The Desert Lord's Love-Child: The Desert Lord's Baby

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His seeming belief in her abilities sent her heart soaring. The images he provoked shot it down, rent and bloodied. Images of the whirlwind of preparations for a life- and world-changing event, the reign of her imagination and skills when freed from constrictions of budget and possibilities, of escalating excitement, of jitters of responsibility, of pride of achievement. Of anticipation of ecstasy …

If-onlys cut off her breathing. She stumbled again.

Again he kept her upright, kept talking as if he hadn’t crushed her with more futile dreams. “But with my uncle so frail, I wouldn’t have gone all-out even if we had the time. It’s for the best we didn’t.”

They entered an elevator that seemed to be an extension of the hall, seemed not to move at all before the doors opened again. Into the past. Into the heart of Arabian Nights.

He tugged her through a huge hall ringed with Arabian-style arches leading to the bowels of a palace within the palace.

The incense fumes rising from mosaic burners hanging from the ceiling hit her compromised balance. He supported her, his touch deepening the dreamscape quality of it all as they passed the central arch through pleated damask drapes woven in rich-earth Berber/Moroccan patterns into a passage lined by sculpted-rock columns. At the base of each, an antique brass lantern blazed, giving the columns’ engravings the impact of incantations.

She stared ahead as they approached massive cedar double doors worked in camel bone and silver that looked as if they’d been transported through millennia intact. They swung soundlessly open with a murmur and a touch from Farooq.

Whoa. Holy voice recognition and fingerprint sensors!

The feeling of stepping centuries both backward and forward in time intensified as they entered another hall with golden light radiating from henna sconces on warm sand-colored walls leading into gigantic living and dining areas interconnected by more arches. Many rooms lay hidden behind closed doors. The whole place, with its enormous proportions, its lavish yet tasteful decorations and furnishings with that incredible ethnic and ultramodern blend, redefined the laws of beauty and luxury.

He led her into one of the living areas. A spherical, intricately fenestrated brass lantern hanging from the ceiling with spectacular chains lit the space. The starry canopy it created showcased the Egyptian mosaic, hand-carved furniture and the plush Moroccan-style couches. It also cascaded over Farooq, adding an unearthly effect to his beauty.

Finding her eyes back on him, he said, “All the things you specified are here. If you need anything else, order it from Ameenah, your head lady-in-waiting. She’s Hashem’s wife. She’ll also get you acquainted with the mechanisms running the place, privacy, security, Internet and entertainment, to mention a few. I’ll give her a list of what needs to be done tomorrow. Tonight, relax, take a shower and have an early night. I want you well rested. Tomorrow is the biggest day of your life.”

The last sentence rocked her. She turned her swaying into a bend to pick up a hand-woven silk brocade pillow, her tremors into interest over its intricate patterns.

“So these are my and Mennah’s quarters?”

He gave her a steady look. “These are my quarters. Ours now. Our bedroom suite is through this passageway.” He flicked a hand toward it before indicating the closed doors around them. “Pick one of these rooms to be Mennah’s, where your ladies-in-waiting can tend her when both of us are occupied.”

“But I thought …” She couldn’t continue, couldn’t breathe. Just couldn’t.

He gave her a serene look. “You thought … what?”

She fought to the surface at his prodding, rasped, “I—I thought I’d have separate quarters.”

“And how did you come by that thought?”

Suddenly anger slammed into her. She grabbed at the strength it infused into her limbs, her voice. “I came by it because this isn’t a real marriage.”

He smiled. As mirthless a smile as those got. “Oh, this is a real marriage. I’d say it’s far more real than any you’ve ever heard about. Notification of our belated marriage ceremony has made it to every embassy. During our flight I received the personal congratulations of every head of state on earth, and though it’s on such short-notice, the confirmation of attendance of four major powers’ presidents and a dozen kings and queens.”

A stunned giggle escaped her. “That’s what you call not going all-out? Oh, man …”

“All-out would have been having everyone here for ten days as the royal wedding proceedings unfold. Three days and nights of festivities ending in your henna night, and seven more of palace on national celebrations following the wedding. Having a ceremony after sunset with a banquet for two thousand or so, most of them the entourage of the dignitaries who can’t afford not to pay their respects to my king and me in person, is keeping it beyond simple. Everyone understands the reasons for that, though, what with us being ‘married’ already with a child, and with King Zaher not in the best of health.”

God. This was too huge. Could he be pulling her leg?

One look into his eyes told her he wasn’t. It was probably bigger than her malfunctioning mind could fathom at the moment.

Which gave her hope. “So staying in your quarters is to keep up appearances, right?”

His expression dulled with boredom. “If it pleases you to think that, by all means, go ahead.” The boredom evaporated as his pupils engulfed his irises like a black hole would the sun. “But I won’t be keeping up appearances and it won’t be for an audience’s benefit that I’ll take you, feast on you, ravish you every night.”

Her heart almost fired from her rib cage. “But—but that isn’t why we got married.”

He inclined his head at her, goading, relishing shredding her nerves. “Why did we get married?”

