by Trish Morey
For every time he had looked at her today, every time he’d been near, she had felt the increasing pull between them, the flare of desire that charged the air with a shimmering need, a force that served to draw them together.
And when he touched her—the pad of his fingers against her neck, the lacing of his fingers through her hair—it was simply electric.
Had anyone else around them felt it? Could anyone else tell?
She sighed against the glass. Of course they could. They all could. The women had seen him kiss her. Everyone had seen the way she’d spun in his arms as if she belonged there.
Everyone knew—even, it seemed, a woman whose cataracts had nearly blinded her. And was it any wonder, when she felt her own need so badly?
For how had she reacted when he had told her he would kiss her again? Not with outrage or anger, or even offence at his arrogant statement. No! Instead she’d looked at him with big puppy eyes, sad because she’d missed out on the treat of him kissing her then, suddenly excited because he’d given her the promise of a kiss later, when there was no chance they would be interrupted.
Tremors ran down her spine anew, shooting out laterally through soft tissue to find nerve-endings too receptive, too ready to surge into life. She squeezed her eyes shut, dragged in air, trying unsuccessfully to deny the sensory assault. Why did his promise fill her with such fear and such anticipation at the same time? Why was she so suddenly conscious of her swelling breasts, her nipples, and the insistent yearning between her thighs? How could he reduce her to this when she felt so ashamed?
She had to stop herself from crying out with the unfairness of it all. Why should she feel so much, so intensely? She was no teenager any more. She was a mature woman. Perhaps not as experienced as most, but she’d been a wife, a married woman, for almost a decade. She’d long since buried her teenage hopes and wishes, just as she’d buried her body’s needs and desires under a public face that aimed for serenity. Control. Cool composure.
Why, now, should her body betray her?
For ten years she had felt nothing, suppressed all her desires and wishes and needs until she was sure they were banished for ever. And now, instead of serene and cool and calm, she felt hot and agitated, her skin tingling in places she’d thought long since devoid of feeling, as if all the emotions and unrecognised desires of the past ten years were welling up to engulf her in one tidal wave of emotion.
She was like that teenager all over again—the girl who had fallen head over heels in love with a tall, golden-skinned Qusani, with piercing blue eyes and a magnetism that had bound her to him from the first instant they’d met.
Even then she’d felt this way around him—this heightened sense of awareness, as if he was caressing her without even touching her. But why, more than ten years on, should he still affect her this way? It wasn’t as if she was still in love with him.
And she gasped, a new realisation slamming through her like a thunderbolt.
She couldn’t be!
Surely there was no way?
She squeezed her eyes shut, prayed she was mistaken. She was taken aback, that was all—taken aback at his sudden reappearance. Thrown off-balance at their forced proximity these last few hours.
It could be nothing more than that, surely?
For once before she had lost him; once before she had seen him go. And once before it had all but ripped her heart from her chest.
Soon he would return to his business in Australia and she would watch him leave once again.
No, she could not love him. She dared not.
Oh, no, please not that!
But there came no denials, no safety ramp to save her as the brakes failed on her reason. Instead came only the constant thrum beat of her heart, pounding out what she had denied for so many years, what she had hoped to suppress for ever.
She loved him.
The rest of the journey down the mountainside passed in a blur, a jumble of confused emotions and tangled thoughts. None of them helping. None of them sorting out the morass that had become her mind. But at least Rafiq left her to her despair. She could not have handled conversation when her mind was in such turmoil, her thoughts in such disarray, disbelief the only continuous thread. They’d stopped at the campsite before she’d even realised.
It was Rafiq who opened her door, his blue eyes moving to a frown as he took in her startled face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he growled.
She blinked and took a deep breath of the warm sea air, unlatching her seat belt, realising that even by merely drifting off she had annoyed him. Although maybe sleep was what she needed? Maybe it would make some sense out of the tangle of her thoughts.
And then she put her hand in his to climb down, and felt the charge like a shockwave up her arm. She gasped, and his eyes snagged hers, and the hungry gleam in his eyes told her that he’d felt it too.
So much for making sense.
She moved away as soon as she could, putting distance between them, confused when she saw the drivers already unloading things from the back of the car. Other servants who had stayed at the camp today were coming to assist, making long shadows against the tents in the light of the torches. She was further confused when she detected the aroma of lamb mixed with herbs on the breeze.
‘How long are we stopping?’ she asked, as she stood on a dune overlooking the long, pristine beach, under a sky emblazoned with stars. But they did not hold her attention—not when she became more concerned as more and more was unloaded from the car.
‘Until morning. We are camping here again overnight.’
She turned, surprised to find that he was so close, surprised even more by his answer. She’d hoped they’d be back in the palace tonight. She’d hoped she’d be once again tucked away in her room in the Sheikha’s apartments, where she could lie in her bed and try to forget about Rafiq all over again. But another night out here with him, after what he’d told her…
Would he kiss her tonight? Here in the camp? Was that his intention, before she could be tucked safely away in his mother’s quarters at the palace?
