“Oh, I see. You’d like me to romance you a little before hand? Perhaps wake you with roses? Love songs?”
“Don’t be so facile.” She chided. “We both know romance doesn’t enter into our equation.”
His eyes narrowed, his face was unreadable. “And yet you are upset by what you perceive as my businesslike approach to you...”
“Absurd,” she muttered, shoving at his chest with her hand. This time, he let her wriggle out from under him. With effortless grace, she stood beside the bed and slipped a silk nightgown on over her head. The fabric clung to her curves like a second skin.
“I don’t think it is absurd. I think you’ve got just what you’ve always wanted, and now you find it’s not enough for you.”
“Just what I always wanted? And what, pray tell, is that?” She enquired archly.
“A wealthy husband. Money to burn.”
“Of course! I’d forgotten your first assumption that I must see money as a fair exchange for my virginity.” She fumed, pushing a hand through her long hair.
“If I weren’t the king of Assan, with the fortune that accompanies it, would you have married me?”
Her mouth gaped at him, her eyes were wide with shock. But she didn’t refute his assertion. She had needed someone like him to help her make a clean break from Winona and Greg. It had very little to do with money, and yet, without his money and position, they would always have been able to follow her. To ruin her life until they were no longer alive. The thought made her shudder.
“No denial, I see.” He compressed his lips. “Which reminds me.”
He pulled away from her and strode into the ensuite. He returned seconds later, carrying a small burgundy box. “Here. This is for you.” With a small flick of the wrist, he threw the box onto the bed beside where she stood. She reached down and snapped open the box automatically, and closed it again straight away. “Earrings?” She said slowly, her foggy brain struggling to grasp why he would give her such an obviously expensive present in the midst of an argument about money, of all things. “What are they for?”
He’d seen them at a market and known they would show off the deep blue of her eyes. “What do you think?” He said sardonically. Even Rebecca, his queenly bride, couldn’t hide the hurt as she put two and two together and got just what he’d hoped for.
He thought she was selling her body to the highest bidder, and now he was making payment. It made her blood run cold in her veins. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, and her eyes stung with tears that she would not let fall.
Tariq saw the play of emotion as it crossed her face, but the contradiction he was hoping for never came. The anger he’d wanted to arouse, the flat out refusal of such a gift in these circumstances, either of which might have allayed his belief that money was the only reason she’d married him. It never came. Instead, she flashed him a withering smile, and walked her glorious silk-clad body towards the door. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”
It was only once she’d returned to the privacy of her own room that she gave in to the tears. Two drops slid out from her lashes and ran slowly down her cheeks. She’d never felt so hurt in her whole life.
CHAPTER NINE
Rebecca smoothed a hand over her suit jacket once more and then took a steadying breath. She felt terrible. She’d been too distraught the night before to sleep, and she’d had to apply a heavy dose of concealer beneath her eyes today to look even passably normal.
But she’d been waiting ten days – eleven, now – to speak to Tariq about something that was incredibly important to her. Whatever was happening between them, she was not going to let him intimidate her away from her purpose.
He was sitting behind his enormous timber desk, his back rigid, his face averted. He was alone, but so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear her enter his haven, until she cleared her throat.
“Rebecca,” he stood out of habit. She looked terrible. Thin and pale with two dark purple smudges beneath either eye. He had done that to her. He wanted to hold her tight and beg her to forgive him, but he was a proud man. Too proud to beg.
“What can I do for you?”
Businesslike. Crisp. Good. She could deal with this. The last thing she thought she could handle was another argument with him.
“I have a proposal I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’m intrigued. Please. Take a seat.”
She took the chair he’d indicated and waited for him to do likewise.
“It’s about your school system.”
He did a double take. “The school system?”
“Yes.” Her face was filled with concentration. The concentration of ignoring the burning pain in her chest. The concentration of ignoring the desire that was threatening to flare up inside of her.
“Okay...” he tipped some ice tea into a glass and offered it to her, but she refused.
“Regionally, your percentage of children in education bodies is impressive.”
He inclined his head in recognition. “But it’s still got a long way to go. I’ve been looking into it, and I have a couple of suggestions for how we can immediately increase enrolments by fifteen percent.”
“You do?” He frowned. “I am sceptical, but please, do tell me.” The number of children not receiving an education had troubled him for years. He was, in truth, fascinated to hear her suggestions. But looking at her, so frail and vulnerable, he was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else. She was a beautiful butterfly and he’d damaged her. It filled him with a totally foreign sense of compunction.
“...I spent three months there.” She finished.
“Where?”
“Tariq, have you been listening to me?” She demanded.
“No. I’m sorry. I was...somewhere else. Please, start again.”
“Tariq,” she snapped, “I am here to talk about a serious problem with Assan. You could at least give me the courtesy of your attention.”
He raised his hands in acknowledgement. “I agree. I apologise. Now, what were you saying?”
She began again. “I spent about three months in Australia as part of my degree.”
“I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the lounge room?” He interrupted thoughtfully.
