Royal Weddings

by Clare Connelly

  Her cheeks were flushed but she moved to the wall and flicked a light on, killing the romantic mood of the room.

  It was a mistake. The light only served to illuminate his masculine perfection further. Hair so dark it was like a raven’s shimmered, not a hint of grey to be seen. His face was harshly angular, not traditionally handsome, but all the more appealing for its geometric balance and determination.

  Evie was not alone in her appraisal. Dressed in her pajamas with a only thin robe for modesty, there was no disguising her intriguing curves and petite frame. Malakhi’s eyes lingered on the soft swell of her breasts.

  The first time he’d seen her, he’d thought of a desert bird, with her exotic complexion. Skin that was as pale as cream, with tiny little freckles across her dainty nose, those vibrant eyes, and hair … her hair! It was intriguing. Red, but so many shades of red depending on the light that he could never have fixed on the right description for it. Now, in his room, it was the colour of flame, and she wore it in a plait over her shoulder. Only it was not obedient, much like Evie, he imagined, and several wisps had escaped to frame her face.

  As for her body, he was intimately acquainted with it. Though she had never dressed in a way that led him to believe she was aware of her feminine perfection, he had never met a woman with quite the same curvaceous sweetness.

  “You’re disgusting,” she snapped, resenting his invasive, possessive inspection. She pulled her robe more tightly around her waist.

  “You have come to me in the middle of the night dressed like that and you do not think it is an invitation to … appreciate … what you so readily offer?”

  “I am not offering you anything,” she snapped in disbelief. “God! Our nephew is sick and you think… your mind … you’re disgusting.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Jamila. I have no interest in married women. Or any woman who has such lax morals as you.”

  The insult smarted for so many reasons. She toyed with the wedding ring and his eyes dropped to the betraying gesture.

  “So? What is it?”

  Should she tell him the truth now?

  For what purpose? Believing she was still married was a good thing. It neatly shelved all the issues they hadn’t dealt with two years earlier.

  “This is nothing to do with us,” she said distractedly, rubbing her temples. Her robe pulled a little but she didn’t notice. “It’s about Kalem.”

  “Malakhi,” he corrected.

  “That’s too confusing.” She shook her head. “Kalem. He’s sick. He needs a doctor.”

  “What does Fatima say?”

  Evie spun around, anger making her features shimmer in a way he found intriguing. “She’s a grump.”

  His laugh surprised them both. “That might be. But she is also very experienced.”

  “She doesn’t care about him like I do. Nobody does.” A sob welled in her throat. She tried to swallow it but it coated her words with grief. His eyes were heavy on hers.

  “Oh?”

  “No.” She lifted a slender hand to the column of her throat. The Athalin-aî called across the desert and she shivered. “I love him.”

  Malakhi was silent a long moment. “What is wrong with him?”

  “He’s got a temperature,” she said, her relief so profound that the words tumbled over themselves. “He’s not himself. He’s in pain. Please. Please call a doctor.”

  “If this was so, Fatima would have called a physician,” he said with a shrug. “She has nursed dozens of infants.”

  “She’s got no heart!” Evie snapped. “How can you ignore what I’ve said?”

  “What experience have you with children?” He asked, his eyes narrowing as the unpalatable image of her growing round with another man’s baby filled his mind.

  “With other children? None. But before … before …” she closed her eyes. “Before they came here, I spent almost as much time with Kalem as his parents did. And since … since the accident, I have been with him every day. I know when he’s not right. Something’s …”

  He expelled an angry breath and lifted a hand.

  “He’s a good sleeper. He always has been. From three weeks old he slept through the night. He doesn’t get fevers unless something’s wrong. Please, Mal.” The name Sabra had always used when speaking of her brother slipped out and she shook her head. “Malakhi,” she corrected.

  He crossed the room and pressed a gold button recessed into a panel on the wall. He spoke in his own language then moved with his trademark athleticism across the room. “Take the child back to his nursery. A doctor is on his way.”

  Surprised by the relative ease of the encounter, Evie smiled up at him. “Thank you.” She moved quickly but as she neared the door he shut it again.

  “Not you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The servant will deal with this.”

  Evie’s nerves jangled beneath her skin. “I don’t want to leave him.”

  “He is fine. If Fatima is not concerned then you do not need to be.”

  “How can you speak of that woman with such affection?” Evie demanded. “The things she’s said to me …”

  “Yes?” He prompted, crossing to the glasses of wine and lifting one to his lips. He kept his eyes locked to her face as he took a long drink.

  Evie shook her head. She wasn’t sure she wanted to involve him in her quarrel with the other woman. As much as she loathed the maid, ratting on a person to their absolute boss was not her style.

  “Never mind.”

  The air around them crackled with awareness. Evie felt as though an invisible thread was pulling at her, urging her to close the distance.

  He lowered the glass to the table leaving his lips free to stare at. How it had felt when he’d kissed her. It had been so much more than a kiss. He had dominated her. His body had pressed hers against the wall while his tongue had punished hers. His mouth had made her his prisoner and his hands had felt her curves with all the promise of explosive satisfaction.

