He allowed himself to be led. “Why would that be, I wonder?”
“Absorbing shock always takes time, my son. And you needn’t prompt me, I will tell you. I hear that you are in love.”
Arif’s heart paused for a beat. “Suha,” he guessed.
“And the Princess Shakira,” his mother amended. “Should I be offended that they know before your own mother?”
“Do you tell me that they both told you in so many words that—”
“That you have found the love of your life, your Rose, yes, and that she is, most surprisingly, English. I say surprisingly because you have told me so many times of your absolute determination to marry a Bagestani woman. But perhaps, with a determination like that, I should not be surprised at all.”
“Perhaps.”
“The gods love nothing so much as a laugh. Shakira says that the tone of your voice when you speak of her is a dead giveaway, and Suha says it is all written in your eyes. The testimony of two such close observers cannot be ignored. Who is she, Arif? Shakira says she is ferociously independent. Suha said she studies turtles.”
“Aly Percy is an environmental scientist who has made a study of the Johari turtle. She is here to examine them in situ.”
“And you are helping her. And in helping her, you have fallen in love,” his mother said comfortably. “You’ve known each other only a very short time, I hear—but that these things happen is unmistakable, as I know. And is the scientist in love with you?”
“No,” he said. His hand tightened on the receiver as he gazed out at that determined little figure so far away from him. His groin ached with hunger. She had asked for human comfort from him last night, and after holding her all night, feeling the way she trusted and melted into his embrace, he no longer believed that she feared him or remembered their lovemaking with distaste. But still his heart remembered that she had fled from him. And she had had a reason.
“Suha said it was in her eyes.”
“Suha perhaps saw what it pleased her to see.”
“Well, if she doesn’t love you yet, you surely know how to make a woman love you, Arif.”
He shook his head. “You have a natural bias for your son. But even if that were true, Aly has to know what life she would face. If I am going to ask such a sacrifice of her, she has to consider it knowing what it means. I will not rush her. I must give her time, Ummi.”
“Your father never gave me time,” his mother pointed out.
“Exactly,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk and stare out the window at the grey-green mounds across the green and turquoise and midnight bay. Then, as if she were the polestar, his gaze found her on the beach again.
“That has a rather ominous sound, my son. What exactly do you mean by exactly?”
“Baba didn’t give you time, and look where it put you.”
He could hear the frown in her voice. “I’m looking. What do you want me to see?”
“A lifetime on foreign soil, divided between two different cultures, two different ways of being, never quite at home in either place.”
He heard the peal of her laughter, and then she sobered. “No, Arif, that has been your fate. It is your soul, not mine, that is divided between two cultures, and for that I am to blame. I insisted on giving my children access to my language and culture, without ever realizing what an impact it might have on your sense of stability. You are now determined to embrace your Bagestani side to the exclusion of everything else, and that is your choice. But please don’t tell me you make it on my behalf.”
“Tell me, Ummi,” he challenged her. “Tell me that you have never regretted your choice.”
“Never is a big word,” his mother responded. “Of course sometimes I have looked at what I lost rather than what I gained. Mostly when I was angry with your father, who, let us be plain, is not an easy man. But if you mean did I ever, in cold blood, sit down and wish I had not married him, the answer is no. A big no. A huge no. I love your father and my life is immeasurably richer in every way for having married him. Do you mean to tell me you have doubted this?”
“You always seemed to miss your old life when we were growing up.”
“Naturally when I was telling you about Ireland, encouraging you to go there and study, or just teaching you about my half of your heritage, I remembered the life with fondness.”
“Ummi, you are trying to rewrite history,” Arif said gently.
“No, my son. You are. You decided at some point in your life not to be half Irish, but to be fully Bagestani. You decided to turn your back on that part of who you are. I cannot argue that decision with you, but I can tell you that whatever you believe, your choice actually changes nothing. You are half Irish. You grew up speaking two languages. You were at university in England. This woman, if you marry her, will not have anything like the difficulty I had adjusting, because you will know and understand the English side of her. So let me advise you not to let that stand in your way. You do not have my blue eyes for nothing, Arif. Now, tell me all about her.”
…
Arif went out to join Aly on her walk.
“We walked this beach yesterday,” he protested mildly when he caught up with her.
“And it has to be done again today,” Aly informed him. “Ideally, as I told you, every beach should be walked every morning. But you didn’t have to come.”
“Yes,” he said, reaching to take her backpack. She gave it up gratefully. Between lovemaking and the storm, her body was a wreck.
He walked close beside her, and his body heat reached out and enclosed her, the memory of his touch turning her muscles liquid. She staggered, and Arif reached his arm around her back to steady her. Her whole being inclined into the embrace, and sensing it, his arm tightened. Now her arms tormented her with the need to hold him, her thighs ached to draw him into her heat.
“This is the first time I’ll have a chance to walk the same beach three days running,” she said, her voice high and false as she resisted her needs, “and I’m eager to see if there will be any new nests today and tomorrow. It may give us a hint as to how much is happening generally this year.”
“Nothing so far?”
“No, and the beach by this time is so trampled that I’ll be lucky to notice. But I wanted to do it anyway. You never know. Tomorrow I’ll come out at dawn.”