She swallowed. She remembered last night, when he’d hijacked her peaceful swim at the end of the beach and refused to give her back her abaya. She remembered the way his eyes had seared a trail over her skin—how it had made her breasts come alive, her senses buzz and quicken with expectation. No way would she risk that tonight! For tonight she wouldn’t trust herself to coolly walk away.
‘I thought you wished to return to Shafar as soon as possible once the deal was done.’
‘It is not safe to drive through the desert at night with only one vehicle.’ He raised an eyebrow, the flickering torches turning his golden skin to red, making him look more dangerous than ever. ‘Some might say it is not safe even to drive through the desert during the day.’
Heat flooded her cheeks at the reference. Was it only one day ago that she’d driven the other car into the sinking sands? So much seemed to have happened since then. So little time, but enough to throw her entire world upside down.
‘But is there not a state banquet at the palace tonight? We should press on, return to the palace as soon as possible, surely?’
He shrugged, unmoved by her need to return to Shafar. ‘It is too late to get there, even if we left now. Besides, it will not be the first or the last time that I miss a state banquet. After all, I am merely—what did you call me?—a tourist prince…’
This time she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘Rafiq, I was so wrong. I saw you with the people of Marrash. I saw how you related to them and how they took to you. I should never have said such a thing. I had no right.’
He hushed her words by holding two fingers to her lips, enjoying the way they parted underneath his fingers, as if she were shocked by his touch. ‘No. You had no right. But you did make me think. Last night at the beach, for the first time you made me think about what kind of prince I could be. I have not lived here for many years. I know nothing of politics, or the things that matte
r to the people. But I have not got to where I am now without knowing that I will succeed at anything I turn my hand to. I will be a good prince of Qusay, Sera, a strong prince.’
She swallowed. ‘I can see that.’
‘And I will start now, with my first royal command. You will dine with me tonight, in my tent.’
His voice was gruff and low, his command scraping against her senses, and his eyes, his blue eyes, were heavy with want. The combination sent vibrations deep down inside her. ‘Is… Is that wise?’
And he smiled—a lean, hungry smile. ‘It is what I command. That is all you need to know.’
She dropped her eyes to the ground. ‘Of course.’
‘And Sera?’ He retrieved a package from the back seat of the car and returned to where she stood, almost invisible in her dark gown, knowing if just for that reason that he was right about this.
‘What is it?’
‘Open it and see for yourself. Suleman would not let me negotiate on anything but this.’
She slipped the tie binding the package slowly off its ends, unwrapped the paper, and gasped as a burst of blue, bright and sparkling in the flare of the torchlight, met her eyes. For a second she thought it was merely fabric, and then she recognised it.
‘The dress,’ she cried, recognising one of the gowns she’d seen on the models in the small corner display. She lifted it by one shoulder, admiring how the stones winked at her in the light from the torches, before noticing the flash of red below it. The weight of the package told her there was more. She dug deeper and caught a hint of sunset-gold. ‘You bought all three?’
‘I wanted all three.’
‘They’re so beautiful.’ Suddenly she frowned. ‘But will such garments sell well in your country?’
He shook his head. ‘These garments are not destined for my stores.’
The smooth skin between her eyes creased a fraction more. ‘For the Sheikha, then?’
‘I’m sure she would love them, but no.’
‘Then why?’
‘They are a gift. For you.’
And once again he had taken her unawares; once again he had sent her spirits into confusion.
She pressed the package back, the silken fabric heavy with gems sliding downwards. ‘Rafiq, I cannot accept such a glorious gift.’
He pressed the package to her, scooping up the ends and bundling them into her hands. ‘You can, and you will. For too long now you have buried your beauty under the colour of mourning. I knew it the moment I saw the emerald-green choker at your neck. It is time for you to reveal your beauty once more.’
His words hit a nerve she’d thought long buried. He knew that? She’d worn black initially out of the respect she must show for her dead husband, but then it had come to suit her, reflecting the dark hole her life had been, the dark hole her life had become. It had become a dark hole too deep, too convenient, to climb out of.
‘But Rafiq…’ She tried to hand the package back. She couldn’t accept anything from him. No gift. Nothing.
‘Take them, I command you.’
Her head tilted, the heavy curtain of black hair sliding over her shoulder with it, so sleek and shiny that he was tempted to run his hand through its weight, to feel the slide of its silken length through his fingers.
She had no choice but to accept the package. What was the point of objecting? How could she object? He was a prince.
But colour. She stroked the fabrics, drinking in their feel with her fingertips. For so long her life had been black and white, her feelings neutral to numb the pain. But now her senses had been reawakened, along with a yearning for the things she’d missed. Colour was one of them.
‘Tonight you will wear the blue gown.’
She looked up at him, uncertain, her dark eyes wide. The stars in the night sky were reflected in their depths, he noticed, a galaxy of stars that along with the flicker of torchlight gave her eyes a molten glow. Soon, he knew, it would be him who turned them molten.
Later, in her tent, bathed but still shaking and breathless from the unexpected encounter, Sera held the blue gown up in front of her. What would it be like to wear such a bold colour? As much as she was tempted, after so many months of covering herself in black the idea of colour seemed somehow daring. Provocative.