  “How is your husband?”

  Malakhi can never know about your divorce. He will disapprove. He might even ask me to move home. Besides, why does he need to know?

  “Fine,” she lied, Sabra’s words all the more impossible to dislodge now that she was dead. Simple requests had taken on a new meaning: they were death-bed requests. All of them.

  “Fine?” He shook his head.

  The betrayal of that night had seared her soul for a very long time. She had thought of it often with shame and regret.

  “Malakhi …”

  “Does he make you happy, Jamila?”

  “Happy?” She shook her head, clinging to her anger rather than the seductive inquiries he was launching. “Why does that matter?”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.” He shrugged.

  The insouciance hurt. “And that woman? Does she make you happy?”

  “To whom do you refer?” He asked, lifting his arms above his head in a stretch. While it might have been perfectly natural, it served to draw her gaze to his rippling muscles. She looked away quickly, her eyeballs supercharged by desire.

  “That supermodel who just teetered out of here when I arrived.”

  “The woman you scared off with your middle-of-the-night intrusion?”

  Chastened, she spun away, lifting her fingers to her lips. “Is that how it would have been for us?”

  He was across the room but the desert winds carried his touch to her.

  “What is it you mean?”

  “I mean if I hadn’t stopped what happened between us. Would I have been some woman you slept with and then dismissed?”

  The question was loaded and it caught her completely off guard.

  “What would you have wanted?” He returned noncommittally. “You were engaged. Another man was owed the pleasure of your body, not me. If you hadn’t stopped me, we would have slept together and I would have forbidden you from marrying him.” Now he was right behind her, his words
brushing her hair. “Do you realize how close we were?” His hands curled around her arms, spinning her to face him.

  “It would never have happened …”

  He swore in his own tongue. “Of course it would have.” His eyes devoured her face. “If I kissed you now it would happen still.”

  “Don’t.” She shook out of his grip. “Yuck. You’ve just been with her. As if I would touch you!”

  “How interesting.” He lifted his thumb to her lip and padded it along the flesh. “You thought of Leilani before your own husband.” He dropped his hand to her wedding ring and pressed down on it so that a sensation of pain travelled along her arm. “Is your marital bed so cold that you give it such little consideration?”

  He was so close to the truth that she went on the attack. “You have no idea. As if sex is the only thing that matters.”

  His eyes, oh, his eyes. They saw too much. He studied her as though every secret she held was written on her face. “It is not the only thing to matter.”

  She was powerless to look away.

  “Yet you have been here two months. You buried your brother. Where was he? Your husband?”

  Her cheeks burned. “He couldn’t make it. He’s too busy.”

  “To come to such an important event?” His condemnation was scathing.

  “Yes.”

  “And now?” His body was only an inch from hers. She felt its inviting hardness and had to call on every ounce of willpower not to close the distance between them.

  “Now?” The word husked in her mouth.

  “It has been months since you were with a man. You do not crave it?”

  “No,” she lied, her stomach churning painfully.

  “Liar,” his laugh was thick. “I have felt your desire. I know how much it moves in you.”

  Only for you.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured, but her body swayed closer.

  “What are we doing?” He asked slowly. “I am simply talking to you. Is that not allowed?”

  “You know what I mean.” She was breathless.

  “No.” And he dropped his mouth, closer to her ear. “I am not saying that I want to peel your clothes from your body and take you against the wall, though I am thinking it. I am not telling you that I want to roll your nipples in my mouth. I am not saying that I want to taste every bit of you, but mostly your essence.” He lifted his head, so that his eyes warred with hers. “But I am thinking it. And I have been dreaming it.”

  “Stop,” she moaned, but her hands were lifting, aching to touch him. She was tentative at first, feeling the strength of his muscles slowly. She ran her fingers down his body, until they encountered the waistband of his pants. She moved inside, wondering at her daring, but at the same time accepting the fatalism of what she was doing.

  When her hands met his length she made a sound of relief. Or was it him? Wetness slicked her insides. A hunger that had never been quenched burned her whole.

  “But talking is all we can do,” he said softly, pulling away from her and marking their separation with a full stride. “I will not have a married woman in my bed, no matter how I want her.”

  He can never know. Malakhi disapproves of divorce. He’s very old-fashioned. He would see your divorce as a shame to our entire family. I would be tainted by association. You know I support you completely but Mal is just different.

  “I …”

  “You wear his ring and touch my cock? How dare you?”

  Evie wanted, so badly, to tell him the truth. The words were fully formed in her mouth. She was close to issuing them: I am not married. I was never his. Please. Please, take me.

  But the sound of a shrill ringing interrupted them and he spun, as though completely unaffected by their conversation.

  The conversation was completed in Malakhi’s language and, try as she might, Evie had learned only simple phrases so far.

  “He is fine. It is teething pains. Nothing more.”

  Relief, stupidity and regret mingled in her gut. All of this had been for nothing.

  Should she tell him still? Would he welcome the news? Or had Sabra been right?

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly and walked towards the door.

