Читать книгу Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride - Annie West - Страница 16

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE REMAINS OF the village were a pathetic mess, even after a team of engineers and builders had been hard at work. Samira struggled to keep her eyes on the faces before her, rather than stray past them to the pitiful rubble, the ruins of what had once been homes clinging to the edge of the narrow valley.

She swallowed hard. She’d never seen such devastation.

Yet the women around her in the new community centre were beaming, excited to welcome their queen. They’d turned the building, currently used for emergency accommodation, into an inviting space, like the interior of the vast nomad tents their forebears had used. Rugs lined the floor and walls and sweet treats were proffered on platters.

Tariq had been right. Her presence today, wearing sumptuous traditional dress rather than the more sombre outfit she’d planned, had been the distraction these women needed. And his insistence that they bring the boys had been a masterstroke.

Samira smiled and thanked the young girl with huge eyes who offered her tea in a tiny, filigree-edged glass. The girl ate up everything about her from her scarlet silk skirts to her old gold jewellery and henna-stained hands.

With their backs to the open doors, older women sat beaming, clucking over Adil and Risay as they played with a couple of local toddlers in the safety of the circle of adults. Some women wore traditional finery, silver coins sewn into their scarves, their dresses trimmed with exquisite embroidery, bangles clinking on their arms. Others, whom Samira guessed had been lucky to survive the flash flood that had swept away half the village, wore plainer garments. But even they were smiling.

Samira sipped the tea, declared it delicious and turned to her nearest neighbour. Conversation was tentative at first, but grew animated as the women lost some of their shyness. Their talk centred on the recent devastation and plans to rebuild.

Opinion was unanimous that the recovery effort had been wonderful. Why, the royal Sheikh himself had been here the day after it had happened! He’d taken a personal interest in the rebuilding, insisting the plans be developed in consultation with the community.

The Sheikh was so capable. So wise. So willing to listen.

So handsome.

A titter of laughter circled the room and all eyes focused on Samira.

To her amazement she felt heat wash her cheeks, just as if she were a real bride besotted with her husband.

She wasn’t besotted. But she was a bride. Ever since the night she’d found the courage to face her fear and her desire for Tariq and gone to him, she’d been swept up in a world of sensual pleasure and breathless anticipation. Life had never felt so...real, so vibrant and exciting.

Her gaze shifted outside to where Tariq, wearing jeans, boots and a hard hat, clambered with a group of men over rubble beside the scaffolding for a new building.

Predictably her mouth dried as she took in his towering form. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged, he was so masculine just the sight of him did funny things to her.

And the memory of the things he did with her in the privacy of their rooms... Her blush intensified, to the delight of the women around her.

She smiled and shrugged, accepting their gentle ribbing with good grace. Why shouldn’t she? She had it all. The children she’d craved, the husband who respected but didn’t try to dominate her. And sex that could melt her bones, nights of glorious pleasure that left her feeling better than she ever had in her life.

What more could she want?

* * *

Tariq turned, following the gestures of the village elder and project manager as they discussed how the new site for the village was so much safer than the old one. They’d been over this before and his attention strayed to Samira sitting surrounded by women in the newly constructed community centre. Even from this distance he saw the stiff formality of the group had disappeared, replaced by what looked and sounded like a party.

A grin tugged his mouth as he heard laughter and saw an old woman pick up Adil and croon to him. It would do his sons no harm to get out of the palace and be with his people. Their people. Learning to mix with strangers would stand them in good stead for the future.

But it was his bride who drew his eyes.

From the moment she’d emerged in her finery this morning he’d wanted to bundle her back into her bedroom and strip away the gossamer silk that made her shimmer like some enticing gift waiting to be unwrapped. Or maybe it was the knowing glint in those warm, sherry eyes, reminding him of how they’d spent the better part of the night, naked and desperate for each other.

Even now, with the whole population of the village between them, he felt his blood rush south, his groin tighten as need stirred.

He found himself striding towards the village centre, the men following.

There was a stir among the women as they made ready to serve refreshments to the men. He was given the place of honour, the headsman to his right, Samira to his left. He breathed in her sweetness and looked down, registering the slow-fading henna on her hands that marked her as his. Once more Tariq felt a surge of triumphant possessiveness.

As ever, it sideswiped him. Such intensity, such need, was unprecedented.

Black guilt hovered as it had after they’d had sex the first time. With it came a frisson of warning, as if someone stroked an icicle down his spine. A sense that with Samira he’d strayed into unknown, dangerous territory.

Tariq wrenched his mind free before the thought could take hold.

He had exactly what he wanted. Life was good. So good that for the first time since boyhood he toyed with the idea of cutting short his official duties to escape and enjoy himself.

