I watch as she inspects the setting, her lips parting in surprise at the beauty of this place. The oasis itself is large and a deep shade of green, surrounded on all sides by spiky palm trees. Set in the midst of them is a large tent made of cream-coloured canvas. The sides have been pulled down, but inside is a full desert home. This is my sanctuary – a place I come when I need to be truly alone. Given the nature of our marriage, it felt like the best place for us to honeymoon as well.
“It’s beautiful,” she admits grudgingly, her throat so dry I want to offer her water.
“Yes.” I step out of the car and breathe in the fragrance of the clay-filled water, the heat on the breeze, before striding around and opening her door. She’s still sitting there with a frown on her face, looking at the tent.
“It’s not what I expected.”
I reach across Amy, unbuckling the seatbelt. It’s not a necessity but impatience is making me ache to touch her once more, even in a peripheral sense. My wrist brushes her thigh and she startles; again, I wonder at her inexperience. Except I’ve had reconnaissance undertaken on her for years; I doubt there’s much about her I don’t have data on, including her love life. She’s not a virgin. So why is she acting like she’s never been near a man before? When I kissed her this morning she responded as though I was the man she’d been waiting for all her life. Whatever she might wish she felt, her body betrayed her.
“What did you expect?” She doesn’t move and nor do I. My body frames her, trapping her in the car. She stares up at me, her lips parted, and up close like this I can see her delicate pulse point at the base of her throat firing so I want to press my finger to it and feel the throbbing beneath my thumb – proof of how fast her heart is racing. I want to kiss her again. What we shared this morning was just a prelude – a taste of what it will be like between us.
“A hotel somewhere.” She bites down on her full lower lip. “A room in your palace.” She fixes me with a level stare. “Your harem.”
My smile is instinctive. The idea is very, very tempting. “I do not have a harem.”
“Really? I’m surprised.”
I brush my thumb over her lower lip, unable to resist. Her breath judders out. “I’ve never needed one.”
Her lips twist cynically. “Bragging about your sexual prowess?”
“Is that necessary?”
Her eyes drop away from me and desire sparks in my bloodstream. It might be an act, but it’s working. Her ingenue affectations are speaking to some ancient, primal part of me, that aches to go all caveman and throw her over my shoulder, dragging her into the tent and showing her every inch of my sexual ‘prowess’ right now.
The realisation I want her to that extent lights a warning beacon inside of me. There are many reasons to tread with care here. I need this alliance – she was right about that yesterday. I am aware of what she wants from me, and how badly, and that gives me a bargaining chip, but ultimately, I need her to stay married to me to finally put to bed the disastrous fringe groups who seek to stir up civil unrest.
Then there’s the fact she’s eleven years my junior, and considerably more sheltered and innocent. I do not like her family but I know I will hate myself if I sacrifice my own morals and behave unscrupulously towards her. We need boundaries and I need to make sure she feels in control, at least when it comes to our physical relationship.
Amy
He pulls away from me and I stifle a groan. He was so close, I’d honestly felt like he was going to kiss me, or more, and I’m not going to lie to you, more than half of me wanted that desperately. The kiss in the church had awoken a need in me and while I’m terrified of answering that need, I’m far more afraid of ignoring it.
What is wrong with me? I didn’t come to Qabid to sleep with my husband! That’s not what our marriage is about. So why can’t I stop thinking of him naked?
Grinding my teeth together, I step out of the car, pulling my handbag over my shoulder.
His look is mocking. “Whatever you have in there, you will not need it now.”
“My phone,” I point out.
“No reception.”
A shiver runs down my spine. We are completely alone.
His voice is a low growl and he paces towards me, something in his expression I do not understand. “You do not need to look at me as though I am a wolf about to rip you from limb to limb.”
I suck in a shallow breath.
“Not to say the idea doesn’t hold some appeal.” His voice is throaty, and it’s like he’s wrapping some invisible string around me, making breathing almost impossible. “But I have never touched a woman against her will and I have no intention of starting now.”
I try to breathe normally. “You said you need a baby.”
“Yes,” his eyes lance mine. “And you agreed to this in our contract.”
“So you intend to have sex with me now?”
He doesn’t smile. “Right now?”
My nerves are vibrating to breaking point. I wait on tenterhooks for him to speak, preparing myself, my body at fever pitch as I imagine leaning forward and losing myself in his arms. What the hell has come over me?
“Let us make a deal.”
Impatience screeches through me.
“I will touch you here.” He presses a finger to my chin, lifting my face to his. “And here.” He pads his thumb over my lower lip. I have to hold back a deep, throaty moan. “And here.” His other hand lifts to my hip, his fingers tapping against the soft curve of my buttocks. Heat surges inside of me. “But if you want me to touch you anywhere else, you will ask me.”
I should be reassured by that and yet it feels like a trap – a cunning way to make me admit that I want him to touch me. “And if I don’t?”
His smile pours lava into my bloodstream. “You will.”
I force a smile of my own. “You don’t know my stubborn streak.”
His eyes hold mine as he strokes my thigh slowly, rhythmically, until my blood is awash with heat. Pleasure explodes at the prospect of what he’s offering. “There is not much I do not know about you, Amy Al Adari.” It’s the first time I’ve heard my married name spoken.
