Something chased across her angular face. Not need, not fear, but challenge.
He felt like the wild thing in her eyes had electrocuted him.
“You don’t have to chase me, Your Highness,” she said while she grabbed the small opening of her blouse with both hands. The rip of the thin cotton was like a tribal drum in the silence. “I surrender,” she said so softly and yet in a voice that carved through him.
The edges of her blouse fell away, exposing the curves of her plump breasts cupped in white silk, the dainty dip of her waist, flaring into hips he had anchored himself on so many times. The shadow of her dark nipples was barely hidden by the silk. Color streaked her cheeks, and her neck.
Slowly, he brought his gaze to her face, something in her stance dousing cold water on his need.
“You win,” she declared, and his ire rose slowly.
He didn’t want her like this, like spoils of a war he’d won. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said cornering her.
But this time, she didn’t step back. Stubborn chin held high, she stood her ground.
She pushed the blouse off her shoulders and reached for the hem of her skirt. “Should I shower and ready myself for you or do you need instant gratification? You want to have me here or on the bed?”
The breath knocked out of him as if someone had jammed a fist in his throat.
“Enough, Lauren.”
“No. This is what you are turning me into. Tucked away in this palace, cut off from the world, waiting on tenterhooks, wondering if you’ll see me again…wondering what my child’s place is going to be in your world…”
“I would love her or him more than anything in the world.” He heard the words after he spoke them, realizing the truth.
Something flashed in her gaze before she drove it away. “But you will treat his mother as if she were disposable?
“It was wrong to hide the truth from you, I admit it.
“But you…you decided, from the beginning, that this is all I’m good for. So let’s do it the proper way.”
She moved toward the chaise longue and pushed away the myriad of colorful pillows from it. “Do you want me to face you or the other way around? Or would you prefer me on my knees?”
He flinched. “Cover yourself.”
When she stood like that brazenly, he picked up a velvet throw.
She trembled at his touch, so stiff and tensed like a stretched bow, teetering on the edge, and yet determined to fight this. Determined to fight him and herself.
Dirty, was that what this was? Was that what he had made of them?
In that moment, he fought that loneliness, that craving for her body, that yearning to lose himself in her arms, this struggle his father must have fought with himself and lost, turning his mother into a whore in the eyes of her family, her tribe and the world, turning Zafir into an orphan.
And Zafir won.
He would never become a slave to his body’s needs. He would not ruin Lauren’s life, the mother of his child’s life, simply because he wanted something he couldn’t have.
Without another glance at her, he walked away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bear with the prison until the baby is here, until I can ensure your safety. We will discuss it again. I will not give up on my child, however.
—Zafir
LAUREN STARED AT the careless scrawl on the softest paper printed with the seal of the Al Masood house for the thousandth time. Farrah’s voice across the sitting room sounded far away as she pushed out a shaky breath.
Only one thought lingered since she’d seen him a week ago.
If she had saved herself from a fate she loathed—becoming his mistress—why did it feel as if she had lost him all over again?
At least, he was willing to reevaluate, the first sign of which had been when she’d been informed that she could visit the famous open bazaar that she’d been dying to go to since day one.
She’d stupidly assumed Zafir was coming.
Foolish Lauren.
Instead, armed with a maid and three guards, she’d set off, eager to be out of the palace.
It had been dusty, crowded, hot and a glorious sensory whir of spices and sounds, unlike anything she had ever seen.
Colorful, sprawling tents and shops set up on both sides of a long, winding street sold handwoven scarves, authentic handicrafts, antique hookahs, thick syrupy dates that Lauren had washed down with cold mint sherbet, set against the backdrop of the redbrick buildings that were centuries old.
Every step she took, she wished Zafir was there, showing her the sights, mocking her when she refused to try a new dish.
Laughing, she had haggled for five minutes over an intricately designed antique silver bracelet, aware that she was being fleeced as a foreigner.
