Читать книгу Postcards From Paris: Bound by His Desert Diamond / Amorous Liaisons / The Secret to Marrying Marchesi - Sarah Mayberry, Amanda Cinelli - Страница 20

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A SMALL RECEPTION party had lined up to welcome Prince Zahir and his new wife when they arrived back at Medira Palace. As Zahir swept them through the massive doors, Anna forced herself to smile at everyone, especially when she saw Lana and Layla, standing on tiptoes trying to get a better look at them. They looked so excited it made her want to cry.

Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since their marriage ceremony, since they had stood side by side in the chapel in Dorrada and made their vows. But it had been long enough to spell out just what sort of a marriage it would be. Hollow and empty and desperately lonely. Long enough to firmly dash any hopes she might have foolishly fostered that they could ever be a real couple, come together as husband and wife, as lovers.

It was also a marriage where she was going to have to be constantly on her guard, hide her true feelings from Zahir. Because to show him even a glimmer of what was in her heart would be emotional suicide. She could hardly bring herself to examine the insanity of her own feelings, let alone expose them to the cold and cruel claws of her husband.

Her wedding night had been miserably sad, plagued by fitful dreams and long periods of wakefulness in a bed that had seemed increasingly empty as the hours of darkness had dragged by. Forcing herself to go down to breakfast this morning had taken all the will power she possessed but she’d known she had to face Zahir sometime. Somehow she had to cover up her broken heart. But as it turned out she’d been met, not by her husband, but with a note presented on a silver salver and written in Zahir’s bold hand, stating that she was to meet him at the airport in two hours’ time. That they would be flying back to Nabatean without delay. And that was it. No explanation as to where he had been all night, where he was now. No apology or excuses of any kind.

Because, as far as Zahir was concerned, she didn’t deserve any explanations. She was now his property—by dint of their marriage, he had effectively bought her, no matter how it had been dressed up with fancy ceremonies and profuse congratulations. Now she belonged to him, in the same way as a herd of camel or an Arabian stallion. Except she was of considerably less use. If she couldn’t satisfy him in bed, couldn’t give him an heir, then, other than the connection with Europe that came with her position, what purpose did she actually serve?

No doubt Zahir was wondering the same thing. No doubt that was the reason he hadn’t come to her bed last night and the reason he had totally ignored her on the flight to Nabatean, preferring the company of his laptop instead. The reason why his mood was as black as thunder as he briskly moved past the reception party and headed straight down the maze of corridors that lead to his private quarters.