Or was it just because of the way Rafiq had looked at her, with hunger in his eyes and a wicked smile curving his lips?
She dragged in air, needing the burst of oxygen. How could she decide when she could not so much as think rationally?
So, instead of thinking, she shrugged the gown over her shoulders, letting the weight of the stone-encrusted fabric pull it down over her skin. She felt the whisper of silk, the weight of tiny stones, and the close-fitting gown moved against her like the slide of a thousand fingers. And then it was on, and she looked once more in the small mirror and she saw someone else—a stranger, a woman she hadn’t seen for more than a decade—standing before her. A few years older, maybe, but not so markedly different that she couldn’t recognise the girl who had come before.
For a minute or two she just stared, before realising that it wasn’t just the colour of her dress that made her look so different and turned back the clock. It was her eyes that had changed also. They looked alive, somehow. Excited. As they had so many years before. As they had when they’d been filled with love—and desire—for Rafiq.
The desire was still there.
Her heart fluttered in her chest and she gasped, unused for so long to feeling the heat of need, surprised by its power. She’d once put this feeling down to adolescence and the stirrings of the first tender buds of first love.
But it wasn’t that now.
She’d tried to deny it because it was beyond modesty to think of such things—forbidden territory for a woman in her position to feel such raw, potent need.
She’d tried to deny it because she was so ashamed of her past. So ashamed of the things her body had been used for.
But there was no denying it.
She did want him. She did need him. And it didn’t matter what happened after this—for destiny seemed determined to keep them apart—it didn’t matter that she’d married another when she’d loved Rafiq, it didn’t matter that he’d sworn he’d never marry her now. There was no denying it. She wanted him.
Star-crossed they might be, destined never to be together, but maybe tonight, this night, they would become lovers.
She brushed her hair, giddy with anticipation, her blood fizzing in her veins at the recklessness of her thoughts. She’d never known the pleasure a man could give. She’d never known the magic she’d heard newly married women giggle about in muffled whispers to each other in the hallways of the palace. She’d never known the delights of the flesh.
Rafiq, she was sure, could supply them.
And why shouldn’t she take advantage of this beachside encampment, just as Rafiq intended? Why should she not use it for her own purposes, to assuage her own desperate longings and desires?
Just one night, with a man who would never love her, never marry her. It was wrong on so many levels. And yet on so many more it was right.
She smoothed down her dress, garnering her resolve in the process. If he did intend to kiss her again tonight, if he did want them to be uninterrupted, she would not be the one to interrupt.
This night was like a gift from the gods. People said you didn’t get a second chance, that you couldn’t go back, and maybe they were right. Maybe there was no going back to the days when she had believed she and Rafiq would one day marry and share their lives together for ever. Those days were surely gone.
But one night—this night—was something. A glimpse, perhaps, of what might have been. A bittersweet reminder of what she had lost.
And something to hold close to her when he had gone from her life again. For he would leave soon, return to his business in Australia, forget about her all over again.
She would have this one night to remember for ever. She took one last, st
eeling breath of air, recognising the effort was futile, that she would never settle the butterflies that even now jostled for air space in her stomach, before she stepped from the tent.
All was prepared. Rafiq waited patiently. The table under the stars was prepared; the food was ready to serve. All that was needed was Sera.
Away from the tents he could hear the men talking around their campfire, the burble and fragrant scent of the shisha pipe carrying on the night breeze. A perfect evening, neither too hot nor too cool, with the blanket of stars a slow-moving picture overhead.
And then Sera appeared, and the night became even more perfect.
Shyly she approached the table, her eyes cast downwards. Like a virgin, he thought. A shy and timid innocent, on her way to be sacrificed. But she was no virgin, he knew. And it was not white that she wore. Nor even black, he acknowledged with relief. The blue gown skimmed her curves, fitting without catching anywhere, the shimmering gem-encrusted silk bringing her body alive in light and shadow as she moved, the jewels around her neck turning her into a glittering prize.
His prize.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said, his voice thicker than usual, and for the first time her eyes lifted, only to widen with shock when she saw him. ‘Rafiq!’
And he smiled. ‘A fair trade, wouldn’t you say? My robe for your gown.’
‘Rafiq, you look— You look…’ Devastating. Her eyes drank him in—this man who wore Armani and turned it into an art form, this man who lifted a mere suit and made it an extension of his lean, powerful self, who looked like a god in the robes of his countrymen. The snowy-white robe turned his olive skin to burnished gold, turned his black hair obsidian. And his eyes—what it did to his eyes! They were like sapphires warmed by the light of the moon. Penetrating. Captivating.
He looked taller somehow, and even more commanding, and she had no doubt he was indeed a true prince of Qusay!
Finally she managed to untangle her useless tongue. ‘I mean, you look different—almost like you belong here.’
And he laughed as she hadn’t heard him laugh for so long, the sound rich and strong, his face turned up to the heavens and showing off the strong line of his throat. ‘My mother will be delighted to hear it. She has been on at me to wear the traditional robes from the moment I arrived. But now come. Sit. Eat. For we are far from the palace, and tonight…’ he swept his arm around in an arc ‘…this is our palace.’