Desert Orchid: The Desert Princes: Book 1 (27 page)

Five days later, Charisse and Khalid had settled into a routine of sorts.

He was too quiet.

Brooding, she decided, as she eyed him over breakfast in her apartment. Today he was wearing black jeans and a buttoned down white shirt, and as ever, his feet were bare. She noticed he had splotches of bright green paint on his right foot.

He hadn’t spent a single night in her apartments, preferring to make love with her in his big bed in his studio. However, Charisse had made it a rule that they eat together at an allotted time for breakfast and dinner.

His most recent low mood had manifested itself in a lack of sleep, irritability and monosyllabic answers, which only seemed to intensify the longer Omar remained at large.

Khalid was more than aware that those big blue eyes were watching him, analysing him.

A rigid daily routine had never worked for him in the past. And it sure as hell wasn’t working for him now. It wasn’t how he rolled. He knew he was frustrated, overtired and wired. Working for twelve hours straight on yet another portrait of Charisse had mashed his brain. He was becoming obsessed with her. Add in the too many duties he had to perform each and every day and his art was not going well. And he lay the blame for that firmly at her door. He’d never lived with a woman twenty-four-seven before and he was finding the way he had no space to do his own thing hard. Very hard. Plus, the way she’d insisted he stop whatever it was he was doing to meet her for breakfast and dinner at a designated time was playing hell with his creativity. Which meant he was finding it well-nigh impossible to get back into the creative flow each day.

To eat with her shouldn't be that big of a fucking deal.

After all, Charisse never asked him for anything.

Not once had she asked him for help, for support.

Not even for a kiss or a hug.

He frowned.

And now he wondered what that meant.

It wasn't that she was undermining his position. However, another unpalatable thought struck him. She didn't need him. And that hurt. Charisse was a young and beautiful woman, in a ruthlessly male culture, who worked diligently on behalf of her people. With Charisse, the people came first. Everything she did, including marry him, was for the good of her people.

She was clever, kind, and utterly selfless.

While he wasn't in her intellectual league, neither was he kind.

He was utterly selfish, and concerned only with how events impacted
him
.

Now he tried to remember a time when life, the world, hadn't revolved around his art, his pain, his needs, his guilt.

He didn't deserve her.

She'd be much better off without him. Much better off married to a man who would be a better ruler, a better husband, a better father to the child she must bear.

The thought of another man touching her, kissing her soft fragrant skin, loving her, broke something deep within him. But surely putting her needs and Onuur's needs, before his own, was the ultimate act of selflessness? Surely giving her up for her own good is what a
real
man would do?

In the early hours of this morning he'd been working on her portrait, staring into those amazing blue eyes as they stared right into him. He'd known then that the time had come to do what was right, for once. Charisse had taught him so much in such a short time. How to love a person with all of his heart. And for that he'd be forever in her debt.

He closed his eyes.

Christ, he was so fucking tired.

"I don't think this is working," he said now.

Lifting a cup of coffee to her lips, Charisse halted. "What isn't working?"

The way she gave him big innocent eyes seriously irritated him.

He glowered and glared.

"You. Me. Us. This," he snapped.

"Need a hug?"

"I need a divorce."

The male ego, Charisse decided and not a little annoyed, was a monstrously fragile thing.

She knew he was feeling overwhelmed.

She got that.

But she'd be damned if he was going to start behaving like a five year old.

"No."

"No?"

"I think there's an echo in here," she muttered into her cup.

His eyes narrowed. "You're not taking this seriously."

"Believe me, I am."

"You won't have a choice. If I want a divorce, I'll get a divorce."

"No."

He threw his napkin on the table and stood towering over her.

"I want out. I want my life back. I don't want to live on a dusty rock in the middle of the damned desert."

She took another sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. "It's not going to work, you know."

"What isn't?"

"The little meltdown you're having. I've got your number, Rock Star. And it won't work."

Temper flashed in those dark eyes. "I don't love you. I'm over it. Over us. Over all... this."

The words hurt, and they hurt bad.

But she reminded herself to keep calm.

"Ha ha ha." She stood and moved into him to give him the hug he so badly needed. "That's okay. I have enough love for both of us."

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

He rubbed his cheek against her hair and Charisse breathed a little sigh of relief.

"Yes, kiss me."

He kissed her.

Lifting his head, dark eyes stared down into hers.

"I'm no good for you."

The words were said in a sulky tone that made her bite down hard on her bottom lip.

She'd seen that look in his eyes before.

Then she had a lightbulb moment - the school children.

For some reason, he'd been terribly nervous about touring three schools.

"You are very good for me. You're having a little crisis of confidence. It will pass. You'll be fine. They were just little children.'

"Yes, but there was hundreds of them."

"They loved you. Especially the little girls."

Now he lifted her hand to run his fingertips over her wrist, over the bracelet the children had given her. It was made from cheap little glass beads, hundreds of them. And because the simple gift had been made with love it had meant more to Charisse than diamonds.

She hadn't taken it off.

He shook his head.

"It was the look in their eyes that killed me. They looked at me as if I was their sun and their moon."

