Never Refuse a Sheikh

by Jackie Ashenden

  Her gaze flickered away from his then back again. “Yes.”

  “So tell me.”

  She sighed. “You were angry with me last night. I thought … you must have felt the way everyone else did. That I didn’t measure up.”

  “But I told you I did not.”

  “You are only marrying me for blood and my name.” Thick golden lashes fluttered, veiling her gaze. “If … I did not have those, would I still be a suitable wife for a sheikh?”

  He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  There was a silence.

  Then abruptly she looked up at him. “I should have been with them, Altair.” A blue flame burned fiercely in her eyes. “Perhaps … I should have died with them.”

  She was talking about her parents of course, and he could hear the echo of guilt in her voice. An old, familiar friend …

  You should have died with them too. Like your father did.

  But he hadn’t died. He’d lived. And so had she.

  He lifted his hand and took her chin in his fingers, knowing he shouldn’t be touching her and yet doing so anyway because he couldn’t help himself. Because this was something he knew about. This was something they had in common.

  “But you did not,” he said softly, forcefully. “And because you did not, all you can do is make sure they did not die in vain.” Exactly as he had done.

  Beneath the soft skin of her jaw against his fingertips, he could feel her tension, her stubborn determination. She was staring up at him, searching his face, the way she had before, the way that made him feel exposed. As if she’d ripped aside the iron-hard front he showed to the world and had seen who he really was beneath it. “You feel it too, don’t you? The guilt?”

  Holy God. She had seen it. She’d seen him.

  Shock yawned wide inside him. This was not a road he wanted to walk with her. Not ever.

  “Altair …” she began.

  But he didn’t let her finish. There was only one way to stop this conversation and he did so without thought. Tightening his grip on her chin, he tipped her head back further and covered her mouth with his.

  She went utterly still and he could feel the shock vibrating through her. Yet it only lasted a second because then her hands were coming up to cup his face, her body arching sweetly into his and her lips parting hungrily.

  Desire ignited like a solar flare, lighting him up from the inside out. And he knew he should stop, that he should tear himself away, but he didn’t. Kissing her was easier than letting her see the truth, and if he could distract her with pleasure, then that was all to the good.

  Warnings sounded in his head. He ignored them all, sliding his hands down the elegant arch of her spine, over the curve of her buttocks, drawing her lithe body against his. He was hard and he made sure she knew that, pressing himself to the softness and heat between her thighs.

  She gave a little sigh, her fingers pushing into his hair as he slid his tongue into her mouth, touching it to hers, deepening the kiss. She tasted of peppermint and sweetness, and he couldn’t get enough.

  He slid his hands higher, lifting her into his arms and, barely conscious of what he was doing, turning and setting her down on top of the desk. Then he pushed her thighs apart so he could stand between them, urging her legs around his waist, the hard length of his shaft pressing against her sex.

  What are you doing? This is your office and it’s the middle of the day.

  Safira gasped, her legs tightening around him, hips flexing as she sought more friction. The sensation was an explosion of light in his head, a crack in the dam that held back his desire. He sank his teeth into her lip in punishment.

  You forget yourself.

  She shivered, another flex of her hips cracking the dam further. His hand found her braid and he was pulling on it, forcing her head back, dislodging her veil, his mouth finding the exposed skin of her throat. His other hand drifted down, finding the soft curve of one small breast. The weight of it was perfect in his palm and when his thumb brushed her nipple, she gave a little cry.

  This is not what your life is for.

  Altair growled against her skin, trying to force the nagging voice from his head. He was so hard, and she smelled like blooming desert flowers, all hot and sweet, and he was tired. So tired of having to hold back, of having to control himself.

  Because why shouldn’t he have her? She was going to be his wife and soon she would be in his bed anyway. Hadn’t he held himself back long enough? Hadn’t he paid for his sins by now?

  You will never pay for your sins. This is how it started, remember? Chafing at your father’s rules, thinking of nothing but yourself. That’s how you ruined this country when you made him choose you to broker the peace. When you were too young and too untried. Not because you wanted to save this country from war, but because you put your own desires first.

  Because you were selfish and always thinking of yourself.

  Exactly the way you’re doing now.

  The thought was ice water dumped straight over his head.

  Wrenching himself away from the desk, Altair turned his back on her and strode forward a couple of steps, trying desperately to get his breathing and himself back under control.

  He could hear the rustle of clothing as she shifted, but she remained silent.

  Ah, God, he could still smell her seductive scent, still taste her kiss and her hunger in his mouth. Still feel the press of her heat against his groin.

  Madness. She would drive him to madness if he let her.

  “Go,” he ordered, the word coming out as a growl. “Our public outings start tomorrow, beginning with a visit to a new children’s hospital in central Shara. I will have one of my PR staff brief you this afternoon on appropriate dress and what to expect.”

  There was no sound behind him for a long moment.

  Then she said in a soft, husky voice, “Yes, your highness.”

