by Abby Green
Analia, who was ten years his senior, had seduced him and reduced him to putty in her hands, enslaving him with the power of her sensuality and sexuality. And Sadiq, like the young fool he’d been, had believed himself in love with her.
She’d stood in front of him the day she was leaving and looked at him as if he’d just crawled out from under a rock. ‘You love me? Sadiq, darling, you don’t love me. You are in lust with me, that’s all.’
Sadiq could remember biting back the words trembling on his lips to contradict her. Even then some self-preserving instinct had kicked in—much to his everlasting gratitude.
She’d looked him up and down with those exotic green eyes and sighed. ‘Darling, I’m twenty-eight and looking for my second husband. You’re still a boy. The sooner you learn to harden your heart and not fall for every woman you sleep with, the better it will be for you. I know the kind of women you’ll meet. They will all want your body, yes, but they will also want you because you’re powerful and rich. Two of the greatest aphrodisiacs.’
She’d come close then, and all but whispered into his ear, ‘Believe me, Sadiq, they won’t care about the man you really are—just as I don’t really care. That’s why you have a mother. One day you’ll choose some pure and untainted local girl to be your wife, and you’ll live happily ever after.’
The banal cruelty of those words hadn’t had the power to shock or hurt Sadiq for a long, long time. He’d learnt a valuable lesson, and her prophecy had turned out to be largely true.
Once he’d become Sultan on his father’s death, at the age of nineteen, he’d been catapulted to another stratosphere. For almost a year Sadiq hadn’t even taken a lover, too intent on taking control of a wildly corrupted and chaotic country. But once he’d re-emerged into society women had surrounded him in droves.
He’d quickly become an expert at picking the ones who knew how he wanted to play the game. No emotional entanglement, no strings. He’d become used to seeing the glazed, avaricious glitter in their eyes when they saw the extent of his inestimable wealth and on some perverse level it had comforted him—because he never again wanted to be standing in front of a woman laying himself bare to her pity and ridicule.
He’d actually met Analia once or twice over the years, and once had even seduced her again, as if to purge the effect of that day from his mind and heart for ever. He’d looked at her as she’d dressed the next morning and hadn’t felt a thing. Not a twinge of emotion. It had been a small moment of personal triumph.
Seeing the way his father had been so pathologically enraged because his wife didn’t love him should have been enough of a lesson to Sadiq, but it hadn’t. He wasn’t about to forget either of those valuable lessons now, just because the woman he’d chosen to marry was singularly unimpressed with everything he put before her, wore her vulnerability on her sleeve and made him feel unaccountably protective.
Samia was facing another velvet drape in another exclusive shop about three hours later—albeit this time in a secluded side street in Paris, the centre of world fashion. She’d woken just before the air stewardess had come to tell her they were about to land, and Sadiq had largely ignored her on the journey into Paris. She fiddled for a moment with the chiffon overlay of the dress, and then the much friendlier French stylist appeared at her side and tugged her through the drape. ‘Come on, chérie. We have a lot of outfits to get through.’
Samia closed her eyes for a split second and held her breath, the bright light blinding her for a moment so she couldn’t see the initial expression on Sadiq’s face. He was standing near the window and he lowered the ever-present smart phone from his ear.
Samia desperately felt like fidgeting in the long dress, but the stylist was already fussing around her, tweaking and pulling. Resolutely refusing to be intimidated this time, she hitched up her chin and looked straight at Sadiq—but his gaze was somewhere around her breasts. Samia’s jaw clenched; he was looking for them, no doubt. Although she had to admit that even she’d been surprised at how voluptuous the dress made them look.
The sylist had chided her that she’d been wearing the wrong size bra for years and had quoted a size of 32C, which had had Samia protesting vociferously that she must be wrong. Until she’d given her a bra to try and it had fitted like a second skin.
Sadiq’s gaze finally ascended and his face was completely expressionless. Samia thought she saw a flare of something in those blue depths, but put it down to the light and cursed the traitorous jump in her pulse.
