The Desert Lord's Baby (7 page)

But her upheaval indicated true involvement. A husband who’d meant so much, his mere memory brought that much pain.

Another thought struck him with such violence he wanted to drive his fist through the wall. Had she been on the rebound when she’d accepted Tareq’s mission? Had her seeming abandon been part of her efforts to forget the man she’d loved?

“When were you married?”

At his question, she kept her eyes averted until he thought she’d ignore him.

Then a whisper wavered from her. “I wasn’t yet twenty. He was three years older. We met in college.”

“Young love, eh?”

Her color rose at his sarcasm. “So I thought. Long before he divorced me three years later, I realized there was no such thing.”

So
he’d
divorced
her.
And she was still hurt and humiliated that he had. But if she’d been twenty-three then, she’d met
him
two years afterward. Had she still been pining for her ex then?

But what man could have walked away from her?
He
wouldn’t have been able to. Hell, he’d been willing to marry her. Granted, he would never have gone as far as marriage if it hadn’t been what was best for Judar, but she’d been the only one he could have considered for such a permanent position in his life, the only one he’d wanted in his bed indefinitely.

“I swore I’d never marry again.”

Emotions seethed at her tremulous declaration. “Don’t you think it’s extreme to swear off marriage after such a premature and short-lived one? You’re still too young to make such a sweeping, final vow. You’ll still be young ten years from now.”

She shook her head. “It has nothing to do with age. I realized marriage isn’t for me. I should have known from my parents’ example that marriage is something that’s bound to fail, no matter how rosily everything starts.”

“Your parents’ marriage fell apart, too?”

“Yeah.” She leaned on the wall, let out a ragged breath.

“Theirs lasted a whopping five years. Half of them in escalating misery. I was only four and I still remember their rows.”

“So you have a couple of bad examples and you think the marriage institution is set up for failure?”

Her full lips twisted, making his tingle. But it was the assessing glance she gave him that made him see himself taking her against the wall. “Don’t
you?
You’re—what? Mid-thirties? And you’re a sheikh from a culture that views marriage as
the
basis for life, urges youths to marry as early as possible and a prince who must have constant pressure to produce heirs. You must have a worse opinion of marriage than mine to have evaded it this long, to be proposing a marriage as a necessary evil to solve a problem. Uh…make that a potential catastrophe.”

He gritted his teeth. “Marriage, like every other undertaking, is what you make of it. It’s all about your expectations going in, your actions and reactions while undertaking it. But it’s mainly hinged on the reasons you enter it.”

“Oh, my reasons were classic. I thought I loved him. I thought he loved me. I was wrong.”

“Then you were responsible for that failure, since you didn’t know him or yourself well enough to make an informed decision. And then, love is the worst reason there is to enter a marriage.”

“I can’t agree more now. But I know
us
well enough to know that what you’re proposing is even crazier, and your reasons are even worse. At least I married with the best of intentions.”

“Those famous for leading to hell? Figures. But my reasons are the best possible reasons for me to marry at all. They don’t focus on impossible ideals and fantasies of happily-ever-afters and are, therefore, solid. Our marriage won’t be anything like the failure you set yourself up for when you made a wrong choice.”

“And you think this isn’t another one?”

Another argument surged to his lips, fizzled out.

What was he doing, trying to change her mind? This wasn’t about her, neither was it about him. This was about Mennah. And Judar. What they wanted didn’t feature into the equation.

“This
isn’t
a choice. There isn’t one,” he said.

“There has to be!” she cried, her eyes that of a cornered cat. “And—and you’re a prince. You can’t marry a divorcee!”

“I can marry whomever I see fit. And you are my daughter’s mother. This is the only reason I’m marrying you. What’s more, I will declare that we are already married, have been from the beginning. Now we’ll exchange vows.”

“Ex-exchange vows? But—but we can’t do that!”

“Yes, we can. It’s called
az-zawaj al orfi,
a secret marriage that’s still binding. All it requires are two consenting adults and private vows, recited then written in two papers, a copy for each of us, declaring our intention to be married. We’ll date the papers on the day I first took you to my bed. Once in Judar, we’ll present these papers to the
ma’zoon,
the cleric entrusted with the chore of marrying couples and we’ll make ours a public marriage.”

She stared at him openmouthed. At last she huffed in incredulity. “Wow, just like that and voilà, you’ll make me your wife in retrospect. Must be so cool to have that loophole with which to rewrite history. Wonder how many times you’ve invoked that law to make your affairs legitimate.”

“Never. And I couldn’t have cared less if everyone knew I’d taken you out of wedlock. Everyone knows I accept offers from the women who mill around me, and that I make sure there are never repercussions. I didn’t with you. Now it’s fortunate I have this method of damage control to fall back on, to reconstruct your virtue and protect Mennah from speculation on the circumstances of her conception.”

Her breathing quickened as he flayed her with his words until she was hyperventilating, her color so high she seemed to glow in the subdued light of her corridor.

