Promised to a Sheik (13 page)

Omar frowned. He felt as if the foundation of all he'd known had disappeared, as if a mask had been ripped off the woman he'd married and beneath the mask was a stranger, a lying, conniving stranger.

“Yes, Rashad,” he finally replied. “I think I'm going to be very angry for a long time.”

I
t was just after seven that evening when Cara heard Omar enter their quarters. She had spent the day thinking, trying to figure out how to fix what she had broken, how to assuage Omar's anger with her.

If she hadn't seen that flicker of emotion at the table that morning when she'd touched him, she would have spent the day in total despair. But that brief whisper in his eyes had given her an unexpected jolt of hope.

She had dressed carefully for the evening, choosing a long, casual moss-green dress that she knew complemented her eyes and clung to her figure. The neck line was just low enough to give a glimpse of cleavage. She'd put it on with seduction in mind.

She couldn't believe that Omar's desire for her had died with his knowledge of the truth, and she couldn't believe that his desire wasn't based on loving her. She just had to remind him of those things.

She met him in the living room. “Welcome home, Your Highness,” she said demurely. “I took the liberty of drawing you a hot bath to relax you before the evening meal.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Why would you do that?”

She gazed down at the floor at his feet. “I'm just trying to be a good and dutiful wife and anticipate your every need.”

She held her breath, wondering if she would only manage to stir his ire further with what she'd planned. Surely he would see how sorry she was, how much she loved him, if she played the role he requested of her.

“Fine, a bath sounds good.” He didn't look at her again, but instead disappeared into the master suite.

She released the breath she'd held, wishing she'd seen a softening in him, a spark of caring in his eyes, a hint of yearning. But there had been nothing there except the cold darkness that had first appeared the night before.

She waited several minutes, then went into the bathroom. He was already in the tub, and the room smelled of the scented oils she'd added to the hot water.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice curt.

“The question should be what do you want,” she countered smoothly. She grabbed a washcloth from the closet and approached the edge of the sunken tub. “Perhaps my husband would like me to wash his back?”

He didn't reply verbally, but leaned forward and presented her his broad, beautiful back. It was ridiculous how nervous she felt as she bent down at the edge of the tub and wet the washcloth.

She'd stroked his back many times in the course of the past couple of weeks, but this suddenly felt as if it would be her first time touching his smoothly muscled form.

The ache that had been in her chest since the night before intensified as she ran the washcloth across his shoulders.

He was tense, his muscles knotted beneath the skin, and she smoothed the cloth across those muscles in an attempt to relax them. He released a deep sigh, as if finding her actions intensely pleasurable.

What she wanted to do was press her lips against his wet flesh. What she wanted to do was strip off her clothes and join him in the huge tub, see his eyes light with the fires she'd come to love, feel his arms wrap around her.

But she did neither of those things. She was afraid of his reaction, terrified that she'd be rebuffed and her heart would not survive the wound.

As she continued to wash his beautiful skin, she slowed the movement of the cloth across his back, caressing more than washing. He sighed again, a sigh that spoke of exquisite pleasure. It emboldened her, and she moved the cloth lower. She gasped in surprise as he twisted around and grabbed the cloth from her hand.

“That's enough. Thank you, but I'd like to finish my bath alone.”

He was aroused. She could tell by his breathing and could see the physical evidence through the clear
water as he straightened. A sharp wave of arousal swept her.

It was the desire not just to make love with him, but to have him hold her close enough that she could feel the reassuring beat of his heart, to have him smile at her with sweet gentleness in his eyes.

It was the desire to have everything go back to the way it had been between them, when there had been nothing but sharing and laughter and love.

“Are you sure there's nothing more I can do for you?” she asked softly.

“Your presence is no longer required, Eliza—Cara.”

His dismissal hurt, and as she turned and left the bathroom, the pressure of tears ached in her eyes. She told herself she was expecting too much, too soon.

