by Trish Morey
He grabbed her arm, his fingers like a manacle around her, wheeling her around. Her eyes widened with something that looked more like fear than the surprise he’d anticipated. Only there was no time to try to work out why—not when he had a point to make. ‘I am not a tourist! What the hell is wrong with you? I am Prince of Qusay.’
She blinked, and when she reopened her eyes the fear had gone, but there was a brightness there that he hadn’t noticed before. A life force that had been missing. ‘So they say,’ she whispered, soft as the silken sands on which they stood. ‘But are you really? Why is it that you cannot even look like a prince of Qusay?’ She waved her free hand towards him. ‘Look at what you wear. Armani suits. Cotton shirts with collars. This is not the Qusani way. Why do you insist on turning your back on your heritage if you are so proud to be Qusani?’
‘Because this is not my home!’
And she smiled, and thanked the force that had released her from having to hold her tongue every second of every day, even if that force had a little too much to do with Rafiq’s unwanted kiss.
‘Exactly my point. A tourist. In which case, I’d better get back to camp before I put myself in any more danger.’
Breathless and heady, she jerked her arm out of his hand and strode off down the beach, expecting any moment for him to run after her and grab her again, to show her how wrong she was. But there was no thud of footsteps across the sand behind her and no iron-fingered clasp to stop her.
Rafiq watched her walk away, wanting to growl, wanting to argue, wanting to protest. A tourist she’d likened him to. A mere holidaymaker who had no right to be here in Qusay.
Yet those protests died, his words stymied, as he remembered. She’d smiled. Maybe at him rather than with him, but she’d actually smiled. And didn’t that turn his growl of irritation into a growl of something infinitely more satisfying?
He turned to watch her go, hypnotised by the sway of her hips under the abaya that now clung to her sea-moistened curves. Curves that he had seen in close proximity. Curves that he had ached to reach his hands out to—curves he could have reached out for if only they hadn’t been filled with the fabric of her dress.
A siren he’d thought her before. A sea witch who lured men to their deaths.
Maybe so—but not before he’d had her first.
She was lucky to have escaped him this time. Even now he should be tumbling her down on the soft sand, rolling her under him, instead of watching her march alone up the beach like a victor.
But then she’d changed. He snatched up the sandals he’d left where he’d sat waiting for her, meaning to turn and follow Sera, but stopped, dropping down onto the sand instead, wondering at this new revelation.
She had changed. The woman he’d seen outside his mother’s apartments—the woman who’d refused to look at him let alone speak to him, the woman whose eyes were bleak and filled with despair, the woman he’d barely recognised as the Sera he’d known—was gone.
A new Sera seemed to have taken her place. Not his old Sera, for the Sera he remembered had been sweet and filled with light and laughter. The Sera who was emerging from that bleak shell was different. Tougher underneath. And yet with such an air of fragility, as if at any moment she might shatter into a thousand pieces. But at last she’d smiled.
A tourist, she’d called him, challenging him to deny it, refusing to accept his arguments when he had offered them.
Was that how he was seen? Rafiq the tourist prince?
The idea grated, even as he could see some kind of case for it. For what thought had he really given to Qusay? No more than he’d ever given it before—it was the island of his birth, and the place that had let him down. The place he’d ultimately turned his back on. He hadn’t considered what it would mean to be its prince, even while his own brother was about to be crowned.
Instead he’d put his homeland behind him a very long time ago. Self-defence, he knew, because the best times in his life had not been with his brothers or with their domineering father, but with a black-haired girl who had seemed like an extension of himself, who had been the light of his life.
No, he knew that if he had thought of Qusay at all it would only have brought back memories of Sera, and he’d had no intention of inflicting that upon himself.
So much for being a prince of Qusay. What did he really know of this land, when he had abandoned his existing responsibilities and his links so readily?
The moon provided no answers, and the dark sea refused to come to his rescue.
Could Sera be right? he wondered, as he set off back towards camp long after she had departed. He was little more than a tourist here. An accident of birth might have made him their prince, he might be ruler of a business empire of his own making, but there was precious little else to commend him.
It was just lucky he was not the eldest. Kareef would make a good king. A just king. Kareef would be the king Qusay needed.
Sleep eluded Rafiq in his tent that night, no matter his recent long journey, the comfy wide bed with plush pillows and comforter, and the otherwise relaxing sound of the waves crashing in, wave after endless wave, rolling in along the shore. But Rafiq did not mind the sleepless hours. Because when he did sleep it was his own private agony, and his dreams were filled with the song of sirens, of a beauty once forbidden to him, of a beauty that still called to him.
It was hard enough not to think of her when he was awake—impossible not to remember her long-limbed perfection as she’d risen from the sea, the water streaming from her golden body. And when he slept his dreams were owned by her, closeted away under the curtain of her thick black hair—the hair he’d once buried his whispers in, the hair he’d worn heavy across his chest as she’d laid her head upon his shoulder.
He jerked awake suddenly, certain he could smell the herb-rinsed scent of her hair on his pillow. But he flopped back down alone, strangely disappointed, his breathing ragged as the spindly fingers of dawn squeezed their way through the tiny gaps in his tent.
