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Someone she no longer wanted to spend any more time with, even if all the cells in her body still burned from the contact that had seared through her.
‘Sir.’
It was all she could manage through lips that were as stiff as wood. She’d turned it into a sort of acknowledgement of his command, but she couldn’t make her body move away from him, or force her rubbery legs to walk away, as the arrogant lift of his hand, the snap of his fingers, had indicated.
But she didn’t need to. Nabil, it seemed, had had enough of this situation. He had no intention of lingering any longer. Instead he had turned on his heel and was marching towards the doors away from the balcony, this time with her tossed from his mind without a second thought, his attention firmly on the gathering back inside the palace. He didn’t even spare her a single backward glance.
And for that she could only be thankful. She had fought to keep her composure and just about managed it, but now she didn’t want Nabil to see the other darker battle she was having with her innermost self.
Tears burned at the back of her eyes and clogged her throat, stinging brutally. But she would not let them fall. Not until Nabil had gone. Not until he had disappeared back into the lighted room in a swish of silken robes, letting the glazed doors swing to behind him as they closed against her.
Then at last she bowed her head and gave in to her feelings, acknowledging the moment of misery as she admitted the way she felt now. This was not the Nabil she had adored on sight. Now he was someone else entirely. Another man, a harder, colder being and one she could never imagine ever wanting to get close to. The bitter sense of loss was almost more than she could bear.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_09ab967b-7c36-5d68-9acc-cb3fafa80e37)
‘LET IT BE DONE.’
Nabil’s own words echoed inside his head as he acknowledged the sweeping bow that his chancellor made before him.
Just four short words and he had set in motion the process that would change his life—and hopefully his country’s future—for ever.
Things had moved faster than he had anticipated. He had never thought that he would be here today, ready to take the final step in selecting an arranged bride for himself, less than a month after the tenth anniversary celebrations for Karim and Clemmie. But of course, the traditions and procedures for such an event had been written into the constitution of Rhastaan since the beginnings of time, it seemed, and all he had to do was to speak those four formal words and the whole process swung into action, largely without his involvement.
Until now.
Now it seemed that everyone needed him and his part in the ceremony had suddenly become vital; his opinion, his choice, the only thing that was needed before the process of turning his bride of convenience into the Sheikha of Rhastaan was ready to be finalised.
To be honest, he really didn’t give a damn about this part. After all, hadn’t he shown himself to be all sorts of a fool—and a blind fool at that—when it came to choosing women, let alone living with them for the rest of his life, having children...? The much-needed heirs for the kingdom.
Clemmie had talked with him about that just before she’d left.
‘Find someone who can take Sharmila’s place,’ she had said, looking deep into his eyes. ‘Someone who can make you happy—give you a family.’
How like Clemmie it was to say it that way. ‘A family’ was so very different from a woman he married only to provide him and Rhastaan with heirs. A family was what she had with Karim. What he had once thought he had found with Sharmila.
Memory burned as Nabil made himself face the way he had turned away from Clementina Savaneski because she was the bride his parents had chosen for him when he’d been just a child. He had been besotted with Sharmila, believing that in her he had found someone to fill the emptiness in his life. Someone who had wanted him for himself and not on the orders of his dictatorial father. So he had snatched at the excuse offered by the reports of the night Clemmie had spent alone with Karim when the then Crown Prince had been sent to fetch her from where she had fled to England.
Those reports had been slanted by enemies of the state to look far worse than the truth, but he hadn’t cared. He’d barely blinked when Clemmie herself had told him that she was in love with someone else. He’d lost a potentially perfect wife—but in doing so he had gained a wonderful friend.
But even to this wonderful friend he had never spoken of the truth of his affair with Sharmila. If he had, then she would never have urged him to find someone who could make him happy. That was certainly not the emotion the woman who had once been his Queen now roused in him.
‘Sire?’ The chancellor had obviously asked some question, was waiting for his reply.