  “Evelyn?” She stopped walking, her back ramrod straight, but she didn’t turn to face him.

  “Make an appointment to see me tomorrow. We need to speak.”

  “We can speak now …”

  “No. Not now.” His words were thick with an emotion she didn’t comprehend. But there was a darkness there too. “Nothing I would say to you now would be particularly constructive.”

  “Mal …” She spun to face him. It was a mistake. His eyes were glittering with fury.

  “Do not call me this. Only Sabra had that right, and she is dead.” Evie sucked in a breath as though he’d thrown a cement brick at her. “And do not ever touch me again without invitation.”

  Evie’s eyes blinked in her expressive face. “Isn’t that what you did? Didn’t you invite me to touch you, Your Highness?”

  “You are a married woman,” he responded coldly. “If you want to screw someone to satisfy your hormones, get your husband to visit. You are his problem. Not mine.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “This has nothing to do with our history.”

  Dressed in traditional royal robes, seated behind an imposing marble desk, framed by a window that showed the city and beyond it the glistening ocean, His Royal Highness Sheikh Malakhi al-Sitar looked every bit the imposing ruler.

  “We dealt with our history last night.” Evie, in comparison, felt small and exhausted. Despite the doctor’s assurances, she had slept in Kalem’s room, waking and comforting him every time he stirred.

  “Do you think so?” His smile was laced with dangerous cynicism. “Fine. For now, let us leave it.”

  Their eyes were locked in a fierce battle of the wills which Evie broke first. She shifted her gaze sideways, eyeing a large stack of boxes in the corner. She had never been in his office before, but she knew instinctively they didn’t belong. They were clutter and disarray when he was a man of precision and order.

  “Condolences,” he said gruffly, following her gaze. “A great many arrived. I must … deal with them.”

  Sympathy flooded her for the different pressures they faced in the aftermath of tragedy. “Can I help?”

  “No,” he said shortly. Too shortly. He softened it with a curt smile. “Most of them are in languages you do not speak.”

  “Still,” she murmured. “It doesn’t seem fair that you have to handle all of those…”

  “Did you ever really believe life to be fair? Now. We have more important matters to discuss.”

  “Such as?” She prompted, walking towards the window to the right of his desk and looking out. The landscape by day was completely different. Trees that were spiky and black against the inky sky were pale green and magical-seeming when kissed by the bright sunshine.

  “My nephew.”

  “Our nephew,” she corrected on auto-pilot. “Yes. We do need to talk about him. I’m not happy with that woman calling all the shots …”

  “It’s not your place,” he interrupted, “to question the arrangements I have made.”

  She spun around, her brows arched with curiosity. “Oh?”

  “It is time for you to go home, Evelyn. You do not belong here.” His expression was blanked of any emotion, though she doubted that was by design. It was far easier to believe he truly felt nothing in that moment.

  The words sank into her mind and she nodded slowly. “Fine. Yes. Kalem and I will return to Brisbane. That’s a much better idea. His home is there. He’s familiar with it. He will be happier in the room his parents decorated for him …”

  “No.” He shook his head curtly. “You alone will return to Australia.”

  Breath was impossible to draw. “How can you suggest such a thing?”

  His eyes met hers fiercely. “It is time. Life must resume. They are dead. He
lives. This is our reality.”

  “I’m not leaving him,” she murmured. “If you think I would go to the other side of the world then you are absolutely deranged.”

  “What choice is there? You cannot stay in the palace indefinitely.”

  “Why? Are you afraid I’ll bankrupt the place?” She mocked angrily.

  His palm slapped the top of the desk; a loud noise emanated through the office. “Damn it! Do not speak to me like this. You came to my room in the middle of the night. You exposed us both to gossip that I do not want.”

  “What?” Her face paled. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You were seen coming and going. You were wearing practically nothing. You are a married woman. This is unacceptable.”

  “Oh my God. I wouldn’t have thought you’d care about what people think…”

  “Then you do not understand the esteem I put on my peoples’ opinion.” He stood up sharply. “You are as dangerous to me now as you were then.”

  “I’m not dangerous,” she scoffed. “What you want from me is.”

  “Yes,” he agreed readily, making no effort to pretend to misunderstand. “Absolutely. But you are also different. You do not understand me, or my country. It is time for you to leave.”

  “Not without him.”

  “He is my heir …”

  “He’s my nephew. And Sabra and Dave would want me to be with him.”

  “He is not leaving Ishala.”

  Her breath was burning the fibres of her lungs. “Who the hell do you think you are to make that statement?”

  “I am the king of this country. My word is law.”

  “But you are not the king of Kalem.”

  “On the contrary. He is my heir, my responsibility and my subject.”

  Her lower lip dropped, so that her mouth was gaping completely. Beyond the opulent room a bird squawked noisily, its distinctive call reverberating past her sadness. “But he’s … lived his whole life in Australia.”

  Malakhi shrugged his broad shoulders so that the white and gold robes he wore shifted a little. “A life he will barely recall. Already it must seem like a dream to him. Something he remembers fragments of, perhaps.”