At last she choked, “God, you’re serious.” Then a strangled sound escaped her as she whirled around and ran.

He stared after her, his body throbbing, his nostrils flaring on her lingering scent.

If he’d thought he’d wanted her in the past, that was nothing to what he felt now. It was as if knowing all the ecstasy they’d wrung from each other’s bodies had blossomed into a little living miracle had turned his hunger into compulsion.

And then there was the way she was resisting him.

That was certainly the last response he’d expect from any woman to whom he deemed to offer marriage. And he’d only ever thought of offering it to Carmen. She’d thwarted him the first time he’d been about to offer it. Now that he had, she seemed to think throwing herself off a cliff was a preferable fate.

It baffled him. Enraged him. Intrigued him. Aroused him beyond reason. It wasn’t ego to say he knew that any woman would be in ecstasy at the prospect of marrying him. As a tycoon and a prince, he assured a life of undreamed of luxuries. So what could be behind Carmen’s reluctance and horror?

He entered her bedroom, found her facedown on her bed, her hair a shroud of silk garnet around her lushness, her body quaking with erratic shudders.

Was it upheaval over her ex? Was it fear of, or allegiance to Tareq? Was this another act? Or was it something else altogether?

No matter what her reasons were for being so averse, they were of no consequence. He didn’t just want to pulverize her resistance, he
needed
to. It was like a red flag to an already enraged bull.

He came down beside her on the bed and she lurched, tried to scramble away from him. He caught her, turned her on her back, captured her hands, entwined their fingers then slowly stretched her arms up over her head. She struggled, arching up in her efforts to escape his grip. She only brought her luxurious breasts writhing against his chest. He barely stopped himself from tearing open his shirt, tearing her out of hers and settling his aching flesh on top of hers, rubbing against her until she begged for the ravaging of his hands and lips and teeth, until she screamed for the invasion of his manhood. That would come later.

But she was panting, whimpering, twisting in his hold, and his intentions to postpone his pleasure, her possession, dwindled with each wave of stimulation her movements elicited.

He had to stop her, before he gave in.

He moved over her, imprisoning her beneath him. She went still as if he’d knocked her out. Anxious that he might be suffocating her, he rose on both arms, removing his upper body from hers, found her eyes the color of his kingdom’s twilight. She wasn’t breathing.

Before he took her lips, forced his breath into her lungs, he grated, “Now repeat after me, Carmen.
Zao’wajtokah nafsi—
I give you myself in marriage.”

She tossed her head on the bed, writhing again. He pressed harder between her splayed thighs, fighting not to reach down and take hold of her hips, tilt her, thrust at her as his body was roaring for him to do. Even without seeking her heat with his hardness, the pressure he exerted still wrenched dueling moans from their throats. “
Say
it, Carmen.
Zao’wajtokah nafsi.
”

“God, Farooq…” she pleaded. “Be reasonable. You don’t want to marry me. We can find another way…”

“There is no other way. Now say it, Carmen.”

Her stricken eyes meshed with his, her flesh burning beneath him, reminding him of all he’d once had with her, the overwhelming hunger, the affinity he hadn’t been able to duplicate with anyone else. He knew that, if he wanted, he’d be buried inside her in seconds, would find her molten for him, knew she’d attain her first orgasm as soon as he thrust inside her. He could get her to promise anything when he was inside her. But he didn’t want her consent that way. “Say it, Carmen. For Mennah.”

At hearing Mennah’s name issue from him like an invocation, she went still beneath him again.

Staring at him with eyes now the color of his kingdom’s seas in a storm, she finally nodded her acquiescence, her defeat.
“Zao-zao’wajtokah nafsi…”

Triumph roared in his system, her quavering words the most coveted conquest he’d ever made.
“Wa ana qabeltu zawajek.”
He heard the elation in his voice, was unable to leash it in, saw her wincing at its harshness. “And I accept your marriage.
Alas’sadaq el mossammah bai’nanah—
on the terms we name between us. Again, Carmen, what are your demands? Make them.”

“I just want Mennah.”

“And you will always have her. What else do you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

She was lying again. She had to be. She wanted luxuries and privileges, like any woman. That was why she’d been with him. Why she’d betrayed him. But she knew she’d get them by default being his wife, was pretending she cared nothing for them. A trick as old as woman.

She was also lying about something else. She wanted
him.
He could smell her arousal, feel the need for satisfaction tearing through her as it was tearing through him. He’d soon give it to her, give her everything she wanted. He’d have it all, too.

He’d give his daughter his love, her birthright. And he’d quench his lust for Carmen until he was sated. He’d relegate her to the role of Mennah’s mother when he had no more use for her.

He might even divorce her if he wished. He didn’t need her consent for that. He’d decide it, and it would be done.

But if his memories of what they’d had were anywhere near accurate, if the agony he was in at the moment was any indication, that wouldn’t happen for a long time yet.

A very long time.

“W
ill you need anything else,
ya Somow’el Ameerah?
”

Carmen squinted up at the thin, dark, bird-of-prey-like man who stood above her, body language loud with deference.

