Jane looked at her in surprise, and in her eyes Cara saw the seeds of a romance taking root. That only made her own heartache more intense.
“Hayfa, Jahara and Malika are all in the garden,” Jane said as she led Cara through the living area and toward a set of glass doors.
“You don’t need to announce me,” Cara said, as Jane opened the doors. “I’ll find them myself.”
The garden was small, but beautifully designed around a marble birdbath fountain. The three women sat at a patio table nearby, their cheerful chatter filling the midmorning air.
“Elizabeth,” Malika exclaimed in obvious delight at the sight of her. Hayfa and Jahara greeted her with smiles, as well.
“How nice that you’ve come to visit,” Hayfa said. “We were just about to have some refreshments. Will you join us?”
“Yes, thanks.” Cara slid into the fourth chair at the table, wondering how on earth she would broach the subject that was on her mind.
She waited until they had been served refreshing fruit drinks and pastries and had indulged in friendly small talk, then drew a deep breath and began to discuss why she had come to them.
She told them everything from the very beginning. She told them how Fiona had tired of writing to Omar and she had taken over, signing the letters in her sister’s name.
She told them of her deception when Omar arrived at her cottage, that she’d intended only to spend a little time with him and then end things.
Finally she told them how her love for Omar and the quickness of their wedding had stymied her attempts to tell him the truth.
“So, how did he find out the truth?” Hayfa asked, her dark eyes giving away nothing of her inner thoughts.
“I don’t know,” Cara replied miserably. “I only know that since he found out, he’s so angry and he doesn’t seem to be moving past it.”
“Omar is a very proud man,” Hayfa replied. “I imagine he feels as if you made a fool of him, tricked him into something he had not intended.” She took a sip of her drink. “However, I must confess that I am pleased to learn that you are not Fiona Carson. Your sister appears to be considerably more…spirited than you.”
Despite her misery, Cara smiled. “She is, but she’s also a loving, wonderful person.”
“And your loyalty to her is quite commendable,” Hayfa replied. “But you aren’t here to discuss your sister’s attributes.”
Cara nodded. “No, I’m not. I’ve come to the three of you for some advice.” She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “For the past four days I’ve done nothing but try to please Omar. I’ve tried to be the perfect wife, but he isn’t sharing any of himself with me.”
She looked down at the tabletop. “He’s not even sleeping with me,” she confessed in a soft whisper.
“Oh, that’s definitely not good,” Jahara exclaimed. “Physical desire is like the glue that holds together a relationship.”
“That’s certainly not all there is to a relationship,” Hayfa exclaimed. “There are also things like mutual respect and common interests and friendship.”
“All very important,” Malika agreed, then smiled. “But, desire is equally important, especially in the beginning of a relationship.”
“But I seem to have lost it all—his respect and friendship and desire,” Cara said painfully.
“The first and the easiest to get back is the desire.” Jahara leaned forward and touched Cara’s hand. “I will teach you to dance for Omar.”
“Dance for him?”
“A belly dance.” She stood, her pretty features radiating girlish excitement. “Come with me to my room and I will teach you a dance of seduction that will surely rekindle Omar’s desire.”
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Cara protested.
“I told you once before that a sheik loves differently than other men,” Hayfa said. “That he loves with his head, not his heart. But all men are slaves to desire, and I saw the way Omar looked at you before he found out the truth. His desire for you was great, and getting that back may be the first step in returning your relationship to a good one.”
“All right.” Cara relented. She wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d tried everything in her power to get Omar to forgive her.
If nothing else, the afternoon was good for a few laughs as the three women attempted to teach Cara the fine art of belly dancing.
Cara had always believed herself to be relatively graceful, but time and time again her three mothers-in-law dissolved in giggles as she tried to emulate Jahara’s sensual hip and belly movements.
With nothing more pressing on her schedule for the day, she remained with the women until late afternoon, practicing over and over again the movements that looked so simple and sexy, but were difficult to achieve.
When it was time for her to return to her own quarters, the three women made her promise to return the next day for another lesson. She agreed, but her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t want to seduce Omar into making love to her. She wanted to seduce him into loving her again.
But that night as she lay in her lonely bed she wondered if anything she could do would make them return to what they’d shared in the first two weeks of their marriage.
What would Fiona do in these circumstances? she asked herself. She had a feeling Fiona would cut her losses and run. She wouldn’t stay where she felt unwanted, would never settle for the kind of marriage Cara’s had become.
A little over a month ago Cara might have done the same thing. She would have run, run in shame and despair, run with the feeling that she’d never deserved the happiness she’d glimpsed.
But somewhere in the course of the past month she’d become a different woman. She no longer wanted to be like her sister, and she wasn’t content being Cara. She had become Elizabeth Al Abdar and that’s who she wanted to be, and she intended to fight for her marriage using any tool in her possession. If that meant playing a harem girl and seducing Omar, then, so be it.
Friday afternoon she sat in the living room alone. She’d spent the morning with Hayfa, Jahara and Malika, practicing the dance she hoped would win back Omar.
