Читать книгу Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride - Annie West - Страница 17

CHAPTER NINE

‘ALLOW ME TO congratulate you on your lovely bride. You’ve chosen well, my friend.’

Tariq followed the direction of the old Emir’s gaze, though he knew what he’d see. Despite having been married for months now, his attention kept straying to the far side of the reception room, to his wife. As if he couldn’t get enough of her. Samira glowed, her skin peach-perfect, her delicious body ripe and even more voluptuous than when they’d married. Those luscious breasts seemed fuller, more pert than ever.

He forced his attention elsewhere but his eyes snagged on the alluring curve of her smile, her graceful gestures.

Pride swelled. Samira was a superb hostess.

She chatted easily with guests: diplomats, VIPs and... Tariq noted a familiar handsome face and blond hair, the project manager overseeing the rebuilding project in the mountains. Nicolas Roussel hung on her every word. Samira took such an interest in the project that every time Tariq turned around Roussel was at her side.

Just as well Tariq knew she wasn’t interested in any man but himself.

‘Thank you.’ He nodded, acknowledging the Emir’s compliment. ‘I count myself fortunate.’

For she didn’t just excel at social events. Samira was also a caring queen. Her personal gift of sewing machines and bolts of fabric, sent to women in the flood-ravaged mountain villages, had been just right. It had lifted their spirits, as well as given them a potential source of income. She’d even commissioned fine embroidery from them for use in her designs and had laid the groundwork for a successful local enterprise.

‘I admit I wondered about a queen who runs her own business.’ The old man shook his head, raising his hand when Tariq would have spoken. ‘But I stand corrected. It seems to me that your wife’s experience as an entrepreneur gives her a broader view of the world. My wife and I have enjoyed her company during our visit. And,’ he chuckled, ‘my daughter is smitten with the gown your wife designed for her. She’s a very talented woman.’

Tariq inclined his head. The Emir, ruler of a neighbouring state, was notoriously conservative and his good opinion hard-won. Samira had done well to impress him.

‘I believe so.’

‘It was sensible of you to lose no time providing a mother for those boys of yours. I hear she dotes on them. No doubt she’s getting broody about having some of her own too, eh? It shouldn’t be long.’ He winked.

Tariq stiffened. The old man didn’t say anything others weren’t thinking. Yet Tariq remembered Samira’s pale features as she’d told him she could never have children. Her pain had dragged at him like a plough scraping through rough soil.

‘We’re content as we are,’ he said through tight lips.

‘No need to poker up about it. I’ve seen the way you look at her. The pair of you can barely keep your eyes off each other. You’re obviously both besotted.’ He clapped an arm on Tariq’s shoulder. ‘You’re a red-blooded man with a beautiful wife. Make the most of it.’ He turned his head. ‘Ah, I see I’m wanted. If you’ll excuse me?’

Tariq had to work to keep his face bland as the older man moved away. The Emir had rattled him more than he’d thought possible.

Besotted? Hardly. He was incapable of such unguarded emotion. That was a strength he’d accrued from his strict, unsentimental upbringing. There’d been no room for love in his formative years, no soft, feminine influence. It was only later he’d learned such invulnerability was also a flaw.

When he’d discovered Jasmin, carefully chosen for their arranged, dynastic marriage, loved him.

It had been unexpected, unwanted. Terrible.

For, no matter how much he respected and admired her, Tariq hadn’t been able to return those feelings.

His mouth thinned. Samira had been adamant she didn’t want romantic love. Perhaps he should have come straight out and told her he was incapable of it. If he’d been able to fall in love it would surely have been with Jasmin. She’d been gentle, loyal and hard-working, deserving of love. And he’d seen how she’d suffered when her feelings weren’t returned.

He’d tried so hard and failed abysmally. She’d never won his heart, leaving him to conclude that, like his upright but emotionally isolated uncle, he didn’t have a heart to win.

He’d done his best to make it up to her in attentiveness. But it hadn’t been enough. He’d seen it in her eyes.

Tariq had failed her. The knowledge ate at him like a canker. Despite his wealth and power he hadn’t been able to save Jasmin’s life. Nor had he been able to give her the one thing she’d craved—love.

Abruptly Tariq turned his back on the group surrounding Samira, his heart pounding.

The Emir was mistaken. Samira didn’t want love. She’d married him for his sons.

And he... He wanted her, craved her. He’d craved her even when she’d been with another man. Even when he’d been married to another woman.

So much for being a man of honour!

A chance sighting of a press photo of Jazeer’s scandalous princess had been enough to send him into a lather of activity, extending his already full schedule in an attempt to work off desires he had no right feeling. Guilt had driven him to be the ideal husband to Jasmin in every way left open to him.

Tariq breathed deep. The past was past. He’d done the best he could for Jasmin. And as for wanting Samira—she was his wife now. Why shouldn’t he desire her?

They had the perfect marriage. Respect. Affection. Phenomenal sex. But no illusions of love.

* * *

‘Risay, you’re becoming such a big boy.’ Samira smiled encouragingly as he tackled the long noodles in his bowl, amazed at how he’d grown in the months since the wedding.

