Читать книгу The Taste of Romance Collection - Maureen Child - Страница 18
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TEN
FIVE DAYS LATER, Irene was in Colorado, kneeling on the ramshackle porch of her old house, boxing up the last items to take north to their new place in Denver. There was surprisingly little to pack. Some of her family’s old possessions, worn clothes like her mother’s pink terry hot pants with the word Tasty emblazoned across the backside, had gone straight into the trash. A few other things had gone to the local charity shop. But her sister and her mother had already taken the things they cared about when they’d left here four days ago.
Her sister, Melissa, was already unpacking boxes in the brand-new condo in Denver that Irene had leased, right between the local community college and Colorado’s best private rehab facility, where their mother had checked herself in two days ago. Melissa was studying to take her GED test, to compensate for never having graduated from high school, and looking eagerly through the college course book. A rough road might still lie ahead, Irene knew, but it was going to work out. They were going to be settled and secure, and have the chance to be happy.
“Thank you, baby,” her mother had said, openly weeping when she hugged Irene close, the last moment before she went into rehab. “I wanted to be a good mother to you. I tried. But I didn’t know how.” She wiped her eyes hard. “I’m going to learn.”
Melissa had cried, too—when she first saw the luxury condo on a lovely, tree-lined street in Denver, and the college book sitting on the kitchen counter. “You remembered how I used to talk about becoming a dental assistant?”
Irene nodded.
“Do you know how much they make per hour?” Melissa demanded, then she, too, wiped her eyes. “Plus, they hang around with handsome single dentists all day...”
“You’d be a great assistant. Or you could be a dentist yourself.”
“Me?”
“Sure.” Irene had shrugged. “Let all the sexy male dental assistants come to you.”
“You think I could?” her sister had breathed as if considering the idea for the first time. “And you’d pay for me to go to dental school?”
“Any kind of school you want.” Irene had reached out and taken her sister’s hand. “I believe in you.”
Melissa blinked back tears. “I always thought you judged me...”
“I did,” Irene said. “I did and I’m sorry. I didn’t understand then how powerful sex and love can be. Or that sometimes, no matter how hard you try—” she looked down “—dreams don’t always come true...”
“Dreams don’t come true?” Melissa’s voice changed. She shook her head. “You’re wrong about that, Reena.” She smiled, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Just look around me right now.”
The words still rang in Irene’s ears when she’d driven back to Lone Pine today, to finish packing and close down the house. Her last stop on the way out of town would be to return the key to the corpulent landlord, who’d be sad to see the two older Taylor women leave after twenty years of paying him rent, not always in cash. Irene had been taping up the last box when the air in the tiny house, with its stained carpets and peeling wallpaper, had suddenly become thick with the haze of neglect and poverty and bad memories. Putting a hand to her throat, she’d run outside, onto the crooked wooden porch to take a staggering breath of cool, clear air.
Now, leaning against the rough wood, Irene stared out at the dark spring night. On the edge of town, between the railroad tracks and the forest, patches of snow still lay on the ground. In the distance, she could see the roof of the tiny house where the Abbotts had once served her cookies after school. Irene pulled her cashmere cardigan a little tighter over her body. She told herself she’d been lucky, really, to have known love, even for such a short time. But if she was lucky, why did it hurt so much?
She’d gotten six different calls from Makhtar since she’d left, all of them from different members of the palace staff who were desperate to have Sharif’s wedding to Kalila called off. Well, get in line, she thought. But the latest call had been particularly painful. Aziza had called her at three that morning, waking her up.
“How can I be happy,” she’d wailed as greeting, “when both of you are going to be miserable forever?”
“We’re not miserable,” Irene had lied. “We’re fine, and—”
“Fine? You should see my brother right now!”
Irene’s throat had ached, and she closed her eyes against the flash of blinding pain. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“But you said you loved him. How could you love him, and leave him to that woman?”
“He gave me no choice.”
“You haven’t even called him! Even Basimah is surprised. She told me, since you didn’t call after my wedding was canceled, you must not love Sharif at all.”
The knife twisted a little deeper in Irene’s heart.
“Aziza,” she’d gasped in the dark, empty bed of her condo, “please...”
“No, forget it!” she’d snapped. “Don’t even try to save him—just enjoy your life and forget all about us!”
She’d ended the call, leaving Irene weeping for the next three hours in the dark.
