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‘Really?’ Interest sparked in his eyes.
‘A rather unusual proposal, but a sound one. I’m sure you’ll see the benefits.’
‘I’m sure I will.’ He paused. ‘When you tell me what it is.’ Those slashing dark eyebrows angled up in query.
Samira leaned closer, suddenly urgent to get this done. She licked her dry lips, holding his keen gaze.
‘I want to marry you.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ub162e3a4-90ea-550a-8f58-160754e6da42)
‘MARRY YOU?’ ANGER SPLINTERED through Tariq that Samira should make him the butt of some jest. He sat bolt upright, hands curling tight around the arms of his chair. ‘What game is this?’
Marriage was an institution to be taken seriously, as he knew first-hand. Sharp talons dragged deep through his chest; claws clutched at what passed for his heart.
No, marriage wasn’t something to joke about, even between old family friends.
Though Samira was more than an old friend, wasn’t she?
At one point he’d wanted much more from her. Long-buried sensations bombarded him—lust, regret, weakness. Above all, guilt. For despite the years apart, even throughout his marriage, Tariq had never completely managed to forget her. His one consolation was that no one, least of all Samira, had known. It had been his secret shame.
‘It’s no game.’ Her voice, uneven before, rang clear and proud. Her gaze, which previously had skittered around the room, meshed with his and Tariq breathed hard as fire heated his veins. Those soft sherry eyes had always been amazing. Now, fixed on him so earnestly, they might have melted a lesser man.
But Tariq’s strength had been forged and tested well. He wouldn’t be bowled over by a beauty’s wide eyes. Even if the beauty was Samira, the most stunning woman he’d ever known, the woman he’d once craved body and soul.
‘What is it, then?’ he barked. ‘If not a joke?’ His initial instinct—to avoid this meeting—had been right.
‘It’s a proposal of marriage.’ Her voice was crisp and even, as if she had no notion how bizarre her words were.
Slowly Tariq shook his head. He couldn’t be hearing this. Asim’s little sister proposing marriage! Didn’t she know it was a man’s place to choose a wife? A woman’s to accept?
What sort of tame lapdog did she take him for? The years since they’d known each other yawned into a fathomless gulf. She didn’t know him at all.
He shot to his feet and stalked across the room, staring blankly at the city beyond the sound-proofed glass. ‘Whatever the game, I don’t appreciate it, Samira.’ He swung round. ‘Does your brother know about this?’
‘It has nothing to do with Asim.’ She folded her hands in her lap, for all the world as if they were politely discussing the weather. As if she hadn’t offered herself to him in marriage.
An image of her last night, svelte and flagrantly feminine in that dark-red dress, filled his head and his temperature soared, his body tightening in all the wrong places. His hands curled into fists as he fought to focus on her words, not her sensual allure. Anger bit deep that, even now, just one look could ignite the fire in his belly.
‘What is this about?’ Savagely he reined in his temper, drawing on years of practice at patient diplomacy.
‘I want to marry you.’
Those brilliant eyes looked up at him and again shock punched him hard in the gut. She looked, and sounded, serious.
For one disquieting moment he felt a quickening in his body, the sharp clench of arousal in his groin, a welling of possessiveness as he took in the pale honey perfection of her features, the sheen of her lush, dark hair and the Cupid’s bow of the sexiest mouth he’d ever known.
When she’d been seventeen that mouth, those eyes, the promise of incandescent beauty to come, had sent him back to his homeland, shocked and ashamed by the hot, hungry thoughts that stirred whenever he’d looked at Asim’s little sister.
He’d known then that she’d be breath-stopping, just like her mother, who’d been one of the world’s great beauties. But the sight of Samira in the flesh, after twelve years of seeing only photos, took his breath away.
He stiffened, forcibly rejecting his body’s response.
She sat there with her ankles primly crossed, her hands folded in her lap, saying she wanted to marry him! It was enough to drive a man crazy.
Tariq cupped the back of his neck, tilting his head and rubbing his skin to ease the tightness there.
‘I have no idea what foolishness prompted this, Samira.’ He paused, telling himself it was impossible that he tasted pleasure at her name on his tongue. ‘But you of all people know royal marriages are carefully arranged. You can’t just come in here and—’
‘Why not?’ She cut across his words and it struck Tariq that no one, not even Jasmin when she’d been alive, interrupted him. As Sheikh, his word was law, his status respected. Except, it seemed, by the Princess of Jazeer.
She stood and his eyes lingered on her delectable body in that figure-hugging suit. ‘Why can’t I arrange my own marriage? My brother didn’t wait for advisors to find him a wife. He found Jacqui by himself.’
‘That was different.’ Tariq gestured with one slashing hand. ‘That was a love match. They’re crazy for each other.’
Seeing his friend in the throes of love made Tariq uncomfortable. He’d thought Asim was like himself, too focused on the wellbeing of his nation to choose a partner because of emotion.
