by Annie West
At the last moment she turned her head, pressing her lips not to his mouth but to the firm, taut skin of his cheek. It was smooth, as if he’d just shaved, and it was surprisingly enticing. For an instant she hovered there, her mouth to his flesh, knowing an unheralded desire to explore, to lift her palms to his shoulders and angle her mouth over his.
With a gasp she pulled back, sliding her hands beneath her legs as if to stop them reaching for him again. Her sudden neediness scared her.
Eyes brilliant as gems held hers as blood pounded in her ears. He didn’t say anything, though it was obvious she hadn’t delivered a real kiss. It was a coward’s kiss.
But it was the best Samira could do. Being close to Tariq made her pulse crazy and tied her in knots. Anxiety still feathered her backbone. Did he really intend to demand more?
Abruptly Tariq stood. Samira blinked, her gaze sliding over his amazing bronzed body.
Surely it wasn’t regret she felt because he was leaving?
Recognising that she didn’t want him to leave stole her voice.
‘That’s a start,’ he murmured finally.
‘A start?’
Tariq nodded. ‘One day soon we’ll be husband and wife in every sense of the word.’
Samira shook her head. He had it all wrong.
‘Not because I demand it but because it’s what we both want.’ He leaned close, his eyes tourmaline shards that dared her to deny it. ‘I promise you, Samira, you’ll be with me every step of the way.’ It was a threat but it sounded like a promise. A promise that sounded appallingly enticing.
She wanted to object, argue, say something to puncture his arrogant certainty. But instead her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.
His gaze scorched and Samira felt the sizzle in every inch of her body. His slow smile hitched his mouth up at one side, creating a sexy groove down one cheek that made her insides clutch. He looked so utterly confident, as if he’d never had a doubt in his life.
‘The next time you kiss me it won’t be because I ask, Samira, but because you want me.’
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE WAS AT his side as they said farewell to their guests. Her dress, the colour of sun-ripened peaches, made her glow and brought out the brightness of her warm, sherry eyes. He’d guess that no one else noticed the smudges under her eyes. If they did they’d assume it was because he’d kept her from sleep with a night of unbridled passion. Even her blush looked like that of a new bride.
Tariq’s belly clenched. Just thinking about Samira strung him tight as a bow. It was unnatural for a man and wife to live as celibate strangers, even for a night.
But Samira hadn’t been ready. She’d been as uptight as a virgin, her nervousness palpable despite her bravado.
He wasn’t a man to force any woman. That flash of fear in her eyes had stopped him in his tracks.
Yet he intended to have her as his wife in every sense. He only hoped he survived to enjoy her surrender. His hunger for her was stronger, richer, more compelling than it had been all those years ago. He ached with it.
Because she was the woman he’d desired and never had?
Because she’d been the object of his first real passion?
Stretching out his hand, he placed his palm on her back as she wished a visiting princess a safe trip. Samira stiffened but didn’t move away. After a few moments, when his hand didn’t shift, he felt her tension gradually ease.
Tariq suppressed a smile as he listened to a guest enthuse about yesterday’s wedding celebration. It was like breaking in a filly, getting Samira used to his touch, persuading her to trust him. It would take patience but the prize would be worth it.
He glanced down, taking in her vibrant loveliness. Not just her exquisite features, but the warmth of her personality. Her hand fluttered as she emphasised a point and the delicate henna markings caught his eye. Markings that proclaimed her his.
Tariq stiffened as need cannoned into him.
He’d married Samira for all the sensible reasons she’d put forward, including his need to do the best for his boys. He’d responded to the desperation he’d read in Samira, the bone-deep instinct that told him she needed this, needed him, more than she was prepared to admit.
But there was one reason above all why he’d accepted her proposal.
He’d never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted Samira.
The truth buffeted him, dragging the air from his lungs. It was a truth he’d tried so hard to ignore.
At seventeen she’d been heartbreakingly lovely. Enough to send him rushing back to his homeland lest he do something unforgivable, like seduce his best friend’s innocent sister. He’d felt guilty for years, knowing how dishonourable the carnal thoughts were that plagued him. He’d even, at one point, contemplated offering marriage, till he’d heard she had her sights set on a career in fashion. Tariq had needed a wife by his side, not living in the USA or Europe.
Yet, even in the years they’d been apart, just the sight of her photo in the press had the capacity to distract him. He’d never been able to forget her.
So when she’d come to him for help, offering herself in marriage...
He might be Sheikh, commander, ruler and protector of his people. But he was a man too.
‘I wish you well, Tariq,’ the visiting prince before him said. ‘May your sons be many and strong, your daughters as beautiful as your lovely bride and your years long.’
Tariq clasped his outstretched hand, responding in kind.
It struck him how hard this must be for Samira, with everyone wishing them the blessing of children when she couldn’t have any. Regret lanced him and he felt a sliver of hurt for her sake.
