Desert Fantasies. Barbara McMahon

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СКАЧАТЬ faces looking at her but failed to find her sister amongst them and felt a bubble of disappointment that she hadn’t bothered or been able to attend. But that was her sister and it was half of why she loved her so much. Instead of following convention and trying to do the right thing, Marina made her own rules and lived by them, and she didn’t blame anyone else when they went wrong.

      Maybe her sister had been right all along.

      The attendees fell silent and rose as one as she arrived, and to the sound of music, the beat of drums, the stringed oud and the haunting ney reed pipe, she moved across the room and forward to her fate. Her father nodded and beamed at her approvingly, partly, she knew, the smile of a man who had not seen his daughter for a few days, but also the smile of a man who would keep his crown. And she could not find fault with him for that. He had been born to be king. He knew nothing else. Jemeya knew no other way.

      Besides, he was her father and she loved him, and so she did her best to warm her frozen face and smile back, not sure whether she had succeeded.

      The other man stood a good head taller, and she almost missed her step when she saw the evidence of her nails still clear on his cheek. She lifted her gaze higher, saw his dark, assessing eyes on her, and felt an instantaneous rush of heat blossom in her bones and suffuse her flesh with what she saw there.

      Oh, there was still the resentment, hard-edged and critical and matching the unrelenting set of his jaw. There was still the smug satisfaction at achieving what he had set out to do in order to become king. But it was the savage heat she saw burning inside those eyes that started fires under her own skin. A savage desire.

       For her.

      Her gaze dropped to the floor as she took those final, fateful steps. She could not breathe. Could barely think. Was only half-aware as the music ceased except for the drumming, only to realise it was her own heartbeat she was hearing. And then someone—the vizier?—uttered something and took her hennaed right hand and placed it in her father’s palm. After barely a handful more words, her wrist was lifted and passed to Zoltan’s waiting hand and, as easily as that, it was done. She was married.

      Somewhere outside a cannon boomed, while inside the music resumed, brighter now and faster, signalling the end of the formalities and the start of the wedding celebrations and the feasting to come, but the music washed over her; her father’s congratulations washed over her.

       She was married.

      They were led to their seats. She went as if in a daze, and all the time Zoltan kept hold of her hand, his warm fingers wound tightly around hers, almost as if he feared she would run if he let go. Foolish man. He should know there was nowhere for her to run now.

      There was no escape.

      She was married.

      But she would not look at him, afraid that if she did she might once again witness that burning need and feel that potent reaction in her own body.

      His thumb stroked her hand and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the warmth from his touch coursing up her arm. Why did he do that?

      She did not want to feel this way. She hated him. She must not feel that way. And yet still her flesh tingled and burned, her breasts felt plumped and heavy and her thighs bore an unfamiliar ache …

      It was not fair. And while she grappled with the reactions of a traitorous body, she was barely aware of the staff descending from every direction, filling glasses and delivering steaming platters until the table was sagging under the weight of food that she knew must smell wonderful and taste delicious. But she smelt nothing, could bring herself to taste nothing.

      ‘Perhaps you might smile,’ Zoltan leaned close to say.

      Through the fog of her senses, she heard the bite in his voice, the rebuke, and it woke her from her stupor. This was Zoltan next to her, the barbarian sheikh. If she had witnessed need in his eyes, it was the need to possess her to take the crown of Al-Jirad. That was what she had witnessed in those greedy eyes. Nothing more.

      She pulled her hand from his and used it to reach for her water so he could not take it back and stir her senses with the gentle stroke of his thumb again. ‘Perhaps I do not find reason to smile.’

      ‘This is our wedding day.’

      She glared at him then, allowed her eyes to convey all the resentment and hatred she had for him and for being forced into this position. ‘Precisely!’ she hissed. ‘So it is not like there is anything to smile about.’

      A muscle in his jaw popped. His eyes were as cold and flat as a slab of marble, and she knew at that moment he hated her, and she was glad. There would be no more hand stroking if she could help it.

      She sipped her water, celebrating her good fortune, but her success and his fury were short-lived, his features softening at the edges as he scooped up a ripe peach from a tray of fruit. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his fingers over the velvet skin of the peach almost as if he was caressing it, holding it to his face to breathe in its fresh, sweet scent. ‘There’s always the anticipation of one’s wedding night to bring a smile to one’s face, wouldn’t you say?’

      And he bit deeply into the flesh of the peach, juice running down his chin, his eyes fixed on hers. Challenging. Mocking.

      ‘You’re disgusting!’ she said, already rising to leave, unable to stand being alongside him a moment longer.

      ‘And you,’ he said, grabbing hold of her wrist, the corners of his lips turning up, ‘are my sheikha. Do not forget that.’

      ‘What hope is there of that?’

      ‘None at all, if I have anything to do with it. Now sit down and smile. You are attracting attention.’

      She looked around and saw heads turned her way, the faces half openly curious, the other half frowning, except for the three men who sat at a table nearby who looked to be almost enjoying the show, the same men who had been with Zoltan last evening at the pool.

      ‘Who are those men?’ she asked, sitting down to quell curiosity and deflect attention from herself rather than because she wanted to, determined not to accede to his demand quietly. It worked. People soon returned to the feast and to the conversation.

      ‘Which men?’

      ‘The three you were with last night,’ she said, rubbing her wrist where he had held her, damning a touch which seemed to leave a burning memory seared on her flesh. ‘The ones sitting over there looking like the falcons that caught the hare.’

      He knew who she was referring to before he followed her gaze to see his three friends sat talking amongst themselves, openly amused by the proceedings. ‘They are friends of mine.’

      ‘Are they the ones who were with you the night you came to Mustafa’s camp?’

      He looked back at her, amused by her choice of words. ‘You mean the night we rescued you?’ The glare he earned back in response was worth it. ‘Yes, they are the ones. On the left is Bahir, in the centre, Rashid, and the one on the right is Kadar.’

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘He is the one with the scar on his back?’

      ‘That is him.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