Читать книгу The Desert Kings - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 16

ROU slept fitfully, waking every hour from vivid, intense dreams. Zayed featured prominently in every one, and Rou didn’t know if it was the kiss or her feverish imagination, but she woke up afraid, terribly aware that today everything changed.

Today she became vulnerable. She married the man she loved, and yet he didn’t love her back. And she’d found what it was her clients all wanted, only for her, the wedding and marriage were just temporary.

Agitated, she turned on her side, her arm as her pillow, and she looked out the small, high window that showed the sky. It wasn’t dawn yet but the sky was lighter, the dark blue night sky giving way to a layer of light blue. Somewhere the sun was already up. Soon it’d be up here, too. Soon she’d be Zayed’s wife.

Her eyes closed, lashes fluttering against her cheek as she drew a frightened breath.

She didn’t know how to do this. Didn’t know how to become any man’s, not even his.

It wasn’t just consummating the marriage that filled her with anxiety, although that was terrifying in and of itself. At least she wasn’t completely inexperienced. She’d had sex a couple times many years ago, but it’d felt wrong—it’d hurt—and the doctor in her knew it was a combination of emotional and physical pain. She didn’t love either of the men, and she wasn’t properly aroused, which contributed to her discomfort. But her fear today was different. Her fear was disappointing Zayed. He’d called her beautiful, called her passionate, but what would he say when he discovered she was useless, ridiculous in bed?

Sharif had once asked her why she didn’t date more, and she’d answered that her work consumed her, but it hadn’t always just been about her work. In her midtwenties when she’d tried dating, she’d discovered she was hopeless at it. Everybody wanted casual sex. She couldn’t have casual sex. And those two times a relationship developed sufficiently that she thought she should try to have a physical relationship, it went wrong, so wrong. Sex itself felt invasive. A man on top of you, surrounding you, filling you.

But later today it wouldn’t be just anyone with her. Today it would be Zayed.

Her stomach lurched, and she threw back the covers and swung her legs from the bed.

Calm down, she told herself, going to the living room to the French doors and opening them to welcome in the cool, sweet air. He might be disappointed, but he’ll have done his duty and you’ll both survive.

Manar arrived early with breakfast and coffee and elaborate plans to help Rou prepare for her ceremony. “In my country we henna the bride’s hands and feet,” she said, smiling as she poured Rou’s coffee and served her a selection of flaky pastries from the tray. “I think you would find it wonderful and unusual.”

Rou gratefully sipped her strong coffee. “You’re not from Sarq?”

The maid shook her head. “I am from Baraka, a country not far, and while not terribly different, we do celebrate marriage differently.”

“How did you get to Sarq?”

Manar smiled, dimpling. “My husband. He is one of Prince Khalid’s men, and I met him while he accompanied the prince to Baraka on business.”

“Do you return home often?”

The maid shook her head. “It is too far and quite costly to travel.”

“Don’t you miss your family?”

She shrugged. “I would miss my husband more if I was not with him.”

Jesslyn appeared in the arched doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

“No, not at all. Please come in, Your Highness.” Rou rose and went to greet Jesslyn with a kiss on each cheek. “How are you?”

“Excited for you.”

A lump filled Rou’s throat. Jesslyn was so good and kind. “Thank you.”

“I have brought you a gift for your wedding day,” the queen added, holding out a small, tissue-wrapped package. “Every bride must have something borrowed, something blue, and this is both. I thought perhaps you could tuck it inside the strap of your bodice, or maybe your purse.”

Rou sat and opened the small gift. It was a fine white handkerchief embroidered with an elaborate S and F in dark blue thread.

“It was Sharif’s,” Jesslyn said with an uncertain smile. “He was quite a fan of yours and I thought this would be a way to include him. It’s borrowed, and it’s kind of blue.”

Rou clutched the handkerchief in her hand, the square of starched fabric more precious than Jesslyn knew. “You will make me cry.”

Jesslyn’s eyes were already pink with tears. “He’d be so happy for you and Zayed. He loved both of you and the fact that you have found each other …” She shook her head, her voice drifting off. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t break down. I don’t want to be sad, and I don’t want to make you sad on your special day.”

Rou reached out and took Jesslyn’s hand. “You’ve made it special, Your Highness—”

“Jesslyn, please. We are to be sisters. And friends, I hope.”

Rou squeezed her hand gently. “Yes. With all my heart.”