She waved a hand in the air. The detail wasn’t important. The detail that she’d had to beg and plead for a year before Winona had finally agreed, on the basis that Rebecca would repay every dollar for the airfare, and also continue to pay her board whilst she lived overseas.
“For the most part, that’s true. But I did. I spent these three months in Australia. You know, it’s a huge country with these really remote communities sprinkled across the outback. Lots of children who aren’t able to attend school because of their location.”
He nodded. “Yes, I am aware of Australia.” He hadn’t intended to sound so condescending.
She stiffened her back. “In any event, they have what’s called The School of the Outback.”
At this, he frowned.
“Oh? No smug comment here?” She enquired archly, earning one of his rare smiles.
“Carry on.”
“So it’s a radio school. Children congregate in the community church or even in someone’s lounge room, and the classes are broadcast over the radio. It’s free, and the text books are available online. In communities in Assan, where there is no internet, we could provide the funding for school documents to be sent out. And, Tariq? The most exciting part? We can do an adult education syllabus too, for people who didn’t have the opportunity to attend school themselves. This could be your legacy. Creating the most educated generation of Assanians ever.”
Her idea was excellent, but it was her passion that took his breath away.
“I like it.” He nodded slowly. “I want you to help coordinate it.”
“You do?”
“Who better? For two years I have been hounding my education minister for ways to improve our statistics. In under a month, you’ve come up with the bes
t idea I’ve heard so far. Of course it should be you who oversees it.”
“What about our other project?” She asked with a slight wobble in her voice.
His brows drew together. “It shouldn’t interfere. Until we know that there even is a project,” he said slowly, “I imagine you’ll be able to oversee this, too. Don’t you?”
“Of course.” Her voice was strained. Never in her life had she imagined she’d be discussing a possible pregnancy so dispassionately.
He wanted to ask if she was okay, but he was afraid he knew the answer. She wasn’t. He had made his point a little too strenuously the night before, and he felt like a first rate bastard now.
“I appreciate that you’re taking an interest in the future of Assan,” he said sincerely.
“I’m not going anywhere, Tariq,” she responded, and her voice held a note of iron. “So we are going to have to learn to accept one another.”
He nodded slowly. An idea, an obviously stupid one, formed in his mind. “Do you know what we need?” He asked, before he could stop himself.
She was almost afraid to ask. “No. What do we need?”
“A honeymoon.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She said, slowly shaking her head from side to side. Her eyes beseeched him to be reasonable.
“What? It is a tradition, is it not?”
“Tariq, come on. It’s the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard. You must see that.”
“What is so ludicrous about it?”
“If last night is anything to go by, you can hardly stand me. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
He felt his heart hammering against his ribcage in an unfamiliar state of panic. He had stuffed up, royally. “You are the one who said we need to find a way to make this marriage work. Let’s make it work.”
“I didn’t mean by pretending to be in love! Oh, Tariq, no. It’s...” She closed her mouth. She knew enough of her husband to know that, once he’d made his mind up, he was impossible to persuade. She banked down on the emotions coursing through her, arranging her face into a study of acceptance. “Fine. Where?”
“Leave that to me. I like the idea of surprising you.”
“When do we leave?” She swallowed back a lump of nervous anticipation heavy in her throat.
He rocked back in his chair, not sure if he felt relieved or worried that she had accepted his crazy idea. “Saturday morning. We have a dinner Friday night for the commencement of parliament. We will go the morning after.”
She nodded again but her head was feeling fuzzy at the prospect of time alone with this man she had married. “Fine.”
“No need to seem so excited,” he muttered once she’d left his office. He tapped his heavy gold pen against the edge of his desk, wondering what on earth had inspired him to make that suggestion. He found it hard enough to resist her here, in the palace, where they were constantly surrounded by staff and officials. But alone together, in one of the most romantic settings on Earth... he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself.
* * *
More politicians than she could ever remember the names of were milling around the state apartments that, Monique had informed her, were only used for very formal entertaining. Which, in a royal household, was roughly once per month. At first, Rebecca had felt stupidly overdressed for this evening. The gold ball gown was roughly the same shape as a western style wedding dress. A fitted boned bodice sculpted her torso to just above the hip bone, where it suddenly gave way in a frothy bang of tulle. Lots of tulle. Acres of it.
Tariq greeted her at the top of the stairs. “Rebecca,” he took her hands in his. “You look beautiful.”
She looked down at her dress with a lopsided smile. “I look like an Academy Award Statue.”
“Except female.”
“Yes. But just as golden.”
He laughed, a genuine laugh, and she felt her heart squeeze painfully at the sound. “This will soon be over. Then, our honeymoon.”
She looked up at him earnestly. They’d hardly seen one another since that day in his office, when he’d floated the plan. “You still want to go on our honeymoon, then?” She held her fingers up and did the universal sign of inverted commas around the word honeymoon, denoting her scepticism with the idea.
His lips compressed, so that his mouth was just a slash across his face. “There is no question, Rebecca. It is happening.”
