‘For what? What exactly have I done that requires forgiveness?’
‘It is not what you’ve done.’
‘But who I am? Born to the Qadir royal family?’
The compression of his lips was all the confirmation she needed.
‘And what we shared changes nothing?’
‘What we shared was wrong. It should never have happened.’
‘How can you say that when it felt so right?’
His eyes closed for a moment then lanced her with their intensity. ‘It was just sex.’
She stared at him in surprise. It was such a crude thing to say, and so wrong. She hadn’t expected it of him.
‘You weren’t a virgin. You knew what sex was about.’
Her eyes hurt. It took her a second to comprehend that it was the sting of tears. She blinked furiously, refusing to give in to such a childish response.
‘So that night meant nothing to you?’
He stared at her without responding. Every second that stretched between them was like a fresh pain in her heart.
‘I’m not here to discuss anything besides the possibility that you conceived our child.’
Her heart lurched. She couldn’t help it—out of nowhere an image of what their baby might look like filled her eyes, all chubby with dark hair and fierce dark eyes. She turned away from him, everything wonky and unsteady.
‘I’m not pregnant, Amir. You’re off the hook completely.’
She heard his hiss of relief, a sharp exhalation, as though he hadn’t been breathing properly until then. She wanted to hurt him back, to make him feel as she did, but she feared she wasn’t properly armed. How could one hurt a stone wall? And whatever she’d perceived in him on the night of the masquerade, she could see now that he was impenetrable. All unfeeling and strong, unyielding and determined to stay that way.
‘If that’s all, I’d like to be shown to my suite now.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘IT IS CALLED albaqan raghif,’ he said quietly, his eyes on her as she fingered the delicate piece of bread, his words murmured so they breathed across her cheek. She resisted the impulse to lean closer. This was the first she’d seen of him since their discussion earlier that day. For most of the day, she’d been given a tour of the palace by a senior advisor, shown the ancient rooms—the library, the art galleries, the corridors lined with tapestries so like those that hung in the palaces of Taquul. Looking at them had filled her with both melancholy and hope. A sadness that two people so alike and with such a richly shared history could have been so combative for so long, and hope that their shared history would lay the foundations for a meaningful future peace.
Now, sitting at the head of the room with him, various government ministers in attendance, she concentrated on what she’d come here for—this was a state visit and she the representative of Taquul—how she felt about the man to her right was not important. ‘We have something similar in Taquul.’ She reached for a piece of the pecan bread and bit into it. She concentrated on the flavours and after she’d finished her mouthful said, ‘Except ours generally has different spices. Nutmeg and cardamom.’
‘My mother made it like that,’ Amir said with obvious surprise.
She took another bite and smiled at him politely. ‘This is very good too.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘But you prefer it the way you’re used to.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Silence stretched between them, all the more noticeable for how much conversation was swirling around the room. The mood was, for the most part, festive. Some ministers had treated her with suspicion, a few even with open dislike, but generally, people had been welcoming. It saddened her to realise how right Amir had been—the peace would not come easily. Prejudices died hard.
‘I’m sorry your brother sent you.’
She was surprised by the words. She squared her shoulders, careful not to react visibly. ‘You’d prefer I hadn’t come?’
He angled his face to hers. ‘As I’m sure you would have wished to avoid it.’
‘On the contrary—’ she reached for her wine glass ‘—I relished the opportunity.’
His eyes held hers curiously.
‘I’ve heard a lot about Ishkana. All my life, stories have been told of your people, your ways, your ancient cities. To be here now is an exercise in satisfying my curiosity.’
He lifted his brows. ‘What are you curious about?’
‘Oh, everything.’ She sipped her wine. ‘The ruins of wasat, the wall that spans the sarieun sea, the theatres in the capital.’ She shook her head, a smile playing about her full red lips. ‘I know there won’t be a chance on this visit, but in time, with continued peace between our people, these landmarks could open up.’