There was a knock at the door and she jumped up to answer. She’d given the maids the night off, wanting time completely alone with Omar. She didn’t know if she wanted to dance for him or yell at him. There was a curious blend of despair and anger growing inside her.
She opened the door to see Rashad standing there, and she greeted him warmly. She hadn’t really seen him since the night of the celebration dance.
“Come in,” she exclaimed, grateful to see his friendly smile.
He held out a large dress box. “I am to deliver this to you. It is from your esteemed mothers-in-law.”
She took the box from him, her curiosity aroused, but kept her attention focused on Rashad. “Can you sit for a few minutes and visit?”
He looked at his watch, then nodded. “Sheik Omar is in a private meeting and it isn’t due to break up for a little while. I can sit for a minute or two.” He joined her on the sofa.
“How have you been? I’ve hardly seen you all week,” Cara said.
“I’ve been well.” His eyes shone brightly. “And I have a dinner date this evening.”
“With Jane?” Cara clapped her hands together in glee as he nodded. “Rashad, I’m so glad.”
“I think I have you to thank.”
“Trust me, I did nothing more than plant a little seed about you in her head,” Cara replied.
“And how are you, Elizabeth?” His eyes gazed at her with a gentleness that told her he knew how difficult things had been.
“So you know the truth,” she replied.
“I have known since the day of your wedding.”
She eyed him in surprise, then sighed. “Then, you probably also know that Omar is very angry with me.”
“Sheik Omar can be a stubborn man.”
“I’ve been told that sheiks don’t love like regular men, but I swear, Rashad, if I
didn’t think Omar loved me, I wouldn’t still be here.”
“Who told you that sheiks don’t love like regular men?” he asked.
“Hayfa…and Omar himself.”
Rashad frowned. “I believe that Sheik Abdul married his three wives so his affections would always be divided. It was a protection he created for himself so he would never, ever love as deeply and profoundly as he loved Omar’s mother. He did love her deeply, and her loss scarred him. I think he raised Omar to believe that love was not desirable, that to love made a man vulnerable. I think perhaps he was trying to protect his son from the kind of near-mortal wound love had delivered to him.”
“But I know Omar is capable of loving.”
Rashad smiled. “I told you once that I sense great strength in you. It may take all your strength to overcome Omar’s stubbornness and the anger he harbors right now.”
He stood. “And now I must go.”
Cara walked him to the door, where he turned and smiled at her again, the mischievous grin she loved to see.
“If I were a betting man, Elizabeth Cara Al Abdar, my money would be on you.” With these words, he left.
Cara closed the door behind him and went back to the sofa, where the large dress box awaited her. What on earth had the ladies sent over to her?
She pulled the lid off the box and gasped in surprise. Belly-dancing costumes. There were three—one in gold, one in silver and one a deep, lush purple. Each of the harem pants were made of translucent soft chiffon, and the tops were little more than ornately decorated bras.
Her heart expanded as she thought of the three women who had become not only family, but friends.
She carried the box into her bedroom and placed it on the bed. Picking up the gold costume, her heart thudded with anticipation. Could she really do this? Could she put on this risqué costume and dance for Omar?
Thirteen
Omar was weary as he made his way from the throne room to his quarters. It wasn’t just a bone weariness, but a mental exhaustion as well, and he knew much of it came from the exertion of trying to maintain his anger with Elizabeth.
Even thinking of her name shot a renewed burst of irritation through him. Not Elizabeth, he reminded himself. Elizabeth Fiona had been the woman he’d thought he married, the woman he’d intended to marry. Cara was the woman who was now his wife.
Cara, a woman who had been a teacher, a woman who had willingly given him her virginity. Cara, a woman who had spoken to him of her desire for children, her desire to build a family. Cara, a woman who suffered nightmares and who since last week had had nobody to hold her when she awakened afraid and crying in the night.
He shoved this thought aside, even more irritated by the disturbing ache it had evoked in his heart. He nodded to the guards on either side of the door and entered the living room.
Instantly his senses were placed on alert, titillated by the sights and smells that greeted him. The lights were dimmed and the glow of candles filled the room. Incense filled the air along with the tinkling music of the East.
Several of the huge throw pillows had been gathered together to create a place of repose in the center of the floor.
He tensed as he threw his briefcase on the sofa. What was going on? And where were the servants—?
All thought fled from his head as Elizabeth appeared in the doorway between the master suite and the living room.
Electricity sizzled through his veins as his gaze perused her from head to toe. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and entwined with gold braiding. Her eyes glowed a bright emerald, and her cheeks were pink, although he didn’t know if the color was natural or cosmetic.
He was stunned by her beauty, displayed to perfection by the brevity of the outfit she wore. The ornate gold bra seemed to be specifically designed to draw attention to her creamy breasts, which spilled over the top of the golden cups.
She wore harem pants that rode low on her hips, the see-through chiffon displaying her shapely legs from ankle to hip. The only concession to modesty was an opaque triangle of material placed strategically in the front of the pants.