Tariq’s lips flattened. He didn’t do emotion. Not that sort. And especially not now. He had no interest in marrying for love.
The idea ate like acid in his belly.
‘If you want to get married, ask your brother to find you a suitable husband. He’ll do anything to make you happy.’
Tariq was one of the few who understood Asim’s fierce protectiveness of his sister. Their childhood, at the mercy of their parents’ volatile on-again, off-again relationship, had left them both reluctant to trust anyone.
Was that why Samira was still single at twenty-nine? Traditionally, Jazeeri princesses married much younger, but he suspected his friend Asim had been in no hurry to rush his sister into matrimony after those early experiences of a dysfunctional family.
‘I don’t want Asim to arrange a suitable match.’ She jutted her chin. In a woman less gorgeous, he’d call her expression mulish. ‘I know what I want. I want you.’
Again that sudden blast of blistering arousal low in his body. For an instant he was tempted to forget his duty, his dead wife and his self-control, and haul Samira close, teach her the danger of trifling with him.
Only for an instant.
Tariq reminded himself she wasn’t talking about sex. If she had been she’d have used a different approach—soft blandishments and seductive caresses. And she’d have worn something slinky and provocative. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air to tight lungs, imagining that soft mouth on him. Arousal weighted his lower body.
‘And you’re used to getting what you want?’
Abruptly she laughed, shaking her head, and his pulse faltered at the radiance of her smile. ‘Only sometimes.’
‘Yet you think you can have me for the asking?’ Indignation at her presumption clashed with raw, disconcerting lust at the thought of them together and shame at how easily she got under his skin.
She sobered. ‘I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.’ She hesitated. ‘I know this is unconventional. But we’re old friends. I thought you’d at least hear me out.’
That was how she saw him? As an old friend? Why Tariq bridled at the idea, he refused to consider.
‘Very well. I’ll hear you out.’ He folded his arms across his chest and waited.
* * *
Samira looked at the imposing man before her. He wasn’t in a receptive mood. His crossed arms were all bunched muscles. The tendons in his neck were taut and his mouth a flat line. Even his eyes glittered a warning.
Yet still Tariq was the most breathtaking man she’d ever seen. Her stomach turned to treacle as the afternoon sun caught the solid plane of his jaw and the proud thrust of that impressive nose. She wondered how it would feel if, instead of shutting her out, he opened his arms and hauled her close into that broad chest. If he kissed her...
She blinked, suddenly light-headed.
That was not what she wanted. Sex had made a fool of her once. She refused to let that happen again. This, what she proposed now, was far more sensible.
Planting her feet more solidly, wishing she weren’t quite so dwarfed by him, Samira cleared her throat, mentally flicking through the arguments she’d prepared.
‘It’s an excellent match,’ she began, gathering herself. ‘Our countries already have so much in common. I understand your customs and history. I’m not a complete outsider. And by marrying me you’d strengthen your ties with Jazeer.’
‘Our ties with Jazeer are already strong.’
Refusing to be deflated, she kept her chin up. ‘My background speaks for itself. I was born and bred to royal rank and responsibility. I understand what’s expected of a queen and I’ve got a lifetime’s experience of public functions and diplomacy. I understand royal duty and I won’t shirk it.’
Expectantly she looked at him. Finally he nodded. ‘All useful attributes.’ He paused. ‘But others could say the same. Your own sister-in-law has adapted well to her new role, and she wasn’t born royal.’
Samira exhaled slowly. Had she really expected Tariq to agree instantly? She told herself his wariness was to be expected. He’d adored his first wife and his choice of second wife would affect not only himself but his precious boys and his country. Of course he needed to consider this from all angles.
Yet a small part of her wailed in disappointment that he viewed her so sternly, almost disapprovingly, when her own wayward impulse urged her to close the gap between them. Her very skin felt sensitised, as if longing for his touch.
Did she want him to look at her and want her? Not for her pedigree or her social attributes but for herself? Her wayward body betrayed her. Her flesh tingled as his gaze raked her and a slow, telling spiral of heat eddied low in her belly.
Samira sucked in a stunned breath, sensing danger.
She told herself it was nerves. The shock of seeing him again after all this time. The disconcerting discovery of how very...male he was.
Once the novelty wore off he’d be just as he’d always been—a friend, someone she could trust. Without trust she couldn’t bind herself to any man. Trust had been so lacking in her life, she understood how rare and valuable it was.
The thought gave her renewed energy.
‘I’ll make a good queen,’ she said firmly, locking her hands together. ‘Building my business has given me a chance to step beyond royal boundaries and mix with a range of people, not just wealthy clients. It’s broadened my understanding of the world and improved my people skills.’ Now she was as at home buying a bagel on the streets of New York as she’d been at last night’s A-list gala.
