Forbidden: The Sheikh's Virgin (8 page)

It was hard enough not to think of her when he was awake—impossible not to remember her long-limbed perfection as she’d risen from the sea, the water streaming from her golden body. And when he slept his dreams were owned by her, closeted away under the curtain of her thick black hair—the hair he’d once buried his whispers in, the hair he’d worn heavy across his chest as she’d laid her head upon his shoulder.

He jerked awake suddenly, certain he could smell the herb-rinsed scent of her hair on his pillow. But he flopped back down alone, strangely disappointed, his breathing ragged as the spindly fingers of dawn squeezed their way through the tiny gaps in his tent.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The mountain road was in no better state than reported—no more than single lane in many places, with mountain slippages making it even more risky in others. Below them as they rose up the twisted road, the endless desert rolled on. Somewhere out there was Shafar, Sera reflected, and the palace. Soon
Kareef would be crowned, and Rafiq would return to his other world, and things would return to some kind of normality.

She could hardly wait.

And then she glanced across at Rafiq, sitting alongside the driver in the front seat, and thought,
liar
.

For, while she wished he’d never bothered to turn up for his brother’s coronation, and as much as she wished to get her emotions back under control, seeing him go, watching him leave again after he’d reawakened feelings that should have been left dormant, would be devastating.

He looked over his shoulder then, snaring her gaze. Questions swirled in his own blue depths before she could turn her head away, her skin tingling under her
abaya
, her breasts suddenly sensitive and full. It hurt, this sudden reawakening of her senses. It stung physically and mentally.

She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, trying to block out both him and the uncomfortable sensations, trying to cut the invisible tie that seemed to bind them even now, after so many empty years.

But when she gave up on the pretence and opened them again he was still studying her, his eyes steel-blue with intent, and her body shuddered anew. Spot fires were starting under her skin, their flames licking secret places, building secret needs that made her more ashamed of her body than ever. Evidence, if she’d needed anything more, that her body welcomed his attentions and would miss him when he was gone.

Evidence that the sooner he left, the better.

The vehicle rattled and bumped up the steep escarpment. Their ascent up the mountainous path was seeming to take for ever, although it was at most a couple of hours. Finally the narrow track opened out, widening where the land levelled between two craggy mountain peaks, and stunted trees and bushes clung to the roadside. Buildings appeared, low and
squat—mud brick buildings made from the same red cliffs of the mountains.

They had reached Marrash. Goats brayed where they were tethered at the sides of the road, and children gathered in groups under the shade of spindly trees, jumping up and shouting as they approached, as if the arrival of visitors was a rare treat. Given the state of the one road leading into it, it probably was.

Rafiq surveyed the town suspiciously.
This
was the place where a fabric of such beauty had been created? In this dry and dusty mountain village? It hardly seemed possible.

Had his mother sent him on a wild goose chase? And, if so, for what purpose? And then a movement behind him caught his eye, a flash of black as Sera lifted her hand to shade her eyes as she looked out of her window.

And he remembered her moonlit skin as she’d emerged from the water, a goddess from the sea, and he didn’t care if it was a wild goose chase, because it had given him the chance to even the score with Sera. If he was going to lose sleep, he might as well be better occupied than spending the hours in tortured and fractured rest.

Last night she’d thrown him with her accusations of being a tourist prince. Last night he’d let her go.

He wouldn’t let her go again.

He
was
a prince, whether she liked it or not. And, just as he’d set himself the task of making a business success of himself, so too would he be a success in his role as prince.

And when it came to dealing with Sera he was the one who would set down the ground rules.

The car came to a stop in a largish square in the centre of the village, with the dusty squeak of brakes and the sound of the children laughing and calling as they swarmed around the car.

Soon the square was filled, as people emerged from their houses, squinting against the bright daylight, smiles lighting up
their faces. A white-haired man came forward, his spine bent, his skin tanned like leather, the lines on his face deep like the crevasses of the very mountains themselves.

‘Your Highness,’ he said, bowing low as Rafiq emerged from the car. ‘It is indeed a pleasure to have you visit our humble village. I am Suleman, the most senior of our village elders. You have come to see our treasures, I believe? Come, take refreshment, and then it will be our pleasure to show you those things of which Marrash is justifiably proud.’