Less than twenty-four hours ago he had somehow learned the truth about her identity. Surely as more time passed, his anger with her would fade and he would realize the woman he'd fallen in love with, the woman he'd wanted to marry, had been she all along.

But the next three days brought no softening of Omar. They began each day with a silent breakfast. He read the paper and seemed to ignore her presence.

When they attended a meeting or dinner engagement as a couple, he treated her respectfully but with a painful distance. And at night, he retired to the master suite alone; she slept in the bed in the guest room, wondering if this would be her future with her husband, a future of isolation and loneliness, a future devoid of love.

When they spent time together alone, she continued to play the role of devoted wife, drawing his baths, making certain his favorite foods were served and doing whatever else she could to please him. She massaged his feet, turned down his bed and tried to anticipate whatever his pleasure might be. She considered it penance for her sin.

But nothing she did seemed to penetrate through the shell of indifference he wore around himself. In the time since they married, she'd discovered Omar to be a man of enormous sexual appetites and they had made love every night from the day of their marriage until he'd discovered the truth. It worried her that four nights had passed and he hadn't touched her in any way. It worried her that he seemed to have no problem with not making love to her.

It was early Wednesday morning when she left her quarters and walked to the other side of the palace to talk with Hayfa. She needed the advice of another woman, the advice of somebody who knew Omar well.

Her knock on the door to Sheik Abdul's quarters was answered by a maid whose physical appearance led Cara to believe the woman was not a native of Gaspar. She was a pretty little woman, about fifty years old, with light brown hair and eyes the color of a cloudless sky.

“I'm here to see Hayfa,” Cara said to the woman.

“Of course. If you'll follow me.”

“Wait.” Cara smiled at the woman. “Your name wouldn't happen to be Jane, would it?”

“Yes, it is.” The woman's pale blue eyes widened in obvious surprise.

“And you're originally from Montana?”

She frowned. “How did you know?”

Cara offered her a reassuring smile. “Rashad mentioned you to me.”

At the mention of Rashad's name, Jane's cheeks colored slightly. “I can't imagine why that man would bore you by talking about me.” Despite her words, Cara could tell that the woman was pleased that Rashad had spoken of her.

“He's very fond of you,” she told Jane. “I think with a little encouragement he'd be even more fond of you.”

Jane looked at her in surprise, and in her eyes Cara saw the seeds of a romance taking root. That only made her own heartache more intense.

“Hayfa, Jahara and Malika are all in the garden,” Jane said as she led Cara through the living area and toward a set of glass doors.

“You don't need to announce me,” Cara said, as Jane opened the doors. “I'll find them myself.”

The garden was small, but beautifully designed around a marble birdbath fountain. The three women sat at a patio table nearby, their cheerful chatter filling the midmorning air.

“Elizabeth,” Malika exclaimed in obvious delight at the sight of her. Hayfa and Jahara greeted her with smiles, as well.

“How nice that you've come to visit,” Hayfa said.
“We were just about to have some refreshments. Will you join us?”

“Yes, thanks.” Cara slid into the fourth chair at the table, wondering how on earth she would broach the subject that was on her mind.

She waited until they had been served refreshing fruit drinks and pastries and had indulged in friendly small talk, then drew a deep breath and began to discuss why she had come to them.

She told them everything from the very beginning. She told them how Fiona had tired of writing to Omar and she had taken over, signing the letters in her sister's name.

She told them of her deception when Omar arrived at her cottage, that she'd intended only to spend a little time with him and then end things.

Finally she told them how her love for Omar and the quickness of their wedding had stymied her attempts to tell him the truth.

“So, how did he find out the truth?” Hayfa asked, her dark eyes giving away nothing of her inner thoughts.

“I don't know,” Cara replied miserably. “I only know that since he found out, he's so angry and he doesn't seem to be moving past it.”