Tariq didn’t say anything so she kept talking, the thread of tension wrapping tighter around her insides. ‘I’d like to continue working on a small scale, not enough to interfere with any royal duties.’ When he remained silent she angled her head higher. ‘I believe it would be a positive thing for people to see their queen with responsibilities and successes of her own.’
‘You see yourself as a role model, then?’
Samira flinched at the steely glint in his eyes and the sharp pang of shame in her belly. Tariq knew as well as she that her past was tainted by that one, awful mistake she’d made. A mistake that would haunt her all her life.
‘No one is perfect, Tariq. Young women in your country could do worse than a queen who’s human enough to have made mistakes, yet has learned from them and built something positive for herself.’
Slowly he nodded and a feather of hope brushed her skin, making her shiver with excitement. She leaned closer.
‘I’ll be a loyal wife and a devoted mother, Tariq. You needn’t worry that I’ll embarrass you by falling for another man after we’re married.’ Bile swirled in her stomach and she tasted its bitterness on her tongue. ‘I’m not my mother, for ever pining for romantic love. I learned from her mistakes, and my own.’
‘You don’t want love?’ His words were sharp, his gaze intense as he leaned forward. His raised eyebrows signalled surprise, perhaps disapproval. She guessed he was used to women falling at his feet.
Samira’s lips twisted. ‘Would I be here if I did? If my mother’s example weren’t enough, my experience with Jackson Brent cured me of any romantic ideas.’
Jackson Brent. The name no one spoke around her. The man who’d taken her dreams and her innocence and had smashed them in the cruellest way.
She read understanding in Tariq’s expression. The whole world knew the story. Samira looked away, pressing her palms to her churning stomach.
Jackson Brent, the sexy film star, had taken one look at Samira, the ridiculously inexperienced princess living away from home for the first time, and decided to have her. Samira, swept off her feet and dazzled by what she thought was love, had believed it a fairy-tale romance come true.
They’d been feted and adored by the press and the public. Until the day Jackson had been found in bed with his beautiful co-star by her vengeful husband.
Samira’s cosy world had blown apart, her dreams shattered as she’d been forced to see Jackson as he really was. Not Mr Right, but a feckless, selfish opportunist who’d played on her longing for love to get himself cheap sex and great publicity.
Guessing at her anguish, the press had hounded Samira to the verge of a breakdown—intruding on her privacy, rummaging through her trash, interviewing her friends and turning her heartbreak into fodder for the masses. Till her brother and the woman who’d later become her sister-in-law had helped her get back on her feet, stronger and determined to put the past behind her.
Was it any wonder, after the misery of a childhood watching her parents’ marriage teeter from one crisis to another, that she’d finally come to her senses and seen she wasn’t cut out for romance? Like her mother, she couldn’t trust herself to make the right choice when her heart was involved.
‘Samira?’
She turned back, her hands falling to her sides as she registered the concern on Tariq’s features.
Instantly she shored up her resolve, locking her knees and straightening her shoulders. She was no longer a victim. She’d dragged herself out of the dark hole of loss and grief that had almost destroyed her.
Tariq didn’t need to know those details. About the baby she’d lost before it had even been born. About the grief she carried in her very pores and always would.
Samira blinked and forced herself to concentrate.
‘If you’re worried about me doing anything scandalous to harm you or your family, don’t. My one brush with notoriety was enough.’ She might have been the innocent party in the Hollywood scandal but it didn’t feel like it, with the press ravenous for every detail.
‘You regret the relationship with Brent? You would change the past if you could?’
Samira caught her breath, her fingers threading tightly together. Tariq’s directness pulled her up short. Everyone else tiptoed around that episode in her life.
‘Oh, yes. I’d change the past if I could. Though...’ she paused, remembering that all-too-short period when she’d carried her precious baby ‘...I can’t regret all of it.’
She set her jaw, reminding herself to move on. ‘I wouldn’t suggest marriage if you were looking for a first wife. But you already have two sons. You can consider taking on a wife who doesn’t quite meet all the traditional requirements.’
‘Who isn’t a virgin, you mean?’
Samira blinked. She couldn’t recall Tariq being quite so blunt. The young man she’d known half a lifetime ago had changed since becoming monarch.
Yet she appreciated his frankness. Honesty was the best policy between them. They didn’t need misunderstandings.
‘All the world knows I once had a lover.’ She swallowed over the tight knot in her throat. ‘Just as it knows you have lovers.’
Tariq had never been short of female companionship. Since his wife had died he’d been again dubbed one of the world’s most eligible men and, according to the whispers Samira heard, there was no shortage of women on hand to ease his broken heart.
‘You’re very direct.’ His eyebrows bunched and she shrugged, refusing to apologise.
‘I thought you’d appreciate my honesty, as I appreciate yours. That’s what I’d expect in a marriage.’
‘Honesty?’
