Pursued by the Desert Prince(25)

"This is..." There weren't words for the fantasy of draped silk and  tasseled pillows that surrounded her. Candles had been lit and an erotic  incense perfumed the air. A low table with cushions for chairs was set  with what looked like gold plates and cutlery. In the distance, music  from a lute began.

The bed was low and wide, draped with netting so it was a tent within a  tent, sumptuous in its bold colors and swirled patterns on silk sheets,  luxurious in its multitude of pillows.

"Where will you sleep?" she asked pointedly.

He gave her the look that said, Take care.

"Well, you're taking a lot for granted, aren't you? You may be a future  king, but I am not some harem girl you can order to your bed for the  night."

Listen to her, talking so tough when she might as well be a concubine  stolen by a barbarian for all the power she had here. And for all the  strength she had when it came to resisting him. She was already reacting  as she always did, hyperaware of his physique as he shrugged out of his  bisht and tossed it aside.

He wore a light thobe beneath and peeled off his gutra, running a hand  through his hair, letting go of his veneer the way she had often seen  him do when they entered a private space. He was shedding the future  king to reveal the man who captivated her.

"Have you ever been a harem girl?" he drawled. "If not, it should be a treat for you to try it. You can dance for me later."

She was standing near the door with her arms crossed, and did her best  to dice and slice him with her stare, but found herself fighting a  laugh. The bastard.

"Don't you dare act like this is funny. My brothers will be beside themselves."

"So will my father. What was that expression you used after your  sister's antics? Ah yes. They can grin and bear it." He slouched into  the only chair, one with wooden legs, sumptuously cushioned in blue  velvet with matching pads on the arms.

Oh, this banter felt familiar and inviting. Poignant. She wanted to let all the harsh edges between them soften.

She couldn't. He had hurt her and could again, so easily. She ducked her head, avoiding letting her gaze tangle with his.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Because my father wanted you removed from the palace." He indicated she  should move. She was in the way of the servants bringing food.

Forced to step deeper into the tent, she watched as dishes of fruit and  bowls of something that smelled rich and spicy were set out for them.  When they finished, they looked back at him for further instructions.

He sent them away with a flick of his wrist, as supremely arrogant as Angelique had ever seen him.

Tipping his head against his chair back, he watched her through eyes so narrow his lashes were a single black line.

She shifted her bare feet under the skirt of her dress. Her phone was  still in her hand, showing zero bars of coverage. He hadn't let her  pause for a scarf or sandals.

"I would make you my harem girl if I could. Keep you here. That's how my father started up with Fatina. This is her family."

"This is their tent?" She glanced at the bed, not sure how she felt about that.

"This is my mother's. She used it once when they were first married. She doesn't like the desert. I use it."

"Ah." Of course. She scratched beneath her hair where the back of her  neck was damp from perspiration. At least the sun was setting. The heat  was beginning to ease.         

     



 

"After me, my mother was reluctant to have another child. I don't judge  her for that. I watched Fatina go through several pregnancies and she  carries like she's made for the process, but it still looks cumbersome."

Cumbersome. How enlightened he sounded. She bit her lip against  interrupting with sarcasm. The way he was being so forthcoming had her  staying wisely silent, curious to hear how much he would tell her.

"When Fatina became pregnant, my father married her. If it was a son, he  wanted him born legitimate. An heir and a spare. Mother was incensed.  She promptly got herself pregnant with Hasna. She and Jamal are only a  year apart. That's why they were so close." He had his elbow propped on  the arm of his chair and smoothed the side of his finger against his  lips. "My father was ambivalent toward Hasna. Still is. He sees little  value in females. They are expensive."

"She's so sweet," she was compelled to say. "It's his loss he doesn't appreciate her."

"It is. And I often think that for all the nightmare his having two  wives has been, at least she had Fatina. Mother was quite content to  shuffle her newborn onto Number Two. The messy years of wiping noses and  offering affection. She enjoys Hasna's company now, but if mother had  raised her, we would have had two shrews terrorizing the palace, I'm  sure."

What a way to talk about his mother.

"If she was thrown over because she was afraid to go through childbirth  again, can you blame her for her jealousy? Does he love Fatina? That  must have been a blow to her, too."

"She didn't have to turn into what she did. After Jamal, she quietly fed  Fatina birth control pills for years. My father was furious when he  found out. He knew by then that Jamal would never-" Kasim's mouth  flattened, face spasming with anguish.

"He told me," she said, pulled forward a few steps on the silken rug  that covered the floor, then halted and curled her toes against the cool  material. Jamal wouldn't marry and produce an heir. That's what he had  been about to say. "It's terrible that your father couldn't accept him.  Was his life really in danger?"

She didn't want to believe it. Who hated to such a magnitude?

"From my father's intolerance, my mother's jealousy, and latent bigotry  in some of our countrymen, yes." His hand fisted on the arm of his  chair. "Do you think I would have taken such extreme steps otherwise?  Even I couldn't risk seeing him."

He was so impassioned and tortured, she was drawn forward another couple  of steps. At the same time, she wondered if Jamal was still in danger  and glanced toward the door.

"They have some French, but don't speak English. And they'll have given us our privacy by now."

Privacy? For what? She was here to talk. That's all.

Wasn't she?

"How was he?" Kasim's voice was low and yearning, hopeful, yet worried.  When she met his gaze, she saw that same search she had seen in Jamal's  eyes. He longed for news of his family.

"Good. I think," she reassured, smiling with affection because she had  been quite taken with his brother by the time they'd parted. "Homesick,  maybe, but he seemed content. I gave him my private number and begged  him to collaborate with me on something, but I realize it might be too  risky. I won't tell a soul, Kasim. I swear."

He dismissed that with a flick of his hand.

"I know you won't, but it may not matter. If I give Hasna that  necklace... His body wasn't found, obviously. She and Fatina have held  out hope. I had to give them that much. But what now? Do you know how  much it has weighed on me that I hurt them like that? My father is no  dummy and neither is my mother. Do I come clean? Put his life in danger  again? What the hell do I do, Angelique?"

There was so much torment in his expression, her insides twisted  painfully and her eyes welled. She threw herself into his lap and slid  her arms around his neck, hearing his breath rush in as his chest  filled. He clamped hard arms around her and squeezed her into the space  against his torso, allowing her to drape her legs over the arm of the  chair, then snugging her even tighter into the hollow of his body.

The way he held her pressed more tears out of her so she sniffed and tucked her wet cheeks into his throat.

"Don't cry," he said. "It's not for you to weep over."

"I'm crying for you," she said as a little shudder racked through her.

"I am fine, Angelique. My life is not in danger. At worst my father could disown me. I'll survive."

She drew back, thinking that men were so obtuse at times. "I'm crying  for you. Because you can't. Can you? Have you ever let go of any of  this?"         

     



 

His brow angled with great suffering and his mouth tightened. "No," he  admitted, and pressed her head to his shoulder. "No, I never have."

Fresh agony rose in her, spilling from her eyes and releasing as soft, pained sobs.

He stroked his hands over her back and arms, throat swallowing against  her forehead, tension easing as he held her and held her while she  cried. She cried for him and for them. She cried because he was leaning  his heart against hers and his was so heavy, so very heavy, and she  wanted to brace it forever, but she knew he wouldn't let her.

He was strong and disciplined and had responsibilities to a country. She  might have room inside her for him, but his life did not have room for  her.

Which meant it was pure self-destruction to slide her hand from his neck  down to where his heart beat. Setting her damp and salty lips against  his throat was both a step out of the pain she'd nursed since their  breakup and a willingness to go back to a deeper level of it.