‘Much better.’ His voice was cool. ‘This is more like it. Well done, Simone. Keep going.’
And then Samia was whisked away, back into the dressing room, and pushed and pulled and contorted into a dizzying array of outfits. Evening wear, daywear, casual wear, beachwear. She soon affected her own uninterest as she was paraded in front of Sadiq for the umpteenth time. And then they were finished. When she went back outside Sadiq was gone, and she felt an ominous lurch where her heart was.
She whirled around when the petite Frenchwoman appeared holding out her coat. ‘Um … do you know where …?’
Simone smiled and said cheerily, in her gorgeous accent, ‘Your fiancé is trusting my judgement for the rest of the day. You don’t really want him to see your wedding outfits before the wedding, do you? And also …’ She linked her arm with Samia who felt extremely uncomfortable—never having been a girly girl. ‘I think when he sees you in your new underwear it should be a nice surprise, non?’
For the next few hours, until dusk fell over Paris, Samia endured the humiliation of having an army of women parade around her, poking and prodding, and of climbing in and out of underwear so indecently flimsy that she had no earthly intention of ever wearing it for herself, never mind for someone else!
She’d been measured for her main wedding dress, which she would wear on the final day of the celebrations—the most westernised part of the wedding. The rest of the fitting for that would take place the next day, as well as her spending a few hours in a beauty salon. In a couple of weeks the dress would be brought to London for a final fitting and last adjustments before they left for Al-Omar.
So apparently they were staying in Paris for the night. An ominous fluttering started up in Samia’s belly.
Simone escorted her out to the car that had been ferrying them around all afternoon and bade her goodnight, telling her that all of the clothes would be delivered to London and then on to Al-Omar. She pressed a small luxury holdall into Samia’s hands and winked. ‘You might need this tonight.’
Samia wasn’t sure what she meant until she opened it in the privacy of the back of the car. She had no idea where she was going, and was too tired to ask, and yet felt bizarrely secure in the knowledge that Sadiq would know exactly where she was.
And then she saw what was in the bag: a selection of silky underwear and pyjamas. There was a smaller bag, with exquisite toiletries and a change of clothes for the next day. She’d lost her own favourite jeans somewhere along the way today, and was now wearing a beautifully tailored pair of designer trousers and an indecently soft cashmere jumper. Together with the new lace bra she wore underneath it all felt far too decadent, and not her.
By the time the car pulled up outside a very expensive looking townhouse, with the iconic Al-Omar flag flying at the entrance, Samia was feeling decidedly prickly.
CHAPTER FIVE
SAMIA walked into a hushed, dimly lit and luxurious reception hall. A huge chandelier twinkled above her and a massive winding staircase led upwards. There were exquisite oriental rugs on polished parquet floors, and small antique tables with Chinese vases which she guessed were Ming. Delicate rococco design was everywhere, and expensive looking art on the walls. One of the bodyguards closed the main door behind her softly and Samia put her leather bag down, forgetting all about her discomfort in the face of this sheer opulence.
She took a moment drinking it in before she realised that Sadiq was lounging against a wall nearby, hands in pockets, half hid
den in the gloom like some dark knight. Samia put her hand to her suddenly pounding heart, knowing that it had more to do with the immediate kick of her pulse at the sight of that powerful body than fright.
That prickliness was back. ‘You scared me half to death. Do you normally sneak up on people like that?’
Sadiq pushed himself off the wall and strolled towards her, half coming into the light, so his face was all dark shadows and hard planes, his white shirt making those blue eyes pop out. ‘I came back to take care of some work in the office, but I left you in good hands.’ His eyes flicked down and Samia felt it almost like the faint lash of a whip. ‘The clothes suit you … we should have come to Simone in the first place.’
His tone of voice, as if he was talking about an inanimate object, made Samia irrationally angry. Her hands were clenched. ‘My jeans are gone. I liked those jeans. Do you know how long it takes to break in a pair of jeans? And my top and jacket … they were perfectly good. How can I go for a walk in Hyde Park in these?’