So there were treasures to be seen after all? Rafiq followed the elder, and the small party made its way through the crowded square. Wide-eyed children reached out to touch him, and women holding babies asked for his blessing as he passed, or sent their blessings to Kareef for his upcoming coronation.

How many hands he held, how many babies’ cheeks he touched and murmured soft words to he quickly lost count—but he could not forget Sera’s accusation of last night.

Tourist prince.

She would pay for that.

R
AFIQ
was impatient. He had two priorities now. Seal the deal with the Marrashis, if there was to be one, and bed Sera. But the second could not happen until the first was completed, and so far he hadn’t seen any treasures. Instead the rounds of coffee seemed endless, the plates of tiny treats never-ending—as if they had all the time in the world to engage in polite conversation with the dozen elders of the village, about everything but the reason they’d come.

After ten years building his empire in Australia, he was frustrated. This was not the way he did business. But he was in Qusay, and things were done differently here. Time seemed to pass more slowly, formalities had to be observed, niceties endured.

And so he observed and endured and smiled through gritted teeth, and made a note to thank his buyers, who did this all the time in order to source the goods for his emporiums. They must have patience in abundance.

Sera, he noticed with mounting irritation, looked like patience personified. She sat elegantly, her feet tucked out of sight underneath her, her back straight and her attention one hundred percent on whoever was speaking.

Or maybe not quite one hundred per cent
.

For the second time he caught the slide of her eyes towards
him, the panicked flight when she saw she’d been caught, the colour that tinted her smooth-skinned cheeks.

It was all he could do to drag his attention back to the ceremony.

Finally, with the last question as to the health of his brother and his mother answered, the coffee pot withdrawn, Suleman appeared satisfied. ‘Now,’ he said, his eyes lighting up like one about to bestow a special gift on a child, ‘shall I show you our treasures?’

Rafiq smiled and nodded.
At last.
If there was little to see they could be out of here and back in Shafar in plenty of time for tonight’s state banquet. He stepped back to allow Sera to precede him as Suleman led the way, and breathed in the scent of her hair, remembering a golden goddess emerging from the sea.

Although there was something to be said for staying one more night in the camp by the sea.

The palace would be crowded with visitors arriving for the coronation, noisy and demanding, and it would be near impossible to lever Sera from his mother’s apartments even if there were somewhere private to take her.

Whereas at the camp by the sea they would be practically alone.

A deep breath saw oxygen-rich blood jump to the ready, like an army eager to do battle.

There was no rush to leave.

It was perfect.

Suleman led them out into the street again, and onto a narrow path that ran along a thin stream. Fed by a spring, Suleman told them, a gift from the gods. Instantly it felt cooler, the path lined with grasses and shaded by trees. There was a grove of orange trees too, the tang of citrus on the air.

The path led them past a tiny shop, selling everything from rugs to lace to knick-knacks, where an old woman sat in a chair in front, fanning her face. She broke into a big gappy smile when she saw Rafiq, swinging herself up onto her bowed legs.

‘Prince Rafiq,’ she cried, her voice frail and thin—and how she even saw him, let alone recognised him with the cataracts clouding her eyes and turning her lenses almost white, was a miracle. He went to greet her, and she pressed his hand between her bony, surprisingly strong hands. ‘Please, have something from my shop.’

Suleman stood behind them patiently, his fingers laced in front of him, while Sera could not resist looking closer at the table laden with trinkets set amongst tiny lamps and coffee pots. She picked up one of the lamps, the chips of green stuck to the brass twinkling in the dappled light.

‘This is beautiful,’ she told the woman. And then to Rafiq, ‘Your mother would love this.’

‘How much is it?’ he asked, reaching into his pockets.

‘Take it for the Sheikha!’ the old woman insisted, picking up another, larger and more resplendent in its decoration. ‘And one for Prince Kareef, to celebrate the upcoming celebrations—a gift from Abizah of Marrash.’

He wanted to argue the point—clearly the woman was scraping out an existence without giving away her stock—but she was already reaching for paper to wrap the gifts, pressing them into his hands when she was finished.

‘And now something for your beautiful wife…’ Her hand hovered over the table of wares.

