Читать книгу Royal Weddings - Annie West - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

THE DARK-HAIRED TOTS playing on the far side of the sumptuous hotel lounge held Samira’s gaze. They weren’t loud or boisterous, the middle-aged woman with them saw to that. They were just a pair of ordinary toddlers.

Yet Samira couldn’t drag her eyes away from them. She watched the progress of one little boy as he walked the length of a sofa, his fingers splayed on the silk upholstery for support. He gurgled his delight and grinned at his companion who wobbled along behind him.

Samira swallowed. That hollow feeling was back, worse now, turning into a twisting stab of hurt that knifed all the way from her womb up high under her ribs.

She tried to focus on Celeste’s animated chatter about a new restaurant. Apparently it had unrivalled rooftop views of the Eiffel Tower as well as several Michelin stars and was the new place to eat and be seen.

Samira’s stomach rebelled at the mention of food.

Or maybe it was something else that made her insides clench so hard.

The second toddler landed on his bottom, arms waving, and the woman—grandmother? Nanny?—gathered him up. Samira’s arms twitched then fell, lax and empty, into her lap.

She blinked and turned away.

Empty. That was exactly how she felt.

She would never have a child of her own to hold. The doctor had made that clear.

She’d tried so hard to regroup these past four years, and she’d come so far, but nothing could erase that searing, hollow ache within.

‘I’m so pleased you can attend tonight’s charity auction in person.’ Celeste leaned across their porcelain teacups and Samira swung her gaze back to the pretty Parisienne. ‘Bidders will adore the chance to meet the talented princess behind the gorgeous fashions. Your donation to the auction is sure to fetch a huge price.’

Samira fixed on a practised smile and refused to cringe at yet another reference to her royal status.

As daughter of, and now sister to, the Sultan of Jazeer, she knew all too well that royal rank didn’t guarantee happiness.

Her heart lurched but she kept her gaze on her companion, not letting it stray to the other side of the opulent room.

She reminded herself she was a pragmatist. Her successful design business benefited from the cachet of her aristocratic name. Designs by Samira had taken off these last few years. Her clientele, among the globe’s ultrawealthy, appreciated working with someone who understood their world, who promised absolute exclusivity and confidentiality. She had far more than many women dreamed of: independence, success, wealth.

What right had she to yearn for more?

Yet still that bone-deep ache persisted, no matter how often she reminded herself how lucky she was. For what did the trappings of success mean when deep at the heart of you there was...nothing?

Samira bit her lip. She would conquer this. She would!

‘I’m looking forward to it, Celeste.’ Samira wrenched her thoughts back to tonight’s gala. ‘You and your team have done a marvellous job pulling it all together. How, exactly, will the auction work? What do you want me to do?’

Celeste launched into an explanation of the auction, the exclusive invitation list and the business opportunities tonight’s event would present.

Yet, businesswoman though she was, Samira couldn’t conjure answering enthusiasm. Perhaps because, having been born to status and privilege, mixing with the stratosphere of European society held no thrill for her.

Was this all there was? Long days of work followed by an endless round of society events where she’d mix business, pleasure and occasional philanthropy, and leave feeling alone and empty?

Samira blinked and gave herself a mental shake, refusing to linger on the maudlin thoughts that had edged her consciousness for so long.

She leaned back in her chair, nodding as Celeste emphasised a point, letting her weary body relax for the first time, it felt, in days.

That was it. She was exhausted. No wonder her attention strayed. She’d been in consultation with a new first lady in South America yesterday about a gown for an inauguration ball, then had stopped off in New York to see another client, only arriving in Paris an hour ago.

When she rested she’d be herself, eager to be caught up once more in the challenges of business, and especially the joy of designing.

Movement caught her eye. A tall figure in a dark suit moved through the perfectly arranged seating with a long, quick stride that made her think of her dressmaker’s shears cutting through rich velvet.

She told herself it was a ridiculous comparison but when she turned to focus on him she realised it was apt. Though dressed with the formidable elegance of the best bespoke tailoring, some indefinable air proclaimed he didn’t belong in the luxury of Paris’s finest hotel. He belonged somewhere more vital, where crystal chandeliers and dainty side tables were unnecessary fripperies.