“Spare me the rhetorical questions, Farooq,” she quavered.

“Zain. I’ll answer them for you. We married for Mennah. And pray tell how did she come into being? Isn’t she the living, glorious proof of how much we enjoyed each other’s bodies?”

A harsh sound tore open her shutting down lungs. “Sorry to disillusion you but enjoyment doesn’t have much to do with conceiving.”

“Granted.” He moved toward her with the leisure of a cat that had all the time in the world to give his kill a nervous breakdown, putting her out of her misery not even on his mind. “But Mennah’s conception was a product of absolute pleasure.”

She backed away a step for each of his. “That was then.”

“And this is now. You dare tell me you don’t want me now?”

“I dare all right. Tell you I don’t want … this. I don’t know what you want.”

“How can I possibly be more blatant about what I want?”

“You don’t want me.”

His stare lengthened in the wake of her impassioned cry. Then he picked up her hand, dragged it to him, and this time, he pressed it to his erection. “How do you explain this then?”

She quaked in his hold, her depths gushing in response, unable to muster strength or coordination to snatch her hand away. Not wanting to. Wanting to cup him, map the hardness she wouldn’t come close to encompassing, go down on her knees before him, expose him, feel him, taste him, worship him. Only him.

But for him, it wasn’t and would never be only her.

The knowledge bled out of her. “You just want sex. Any good-looking woman would do.”

“So I’m indiscriminately promiscuous and terminally shallow.” Before she could define his reaction as mocking or insulted, he went on, his pupils fluctuating, giving his eyes the look of flickering flames. “But if sex with any ‘good-looking woman’ will do, and we both know I can take my pick of the best-looking who exist, why do I want it with you?”

“Why indeed.” And that was a legitimate question. She had no solid theories why he had before, beyond the lure of her total eagerness for him and the why-not factor. Now, she could think of one reason. She said it out loud. “Maybe it’s the novelty of a woman you can’t have.”

“Ah, a challenge to jog my jaded senses.” He took the pillow she was holding like a shield, swung it with an effortless flick to the sofa, reached out a hand to her hair, wound a thick lock over and over his fingers, then tugged. Gentle enough not to hurt her, inexorable enough to show her where he wanted her. Against him. He had her there, from breast to calves, his erection pressing into her hip, one leg between hers, rubbing, sawing, until all she wanted was to open them, beg him to end the torment, do all the things he’d threatened, all the things he’d promised. Then his whisper poured into her brain. “I already had you. I have you again. And I’ll have you again. And again. And all the time.”

She pushed against him, her breath burning, everything shaking out of control. “No. You won’t.”

He let her go, left her to stumble with the force of her unopposed struggle, smiled at her. “Are you sure about this?”

“I won’t let you have me. Not like this.”

“Like what? In total hunger, giving you ecstasy?” His certainty, its truth, sent response surging like lava inside her. “Is this what you’re objecting to? Too much satisfaction? Maybe you want something a bit … racier, riskier? Maybe some domination, a tinge of danger, of pain? I can oblige you. I probably will, after all this time. I’m not feeling anywhere near gentle. But then, I’m sure you won’t want me to be.”

She sank deeper in the mire of desire and desperation. “No, Farooq, I don’t want this.”

The translucency of his eyes fogged, his lips stretching to reveal teeth perfect but for too-sharp canines. “You want nothing more than this. You want nothing but this.”

She couldn’t deny his verdict. But she had to know. “What changed your mind? You were cold, angry …”

His lips remained frozen in that smile that filled her with dread and lust and anticipation. “I’m still cold and angry. It will probably make it all the more explosive.”

She raised her hands, an attempt to dilute his convictions, stop her capitulation from being total. “If you think I’m riling you, if you think I can enjoy force …”

He barked a laugh. “Force? The only force I ever used was what I needed to unlock you from around my body.”

“That was when there was only goodwill between us, not this—this malice. Don’t make it change your mind about the marriage in name only you proposed.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock bafflement. “Were we in the same scene back there in your apartment? When did I propose or even imply that ‘in name’ bit? We were tearing at each other within hours of meeting, and now that we’re married, you think it a possibility to keep our hands off each other?”

“We only got married for Mennah.” She tried again, desperate to hang on to her separateness, knowing that this time, if she surrendered, there’d be nothing left of her.

“That we married for Mennah, that I would have never married you if not for her, has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been burning for sixteen months, needing to feel you underneath me, writhing and screaming your pleasure as I pound into you. No matter how we came to be married, we are. I’m your husband. And I want you. You will share my public life as my wife, and you will be my mistress again in private. And I will do everything to you, with you, for you. Everything, Carmen. And then more.”

Her legs gave out. She went down like a demolished building, missed the sofa, ended up on the floor leaning on it. She looked up at him, fighting the urge to beg him, if not for the tenderness he’d lavished on her before, then for some assurance what he felt wasn’t a cold lust that would consume her to ashes.

“I would have stayed and made you beg for everything you’re pretending not to want, but I have to meet my uncle now. I won’t be coming back, so you have our bed for yourself for the night. I won’t see you again, as is our custom, until the ceremony.”