Beside him Adil was absorbed in pulling the pasta apart and dropping it from his high chair. He caught Samira’s eyes, picked up another thread of pasta, then let it fall, crowing with delight as it hit the floor. Samira laughed. ‘And you, Adil, are going to be a charmer with that cheeky smile and those big green eyes.’

Just like his father. No one would call Tariq cheeky, but his smile made her heart flip over. It transformed his face from austere to stunningly charismatic. Every time she saw it Samira’s breath caught beneath her ribs.

She shifted in her seat. Strange that she had that slightly breathless feeling now, as if carrying the boys down the corridor and putting them in their high chairs was more effort than before.

‘Is everything all right, madam?’

Samira smiled up at Sofia who’d just appeared with the boys’ juice cups. ‘Yes, thanks. Just getting a bit more comfortable.’

She tugged at the fabric of her skirt that had bunched high when she sat. How could the waistband need adjusting again?

She’d got in the habit of wearing loose dresses in private, but she’d been with a client today and had put on a narrow tailored skirt and jacket of peacock-blue in the retro fifties style Tariq appreciated so much. Probably because of the way it clung to her hips and thighs.

Samira frowned. Maybe she should give up wearing it until she slimmed down. She hadn’t noticed herself eating more but clearly Tariq’s excellent royal chefs were having an impact. If she didn’t do something soon to get back in shape she’d be as fat as butter.

‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong, madam?’

‘Nothing at all. Just a little too much good food.’

Sofia nodded and clucked her tongue as she removed Risay’s empty bowl. ‘Fitted clothes like that will get more difficult to wear. You’ll be more comfortable in traditional dresses and loose trousers from now on.’

Samira sat straighter, surprised at the nanny’s readiness to discuss her employer’s weight. None of the servants at home in Jazeer would have dreamed of making it obvious they’d noticed.

‘I didn’t mean to offend, madam.’ Sofia must have seen her surprise. ‘It’s only natural, though it does take some getting used to.’ She patted her own narrow waist and Samira stared, perplexed.

‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost me. What takes getting used to?’ Samira stood up, ready to lift Risay from his chair.

‘The way pregnancy changes your body. It can seem overwhelming the first time.’

For a heartbeat Samira stared, stunned, then her arms dropped to her sides, leaden weights. She’d expected this sort of speculation but still it was discomfiting.

‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’ Deliberately she shaped her lips into a casual smile. ‘I’m not pregnant.’ She would have to school herself to say it without sounding quite so hollow.

‘You’re not?’ Sofia looked taken aback. ‘I’m so sorry. I could have sworn... I’ve never been mistaken before. And you have the look.’

Despite herself Samira was curious. Her one experience of carrying a child had been over almost before she’d realised it. She’d never had regular periods and hadn’t had any obvious symptoms so she’d been blithely unaware of the baby she carried. There had barely been enough time to adjust to the wondrous news before the trauma of losing it.

‘There’s a look?’ She couldn’t help asking, though she knew she shouldn’t torment herself by prolonging this.

Sofia nodded emphatically. ‘You’ve got it. There’s a look in the eyes, and your skin glows, and...’ She stopped, her gaze sliding away.

‘And?’

Sofia shrugged. ‘You’ve gained a little weight. Not only in the waist but here too.’ Her hands plumped up her own breasts.

Suddenly Samira found herself sitting, her head spinning.

No. It was completely far-fetched. It was impossible.

And yet...

She bit her lip, admonishing herself for even that brief flight of fancy. There was a world of difference between wishful thinking and reality. She’d made it her business to live in the real world, not pine for what could never be.

She crossed her arms, then immediately dropped them at the graze of fabric over her nipples.

‘Sensitivity there too.’ Sofia added helpfully, as if reading her discomfort.

‘I—’ Samira shook her head. She would not go there. Her breasts had been sensitive for some time, but she couldn’t tell the other woman it was because of the attention Tariq devoted to them. If he wasn’t caressing her breasts with his hands, he had his mouth on them, knowing it drew exquisite pleasure from her. Her nipples tingled as she remembered the attention he’d lavished on them last night, and on every other part of her body.

Her breath sucked hard.

‘Thank you for your concern, Sofia, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’ She stood briskly and began to help the nanny clear the boys’ food away.

But, as she put the twins down for their nap, Samira couldn’t shake the memory of Sofia’s certainty. Samira’s grandmother had prided herself on her uncanny ability to spot a pregnancy. She’d claimed it was a gift and that in all her decades she’d never been wrong.

Was Sofia also gifted with such insight?

If she was, she was badly mistaken this time.

Samira looked down at the boys, already drowsing after their busy day, and found her hand had crept unbidden to her stomach. It wasn’t just her waist that thickened. Her belly curved out now too. Yet, though she’d always had a curvy figure, Samira had never had weight problems.

She bit her lip, trying to force down the tremulous hope that rose like a tiny green shoot in an arid desert.

The anguish of losing her tiny infant, and of hearing she’d never conceive again, was a raw wound in the darkness of her psyche. She couldn’t afford to reawaken that pain with false hope.

Yet as she left the bedroom she found herself wondering.