With an effort Nabil dragged his thoughts back to the present and gave a sharp, curt nod of agreement.
‘Go ahead,’ he declared. ‘Put this in motion.’
Another low, sweeping bow and the man left his presence, and Nabil was alone once more. He should be used to it by now. His parents had trained him well, barely sparing more than a moment’s attention in their days. It was because of that that Sharmila had had such a pull for him. If only he had known that with her he’d be more alone than at any point in the past ten years. Now, it was how he preferred to be.
Pushing himself to his feet, Nabil walked down to one end, turning to stare down the length of the room towards the raised dais where two heavily carved chairs—two thrones—stood, polished and ornate.
It was a woman to fill one of those thrones, to sit beside him as his Queen, that he was looking for. All he hoped for from this process was a woman who was tolerably attractive and tolerably comfortable to be with.
And fertile.
That was all that he asked his ministers to find for him. And in return he would give her the sort of life most women would dream of. A life of comfort and luxury, jewels, clothing and anything else she asked for. He was sure that one of the women of noble birth his chancellor would deliver to him as arranged would find that acceptable. He was no tyrant. He would give her everything she asked for—within reason. The only thing he couldn’t offer was anything that could conceivably be described as love.
He couldn’t offer love. That demanded that he also offered his heart. And he didn’t have a heart to offer.
So why did his thoughts go to the young woman he had met on the balcony on the night of Karim and Clemmie’s anniversary celebrations? His memory filled with images of dark, glistening eyes, black silky hair, a soft voice and that entrancing perfume that had swirled around his senses.
After all that happened—all you went through.
Her words echoed in his thoughts. Her words and the softness of the mouth they fell from—the faint gleam of moisture along her skin where her tongue had slicked over the lower lip. Something raw and needy clawed at his insides, forcing him out of the room and down the corridor at a pace that made his robes sweep against the wall as he moved.
He hadn’t seen the woman again that night, though the truth was that he hadn’t really tried to find her. He’d had little inclination to seek out the El Afarim clan. He knew, as everyone did, that Farouk El Afarim currently held the balance of power between the crown and the scheming of the rebel leader. If he took his loyalty and that of his own tiny principality to side with Ankhara, then hard-won peace would once again be threatened dangerously.
He knew only too well just how precariously balanced that peace was, and he would do anything to strengthen it. So he knew that El Afaraim’s daughter must inevitably be on the list of suitable, acceptable brides for him. To risk seeing Zia in the company of Farouk had been a risk too far, no matter how much the temptation had tugged on his senses.
‘No!’
Entering his room, he slammed the door behind him, hearing the heavy thud of the wood with a raw satisfaction at the way it closed off the rest of the world, giving him back the privacy he sought. The only problem was that it would not shut out the thoughts of the girl he had met on the night of the anniversary celebration. Her essence seemed like some sort of persistent shadow, following him wherever he went, whispering in his thoughts at night as he tried to sleep.
He needed to find a wife, as everyone said. No matter if it was the sort of arranged marriage he had rebelled against last time. And look where that had got him. Older, and hopefully wiser, he had decided that this was the only path to follow.
He would do his duty by his country. He would take a wife to be his Queen, to give the kingdom the much-needed heir who would secure the dynasty and guard the peace.
And that was all.
He would be a dutiful king, a faithful husband, surely a caring father. He might not have learned how to be a father from his own coldly distant parents, but surely that meant he knew what not to do? And there was Karim’s example to follow.
He needed a wife and he would treat her like a queen. But he would never, ever let her in. If he did she would see that all there was inside him where his heart should be was a cold, empty cavern.
There are hundreds of people out there—thousands. Husbands and wives, families and children, all of whom are enjoying the evening—the peace—because of you.
Zia’s voice, low, slightly breathless, sounded so closely in his ear that he almost turned, expecting to see that she had come to stand beside him. But it was nothing but imagination and the forceful impact of the memory of that night.
