They lay in silence for a long moment—a silence broken only by the sounds of a night owl laying claim to its prey; the soft murmur of the water in the courtyard and the rustle of leaves in the bushes outside their window. She felt his hand reach out for hers and caress hers before holding it tightly as if he never wanted to let go.
“Kiss me Anna.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Say you forgive me.”
Her mouth found his in the darkness and accepted his apology in an expression that was far more eloquent than words.
Their days slipped into a pattern of passionate love-making at night and also, now, during the day wherever they happened to meet or wherever they arranged to meet—the cave of the spring, lonely, forgotten corners of the ancient palace or a bed of soft, blooming flowers. Wherever was handy and private that they could vent the lust that their night-time love-making seemed only to arouse further.
It was all as he had predicted. He was getting what he’d wanted all along—her in his bed. And he was riding out his obsession for her all right. Just the thought of him, only hours before, impatient hands pushing up her dress, free of the underwear she’d taken to not wearing, and lifting her up so he could enter her, his hands gripping her bottom as he thrust into her, pushing into the very soul of her, pinning her against the wall of a forgotten part of the palace—dust-filled, lofty and majestic—unable to wait for the night ahead.
She groaned with renewed arousal and tried to concentrate on her books that were strewn across the desk before her. Despite the passionate sex, there was the dull clanging of an alarm bell ringing in her mind. He was riding out his passion that meant that it would have to end. And when it did? What would she have?
She flipped through the pages of a textbook irritably. She’d have nothing, only whatever she could create for herself from the wreckage of their passion. And at the moment she was concentrating on Matta—her pride and joy—and her studies.
Matta was continuing to blossom under the care and guidance of his extended family. But he still came to her first for love. Her fears of him moving away from her were unfounded, she now realized. He had a big heart with plenty of room for everyone in it, but with a special place that would always be hers.
She smiled at the gap-toothed photo of Matta she kept on her desk, nudging it closer with her pen. He was going to become the image of Zahir, with his build and coloring. But his nature was different. He had the ability to charm people with a happy-go-lucky quality that Zahir certainly didn’t possess and that she had faint memories of growing up. Given a different upbringing perhaps she also would have had this talent for happiness.
And her studies were going well. She received daily deliveries from Riyadh of textbooks, notes, monographs, and research. It was, after all, the key to her freedom and her future when Zahir grew tired of her. Despite the emotional upheaval, or because of it, her studies proved the one constant that kept her going. She was looking forward to the Paris trip she’d arranged to attend a week of intensive tutorials at the Sorbonne’s law school.
She dropped her pencil and gazed out to the garden, now sweltering under the summer sun. Matta would enjoy Paris. As well as her studies, she’d arranged time for just the two of them to hang out together. His nurse would come of course, for when she attended the university but, without Zahir, there would be no need for the usual entourage of security. She hadn’t had a chance to mention it to Zahir but assumed he wouldn’t care one way or the other. When he wasn’t making love to her he was totally consumed with politics and business. He had no time in his life for anything else.
Suddenly the door to her study was flung open and Zahir strode in, a look of thunder on his face.
“What is this about you taking Matta to Paris without my permission?”
“I need your permission now? You led me to think you would have no objections and so I didn’t think to bother you. After all we don’t do anything that involves conversation at night or day. When, exactly, do you think I should have raised this?”
“You could have written to me.”
She exploded. “Written you a note. Of course. That’s how all husbands and wives communicate. By writing notes. Zahir! You are impossible. Why will you never speak to me? Why do you still keep your distance from me when we can’t keep our hands off each other when we are alone? No don’t answer that. I know why.”
“Why?”
She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, perfecting that nonchalant attitude when she was dying inside. “Because you want me for sex and you hate yourself for wanting someone like me.”