She missed Aziza, and Makhtar, and everyone in the palace. But most of all, she missed Sharif. His absence was a hole through her body, leaving everything hollow and devoid of meaning. She felt as if she was dying without him.
Irene’s gaze fell on her car.
Her last suitcase had arrived from Makhtar yesterday. It was still in the trunk of her rental car. She hadn’t wanted to open it because once she did, the last possible link between her and Sharif would be gone. As long as she didn’t open it, she could hope he’d left her some note, some letter to read and treasure for the rest of her life. She’d tried to put it off as long as she could.
She couldn’t wait another minute. Grabbing her suitcase from the car, she dragged it up to the porch. With a deep breath, she flung it open.
All she saw were the clothes she’d left behind. Clothes. Just clothes. Kneeling forward, she started pawing through them more desperately.
Then she saw it.
A note.
With a gasp, she picked it up. She opened it. Her heart pounded as she recognized his jagged handwriting. But the note had only two words: Unpack thoroughly.
* * *
That was it? She looked at the back. Blank. That was it?
Still on her knees, she crushed the note to her chest. All that hope for nothing. She leaned her head against the rough, splinter-covered wood of the porch. She wanted to burst into sobs.
“I heard you were back in town.”
Irene looked up through a shimmer of tears to see Carter Linsey standing in front of the ramshackle cottage, wearing a dark vest over a white shirt. Carter, the crush of her teenage years, the supposed heartache that had driven her abroad.
“Carter?” Wiping her eyes, she rose unsteadily to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if it was true about you. And it is.” He rubbed his jaw, looking her over. “Wow. Your time in Paris really...wow.”
Irene looked down at her pearls, sleek cashmere sweater set and slim-fit gray trousers. A little dressy for packing up boxes, but since she hadn’t wanted to open that last suitcase, she’d had nothing else clean to wear today. She wore contact lenses instead of glasses now, and she’d probably lost weight, too, since she’d lost her appetite beneath the weight of her grief. She suddenly realized she looked different from the girl who’d left over two years ago. Maybe even fit for the Linsey Mansion, as she’d once dreamed. “Um. Thanks.”
“So, your family is really moving, huh?” He tilted his head, his eyes smoldering in the way that had once made her heart beat faster. “It’s a shame. Because I was kind of thinking maybe...you’d give me another chance.”
She stared at him. “You what?”
“Yes.” He ran his hand through his tousled dark blond hair. “I think I made a mistake. About you.”
She stared at Carter, wondering how she could have ever thought she loved him. The truth was, she’d never even known him. He’d been just a symbol to her. A way of getting out of an unhappy life.
“Oh, Carter. I’m afraid...I must decline your kind offer.”
He blinked. “I thought you had a thing for me.”
She gave a low laugh. “I thought so once, too.” She looked away. “I thought if I could get a man like you to love me, it would mean I was worth something. But that’s not love.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s not about trying to feel better about yourself,” she said slowly. “Love is about protecting the other person.” Her throat went dry. “It’s about doing everything you can to give the person you love the life they deserve...” Irene’s voice trailed off as she remembered how Sharif had done exactly that.
And she’d left him. In that woman’s clutches.
But there was nothing I could have done! She told herself desperately. It wasn’t as if she had any kind of control over Kalila—or way to stop her from—
The emir is getting what he deserves. Basimah’s voice came back to her. If I could do something to prevent his wedding, if I knew something that would prevent it, I still wouldn’t lift a finger.
Irene stared off in the distance, her lips parted. Basimah had said that long ago, but she’d been too distracted with her own jealousy and misery to pay attention to the words. How had she missed it? How had she not heard?
Even Basimah is surprised, Aziza had said. She told me, since you didn’t call after my wedding was canceled, you must not love Sharif at all.
“Irene?”
She focused abruptly on Carter’s handsome, pouting face.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to make a phone call. Thanks for stopping by.”
“You’re—throwing me out?” he said incredulously.
“I’m wishing you all the best. But not with me. Sorry. I’m in love with someone. And he needs me now.”
Scratching his head, Carter threw her one last sorrowful, disgruntled look and left. But Irene had already turned away to dial a number in her phone.
