Stolen by the Desert King

by Clare Connelly

A flicker of amusement on his lips as he roused himself from his appreciative inspection. “We have an appointment.”

  “We have an appointment,” she repeated, her eyes showing confusion. “Who with?”

  “No. You and I have an appointment.”

  “We have an appointment with each other.”

  He pulled a face. “Am I saying something wrong? Is it not obviously what I mean?”

  “Oh, no, yes.” She winced. If anything, it was Kylie who was being unclear. “But why do we need an appointment? We’re married. We even have the secret doorway to prove it.”

  Amusement bubbled in his chest. He suppressed it. “My days are busy. My nights too. It will be necessary for us to schedule time as required.”

  “Right. How … intimate.” This was the man who’d come to her room in the middle of the night and made love to her until she was burning up. For that, they didn’t need an appointment, but for anything else?

  So this was the space she was to be accorded in his life, was it?

  She was a fool. A fool for thinking she could step into an arranged marriage and have any say whatsoever over how it would operate. He wasn’t her husband because he liked her, loved her, or even respected her. What did she damned well expect?

  She turned away from him so he wouldn’t realise the complex emotions that were chasing across her face.

  “I have thirty minutes. Aïna tells me you have not eaten. I will join you for breakfast.”

  Her pulse hammered in her throat. She threw him a look over her shoulder. “I was going to dry my hair.”

  He frowned as he looked at the tangled mess that was surrounding her face. “Leave it.” A surprisingly throaty request. Was it a request, actually, when he was technically ordering her?

  She opened her mouth to say something sassy but he spoke again, forestalling any reply. “Your hair is so blonde. I didn’t expect that.”

  She lifted fingers to it self-consciously. It was true, her hair was so light it was almost white at times. The ends though were golden and when it was wet, before she’d tamed it with her blow-dryer and straightener, it was a little darker. He followed her movement, his face very still, his body seeming charged with electricity.

  Or was that hers?

  One of them was throbbing with power and awareness. She felt the crash of heat and trembled, turning away from him again.

  “Thirty minutes, you said?” The words were waspish. She didn’t care.

  She moved through the apartment, towards the sitting room Aïna had shown her the day before. It was a glorious space – she’d been too wound up to notice it properly, and the steady stream of appointments had robbed her of the mental capacity to really take in the details.

  Now, her eyes absorbed the floral arrangements, their sweet fragrance nothing compared to the exotic brightness of their blooms. Sticks with colourful spouts and leaves that seemed to shimmer with glitter. She fingered one as she passed it, grabbing a flower and rubbing it between her finger.

  The table had been set for two.

  All along? Or only since Khalifa had appeared?

  Nervous suddenly, she was grateful for the distraction of food. And she was starving, though she hadn’t noticed until that moment.

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded, but she’d learned her lesson the day before. “Um, American, please.”

  The Argenese version of coffee was as thick as tar and strongly spiced. It was passably okay, but it wasn’t what she craved first thing in the morning.

  He nodded, moving to a machine in the corner and pressing a button.

  “So, you can make coffee,” she murmured, taking a seat at the table.

  “And even pour water,” he agreed, amusement crinkling his eyes before he smothered it. “I didn’t want servants here today.”

  “Why not?”

  The question caught him by surprise, mainly because he had no easy way of answering it. He couldn’t actually have said why he wanted privacy, only that it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  He handed her a cup of coffee without speaking, taking the seat opposite and regarding her breakfast choices with interest.

  “Vegetarian?”

  She shrugged. “Not intentionally.”

  He nodded. Silence thickened around them, heavy and woollen. Ravenous, she was, but suddenly anxiety about eating in front of him held her still. She sipped her coffee instead, the taste so exactly what she’d been craving that she moaned a little.

  And his brows flexed upwards at the little noise, so perfectly did it echo the sounds she’d made only hours earlier.

  The memories stiffened his body, and a desire he hadn’t expected to feel troubled him. It was an inconvenience. Nothing more.

  He was stronger than something so juvenile.

  He ignored the way her lips pouted over the rim of the fine bone-china mug, and the way her eyes closed with undisguised appreciation as she sipped the warmth.

  “Twenty-seven minutes,” she said with the kind of control he was starting to envy, shaking him out of his sensual reverie.

  He sat back in his chair, studying her more fully. “Largely, you will be left to settle into your position here. You should make yourself at home in the palace.”

  She took another sip of the coffee simply because it kept her fingers still and prevented him from seeing how they shook.

  “However, there are obligations you’ll need to meet from time to time.”

  “Such as?” She prompted, finally trusting herself to place the coffee cup down and lifting up the fork.

  “Generally, the Sheikha of Argenon is a patron of at least one charity. Aïna will provide you with a list of suitable options and help you choose…”

  Kylie thought about the volunteer work she’d done back home in Sydney, ever since she was a teenager, and shook her head.

  “I think I’ll be able to make a decision without help,” she said softly.

  “Oh, yes?” He scanned her face thoughtfully. “Because altruism is something you’ve placed such importance on in the past?”