“Omar is a very proud man,” Hayfa replied. “I imagine he feels as if you made a fool of him, tricked him into something he had not intended.” She took a sip of her drink. “However, I must confess that I am pleased to learn that you are not Fiona Carson.
Your sister appears to be considerably more…spirited than you.”

Despite her misery, Cara smiled. “She is, but she's also a loving, wonderful person.”

“And your loyalty to her is quite commendable,” Hayfa replied. “But you aren't here to discuss your sister's attributes.”

Cara nodded. “No, I'm not. I've come to the three of you for some advice.” She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “For the past four days I've done nothing but try to please Omar. I've tried to be the perfect wife, but he isn't sharing any of himself with me.”

She looked down at the tabletop. “He's not even sleeping with me,” she confessed in a soft whisper.

“Oh, that's definitely not good,” Jahara exclaimed. “Physical desire is like the glue that holds together a relationship.”

“That's certainly not all there is to a relationship,” Hayfa exclaimed. “There are also things like mutual respect and common interests and friendship.”

“All very important,” Malika agreed, then smiled. “But, desire is equally important, especially in the beginning of a relationship.”

“But I seem to have lost it all—his respect and friendship and desire,” Cara said painfully.

“The first and the easiest to get back is the desire.” Jahara leaned forward and touched Cara's hand. “I will teach you to dance for Omar.”

“Dance for him?”

“A belly dance.” She stood, her pretty features radiating girlish excitement. “Come with me to my
room and I will teach you a dance of seduction that will surely rekindle Omar's desire.”

“Oh, I don't know if that's such a good idea,” Cara protested.

“I told you once before that a sheik loves differently than other men,” Hayfa said. “That he loves with his head, not his heart. But all men are slaves to desire, and I saw the way Omar looked at you before he found out the truth. His desire for you was great, and getting that back may be the first step in returning your relationship to a good one.”

“All right.” Cara relented. She wouldn't be satisfied until she'd tried everything in her power to get Omar to forgive her.

If nothing else, the afternoon was good for a few laughs as the three women attempted to teach Cara the fine art of belly dancing.

Cara had always believed herself to be relatively graceful, but time and time again her three mothers-in-law dissolved in giggles as she tried to emulate Jahara's sensual hip and belly movements.

With nothing more pressing on her schedule for the day, she remained with the women until late afternoon, practicing over and over again the movements that looked so simple and sexy, but were difficult to achieve.

When it was time for her to return to her own quarters, the three women made her promise to return the next day for another lesson. She agreed, but her heart wasn't in it. She didn't want to seduce Omar into
making love to her. She wanted to seduce him into loving her again.

But that night as she lay in her lonely bed she wondered if anything she could do would make them return to what they'd shared in the first two weeks of their marriage.

What would Fiona do in these circumstances? she asked herself. She had a feeling Fiona would cut her losses and run. She wouldn't stay where she felt unwanted, would never settle for the kind of marriage Cara's had become.

A little over a month ago Cara might have done the same thing. She would have run, run in shame and despair, run with the feeling that she'd never deserved the happiness she'd glimpsed.

But somewhere in the course of the past month she'd become a different woman. She no longer wanted to be like her sister, and she wasn't content being Cara. She had become Elizabeth Al Abdar and that's who she wanted to be, and she intended to fight for her marriage using any tool in her possession. If that meant playing a harem girl and seducing Omar, then, so be it.

Friday afternoon she sat in the living room alone. She'd spent the morning with Hayfa, Jahara and Malika, practicing the dance she hoped would win back Omar.

There was a knock at the door and she jumped up to answer. She'd given the maids the night off, wanting time completely alone with Omar. She didn't know if she wanted to dance for him or yell at him.
There was a curious blend of despair and anger growing inside her.

She opened the door to see Rashad standing there, and she greeted him warmly. She hadn't really seen him since the night of the celebration dance.

“Come in,” she exclaimed, grateful to see his friendly smile.

He held out a large dress box. “I am to deliver this to you. It is from your esteemed mothers-in-law.”