“Kofi.”
He turned.
“Promise me something.”
He frowned. “Anything.”
“Promise me you won’t confront Wasim.”
His face hardened.
“Please. Promise me.”
At first she thought he wouldn’t. The time between her request and his answer lengthened into an uncomfortable silence.
Finally he said, with great gravity in his voice, “I promise.”
When he left the room, Imani collapsed onto a chair. That was it.
It was only a matter of time before the marriage contract was signed, and she became Wasim’s wife.
16
Only three days left.
The forty-day waiting period was almost over, and Imani was back in Barrakesch.
She perused the crowded room from a seated position near the back. There were no less than seventy-five women in attendance, some she knew and some she didn’t. Dahlia and Angela were there and so were Yasmin and Wasim’s other sisters. Benu, her father’s two other wives, cousins, and friends from both Barrakesch and Zamibia had all come together for her henna party.
Tonight she felt like a queen because her chair looked like a throne and she sat on a raised platform. The seat was covered in bright red velvety fabric and gold tassels edged its bottom. Her bare feet rested on a matching ottoman, and her arms on armrests painted gold. The gold extended to the feet of the chair as well as framed the red at her back.
She remained very still, because on either side of her, attendants drew patterns on her skin. By the end of the night, her hands and feet would be covered in henna designs that symbolized joy, blessings for a happy marriage, and fertility.
She’d spent the thirty-seven days prior making plans for the move to Barrakesch. Her father had spoken to her Ghanaian suitor soon after the signing of the nikah and informed him that she was no longer a potential wife. She heard he hadn’t been happy, but no doubt he’d find himself another potential wife very soon.
In addition to getting ready for the move, she’d made preparations for the wedding. Wasim had sent a team of women to The Grand Palace of Zamibia to prepare her according to Islamic and Barrakeschi customs. In conjunction with her usual aides, they made sure she ate well, bathed in the purest water, and every day was rubbed down with organic oils and scented lotions that ensured her skin and hair were glowing and soft.
During the same period, Wasim had sent the bridal gifts to Zamibia. The gifts were extravagant and her property alone. Per tradition, they ensured a woman’s financial security in the event she and her husband divorced or she became widowed. According to the terms of the nikah, he sent jewelry worth in the millions—necklaces with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, along with their matching earrings and bracelets. Over a dozen rings that also contained diamonds, blue sapphires, and other precious stones. Gold combs for her hair, and a particularly stunning ankle bracelet made of platinum with a round emerald in its center.
Then there was the deed to a building in Manhattan and another to land in the French countryside. Beautiful silk fabrics, as well as a collection of European art, including an original Van Gogh. The final gift came in the amount of a lump sum deposit of millions of dollars into her personal account.
In recent days, her initial anger had melted away and transformed into nervous anticipation. Anticipation of her responsibilities as queen, but also anticipation of her wedding night. She and Wasim had only shared a kiss so far, but it had been explosive, and her thoughts veered toward anxiety and desire every time she considered sharing a bed with him.
But spending time with her mother and friends had been what she needed. Having so many people around her during this period lifted her spirits, despite the circumstances surrounding her marriage.
Three additional henna artists worked the room by putting designs on the hands of the guests. A female DJ played a mix of music, from Middle Eastern sounds to West African beats. The women danced around each other, laughing and talking.
Gifts for the guests were lined up at a table near the front. Attendants would hand them out as the women left. Each velvet drawstring pouch contained perfume, organic soaps, and Zamibian candy made from mangoes and pineapples that she’d had specially made for the occasion.
Plenty of food and drink filled the tables lining the walls, representing a blend of both cultures. Snacks like chin chin, plantain chips, meat pies, and candied nuts all made according to Zamibian tradition. Then there was grilled avocado salad, hummus served with vegetables and pita bread, and kanafeh—a sticky pastry she’d become quite fond of.
Hours later, her hands and feet were covered in the intricate patterns created by the artists, and the reddish-brown stain would darken over the course of the next couple of days.
Someone hugged her from behind, and she knew right away it was Dahlia. “How are you?”
Imani turned to face her cousin’s wife and saw Angela, Dahlia’s best friend and Prince Andres’s wife, standing there, too.
Angela wore very little makeup on her amber skin and had fixed her hair into a loose chignon. Dahlia wore her long wavy hair in a single braid over one shoulder. Her dark skin and dark eyes seemed to glow under the lights overhead.
“I’m good,” Imani replied.
“Glad to hear it. Kofi told me to keep an eye on you and report back.” Dahlia raised an eyebrow in question.
Imani sighed. He was ridiculously protective, and she loved him. “Tell him there is nothing to report.”
Dahlia’s face turned into an affectionate smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
“We both are,” Angela said.
“You deserve this, Imani. You’ve worked so hard all these years, and I knew from the moment I saw you and Wasim together, that you were meant to be. You had too much chemistry. Anyone with two working eyes could see that the two of you were interested in each other and belong together.”