* * *

Samira slumped down onto the side of the marble bath, staring at the test result. Her fingers shook so much she told herself she wasn’t reading it right.

She pressed her palm against her abdomen as if she could feel anything new there. Or as if the touch of her hand could protect the new life sheltering within.

Panic slammed into her. She hadn’t been able to protect the baby she’d carried four years ago. How could she this time?

Nature hadn’t wanted her to be a mother. Hadn’t she been told she wouldn’t conceive again?

Her skin tightened. Her forehead and the back of her neck prickled, turning clammy with the cold sweat of fear.

The test indicator clattered to the floor as Samira’s vision hazed with nightmare memories. Blood and pain and the devastatingly gentle tone of a stranger telling her it was too late, she’d lost her child.

Instinctively Samira pressed her legs together so hard they grew numb. She blinked back the hot tears glazing her eyes and forced herself to think. She’d hunched over into a foetal position, body bowed and knees drawn up to protect the new life inside.

Her breath hissed, loud in the silence. She carried a new life!

She was pregnant. Against the odds she was pregnant.

And if one miracle could happen—her conceiving again—perhaps it was possible another miracle might happen and her child would be born alive and healthy.

Samira gulped over the burning ball of emotion in her throat.

If she’d learned one thing it was never to give up. She’d dragged herself from the darkest of places after the grief and scandal of her past. She refused to go back to living in the shadows.

Gingerly she straightened, taking stock of how she felt.

A smile hovered. She felt fine. More than fine, she felt fit as a fiddle, except for the way nerves made her stomach roil.

She breathed deep, then bent to pick up the test result, her fingers closing tight around it.

It could be a false positive. Gravely she nodded to herself as if she actually believed that. As if excitement wasn’t skittering through her, as if her blood wasn’t fizzing with elation and her toes curling.

What she needed was certainty, a doctor.

Again she nodded. Good, she was thinking clearly and logically.

Yet when Samira stood up she saw that the woman facing her in the mirror wore a smile so broad it could only be described as rapturous.

* * *

Tariq paused midstride and stared at the retreating back of the man following one of the maids at the far end of the corridor. An icy hand clamped his neck.

No, he was mistaken. It was a trick of the light. The obstetrician had no reason to visit the palace.

Yet Tariq was blindsided by memories of the last time he’d seen that doctor. Tariq had been hollow with shock, unable to believe the world had turned on its head. He’d been given his precious sons but at the cost of Jasmin’s life. Joyful expectation had turned to disaster.

He’d grappled with the unnerving sense that he’d lost control. All his wealth and influence hadn’t been able to save Jasmin. In fact, his need for an heir had caused her death.

Shaking off fraught memories, he continued on, opening the door to the royal suite and striding in. He wanted Samira. Just being with her made him feel good. How corny was that? Her warmth and understanding, her company, were as essential to him now as her physical generosity.

After that moment in the corridor, when dark tendrils from the past had wound around him, squeezing so he couldn’t breathe, he needed Samira.

She wasn’t in her room but he heard water running in her bathroom. His step quickened.

‘Samira?’ He rapped on the door.

Fragrant steam rose from the bath, hazing her skin, warming it to a delectable rose pink. His gaze dropped to the neckline of the unbuttoned shirt she clasped closed in one hand, then to her silky, loose trousers. She looked ripe and delicious. His hands twitched as he stepped into the bathroom.

‘Tariq.’

The husky way she breathed his name recalled nights of carnal delight. He reached for her, the lingering tightness in his chest disintegrating as he wrapped his hand around her waist and felt her, warm and alluring, beneath his palm.

‘I want you,’ he growled, spreading his feet wide and hauling her in between his thighs. ‘Now.’

Her lips tasted like heaven. Her body arched into his as he slid his hands down the sweep of her back and anchored them on her taut buttocks.

She sighed into his mouth and Tariq wanted nothing more than this, to be here with Samira.

‘The bath!’ She leaned back in his hold, twisting to look over her shoulder.

Tariq feasted on his view of bountiful breasts, plump above her creamy lace bra. He swallowed a groan.

Fortunately for his sanity Samira had yet to realise how utterly compelling he found her body. She didn’t play coy games but always gave herself generously, participating equally in every erotic adventure.

He’d lifted his hand to caress her breast when she pulled away, bending to turn off the taps.

A tight smile curved Tariq’s mouth as he appreciated the view. From her casually upswept hair, to the swell of her hips and neatly rounded bottom, Samira was all woman.

All his.

She turned, surveying him from under the long fringe of her lashes. He felt that look right to the soles of his feet.

In a more reflective moment he might worry about her ability to reduce him to molten hunger. Right now he was too busy enjoying himself.

He stepped forward, then halted, puzzled by her expression. She looked... He couldn’t pin down her expression but sensed secret satisfaction. Her smile was pure Mona Lisa.

‘Samira, what is it?’

She opened her eyes wide as if surprised he’d sensed the energy radiating from her. Tariq wondered that he hadn’t noticed it sooner, but he’d been absorbed responding to other needs. Now he paused, surveying her face.

Her eyes glittered like faceted gems. He’d never seen them so bright. And there was something wistful about her smile that drew him on a level that had nothing to do with sex.