The Marriage Deal Page 7

  “Yes.”

  “You’re cross?”

  I sigh, standing. “No.”

  “Then what…”

  “I have a country to run.” The words are unintentionally sharp. I soften them with effort. “I can’t hide out here in the desert indefinitely, Amy.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It’s been two nights. You said we’d come for three.”

  “Do you want to stay here another night?” I prompt, knowing pride will stop her from answering in the affirmative.

  Sure enough, her eyes drop to the bed, her teeth gnawing at her lower lip. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

  Amy

  The desert has been a reprieve. An oasis in every sense of the word, a break from the hatred I swore I’d always feel for Zahir. A hatred that’s a part of my soul, because of what he did to my dad. I wish I didn’t feel it. I realise, as he drives us away from the tent in the middle of nowhere, that I want to like my husband. On some level, I do like him, but when I think of dad, it all disappears. I can’t forgive him, and I need to remember that. My hands clasp tight in my lap once more.

  He’s tense too. The further we get from the tent in the desert, the more I feel his mood changing, his hands tightening on the wheel until his knuckles are white. When the palace is in sight, still a geometric shape on the distant horizon, my phone begins to buzz.

  I open my bag, lifting it out to see a slew of phone notifications – several voicemails. I click into one, and gasp when I hear my dad’s voice.

  “Amy, what in God’s name have you done? Tell me the news has somehow got it wrong? You said you were in Europe, not Qabid. And to have thrown yourself into the orbit of someone like him? Call me back, immediately. I need to know you’re all right.”

  My heart turns over in my chest at dad’s obvious concern.

  The next message is more of the same.

  The third is more frantic still. “Amy, I have no idea where you are. Not at the palace, I gather, so where? Nobody knows. I’m worried. Call me.”

  I hang up the phone quickly, all the heat draining from my face.

  “What is it?”

  How does Zahir know? How can he tell something’s wrong?

  I shake my head, anxiety making it impossible to tell him. “How long until we’re back?”

  He looks towards the horizon. “Twenty minutes.”

  I nod uneasily. I’ll call him once we’ve arrived. In private, so I can explain.

  “Amy?”

  I wait silently.

  “You’re a terrible liar. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” I murmur. “It’s just –,”

  “Yes?”

  “Dad.” I sigh heavily. “He’s heard about our wedding.”

  “As I would have expected.”

  My jaw drops. “I honestly thought we’d have a bit longer.”

  “Why? You’re familiar with how events like this are covered in the press.”

  “Maybe, but I thought…our wedding was so small, so quick. No fanfare, no photos.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m the Sheikh of Qabid.”

  “You should have told me,” I groan weakly.

  “I was under the impression you were aware of my position,” he responds with a tight smile.

  I don’t return it.

  “It didn’t occur to me. I’m not used to this.” Stupid, stupid me. “You called me naïve. Turns out you were right.”

  His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I should have discussed this with you. I apologise.”

  It’s the last thing I expect him to say. I turn to face Zahir as he looks at me, and something powerful lurches in my abdomen.

  “He had to find out at some time.”

  “I guess I just imagined breaking it to him myself,” I mutter.

  “Would it have helped?”

  “If I could have softened the blow with the news that he could return to Qabid,” I point out.

  Zahir’s expression is inscrutable and the air between us has changed. Neither of us speaks again. The palace is surrounded by a huge fence on all sides. He approaches a gate heavily marked by guards, and three of them step forward to inspect the car. When they see Zahir behind the heavily tinted windows, the gates open and he drives through, up the sweeping drive, past pomegranate trees on one side and green grass on the other. At the east gate, he cuts the engine, but doesn’t step out. Instead, he turns to look at me, a frown on his face.

  “What do you want?”

  I blink, unsure how to answer that.

  “It has become clear to me that you are not – and would never be – complicit in your father’s treasonous behaviour. I will not tar you with that brush, azeezi. So tell me what will make our marriage tolerable for you.”