They reached the nest they had marked and fenced yesterday, and Aly bent down to look for signs of activity. There were a few human footprints inside the fence, showing that people had stepped over the barrier, which was not a problem, and a few more showing that several people had stopped to read the notice. Aly straightened with a groan and rubbed her back.
“I’m completely wrecked,” she complained. “Every muscle is screaming for mercy.” And every drop of blood was screaming for him, but she couldn’t tell him that.
“Ah, that is what I came to tell you,” Arif said. “You are booked into the Gulf Eden spa this afternoon, for a number of…whatever it is spas offer.”
Aly stared at him in amazement. “You booked me treatments at the spa?”
“My mother did. When she heard about our adventures yesterday, she insisted that massage was the answer. When you meet my mother you will understand why I didn’t bother to argue. Anyway, no doubt she is right on this occasion. She asked me to tell you that this is her thank you for saving my life during the storm. Your first appointment—” he looked at his watch, “is in half an hour.”
“Oh,” Aly said, reduced to speechlessness once again.
…
“Right,” said Marlin, in a London accent, his hand tousling her hair with arrogant authority. “What are we doing with this?”
“A trim?” Aly said.
“How can I trim this lot?” His fingers lifted up a large lock of hair and he examined the ragged unmatched tips with heavy disapproval. “Who cut your hair, then?”
Maybe there was a TV program called Brutal Celebrity Cutters and Marlin had hope
s. “I did.”
“She’s having a Full Makeover,” a breathless attendant told him. “She’s going to Roxane next. Sheikh al Najimi’s mother ordered it.”
With the merest flick of his eyebrows, Marlin shifted gear. “Right,” he said again, his fingers pulling up various bits of her hair to examine the hopeless job she had made of it. “Well, this shape is all wrong for your face,” he said diplomatically. Aly laughed. She knew her hair had no shape. “You want something to bring out those cheekbones. Needs to be shorter, and shaped round your head. And you’ve got sun damage—you want a bit of color conditioner to restore that.”
After a punishing shiatsu going-over that had taken all the kinks out of her stressed muscles, and various gentle exfoliation, hot oil, foot reflexology, and other treatments, Aly was feeling lazy and compliant. “Whatever you think.”
Marlin dropped his hands to the back of her chair, drew it back and regally signaled to the breathless assistant. “Use Mediterranean Midnight, and number two conditioner,” he ordered.
…
Aly stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, gazing at herself. Marlin had cut her hair into a cap, freeing the natural curl, shaping it to her head and teasing down two curls to underline the hollows under her cheekbones. Roxane, the makeup artist, had emphasized the slight upward tilt of her eyes, and painted them into shadowed mystery. For the rest, she had been pounded and pummeled and waxed and oiled till she felt like a pampered kitten. He toenails were green and her fingernails French polished.
When she opened the parcels it was clear Princess Shakira had thought of everything, including two sizes of strapless bra and matching lacy knickers. These still bore shop tags, so the Princess had done more than merely raid her own closet, but Aly was now beyond anything but gratitude for such kindness from a stranger. She turned away from the mirror and reached for one of the dresses Princess Shakira had sent her—a shoestring-strap dress in sheer emerald silk georgette, flocked with maroon and shot with gold, the bodice cut narrow to the hips and then blossoming into an airy, diaphanous froth to her ankles. A delicate matching scarf to drape over her elbows. The gold mules were half a size too small, but no problem to wear. The Princess might be an inch or so shorter than herself, but everything fit well enough. A maroon evening bag completed the outfit.
Aly stood staring into the mirror, really looking at herself, and saw a woman she had never let herself see before. No longer thin, plain, flat-chested, she saw a mobile, gamine face, small breasts, slender waist, curving thighs, delicate ankles. Peri Suha had said; pixie, elfin they had called her today. She would never measure up to Viola’s beauty, but….
Her grandmother. Was it true?
She heaved a breath and sighed it out. It wasn’t the hair, or the makeup, or the dress. What they called in the spa The Makeover had helped to shake her out of her old way of being. But nothing had really changed…except her vision. For the first time, as if she had thrown away distorted glasses, Aly was looking at herself with her own eyes, and not her father’s. And that was a gift beyond measure. Whatever his motives had been, she was indebted to Arif for so much—she could never hope to repay him.
She turned and crossed to the door, put out the light, and went out to the suite’s great room, where Arif was waiting for her.
Chapter Eighteen
He waited by a window looking out over the hibiscus-filled terrace to the lights of the town and the bay. He saw her first reflected in the glass, ethereal, half-imagined, standing on the steps above, and it was as if his own soul beckoned to him. He turned, but his heart so leapt with hunger that for a moment he could not smile.
“How beautiful you are,” he said, drinking in the sight of her as she stood for his approval. The curving mouth, glossy with pink and gold, as if she fed on rose petals and gold dust. Her eyes both shadowed and sparkling with an elfin delight. Her smooth slim shoulders rising out of the dress, just as in his dream.
“Am I beautiful?”
He walked over to the steps and held up his hand. “Don’t you know it?”