She bit down on her lip, butterflies dancing furiously in her stomach. “First, I have to get through tonight.”
“I’ll stay with you as much as I can,” he promised.
Unfortunately, Tariq was frequently drawn from her company, which meant she was a golden, shimmering sitting duck for anyone who wanted to bend her ear. When the buffet was opened for a late dinner, she moved with relief to the table, her eyes always seeking Tariq out.
“Your highness,” a man’s voice, familiar somehow, called her attention. She looked over, a bland smile on her face, only to see Faisal standing inches from her elbow.
“Faisal,” she exhaled. “You should not be here.”
“Your husband doesn’t own me. I am almost as high born as he is. He had no right to speak to me like that.”
She bit down on her lip. “I don’t know anything about that. But I think you should go.”
“I think I should stay.” He placed a finger on her forearm and she yanked her arm away in revulsion. Frantic blue eyes scanned the room behind him. Tariq was locked in conversation with six or seven parliamentarians, but he sensed her gaze and turned to look at her. Then, as his eyes fell on Faisal, she saw true hostility reflected in his expression. Such latent aggression that a frisson of fear ran the length of her spine.
It only took a second. He extricated himself from the group of business men and was at her side, an arm possessively wrapped around her waist, stroking her hip steadily through the fabric of the gown. “I would ask what you are doing here, but it is irrelevant.” He made a gesture to an invisible security guard, who appeared instantly. “Take this man into custody. He has threatened the Queen, been barred from entering royal palaces, and yet he has defied me and come here tonight. Take him away.”
Rebecca watched as Faisal was escorted from the ballroom, amazed that it had all happened so quickly and with very few people even noticing anything was amiss. She had to work hard to maintain an appearance of calm. “I’m fine,” she answered Tariq’s unspoken question. “Please, return to your duties, Tariq.”
“No, Rebecca. I think now I will stay with you.”
“Go, Tariq, or everyone will think you’re ashamed of me.” She whispered, a bright but slightly shaky smile pinned in place.
“Ashamed of you?” He responded in an undertone. “Please, elaborate.”
“That you can’t trust me to be alone. Worried what I might say.”
A muscle flecked in his cheek and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how shrewd her observation was. She was his Queen, and people would expect her to have autonomy. He nodded tersely. “Very well. Enjoy yourself.” He turned and cut through the room, and perhaps only to Rebecca, because she knew him so well, every step he took radiated frustration.
Around them, the party continued. It was amazing that such a drama could unfold with no collateral damage. Faisal was gone, Tariq had returned to his parliamentary guests, and Rebecca was alone, at the edge of the buffet table, wishing she was just about anywhere else. She was tired. Tired of the pretence. Tired of a husband she loved who couldn’t stand her. For the first time, she wondered how foolish she’d been to go through with this marriage.
“Madam, you will try the goat?” A short, squat chap asked good-naturedly, interrupting her troubled reflections.
“Goat!” A woman decried with amusement. “Of course she will not. Her highness has a more delicate pallet. Goat would be too local.”
Rebecca felt herself bristle at their words. “I would love to try the goat,” she contradicted. As she looked down at the buffet
and saw the dish in question, she wished she could gobble those words right back up. The Goat was simply a goat head. A whole head, with eyes, and an open mouth, and cheeks slashed open to expose a lurid pink flesh. “Oh...” she stumbled a little. “It looks...delicious.”
“Here,” the first man held a forkful of quivering, pink looking flesh up to her. “Try it. It’s a delicacy from southern Assan.”
Rebecca’s stomach clenched in apprehension, but a small group of Assanians had gathered to watch their new queen taste an apparently sacred meal. She took the fork gingerly and, holding her breath, bit into the meat. Were it not for the spectre of the goats head staring back at her, she might have found it passable. But the glassy eyes watching her accusingly turned her stomach.
“Delicious,” she gasped. “Excuse me.” With as much grace as she could muster when vomit was threatening to spill from her mouth, she crossed the room and disappeared from the ballroom. The bathrooms were too far. She ducked into the kitchen, where a small army of staff was busy in preparations, grabbed a rubbish bin, and promptly proceeded to lose the entire contents of her lunch into the bag lined vessel.
A hand was on her shoulder as she heaved herself senseless, and finally, when she was all done, she unfolded from the hips. “Tariq,” she muttered, grabbing a serviette from the nearby stainless steel bench and wiping her lips gingerly. “Why did you, of all people, have to witness that?”
He drew a hand through his hair. “You should not have done that, Rebecca.”
“Done what? Vomited? Funny thing. I really found I just couldn’t help myself.” She responded tartly.
“No,” he shook his head. “Eaten the goat cheek.”
“They were all staring at me. Expecting me to refuse. I ... I felt I had to.”
“You were wrong,” he intoned harshly.
“Aren’t I always?” She snapped defensively, patting her mouth with a napkin.
He stifled a groan. “You do not have to prove yourself to them, or anyone. You are Queen of Assan. You are my wife. What they think of your taste buds has very little bearing on anything at all.”
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