She had fallen in love with Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej. If her mother’s love for her father had been a mistake, Amalia’s was a blunder of epic proportions.
They had spent two weeks under the same roof, working and talking and arguing and yet, today, the intimacy of their shared suite seemed to scrape her raw.
“There’s a first-aid box in my bathroom,” she said, not meeting his gaze. She wanted to escape his dark glare and examine her newfound feelings in the privacy of her bedroom. “I’ll take care of it. Good night, Zayn.”
“Sit down on that chaise.” He ordered her around as if she were three years old.
Finally, it sparked her temper again. “I’m not a child.”
“Then stop cowering like one. I’ve never hit a woman before, however furious she might make me. No, that’s not true. I’ve never met a woman who made me this furious and worried, and I’ve known a few women in my life.”
The last thing she wanted was to hear about the women in his life.
She pushed off from the wall, intending to reach her room come what may. “I said I’ll take care of—”
In one sweeping movement, Zayn picked her up.
Amalia gasped.
His long fingers pressed into her rib cage, the knuckles grazing the underside of her breast and she lost all the will to fight in one swooping breath. His shoulders were like a wall of steel under her arm, his mouth unyielding and harsh, like the desert land of his ancestors.
Not his, their, ancestors. For the first time in her life, Amalia wanted to own her heritage, to belong to the same world that had made this man.
Of all the men in the world, how had she fallen for this hard, aloof man? A man who had ruthlessly decided that he would naturally take a mistress after he had sons. A man who decided that he could not open himself even to his wife.
Much as she would’ve preferred it otherwise, she had fallen in love with the sheikh, and Amalia knew she couldn’t have just the man, Zayn.
Her fingers tightened around his nape; she hid her face in his chest. The scent of him filled her nostrils, the warmth of the man twisting the longing in her chest tighter.
The depth of her need frightened her.
He deposited her with a surprising gentleness that belied the dark scowl on his face, on the chaise longue. “If you value your independence, Amalia, you will not use that tart tongue on me today.”
“Or what, you’ll lock me up and ship me back to Khaleej like a disgrace? Build that jail cell for me next to Aslam’s?”
Hands on his lean hips, he towered over her. Since he’d marched onto the roof, Amalia looked at him properly for the first time. Deep grooves settled on the sides of his mouth, and her heart ached.
All six foot four inches of muscle and aggression and forceful will towered over her, his battle to keep his temper under control clear in his tight mouth. And instead of being angry or afraid, her heart pumped faster, her blood sang.
Passion, she wanted his passion, too...
Just then, he hadn’t sounded in control. She’d never seen him in such a dangerous mood. Was he still worried about her because he counted himself responsible for her? Or was that emotion in his tone more personal?
Before she could get her muddled thoughts under control, he returned with the first-aid box. Her breath knocked into her throat when he knelt at her feet and pulled her leg onto his muscled thigh. His black trousers pulled up, delineating the hard strength of his thighs.
She jerked at the clench of his muscle under her foot, at the sensations pouring through her at that simple contact. Hurriedly, she shuffled her toes away from reaching up toward his groin. “Zayn, I can manage this.”
Thick black hair gleamed, her fingers tingling to run through it. To learn every inch of his hard body, to share an intimacy she’d never wanted before. “For both our sakes, I suggest you put away that headstrong, stubborn independence of yours for the night, Amalia. You will not find me manageable like the other men you—”
“Suggest? You never suggest. You command, order...you... And just because Massi respects my opinion does not mean he’s less of a man than you are, you arrogant ass.”
He looked up then, a ferocious blaze in his golden-brown eyes. But instead of calling her mouth tart, or her attitude offensive, he said, “I am what I have to be, Amalia. I will never be a sensitive or a tender man, neither will I act civilized when the woman I want sneaks away to be in another man’s arms.”
And just like that, he stole away the ground from under her. And the breath from her lungs. And the last of her will from her.