"Too much pressure, Rock Star?"

He gave a big sigh. "What if I let them down?"

"What if you don't?"

Again she hugged him and decided now might be the time to surprise him.

Her fingers had been itching for days just waiting for the right opportunity to give him her gift. The only time he appeared to relax was when they were making love. Last night, he'd thought she was asleep before he’d left their bed in the middle of the night to paint. Again.

"I have something for you," she told him in a cheery voice.

Ignoring a scowl that would sour milk, Charisse rose and left the room, returning with a large flat rectangular package.

She sat on the edge of a couch and patted the cushion next to her.

"Come over here, Rock Star, and open it."

With a reluctance that made her lips twitch, he rose.

His brows came together as he sat next to her.

"It’s not my birthday," he growled.

She smiled. "No, does it need to be your birthday for you to receive a gift?"

He blinked, and she read a genuine bafflement in those vivid grey eyes.

"I suppose not. I rarely receive anything unless the giver desires something in return."

Well, that explained a lot.

"Beware Greeks bearing gifts?"

She watched him carefully as she tucked her jean clad legs under her. Charisse found his reluctance to accept the gift interesting and wondered if he was getting wind of her anxiety because she knew her gift had the potential to blow up in her face.

He picked it up.

"What is it?’ Khalid asked and weighed it in his hand. "It’s not heavy." He gave it a little shake. "Solid," he said and sniffed the paper.

Amazed by his reaction, she stared at him.

"Are you always like this?" she demanded to know.

Eyes wide, she folded her arms and caught a reluctant gleam in his grey eyes. A reluctant smile tugged the corner of his mouth. He placed the parcel on the coffee table, leaned back and stared at it with a frown.

She'd had enough of this.

Charisse kneeled on the sofa, gripped his chin and forced him to look at her.

"Open it!"

Keeping his eyes on hers, he tore open the brown paper, and looked down into the deliriously happy face of his dead sister.

Silence.

Charisse felt her breath hitch in her throat as all the blood drained from Khalid’s face. His knuckles went white as he snapped the wooden frame. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead and top lip.

A shuddering rough gasp escaped from his throat.

On shaky legs, Charisse rose and went to pour him a brandy. For shock. No, she decided, water would be better. She wouldn’t re-enforce a bad habit. After pouring him water in a glass, she sat next to him, keeping her tone reasonable and voice soft, and hoped to hell she knew what she was doing.

"Here, take a sip." Gently taking his cold hand in hers she wrapped his fingers around the glass. "A wonderful character, wasn’t she?" Charisse ran a finger down Jamila’s cheek on the photograph and flinched at the filthy expletive Khalid roared as he got to his feet.

"Why would you do such a thing?" he roared.

He hurled the water glass against the wall.

It smashed into tiny pieces as the dogs moved to her side.

Fury, despair and pain flushed his cheeks and darkened his eyes.

One hand still gripped the broken photo frame, his other arm he held tight across his stomach.

Those tortured eyes found hers.

The incredible agony she read there meant she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow.

"Why would you hurt me like this?" he whispered.

Charisse studied him, determined to remain calm, very careful to keep pity and her love for him at bay. Six years of pent-up grief was bound to implode.

All she knew was that he needed to release the pain.

She shook her head.

"I am not hurting you, Khalid." And she kept her eyes pinned to his. "Why do you not honour her memory?"

His head whipped back as if she’d struck him.

“What the
hell
are you talking about?”

Anger was a good sign, she decided, and reminded herself to stay strong.

"There is not one photograph of her anywhere in the palace in Dhuma. No one talks about her or even mentions her name. It’s as if Jamila never existed."

Khalid placed the photo gently on the table.

Then he spun around and hauled her to her feet.

Eyes dark as pitch lasered into hers.

"Perhaps because their hearts are broken!" He shook her until her teeth rattled. "Perhaps they can’t bear to be reminded of their loss. Perhaps it’s too damned painful to remember!"

Charisse met his pain head on with her own.

"Of course it is painful. It’s supposed to be painful, Khalid. She’s dead. And when you love someone so deeply, a part of you dies with them, too. That is perfectly normal."

She flinched as his hands fisted.

His temper sparked and spat in dark eyes drowning in torment and fury.

So much suffering was reflected there that her heart broke for him.

His hands held her arms too tight.

"You have no conceivable idea of how I feel. How dare you use your psychobabble on me?"

Charisse jerked her arms free and faced him.

"Come with me," she commanded.

His wife spun on her heels and Khalid found himself following her through the apartment.

With a flourish she flung open enormous double doors and stood back for him to go in.

He didn't want to take a step forward.

But by the way her chin lifted, by the way her eyes
dared
him, he entered.

The space was light and airy and the ultimate feminine sanctuary.

His feet sank into a soft carpet of ivory wool, and the room smelled of flowers and warm woman.

Taking centre stage was a huge bed strewn with white silk pillows. Its vast headboard reached the ceiling, carved ornately from wood, and painted white. All set under a dramatic tiered chandelier of dripping crystal.