If he had been able to track her down, then what would have followed? A night of heated passion where he tried to sate this restless hunger in the warmth and softness of her body? Was he really brought so far down that he would have considered using her in this way because she had stirred senses he had thought were dead?
‘No!’
She deserved better than that. Better than him.
If nothing else then at least he could tell himself that he had shown a degree of honour when he had turned his back on her even though it was obvious that she had felt that same dangerous tug of attraction. He had spared her the moment when he would have had to walk away from her after one night. Because one night was all they could have had. He had already decided that he would speak those words and set in motion the search for a suitable wife and Queen.
‘Let it be done.’
And now things were moving forward. The news the chancellor had brought to him today was that matters had been set in hand. Prospective brides had been chosen, their families approached. All that mattered now was for him to see them. To make his choice.
‘Choice!’
He uttered the word aloud like a dark curse as he stared out of the window.
The truth was that he would have more personal choice of a new horse or even a hunting dog. The facts were that it was being made clear that he must choose on the basis of politics and diplomacy; the benefits to the country that his wife would bring, rather than anything else. Left to his choice, he would not go through this at all.
But he had vowed to do his duty to his country, and that vow held him like a chain.
* * *
‘But you don’t need me to be there!’ Aziza protested, turning to face her sister so that the determination on her face must show as clearly as possible. She had no need to try and show her horror; it must be evident from her tone and her expression. ‘This has nothing to do with me! It’s—it’s you they have asked for.’
‘I know.’
Jamalia’s smile had just a hint of smugness in it, and as she glanced in the huge mirror on the wall she positively preened as she smoothed back a non-existent loose hair in her sleek black mane. But a moment later her self-control slipped just a bit, showing a touch of vulnerability beneath.
‘But... I can’t go alone. I’ll need someone to help me—dress me—a chaperone.’
‘But why does it have to be me?’
Why couldn’t it be anyone else? Jamalia’s maid? Some other attendant? If only their mother hadn’t taken ill at just this particular moment. Now when she needed it least there slid into Aziza’s memory the recollection of how she had claimed to be just that—Jamalia’s maid—that night on the terrace when she had come up against Nabil in the shadows of the night.
‘I don’t understand you.’ Jamalia’s frown was a mixture of disbelief and displeasure. ‘I would have thought that you would look forward to another trip to the capital. You enjoyed the anniversary celebration, didn’t you?’
Aziza made a sort of inarticulate sound that her sister could take as agreement if she wanted to. Enjoyment wasn’t a part of the way she looked back on the night on the balcony when she had met up again with the man who had once held such a huge place in her young heart.
How could he have changed so much in the ten years since she had last seen him? Or had he changed at all? Wasn’t it more likely that she had been the one who had changed? She had grown up, matured, and that had meant that she no longer saw through the eyes of a child. Instead she saw the truth about the man behind her childish crush. Nabil was no different from the lordly boy who had occasionally enchanted her with a careless smile. It was just that she had never seen the truth before.
He hadn’t even recognised her! But something in her had recognised what he was. All that was male and virile in him had spoken very clearly to her most feminine core. She still got the shivers inside at just the thought.
‘Are you sure you want to go at all?’
She knew it was the wrong question but she had to ask it. Diplomacy, politics, the uneasy truce between two warring factions demanded that the Sheikh had a wife, and Jamalia was a prime candidate to fill that role. That was why they had been at the anniversary celebrations, after all, in the hope that Jamalia would catch Nabil’s eye. But Jamalia and their parents hadn’t met up with Nabil that night.
Aziza had and, recalling the cold, bitter man she had talked with, she was now forced to wonder, could she watch her sister marry that man?
Nabil had been so changed from the boy she’d given her heart to when she was young, and her heart ached for the loss of the person she thought he’d been. She could have watched Jamalia marry that Nabil...or could she? Wouldn’t that have broken her heart in a very different way? Loving Nabil as she had, wouldn’t she have longed for him as her own?
So could she go with her sister—watch her perhaps be chosen—watch her marry the Nabil she knew existed now?