Rafiq coughed. Sera at his side bowed her head, her face suddenly colouring. ‘Sera is the Sheikha’s companion,’ he corrected, as gently as he could.

‘Yes, yes,’ the old woman said, waving one hand and taking no notice. ‘For now, perhaps, yes. Aha!’ Her hand scooped up the prize—a choker Sera hadn’t noticed behind all the other trinkets, made up of clusters of the same green chips that had adorned the fabric she’d fetched for the Sheikha, the same green chips that shone on the tiny lamp, but these chips were threaded
on gold thread, with trails of the tiny gems hanging from it in a wide V-shape. Sera gasped. It was divine. A work of art.

‘It is too much!’ Sera protested. ‘I cannot accept such a gift from you.’

The old woman brushed her concerns aside with a sweep of one hand. ‘Nonsense.’ She passed the necklace to Rafiq. ‘Put this on your wife. My eyes and fingers are not as good as once they were.’

He held the ends of the sparkling necklace in each hand, not even bothering to correct her this time, still rattled by her earlier words and not sure she would listen anyway. ‘Turn around,’ he told her, and saw Sera’s slight shake of her head, her dark eyes helpless, deep velvet pools. But dutifully she turned. He put his arms over her head, dropping the necklace onto the skin of her throat. There was a pulse beating there, urgent, bewitching, and he had the insane desire to press his mouth to it and feel her very life force beneath his lips.

As if she read his thoughts, he felt her breath hitch, her chest rising with it.

He drew back, enclosed the golden chain around her hair, fastened the closure.

He could have left it at that. Stepped away and let her free her hair from the circle of the chain. But he could not.

Instead he slid his hands under her heavy black hair, like silk in his hands as he lifted its weight, feeling the tremors slide through her as the backs of his fingers skimmed her neck.

And again he could have left it at that.

But still he could not walk away. Not until he had smoothed her hair down—hair that was a magnet for his fingers, hair that he wanted to bury his face in so he might drink in more of the scent of herbs and flowers.

The old woman handed him a mirror, and reluctantly he had no choice but to take it. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, his hand on
Sera’s shoulder as she slowly turned. Against her golden skin the emerald chips winked and sparkled, the perfect foil for her dark eyes and black hair.

Colour
, he realised. That was what she needed. Colour to accentuate her dark beauty, not bury it under so much black. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, not sure whether he should have said
it
looks beautiful, suddenly not certain which he meant.

Sera gasped when she looked in the mirror. ‘It is exquisite. But, please, you must let me pay for it.’

The old woman nodded and smiled. ‘You may pay me with your smile—it is all that I ask. For one so beautiful should not be sad. Listen to Abizah, for she knows these things. Soon you will find your happiness.’ And in the next instant she was waving them away, as if they were keeping her from other customers, of which there were none. ‘Now, you who could be King, be away on your business, and thank you,’ she said, bowing, as if he’d just done her the favour of her life. ‘Thank you for stopping at my shop.’

‘She is a generous woman,’ Rafiq said to Suleman, and he smiled indulgently as they continued along the path.

‘Abizah is Marrash’s wise woman. Her eyes are not so good, as she says, yet still she sees things.’

‘What kind of things?’ asked Sera.

‘The future, some say.’ And then he shrugged. ‘But others believe she speaks nothing but nonsense. Sometimes it can be one and the same. Come this way; the factory is waiting for us.’

The future? Rafiq wondered. Or nonsense?

Why had she addressed him as ‘you who
could
be King’? Did she mean if not for Kareef? It seemed a strange way to refer to him.

But not half as strange as it had felt when she had called Sera his wife. Even after his correction still she’d persisted, half the time speaking in riddles. No wonder some said she spoke nonsense!

Sera put a hand to her throat, where the tiny stones of the choker lay cool and smooth against her flesh. She was still trembling, although whether from the words of the old woman or as a result of Rafiq’s sensual touch and the fan of his warm breath against her throat, she wasn’t sure.

Why should she feel so much now, when she had felt nothing for so long? Why had feelings come back to life, turning everything into colour instead of black and white?

And why had the old woman assumed she was Rafiq’s wife? They were travelling together, it was true, and Rafiq might not be as well known to the Qusanis as his brother Kareef. But she had persisted even after Rafiq’s gentle attempt to correct her. And what had she meant about Sera being the Sheikha’s companion
‘for now’
?