He turned away, strode to the hall. At the connecting arch, he tossed over his shoulder.

“Get all the rest you can. You’ll need it.”

Nine

Carmen lay on her face on the massage-table, staring at her hands. Her skin had turned into reddish brown lace of extreme intricateness, a different design on each hand. It was as if she was turning into an alien species. A very pretty one, though.

“This is my best mehndi henna ever!” Ameenah exclaimed, marveling at her handiwork. She raised shining black eyes to Carmen, her smile displaying her lovely teeth and nature, deepening her dark beauty. “But then it’s your input that turned it into a masterpiece. It is ingenious, how you designed those patterns made of somow’el Ameer Farooq’s name in all the languages you know.”

Yeah. She’d gone all-out, to borrow a word of his.

Ameenah rose from her kneeling position before her. “I so hope he’ll decipher your homage without being told.”

Carmen only smiled. She was hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Writing his name all over her body was something she’d done for herself, on an unstoppable impulse, as if she’d feel closer to him this way, say all the things she couldn’t and had never been able to say out loud, make all the confessions he had no use for.

She rose, put on her clothes, marveling at how she’d been able to strip almost naked in Ameenah’s presence to get her henna done. Just like her husband, Ameenah made her, and Mennah, feel they’d known her forever, could depend on her. She already had in so many things during the day. Her wedding day.

After Farooq left her last night, she was too agitated to do anything, let alone sleep. But Ameenah breezed in, all smiles and welcome, bearing the list Farooq had given her to perform on Carmen in preparation for the wedding. And the wedding night.

After her first pensiveness and reluctance, Ameenah’s cheerfulness and enthusiasm infected her, made everything feel so much better, even fun.

She threw herself into the spirit of things, surrendered to Ameenah’s mastery of coddling as she carried out her crown prince’s directives. With the help of Salmah and Hend, her daughters, she sorted through her things for Carmen, got her acquainted with the mind-boggling facilities in the palace. Then, while Carmen fed Mennah dinner and answered e-mails, they went out, returned with a rack of clothes from which to choose a wedding outfit.

She’d known this was coming. She should have been surprised at the range and lavishness of the outfits and nothing more.

She did more. She burst into tears. She, who’d never shed a tear even when her mother had died, who hadn’t known what crying was until after she’d left Farooq. But she’d never thought she’d wear a wedding dress again, and for it to be something of this caliber, in which to marry Farooq …

The good part was the ladies were totally sympathetic. More, it seemed she won their hearts by displaying such human frailty, such emotional involvement. Ameenah let her know it was only fitting that Farooq married a woman who so deeply recognized the blessing of marrying him, who worshipped him as he deserved to be worshipped.

At the sight of the clothes, Mennah crawled at top speed, hurled herself among them, yelling in excitement at the feel of the rich layers of cloth, at the colors, no doubt recognizing the sheer decadence of each creation. She tried to chew and taste her favorites and, clever baby that she was, the one she chewed hardest was the one Carmen felt had been created for her.

An incredible burnt red-orange the exact color of her hair three-piece Pakistani/Indian/Arabian-design creation, it had a jamawar silk corset top with wide shoulder straps and a concealed zip closure at the back. It was scalloped on all edges, more elaborate at a décolleté that dipped just above her cleavage. It was heavily hand-embroidered with intricate floral designs of silver and gold thread and embellished in sequins, beads, pearls, crystals, semiprecious stones and appliqué in every shade of turquoise, azure and sky-blue, all the shades of her eyes. It had echoing armbands that rained gold beaded tassels, with matching chiffon veils attached that cascaded to her hands.

The skirt was a trailing lehenga of turquoise chiffon over shimmering azure silk taffeta lining, its embroidery and embellishments echoing the top’s, in coral, ruby and garnet shades with scalloping at the hemline. The third piece was a veil dupatta in dual shading of coral/crystal-blue with scalloped, heavily embellished borders and vivid azure edging on the corners.

When Ameenah moved to the next item on the list, adjusting it to fit her, Carmen threw herself into the pleasure of handling such exquisiteness, letting her sewing skills loose. Among them they turned it into a custom-made creation in under an hour. The enjoyment lasted until it was time for the next item on the list.

Choosing the accessories.

From Farooq’s mother’s jewelry. And Judar’s royal jewels.

Ameenah and half a dozen guards escorted Carmen to a gigantic vault deep underneath the palace. As she stepped inside, she knew how Ali Baba had felt on entering the cave of the forty thieves.

Beyond dazzled at the treasure she thought reason enough to have an invasion mounted on the palace, on Judar, she hesitantly chose a set matching her outfit’s colors. She wouldn’t have been able to choose based on anything else. It was a twenty-four-karat gold-lace Indian-style choker with a design undulating to a central pendant reaching below her collarbone, matching shoulder-length earrings, bracelet and anklet. All pieces were inlaid in aquamarines, sapphires and rubies, with eight-point star motifs with a diamond center, one karat each in the necklace and a ten-karat stone in the pendant.