“I was wondering why you didn’t ask me about it days ago,” Basimah said sourly a few minutes later. “I all but told you everything. After he set my lamb free, canceling her wedding, I expected you would ask. But you didn’t, you just left, and I decided you must not have loved him as much as I thought. Although abandoning him to that Al-Bahar woman seemed cold...”
“Tell me everything,” Irene begged, kicking herself. She listened to Basimah’s story, and her heart was suddenly in her throat.
“Go to Sharif. Tell him everything!”
“Me? Get involved in a palace scandal? No. I keep my head down. And so does my sister. That’s how we’ve kept our jobs so long.”
“Tell Aziza, then. She can go to her brother and—”
“I’m not having her involved, either. Poor lamb has suffered enough. And she has enough to think about, applying to colleges and preparing to face the big wide world. No. You love him, you save him yourself.”
“But he’ll never accept this without proof.”
“So get it.”
Irene wetted her lips. “That would take money. More money than I can even imagine. If he’s been blackmailing her for so long, he’ll never let that go for cheap. Even if I gave him every penny I have left, he’d just laugh—”
“Do what you want. I’m out of it, and so is my sister, and so is Aziza. It’s your problem now,” Basimah said simply, and hung up.
Clutching her phone, Irene sank to the rough wood floor of the porch in despair. She’d just been handed the key to everything. But it was too late. It came down to a problem of money. And time. The wedding was in two days, half a world away.
If only she’d kept that diamond necklace Sharif had tried to give her in Italy, she suddenly thought. She gave a half-hysterical laugh. She hadn’t realized then she was throwing away her future. And worse: his.
If you don’t want the necklace, toss it in the lake. Bury it in the garden. I care not. It’s yours. I won’t take it back.
But he had. She’d forced him to take it back, pressed it in his hands, and he’d never had another chance to...
Unpack thoroughly.
Irene sat up straight, covering her mouth with her hand. Wide-eyed, she stared across the porch at her open suitcase.
With a gasp, she flung herself toward it.
* * *
The day Sharif had dreaded for half his life had come at last. Today was his wedding day.
He was almost glad to get it over with.
In his finest royal robes, of shining white, Sharif walked down the hallway toward the throne room where he would sign his life away.
As was traditional in Makhtar, the bride herself would not be there for the formal signing ceremony. For that small favor, he was glad. He’d already endured enough of Kalila’s company this week. Today would be simple and private. All he had to do was go to the throne room where he and the bride’s father would sign the papers and conclude the legal formalities, in front of a few witnesses.
So perhaps, if he closed his eyes very tight, he could pretend it was someone else he was marrying today. Someone bright and beautiful, soft and loving.
Against his will, he pictured Irene, with the warmth of a smile glowing in her eyes.
Sharif’s footsteps faltered against the marble floor of the hallway, then stopped. He closed his eyes, hearing the roar of blood in his ears. In this moment, he would have given thirty years of his life—forty—if, instead of a billionaire emir who ruled a wealthy nation, he could just be a common goat farmer of the far south, barely able to feed his family each month on a pittance, if only he could have the most basic freedom of all: being with the woman he loved.
“Sire?”
He saw Hassan in front of him.
Sharif tried to speak, had to clear his throat. “Yes?”
“Your bride’s father is awaiting you in the throne room, along with the officiant and the witnesses.”
Time to face the blade. “I would like you to witness as well.”
The man bowed his head. “I am honored.” His voice was stilted. He lifted his head with pleading eyes. “But it is not too late...”
“It’s nineteen years too late,” Sharif said wearily.
“Miss Taylor...”
“Don’t say her name,” he ground out. “I don’t want to hear it. If she’s tried to call again, I don’t want to—”
“She’s here.”
Sharif stared at him. He felt all the blood leave his face. “Here?”
“She showed up ten minutes ago at the palace gate. I did not let her through,” Hassan added unhappily. “With your standing order, I had the bodyguards detain her. But I thought—” he bit his lip “—maybe you’d changed your mind and—”
Imagining Irene so close to him now, on the day of his wedding, emotion slashed though Sharif.
“No,” he choked out. He put his hand to his forehead. If he saw her face now, today of all days, there was no way he’d be able to go through with this wedding. Promise or no promise, he’d cast honor aside and let his country’s fate fly as it would. Let the whole nation risk dissolving into chaos and war, if he could just feel Irene’s arms around him again—
“There you are, Your Highness.” Sheikh Ahmed Al-Bahar, the former vizier and current governor of Makhtar’s eastern region, was standing in the doorway of the throne room. He bared his teeth in a smile. “You are late.”