A good head taller than every other man in the vicinity, his shoulders the broadest Samira had ever seen, he nevertheless moved with a fluid, athletic grace that spoke to her designer’s eye.

A squeal of excitement froze her in the act of turning back to Celeste. One of the little, chubby-cheeked boys had spotted him and was scrambling across the sofa towards him.

A low, rumbling chuckle reached her ears as the man bent and scooped up both children, one in each arm, as easily as she’d pick up a couple of cushions. He lifted them high, making them giggle with delight, and held them close as he ducked his head and murmured to each of them in turn. Tiny starfish hands planted on his shoulders and hair in their eagerness to get close and she heard him laugh again, the sound a ribbon of warmth channelling through the chill emptiness inside her.

Just like that, without any fanfare or warning, Samira’s world contracted to the cold void of her barren body and the devastating vignette of a happy family on the other side of the room.

The dividing line excluding her from them had never been more real, or more unbreakable.

Pain juddered through her, making her clench her jaw and grab at the arms of her lounge chair.

There would be no family for her, no children. As for finding a life partner to love... The air hissed between her teeth at the impossibility of that particular fantasy.

‘Samira. Is anything wrong?’

‘Nothing at all.’ Samira turned to Celeste with a dazzling smile that only years of practice in the public eye could muster. Surreptitiously she breathed in through her nose, filling lungs that seemed to have cramped shut. ‘It sounds like tonight will be a huge success. With luck you’ll attract far more than your fund-raising target.’

‘Thanks to you.’ At Samira’s raised brow she shrugged and smiled. ‘And to the rest of the donors.’ She paused, glancing across the lounge. ‘Speak of the devil, there’s one of them now.’ Celeste sat straighter, swiftly smoothing her short skirt and flicking her blonde hair from her face.

She leaned close to Samira and whispered, ‘If only we could auction off a night in his bed we’d make a fortune. I’d bid for that myself and, believe me, I wouldn’t let anyone outbid me.’

Surprised at the change in her companion, Samira turned. Yet she knew which man Celeste referred to. It could only be the hunky father of two who wore his elegant clothes with such casual panache that even her long-dormant libido sat up and slavered.

Yet she wasn’t prepared for the shock that slammed into her solar plexus as she saw him again. For this time he’d turned and she saw his broad, high brow, defined cheekbones and the rough-cut jaw that looked dangerous and sexy at the same time. A long, harsh blade of a nose somehow melded those too-strong features into a whole that was boldly, outrageously attractive.

And familiar.

Samira’s breath hissed sharply as she recognised the man she hadn’t seen in years. The man who’d once been almost as dear to her as her brother, Asim.

A tumble of emotions bubbled inside. Excitement and pleasure, regret and pain, and finally a sharp tang of something that tasted like desire, raw and real for the first time in four years. Amazement at that instantaneous response spiralled through her.

‘Oh, I’d forgotten you must know him, your country and his being in the same neighbourhood.’ Celeste sounded eager. ‘Sexy Sheikh Tariq of Al Sarath.’ She sighed gustily. ‘I’d even consider taking on a couple of kids for the sake of a man like that. Not that I’ll get the chance. They say he hasn’t looked at another woman seriously since he lost his wife. They try but none of them last. Apparently he was devoted to her.’

With one final, lingering look at Tariq and his sons, Samira swung round, putting her back to them, letting Celeste’s chatter wash over her.

She’d once thought Tariq her friend. She’d looked up to him and trusted him. He’d been as much a part of her life as her brother, Asim. But that friendship had been a mirage, as fragile as the shimmer of water on hot desert sands. He’d turned his back on her years ago with a suddenness that had mystified her, making her wonder what she’d done to alienate him or whether he’d just forgotten her in the press of responsibilities when he’d become Sheikh. When she’d been through hell four years previously she’d not heard a word from him.

Strange how much that still hurt.

* * *

Tariq had been in the crowded banqueting hall just three minutes when his sixth sense, the one that always twitched at a hint of trouble, switched into overdrive.