  He didn’t watch her as she slipped from the desk and brushed past him to go to the door.

  Nor did he watch her walk through it.

  Because if he had, he was not at all sure he would have let her leave.

  Chapter Six

  Safira smoothed the plain white linen of the dress she wore, grimacing reflexively at the tightness of it. Outside the windows of the air-conditioned limo she and Altair rode in, the streets of Shara teemed with people.

  Her memories of the city were few, more impressions of heat and the glittering glass of office buildings, people crowding the sidewalks, and the constant noise of traffic. From that perspective it had not changed a bit. Except maybe the noise of traffic wasn’t as loud as the noise from the construction sites that popped up all around the city.

  Rebuilding after the civil war, Altair had told her. Evidence of Al-Harah’s recovery.

  As she peered out of the car window that recovery was certainly in evidence, and not only in the level of new building construction. There were busy-looking people everywhere: hawkers selling wares, office workers hurrying to their jobs, and quite a few tourists—always a good sign that unrest had died down. And more than that, the impression she got from the crowds was one of determination. As if they were putting their past behind them and looking to the future with hope.

  This is his doing.

  She glanced at the man sitting in silence beside her.

  He was in a suit, a deep charcoal color, with a black shirt and a tie that echoed the amber color of his eyes. He looked as he always did: dark and powerful, enigmatic and reserved. Aloof. Remote.

  What did his people think of him? Did they see him that way or did they love him as they’d loved her father?

  Looking at Altair, she couldn’t imagine anyone actually loving him. Respecting him, most definitely, but there was nothing warm and approachable about him. He projected the kind of splendid isolation that kept people at a distance.

  I am a king, Safira. And before that, a soldier. I am not used to considering other people’s feelings …

  Did
he think that kings should be aloof from their subjects? That soldiers should be hard? Or was it that he didn’t want anyone to get too close? And if it was the latter, why? What was he afraid of?

  “See something interesting?” His smooth, deep voice whispered over her skin, and she tried not to shiver at the sound.

  Already she was far too physically aware of him, an awareness that got deeper and deeper every time she saw him. The kiss he’d given her the day before in his office certainly hadn’t helped. All it had done was make her even hungrier for the passion she’d sensed in him. The passion that seemed buried so deeply it was like it didn’t exist, and yet sometimes was so close to the surface she could almost reach out and touch it.

  Back in the desert, her isolation from the tribe hadn’t been her choice. But Altair’s certainly seemed to be his.

  He was a man of contradictions and secrets. A man who was beginning to fascinate her intellectually and emotionally, as well as physically.

  She didn’t know what had led him to break away from her so abruptly the day before, but even though his apparent rejection had hurt, she’d remained silent. She hadn’t even pushed him to answer the question about whether she’d still be a suitable wife to him if she hadn’t had the Kashgari blood or name. She’d promised him she wouldn’t fight. That she’d be good and do what he said.

  It was important. She had a point to prove, both to him and herself. That she could be the kind of sheikha he and his people expected. That she could fix the damage she’d caused by her outburst in the ballroom. That she could be the kind of queen her parents would have wanted her to be.

  Today was only the start.

  “I was just wondering what kind of ruler you are,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to edge closer to the powerful thigh next to hers. “We did not pay much attention to kings out in the desert.”

  He lifted one shoulder, his attention directed out the window. “Like any ruler, I have people who support me and people who do not. More who do not, I imagine, considering the number of uprisings I continue to have to put down.”

  “People resent you for taking the throne?”

  “Of course. But your father had no male heirs and, after my father’s death, there was no one else. It was either I take it or let the country descend into military rule.”

  She studied him curiously. “Did you want it?”

  “The throne? No. But as I said to you, sometimes we have to do things we do not want to do.”

  “Why?”

  His sharp gaze flicked over her. “I would have thought that would be obvious.”

  “Yes, but I would like to hear your explanation for it.”

  A brief, impatient expression crossed his features. “Because to do otherwise is to think only of yourself, and a good monarch is not selfish. He puts his people first.”

  “My father was like that. Everything else came second to him, or at least that’s what I remember. Even my mother. Even me.” Memories bubbled to the surface, painful ones. She changed the subject gracelessly. “Do you enjoy being sheikh?”

  “I find it is not something you enjoy or otherwise. It is something you are.”

  “So … you are a sheikh? That’s it?”

  His cold amber stare caught hers. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  Safira glanced away, looking down at her hands. Good question. Was it only to make conversation? Or … some other reason?

  Because you want answers. Because he fascinates you.

  “Well,” she said slowly. “I suppose if you are to be my husband, I think we should learn more about each other.”

  “There will be time for that later. After we are married and my throne secure.”

  Married. Another shiver of heat went through her. “And how long will it take to make your throne secure?”

  “It will take as long as it takes, I should imagine.”

  Another non-answer. In spite of herself and her intentions, a needle of irritation slid under her skin. “You are very forbidding. No wonder you have more people who don’t like you than like you. Are you going to be like this as a husband as well as a sheikh?”