With gentle fingers that belied his explosive mood, he pulled the offending four-inch heel off her foot. “Why do you wear them if you’re not used to them? You’re tall enough for me without heels anyway.”
“Not everything I do or wear is to make myself perfect for you,” she threw at him, fighting the little burst of pleasure in her chest.
When his fingers lifted the hem of her dress higher above her knees, Amalia froze. “What are you doing? Don’t...lift my dress like that.”
The broad line of his shoulders tensed. “Move forward and roll your pantyhose down slowly. The blood’s already crusted and it’s going to sting.”
She reached for the hem of her dress and then looked at Zayn. Her breath came hard and shallow, coated with the scent of him. “Turn around.”
The very devil lurked in his eyes. “I have seen women’s legs and more before.”
“You have not seen mine.” No man had seen hers.
His head cocked, the sinful curve of his mouth a dare. “I have noticed that they go on and on and have had dreams about them. Especially how they would look and feel wrapped around my hips while I—”
Amalia rocked forward, her entire body shuddering with heat. “Please... Zayn.”
Long fingers reached up to her cheek and stroked. “You’re really that shy.” He stated it with the confidence of a man who had known her for years. “I have not met a beautiful woman who did not know her worth or who didn’t take complete advantage of her looks.”
“I was taught the opposite. My mother pleaded with me relentlessly not to make much of my beauty, to make sure I found a man who didn’t think of owning me as much as he loved me... That in her case, it had turned out to be a curse that attracted the wrong kind of man. She...”
He tugged her hand into his. “Amalia, you know that—”
“I know,” she whispered back. “She loved me, Zayn, and she wanted me to be happy. But yes, I realize now that she probably lost all objectivity when it came to men and matters of love. But you see, I started working as soon as possible. I neither had the time nor the energy for a social life, and Massi and my mom ended up being the total of my world.”
A tightness descended on his face, a dark glitter in his eyes. He looked dangerous, almost savage. “I do not want to talk about Massi anymore.” His thumb traced the plump vein on her wrist. “At some point you have to move out of her shadow and begin living, Amalia.”
He stood up and went to the small kitchenette the suite had while she wiggled her hands under her dress and started pulling the sheer material down.
Just as he had predicted, the material clung to her cut when it came to her knees. A small gasp fell from her mouth. Again, Zayn appeared at her knees, put one large hand on her thigh and tugged with the other hand hard.
The material came away with a tearing sound and Amalia felt the prickle of tears. She bent her head while Zayn pulled the tights all the way down. Then with gentle fingers, he cleaned the cut, dabbed antiseptic cream on.
His arrogant head bent over her in concern, a rush of emotions surged through Amalia. The gash had been pretty small in the scheme of things but it had been so long since someone had looked after her with such thoroughness. Not since she had gone to live with her mother.
It was as if that small act of tenderness had unlocked a memory she had completely blocked out.
Her father had always been protective of her, even as he’d encouraged her to be more playful and Aslam, who was the opposite to her in temperament, to employ more caution.
Overnight, Amalia had become the stable one, the parent in the relationship. She’d buried the hurt over how easily her father had abandoned her; the ache she felt to be with Aslam again erected a shell around herself so that she could move forward.
Had she stopped living that day, too?
No, she’d done that later, after seeing her mother grieve day after day, pine over her father year after year. Hardened herself so much that she’d refused to even talk to her father when Aslam nudged her. She’d done nothing that could hurt her like that, taken no chances.
But something inside her roared, If not now, when? When would she live? Was she willing to give up this time with Zayn, knowing that she might never have another such chance?
At that moment Amalia couldn’t care less if he was right for her or not, or that he was exactly the kind of man she’d sworn she’d never fall for...or that when these few months were over, and he had no use for this charade or her, he would simply remove her from his life...or the worst, that he would just go back to his damn Ms. Young and those candidates for his brides...no future with him.
All she wanted was to feel his touch, to feel like the woman she was supposed to be, to live her life away from the shadow of her mother’s own love story.