Tariq exhaled slowly and forced himself to focus. He had responsibilities, duties. He was totally in control of the situation no matter how wayward his thoughts. He would keep everything in perspective, including his desire for his wife.

* * *

Tariq snared her wrist as they entered the royal apartments. ‘Let Sofia put the boys down for their nap.’

‘But it’s no trouble. I like doing it.’ Samira’s confidence with them grew each day, and they had accepted her into their lives.

She’d done the right thing, proposing this marriage. The niggle of doubt that she’d tied herself to a man who’d tricked her, pretending to accept her terms, then breaking down her resistance to sex—well, it was only a niggle. After all, she enjoyed this marriage with benefits as much as he.

She’d been naive believing they could live together celibately. But in everything else, he’d been honest with her. Of course he had. This was Tariq. The man she’d known all her life.

‘Leave them.’ His voice was a low burr that burrowed to the core of her. ‘You can do it tomorrow.’

She met his hooded stare and nodded, trying to dispel the heated blanket of awareness that engulfed her whenever he was near.

Sitting beside him at the village reception had been torture. The whole time she’d smiled and made polite conversation her skin had been drawn too tight, her blood pulsing too fast, her body crying out for his touch.

It had taken him no time at all to persuade her into intimacy. Persuade! She’d all but jumped him, once she’d accepted his assurance that intimacy and love could be separate.

And now... She gulped, watching his eyes darken. Now she struggled to pretend she didn’t spend all her time thinking about him. She’d opened the Pandora’s box of sexual closeness and was more in thrall to Tariq than she could ever have expected. Her breathing sharpened. With fear or excitement?

‘We need to talk about today.’ He turned abruptly towards their private corridor.

Talk? She stifled disappointment. ‘Of course. I thought it went well. Did you?’

‘Better than expected. Everyone sounded positive despite what they’ve been through.’ Yet Tariq’s words didn’t ring with satisfaction. She caught an undercurrent of urgency in them and wondered what was wrong.

Samira hurried to keep up with his lengthening stride.

‘They appreciate all you’re doing. The women kept singing your praises.’ A blush rose at the memory of their enthusiasm, the compliments for her fine husband who was not only strong but handsome and no doubt virile. ‘You won their trust early, going there in person at the time of the emergency and helping with the rescue mission.’

Her pride in him swelled. Tariq was an outstanding leader, hands-on as well as strategic, not one who only sat back and supervised at a distance. His presence had brought real hope to the villagers.

‘They’re my people. Where else would I have been?’

He led the way into the first of their private sitting rooms but, instead of halting by the cluster of comfortable chairs, Tariq closed the door behind them, then strode on.

‘Didn’t you want to talk?’ There was a breathless catch in her voice as she scurried to match his pace.

‘Is that what I said?’ The look he slanted her sizzled all the way to her toes.

Swiftly he turned. In her traditional flat slippers she felt tiny against his towering bulk. His shoulders blocked out the room and she had to tilt her neck to hold his gaze as a thrill of anticipation shot through her. She’d never felt so overwhelmingly feminine as with Tariq.

‘What I want...’ the rough texture of his voice weakened her knees ‘...is to be alone with you as soon as possible.’

His hands were on her, lifting her against a pillared archway. Shocked, she opened her mouth to speak but instead her breath came out in a gasp of satisfaction as he pressed close, his torso to her breasts, his powerful thighs hard and insistent, pushing hers apart.

Samira roped her arms around his neck, holding tight, reeling as a wave of desire crashed over her, threatening to drag her under. His solid heat inflamed her. An urgent throb of need pulsed at the spot where he wedged himself close, taking her from zero to boiling point in mere seconds. Even the tang of desert heat and male spice tickling her nose was arousing.

‘The bedroom is just there,’ she whispered, shimmying higher in his arms, pushing against his hard shaft, unmistakeable through the fine silk of her dress. Tariq’s unashamed arousal and his urgent passion were a continual revelation.

As was her inevitable response.

It struck her anew how very controlled Jackson’s love-making had been. Surely she shouldn’t feel so driven by the need to have Tariq right here, right now, as if nothing mattered except having him inside her?

When had she become so wanton?

‘You think I can last till the bedroom?’ Tariq groaned and bent his head to bite her neck. Samira shuddered as pleasure ripped through her, turning her body molten.

Everything in her softened. Breasts, belly, womb all hummed with the need for more. Her hands tightened, grabbing handfuls of his thick hair, holding him hard as he kissed the sensitive skin of her throat.

‘Hold on.’ He moved, pressing her up against the wall. She heard the chink of his belt buckle, felt him fumble between them. Then he was fighting his way past her long skirts, shoving the silk up her legs till she felt a waft of air on her bare thighs.