Casually he turned, keenly surveying the glamorous throng even as he returned greetings. He’d been plagued by a sense that something wasn’t quite right all afternoon, since he returned to the hotel, but to his annoyance couldn’t pinpoint any tangible reason. Just a disturbing sense that he’d missed something important.

It wasn’t a sensation he liked. Tariq liked to be in control of his world.

The crowd shifted and through a gap he saw a sliver of deep scarlet. His gaze snagged. Another shift and the scarlet became a long dress, a beacon drawing his eyes to the sultry swell of feminine hips and a deliciously rounded bottom. The woman’s skin, displayed by the low scoop of material at her back, was a soft gold, like the desert at first light. A drift of gleaming dark hair was caught up in an artfully casual arrangement that had probably taken hours to achieve. It was worth it, for it revealed the slender perfection of her elegant neck.

Tariq’s body tightened, every tendon and muscle stiffening in a response that was profound, instinctive and utterly unexpected.

Light played on the sheen of her dress, lovingly detailing each curve.

He swallowed, realising suddenly that his mouth was dry. His blood flowed hot and fast, his heartbeat tripping to a new, urgent rhythm.

It was a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. Tariq frowned.

The woman turned and he took in the fitted dress that covered her from neck to toe. It enticed a man’s imagination to wander over the slim frame and bounteous curves beneath the fabric.

He’d taken half a pace towards her when his eyes lifted to her face and he slammed to a stop, an invisible brick wall smashing into him, tearing the air from his lungs.

Samira.

Tariq heaved in a breath so deep it made his ribs ache.

Samira.

He breathed out, almost tasting the memories on his tongue.

But this wasn’t Samira as he’d last seen her. This was a different woman: confident, sexy and experienced. A woman who was making her mark on the world.

For a moment he paused, drawn despite himself. Then his brain kicked into gear as he remembered all the reasons she wasn’t for him, despite the tight ache gripping his lower body. He turned to the pretty blonde at his right who was half-wearing a gold sequinned dress. She looked up with wide, hopeful eyes that brimmed with excitement when he smiled down at her.

Minutes later she was leaning into him, her pale hand clutching his sleeve possessively, her eyes issuing an invitation as old as time.

Tariq made himself smile again, wondering if she realised or cared that his attention was elsewhere.

* * *

Samira watched him from the back of the crowd. Tariq was the obvious choice of speaker for the children’s charity. He was a natural leader, holding the audience in the palm of his hand. Confident, articulate and witty, he effortlessly drew all eyes. Around her men nodded and women salivated and Samira had to repress indignation as they ate him up hungrily.

He was all she remembered: thoughtful, capable and caring, using his speech to reinforce the plight of the children they were here to help, yet keeping the tone just right to loosen the wallets of wealthy patrons.

She remembered a lanky youth who’d always been gentle with her, his friend’s little sister. This Tariq was charismatic, with an aura of assured authority that he’d no doubt acquired from ruling his sheikhdom. She couldn’t drag her eyes from his tall frame and the way it filled out his tuxedo with solid muscle and bone.

Samira gulped, disorientated at the sudden blast of longing that swamped her.

She blinked and looked up at his bold, handsome face, the glint of humour in his eyes, and remembered the way he’d been with his boys: gentle, loving and patient.

In that moment recognition hit. Recognition of what she wanted.

What she needed.

The family she longed for. Children to nurture and love. A partner she could respect and trust to share her life.

Eyes fixed on Tariq, she realised there was a way she could become part of a family. It was the perfect solution to her untenable situation. A solution not just for her, but potentially a win-win for all concerned. If she had the courage to pursue it.

The idea was so sudden, so outrageous, she swayed on her delicate heels, her heart thumping high in her throat, her stomach twisting hard and sharp.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Celeste grabbed her elbow as if afraid she’d topple over. ‘You weren’t yourself this afternoon either.’

‘I’m...’ Samira gulped, swallowing shock at the revelation confronting her. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Just a little tired.’

Celeste nodded and turned back to Tariq. ‘He’s a little overwhelming, isn’t he? Especially in formal dress. I swear, if he wasn’t a king someone would snap him up as a model.’

