prominent and powerful Bedouin tribe—she felt conflicting feelings of both excitement and dismay. At least it wasn’t going to be an intimate few. Zavian would hardly be announcing their betrothal to so many people. She accepted the invitation, only after ensuring she’d be seated at a distance from Zavian. There would be safety in numbers and safety in distance. At least she hoped so.

  After dressing carefully, she walked to the reception room, from which she could hear the murmur of polite conversation and music. She smiled grimly to herself. She might have no choice but to respond to Zavian’s summons, but she’d do it her way.

  As Gabrielle took her seat at dinner that night, she smoothed the cloth of her new dress, regretting its glamor. When she’d placed the order for an evening dress—something she hadn’t brought with her—she hadn’t imagined it would be quite so sexy. At least she fitted in, she thought, looking around at the women who competed w
ith each other to outshine with the best of New York and Paris fashions.

  “He is so handsome, is he not?” a woman said to her.

  Gabrielle followed the woman’s gaze to the man whose lips had touched hers only days before. “Not handsome, I think.”

  The woman turned her shocked face to her. “Not handsome?” They both looked at the king, and the woman made a dismissive snort. “Maybe not in English terms, but he has the strength and charisma us Havilahi women admire.”

  Gabrielle couldn’t disagree with her. ‘Handsome’ had never been a word she’d applied to Zavian. It was too mild. And she didn’t mean it as a derogatory term as the woman had assumed.

  “It is said,” whispered the woman, confidentially, “that he had a love once.”

  Gabrielle’s heart missed a beat, and she focused on taking a sip of her sparkling water. “Really? Then why isn’t he marrying her?”

  The woman shrugged. “No one knows. But everyone is guessing.” The woman sat back with a grin. “Some say he simply grew bored.” The woman looked at him with an intrigued, direct gaze as if she could devour him. “Just look at him. He could have anyone he liked.” She shrugged and set her glass on the table. “Why would he settle for one?”

  “Because he needs to be married, maybe?” said Gabrielle, more rattled than she should be by the woman’s comments.

  “But that doesn’t confine him to one woman,” said the woman patiently. “In our traditional culture, he can take many wives.”

  Gabrielle’s stomach twisted with jealousy. She gritted her teeth. She never felt jealous. “I doubt he’s that traditional, and I doubt that polygamy would go down well in the wider world.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I do know that at the moment there’s no woman. He was to become engaged to the Tawazun sheikha, but the gossip is that that’s been called off now. I’ve no idea why.”

  Gossip traveled fast. Gabrielle followed the woman’s gaze to Zavian, who was deep in conversation with Sheikh Mohammed.

  “He needs to marry to strengthen the country’s unity, both within and without,” continued the woman.

  “Yes,” Gabrielle said. It was exactly what she also thought. “But he needs to marry the right woman. Maybe the Tawazun sheikha wasn’t the right woman.”

  “She was exactly the right woman.” The woman shook her head and then turned to Gabrielle with a sneaky smile. “In one way. However, I have to say that I’m not devastated. It leaves the way open for others.” She rose and smoothed down her gown. “If you get my drift.” The woman winked and brazenly walked over to the table close to the king’s table, bending over, obviously trying to attract his attention.

  Gabrielle refused to watch. Let the king be seduced by any of the numerous women who wanted him. She didn’t. Even as the thought angrily slipped into her mind, she corrected herself. No, she might want him, but she wouldn’t let herself have him, not on his terms.

  Someone spoke on the other side of her—an American archivist who’d been trying to attract her attention all evening—and she turned to him, glad to be distracted from the sight of women throwing themselves at Zavian.

  * * *

  Zavian watched as Gabrielle lowered her head as if intently interested in something the young American was telling her. He ground his teeth. Her hair swept the man’s arm as she bowed her head to listen to him above the noise of the room. She didn’t notice it, but he could tell the man did. He responded with a more intimate body language that incensed Zavian. Then it got worse. She laughed at something he said and sat back, and he could read the man’s mind, seeing the woman that he saw.

  It ground into his soul. Who on earth had decided to put the two of them together? He’d noticed her immediately and was annoyed that she’d managed to persuade his staff to change the seating plan. It was too late to have her moved. But at least he could observe her easily. At first, she’d looked uncomfortable, and no wonder. The other women were wearing their flashiest jewelry and clothes. And of course, Gabrielle could not compete. Even if she hadn’t spent a million dollars on an artifact rather than clothes, jewelry and the like, she would never have chosen the kind of showy clothes which the women of his country preferred. She preferred to go unnoticed.

  He’d watched her enter the room, her sleek form a perfect foil for the overt grandeur of the room, with its ornate golden decorations. At first, she’d been hesitant, then reserved as she’d been seated. But then she’d be in conversation with some woman who had annoyingly moved away, closer to him, allowing the man to dominate Gabrielle. It seemed the young man’s smooth flirtations had amused her, and she positively glowed. He growled.