“I’m beautiful when you look at me,” she said, coming down the steps into the embrace of his arm.
He bent his head and brushed her lips with a kiss. “Then you are beautiful forever.” Hunger rose up in him; it had been a mistake to kiss her. He struggled for control and lifted his head, looking down into the flower face. His Beloved, his Rose.
“Let us go down,” he said shakily.
…
They were shown to a table hidden by a trellis, on a terrace above the scented gardens, looking out over the sea. Candles on the tables, the mooring lights of the boats below, the tiny flickering glow from distant islands, the full moon in a blacker than black sky, all offered their witchery and enchantment to the night. The scent of jasmine on the air, the sight of Arif in black and white, his blue eyes, his devil’s beard. Their quiet chat about nothing important. It all made for magic.
Then, when he had ordered and they were alone, Arif laid his hand palm upward on the table in invitation. Aly gazed down at it, so strong and sculpted, so bronzed against the white cloth. A burn of anticipation built in her lower spine and flowed up her back to her head, lifting every hair to attention.
“Give me your hand, Aly,” he ordered, his voice rough with need. Her heart choking her, she laid her hand in his. Strong fingers curled over hers from wrist to fingertip, wrapping her in safety. Electric sensation shafted out to ignite her blood. “And look at me.”
A tiny flame was reflected in his eyes. Her gaze was caught and locked to his.
“Why did you run away from me, my heart of hearts?”
Her throat closed. She swallowed but couldn’t speak.
“I don’t believe it was for the reason you told me,” he said, his voice hoarse with feeling she couldn’t read. The hand enclosing hers tightened. “Was it, Aly? Did you so hate the touch of my body?”
She swallowed. “No,” she said. “No.”
His hand clenched almost painfully on hers, and his eyes went black. A wave of pure powerful masculinity pumped over the table. Aly’s heart started to misfire. She was afraid. He was so potent, so male, and she was so vulnerable.
“Arif, why did you make love to me?” she whispered.
His eyes narrowed with a look of such passionate intent she felt the burn. “Because wanting you was overwhelming, Aly. I did not understand how inexperienced you were. I should have known. My need blinded me, and that was unforgiveable.”
“Not because you suspected me of treachery and thought that sex was the way to disarm me and learn the truth?”
“Aly.” His jaw clenched, and her heart twisted in sorrow.
“I overheard you,” she said sadly. “I was sleeping in my cabin and your voice woke me. You were talking about Trojan Percy and the Kaljuks. My father’s gold mine scam. You were saying that you knew I wasn’t a risk. Bragging that you had reason to be certain.”
His face was unreadable.
“Is that why you made love to me? To make me talk?”
His other hand reached over the table to cover the hand that he held, and his touch was honey. Hope surged through her.
“No, Beloved,” he said. He closed his eyes and shook his head in self-condemnation. “No.”
“I thought it was all a lie. And after that I didn’t really think, Arif. I just ran.”
“I see,” he said. “Aly—” The look in his eyes now almost suffocated her, and she had to trust that, or nothing was real in the world.
“But that—I think now that that wasn’t the only reason. Was it?” she asked, breathless with her own courage. Two weeks ago she could never have made such an assumption. “You do want me, too.”
“Yes, I want you. I want you now,” Arif said, his voice rough. He heaved a breath. “It was a mistake to start this conversation here. If my mouth were on yours, if my body were inside you you would know the truth. That stupid doubt formed no part of my need, Beloved. None.”
&n
bsp; Her belly was hot golden lava. Her heart choked her.
“Arif…” she protested.
“There were a thousand overwhelming reasons why I had to make love to you, Aly, had to have you in my bed, had to bury myself inside you, had to love you. Getting information from you was not one of them.”
If she melted any further they could pick her up with a mop. But she had to know it all. “But I did tell you my secrets, didn’t I? Everything you wanted to know. All about Webson Attary and the false marking.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “But you told me all that before we went to bed.”
Aly blinked at him, her mouth open as the magical night of lovemaking formed and reformed in her memory. At last she gave a helpless little laugh. “You’re right. It was Julian we talked about afterwards. How did I get the memory so confused?”
“But let there be always truth between us, my Rose. There was a time when I thought I would take you to my bed for such a reason. It was an excuse, a way to want you without admitting it.”
She could only watch him and listen.
“I have been a fool, Aly. Blind. I wanted to make my life fit a preconceived pattern. But you are my life.” He waited, gazing at her, and she was drowning in blue. “Aren’t you? Tell me that it is so.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. Candlelight caressed all the planes and hollows of his strong, beautiful face. The music was as soft as the night air. A sleepy bird in a tree beyond the terrace queried the light. The scent of jasmine and rose filled her nostrils. And her heart opened into joy.
“Is that what you want?” she whispered.
“That is what I want. Will I succeed, Aly?”
Her throat closed tight with tears, but she could still smile.
…
“Good night, Madame, good night, Excellency,” the maitre d’ said, bowing them out. “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”
For the first time, Aly did not feel invisible or inadequate at such a time. “It was perfect,” she said.
He couldn’t seem to bow low enough.
Her Royal Protector (a Johari Crown Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) Page 17