Belonged together? Imani wasn’t so sure about that, but she couldn’t tell Dahlia what she saw had not been real. That they had simply been two friends flirting and getting along, but after the kiss, the flirtations became something more. And only recently did she admit that she had feelings for Wasim, but he had crushed her spirits when he told her the reasons they should get married.
Dahlia placed an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, we need to dance.”
Imani let both women lead her into the middle of the group and joined in the dancing.
The wedding ceremony was a large affair that included almost a thousand attendees. The men’s celebration took place in a large hall of the palace, while the women’s celebration took place in an even larger room. In addition to the many friends and family that were invited, celebrities and dignitaries from around the world came to take part in the celebration. In the male hall, all of the men dressed in traditional white robes and the nation’s standard headdress.
Wasim looked at the number of men gathered to help him celebrate. Though he and Imani had been officially married for forty days, tonight marked the moment when they could celebrate with the rest of the world. He felt lighter than he had in a long time and glad that he had waited instead of accepting the choices his aunt had presented to him over the years.
He moved from person to person and smiled at the guests, but could barely concentrate. It seemed like he had waited an eternity for this night, and now that it was here, he wished he could kick everyone out of the palace and take his wife upstairs and make love to her until the early morning. Unfortunately, he had to be a good host and a proper groom.
He spotted Andres and Kofi chatting over near one of the tables and sauntered over to them.
Andres’s blue eyes lit up. “Did you invite enough people?” he asked.
“You’re a fine one to talk. When you and Angela got married, not only did an entire country attend, I seem to recall there were news cameras that broadcast the event to the entire world.”
“He does have a point,” Kofi sai
d.
“Touché,” Andres said. “You know, I actually thought you would back out of the marriage, but I was wrong.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Because you’ve found something wrong with every woman your aunt presented to you and made it quite plain that you didn’t want to get married anytime soon.”
“Things changed.” Wasim shrugged.
“Welcome to the married men’s club.”
“Honored to be a member,” Wasim said.
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here.”
“Me too,” Kofi added quietly.
Pain bloomed in his chest. “I wish he could have been here, too, but I like to think he knows that Imani and I are married, which was what he wanted.”
Music started playing, a traditional tune on a flute and drums, with the voices of a chorus of men joining in. Then attendants began handing out bamboo canes to all the guests.
“What’s this for?” Kofi asked.
Wasim smiled. “This is our traditional stick dance—Al Ayala. Watch and learn.”
The stick dance was a tradition that was being revitalized after the younger people had not expressed much interest in it. The cultural minister had been worried that the art would be lost, and so in the past, Wasim had allocated funds from his own budget to promote it in schools and cultural centers around the city.
The men lined up facing each other, and Wasim slipped into place between one of his cousins and Akmal. Moving in time to the chanting voices of the chorus, Wasim joined the guests as they lifted the canes high and then lowered them again. They moved in coordinated movements that had been honed through years of practice.
After a while, he glanced at his friends. “Come on, join in,” he told them.
He couldn’t be with his new bride yet, but he could have fun with his best friends and perhaps forget for a moment that there would be several more hours before the night ended and he and Imani could be alone.
Andres and Kofi stepped into the line and quickly caught on to the movements. Wasim tossed his spinning cane in the air and caught it, which prompted Akmal to do the same. Then the two brothers started doing other tricks as they moved in time to the sound of the beating drums and the chant of the male voices around them.
They twirled their canes, tossed them high, and caught them with ease. Youthful and exuberant, Akmal dropped low while twirling and then came back up again. With a hearty laugh, Wasim did, too. He and his brother were soon joined by several other participants who could do tricks, and the five men put on a show.
Later, at the appointed time, Wasim and the men he chose—his brothers, Prince Kehinde, Imani’s six brothers, Farouk, Andres, and Kofi—headed toward the room where the women celebrated. He hadn’t seen Imani in forty days. Impatiently, he waited outside while the women who guarded the door announced that the men had arrived so that the women who preferred to cover their heads in a man’s presence could put back on their scarfs.
Wasim entered first and he ignored every other woman, gaze landing immediately on Imani.
His breath caught. She was stunning.
She’d chosen not to wear the typical white gown that Barrakeschi brides preferred. Instead, she wore a silk dress from Zamibia, a loose-fitting white gown trimmed in gold lace that draped over her curves in a complimentary way. The rounded neckline allowed her to display numerous gold necklaces and though the sleeves were long, he could clearly see the henna pattern on her hands and the string of gold bracelets that decorated her wrists. Her hair was covered in a white and gold head covering that matched the dress. Gold lipstick and dots below her eyes in gold face paint completed the look.
Wasim’s chest grew tight as his gaze remained on his wife. He barely heard the applause and sounds of ululation from the women who surrounded her. She was even more beautiful than he expected.
Selfishly, despite the problems between them, he knew he’d made the right decision.
And tonight he’d do everything he’d wanted to do to her ever since she stepped off the plane from Zamibia six years ago.