My eyes scan his. “What does that mean?”
He drops his hands and steps back. “Come. Enough talk. I’m starving.”
I ignore the disloyal pang of disappointment.
“Is there food out here or do I need to hunt something for us to eat?” I can’t help quipping. When he draws back the thick calico curtain of the tent, anything but surprise is pushed from my mind. This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
No, that’s not true. “In the picture books my father used to read me, there were tents like this.”
He’s very still, but I barely notice because I’m so absorbed in cataloguing the beauty of this space. From the outside, it’s reasonably unassuming – large, certainly, but plain calico. Inside, it’s a luxurious palace. Thick, bright carpets are spread over the ground, each overlapping the next to keep sand at bay. The furnishings are regal and ancient. A low set timber bed with bright cushions and quilt, a sofa, ottomans spread over the ground. In the corner there’s a table with a little lamp, the shade made of fine brass, cut in a detailed pattern.
“What picture books?”
“Oh, children’s books,” I explain, moving to the bed and lifting a pillow – a deep purple with fine gold thread. “He was able to get some sent to us after –,” the words are sharp in my throat. I can’t help looking at him reproachfully. “After you exiled him.”
His expression doesn’t change. There is no remorse though, no sympathy either. It is the best antidote to desire, pushing anything I had been feeling for him deep down inside of me. How can I possibly want this man, who single-handedly ruined my father’s life?
I replace the cushion on the bed and move towards the table.
“You said you were starving?”
“Yes.”
He’s close. I stiffen, keeping my back turned to him
, studying the elaborate, detailed tapestry on the canvas wall opposite instead. There is the sound of metal on metal and then a moment later, the aroma of something salty and piquant. Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder. He’s removing small containers from a fridge.
A fridge? I frown, moving towards it. “There’s electricity here.”
“A generator. Yes.”
“So this is just pretend camping?”
His smile is brief. “It is camping with convenience.”
“I should have thought you’d be too uber masculine for that.”
He lifts a brow, studying me slowly, his eyes raking over me, making me aware of just what I’ve admitted. That I find him uber masculine – and I fear the next logical conclusion is that I find him desirable. I rush to correct that assumption.
“I mean, that you’d want to prove your masculinity to the world.”
He leaves the smile in place, rich with mockery. “We both know this is not the case, but if you feel better to taunt me, then go ahead.”
Damn him! I spin away, feeling as though I’m on the back foot. Nerves fire through me. I am torn between a desire to ease the silence and a wish to act completely aloof.
The former wins, an ingrained dislike for awkward silences stretching through me. “Do you come out here often?”
He places the dishes in the middle of the table, gesturing with his hand for me to take a seat.
“Often enough.”
I move to the chair, drawing it backwards. “What does that mean?”
“Once every few weeks. More if I can.”
“You like the desert?”
He takes the seat opposite and by accident I’m sure, our knees brush beneath the table. I jolt and then wish I wasn’t so damned obvious. I glare at him to compensate for the fact I’m annoyed at myself. “Qabid is sixty per cent desert,” he says quietly, and I’m pleased he doesn’t push his advantage. Instead, he reaches for a plate and begins to place various pieces on it. “I did not have much choice, growing up, but to like it.”
“Surely you don’t have to spend much time out here,” I point out. “This is by choice?”
“It’s in my blood,” he agrees.
“And mine?”
His eyes spear me. “You look so much like your mother. It’s almost impossible to believe any Qabidi genes run through your blood.”
“It’s too late for a DNA test,” I quip. “We’re officially married.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he says, placing the plate in front of me. “You’re a figure of the Hassan family, regardless of your looks and parentage.”
I sit still, waiting for him to continue.
To my frustration, he instead points to the meal in front of me. “This is pickled fig,” he says, then points to another item. “White bean spread, spiced rice, smoked fish and lamb with chickpeas.”
I nod, reaching for the ornate metal fork to my side. “There is only one Qabidi restaurant in my nearest city,” I say, stabbing a piece of fish and holding the fork near the plate. “Dad took me there a couple of times. I think I ate something like this rice.”
“Undoubtedly. It’s a staple here.” He spoons his own plate high with food. “You say he only took you there twice?”
“I think so.”
“And the food you ate at home?”
“My mom cooked,” I say, a reminiscent smile touching my lips. “Mac and cheese was always my favourite, so she made it lots.” I don’t add that she never cooked Qabidi food after dad’s exile. It was too hard for her.
“Mac and Cheese?”
“Pasta with bechamel sauce?”
He pulls a face. “I cannot stand American food.”
Irritation zips in my chest. “Well, that’s too bad, because I love it and if we have a baby, I’ll be doing my best to make sure they love it too.”
His nostrils flare and when he speaks, it’s with indignation. “Our child will be raised in accordance with Qabidi royal traditions.”
“And these traditions preclude him or her from enjoying Mac and Cheese? Puhlease.”
He’s quiet for several moments and then he laughs, the sound unexpected. It fills the beautiful tent, and freezes me to the spot. “You’re baiting me.”