  My heart skips a beat. His statement touches something buried deep in my soul and suddenly I’m swallowing past a lump in my throat. I’m a jumble of emotions. I’m flattered. Glad. Delighted that he sees me as I really am, but mostly, importantly, I’m defensive of dad. This man’s constant condemnation of my father is unfair and I have to remember that. Steeling myself to resist the attraction humming between us, I fix him with a direct stare.

  “I’ve told you already.”

  His jaw tightens, his eyes stirring with some emotion I don’t compute.

  I brush aside my doubts, needing to push home my point. “I married you for him, Zahir. All I want is for dad to return to Qabid. He’s old, and his health has been poor for a long time.” My voice wobbles. “I don’t know how long he has left but I do know he’s no threat to you. I will vouch for him with my life. Whatever you think him capable of, you’re wrong.” His eyes clash with mine. “You don’t know him.”

  His lips twist with a weary cynicism. “You’re sure about that?”

  I frown, not sure why he keeps digging in on this point. “Positive.” I reach out, putting a hand on his thigh. “My dad’s not capable of hurting a bug, let alone a human being. And he doesn’t want your damned throne, he just wants to come home and live his life.”

  A muscle jerks low in his jaw, and before I can pull my hand away, he presses his to the top of it. “And this is all you want of me and our marriage? To bring your father here?”

  I blink up at him, losing a part of myself then, needing to admit to both of us that I want so much more. I feel his inner-battle, that he’s wrestling with himself about what he’s going to say next, his features implacable. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you right now.”

  I blink at him, frustration swirling through me. “Here?” I jack my thumb to the car window.

  “Anywhere.”

  I drop my eyes, unable to meet his inquiring gaze. “I want to hate you.”

  The words hang between us, a challenge and a promise. A proclamation of feelings I’m struggling to grab hold of.

  “But you don’t.” He lifts my face to his, his eyes scanning mine. I swallow, wishing I could lie. Instead, I stare at him, and a second later, he’s kissing me as though he has no choice, his mouth hard on mine, just like at our wedding, his hand curving behind my head to hold me there, his tongue duelling with mine so I surrender completely, lifting a hand to his shirt and bunching my fingers in the fabric.

  “Zahir,” I groan, pushing his name from my mouth to his. “God, Zahir, why here?”

  He wrenches himself away from me to stare down at me.

  “In the desert you could have – we could have –,”

  He pulls back, his lips grim as he regards me for several long, slow seconds. “You are not the only one having to fight yourself, Amy. Do you think I want to feel this for you?” He turns to look out of the windscreen, his features tight. “Our marriage is far from straightforward.”

  “It can be,” I murmur. “We just can’t lose sight of the reasons for marrying.”

  “Right,” he nods crisply, his mode suddenly business-like. “To bring your father home. And I married you to quell a civil uprising that threatens the peace
in our mountain regions. I cannot achieve my end until I’m assured of your loyalty, which brings us neatly back to the arrangement we’ve already forged. One month, habibti. Not a day sooner.”

  As the days stretch into nights which give way to days I’m convinced he’s punishing me by staying away. I haven’t seen Zahir in eight nights – not even a glimpse. And with every hour that passes, my temper increases, so on the ninth day, I’m fuming. How dare he ignore me like this?

  I thought we’d forged some kind of connection in the desert, but apparently not. Apparently, all that happened was that my opinion of him softened to the point that I actually started to like him. Which feels like a monumental disaster.

  It is a monumental disaster.

  This man destroyed my father’s life. And for what? A mistaken belief that dad was involved in some kind of plot to overthrow the government? It’s a stupid, fanciful mistake. At best, I can only presume Zahir was given the wrong information, at worst, I blame him for removing my father from Qabid because he was paranoid. The ‘why’, though, doesn’t really matter. The end result was the same: my father’s life was ruined as a result of Zahir’s actions. He was reduced to living in poverty, his sense of purpose and identity destroyed. I lived with the consequences of that, of seeing my father like a shell for most of his life.

