The Sheikh's Stolen Bride(23)

Charlotte tilted her face so she could look up at him. Her heart thundered. Or was it just the cavity in her chest where her heart had once been? For Ash had stolen it and she didn’t mind a bit. “My nails?”

He nodded. “Your nails. Your lips. Your eyes. The passion in your face; the strength in your soul. You stormed into my office and blinded me to anything but you.”

He kissed each finger tip and then returned her hand to his chest, keeping his own locked over it. His face showed he was miles away, remembering that meeting.

“I was angry,” she said quietly. “The idea of not being included in the discussions seemed archaic.”

“The whole thing is archaic,” he said finally, remembering Syed had used that exact same argument when he’d convinced Ashad to intervene. But he didn’t want to sour their morning by discussing that can of worms. “I knew you were beautiful. I had seen photos of you. But when you came to me, you were more vibrant than I knew possible. I spent that entire meeting wondering how I could get you into my bed,” he laughed. “And berating myself for the inappropriateness of my thoughts.”

Her cheeks flushed pink as she flicked her gaze up to his face. “You hid it very well,” she said with a hint of disbelief. “You were intimidating and imposing. I had expected that. I had heard that you were a ruthless negotiator and I was coming to insist you speak to me directly, rather than following protocol. I was terrified you’d be arrogant and rude, and tell me to get back to the palace and stay out of the negotiations.”

“Ruthless?” He shook his head. “I am determined, but I am not ruthless, azeezi.”

“I know that now.” His heart thumped louder beneath her. She wanted to take his heart, to make it hers, but that wouldn’t be fair. She was prepared to sacrifice her happiness – to marry a man she didn’t love for the sake of her parents and their kingdom. But she would not let Ashad love her and lose her. The grief needed to be hers alone to bear.

“You are an excellent tennis player,” he murmured, running his hand through her hair, then down her back.

It was a statement that came from nowhere. She blinked up at him in surprise and then grinned. “Not as good as you, apparently.”

“I got lucky on the day,” he said. “Another time, I would like to play a full match with you.”

Charlotte pushed past that comment. When they were in Kalastan, there would be time. Her gut swirled with agony at the foreshadowing of such a time when they would be able to see each other freely but never touch nor acknowledge what they meant to one another. “I had excellent coaches when I was young.”

“Have you always liked athletics?”

She nodded. “Rock climbing and tennis are my favourites, though I enjoy golf, horse-riding, running.”

“Perhaps swimming one day?” He said seriously.

“Mmm,” she lifted up and straddled him. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll come with me. I don’t know if I could go in the water again without your arms holding me up.”

He cupped her face, and then dropped his hands to her shoulders. She sensed he was about to say something. Something serious. “You can do anything you want. You are the most determined, courageous person I’ve ever known.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN





The city was so beautiful. She stared at it from the balcony, her knees curled up beneath her chin, a light breeze rustling past, brushing her hair to her cheek. It was going to be a warm day, but it was still early, and the sun was weakened by its sunken state.

This city was her home. The thought of leaving it did strange things to her stomach. Could she demand that Syed come to Falina to live? Could she change the terms of her marriage contracts so substantially?

“There you are, your highness,” Ashad appeared through the large glass doors, carrying a tray that smelled delectable.

“Coffee.” Appreciation warmed the syllables. She eyed the tray and, the second he placed it on the top of the table, her hands reached for the mug.

Ashad’s laugh was warmth on her skin. “That is the response of a true addict.”

She poked her tongue out at him and sipped the heavenly drink. “I’m not an addict. I just need two cups each morning in order to survive.”

“That doesn’t sound like a dependency at all,” he quipped, sipping his own coffee and scanning the horizon. “Breakfast will be along shortly. I wasn’t sure what you would feel like so I have asked for various dishes to be prepared.”

“Yoghurt,” she said quietly. “Yoghurt is what I eat for breakfast. Sometimes fruit.”

Ashad committed that to memory, adding it to the list of things he knew about Charlotte.

“It’s a nice view,” she said, cupping the mug in her hands. “I love this part of town.”

“Why?”

She arched a brow. “You don’t think it’s nice?”

He moved towards the balcony, resting his elbows on it and took a gulp of coffee. “I think it’s very nice,” he corrected. “I was asking why you love it.”

“Oh.” She stood, moving to take a place next to him. “It’s full of very old buildings. Some of the oldest in the city. Of course, there are the settlements to the west,” she murmured. “The old clay villages that were built thousands of years ago. The huts half-carved into the mountains.” She turned that way subconsciously, even though the modern city blocked any view of the desert.

“Have you spent much time out there?”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve never been allowed.”

“Never? For what reason?”

“The wars are over,” she said with a small lift of her shoulders. “But the factions there are the last to comprehend that. Even now there is fighting and protest.”

“And yet with your security,” he wondered aloud.

“No.” She turned to face him. “I really am very sorry that my country claimed your parents.”

A muscle jerked in his jaw. He nodded, his eyes skimming the buildings. “It is not your fault. Nor the fault of your country. In every society there are madmen. People who funnel their worst impulses into a political discontent that they feel justifies what they really are.”

“Which is?”

“Murderers. Terrorism is simply legitimising murder and violence. People feel it becomes noble if they can give it a political bent. And it’s not. It never is.”

Out of nowhere, tears prickled against her eyes. “Your parents weren’t the only ones who died that day.”

“No. There were thirty-seven victims, including the terrorists. Such a waste of life and potential.”

She nodded. “The square took years to rebuild.” She lifted a hand to his cheek and he turned to face her, surprised to see tears running down her cheeks.

“What is it?” He asked softly. “Why are you crying?”

“Am I?” She ran her fingers over her cheeks, dashing away tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Don’t apologise.” A husked command.

“I just keep thinking about the little boy you must have been. Seven years old. So young.” She shook her head, and out of nowhere, she thought of what their baby would look like. Would it have Ashad’s square jawline, or her dimpled chin? She frowned. They hadn’t used protection.

It hadn’t even occurred to her.

She gripped the railing tightly, her mind thundering through the risks they’d taken. True, she was on oral contraceptive – something she had decided to take after Marook, just in case such a thing were ever to occur again.

But he hadn’t known that.

“Ash?”

He lifted a hand and padded away another tear. “Yes?”

“We didn’t use any protection last night. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Why would it worry me?” His eyes scanned her face as though he genuinely couldn’t understand her conundrum.

“What if I got pregnant?” She spluttered, sipping her coffee out of habit even though she felt like she was choking.

“Would that be so dreadful?” He shrugged insolently. Confusion was swirling around her.

“Well, given that I’m marrying your cousin, yes. I’d say it’s pretty damned inconvenient.”

Ash compressed his lips, his eyes sparked with electric energy. “You will not marry Syed.”

She stared at him, her heart hurting, her brain sore. “I have to,” she said, shaking her head. “This – what we are – can’t change that.”

Ash stepped backwards automatically.

“You know my reasons,” she spoke calmly – surprisingly so, when she felt like she was being torn apart. “The contract is virtually unbreakable. And besides that, my parents …”

“Want you to be happy, surely,” he muttered, slamming his cup down loudly on the table. It was the first noise, but then there was another.

A loud knock, coming from inside his apartment.

“Breakfast,” he said darkly. “Wait here.” His eyes bore into hers. “This conversation is not finished.”

She watched him disappear into the apartment and swept her eyes closed. “Yes, it is,” she whispered to the bright blue sky.