Yet she didn’t flinch as one after another departing guest offered the same wishes. She was the ideal hostess, regal yet warm, charming and lovely, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Tariq slid his hand in a comforting circle just above her waist. Would she realise he silently offered his support? He could do no more, not in public and not, he guessed, with a woman who guarded her emotions so closely.
* * *
Tariq’s gentle caress at her back was strangely soothing. After last night she’d been on tenterhooks, anticipating the next time he’d reach for her, maybe demand another kiss. But this—she shifted her weight rather than press back against his warm hand—this felt like comfort.
At last the guests were gone and they were alone. Still his hand remained, his long fingers splaying heat across her upper back. She should move away.
‘How are you holding up, Samira?’
She looked up and was surprised to read concern in Tariq’s eyes.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Her brows twitched together. ‘Why, don’t I look it?’ She’d done her best to disguise her sleepless night.
He shrugged and she felt the shift of his arm across her back. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be touched.
‘You look gorgeous.’ The gleam in his eyes did strange things to her insides. ‘But with everyone harping on the prospect of children I wondered.’
Samira stiffened and stepped away, drawing in on herself. Instantly she missed his touch. She was torn between gratitude that he’d thought of her pain and fear she’d given herself away when she’d prided herself on being strong.
‘It’s nothing.’ His steady scrutiny made her edgy. ‘At least, I’m used to it.’ She forced a smile to hide her discomfort. So many good wishes for something that could never be had reawakened that dull ache of pain at her core. She refused to give in to it. ‘After the first hundred times, it’s water off a duck’s back.’
‘It’s over now,’ he murmured, as if they didn’t both know that for a lie. The speculation would start in a few months when people began looking for signs of pregnancy.
Samira’s empty
womb contracted hard but she ignored it. She couldn’t have her own babies but she was now the mother of two sons. That would keep her too busy to worry about anything else. That and dealing with her new husband.
‘As you say.’ She nodded. ‘It’s all over.’ His kind lie reassured her that she hadn’t quite made the huge mistake she’d feared. Relief welled.
Last night Tariq had shattered her optimism with his declaration that he intended them to be lovers. She’d felt devastated and betrayed, haunted by the fear she’d once again chosen a man she couldn’t trust. But now, reading the protectiveness in his body language and the concern in his eyes, she saw the man she’d once known and adored. The decent, caring man she’d thought she’d married.
‘Finally we’re alone,’ he murmured. Samira stiffened, anxiety punching hard and low as he reached for her. His fingers wove through hers, big and strong, effective as any manacle as he turned towards the private royal entrance to the audience chamber. ‘Come.’
‘Where are we going?’ Her breath hitched, distrust rising anew. It struck her that she no longer knew what to expect from the man she’d married.
He paused and looked down. She felt as if she was drowning in those clear, green depths. Had they always been so mesmerising?
‘It’s our honeymoon. We’ve got a week with not one official function. There are better places to spend it than the audience chamber.’ His mouth tilted in a slow smile that sent fear scuddling through her.
It had to be fear. It couldn’t be excitement.
‘You told me last night you’d wait.’ Her voice sounded stretched and she tried to conjure calm as panic rose.
Tariq’s brows bunched. ‘You think I’m about to ravish you?’ He looked at their hands locked together, his so much larger and more powerful than hers. ‘Is that really what you believe?’
Samira read the stern glint in his eyes and the clamped austerity of his jaw. She’d touched him on the raw.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she admitted. ‘I thought I knew you but I was wrong. You made that clear last night.’
‘You knew the boy, not the man.’
He stood proud, unashamed of the man he’d become, the man who’d duped her into believing she was safe with him when all the time he had his own plans. He’d tricked her into believing he’d married on her terms and yet remarkably at this moment she wanted to trust him.
Samira stared up at Tariq. Was he the man she’d known or a stranger? How much had he altered in the years since she’d felt she could trust him with her life?
There’d even been a time, in the distant past, when she’d thought she loved him. He’d been her first romantic crush, the one she’d spent hours daydreaming over with all the fervour of her teenage soul.
Long fingers smoothed her forehead and shivery heat tightened her skin. ‘Don’t fret about it, Samira.’ He paused. ‘I have a gift for you. That’s all.’
‘A gift?’ Another one? He’d already presented her with a wealth of exquisite jewellery. Even for a princess born to the opulence of the Jazeeri royal court, her breath had been taken away by his gifts. ‘You’ve given me enough.’ She felt overwhelmed by his generosity. Her own gifts, though carefully chosen, weren’t nearly as lavish.
‘This is something from me, not an heirloom.’
There it was again, that glint in his eye that made her shiver. Mentally Samira shook herself. She refused to live her life walking on eggshells.
‘That sounds intriguing.’
Tariq’s swift, approving smile made her breath catch. He really was stunningly charismatic.
He led her deep into the heart of the palace’s private apartments. Samira busied herself admiring the furnishings and the occasional glimpses across the city to the blue smudge of the mountains beyond. Anything to distract her from the intimacy of Tariq’s hand enfolding hers, his tall frame imposing yet somehow reassuring as he shortened his stride to match her pace. Being close to him took some getting used to.