Samira pressed her hand against her churning stomach, only half-listening.

She stared at the powerful figure on the podium and the voice of self-doubt, the voice that had ruled the first twenty-five years of her life, told her she was crazy. Crazy to think about wanting what she could never have. After all, she and Tariq hadn’t been friends for years. There was no guarantee he’d even listen to her.

But another part of her applauded. The part that had grown stronger in the last four years, nurtured by her family and her determination to drag herself out of the mire of despair and make something of her life. The voice of the survivor she’d become.

She knew what she wanted.

Why not go for it?

Yet instinctively she shied away from such an action. That wasn’t her style. It never had been. The only time she’d defied convention and upbringing and had reached for what she desired, it had turned to dust and ashes, ruin and grief. She still bore the scars.

Yet what had she to lose by trying? Nothing that mattered when weighed against the possibility of winning what she so desperately craved.

* * *

In the mirrored lift, Samira straightened her neat, cinnamon jacket and smoothed her clammy palms down the matching fitted skirt. Her cream blouse was businesslike rather than feminine but this, she reminded herself, was a business meeting.

The most important business meeting of her life.

If only she felt half as confident as at her meetings with clients.

The door hissed open and she stepped out. A few metres took her to the door of the presidential suite and a dark-suited security man.

‘Your Highness.’ He bowed smoothly and opened the door, admitting her into the suite’s luxurious foyer.

Inside, another staff member greeted her.

‘If you’d care to take a seat, Your Highness?’ He led the way to a beautifully appointed sitting room furnished in shades of soft taupe and aubergine. Large windows offered an unrivalled view of Paris. ‘Can I offer you something to eat or drink?’

‘Nothing, thank you.’ Samira couldn’t swallow anything. Her insides felt like they’d been invaded by circling, swooping vultures.

The man excused himself and Samira darted a look at her watch. She was dead on time. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she’d stepped out of her suite downstairs.

Slowly she breathed out, trying to calm her rioting nerves, but nothing could douse the realisation her whole future rested on this interview.

If she failed... No, she refused to imagine failure. She had to be positive and persuasive. This might be unconventional but Samira would make him see how sensible her idea was.

She swallowed hard, squashing the doubts that kept surfacing, and walked towards the windows. Automatically she stretched out a hand to the luxurious silk of the sofa as she passed. It was cool and soft, the lush fabric reassuringly familiar. If she closed her eyes perhaps she could imagine herself in the quiet sanctuary of her work room, surrounded by delicate silks, satins and crêpe de Chine; by damask, velvet and lace.

‘Samira.’

She started and turned, her heart thumping out of kilter as her eyes snapped open. There he was, his powerful frame filling the doorway.

Her breath snared, just as it had time and again that last year. She’d been on the brink of womanhood and suddenly noticed her brother’s best friend as a man. A man who’d evoked disturbing new responses in her awakening body...

Samira dragged in a calming breath, squashing shock at the way awareness prickled the tender flesh of her breasts and belly. She wasn’t the untried girl she’d once been.

‘Tariq.’

How could she have forgotten those eyes, their remarkable colour legacy of marauding ancestors who’d intermarried along the way? Under slashing dark brows those eyes gleamed with the pure, rich green of deep water and were just as unfathomable.

His expression made her hesitate.

Was she welcome or did the hard set of his jaw indicate displeasure? Was he annoyed she’d used their connection to inveigle a meeting at short notice? No doubt he had huge demands on his time but he could hardly reject her request, given the close links between their kingdoms.

Samira’s brow puckered. The Tariq she recalled had been infallibly patient and friendly, even though she’d probably been a nuisance, tagging along behind him and Asim.

‘How are you, Samira?’ He stepped into the room and the air evaporated from her lungs. He seemed to fill the space even though he stood metres away, watching her with that penetrating stare as if he saw behind the practised façade to the nervous woman beneath.

‘Excellent, thank you.’ This time when he gestured for her to take a seat she accepted, grateful to relieve her suddenly shaky legs.