Jesslyn leaned forward and gave Rou a swift hug and then rose. “I won’t keep you. I know you’re busy. But know you can come to me for anything, and—” She broke off, hesitating, dark brows tugging together in consternation. “And don’t listen to rumors. The palace is full of them, especially when it comes to Zayed. He’s a bit of a mystery around here and there are many staff members who don’t really understand him. He certainly isn’t cursed, no matter what they say.”

Cursed.

That word again, and this time from Jesslyn herself.

Rou’s mouth went dry, and she reached for her glass of guava juice and took a small sip. “People can be ignorant, can’t they?”

Jesslyn nodded. “They can be, and it’s so unfair. He was so young, just a boy, and hopelessly romantic. If he committed a crime, it was of being naive, and yet the consequences were so severe, so vile it’s more than the mind can take in.” Her expression softened. “Sharif has worried about him for years, and so to see Zayed here, now, taking his place as the head of the family, is bittersweet. Bitter, because Sharif isn’t here, but sweet because Zayed deserves so much more than he’s known.”

And then Jesslyn was kissing her cheek and hurrying out the door, leaving Rou even more conflicted than she’d been before.

So there was a curse. And something terrible had happened. Zayed had suffered, as did the family. But why? What had happened?

Manar appeared with towels on her arm. “My lady, I’ve drawn your bath. It’s time for you to begin preparing for your wedding. The ceremony is in less than two hours.”

The ceremony was short and simple, neither religious nor sentimental. She and Zayed stood next to each other in the palace reception room for the exchange of vows and rings. It was essentially a civil ceremony with fifteen witnesses, immediate family and a few visiting heads of state, with the rest of the guests to join them later for the luncheon.

Zayed had surprised her with another dress, this one for the wedding. He hadn’t brought it to her personally, but one of the palace staff carried it to her room and it was perfect. The long silver-gray skirt had a fitted matching top with snug three-quarter sleeves. The glamorous yet understated design reminded Rou of Hollywood fashions in the 1940s, and Manar knew exactly what to do with Rou’s hair, twisting and putting it up like a 1940s pinup.

Her only jewelry was her wedding ring and her own simple pearl stud earrings, but it was enough, and now with the service concluding, and the Sarq Minister of Justice giving them the traditional Sarq blessing, it was over.

They were married.

She darted a nervous glance at Zayed as they turned to face their guests. He looked so calm, so strong, and she wondered at his composure in light of what he had said last night.

What was this curse hanging over his head? And what had he done to bring such shame to his family? It must have been significant for palace staff to still gossip about it so many years later.

His gaze caught hers, and he smiled faintly, but there was no time for words as they were being swarmed by Jesslyn and Sharif’s children eager to give their uncle and new aunt hugs and kisses.

The greetings and congratulations continued through lunch. Close to seventy attended, with many international names and faces, including a former American president, an ex-British prime minister, and a host of royal figureheads along with some of the region’s most powerful men, like the Sultan of Baraka, Malik Nuri; Nuri’s younger brother, Kalen; and their friend and neighbor, the desert chieftain, Sheikh Tair.

Sitting at the head table, Rou’s gaze drifted around the room, puzzling a little over the number of powerful men in attendance, men without their wives.

“What’s the matter?” Zayed asked, leaning toward her to whisper in her ear.

“All these men … they’re so famous, and powerful. Aren’t they all heads of state?”

“Most, yes.”

She gave her head a shake. “But why are their wives not here? Why are they here alone?”

“They’ve come for the coronation and the wedding, but the coronation is for men only.” Zayed looked into her eyes. “But you knew that, right?”

“No.” She frowned and then ducked her head. “Am I not allowed to be there, either?”

“No, laeela. I am sorry.”

“Ah.” She looked up, managed a smile. “It’s probably quite boring.”

His gaze held hers. “Sometimes the laws are very archaic. I am sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” But she could see from the sympathy in his eyes that he knew she was disappointed. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be emotional here, not in front of everyone.”

His lips curved, his long black lashes dropping to conceal his deep gold eyes, eyes that always seemed to see too much. “I like your fiery side. When you’re passionate, your eyes blaze and your lips tighten and you become so very righteous. It’s exciting.”

Under the tablecloth she slipped her foot on top of his and pressed down, pinching his foot beneath hers. He let out a little oath and looked at her, surprised, and she lifted her eyebrows. “Let that be a warning. You don’t want to provoke me.”

He grinned, showing off a rare dimple deep in his cheek. “I have a suspicion that you are all ice on the outside, but all fire underneath.”