“Omar, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, and moved across the room with a sensuality he’d never seen before. “Welcome home, my husband,” she said. “I’ve drawn your bath, and when you’re finished I’ll serve you your meal.”
“Where are the servants?” he asked, trying to focus on anything but the desire that swept through him as he looked at her.
“I gave them the evening off,” she replied. “And now I need to go check on your dinner.”
As she left in the direction of the kitchen, Omar went into the bathroom, wondering what she had planned.
If she thought by cooking him a meal and wearing a provocative little outfit she could somehow ease his disappointment and anger with her, she was sadly mistaken.
Still, moments later as he relaxed in the scented hot water of his bath, he thought of how delicious she had looked, and he couldn’t help the physical response that soared through him, a physical response he had no intention of following through on.
A man punishing a woman didn’t make love to her, he reminded himself. And he certainly wasn’t finished punishing Cara for her dishonesty. He was stronger than any desire he might feel for her.
He finished his bath and pulled on a pair of silk pajama bottoms and a robe, then went into the living room and eyed the pillows she’d apparently arranged for him.
He considered sitting on the sofa just to be perverse, but decided to play along with her game and see where the evening headed.
Stretching out amid the pillows, he closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of the past week. He knew he’d been as ill-tempered as a spitting camel with his staff and knew eventually he would have to make amends.
“A glass of wine?”
He opened his eyes to see her standing near him, a fluted glass in one hand and a platter in the other. “Thank you.” He took the glass from her, trying to ignore the poker of heat that stabbed through him as their fingertips met.
She sat down next to him, and his head was momentarily filled with the sweet, achingly familiar scent of her. He quickly swallowed some wine, as if it could clear his head.
“I made you some stuffed grape leaves to begin,” she said, and picked up one of the savory rolls that had been cut into bite-size pieces. He parted his lips to receive the bite, trying not to notice the body heat that radiated from her nearness.
“Is it good?” she asked. She sat so close to him that her warm breath fanned his face. “I got the recipe from the chef. He told me it was one of your favorites.”
“It is,” he said curtly, and when she offered him another piece, he took it from her fingers instead of allowing her to place it in his mouth.
He didn’t want to inadvertently taste her finger, didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it had been a week since he’d held her in his arms, kissed her sweet lips, made love to her. “Are you not eating?” he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes beautiful but somber. “I ate before you came home so I could be at your service for the evening.” She stood. “I’ll be back in just a moment with your entrée.”
He watched as she left the room. Her hips swayed with a rhythm that struck a chord deep inside him, and suddenly he wondered who was being punished more by his abstinence—him or her.
The entrée was smothered steak with roasted potatoes, and as Omar ate, Cara sat nearby, her green eyes watching him as if to anticipate whatever he might want or need.
What he needed was to take her into the bedroom and release the physical tension that the past week had built inside him. But he refused to be a slave to his desire.
He ate in silence, although he found himself wondering how she spent the time when he wasn’t around. Did she spend long hours alone, perhaps sitting in the gardens surrounded by the flowers she so loved?
She wasn’t a woman meant to spend time alone. In the month that they had come to know one a
nother, he had learned that she loved to socialize, to share, to laugh. He missed the sound of her laughter.
When he finished eating, she removed his dishes, then returned to his side. “Would you like me to rub your back? Massage your feet?” Her eyes gleamed with a provocative light. “Or would you prefer that I entertain you by dancing for you?”
Dancing for him? The blood in his veins heated. Although he knew he should tell her he didn’t want her entertaining him, he found himself nodding. “Yes, dance for me.”
She looked self-conscious as she stood and backed away from him. The glow from the many candles that surrounded them cast a lush golden radiance to her skin, making it appear achingly touchable.
However, he didn’t want to touch her, he told himself firmly.
And then she began to dance.
Slowly, sensually she moved to the music, her arms gracefully extended outward as her hips moved in a lover’s rhythm.
Her upper body moved, as well, and it looked as if she were offering him the slender column of her neck, the delicate curve of her collarbone, the voluptuous rounded tops of her breasts. He could see the muscles in her shapely legs working, and imagined those legs wrapped around his hips.
A ball of heat flared in the pit of his stomach, suffusing his body as he watched her with narrowed eyes. Who had taught her to move like that? Omar had seen enough belly dancers to know that although her movements were rudimentary and simple, they were the traditional motions of a true belly dancer. He was relatively certain they didn’t teach this kind of dancing in Mission Creek, Texas.
Her dainty bare feet brought her closer to him, and again he smelled her fragrance—it dizzied him and made thought next to impossible.
Blood thundered through his veins, and despite his determination to the contrary, desire followed. Her eyes glittered brightly, as if she recognized that she was getting to him.
He didn’t want to want her, but at the moment he couldn’t remember why he’d been denying not only her but himself the pleasure of making love.
He fought to find his anger, but it seemed to have fled him beneath the stronger emotion of desire. As she leaned even closer to him, he stood and grabbed her wrist. She gasped, but stood still, her chest heaving.
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