Until the youngest and the nicest of her guards, Ahmed, had chivalrously interfered and it became obvious to the street vendor and the crowd around her that she wasn’t just any tourist.
The sudden silence that had emerged amid the ruckus had been so unnerving.
She was the sheikh’s mistress, an instant spectacle drawing curiosity, disgust and even pity in some generous eyes. In the blink of an eye, she’d understood why Zafir confined her to the palace.
Noticing Farrah’s worried face, Lauren got up from the recliner. “What’s going on?”
“There are two women going into labor right now. One family is high powered and I’ll have to attend her at her house. The other one’s in a village that borders the city. The other ob-gyn is out of town and her husband won’t let her see male doctors.”
She pulled her phone from her handbag and made another call.
“Any luck?” Lauren asked.
Farrah shook her head.
It was as simple as her next breath for Lauren. “I’ll attend the other one.”
Farrah’s gaze flew to Lauren, relief dancing in it. Until she was shaking her head again. “Zafir would never allow it. And I can’t even ask because he left this morning to visit the States. I—”
“That’s absurd. We’re talking about a woman who needs medical attention. Are you going to let your fear of Zafir dictate her fate? I’ll take Ahmed with me and hopefully will be back tomorrow morning at the worst. Come on, Farrah. I’ll lose my mind sitting here, knowing I could help.”
Farrah studied her for several heart-stopping seconds. “Have you delivered before?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” Farrah said with a sigh. “But please, please be careful, yes? She’s had a smooth pregnancy so far, so there shouldn’t be any complications.” She tugged Lauren’s hands into hers. “Lauren, this woman, the tribe to which she belongs to, they don’t…consider themselves part of Behraat, her husband—he’s been defying their rules to bring her to the clinic—”
“Doesn’t mean they don’t deserve medical attention.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Farrah smiled. “Just be careful. Zafir will skin me alive if anything happens to you.” But it was clear that her mind was already on the task in hand. “The moment I’m free, I’ll be at the clinic.”
Adrenaline spurring her into action, Lauren nodded. For the first time in so many weeks, she felt a sense of purpose.
While Farrah made another call, Lauren crammed energy bars and bottles of water, and a loose cardigan into her backpack. Then she changed into a freshly laundered white kaftan and loose cotton trousers, also in white, as it was the best fabric for the heat. She braided her hair tightly and wrapped a silk scarf loosely around her hair and neck. Catching Farrah’s curious gaze, she stilled. “I don’t want to draw attention to myself.” She patted her hand over her not-so-flat tummy. “Do I look—?”
“Yes.” Farrah answered without hesitation. “But pregnant or not, American or not, you’re not average. No wonder Zafir lost his head over you.”
Something in her tone tugged at Lauren.
Within minutes, they were walking out of Zafir’s private quarters, through the marble-tiled corridors. A state-of-the-art elevator brought them to the underground parking lot where a man in uniform was waiting next to a rugged jeep that she only saw in Survivor-type shows.
Checking to see that the medical file Farrah had emailed downloaded onto her phone, she climbed into the jeep.
“No wonder he lost his head over you.” She clutched Farrah’s words to her heart foolishly and waited for the envoy to leave.
* * *
Zafir closed the door to his office, bone-tired after his four-day trip to the United States to discuss a new treaty regarding Behraat’s oil supply to the Western nation.
His first official trip abroad and all he had heard was: stability in their region of the world, and Behraat’s particular lack of it in the past three years. About all the feathers Tariq had ruffled since his father’s coma.
For a blistering cowardly moment, Zafir had indulged in not returning. And just as soon discarded the fanciful notion.
He needed to pick a side in the divisive High Council, needed to pick one of their daughters they paraded like horses under his nose for his bride and be done with it.
Behraat needed it. He as the High Sheikh needed to show stability, his commitment as a ruler to both his people and the outside world.
But all he thought of was Lauren, her soft mouth and her mewling moans and her trembling body. The tears on her proud face, the regret in her expression when she had admitted that she’d been wrong…