He appeared to consider that for a moment. ‘Yes. In time.’
‘And our historical sites will be open to your people as well.’
He regarded her for several long moments, then sighed. ‘You are an optimist.’
She laughed softly, spontaneously. ‘Am I?’
Photographers were not permitted at royal banquets. It was a long-established protocol and even in this day of cell phones no cameras were used during meals. If anyone had taken a photo in that second though it would have captured two royals with their faces close together, their eyes latched, a look of something very like intimacy in their position. To a few of those present, the idea of the powerful, feared and adored Sheikh Amir Haddad sharing a meal with the Princess of Taquul was likely a bitter pill to swallow.
‘If I am,’ she murmured, after several seconds, ‘then you must be too.’
His expression was unchanged. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that.’
‘It’s not an accusation so much as an observation,’ she corrected.
‘Fine. That has never been...observed...of me before.’
‘Doesn’t it take a degree of optimism to proceed with a peace treaty? You must believe it will succeed or why bother with all this?’ She gestured around the room, as if rousing them both, reminding them of where they were and how many people were watching.
Both separated a little, straightening in their seats. ‘Acknowledging the necessity of something has no bearing on its likely success.’
‘I take it back. I think I was right the first time we met. You’re a cynic.’
‘That I have been called frequently.’
The air between them seemed to spark. Awareness flooded Johara’s body. Sitting close to him, speaking like this, she found the tension almost unbearable. She felt as though her skin was alive with an itch that she wanted to scratch and scratch and scratch.
The evening was long. After the dinner—which spanned six courses—there were speeches. The trade minister, the foreign minister, the culture minister. Johara sat beside Amir and listened, a polite smile on her face even when many small, barbed insults were laid at her country’s feet. She wanted to respond to each that it took two to tango—a war couldn’t be continued at only one country’s insistence. Wrongs had been perpetrated on both sides. But all the while, the knowledge of what the man beside her had lost at her uncle’s hand kept her silent.
She nodded politely, reminding herself again and again that her place in all this was not to inflame tensions so much as to soothe them. A necessary part of the peace process would involve humility—from both sides. The thought made her smile. Imagining Sheikh Amir Haddad humbling himself was not the easiest thing to do.
Finally, when all the speeches had been made, Johara stood. She ignored the small insults she’d heard and focussed on the bigger picture, and the fact Amir had invited her here.
‘I’m gratified to sit here with you as a representative of my brother, Sheikh Malik Qadir, and the people of Taquul. I hope this is the first of many such events enjoyed by our people in this new age of peace and u
nderstanding.’ She paused and smiled, her eyes skimming the room before coming to rest on Amir. He didn’t return her smile and the expression on his chiselled face made her pulse rush through her body. ‘I’m grateful for the hospitality of your kingdom, your people, and your Sheikh.’ She wrenched her eyes away from him with difficulty. ‘I look forward to getting to know the ways of your people better.’
When she sat down, it was to the sound of muted applause. Even that earned a wry smile from her, though she dipped her head forward to hide it. Only Amir caught the look, his eyes still trained on her face.
As was the custom, he led her from the room, the official engagement at an end. It would be ordinary for him to hand her off as soon as they’d left the palace hall, and yet he didn’t. He continued to walk with her. On either side, they were flanked by enormous flower arrangements—filled with natives of the region, blooms, foliage, pomegranate, citrus, all in their infancy so the fruit was miniature and fragrant. There were security personnel too, carefully watchful, discreet and respectful, but Amir felt their presence with a growing sense of frustration.
At the bottom of the stairs that led to the wing of the palace reserved for visiting dignitaries, he paused, wondering at the sense of hesitation that gripped him.
‘You must be tired.’ His voice was gruff. He made an effort to soften it.
‘Must I be?’ She lifted both brows, her lips pursed.
‘You arrived early this morning. It’s been a big day.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, looking sideways with a small sigh. ‘But I’m not tired.’