  She startled at the hint of sarcasm in his words. “Actually, yes. I’ve been heavily involved in a local charity. I’m sure there’s something similar here.”

  “What charity?” No sarcasm now, just undisguised interest.

  Kylie thought about ignoring the question. About obfuscating and changing the subject. But why? She was proud of what she’d achieved; proud too of her commitment. Managing her full-time studies on top of the several evenings and mornings she’d spent at the charity’s meeting rooms had taken a lot of commitment.

  “Little Minds,” she said, spearing a piece of egg with her fork and lifting it to her mouth. He watched as she chewed and swallowed, silently imploring her to continue.

  “It’s a wellbeing program for orphans,” she said finally, keeping her eyes lowered to hide the depth of her own emotions on the subject.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  She suspected he didn’t, and she heard herself continue, “When I was young, I spent some time there. Not long after my parents … after it happened.” Her voice thickened at the admission. “It was … important to me. Helpful.” She shrugged. “Talking to people who’d been through what I was going through, who understood me… it was the only place I felt like I could be myself. For a very long time.”

  He was surprised. He took care not to express the emotion, knowing somehow that it would offend and alienate her, but he hadn’t expected the admission. Still, she’d been five years old when her parents had died unexpectedly. Old enough to know and love them, and certainly old enough to feel their absence from the bottom of her being.

  “So we do therapy and activities, and sometimes just talk and look at photos.” She shrugged. “The hardest part about suddenly not having any parents is that you lose a part of yourself alongside them. Parents are your bookends and your roots. It can be hard to remember that you still belong to something special when there’s nothing of
that ‘special’ left. You have to remember what’s in here.” She pressed a hand to her chest.

  Khalifa was watching her, his expression intense, his eyes darker than normal.

  “What do you remember about your parents?”

  She hadn’t expected the question, but she tilted her head to the side, giving it thought. “I remember my mother’s singing voice – it was so beautiful, and she sung all the time. Old songs, from the seventies. Janis Joplin, Stevie Nicks.” Kylie sighed. “And she was so pretty. She would spend hours getting ready when they were going out, choosing outfits and doing her hair. She had so many dresses. Floaty and long. I don’t think I ever saw her in pants. My dad wasn’t home much. He worked long hours. But he came in and kissed my forehead every night.”

  Her smile was wistful, her heart twisting.

  “So you see, Khalifa, my memories of them are so beautiful, I can’t bear to disappoint them, even in death.”

  He sipped his own coffee, keeping his eyes locked to her face.

  “I get that the whole arranged marriage thing is weird to you. I get that you find it strange. But when I agreed to go through with it, I felt closer to them.”

  Khalifa, for perhaps the first time in his life, bit back the opinion that had come to his lips. Her parents might have loved her, but they’d still sold her into a family that was as mysterious as it was duplicitous. They had banked on political and financial reward and he couldn’t ignore that.

  But it wasn’t Kylie’s fault. She’d made a decision he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand, but somehow, talking to her was making it clearer.

  He frowned, focussing on their conversation – the point of their meeting.

  “We have several charities that are similar to this,” he said finally. “Aïna will provide you with the information and you may select whichever most closely aligns with your ideas. Becoming their patron will endow them with an annuity and a higher profile.”

  “That’s amazing,” she said after several seconds. “Funding was something we really struggled with back home. I mean…orphans. It’s not exactly a sexy charity. It’s so sad and bleak and funding was incredibly hard to come by. We needed more therapists. More play spaces and sports programs. I love the idea of finally being able to make a difference.” A thought occurred to her and she spoke without thinking. “Could I… could be a patron for that charity? For Little Minds?”

  He sat further back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “You are my wife. A Sheikha of Argenon. Your focus must be here.”

  She nodded. He was right, of course. A sense of disappointment was swallowed by awareness, when he reached over and put his hand on hers. “This is your life now. It is better that you forget about Sydney, and look to the future.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  KHALIFA STARED AT THE chancellor with every appearance of listening. But he wasn’t. Not really. His mind, usually as sharp as a tack and focussed on whatever he decided to turn his attention to, was slipping around like a fish on dry land.

  He’d stayed with his wife an hour in the end, watching as she took dainty mouthfuls of her breakfast and thought through every answer she gave him.

  Had she always been so cautious?

  He thought back to Sydney, a frown on his face.

  She’d been overwhelmed then, totally surprised by the chemistry between them. Had that been her inexperience?

  He rubbed a hand over his square jaw, feeling the stubble with fingertips that ached to instead be enjoying the soft smoothness of his wife’s body.

  “Are we going to talk about what happened last night?”

  Her question, at the end of their meeting, had surprised him. The soft way she’d spoken, the hurt he’d caught in her eyes before she’d blinked and settled her features so that he wondered if he’d imagined the emotion altogether.

  “Would you like to talk about it, azeezi?”

  Dear God, the way her teeth sunk into the pillowy softness of her lower lip, and her eyes had flicked away from him. Her throat had moved, a delicate shift as she’d swallowed, it had brought his attention to the bruising from Fayez and his body had practically frozen. With a need to make love to her. Gently, softly, slowly. To bring her pleasure, and erase any pain she’d ever felt.

