The Marriage Deal Page 20

  He steps back, staring at me, his eyes moving from the crown on my head to the necklace at my throat, to the sash, and lower, to the golden tip of my shoes, before returning to my eyes. I’m breathless and dizzy from the inspection.

  “Well?”

  His smile is curt. “You look like my Emira.” He lifts his arm, a question inherent in the gesture. I stare at him, skittled by this. I have to touch him. Of course I do. We’re a married couple and the attendees of this dinner will expect us to behave like one. Tentatively, as though I’ve never touched him before in my life, I lift my hand, slowly inching towards him until my hand is over his. His eyes meet mine and I feel an arc of electricity pass between us, setting me on fire.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  The same man who brought the sash moves to the doors, knocking on them three times, loudly. A moment later, they’re drawn inwards, and a room is revealed that is more grandiose than any I could have imagined. Golden walls filled with life sized paintings that must be centuries old, two long tables down the centre each dressed in white cloths and filled with tabletop chandeliers and elegant floral arrangements, fine china and crystal glasses. There must be at least a hundred people assembled, all dressed in the most elegant, formal clothes, all looking at us.

  This is what he brought me here for.

  Flashes go off, our photos are taken. I paste a smile to my face, hoping that the lens doesn’t capture the sadness of my heart.

  Naturally we sit beside one another, at the head of the room, but we are not alone. The Prime Minister of a neighbouring country sits to Zahir’s other side and the prime minister’s wife to mine, so I can plausibly ignore my husband for much of the night by engaging her in conversation. Fortunately, she is easy to talk to and clearly thrilled with my attention. I can’t entirely ignore Zahir though. I am conscious of him at all times. I hear his voice as he speaks to the Prime Minister, and I listen to the tones, if not the words, allowing them to reach inside of me and placate something that has been broken by our time apart. Beneath the table, when he shifts, his leg occasionally brushes mine, jolting me out of my own conversation, rushing me with an awareness that is purely sensual, and absolutely urgent. Memories flood through me. His weight on mine, his legs pinning me to the bed, his strength and power. By the end of the dinner, I’m completely frazzled. There are speeches throughout the evening but Aliya was wrong – I don’t find them boring, so much as necessary. They give me time to come to terms with this – being here beside him, to rationalise away my desire, to remind myself that we’ve been lovers and now we’re not, so it’s normal to still feel attracted to him. That’s all this is. Lust. Nothing more than chemistry, just like he said so early on. That’s all our marriage ever had going for it, he just called it better than I could.

  At the conclusion of the formal part of the night, Zahir stands and the room follows. Again he lifts his arm, silently inviting me to take it, and I brace for the same assault on my senses as earlier. Only I could never adequately prepare for this. It’s as though the exposure to him all night has heightened my need for him, so the second I curve my fingers over his I am jolted out of time and space. I am jolted through the entire record of our experiences together, flashes of us in the desert, of us in his room, my room, together, apart, it all clarifies in my mind and my eyes flare to his, loaded, I have no doubt, with the intensity of my feelings.

  We return to the banquet room, but it has been filled now with a band and the lights are dim.

  “Dance with me.”

  It sounds like a command but I know Zahir now. There’s a question there too. If I shake my head, he’ll accept my response. He’s waiting, watching. Desire pulls on me. Need, too. After tonight, I will go back to the apartment in the city and resume my solitary existence. I will go back to the bedroom there, alone, destined to lie and stare at the ceiling, remembering a time when I thought I was falling in love and that perhaps that love wasn’t impossible.

  Loneliness is buffering me, on all sides, waiting for me to sink back into it, but first, there is this and there is him. Selfishly, I nod. Selfish, because I know the impossibility of being with him and yet I’ll take what I can get – this one illicit dance, a memory to add to my collection, a closeness that will restore some life to my soul.

  “One dance,” I underscore, my voice husky, my eyes holding a warning.

  He presses his hand to the small of my back, drawing me to the dance floor. The room is packed with the dinner guests, but they do not move to the dance floor. It’s just Zahir and me. I’m not nervous though. Awareness of him is the only thing I’m conscious of.

  In the middle of the room, he pulls me close. The band begins to play, a slow song, traditional Qabidi music with flute and strings, beautiful and stirring. Zahir’s body is rigid, strong, broad, powerful. I wonder if we should be dancing like this – so close and intimate – at a state event. Surely there’s a more appropriate hold than clinging to one another as though our lives depend on it? But I have already decided to be selfish.

  A flash goes off and I realise the photographers are here too.

  Realisation splits through the moment.

  This is a perfect opportunity to show the world how unified we are – how truly happy. What a joke. Zahir has stage-managed this for his own political ends, just as everything about our marriage was stage-managed. And fake.

  Foolish tears threaten. I am glad for our closeness now, glad he can’t see my face, the shock and hurt here. He holds me close and we continue to dance. More people join us, filling the floor in a trickle and then a wave, so we are fully surrounded. The song ends and I pull away, still within the circle of his arms but far enough to look up at him.