  So feeling attracted to my husband is bad enough, but it’s infinitely worse that I let him make me laugh. That I listened to his stories with a smile on my face, as though we were in some kind of romance novel instead of a politically-charged marriage with the highest stakes I can imagine.

  Compressing my lips, I move across the room, dressing without paying any attention to what I’m doing, simply stepping into the outfit Aliya has laid out for me. It’s beautiful and soft against my skin, a pale blue tunic with wide-legged pants, each embroidered with the gold thread that seems to be standard on all of my outfits. At the waist, there’s a ribbon made of fine gauze. I tighten it, catching my reflection as I neaten the bow.

  Surprise filters through me.

  I look…like a princess. My hands lift to my hair, running over its soft blonde lengths, twirling it back into a low bun, needing it off my nape in deference to the heat of this country. I’m half Qabidi but I don’t look it. How ironic that I’m someone who can bring some kind of stability to regions of this country, despite the fact I appear to carry none of its blood in my veins. But I do, I remind myself forcefully. Not only am I my father’s daughter, I’m now married to the Sheikh.

  Cooling my heels in my elegantly furnished, overly luxurious royal apartments has been how I’ve spent the last eight days – I refuse to have another day like this.

  With a grimace fuelled by determination, I move to the door of my suite. I’m used to the fact I have a guard stationed there permanently. Sweeping the door in, I address him formally. “Please have a car prepared. I’d like to leave the palace.”

  Surprise is unmistakable but he covers it swiftly. “Certainly, your highness. I shall notify Aliya.”

  Damn it. I’d prefer not to have Aliya forming any part of this plan, but I suppose matters concering my logistics must go through her. “Fine,” I grit my teeth, determined that the means justify the ends. “Tell her not to delay. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

  Zahir

  “Where exactly does she want to go?” I wonder at the beating in my chest at this unexpected pronouncement, Aliya showing indignation at the turn of events.

  “She didn’t say, your excellency. It was, as I understand it, a brief communication.”

  Frustration is now my constant companion. It’s worst at night, when I lie in my bed and imagine her in hers, so much worse now that I know what she looks like in slumber, her sweet lips parted, her eyes swept shut, her cheeks pink from the heat, her arms thrown over her head as her hair falls any way it will. It’s easy for me to imagine her gently curved legs, pale and creamy, her flat stomach and neat waist, the soft cotton pyjamas she favours. Every morning since returning from the desert I’ve woken with an insatiable need for Amy, so that despite having promised her there is no longer a harem in Qabid I’ve wanted to reinstate some of the ancient protocols, to have some trusted servant bring me a lover from my past, a discreet, trustworthy woman to make love to until I forget all about my wife. It wouldn’t work though. It’s not ‘any woman’ I want, nor a lover from my past. It’s my wife, all Amy.

  Every day I deny my instincts, my temper fraying incrementally, my impatience becoming dire. I feel it disintegrating now, biting back a harsh retort Aliya doesn’t deserve. I stand instead, pacing across my office, picking up a small silver cup filled with sticky, black coffee. I drink it, the golden crema bitter, the hit energizing.

  “Leave it with me. I’ll handle it.”

  Amy

  Half an hour after issuing my first directive as Emira of Qabid, there’s a knock at my door. Excitement crests in my belly. I don’t know why it’s taken me over a week to wake up to the fact that I can do whatever the hell I want. He can choose to ignore me, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here, and that I have a right to live my life. I refuse to be some convenient bride he’s married to bring about peace – and then forgotten exists!

  I move to the door, pulling it inwards with a smile on my face. A smile that dies when I see who’s standing on the other side.

  Zahir.

  My chest clutches when confronted with the image he makes – so regal and hyper-masculine in a white robe, his eyes glittering when I meet them.