  “What is it, Your Majesty?” his vizier asked under his breath.

  Zavian glanced at his too perceptive advisor. “That young American. Have him called away.”

  The vizier’s expression darkened. “And Dr. Taylor brought here, no doubt. I warn you that—”

  Zavian waved his hand. “No more warnings, Naseer. I’ve had enough to last me a miserable lifetime.”

  “It might be miserable, but at least it will be a peaceful and prosperous one.”

  Zavian didn’t need to speak any further. The vizier beckoned an assistant who had soon called the baffled looking American away from dinner on an errand.

  Zavian returned his attention to his honored guest, who was seated to his right. He didn’t need to see his instructions carried out; he could visualize Gabrielle’s reaction. The laughter would have gone, and her expression would be guarded once more. But what did that matter? He didn’t wish to inspire laughter, the opposite in fact. He wished her to be serious and to understand her future was here, with him.

  * * *

  Zavian talked easily with his honored guest as if he weren’t aware of the moment when Gabrielle slipped into the newly vacated seat beside him—arranged subtly by his vizier—and sat ramrod straight as if she’d been inserted into the scene without wishing to be a part of it.

  He glanced around the room and noted how people—especially the woman who had been seated beside Gabrielle before—were all now staring at her. He turned his attention back to his honored guest. Gabrielle would have to get used to that. Being stared at went with the job.

  It was only when Zavian introduced the sheikh to someone that he could withdraw from the conversation and turn to his other side. She sat still, a tight polite half-smile on her face like a mask. It didn’t fool him.

  “Dr. Taylor.” Zavian nodded.

  “Your Majesty,” she answered formally, flicking him a quick wary look.

  “How good of you to join me.”

  “Good?” Her smile squeezed tighter around her lips. “You commanded me to come. Apparently, none of my excuses were acceptable.”

  He bit back the flare of irritation. He wouldn’t rise to the bait. “And why would you wish to make an excuse?” He nodded to a passing acquaintance and settled his gaze on her.

  “Because there are just the two of us. I have no wish to sit beside the king, to create gossip over nothing.”

  “Nothing? I think not.” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “Would you care for a drink? Wine, whiskey, liqueur?”

  “A cup of tea, please.”

  “Tea,” he repeated, unable to prevent his disapproving tone. It was obvious she was more interested in emphasizing the differences between them than identifying the similarities. A waiter responded to his raised brows, and he ordered the tea.

  “Yes, tea,” she said, her smile relaxing as she felt she’d won a point. “I am English, after all.”

  He tried not to rise to the bait but failed. “I like whiskey, but I’m not Scottish or Irish.”

  Her eyes narrowed. One all. He took a deep breath. He could be gracious in victory. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening?”

  “Of course.” She smiled politely. “I’ve been in very pleasant company… up until now.”

  His smile faded instantly as he followed her gaze to the young American archivist who
’d returned and reciprocated her smile.

  “Would you like your new ‘friend’ to join us?” He gave her a look so that she’d know exactly what her friend would get if he dared to accept an invitation to the king’s table.

  She shook her head quickly, and his gaze lowered to her bit lip. Such beautiful lips—plump and red. They were not meant to be bitten, but to be kissed. Her slender shoulders rose and fell, shifting the sheen of the satin dress, which shimmered in the light, highlighting her curves. “No, thank you. I’m sure he’s fine where he is.”

  “Really,” pressed Zavian, unable to stop himself now. “He’s most welcome to join us. I’d be interested in asking him—”

  “Interrogating him,” Gabrielle interrupted.

  Zavian ignored her. “Asking him all about his work.” He sat back. “You know how interested I am in his work.”

  “What work is that?” asked the Bedouin sheikh, who’d just turned around after finishing his conversation.

  Zavian stifled his irritation at being interrupted in a conversation with Gabrielle, which, despite its prickliness, he found compelling. “The celebration of poetry.”

  Gabrielle looked at him sharply. Zavian smiled at her. “You thought I didn’t know about a celebration of poetry in the desert?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t…” She trailed off.

  Zavian turned with a smile once more to the honored Bedouin guest. “May I introduce Dr. Gabrielle Taylor, Sheikh Mohammed?”

  Sheikh Mohammed smiled. “Gabrielle and I are friends of old, are we not, Gabrielle?”

  Zavian tried to keep his smile in place. He hadn’t known that Sheikh Mohammed knew Gabrielle. It seemed there was no end to the surprises for him this evening.

  “Indeed,” Gabrielle said, with the first genuine smile of the evening. “My earliest memory of you was when my grandfather was working in your village.”

  Mohammed nodded and smiled. “He changed everything for us. Put us on the map. I owe your grandfather a debt of gratitude I can never repay.”