Finally they stopped before a wide door. ‘After you.’
She pushed it open, only to freeze on the threshold. Slowly, disbelieving, she took in the large, airy space lit by extra-wide, full-length windows.
Samira swallowed, her throat tight, her eyes glazing at the unexpected perfection of it.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she whispered.
‘You can go in, you know.’
She hardly heard him. Already she was moving across the hardwood floor to the massive table in the centre of the room set under powerful lamps. Her fingers trailed the edge of the work surface before moving across to the drawing board, tilted at an angle to catch the natural light. Then to the set of built-in cupboards. The custom-made drawers. The specially designed containers that held bolts of fabric: velvets, silks, lace, satin and chiffon. There was even a mannequin on a podium, again set under brilliant lighting.
Everywhere she looked, in every drawer and corner, was something that pleased her.
Slowly she turned, taking in the careful thought and attention to detail that had gone into making this the ideal work room.
She blinked hard as she recognised the ancient, slightly saggy lounge chair she’d used for the past four years when she’d wanted to curl up and sketch. Beside it was a small wooden table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It held a sketch pad like the one she always used and a variety of crayons and pencils.
‘Your sister-in-law helped me with the details. She sent through photos of your workshop in Jazeer.’
‘But this is...’ The words stuck in Samira’s throat. ‘This is far, far better. It’s perfect.’ She’d never had a custom-made studio. Despite her growing success she’d worked out of a large room she’d adapted in her brother’s palace. But this—it was amazing. And it had been created especially for her.
A wave of excitement crashed over her, making her blood tingle. She itched to get to work here.
Samira pivoted to find Tariq just behind her. She grabbed his hand in both of hers, enthusiasm buoying her.
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ She shook her head, brim-full of emotion. He’d done this for her. No gift had ever been so special, so very right. ‘Words don’t seem enough.’
‘Then don’t use words.’ His glinting eyes challenged her, as if he knew she felt over-full, needing an outlet for the surge of elation and wonder she felt.
Samira’s breath hitched in automatic denial, the shutters she’d so carefully built instantly coming up to guard her from this over-emotional response.
She saw the moment he read the change in her. The moment his gaze altered from challenging to disappointed.
The moment he realised she didn’t have the guts to follow through.
When he saw how scared she was.
In that instant the truth blasted her. She had all the emotions of other women. She felt pain and hope and delight but she’d spent years bottling them up, hiding them from the world and herself. Because she was scared they’d make her weak.
She’d let Jackson Brent do that to her.
No, she corrected. She’d done it to herself.
Her nostrils flared in disgust and inadvertently she drew in the heady spicy aroma of Tariq. It sent a trickle of feminine pleasure coursing through her.
She’d even learned to repress that in the last few years, hadn’t she? She hadn’t been interested in a man, much less turned on by one, in four years. She hadn’t let herself.
Suddenly Samira saw herself as Tariq must—wary to the point of being pathetic.
Was she? Or was she merely cautious? Sensible to protect herself?
But there was a difference between being cautious and being a coward. Last night she’d been a coward and the knowledge was bitter on her tongue. All this time she’d told herself she was being strong. But in reality...
&n
bsp; Samira let go of Tariq’s hand, instead planting a steadying palm on his hard chest, the other on his shoulder as she rose on tiptoe.
Light flared in those cool eyes but he didn’t move, merely stood stock-still, waiting.
She realised she’d stopped breathing and exhaled, then drew in a deep breath redolent of desert spice and hot man. Tariq. His scent enticed. Could he possibly taste as good? Suddenly she had to know.
Samira slipped her hand from his shoulder up to the back of his head, pulling till his mouth was a whisper from hers.
Atavistic warning clawed through her, screaming that she was about to cross a point of no return.
For once, need overrode caution. The need to trust herself, just a little. The need for a man’s touch.
Her eyes closed as she pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and inviting. She angled her head a little, kissing him again, enjoying his hard body against her, the pleasure of his mouth touching hers.
Samira’s other hand snaked up to wrap around his neck, holding him tight as she worked tiny kisses along the tantalising seam of his lips. She felt the exhale of his breath through his nostrils, harder than before, and licked where before she’d kissed. He felt so good. This felt so good. If only...
Delicious pleasure hit as he opened his mouth, sucking her tongue inside, drawing her into delight. It was so sudden, so powerfully erotic, that she crumpled at the knees, clinging to his tall frame as his arms wrapped her close.
His mouth worked hers, drawing her to him, delving her depths so she had no option but to surrender that last skerrick of caution.
Samira was captivated. Her whole body came alive in a way she’d never known. Surely no kiss had been like this—a slow kindling that burned bright and satisfying even as it demanded more and yet more?
She arched, moulding herself inch by inch to that strong body she hadn’t been able to put from her mind. Still her lips clung to his, hungrier now as his grew more urgent, and a new fire ignited low in her body. Her hands tightened on him. Ripples of heat traced her skin, eddying at her breasts, her pelvis. At her back and hip where he held her so securely.