She stuck her foot out to indicate the beautiful but impractical soft leather ankle boots with high heels. Sadiq came closer and Samia stumbled backwards, off balance for a second.
‘I’m afraid your days of walking in Hyde Park unaccompanied are gone, Samia. Do you want to tell me what’s really wrong? You must be the only woman on this earth who can spend the day shopping with an unlimited credit card and not emerge from the experience ecstatic with joy.’
Samia diverted her gaze, suddenly ashamed at her petulance. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful … but it’s just not me.’ She plucked at the luxurious jumper which clung so lovingly to her body and looked back up, unaware of the beseeching look on her face. ‘I was never into this sort of thing. I feel like … I don’t know who I am any more. I’m losing myself.’
To Samia’s surprise, Sadiq came and put his hands on her shoulders and propelled her gently but firmly to a long mirror on a panel of the wall nearby. He stood her in front of it. Immediately she saw her reflection and Samia winced and looked away, but Sadiq held her fast.
‘Look at yourself, Samia.’
She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. She’d managed to avoid it so far. Too many memories of her stepmother standing her in front of a mirror and pointing out all of her failings were threatening to swamp her. She’d never felt so vulnerable. Especially with Sadiq’s big warm hands on her shoulders, sending all sorts of shockwaves down her arms and between her legs where a pulse throbbed. She could feel her breasts grow heavy, and the lace bra chafed against suddenly stinging nipples. Oh, God.
‘Open your eyes, Samia. We’re not moving till you do.’ Recognising that steel tone, Samia knew she had no choice. With the utmost reluctance she opened her eyes and then heard a dry, ‘Now, look in the mirror.’
Why was it that this man was the one person who seemed to have been given the unique ability to make herself face up to all her innermost demons? She’d only known him for a week, and yet he already knew more about her than anyone else. Thanks to her futile attempts to persuade him that she wasn’t suitable for him which had backfired in spectacular fashion.
She turned her head and looked defiantly into the blue eyes in the dark face above hers. The heels lessened the height difference between them, but it was still substantial. He was a whole head and shoulders above her.
Sadiq arched a brow. ‘You can gaze into my eyes all you want, Samia, but the object of this exercise is for you to look at yourself.’ He smiled, and it was mocking. ‘However, if you would prefer to look at me, then …’
Her face flaming, Samia quickly diverted her gaze and looked at herself—because right now that was the lesser of two evils. Somewhere along the way her hair had come down and she’d lost her clip, so now it lay in long wavy tendrils over her shoulders and down her back. The little curly pieces she could never control were framing her face. Her hair had been down more often in the past week than it had since she’d been a child. Her eyes were glittering almost feverishly in her too-pale face, with two bright spots of pink in her cheeks. She groaned inwardly; she looked as if she’d just been picking apples off a tree in an orchard. About as unsophisticated as you could possibly get.
And then she saw where the clinging material of her jumper moulded lovingly to her breasts, which suddenly seemed huge, the hard points of her nipples clearly pushing against the fabric. This should have been the point when she pulled away, made some facetious comment and broke the tension. But a heavy langour seemed to have invaded her veins, a curious lethargy, and yet there was an energy too, fizzing and jumping in her blood.
The trousers lay flat against her pelvis and then skimmed her legs, elongating them and making them look almost slender.
Sadiq’s voice sounded rough, and his hands tightened marginally on her shoulders. ‘Perhaps, Samia, it’s about you finding yourself, not losing yourself at all. The image in that mirror is one of a woman who is about to become a queen, and the sooner you can see that too, the better. I can see it, so you really shouldn’t doubt yourself.’
His hands were suddenly gone, and so was the warmth from his body behind her. She turned around and saw he was walking away, throwing over his shoulder carelessly, ‘Helene will show you to your room. We’ll eat in an hour.’