“Yes,” Sharif said listlessly. “Forgive me. I am coming now.”
The man gave an impatient nod and disappeared back into the throne room. Sharif walked toward it as if walking toward his own execution. Each step was more difficult and required more courage than the one before.
He’d given his word.
He had no choice.
Kalila would be a toxic wife, but perhaps she would still be a good queen, and good mother. Perhaps she...
No, he couldn’t even make himself believe that. His stomach twisted at the thought of his future child being raised by her. It felt wrong, so wrong. He didn’t want to raise a child with her. Or even create one with her.
There was only one woman he wanted as his wife. Only one he wanted in his bed. One woman to be the mother of his children. And he would never have her.
“Sharif.”
He heard Irene’s soft, worried voice behind him, and knew he was dreaming. Clenching his hands at his sides, he closed his eyes, enjoying the dream just for one last moment, before he went into the throne room and gave it up forever.
“Sharif!”
The voice was louder now. He frowned, opening his eyes. And turned around.
Irene stood before him, her beautiful face pale. Her lower lip was chapped as if she’d spent the last day chewing on it. Dark circles were beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days. But she was smiling. And so were the six bodyguards behind her.
His trusted bodyguards had let her into the palace? Against his express orders?
“I don’t understand...” Sharif breathed. His heart lifted to his throat but he tried to ignore it, to force it down. He couldn’t allow this to happen. He couldn’t let himself love her. “You can’t be here, Irene. You have to go...”
“No.” Irene’s eyes were glowing. “You can’t make me leave you ever again.”
Slowly, afraid of making the dream disappear, Sharif lifted his hands to touch Irene’s upper arms. He felt the warmth of her through her cotton blouse. She was really here. He shuddered.
“Please,” he whispered. “This is killing me. Seeing you today, when I must marry another...”
Kalila’s voice came sharp behind him. “What the hell is she doing here?”
He turned to see her in the wide hallway, dressed like a beautiful royal Makhtari bride, covered with colorful silks and brocades and literally dripping in jewels.
“What am I doing?” Looking at her, Irene suddenly gave a warm smile. “I’m stopping this wedding.” She turned to Sharif. “Kalila Al-Bahar cannot marry you. Because she is already married.”
It was a dream. It had to be.
His grip tightened. Then he shook his head. “It is impossible. She would never do such a thing.”
But her smile only lifted to a grin. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. So I can prove it.”
And she stepped aside to reveal the young, extremely muscular man standing behind her.
Kalila’s jaw dropped. A mixture of fear, rage and hatred suddenly emanated from her kohl-lined eyes. “Get out of my palace!”
“No,” Irene said, so powerful and calm that Sharif did a double take. “You will get out of mine.”
With a cry, Kalila rushed toward them, as if she intended to claw Irene’s eyes out with the red talons of her henna-covered hands. As Sharif stepped protectively in front of Irene, servants started popping their heads out of doorways. Kalila’s father came out of the throne room, his own entourage gathering behind him.
“What is going on?” he demanded. He looked at his daughter. “Kalila...?”
But she was looking only at the muscle-bound man. “Don’t say it, you piece of trash. Don’t even think of—”
“Sorry, babe,” the man said with a shrug. “She had a better offer.”
Sharif whirled to face Irene.
“Tell me,” he said urgently.
“Five years ago, in New York, Kalila married her personal trainer.” Triumphantly, she held up a piece of paper. “I have the marriage license to prove it.”
With a shriek, Kalila tried to reach for it, but Sharif was faster. Grabbing it from Irene’s hand, he looked it over. Then silently handed it to Ahmed Al-Bahar.
The man read, and his face turned scarlet.
“It’s a lie—all a trick—” Kalila gasped. “I would never throw my life away on a servant—”
“Letters in her own hand.” Irene held up a stack of envelopes, bound together with a black ribbon. “Love letters. Notes she sent with the blackmail money, begging him to come back to her.”
“Women always fall in love with me,” the personal trainer said with a smirk. He shrugged. “I can’t help it if she let me take advantage...”
“Dirty blackmailer!” she screamed.
“Lying bigamist,” he retorted.
“Aah!” She turned to Irene with murder in her eyes. “And you—how did you know? Who talked?”