Neither said anything. He could only look at her, the face held in profile, so beautiful, so achingly beautiful, but so full of the Qadir features that even as he yearned to reach for her he stayed where he was, his body taut, old hatreds deep inside his soul refusing to be quelled.
‘In truth, I’m restless,’ she said after a moment. ‘I feel as though I’ve spent all day saying and doing what’s expected of me and what I’d really like is just a few minutes of being my actual self.’
The confession surprised him.
‘I don’t suppose you have a maze I could go and get lost in for a bit?’
It was said light-heartedly, as a joke, but he couldn’t fail to feel jolted by the reminder of that damned maze.
‘No.’ Too gruff again. He shook his head. This was no good. How could she be so effortlessly charming despite their long, bitter past? ‘We have something even better.’
She put a hand on her hip, drawing his attention downwards, to her waist and the curves that had driven him crazy long before he’d known who she was. ‘I doubt that.’
His laugh was deep and throaty. ‘Want to bet?’
‘Sure. Show me.’
What was he doing? He should tell her to go to bed; in the morning, she’d have another busy day. But a thousand fireworks seemed to be bursting beneath his skin. He wanted to be alone with her, even when he knew every reason he should fight that desire.
‘May I go and change first?’
His lips tugged downwards. ‘Your Highness, you’re here as my guest. You do not need to ask my permission for anything.’
He’d surprised her. She bit down on her lip and he had to look away, before impulses overtook him and he dropped his head to kiss her. It would have felt so natural and easy.
‘I’ll wait here.’
She nodded once then turned, walking up the wide, sweeping staircase. He couldn’t help but watch her departure.
Fifteen minutes later, Johara was ready. Having played the part of dutiful princess all day, she had found it a sheer, blissful relief to slip out of the couture dress she’d worn to the state dinner and pull on a pair of simple black trousers and an emerald-green blouse, teamed with simple black leather ballet flats. It was the kind of outfit she would wear in New York—dressy enough to escape criticism but comfortable and relatable. Her hair had been styled into an elegant braid that wrapped around her head like a crown to secure the actual crown she’d worn—enormous diamonds forming a crescent above her head. She deftly removed the two dozen pins that had been used to secure it, laying the tiara on the dressing table, then letting her hair fall around her shoulders in loose voluminous waves.
With more time, she might have washed her face clean of the make-up she wore, but impatience was guiding her, making her work fast. As she walked back down the staircase, she only had eyes for Amir. He was standing exactly where she’d left him, dressed in the formal robes he’d worn to dinner, his swarthy complexion and the jet black of his hair forming a striking contrast to the snowy white robes.
All night he’d been businesslike, treating her as though they had no history beyond that of their countries, but now, there was more. He was incapable of shielding his response to her—the way his eyes travelled her body with a slow, possessive heat, starting with her face, which he studied with an intensity that took her breath away, then shifting lower, moving over the curves of her breasts, the indent of her waist, the generous swell of her hips, all the way down to her feet as she walked, one step at a time, holding the handrail for fear she might stumble. And as his eyes moved, heat travelled the same path, setting fire to her bloodstream so by the time she reached him she felt as though she were smouldering.
‘Well?’ Her voice shook a little; she didn’t care. ‘What do you have to rival the maze?’
His eyes lifted to her lips and she didn’t breathe—she couldn’t—for several long seconds. Her lungs burned.
He was going to kiss her. His eyes were so intent on her lips, his body so close—when had that even happened?—his expression so loaded with sensuality that memories weaved through her, reminding her of what they’d shared.
She waited, her face upturned, her lips parted, her blood firing so hard and fast that she could barely think, let alone hear. She knew she should step backwards, move away from him—this was all too complicated—but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Just as the hand of fate seemed to guide them in the maze, a far greater force was at work now.
She expelled a shuddering breath simply because her lungs needed to work, and with the exhalation her body swayed forward a little, not intentionally and not by much, but it brought her to him, her breasts brushing to his chest lightly, so that her nipples hummed at the all too brief contact.