  “I’m not sure.”

  The ambivalence of her response had done something to him. Had made him wonder if far from removing her pains, he wasn’t inflicting new ones.

  “Sir?” He frowned. A slash in his handsome face. “Would you like us to proceed?”

  “I wasn’t listening,” he said, without feeling a need to apologise or explain. He scraped his chair back and addressed his Principal without looking in his direction. “Clear my afternoon, Thaida.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The night before, Khalifa had told himself there was only one way to push unpleasant and unwanted thoughts from his mind.

  And while satisfying, it wasn’t strictly true.

  When Selena had first come to live at the palace, after leaving Fayez, Khalifa had needed to channel his rage and impotence into something. Something that would stop him from pummelling the other man into a bloodied heap.

  He strode into the stables and towards his Arabian Steed. The servants bowed low but Khalifa ignored them.

  Something was burning in his gut and if he didn’t ride, he knew it would control him. He took the steed’s bridle, guiding him out of the stall and then swinging up onto his saddled back.

  The horse made a noise of greeting and Khalifa leaned lower, stroking the beast’s thick black mane. “Let’s go.” He spoke in his own language and kicked the side of the horse so that he set off sharply. Khalifa twisted the reins, guiding the horse out. Away from the palace, away from the chancellor, his Principal. And away from his wife.

  He rode fast and hard, deep into the private royal desert. He rode until the wind had pulled his hair from the bun he wore it in, until the sun was heating his back and his body felt the heady pain that came with riding hard and furiously.

  Then, he turned the beast around and stared back at his palace; his kingdom; his world.

  “I just … I don’t really understand what you want from me.”

  The quiet, plaintive statement as he’d been about to leave. The way she’d shown her emotions fully in that moment. Her sense of confusion; her need for him to reassure her.

  But she hadn’t been the only one at a loss. He didn’t understand what he wanted from her. “I married you,” he’d shrugged. “I got what I wanted.”

  “Because of the political stuff,” she’d nodded, her eyes wide in her face. “I was reading about it last night. About my family, that is, the Maha Ishans and the Haddids, and you. Your family…”

  His eyes had glinted. “Then you know why I had to make you mine.”

  Her face had paled at his use of the possessive phrase. He knew she didn’t like the idea of someone being owned. Hell, nor did he. But for a woman who’d willingly taken millions of dollars in payment for her eventual hand in marriage, the concept seemed utterly appropriate.

  “Because if I’d married Fayez it would have been a threat to your rule?”

  Khalifa hadn’t been able to meet her eyes then. The lie was not a difficult one to discover. His power was absolute. The Haddad family were no true threat to him, besides for riling up a few quarters of government that would always be looking to stir trouble.

  No, wanting to marry Kylie had far more to do with hurting Fayez. It had everything to do with Selena.

  And he didn’t want to admit as much to anyone; least of all his new wife.

  And so he’d kissed her. Suddenly, quickly, giving her no time to recognise his intent, nor to react. He’d dropped his head and plundered her mouth, groaning as she’d submitted to him, as she’d offered herself to him instantly. Her body cleaved to his and her kiss was filled with the same passion that stirred in him.

  Only a need to control that passion saw him step backwards just as suddenly as he’d
kissed her, his eyes glinting unknowingly with speculation. “You have a busy day, lanaria. Dry your hair. Smile.”

  And he’d left, without waiting to see if she did smile. If she did anything. If he’d stayed a moment longer, he might have seen bewilderment be chased from her face by frustration and annoyance, and then the way she’d leant back against the wall, needing its support badly.

  Khalifa pulled the horse to a complete stop, his easy ability to control the enormous, elegant creature something he took for granted. He’d always been able to control everyone, everything. Except Selena.

  And now, his desire for his wife.

  It was unwelcome.

  Surprising.

  And utterly distracting.

  *

  Kylie stifled a yawn. It was only four o’clock, but her night had been disturbed and her day had been busy. She was exhausted.

  “That’s enough for today.” Aïna, ever watchful, emerged from the side of the room, her manner strict as she addressed the women who had come to speak to Kylie about the décor of her apartment. Apparently she could have it fitted out in any way she wished. The idea that she was happy with the existing furnishings was something people were finding difficult to grasp.

  “We have only two more albums…” The older woman murmured, reaching into the portfolio at her side.

  “Enough.” Aïna was firm. “The Sheikha is finished for the day.”

  Kylie was. Her head was swimming with all the information she’d been presented with. So many decisions to make and none of them seeming that important to Kylie. She had tried to involve herself in matters such as when the public day of celebration would be for her birthday and when she might be able to sit for an official portrait, but apathy was seeping into her bones. Or perhaps it was boredom.

  These matters were inconsequential.

  They were not what filled her mind.

  She stretched restlessly and stood, the beautiful dress from that morning still feeling like something floaty and magical; like something from a dream.

  “It looks hot out there,” she remarked, moving towards the doors that led to her balcony.