She almost slipped but big hands hoisted her higher, guiding her legs till they encircled his waist. And all the time his eyes held hers. It was as if she hovered on the brink of diving into a fathomless mountain pool.

Except it was heat she felt as he ripped her panties away and she gasped with horrified delight. Pure fire she touched as with one sure thrust Tariq embedded himself deep within her.

She was so incredibly full, as if he stretched her to the limit. As if they’d become one, she thought hazily as he retreated, then thrust hard again, creating ripples of delight that took her straight to the edge. She grabbed tight, needing this oneness with him.

‘Samira.’ He ground the word, his jaw hard, his hands heavy on her body. She revelled in his touch and moved eagerly with him. He paused, then surged again, taking her to new heights. ‘You have no idea how I hunger for you.’

She tried to gulp in enough air to catch her breath. ‘I do.’ It made her desperate, this unquenchable need for her husband. But the more she gave, the more she trusted him, the stronger it grew. ‘I want you all the time,’ she gasped.

He stilled and she almost cried out in frustration. Till she registered his expression. She couldn’t interpret it, but those eyes gleamed more brightly than ever. As if they could burn right through her.

When he stroked again, he took her to heaven’s door. The world burst into fireworks. Through a haze of bliss she just caught his words.

‘I’ve always wanted you, Samira. Always. And now you’re mine.’

* * *

Samira lay sprawled across Tariq on the bed, her limbs dissolved, her head on his heaving chest. His heart hammered beneath her ear, rapid like hers. Her palm rested on his chest, fingers furrowed into the smattering of hair that she still found so intriguing.

‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she whispered.

She felt more than heard his huff of laughter. ‘Good. I don’t want you going anywhere.’ He pulled her closer, as if just the thought of her moving wasn’t to be considered.

Samira smiled sleepily. She’d lost her shoes when he carried her here and her dress was twisted around her hips but she didn’t have the strength to move. His breath was hot on her face and his hand played languidly with her hair, loose to her waist. She felt...replete. As if there was nowhere she’d rather be. Not in her work room. Not even with the twins.

‘I like that you’re so strong.’ She rubbed her face against his skin, inhaling that delicious scent: essence of Tariq. ‘The way you held me back there...’ Just thinking about it made her inner muscles clench in remembered pleasure. Samira adored it when Tariq’s loving was slow and thorough but hard and fast definitely had a lot to recommend it.

‘I like that you’re so eager for me.’ She heard the smile in his voice and imagined his smug grin. No wonder. He’d overturned her ‘no sex’ rule in mere days and now she couldn’t get enough of him.

It was just sex, of course. Sex and liking. A marriage with benefits.

Yet his earlier words lingered in her mind, teasing her.

‘What did you mean—you’ve always wanted me? Since the day I came to you in Paris?’

Tariq said nothing. His fingers dragged through her hair, making her head tilt up. From here she saw his solidly hewn jaw and the strong column of his throat as he swallowed.

‘Tariq?’

‘Since then too. When you came to the hotel in that tight skirt and jacket I wanted to rip them right off you.’ His fingers strayed across to her hip, distracting her as he traced delicate whorls of pleasure on her flesh.

Samira wriggled and clamped her hand on his, making him stop.

‘Since then too? What does that mean?’

He sighed. ‘You always were tenacious, weren’t you?’

She’d had to be. If she’d waited for her parents to give her guidance she’d have waited all her life. She’d had to cling to her dreams, forging her career despite the roadblocks: disbelief that a princess actually wanted to learn to sew; prejudice from peers, teachers and the public who thought she wasn’t serious or that she’d pulled strings to get her sought-after training place.

‘It’s not a trick question, Tariq. What did you mean?’

‘What I said. I’ve always wanted you.’

The words shimmered in the air, simple yet devastating. Samira blinked, trying to get her head around them.

‘Define “always”.’

‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ He lifted his head and fixed her with a stern eye. She stared back. He might be the Sheikh of Al Sarath but she was his wife. She had a right to know.

Tariq let his head drop back on the pillow. Beneath her hand his fingers resumed their leisurely exploration of her hip.

‘I’ve wanted you for years. Since you were seventeen, to be precise,’ he said at last, effectively stealing her voice. Samira’s heart fluttered.

‘I remember coming to Jazeer that winter as usual. My uncle encouraged me to learn as much as possible about our neighbouring states.’ Silently Samira nodded. Tariq’s stern uncle had been his guardian till Tariq had come of age. He’d raised his orphaned nephew along with his own much younger sons. She’d often thought that was why Tariq had been so patient with her. How many boys and young men put up with their best friend’s kid sister following wherever they went?