She opened her mouth to protest but couldn’t, not when he looked into her eyes like that, looking so long, so deep that her pulse leaped and her head swam. No one ever looked at her the way Zayed did. He looked with interest, with curiosity, with hunger.

Hunger.

Her face flooded with warmth, the same warmth coursing through her veins, a tingling that started in her belly and radiated out making her skin sensitive and her nerves dance.

His dark head tipped near hers. “I look forward to when we’re finally alone,” he said, his voice so low that no one could possibly hear but her.

Air caught in her throat. Her fingers curled into her palms, her enormous blue diamond wedding ring heavy and still so new on her hand.

“It won’t be long now,” he added, “an hour at the most. And don’t worry, I will take it slow. There is nothing to fear.”

Embarrassed, she lifted her chin and whispered fiercely, “I’m not afraid. It’s not my first time.”

“You’re not a virgin?”

She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her eyes just as over-bright. “I’m thirty years old.”

His lips tugged, and it appeared as though he were trying very hard not to smile. “I will still take my time. I promise to make it pleasurable for both of us.”

Zayed’s gaze rested on her face, enchanted by the vivid wash of rose in her cheeks. It’d been a long time since he met a woman that blushed.

“You don’t have to drag it out,” she said, lips compressing. “We have a job to do. Let’s just get it done.”

“Is that how you view lovemaking?”

She gave him a sharp look and muttered, “We’re not in love, therefore it’s not lovemaking.”

“Is there a more scientific name you prefer?”

He could see her mind race, considering all the different possibilities, and none of them pleased her. Her mouth compressed even smaller, her chin set. “To call it sex is fine.”

And Zayed, who had so much on his mind, and so much pain in his heart, felt something else in his heart, and it wasn’t sorrow or grief, but a lightness that hadn’t been there in weeks.

My God she was funny. And nervous. And tongue-tied.

And perfect. Perfectly prickly. Perfectly priceless.

An hour later they’d said their goodbyes to their guests and were excused from the after party and now were in Zayed’s wing. His suite of rooms and the furnishings were bold and royal and utterly magnificent. Rou stood in the middle of his living room, noting how his plaster walls were draped with regal tapestries and the low couches and drapes were all rich midnight-blue velvets and silks embroidered with gold.

Turning her head, she saw an open doorway, and through that she glimpsed an enormous bed, this, too, covered in rich blue velvet. She looked away, wishing she hadn’t seen it, knowing exactly what would happen in there in just a matter of time.

“A glass of champagne?” he asked, reaching for a bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket.

She hadn’t had anything to drink at lunch—only half the guests drank due to culture and religion—but a glass of champagne sounded perfect now. It might even take away that terrible bite of nerves. “Please,” she said, pressing a hand to her stomach as if she could quiet the butterflies.

“Do sit,” he said, as he expertly popped the cork.

She looked around for a safe spot to sit and chose the only single chair in the room. Zayed smiled as he noted her choice of seating, which only made her sit taller and straighter on the low velvet chair.

He filled two crystal flutes, carried them to her and handed one over.

“Cheers,” she said quickly, brightly.

He looked down into her eyes. “To a long and happy marriage.”

She flushed and winced, thinking his toast made hers sound shallow and insincere. “To a long and happy marriage,” she answered more quietly, clinking the rim of her flute to his. The crystal tinged and then she drank, letting the cold, dry champagne bubble across her tongue and fizz all the way down as she swallowed. The cold bubbles brought tears to her eyes and warmth to her middle. “This is good.”

“You don’t usually drink,” he said, taking a seat on the blue velvet couch across from her and stretching his arm along the back. He looked so comfortable, so at ease with himself and life that she felt a burst of envy. Life would be so different if she behaved as he did—owning his space, seizing it, taking as much as life offered. Unlike her, who tried to take as little as possible.

She took another quick sip. “Not much, no.”

“Why?”

“This is your inheritance,” she said, lifting a hand to gesture around the palatial suite. “Mine is a little different.”

His gaze narrowed. “Was it your mother or father who drank?”

“My father.” She felt her cheeks warm. “My mother preferred pills.”

His gaze rested on her flushed face. “Not you?”

“No. I’m an adult child of addicts. I have other issues. Lack of trust. Problems with boundaries. Serious need for control.” Her lips curved, self-mocking. “I’m sure none of this is news to you, though. You’ve spent enough time studying me.”