‘Johara.’ He said her name with intent, with surrender, and with pain. It was all too hard. Where she could push the difficulties aside, at least temporarily, he appeared unable to. He swallowed so his Adam’s apple moved visibly, then stepped backwards, his face a mask of discipline, his smile a gash in his handsome face.
Disappointment made her want to howl No! into the corridor. She did nothing.
‘Your Highness.’ He addressed her formally, gesturing with the upturned palm of his hand that she should precede him down the corridor. Her legs felt wobbly and moist heat pooled between her thighs, leaving her in little doubt of just how desperately she wanted him.
She moved in the direction he’d indicated, and when he fell into step beside her he walked closely, close enough that their arms brushed with each stride, so heat and tension began to arrow through her, spreading butterflies of desire and hope in her gut. But why hope? What did she want? He was—or had been until recently—the enemy.
Not my enemy.
No, not her enemy. Though she’d accepted the war between their countries and the family feud that had defined the Qadirs and Haddads for generations, she had felt no personal hatred for him, nor his parents. The fact their countries had been at war until recently wasn’t enough of a reason to ignore her instincts and her desires.
But for Amir, their history was so much worse. Where she had no personal wrong to resent him for, he’d lost his parents because of her uncle’s malicious cruelty. His hatred for her family was understandable. But did he have to include her in that?
What
did she want? The question kept circling around and around and around her mind, with no answer in sight. After several minutes, they reached a wide-set doorway, thrown open to the desert evening. He stood, waiting for her to move through it first, his manners innate and old-fashioned.
She stepped into the cool night air as Amir spoke to the servants. ‘We are not to be followed.’
There was a pause and then a deferential nod of agreement. Johara turned away, amused to imagine what they must think—their Sheikh going out of the palace with a Qadir? Did they suspect Johara, all five and a half feet of her, posed a threat to the man?
Her lips curved in a smile at the notion, a smile that still hovered on her lips when he joined her. ‘Care to share the joke?’
‘I was just thinking how suspicious your guards looked,’ she murmured, nudging him with her elbow, so his eyes fell to hers. Heat passed between them.
‘You are from Taquul,’ he said simply.
She ignored the implication. ‘As though I might have a three-foot scabbard buried in here somewhere.’ She ran her hands over her hips, shaking her head at the preposterous idea.
‘I take it you don’t?’
Her laugh was soft. ‘You’re welcome to check, Amir.’
As soon as she said the words she wished she could unsay them. She lifted a hand to her lips and stopped walking, staring at him with eyes that offered a silent apology. ‘I didn’t mean for you to...’
But he stared at her with a look that was impossible to read, his breath audible in the stillness of the night.
‘It wasn’t an invitation?’
Her heart was beating way too fast. How could it continue at that pace?
‘We agreed that night was a mistake,’ she reminded him.
‘No, I said it was a mistake. You said it felt right.’
Her lips parted at the reminder. ‘Yes, I did say that.’
He turned to look back to the palace. They’d moved down the steps and into a garden fragrant with night-flowering jasmine and citrus blossoms, out of sight of the guards. But he turned, moving them further, into an area overgrown with trees. It was unlike the maze in Taquul. Where that was all manicured and enchanting for its formal shape—like a perfect outdoor room—this was more akin to something from a fairy tale. Ancient trees with trunks as wide as six of Amir’s chests grew gnarled and knotted towards a sky she knew to be there only because it must be there, not because she could see it. The foliage of each tree formed a thick canopy, creating an atmosphere of darkness. Were it not for Amir’s hand, which he extended to take hers, she might have lost her footing and fallen. But he guided her expertly, leading her along a narrow path as if by memory. Deeper in the forest, the beautiful fragrance grew thicker and here there was a mesmerising birdcall, like a bell and a whip, falling at once. She paused to listen to it.
Their Impossible Desert Match (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 6