  The atmosphere in the car became icy, his expression hardening.

  She’d crossed a line somewhere, obviously. Though if she had, that was too bad. It was the truth after all.

  “And are you going to be this argumentative and difficult to get along with as a wife as well as a princess? I seem to recall you promising you would not fight me.”

  “I’m not fighting you. I’m only making an observation.” Safira lifted her chin. “Besides, I’m only argumentative and difficult because you are arrogant and forbidding.”

  The aura of menace around him deepened all of a sudden, the gold in his eyes becoming hot. “Your promise, Safira. Are you going back on that?”

  Her heart sped up. She’d realized she liked it when she crossed him and he got angry. It thrilled her. Because anger meant she got to him in some way, meant she could get beneath his iron control, affect him. And that made her feel powerful.

  She cocked her head, staring at him. “Do I make you angry, sheikh? Is that why you don’t want me arguing with you? I make you angry and you don’t like it?”

  His features hardened. “‘Be restrained in all things’,” he said coldly, as if repeating something he had heard many times before. “‘Be measured in your actions. Be certain of your decisions. Emotions cloud the mind and lead to bad choices.’” He paused, all the heat draining from his gaze. “As sheikh, I cannot afford a cloudy mind or bad choices, Safira.”

  The words had a familiar cadence to them and she remembered abruptly where she’d heard them before. Tariq, her father’s favorite advisor, had been full of sayings like that. A stern, uncompromising man, he’d frightened Safira a little and she’d tried to avoid him as often as she could.

  “You sound like Tariq,” she pointed out.

  “Of course I sound like Tariq. He was my father. And a wise man.”

  But something was off about this. She didn’t remember much of Altair as a child—she’d been so much younger than he was. Yet she seemed to recall Tariq complaining about his son to her father, about how he wouldn’t listen, how he was far too headstrong and had no respect for authority.

  The complete opposite of the man now sitting beside her, in other words.

  She blinked. War would change a man; that was true. But had something else changed Altair? His father had died with her parents and that must not have been easy. Was it that?

  Curiosity and fascination tangled inside her, twisting harder.

  “What was he like?” she asked. “Your father? I remember him being very stern and proper. I was always a bit afraid of him.”

  The strong, beautiful lines of Altair’s face had become set, his gaze frozen gold. And she had the very clear impression that he did not want to talk about his father. Not one bit. “He was a good man and an excellent advisor.” Altair’s voice was as cold and dark as the sea. “A good father. There is nothing more to be said about him.”

  Safira heard the warning in his tone and she knew she should drop the matter. But she didn’t want to. He too had lost his parents. If she remembered, he’d lost his mother to cancer when he’d been only a teenager, and then to lose his father in the same attack as she’d lost hers … Did he feel the same grief? The same guilt?

  “I’m sorry.” Her fingers dug into the soft leather of the purse that sat on her lap. “I forget he died along with my parents. That must have been very hard.”

  He stared at her and for one brief instant she saw something bright as a firework burn in his eyes. The same thing she’d seen burn the day before in his office, where she’d thought for one moment that he knew her own grief and, more importantly, her guilt. That he’d understood.

  Then it was gone. “Did you not hear?” he said. “There is nothing more to be said about my father. Now stop asking questions, Safira.”

  And he turne
d away as if the conversation was over.

  But it wasn’t. She’d already decided.

  She was going to find out who this sheikh really was.

  * * *

  The visit to the new children’s hospital went off without a hitch.

  Safira looked beautiful in the pure white linen dress the stylist had chosen. Her hair had been pinned in a bun with simple pearl pins and covered with a veil of sheer white silk, and she wore plain white, heeled sandals. The perfect mix of Al-Harahan modesty with her veil and her dress that reached her calves, and Western chic with the dress’s sleek lines and the sandals’ high raised heels.

  The very epitome of the innocent, virginal princess.

  The local press, not to mention that of the rest of the world, lapped it up. Especially when one of the hospital’s patients handed her a little bouquet of white jasmine to match her dress. Safira’s smile was like the sun as she bent down to kiss the child’s head, and Altair watched everyone in the immediate vicinity nearly swoon under its power.

  He had to look away, already unsettled by the conversation they’d had in the limo and now even more unsettled by that smile. There was such warmth in it that it stole his breath. Worse, it made him jealous of the child handing her the flowers.

  You want to make her smile that way.

  No, there was no reason on earth why he should want that and the tight feeling in his chest that came with the urge was nothing. His imagination. Perhaps something to do with the ridiculous discussion they’d had about his father in the car.

  “You sound like Tariq.”

  “I keep forgetting he died with my parents.”

  A ribbon extended over the doors of the hospital and some self-important official stepped forward with a pair of small gold scissors, handing them to Safira with a flourish. She smiled that incredible smile, her skin pink with pleasure as she took the scissors from the man. Then she bent over the ribbon and cut it.