I blink, a smile pulling at my own lips. I fight it, with difficulty. “If we’re going to be parents, we should discuss this sort of thing.”
“Our children’s dietary needs?”
“Children?” I repeat, my jaw dropping.
He shrugs. “One is not enough. If I had a brother or sister, there might not have been the need to marry you.”
I am completely aware our marriage is purely practical, and yet his rejection jabs something sharp in my side. I bite into the fish to prevent myself from needing to respond.
“That is not entirely accurate,” he reflects. “The threat of your family would always have required this. Though perhaps a younger brother might have been a more suitable choice of groom for you.”
“It’s really that simple to you, isn’t it,” I murmur, amazed by his cynical approach to marriage.
“And to you too, apparently.” He lifts some fig to his lips, then takes a drink. I hadn’t realised he’d filled two crystal glasses with something. I lift my own to my mouth, the smell of a sweet wine unmistakable. “Or are you going to claim now that you believe marriage and love go hand in hand?”
“No,” I twist my lips wistfully. “Not always. Though I’d be lying if I said love wasn’t a part of our marriage.”
“Oh?” His features are dark, his eyes watchful.
“I love my father, Zahir. And for every day of our marriage, for every day of misery I feel at being tethered to you, a man I can’t stand, someone who inflicted pain on the best man I know, I will console myself with the fact it’s worth it. Bringing dad back to Qabid is all I care about now.” I drop my fork and stand. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
I feel his eyes on me as I move to the doors of the tent.
“Your father actively undermined my family’s government. ”
“I don’t believe you.”
I can’t look at him; I’m seething with anger suddenly.
“Why do you think I married you? Why do you think I needed a Hassan as my wife? There exists, to this day, a handful of activists who would wish to see him on the throne – you are the next best thing. But all of this is because of him. He stirred up these sentiments, Amy. It was his greatest wish to oust my family from ruling, and to achieve that end, he did things that I will never forgive him for. I had him removed from Qabid when I turned eighteen.”
I suck in an angry breath.
“And I do not regret it. Not even a little.”
Anger floods my every cell.
“My only dissatisfaction comes from the fact there are some who continue to feel loyalty to him, despite the fact it’s been sixteen years. Our economy has never been stronger. I have overhauled our education and health systems, working to improve the lifestyle of each and every member of this country, and still there is a minority who would seek to place your father – an old man now – in my stead?”
I whirl around, defensiveness making me want to push back at him. “And that hurts your feelings, does it?” I taunt. “Poor little King Zahir,” I roll my eyes. “Heaven forbid anyone should oppose your right to reign!”
“Yes,” he agrees, pushing his chair back and standing, his eyes glittering when they meet mine. “That is just as I see it. I am the Sheikh of Qabid and it is time to put the Hassan matter to rest. I will not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
“You think you’ve given your people what they want? Then why do some wish to replace you?”
His eyes glitter and a frisson of danger runs the length of my spine. “Because your father has continued to stir up this sentiment.”
“Impossible,” I snap, shaking my head. “My father’s exile was complete. You invalidated his citizenship, for God’s sake. What could he do but email old
friends from time to time? Do you think this was tantamount to inspiring a revolution?”
His eyes narrowed and there was a lengthy pause before he spoke, his voice calm despite the maelstrom in his eyes. “Your father is a man I will never trust, and never respect. Yet he is your father; you are my wife. As such, I do not wish to speak of him to you in this manner. Let us drop the conversation.”
I’m surprised.
Again.
It’s such a civil notion, one I didn’t expect from him. “Oh, don’t go worrying about hurting my feelings now, Zahir. I can handle it, believe me. I think it’s far more likely you want to end the conversation because you know you don’t have a leg to stand on.”
He paces towards me, his gait like that of a wild animal, feral and lean. “On the contrary, azeezi, I have two legs. Strong and powerful.” He touches me on the shoulder, in one of the places he said he would. It’s not an erogenous zone; it’s just a patch of flesh like any other, yet my temperature spikes through the roof. I wonder if standing this close he can feel the gushing of my pulse? Memories of the way he kissed me after our wedding burst through me, burning me with their tangibility.
“Your father is a dangerous man.” He lifts a finger to my lips, pressing it there. I feel the worst hum of betrayal inside me, because despite the horrible words he’s saying, there’s a weakness growing in me, a weakness that begs me to supplicate to his touch completely.
“Then why did you agree to this?”
“My country needs full, lasting peace, and our marriage offers the best chance for that.” His eyes hold mine, so intense I lose my breath. “We will never like one another. We may, in fact, always hate one another. But the same desire hums in your blood as it does in mine. It is enough, habibti, to make some sort of marriage work. Do not fight me for too long.”
3
Amy
IT’S LIKE THE LAYING down of a gauntlet. From the minute he tells me not to make him wait too long, that’s all I can think of. It’s as though I need to prove to both of us that I cannot be controlled. He’s right. There’s desire between us, a spark of lust I wasn’t expecting. Perhaps it’s all the stronger for how actively I dislike him? Regardless, I want to ignore it. I want to refuse to act on it.
The Marriage Deal Page 3