“Yes,” Sharif breathed. He looked down at Irene. “How did you do this?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources.” She smiled at him, tears of happiness glistening in her eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me without proof. So I bribed Rafael with the diamond necklace you’d hidden behind the liner of my suitcase.”
“The necklace?” he echoed.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You said it was mine to do with as I pleased. And I found what I wanted to do with it.” Reaching up, she stroked his cheek as tears now streaked down her face. “I wanted to save the life of the man that I loved.”
A lump rose in his throat. It was true. She’d saved him.
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Does this mean,” he whispered, “that you will marry me?”
With a horrendous shriek, Kalila collapsed in her wedding dress in a dead faint.
“Your Highness,” her father said behind him, “my daughter has dishonored us. And if not for her—” he glared at Irene “—the dishonor would have been greater.” He bowed his head, even as his whole body was tense. “I will deal with Kalila later. For now, I await your punishment.”
Silence fell.
“My punishment,” Sharif said, “is that you will take her away to live in peace far, far from Makhtar City. And in return—I will say nothing of her betrayal when I announce my change in wedding plans.”
The man slowly straightened. His wrinkled face was filled with awe. “You will say nothing of our shame?”
Sharif nodded. “I will say the reason for my change of bride is a personal matter. I will say it’s because I’ve fallen in love for the first time in my life, and there’s only one woman I want to be my partner on the throne. Only one woman fated to be my wife. Only one I want to be the mother of my children. I will give this explanation to our people today, but only on one condition.” He looked at Irene. “If you agree to marry me right now.”
“Say yes,” the older man gasped.
“Say yes,” Aziza cried from a short distance down the hall.
“Say yes!” cried Basimah and Hassan and all the rest of the palace servants who’d gathered to watch from the ends of the hall.
Irene looked at him, her beautiful pink-cheeked face shining with love.
“Yes,” she whispered.
It was the single sweetest word Sharif had ever heard. As he pulled her into his arms, he dimly heard the servants and courtiers burst into spontaneous applause and cries of approval. But all he could think about was the moment his lips would touch hers.
And then...they did.
* * *
“Feel married yet?”
Sharif’s voice from the bedroom of their Denver hotel suite was equal parts wry and frustrated. Irene smiled at herself in the bathroom mirror. She couldn’t blame him for feeling a little impatient. They’d been officially married in Makhtar two days ago, but had yet to have a wedding night.
It had been a hasty, very formal ceremony. Since she had no official father or male representative, Sharif had abruptly changed the law and decreed that from now on, the marriages would be signed and arranged only by the bride and groom themselves. They’d signed the contracts, then before they’d even had a chance to kiss, the two of them had been forced to part for a full day of wedding celebrations, with the traditional separate feasts for women and men. Irene hadn’t been thrilled about attending any six-hour party without Sharif at her side. But as the new sheikha of the land, she’d done it anyway.
Her first royal obligation hadn’t been all bad. The women at the feast had come up to her, some shyly, some happily, but all of them relieved to have Irene as the new queen in Kalila’s place, even—perhaps especially—the heiress’s cousins and distant relatives. Irene was truly touched by their kind words and gracious welcome. Of course, Aziza was over the moon about it, bouncing with joy she didn’t even try to disguise. Privately, Irene had thanked Basimah with tears in her eyes. Basimah had demanded that she never mention it again, but then sniffed and wiped her eyes and said she hoped Irene would be a good ruler, loyal and kind.
Irene had still been in shock. She, a nobody from Colorado, the girl who had been mocked and tormented through school about her poverty and family’s scandalous past, was now the honored queen of one of the wealthiest nations in the world. She just wished her family could be here to see it...
Her family.
The instant Sharif had arrived at the women’s feast to give the groom’s traditional greeting, she’d grabbed his arm. “We need to go to Colorado right away,” she’d said anxiously. “My sister and mother missed the wedding. They need to be part of it, too...”
“I’ll send my plane and bring them here,” he growled. He’d stroked her cheek. “I want you in my bed tonight. Right now...”
She’d trembled from his touch but remained stubborn. “My mother can’t leave Colorado, she’s just started rehab. But she might be able to leave for just an hour or two and meet us for a quick ceremony in Denver. Please, Sharif,” she’d whispered. “Please.”
