The Sheikh’s Bargain Bride(19)

What she saw when she opened her eyes was an unexpected tenderness in those exquisitely lashed dark, dark eyes.

“Tell me Anna, why won’t you let me make love to you?”

She didn’t reply immediately. Answers formed in her mind: bright, quick, facile ones that had always been part of her mask and sharp, defensive ones that she’d turned to when she’d felt her mask slipping. But neither could help her now. Only the truth.

“You know why.”

He shook his head. “No. Tell me.”

“You’ve made my life hell the past four years.”

“That was then. This is now. I believe I have ceased to make your life hell.”

“Because you have what you want.”

He nodded. “That is so. So tell me, do you still hate me?”

She frowned. “You took my son without my permission, you’ve blackmailed me into marrying you. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. That is why I am asking. I am hoping that you realize why I did these things now. Do you still hate me?”

How could she, looking into his eyes? No, she felt no hatred, only desire. But still she could not say it, couldn’t admit that all he had predicted was coming to pass.

“I, I can’t think of that now.”

She pulled away, desperate to place some distance between them—physical and emotional. He stood up first and pulled her to standing beside him.

“Then when?”

“Isn’t it enough that I’m marrying you? Tomorrow I’m going to be paraded before your people like some trophy and that, I am not looking forward to.”

“If it is any comfort most of it is for our people. We have the starring role but only for a little while. The rest of the time is for them.”

She nodded and looked out over the plains.

He reached over and took her hand. His thumb rubbed down the length of the back of her hand.

“I want to hate you.” Her voice was low. She didn’t pull her hand away.

“But you don’t.”

She shook her head.

“So what’s changed?”

“You. Understanding you.”

“Good. Come here.”

“No. I am seeing Matta now, he’s been practicing a dance for him and his cousins to perform at the wedding.” She tried to pull away awkwardly. “I must go. Now.”

He smiled and continued to hold her hand; his grip was gentle but firm.

“Matta is fitting in very well.” Zahir turned her hand in his, studying it with an appreciation that sent shivers down her whole body. “His language, his behavior, one would never know that he hadn’t been born in Qarawan.”

“He’s done well. I’m so proud.”

“You have brought him up well. You have given him the foundation upon which he can step forward into what must have seemed a strange culture to him.”

“I gave him love, that was all I could do.”

“That was obviously enough.”

She closed her eyes as his hand brushed the back of hers in a fleeting caress that sent shivers of excitement down her arm.

“Zahir, I must go.” But she made no move to leave, transfixed by the look on his face.

Slowly he pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips. It was as gentle as his touch and as shocking. There was nothing insistent about his kiss. His lips brushed hers before opening gently and caressing hers. It was like no other kiss she’d ever had. Her whole being was concentrated in that one touch. And her whole being was devastated as the touch withdrew.

“Now, go, see to my nephew.”

Anna stepped away as if forced back by his words. He was wooing her and it was working. But it was all based on an untruth—one that she couldn’t continue to live with.





CHAPTER FIVE





Fatima stood back and appraised Anna’s reflection in the mirror critically. “No. We need more foundation. Anna! You Americans are so pale!”

“Enough!” Anna brought her hands to her face and pushed herself up out of the chair around which the women clustered. She couldn’t take it any more. Three hours of fussing and she looked like an orange-tinted Barbie doll.

Fatima exchanged looks with the others and dismissed them from the room.

“What is wrong Anna?”

Anna stared at herself in the mirror. “Look at me. I don’t even look like me any more.” She picked up a wad of cotton wool and began wiping the heavy make-up off her face.

“It’s tradition, it’s—”

“Everything’s tradition. I’m sick of tradition. Fatima! It’s not me. I’m sorry, I know you’ve been working hard but I’ve had enough.”

It was Fatima’s turn to be angry. “Then you should have said something before instead of sitting there like some kind of frozen mannequin.”