But wanting her since she was seventeen? She felt like someone had upended her world, leaving it altered for ever.

At seventeen Samira had been increasingly aware of Tariq, not just as her brother’s friend but as the sort of man a teenage girl could hang her dreams on: those dreamy eyes; the deep, smooth voice that did strange things to her insides and still did. That tough, lean body.

Her younger self had been embarrassed and excited by the new daydreams she’d begun to have about him. She’d even wondered if she’d given herself away and that was why he’d left so abruptly, never to return.

‘I never suspected,’ she said at last.

‘Of course not. That would have been unforgivable. You were my best friend’s sister. And you were far too young. You weren’t meant to know.’

Samira frowned. ‘Never?’

What if she’d known years ago that Tariq had been attracted to her? She’d spent long enough mulling over her mistakes to know her infatuation with Jackson Brent had stemmed as much from self-doubt and her need for love, as from his attractiveness and his efforts to charm her.

Despite her looks, perhaps because of them, Samira had always harboured a fear she was fatally flawed, all show and no substance. Maybe because her parents had never really cared for her, she’d always secretly believed she was unlovable. Hence her reckless leap into a relationship with the first man to sweep her off her feet.

Knowing that a man she respected, like Tariq, was attracted to her... Could that have changed her attitude and given her a little more confidence?

Or was that wishful thinking?

‘You were untouchable, Samira. It wouldn’t have been right. That’s why I left.’

Had he really wanted so badly to touch her? There was something in his voice, an echo of regret that resonated deep.

Samira twisted, lifting her head to look at his face. His forehead was corrugated, his mouth set in a firm line.

‘You left because of me?’ A flurry of emotion hit her—regret, dismay and delight.

Tariq raised one arm, slipping his hand beneath his head. His biceps bulged, a reminder of his latent power. Heat streamed through her all over again. She blinked, distracted by the urgent flutter of response in her belly.

‘What else could I do? I felt guilty, lusting after a kid who looked on me as a big brother.’ His tone was hard.

‘But you stayed away. You never came back.’

Tariq shrugged. ‘It was better that way.’

What he left unsaid was that by the time she’d grown he’d lost interest, for he’d never returned. Instead she’d heard the rumours of his many lovers. Then he’d married Jasmin, whom everyone said was the love of his life. Of course he’d never have come back. Samira must have been a passing fancy. Given his distinction between sex and love, she could only guess he’d lost his heart to his first wife and knew no one could replace her.

He’d made no secret that first day in Paris that he hadn’t wanted to marry. Because he still loved Jasmin? Samira had assumed so. But now, in Tariq’s bed, the idea tore at something deep inside. Her chest squeezed as an ache filled her.

Had he married her out of pity?

Samira bit her lower lip and looked away, subsiding against his chest.

No. Not pity. The way Tariq touched her didn’t feel at all like pity.

He wanted her physically. What they shared was simple and mutually satisfying. Now she had a family, a place to belong, real purpose. The boys were bonding with her and hopefully would come to love her. Tariq respected her. Plus there were the benefits of sex.

Why then did dissatisfaction grate at her? Why the bitterness on her tongue, the edge of disquiet?

Samira breathed deep, inhaling the musky man aroma she’d come to adore, and forced herself to relax. Automatically Tariq curled his arm around her, drawing her close, his breathing slowing beneath her ear.

She had everything she wanted, she reminded herself. More, given the glow of wellbeing in her sated body and heavy limbs.

Yet Tariq had unsettled her. His revelation made her realise she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. All these years she’d been certain of two people in her life: her brother, Asim, and his best friend, Tariq.

Now Tariq made her question what she thought she knew.

First had come the revelation he’d misled her, pretending to accept a paper marriage. Next the revelation she’d never known him as well as she’d thought. All those years ago he’d hidden how he felt from her.

Had she known him at all?

Surely the decent, caring man she’d known hadn’t been a mirage? She saw him in the man Tariq had become.

But there was another side to her husband. He wasn’t just a gentle giant. He was a virile, clever, powerful man who got exactly what he wanted.

What did he want from her?

She’d assumed he’d married her to acquire a mother for his children, a consort.

That and a sexual partner.

It couldn’t be anything else. Despite their sizzling passion, Tariq always left her to sleep alone. He respected her privacy. He gave her the distance she wanted. He didn’t demand an emotional bond.

Because she wasn’t the wife he’d chosen for himself. Samira sighed, realising her thoughts had come full circle, back to Jasmin.

Tariq might share himself now with Samira, but he’d never love her because Jasmin held his heart.

Samira had understood that from the first. Why, then, did the knowledge dim her incandescent glow of pleasure?

Why did she feel so...lost?