What the hell was wrong with him?
The mountain road was in no better state than reported—no more than single lane in many places, with mountain slippages making it even more risky in others. Below them as they rose up the twisted road, the endless desert rolled on. Somewhere out there was Shafar, Sera reflected, and the palace. Soon Kareef would be crowned, and Rafiq would return to his other world, and things would return to some kind of normality.
She could hardly wait.
And then she glanced across at Rafiq, sitting alongside the driver in the front seat, and thought, liar.
For, while she wished he’d never bothered to turn up for his brother’s coronation, and as much as she wished to get her emotions back under control, seeing him go, watching him leave again after he’d reawakened feelings that should have been left dormant, would be devastating.
He looked over his shoulder then, snaring her gaze. Questions swirled in his own blue depths before she could turn her head away, her skin tingling under her abaya, her breasts suddenly sensitive and full. It hurt, this sudden reawakening of her senses. It stung physically and mentally.
She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, trying to block out both him and the uncomfortable sensations, trying to cut the invisible tie that seemed to bind them even now, after so many empty years.
But when she gave up on the pretence and opened them again he was still studying her, his eyes steel-blue with intent, and her body shuddered anew. Spot fires were starting under her skin, their flames licking secret places, building secret needs that made her more ashamed of her body than ever. Evidence, if she’d needed anything more, that her body welcomed his attentions and would miss him when he was gone.
Evidence that the sooner he left, the better.
The vehicle rattled and bumped up the steep escarpment. Their ascent up the mountainous path was seeming to take for ever, although it was at most a couple of hours. Finally the narrow track opened out, widening where the land levelled betw
een two craggy mountain peaks, and stunted trees and bushes clung to the roadside. Buildings appeared, low and squat—mud brick buildings made from the same red cliffs of the mountains.
They had reached Marrash. Goats brayed where they were tethered at the sides of the road, and children gathered in groups under the shade of spindly trees, jumping up and shouting as they approached, as if the arrival of visitors was a rare treat. Given the state of the one road leading into it, it probably was.
Rafiq surveyed the town suspiciously. This was the place where a fabric of such beauty had been created? In this dry and dusty mountain village? It hardly seemed possible.
Had his mother sent him on a wild goose chase? And, if so, for what purpose? And then a movement behind him caught his eye, a flash of black as Sera lifted her hand to shade her eyes as she looked out of her window.
And he remembered her moonlit skin as she’d emerged from the water, a goddess from the sea, and he didn’t care if it was a wild goose chase, because it had given him the chance to even the score with Sera. If he was going to lose sleep, he might as well be better occupied than spending the hours in tortured and fractured rest.
Last night she’d thrown him with her accusations of being a tourist prince. Last night he’d let her go.
He wouldn’t let her go again.
He was a prince, whether she liked it or not. And, just as he’d set himself the task of making a business success of himself, so too would he be a success in his role as prince.
And when it came to dealing with Sera he was the one who would set down the ground rules.
The car came to a stop in a largish square in the centre of the village, with the dusty squeak of brakes and the sound of the children laughing and calling as they swarmed around the car.
Soon the square was filled, as people emerged from their houses, squinting against the bright daylight, smiles lighting up their faces. A white-haired man came forward, his spine bent, his skin tanned like leather, the lines on his face deep like the crevasses of the very mountains themselves.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, bowing low as Rafiq emerged from the car. ‘It is indeed a pleasure to have you visit our humble village. I am Suleman, the most senior of our village elders. You have come to see our treasures, I believe? Come, take refreshment, and then it will be our pleasure to show you those things of which Marrash is justifiably proud.’
So there were treasures to be seen after all? Rafiq followed the elder, and the small party made its way through the crowded square. Wide-eyed children reached out to touch him, and women holding babies asked for his blessing as he passed, or sent their blessings to Kareef for his upcoming coronation.
How many hands he held, how many babies’ cheeks he touched and murmured soft words to he quickly lost count—but he could not forget Sera’s accusation of last night.
Tourist prince.
She would pay for that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAFIQ was impatient. He had two priorities now. Seal the deal with the Marrashis, if there was to be one, and bed Sera. But the second could not happen until the first was completed, and so far he hadn’t seen any treasures. Instead the rounds of coffee seemed endless, the plates of tiny treats never-ending—as if they had all the time in the world to engage in polite conversation with the dozen elders of the village, about everything but the reason they’d come.
After ten years building his empire in Australia, he was frustrated. This was not the way he did business. But he was in Qusay, and things were done differently here. Time seemed to pass more slowly, formalities had to be observed, niceties endured.
And so he observed and endured and smiled through gritted teeth, and made a note to thank his buyers, who did this all the time in order to source the goods for his emporiums. They must have patience in abundance.
Sera, he noticed with mounting irritation, looked like patience personified. She sat elegantly, her feet tucked out of sight underneath her, her back straight and her attention one hundred percent on whoever was speaking.
Or maybe not quite one hundred per cent.