17
Outside the sound of fireworks over the harbor cracked like gunshots in the night and marked the end of the celebration of Imani’s and Wasim’s wedding ceremony.
Inside, Imani stood at the side of the bed in her apartment, taking deep breaths to calm her racing pulse. She hadn’t been with a man in so long she wondered if she remembered how to have sex. A few minutes ago, the maids had left after cleansing her skin, washing her face, and styling her hair, and very soon Wasim would be coming down the hall from his apartment.
Her king-sized bed was filled with fluffy pillows and covered in simple white linens, a striking contrast to the rest of the bedroom’s luxurious gold and cream decor. Above her, a wide and deep recessed ceiling with a heavy chandelier showered bright light over the room, and on either side of the headboard rested ceiling-high mirrors with an etched design. A cream European-style dresser sat against the opposite wall with a large bouquet of red roses in a vase, while its matching tables sandwiched the bed.
The complete suite included a bathroom and another room that opened through an arched doorway where she could sit and have breakfast or read in the evenings. The room was lovely and the furnishings elaborate, but they weren’t enough to make her forget that tonight was her wedding night.
She heard the door snick open and then close, and her muscles bunched with tension. The light overhead went out and only the pale golden glow from one of the lamps on the bedside tables illuminated the room.
Behind her, Wasim didn’t say a word, and she had the sudden urge to cover her body and hide the lavender silk and lace nightie that barely covered her ass and left little to the imagination.
Imani faced her husband. “Came to claim your marital rights?”
“If you think by talking to me like that you’ll turn me away, you’re mistaken.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.”
“I’m not a monster, Imani.”
“So I imagined everything that took place over the past couple of months?”
With deliberate slowness Wasim came toward her and stopped inches away. The earthy fragrance of his cologne and the underlying scent of oud drifted into her nostrils.
As he dipped his head, his lips grazed her hair and his breath brushed her earlobe. “Do you remember that night in Estoria? You have no idea how difficult it was to stop kissing you. I have craved you for so long, and tonight I won’t stop. Tonight…” He kissed behind her ear and the textured softness of his beard added another dimension of sensation. “Tonight I will know every inch of you.”
She turned away and tried to fight her response to his closeness, his scent, his virility as he towered over her. But Wasim placed a hand at the back of her neck and pulled her into a crushing kiss.
Her senses went into an uproar as threads of heat raced through her body. That night, that kiss, and all contact since then had placed a constant strain on her willpower. Now she was free to give in, and she needed more.
Imani wanted to press her aching nipples against his chest to ease the sexual irritation caused by his kisses, but Wasim refused. He held her at bay. In the midst of plundering her mouth, he somehow managed to maintain control while she was on the verge of performing a lewd grind against his hips.
When he tore his lips from hers, Imani gasped in frustration.
“Show me,” he rasped, taking one of her wrists and scouring the henna designs.
She knew immediately what he wanted to see.
“Here,” Imani said quietly, pointing to her inner forearm where his name was hidden in the pattern. “And here.” The other artist had hidden his name in the same spot on her left forearm.
He whispered something she didn’t understand and then kissed her again, hard and long. When he finally stopped, he stripped out of his clothes, and Imani’s mouth went dry.
For years she’d only had her imagination for an idea of what Wasim must look
like underneath his clothes, but her mind had fallen far short of the reality. His classic male physique consisted of sculpted muscles that ran the length of his body from shoulders to calves. His athletic build made her want to reach out and stroke his firm chest, run her fingers down his flat belly, or squeeze the muscles that bulged from his thighs. Wisps of dark hair trailed from his chest to his pelvis and made a path down his legs.
He moved closer, oozing sexual energy and masculine grace. “Your turn.”
Within seconds he’d removed her clothes and was on top of her on the bed.
To think, she’d planned to lie there on the mattress as an unwilling participant, but that thought had been quickly dismissed the moment he kissed her. Hunger battered her loins and she kissed Wasim with all the pent-up desire that had banked over time.
When his fingers slipped between her lower lips, she twisted in shock.
“You’re already so wet. You burn for this as much as I do,” he groaned against her collarbone.
She succumbed to the battering ram of his seduction, gripping his powerful shoulders and twisting her head to claim his mouth. She sucked on his bottom lip and thrust her tongue between his lips.
He became almost brutal as he devoured her and matched her ardor. He stretched her hands above her head and clamped her wrists together with one hand. Then his tongue whisked over the tip of one breast while the other bore the brunt of his hand’s fondling. He squeezed and kneaded and dragged his thumb across the turgid nipple until she was arching her back and writhing in the sheets.
Wasim went lower, alternating between kisses and whispering erotic words against her skin. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed about this night? How many times I’ve imagined you naked?”
He slid his hands beneath her, and his fingers pressed into her bottom as he lifted her to his face. His mouth covered her wet, feminine flesh, and her head fell back. She grabbed the pillows as she lost her bearing, dizzy with pleasure as his lips and tongue devoured her with relish, like a man under the harsh lash of starvation.
Queen of Barrakesch Page 10