She’d known this would be challenging but Tariq was more unsettling than she’d imagined. Not simply because he had the power to grant or deny what she’d set her heart on. But because that useless, feminine part of her she’d thought long-dormant reacted to him in ways she didn’t like to contemplate.

As if the lessons of four years ago had been completely forgotten. More, as if the years had peeled back further and she was seventeen again, sexually aware for the first time and fantasising over Tariq. Heat washed her.

‘And you? Are you well? You seemed in fine form last night. The crowd responded so well to your speech.’ She snapped her teeth shut before she could babble any more. The last thing she needed was for him to think her a brainless chatterbox.

‘I am. The evening was a resounding success. Did you enjoy yourself?’

He strolled across the room, making her aware of the flex and bunch of taut muscle under the superb suit as he sat down opposite her, stretching out long, powerful legs that ate into the space between them. She wanted to tuck her feet back under her seat but kept them where they were, determined not to show nerves.

She fixed on her most charming smile, the one that worked no matter how stressed she felt. ‘It was a bit of a crush but worth it for the end result.’ Her donation—two gowns to be designed exclusively for the highest bidder—had garnered far more than even Celeste had dared hope.

‘Are you staying long in Paris?’ It was a simple question, a polite conversation starter, yet the keenness of Tariq’s scrutiny invested it with extra significance.

Samira shivered. He could have no idea of her mission here. Suddenly panic hit at the thought of how he’d react when he found out. It would be easy enough to turn this instead into a brief, social catch-up. She could walk out the door with her head high and her secret safe.

But the black void of desolation would be waiting to consume her again. Surely she had the gumption to fight for what she craved, rather than admit defeat so easily?

She was the daughter of generations of warriors. It was time she remembered that.

‘I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.’ She smoothed a damp hand over her fitted skirt, telling herself he couldn’t see how her fingers trembled. ‘It depends.’

He didn’t ask the obvious question, giving her an opening, however tenuous, for her proposition. Nervously she shifted in her seat, then realised what she was doing and stilled.

‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife.’ She’d added her condolences to Asim’s note when Tariq’s wife had died giving birth to their twins, but this was the first time Samira had seen Tariq since it had happened.

It was the first time she’d seen him in twelve years. Since the winter she’d turned seventeen and his sudden departure had devastated her. He’d even missed Asim’s wedding three years ago due to emergency surgery on his appendix.

Now he looked like a stranger, despite those familiar features.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘Thank you.’

Silence fell.

‘I saw your boys yesterday in the hotel.’ It wasn’t what she’d meant to say but her carefully rehearsed words disintegrated under his silent regard. ‘They look like a happy pair.’

He nodded. ‘They are.’

‘And full of energy.’

Samira bit her lip. She was babbling again. She had to get a grip.

‘They’re never still, except when they sleep.’ A hint of a smile lurked at the corner of Tariq’s mouth and suddenly he wasn’t a stern stranger but the friend she remembered from years ago.

Friends she could deal with. It was the potently masculine Tariq who unsettled her. The man whose deep laugh and imposing body awoke longings that had no place in her life.

‘They must keep you very busy.’ This time her smile was genuine.

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Samira nodded. The Tariq she knew would find time for the demands of his small sons, just as he’d found time for his best friend’s kid sister. He took duty seriously but, more than that, he was kind. He was the sort of man you could trust.

That was why she couldn’t shake the outrageous idea that had taken root as she’d watched him last night at the gala. The idea that he held the key to her future happiness.

Samira swallowed hard. She’d known only one trustworthy man, her brother, Asim. The other men in her life, even her father, had let her down terribly. Could she trust Tariq not to do that too?

‘Samira.’

‘Yes?’ She looked up to see him lounging back in his chair, the picture of ease. Yet his eyes were intent.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Her laugh sounded woefully unconvincing and caught her up short. She was stronger than this. Here was her chance to reach out for the one thing she really wanted in life. Surely she wasn’t coward enough to give up without trying?

‘On the contrary.’ She sat forward, projecting an air of certainty she’d mastered in her professional dealings. She could do this. ‘I wanted to see you because I have a proposal to put to you.’

‘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.’