  “Is that all you need?”

  A frown flickers on his face, like he doesn’t understand.

  “May I leave now?”

  Impatience is obvious in his eyes.

  “You’ve got what you wanted, right? A show of unity? Photos for the press? Can I go home now?”

  “This is your home.”

  “You know what I mean,” I demur. “Home. Away. Not here.”

  His eyes lance mine, and then he nods, once. “Wait a moment.” Again his hand reaches the small of my back. He guides me towards the doors at the side, where he says something to a guard. He speaks into his wrist and just like that the music stops.

  “I would like to thank you all for attending. Our friendship is important, our alliance long and guided by a mutual desire for peace and economic stability and nights like this remind us of our common interests and respect. Good night.”

  The room applauds, and bows, but Zahir tuns quickly, ushering me through the doors and into the hallway.

  “You didn’t have to leave as well,” I say with consternation. “I could have just slipped out.”

  “Amy, you’re not just a guest, a footnote. You’re the guest of honour. It’s not possible for you to ‘slip out’.”

  I stare at him, surprised by that characterisation, but deciding it’s not worth arguing about. “Okay, fine. Well, I told Aliya I’d leave after dinner so I’m sure my driver’s waiting.” I step back from him. “Good night.”

  He glares at me, something like anger in his eyes now. “You don’t have to go right away.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you just got here.”

  “I’ve been here hours,” I say with a shake of my head.

  “But I have barely spoken to you.”

  My heart lurches. He’s acting as though that matters to him. Maybe it does. Maybe he wants to know if I’ve seen dad, or spoken to him. Maybe this is part of his security requirements.

  “I don’t know anything about dad. I haven’t spoken to him since I left.”

  He stares at me in surprise. “I’m sorry to hear that. But why are you mentioning it now?”

  “In case that’s what you want to talk to me about. If you think I can give you any intel on him, I can’t. I don’t know any
thing.”

  He swears under his breath. “Come with me.”

  This time, it is most definitely a command, not a question. He looks at me for several seconds, and when I don’t respond, he steps forward and lifts me up, carrying me cradled against his chest as though I’m incapable of walking. I’m so shocked I don’t say anything for at least ten seconds, and by then we’ve exited the more public corridors of the palace and are in a hallway that leads to his office.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I wriggle against him in an attempt to free myself but he only tightens his grip, holding me in a vice now, and the more I move, the tighter his hold is. Desire bursts through me, a need stirred by his strength, dominance, closeness, physical proximity making me aware of him as a man in a thousand ways.

  “Put me down,” I grunt as he strides into his office and kicks the door shut. On the other side, in complete privacy, he does just that, and oh, how I regret it. I miss him instantly; my body is cold, my heart heavy. I’m a mess. Nothing makes sense, and no decision I make leads to an easing of my pain.

  “Are you seriously going to kidnap me to get me to stay?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

  “What more do you want from me? I did what you asked, didn’t I? I came here, I acted like your happy wife, I danced with you for the photographers. Doesn’t that tick all your boxes?”

  “The dance was nothing to do with the photographers and I’m sure you know that.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “You don’t think that after four and a half weeks apart from you I might have wanted to find any excuse I could to touch you like that? To hold you close to me?”

  I gasp, because it’s so close to my own feelings, yet I hadn’t expected it.

  “I don’t care about the damned photographers. I would have been much happier if there had been nobody to witness that dance, nobody to interrupt. I wanted only you, Amy.”

  My pulse is firing like crazy. My fingers are shaking as I find the lip of the sash and lift it carefully from my head, turning away from him as I fold it and place it on the edge of his desk.

  “Like you’ve said, the same desire hums through you as it does me. You also said that was enough to make some sort of marriage work, but I disagree.”

  I hear him moving towards me. “You have no idea how much I want to prove you wrong.”

  A soft moan escapes my lips because I want that too, but not as much as I want a real marriage, complete with not only desire but love as well.

  It reminds me of why I have to leave. Being pulled into the vortex of our sexual chemistry is easy, but it doesn’t obviate the truth of what I know I have to have. When the desire passes, I want more. More than he’ll ever give me. And that’s not his fault; I don’t think I can even be mad at him. The history of his family and mine is too knotty, too destructive, too negative. How could two people ever hope to overcome what’s happened between us?

  “It would be easy to give into that. We both feel it.” I turn to face him, forcing myself to be brave. “Since the first moment we met I have been overwhelmed with how much I want you, physically. There’s no sense denying it. But that’s not enough. Not for me.”

  He’s silent.

  “I get why it is for you,” I say softly, my heart breaking into pieces. “You need an heir, and you need peace with the factions who would support my father’s claims to the throne. Our marriage ticks every box for you. Sleeping with me gets you what you need.”

  “But it doesn’t for you?”

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  “What more do you want?”

  “Nothing you can give me,” I say, definitively.

  “Try me.”

  I laugh, but it’s a deranged sound, lacking amusement.

  “You wanted your father brought home and I did that.”