For the second time he caught the slide of her eyes towards him, the panicked flight when she saw she’d been caught, the colour that tinted her smooth-skinned cheeks.
It was all he could do to drag his attention back to the ceremony.
Finally, with the last question as to the health of his brother and his mother answered, the coffee pot withdrawn, Suleman appeared satisfied. ‘Now,’ he said, his eyes lighting up like one about to bestow a special gift on a child, ‘shall I show you our treasures?’
Rafiq smiled and nodded. At last. If there was little to see they could be out of here and back in Shafar in plenty of time for tonight’s state banquet. He stepped back to allow Sera to precede him as Suleman led the way, and breathed in the scent of her hair, remembering a golden goddess emerging from the sea.
Although there was something to be said for staying one more night in the camp by the sea.
The palace would be crowded with visitors arriving for the coronation, noisy and demanding, and it would be near impossible to lever Sera from his mother’s apartments even if there were somewhere private to take her.
Whereas at the camp by the sea they would be practically alone.
A deep breath saw oxygen-rich blood jump to the ready, like an army eager to do battle.
There was no rush to leave.
It was perfect.
Suleman led them out into the street again, and onto a narrow path that ran along a thin stream. Fed by a spring, Suleman told them, a gift from the gods. Instantly it felt cooler, the path lined with grasses and shaded by trees. There was a grove of orange trees too, the tang of citrus on the air.
The path led them past a tiny shop, selling everything from rugs to lace to knick-knacks, where an old woman sat in a chair in front, fanning her face. She broke into a big gappy smile when she saw Rafiq, swinging herself up onto her bowed legs.
‘Prince Rafiq,’ she cried, her voice frail and thin—and how she even saw him, let alone recognised him with the cataracts clouding her eyes and turning her lenses almost white, was a miracle. He went to greet her, and she pressed his hand between her bony, surprisingly strong hands. ‘Please, have something from my shop.’
Suleman stood behind them patiently, his fingers laced in front of him, while Sera could not resist looking closer at the table laden with trinkets set amongst tiny lamps and coffee pots. She picked up one of the lamps, the chips of green stuck to the brass twinkling in the dappled light.
‘This is beautiful,’ she told the woman. And then to Rafiq, ‘Your mother would love this.’
‘How much is it?’ he asked, reaching into his pockets.
‘Take it for the Sheikha!’ the old woman insisted, picking up another, larger and more resplendent in its decoration. ‘And one for Prince Kareef, to celebrate the upcoming celebrations—a gift from Abizah of Marrash.’
He wanted to argue the point—clearly the woman was scraping out an existence without giving away her stock—but she was already reaching for paper to wrap the gifts, pressing them into his hands when she was finished.
‘And now something for your beautiful wife…’ Her hand hovered over the table of wares.
Rafiq coughed. Sera at his side bowed her head, her face suddenly colouring. ‘Sera is the Sheikha’s companion,’ he corrected, as gently as he could.
‘Yes, yes,’ the old woman said, waving one hand and taking no notice. ‘For now, perhaps, yes. Aha!’ Her hand scooped up the prize—a choker Sera hadn’t noticed behind all the other trinkets, made up of clusters of the same green chips that had adorned the fabric she’d fetched for the Sheikha, the same green chips that shone on the tiny lamp, but these chips were threaded on gold thread, with trails of the tiny gems hanging from it in a wide V-shape. Sera gasped. It was divine. A work of art.
‘It is too much!’ Sera protested. ‘I cannot accept such a gift from you.’
The old woman br
ushed her concerns aside with a sweep of one hand. ‘Nonsense.’ She passed the necklace to Rafiq. ‘Put this on your wife. My eyes and fingers are not as good as once they were.’
He held the ends of the sparkling necklace in each hand, not even bothering to correct her this time, still rattled by her earlier words and not sure she would listen anyway. ‘Turn around,’ he told her, and saw Sera’s slight shake of her head, her dark eyes helpless, deep velvet pools. But dutifully she turned. He put his arms over her head, dropping the necklace onto the skin of her throat. There was a pulse beating there, urgent, bewitching, and he had the insane desire to press his mouth to it and feel her very life force beneath his lips.
As if she read his thoughts, he felt her breath hitch, her chest rising with it.
He drew back, enclosed the golden chain around her hair, fastened the closure.
He could have left it at that. Stepped away and let her free her hair from the circle of the chain. But he could not.
Instead he slid his hands under her heavy black hair, like silk in his hands as he lifted its weight, feeling the tremors slide through her as the backs of his fingers skimmed her neck.
And again he could have left it at that.
But still he could not walk away. Not until he had smoothed her hair down—hair that was a magnet for his fingers, hair that he wanted to bury his face in so he might drink in more of the scent of herbs and flowers.
The old woman handed him a mirror, and reluctantly he had no choice but to take it. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, his hand on Sera’s shoulder as she slowly turned. Against her golden skin the emerald chips winked and sparkled, the perfect foil for her dark eyes and black hair.
Colour, he realised. That was what she needed. Colour to accentuate her dark beauty, not bury it under so much black. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, not sure whether he should have said it looks beautiful, suddenly not certain which he meant.