‘Do I want to? Of course I want to go. Think of it, Aziza—to marry Nabil...become the Sheikha...’ Jamalia’s eyes glowed at the thought. ‘The clothes...the jewels...’
‘Is that all?’
‘All?’ Jamalia shook her head in disbelief. ‘It means a lot—and of course there is the added advantage of the fact that Sheikh Nabil is such a gorgeous man!’
She shivered in delighted anticipation. A couple of days before, Aziza might not have recognised the full impact of her response but now it brought back echoes of the way she had felt on a moonlit night on the balcony of the Ashar palace. Even now, just thinking of it, her blood heated and tiny, stinging sensations of awareness prickled over her skin.
‘Besides, you have to be my chaperone. Papa says so.’
And if Papa said so then that was it, Aziza acknowledged. His word was law and there was no going against it. The thought of facing her father’s wrath if she denied his command was actually worse than the prospect of meeting up with Nabil again.
‘So will you come?’
There was no other answer she could give. She wouldn’t have to see Nabil. There was no reason for her to have any contact with him.
‘All right, then. Yes, I’ll come.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_35f1a586-63cd-5940-bf84-527ff24e5dba)
NABIL HAD HAD ENOUGH. He had thought that by agreeing to an arranged marriage he was going to make things easier. That all he had to do was to instruct his chancellor to find a suitable bride, agree to any terms her family proposed and proceed to the wedding ceremony. Now it seemed that the rituals and procedures would never end. Today he had expected to see the chosen candidates; pick one to become his wife. Instead he was weighing up possible treaties, the balance needed for peace.
Could this thing get more like a bidding war? His breath hissed in through his teeth as he tried to find the patience to listen to what Omar was now telling him. Had he spent the last ten years dragging the country into the present century only to find that his need for a wife would take it right back again to the dark ages it had been in when his father had ruled?
‘I understand,’ he said at last, driven to the end of his patience. ‘Give me the list.’
An impatient gesture of his outstretched hand brought the chancellor hurrying, passing the sheet of paper to him. One name jumped out at him at once, and he knew there had never been a choice. Not really. This had been inevitable from the moment he had put the bride search into motion. There might have been other names, but those had really had no weight to their candidacy. If he really wanted to secure the throne, to ensure peace, then there was only this one way he could go.
Jamalia; Farouk El Afarim’s eldest daughter.
Just a maid. I am with Jamalia.
Damn you, Zia, get out of my head! He needed to think clearly and with the image of the woman he’d met on the balcony haunting his thoughts, that was impossible. But it didn’t take much thought to know that an alliance with the El Afarims was the most valuable gift he could give to Rhastaan.
‘Is Jamalia here today?’
‘She is sire but...’
‘I will see her.’
A sound the older man made brought his head up fast. He could almost feel the force of his own glare reflected back at him from Omar’s eyes.
‘I will see her—and no one else. I know that it isn’t protocol—’ he emphasised the word sardonically ‘—for me to meet her as yet. But surely there must be some way I can see her without having to come face to face?’
‘There is a room—with a two-way mirror.’
‘That will do.’
* * *
‘Oh, Zia, why do you think we’re here? What is happening?’
‘How should I know?’
Aziza regretted the sharpness of her words as soon as they’d escaped her. She didn’t feel quite in control of her tongue, or her thoughts. She had been a bundle of nerves ever since they had set out on this second visit to the palace. If she thought she’d been apprehensive before at the thought of meeting Nabil again, now that she knew the sort of mature, powerfully sexy man he had become, just the thought of being in the same building as him tied her stomach in knots. Now this new development, the way they had been told to move to this room and wait, set her nerves on edge, making it difficult to breathe.
‘I’m sorry—but obviously I know no more than you.’
Jamalia was in a twitchy enough state as it was. Aziza wasn’t going to let on that she had her strong suspicions that the large mirror on the wall in which her sister was preening herself was in fact a window through which they could be observed by anyone who wanted to watch.