  “I wish you hadn’t,” I say with a shake of my head. “You know how much I regret asking that of you.”

  “I offered it willingly.”

  “Which just underscores my point – you need our marriage to work. You were willing to take a big gamble for the sake of this marriage and the heirs you hoped would result.”

  “Yes.”

  His agreement thunders through me.

  “Why does that anger you?” He pushes. “Why is it bad that our marriage makes such perfect sense?”

  I strangle back a sob. “I don’t want to be a part of a marriage that makes sense.”

  “You’d rather be a part of a marriage that makes no sense?”

  I glare at him. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Tonight was just…proof of how messed up this all is. Everything about us is fake. For show. For other people. My father, your people. Nothing’s real. And I want real. I want truth.”

  I don’t realise it until I’ve thrown the words at him but of course there’s a challenge there, an invitation. His lips crush down on mine, breaking me apart with their perfection and need. His tongue lashes mine, his body pressing me back onto the desk, so I feel every inch of him against me, his kiss stirring me to need everything he can give me.

  “Is this not truth?” He demands into my mouth, pressing his hips forward so I feel his arousal and groan, because he’s not wrong. There is truth in this, there is rightness here, but it’s not enough.

  “It’s just sex,” I groan, pushing at his chest, my eyes fighting him, needing him to understand. “Sex is not enough.”

  His chest moves with the intensity of his breathing, his cheeks are slashed with dark colour.

  “What will be enough for you, habibti?”

  “If you have to ask, it just shows how impossible any of this is.”

  “I’m not a damned mind reader, so tell me!”

  “I want everything! I want this to be real, okay? I want to be your wife because you want me. Not me, a Hassan. Not me, a baby incubator. Me, Amy, a woman you choose to have at your side. A woman you desire, sure, but more importantly, a woman you respect. A woman you love.” My voice cracks, but having started this I know I need to finish. “I hoped, for a time, that maybe, just maybe, that was possible. But it’s not, is it? Not after what my dad did to you. How could you ever love me, Zahir? How can you ever not hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you,” he says sharply, frowning, trying to unwrap my statement. “And I’ve already told you that almost from the first moment we met I have been able to separate you from your father’s acts.”

  My heart stammers then leaps, hope an unconquerable optimist. I hold my breath. But too much time passes. He doesn’t say anything else. There are no other assurances. He doesn’t have to say it, I hear the words anyway. He doesn’t love me, and never will.

  18

  Zahir

  I AM FILLED WITH A BLINDING light. Love? That’s not part of this! It never was. Amy’s words are like tiny bombs exploding through me. I have never sought her love. I don’t want it. I don’t want love to be any part of what we’re doing.

  I like her.

  And she’s wrong, I do respect her.

  But my only love is for my kingdom, my people. It’s the only way I know how to rule.

  “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”

  It’s the wrong thing to ask, obviously. Her heard jerks backwards, her eyes glinting in her face.

  “Oh, yes, I’m saying I love you, but don’t mistake me, there are times when I also really, really hate you too.”

  Despite everything, I want to smile at that, because it’s such a classic Amy response. Her fire is one of the things that first drew me to her. She has always spoken to me in a way that is unique, and I do love that.

  “How did this happen?”

  Her laugh is a tight sound that jars my spine. “I don’t know, Zahir. Don’t ask me. I just…fell in love with you.”

  “But…how? Why?” It makes no sense.

 
; She turns away from me and I resent it. I don’t want her to hide from me, to hide away from me.

  “Amy?” It’s a sharp demand.

  She doesn’t turn so I grab her hand, pulling on it, turning her back to face me. “I don’t want to upset you, I just need to understand so we can work through this.”

  “Work through this?” She shouts, her voice reverberating off the walls. “My loving you shouldn’t be – my God. I knew it was a long shot but I had no idea it would be such a problem for you.” She glares at me for several seconds then stalks towards the door. “I’m leaving. If you’re looking for a ‘just sex, no strings’ night of pleasure, why don’t you consider reinstituting the harem tradition? I’m sure there are any number of women who’d be happy to give you exactly the kind of relationship you want.”

  Her words fall between us like rocks, and then she’s gone. I let her go. I don’t fight her anymore. There’s too much to take on board, too much to comprehend, and I’m completely, utterly blindsided.

  Amy

  I cry as the car slides through the ancient city, the beautiful lights not holding my attention, nothing sinking in except the awful confrontation with Zahir. Damn it, why did I have to say anything to him?

  I didn’t have a choice. Seeing him again, it had all just bubbled over until I was hurling my feelings at his feet and expecting him to what exactly? Return them? I knew he wouldn’t, so was I doing it to push a barb between us, something we’d never be able to recover from? He’s been trying to find a middle ground – leaving me here in peace, to live on my own, only asking for my company when absolutely necessary. I’m the one who’s broken this. I’m the one who’s wanted too much, demanded too much. I’m the one who fell in love. Whatever the terms of our marriage were, I’m the only one who’s scratched at them until they no longer bore shape.