“You never talk about your parents.”

Her chin lifted. “I just did.”

“Your parents were very famous.”

“And famous for their lack of control.” She took another long sip from her champagne, her flute now half-empty, and then resolutely set the glass on the low table between them.

His gaze never left her face. “Why do you hide your beauty? You’re as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than your mother, and she was one of the great beauties of her time.”

It was all Rou could do to stay seated. She longed to leap up and move. Pace. Walk. Run.

Run away.

Instead she swallowed the panic rushing through her, panic stirred by memory and painful emotions, and forced herself to answer calmly, “Beauty means nothing if it’s selfish. Hurtful.”

“You are neither.”

“Because I’ve chosen not to focus on the externals. I’ve committed my life to finding true beauty, inner beauty. It’s why I work to help people find true companionability, relationships built on shared values and needs.”

He said nothing for a moment, intent on listening, watching. Finally, “If I had gone through your matchmaking system, what would have happened, after the first meet?”

She shrugged. “Second dates, third dates … eventually love.”

“Pippa told me you had rules for the dates, including rules about sex.”

“I think you have sex on the brain,” she said tartly, pressing her hands together to keep from making wild, nervous gestures.

He laughed, creases fanning from his eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. You are incredibly beautiful, as well as intriguing. Does it bother you that I look forward to being with you?”

Rou swallowed hard and, crossing her legs, turned the conversation back to her matchmaking rules. “Pippa was right. I do discourage my clients from sleeping together for the first five meets. After that, it’s up to them.”

“But why five dates, and why the need for any rules at all?”

“Sex changes the relationship, particularly for women. The majority of women feel emotionally involved from the point they make love. Men don’t internalize sex the same way. Abstinence levels the playing field.”

She thought he’d laugh, but instead his expression sobered. “Do you think sex will change the way you feel about me?” he asked quietly.

She opened her mouth, then shut it. “I … I don’t know. I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t ever felt close to a man after sex.” There, she’d said it. She shrugged a little to hide her discomfort and waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just regarded her with those intense gold eyes.

“I’m probably not the most experienced woman alive,” she continued, “but at the same time, I know enough to know how I respond … and …” Suddenly her courage was gone. She couldn’t find the words to say that she didn’t respond, that in bed, she didn’t feel. It was her own failure as a woman, and one she’d decided not to focus on as there were so many things she could do. But now that failing loomed large, and she was terrified of not just disappointing herself, again, but of disappointing him.

“Do you always sleep with a woman on a first date?” she asked abruptly.

“Do I always?” He appeared puzzled. “I rarely sleep with a woman on a first date. It’s not my thing.”

“Why? Men want sex—”

“And so do women, but it’s almost always better when you know someone a little bit, don’t you think?” He rose from his couch and crossed to where she sat. He surprised her by lifting her from her chair, taking her seat on the chair and then drawing her down onto his lap.

“There, that’s better,” he said. “It’s hard to talk about sex across the room from you.”

Rou stiffened, giving him her profile as she stared uncomfortably across the handsome room. His lap was hard beneath her thighs, and his body’s warmth penetrated the thin, silver organza skirt.

He laughed softly at her expression. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s—” she glanced at him from beneath her lashes “—awfully close.”

She felt rather than heard the laughter rumbling in his chest.

“It’s going to get closer, laeela,” he answered gravely, and yet she saw the warm gleam in his eyes, that look he gave her when he was fully aware and fully engaged.

He was enjoying himself. Her heart gave a lurch, and she knotted her hands into fists to try to stop them from shaking. “Perhaps we should just do it quickly,” she suggested breathlessly. “Get it over with so we can get on with the day.”

She felt the laughter rumble through him again, up through his broad chest and into his eyes and mouth. He was always gorgeous, so beautifully put together, but with the laughter warming his eyes and playing on his lips, he looked like an angel among mortals. How was a woman to resist such a man? Rou couldn’t tear her eyes from his face. It wasn’t fair that any man had such a face. It was a face that left even her weak. Her fingers itched to explore the striking planes and hollows. Those cheekbones, the straight slash of nose, and that mouth of his with the upper lip that curved so wickedly, so sensually promising, promising …

“Your expression is priceless,” he murmured as she continued her slow study.

She looked up into his eyes. “Is it?”

“Mmm. You look as if you can’t decide if you love me or loathe me.”

Blood rushed to her face. “I can assure you, it’s loathe, Your Highness.”

He had the gall to laugh.