As if by magic a small wizened woman appeared and beckoned with a smile for Samia to follow her. She already had her bag in her hand. Sadiq’s words about finding herself were ringing in her ears and affecting her at a very visceral level as she followed the housekeeper.
Sadiq closed the door behind him in his huge study and leant back against it for a moment, shutting his eyes. But it was no good. All he could see was the provocative fullness of Samia’s breasts pushing against that flimsy top. They weren’t even clothes designed to drive a man wild with desire! What would he do when she appeared in the long strapless evening dress she’d worn earlier, which had pushed the pale swells of her breasts high above the bodice?
When Samia had disappeared for another change he’d made a fool of himself by asking Simone tersely if it was entirely appropriate for any kind of function they’d be attending, and Simone had looked at him with dry amusement. ‘Chéri, that dress alone contains about three hundred more yards of material than the excuse for a dress you bought the last time you were here—so, yes, it’s fine.’
His eyes snapped open again but that image of Samia—one long slender leg revealed in a thigh-high slit, bare shoulders and that enticing cleavage—was burned onto his retinas. He went and poured himself a shot of whisky and walked to the window, which looked out over the immaculate floodlit gardens. How long had she been keeping that body hidden under those boxy suits? All her life, he’d guess, and yet for all of her apparent shyness and insecurity he was seeing more and more tantalising flashes of something much more feisty.
It had been some kind of torture today, watching her parade in front of him in a range of outfits. And he couldn’t fathom it. He’d watched women parade in front of him for years and it had never had such a profound effect on him.
But with each successive fitting today Sadiq’s tension had risen and risen, to the point that he’d had to leave or turn into a slavering fool in front of the impeccably cool Simone, whom he suspected had already noticed the change in his usually unflappable demeanour.
The wedding dress and underwear fittings had not come soon enough, and he’d all but run out of the salon. And now he stood here, hand clenched around his glass, wondering why he felt so threatened at facing the unexpected reality that he desired his wife-to-be. Surely this had to be a good thing? His wedding night would be no hardship.
Even at that thought his body hardened, and Sadiq cursed. He was reduced to being turned on—as if someone was controlling a remote mechanism from a distance! He took a deep gulp of the drink and winced slightly, chastising himself. He had nothing to fear. He was being ridiculous. It was as simple as this: he was embarking on an arranged marriage and his head was mere
ly telling his body that he desired his wife. Biology, pure and simple, to ensure that he sired heirs.
Nevertheless, when Sadiq sat down and tried to concentrate on important correspondence trepidation skated over his nerve-endings.
A little later Sadiq sat back in his chair and twirled a wine glass in his hands, the ruby liquid catching the light. Samia was mesmerised by the play of muscles in Sadiq’s forearm and had to force herself to remember what he’d just asked.
‘My father remarried when I turned two. Alesha was a distant cousin of his, from the northern territory of Burquat.’
Sadiq’s eyes narrowed on Samia and she looked down to her empty dessert plate.
‘That’s it?’
Samia shrugged minutely, uncomfortably aware of how the material of her top skated over her suddenly sensitive skin. ‘She wasn’t … very maternal. I think she viewed my brother and I as a threat.’ She looked up at Sadiq again and tried a wry smile. ‘You see, my father truly loved our mother, even though it had been an arranged marriage. And when she died …’ Samia’s smile faltered when she thought of the deep wells of sadness her father’s eyes had been. ‘He was devastated.’
Sadiq frowned. ‘You said she died in childbirth with you?’ Samia nodded and swallowed, pushing down the emotion she always thought she had no right to feel—that yawning sense of loss. ‘She developed pre-eclampsia and by the time they realised why she’d gone into labour early it was too late. She slipped into a coma and died a few days later.’
Wanting to divert the attention from herself, Samia asked, ‘You never had any brothers or sisters?’
He looked up, and the sudden tension in the air and in Sadiq’s face warned Samia that she had strayed into sensitive territory—which made her curious.
He shook his head. ‘No. Just me.’ He smiled, but it was tight, and drained the last of his wine.