Despite the warmth of the day, Sera shivered as she followed their guide, haunted by Abizah’s words, trying to make sense of them. How did the old woman know she’d not been happy for a long time? Had she found it written on her face, or guessed it from the black robes she favoured? But how could she have known when she was nearly blind?

Whatever, the encounter with the old woman had shaken her, and the magnitude of the gift she’d bestowed upon her was unsettling. Even though of polished emerald chips rather than cut stones, the necklace was such a beautiful thing, the craftsmanship superb. How could she ever repay her?

In a momentary pause in their guide’s monologue, she touched a hand to Rafiq’s arm. ‘There must be something we can do to repay her. There must be.’ And Rafiq’s eyes turned from what had looked like shock at her touch to understanding, and without his saying a word she somehow knew he understood.

The path had widened to a courtyard, and a squat, long
building that seemed to disappear into the very mountain peak behind, its timber door knotted and pitted with age. Suleman stood before it, his hand on the latch.

‘Welcome,’ he said, smiling broadly, ‘to our Aladdin’s Cave.’ And then he bowed theatrically and pushed open the door.

Sera gasped as she entered the long, surprisingly cool room, as an explosion of colour greeted her: jewel colours in bolts stacked high on shelves, more bolts lined up to attention on the floor like soldiers, all adorned with glittering gems in patterns reminiscent of starbursts or flowers or patterned swirls, sparkling where the light caught them. It was an endless array of colour—wherever she looked an endless source of delight.

Tucked into one corner of the vast room, a small display had been set up. Inadequate. really, given the extent of the range, but there was a bed, with covers and drapes and cushions, all aimed to show how the fabrics could be used. And alongside was set a trio of dummies, wearing gowns fashioned from the lightest fabric. The colours were intense, in ruby-red and sunset-gold and peacock-blue, the fabrics diaphanous, gossamer-thin, the emerald chips blazing upon them as if they were alive.

They were superb.

Rafiq was no less impressed. In truth, he’d expected a few bolts of fabric, some of it failing to live up to the sample his mother had shown him, because surely they would have sent their best to the Sheikha. But, looking at the vast selection around him, Rafiq wondered how anyone could have chosen the best.

He walked around the room, testing a sample of fabric here and there, admiring the handiwork, feeling the difference in the weights. He knew little of fabric, preferring to leave the finer details to his buyers’ expertise, but he did know from the sales reports that anything of this quality would be snapped up in a heartbeat. Curtains, cushions, soft furnishings—even without
the benefit of the mocked-up display, he could see the applications would be vast.

‘Why is there so much here?’ he wondered out loud, while Suleman stood rocking back on his heels, clearly delighted with his visitors’ reactions.

‘Abizah told us it was not the time to sell before now, and so we waited. The materials have been stockpiled here.’

Rafiq looked up. ‘Abizah? The old woman we met?’

The elder nodded. ‘Some said that she knew nothing of what she spoke, but others, mostly the women, overruled them.’

‘Then how is it that I saw a bolt of this fabric at the palace just yesterday?’

‘Ah.’ Their guide nodded. ‘There was one bolt, sent to the palace as a gift in the hope that it would be found suitable for a role in the coronation. Alas, we sent the fabric too late. The ceremonial robes had already been decided upon.’

Rafiq considered his words, accepted the sense they made. ‘And your Abizah believes now is the right time to sell?’

‘The moon is past full this month, and so, yes, she has given her approval. The time is upon us, she said.’

‘My mother mentioned you already have somebody interested in the collection. How did they find out about what you have here?’

Suleman shrugged, holding his hands up, tilting his head, his brown face collapsing into craggy ravines as he smiled. ‘Chance. Destiny. Who can say? A tourist couple, a businessman and his wife, they chanced across Marrash and stopped for refreshment. The women invited the wife in to view their treasures. As fate would have it, her husband was an executive for a large import company. He sent out a representative as soon as he returned home.’

Rafiq nodded. The man would have to have been certifiable not to. ‘And an offer has been made?’

Suleman’s chest puffed up with pride. ‘A very good offer. Some said we should accept it straight away, that good fortune had shone down on Marrash the day the travellers happened by.’