The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction(61)
There was a pause of surprise, then in a cautious and very neutral tone, he said, “Not well.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, a thin, transparent, bullet-proof wall had just slid up between them. It was disconcerting and certainly didn’t reassure her. It made her think she should leave things at that, but as much as she liked to avoid confrontations, this marriage idea of his needed more discussion before she could get behind it.
“How did you come to choose her? Or...how did it all work?”
He kept his gaze on the road, movements still steady and economical, but a hint of stiffness shaded his voice. “Given the situation with my parents, I knew when I took over that I would have to prove I was more Arab than English.” His mouth twisted in dismay.
“The expectation that I would reject my mother and the Western half of my life did not sit well with me,” he admitted with a sidelong glance. “We have our differences, but my mother is as much my family as my father. However, I knew that marrying a woman from Q’Amara, proving I was not given to blind passion for all things English—” another glance, this one filled with dry significance “—was necessary. Sadira was from an excellent family. Her father was known for his traditional values. Politically, the match allayed many fears that I would try to force change at the pace my father had. The fact that I thinned the foreign blood in my successor helps my approval rating and eases their acceptance of Tariq as my successor.”
A small “oh” of apprehension escaped her as she computed that his second child might not be viewed so charitably.
He covered her hand and squeezed with warm strength, pressing reassurance, but also a streak of sexual awareness, through her blood.
“We’ll make it work, Fern.”
She stiffened in surprise at the way his light touch flooded her with giddy warmth. Should she squeeze back? She was sure that continuing to behave like a teenager in heat would only cloud things. His people expected decorum, for heaven’s sake! Not some British nymphomaniac as their First Sheikha or whatever she’d be called.
“I don’t see how,” she protested, voice made husky by the weight of his hand on hers. “Did you have a happy marriage with your first wife even though you were strangers? Is that why you’re so confident we can prevail?”
He removed his touch and draped his hand on the stick, but didn’t change gears.
“She knew what was at stake,” he said in a level tone. “We both went into the marriage willing to make compromises for the sake of maintaining peace within the palace and beyond it.”
“See, Zafir? I can’t offer you that! I’m a guarantee of conflict for you.”
“My mother never once came to Q’Amara. My father didn’t think it safe, but from remarks I’ve heard over time, her actions were taken as a snub. I am hopeful that your willingness to live there, your acceptance of our culture, will go a long way to smoothing rough edges.”
“Yes, well, you have to know it’s one thing to take a contract in a foreign country, quite another to adopt one as your home. Especially one so patriarchal.”
“We visit my mother two or three times a year. You won’t be held hostage there,” he said with a twitch of impatience around his mouth. Then, somewhat defensively, he stated, “I know we’re behind with women’s rights, but change doesn’t happen overnight. I have learned from my father’s experience to take things one step at a time. And I can’t be everywhere, doing all things,” he added tiredly, then perked up. “But look at the work Amineh does. You could take up those same causes in Q’Amara,” he urged, warming to the topic. “You’re bright. A natural educator. I would like that, Fern. I would like that very much.”