  “Good morning.”

  I have to swallow to bring moisture back to a bone-dry mouth. “Zahir. What are you doing here?”

  “May I come in?”

  I stiffen my spine and nod slowly. “Fine. But I don’t have long. I’ve made plans for the day.” Being able to say that brings a rush of pleasure. My independence is something I must guard fiercely.

  The entrance to my suite is grand and marbled; just beyond it there’s a sitting room. I gesture to the sofas, but stay standing, bracing myself for his proximity with every bone in my body.

  Southern manners are ingrained. “Would you like a coffee?”

  He doesn’t respond at first, his eyes simply stalk my face as though there’s an answer to an equation buried in my features. My cheeks grow warm beneath the intensity of his stare and I hate that. Such a small and involuntary gesture, yet so betraying.

  “No coffee.” His eyes narrow; heat spreads through my entire body. “Aliya informs me you wish to go out?”

  I expel an angry breath. “I should have known she’d come tattling to you.”

  He frowns. “Tattling?”

  “Dobbing. Reporting my every move.” I roll my eyes, stalking across the room simply to use up some of my angry energy.

  “This is her job.”

  “To keep tabs on me?” Outrage fires my blood.

  “At times, yes. Did you honestly think you could leave the palace without my knowledge?”

  “Your permission, you mean?”

  I spin around in time to see his head dipping in agreement. Our eyes meet and it’s as though flame has been ignited between us.

  “What do you want me to say, Amy? Our marriage is less than two weeks old, you are a stranger in my kingdom, and my palace, and with a lot of mistrust between my people and you. So, yes. There is a period of adjustment as staff work out how to treat you.”

  “So you’re saying the restrictions are temporary? I’m on some kind of excursion probation? That once I’ve proved to you and the world I’m not here to make trouble I’ll be allowed to do something as simple as go out on my own?”

  “Not on your own,” he corrects.

  My eyes narrow.

  “You are my Emira,” he reminds me darkly. “A Queen, with power and money most people can only imagine.”

  “And yet I can’t even organise a car for myself,” I contradict. “That doesn’t feel so powerful.”

  “You’re being deliberately difficult.
”

  I shake my head. “On the contrary, Zahir. I’m doing everything you asked of me. I’m not making trouble, am I? I’m keeping to myself, not bothering you or anyone. This was a simple request. I have cabin fever, and just want to get out and explore.”

  “Where exactly did you plan on going?”

  The question stumps me. I spin away from him, hoping he won’t recognise the consternation on my features. “Anywhere.”

  Silence.

  I risk a glance at him to find his expression not at all what I expected. “Fine,” he nods. “Then let’s go.”

  My lips part on a soft whoosh of air. “What did you say?” Surely I’ve misheard. He’s a Sheikh, with far too much to do than play tour guide to me.

  “I will take you.”

  “Take me where?”

  He considers that. “You said you wanted to see the caves in the Al-hasina mountains?”

  I nod, floored that he remembers such a small detail from a throwaway conversation about my love of history.

  “Then let’s do it together.”

  I’m torn. From when I was a little girl, I’ve heard stories about these ancient caves, my hunger to see them weaved through my being. But with him? “You must be too busy for this.”

  “Must I be?”

  My heart skips a beat. “Zahir…”

  “Amy?”

  Another beat, and another. What if my heart stops beating permanently?

  I shake my head. “This isn’t what I intended.”

  “You just said you want to see them?”

  I shake my head in frustration. “That’s not what I mean. I do want to see the mountains, but –,” My voice trails off into nothingness.

  “Not with me.”

  “I don’t mean that.” I’m surprise by my desire not to offend him.

  “No?” Did he move closer or did I? It must have been me. A moment ago I was by the windows and now I’m only a step away from him. How did that happen? It’s as though a magnetic force has propelled me forward.

  I frown, my forehead crinkling. “I just wanted a day on my own. Away from here. This.”