He’d looked mutinous, then sighed. “Of course, your family must be part of it.”
“And,” she said thoughtfully, “I could maybe invite Emma—and Cesare...”
An hour later, they were on Sharif’s private jet, heading for Colorado. Irene would have been more than willing to have their wedding night at cruising altitude, to join the Mile High Club on their way to Denver, which was nicknamed the Mile High City. But this time Sharif was the one to grumpily refuse.
“You haven’t waited all your life for your wedding night, to have it haphazardly on some random plane.” He’d kissed her, and said softly, “We’ll have only one first time, you and I, and it’s going to be done properly. In a honeymoon suite at the best hotel in the city, after your family has seen us well and truly married.” He’d sat down on the white leather sofa, looking very pained as he muttered under his breath, “Even if it kills me.”
Emma and Cesare had flown in with their baby at the last minute, joining Irene’s mother and sister, who all had happily cried as they watched Sharif and Irene quietly get married again in Denver, in the privacy of a judge’s chambers downtown, with no paparazzi and no fuss. Dorothy and Bill Abbott would have approved, Irene had thought with tears in her eyes.
“So now you know,” Cesare had informed Sharif smugly after the ceremony, “how irresistible the right woman can be.”
He’d laughed good-naturedly. “Yes.” He’d looked down at his new bride. “If I’d met Irene sooner, I’d have gotten married a long time ago.”
Now, their family and friends were gone. After the quick ceremony was done, Sharif had heartlessly refused to even allow them even a wedding dinner afterward. “A man only has so much willpower, wife,” he’d informed her darkly. “We’re going to the hotel.”
Now, it was just the two of them. Married. Alone.
Nervously, Irene bit her lip as she looked at herself in the mirror of the marble bathroom of the finest suite in the historic, luxurious Brown Palace Hotel. Her cheeks were rosy after the glasses of champagne the manager had given them upon arrival. Her lips were red from her nervous chewing. Her heart was pounding.
Her sister had slyly given her this lingerie as a wedding gift. Irene had never worn anything like it in her life. The white corset pushed up her full breasts, barely covering her nipples, making her waist tiny. She had tiny white lace panties, partially covered with a naughty white garter belt that held up thigh-high white stockings and white satin kitten heels.
“Modest and naughty,” her sister had chortled with glee. “Perfect for you, Reena!”
Yes, it was. And she could hardly believe she was about ready to leave this bathroom and let Sharif see her in it. But he was her husband now. Her husband, who would know every part of her, as she would know every part of him, for the rest of their lives.
“Irene?” Sharif called hoarsely from the adjoining bedroom.
“Almost ready.” Hair up or down? Her hands shook as she held up her dark hair. Then she let the dark waves tumble over her bare shoulders. Her legs were trembling as she went out into the bedroom of the enormous, elegant hotel suite.
Sharif was stretched out across the enormous four-poster bed, still wearing the black suit from their ceremony. He turned toward her, smiling. “Finally—”
His voice choked off when he saw her in the white corset and garter belt. He sat up, his expression pale.
Irene faltered. “Do you not like it?”
“Like it?” he said hoarsely.
Never taking his eyes off her, Sharif rose unsteadily to his feet and walked to where she stood trembling on the blue carpet. For a moment, he just looked down at her with his dark eyes, the infinitely deep gaze that saw every part of her and loved her in spite of her flaws, as she loved him in spite of his. He cupped her face.
“I nearly died just looking at you. I nearly had a heart attack. If I didn’t know you were mine...”
“But you do,” she said as her heart started beating again. She smiled at him. “Yours now. Yours forever.”
“I love you, Irene, my beautiful wife. I will love you until I die.”
She put her hand over his. “You’re trembling.”
Sharif’s lips lifted into a crooked smile. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “But you see, in a way, it’s my first time, too...”
She licked her lips. Then, lifting on tiptoe in the white heels, she kissed him very, very softly on the lips, then whispered five words in his ear.
“Take me,” she said. “Take me now.”
Her husband kissed her hungrily, savagely, and lifted her in his arms. Never breaking the kiss, he carried her to their wedding bed, and there, they shared their private, final vow, the one she’d waited for all her life, in the sweet promise without words that would last not just tonight, not just tomorrow, but forever.
* * * * *
Read on for an excerpt from PRETENDER TO THE THRONE by Maisey Yates.