He’d called her
Somow’el Ameerah.
Again. She couldn’t get her head around it. Wondered if she ever would.

It had been
Somow’el Ameer
Farooq this and
Somow’el Ameer
Farooq that since they’d set foot outside her building. All the way out of the country. It
had
taken his word—well, under a dozen words—to get her out of there. It had taken even less to make her
Somow’el Ameerah.
Highness of the princess. Her royal highness in Arabic. He’d waved his magic wand and made her a princess….

It had really happened. He’d stormed into her life, had uprooted her existence all over again.

He’d literally uprooted it this time. He’d snatched her from her home, from her country, from everything she knew, had soared with her to the unknown. And she had a feeling she’d never be back. Not for more than visits anyway. And since she had no one to visit anymore, she doubted she’d even be back at all…

Her lungs emptied as another breaker of anxiety slammed into her, pushing her under, the foreboding of stepping into the quicksand of Farooq’s existence pulling at her, the forces synergizing, paralyzing her under their onslaught.

Oh God, what had she let herself in for?

She was on board his jet, on her way to Judar. There was no going back, no way out, now or ever…

“Ameerati?”

The concern in that word slowed down the spiral of agitation. The man with the hawk’s face and eyes was doing it again. Probing her with solicitude, scanning her with an insight she’d bet could read her thoughts. She’d also bet he’d seen through Farooq’s declaration that he’d reclaimed his wife and child, ending the misunderstanding that had led to their separation.

She remembered him well. He’d been there from the first time she’d seen Farooq, his shadow. Hashem. Farooq had told her to ask Hashem for anything in his absence. He was the only one Farooq trusted implicitly, in allegiance and ability, discretion and judgment.

Had he trusted him with the truth? Or had the shrewd man worked it out for himself? Or was everything obvious to everyone?

What did any of that matter? Hashem would take what he thought to his grave, would reinforce his prince’s version of the truth with his last breath. No one else would dare even think but what Farooq had declared to be the truth.

“
Ameerati—
are you maybe suffering from air-sickness?”

Carmen winced at his gentleness. It made her realize how raw she was, how vulnerable she must seem to him. She shook her head.

His gaze was eloquent with his belief that she needed many things but couldn’t bring herself to ask for any.

“Please, don’t hesitate to ask me anything at all.
Maolai Walai’el Ahd
wants you to have all you need till he rejoins you.”

Smart man. Being the über P.A. that he was, he knew the best way to make her succumb to his coddling was invoking his master’s wishes, the master he’d called…

Maolai Walai’el Ahd.

Carmen started, the three words that had flowed on his tongue with such reverence erasing all she’d heard before and after them, blasting away what remained of her fugue, blaring in her mind.

Had she misheard? Was her Arabic translation center offline…?

She’d heard just fine. All her senses had been functioning to capacity since she’d set eyes on Farooq. In fact, she felt she was developing hypersensory powers. Everything was amplified, sharpened, heightening the impact of every stimulus, yanking responses from her that ranged from agitation to anguish.

Her translation center was fine, too. That was the sturdiest part in her brain. She understood what
Maolai Walai’el Ahd
meant all right. It was literally my lord successor of the Era. Aka, crown prince.

Farooq was the crown prince now?

But how? A year and a half ago, he’d been only second-in-line to the throne of Judar. What had happened to the first-in-line?

This information jogged another in her mind, igniting it with new relevance. The king of Judar was ill. From all reports there wasn’t much optimism regarding his return to health. And if he died…

Farooq would soon become king of Judar.

And she’d graduate from plain Ms. Carmen McArthur to
somow’el Ameerah to Maolati’l Malekah
in no time flat.

Malekah.
Queen. Yeah, sure.

The preposterousness of the whole thing burst out of her.

Hashem’s dark eyes rounded at her outburst. Self-possessed as he was, she’d managed to shock him.

Yeah, him and her both. In fact, the cackles tearing out of her shocked her more than they could him.

“Ameerati?”

His bewilderment, the way he kept calling her “my princess,” spiked the absurdity of it all. She spluttered under an attack of hysteria, felt her sides about to burst with its merciless pressure. “I’m s-sorry, Hashem, I’m j-just—just…”

It was no use. She was unable to stem the racking laughter, to muster breath enough to form a coherent sentence.

The man stood before her, watching her with heavy eyes that seemed to fathom her to her psyche’s last spark, until she lay back in her seat, trembling with the passing of the fit as if in the aftermath of a seizure.

“God, you must think me a total flake,” she wheezed.

“I think no such thing,” he countered at once, his voice a soothing flow of empathy that jarred her.

God, she would have preferred anything to bristle at, to brace against. His kindness only knocked her support from beneath her, left her sinking. She hated it. She’d survived by counting on no one’s goodwill, by doing without support of any kind. She had to keep it that way, now more than ever. Or she’d be destroyed.

“I apologize if my surprise gave you the impression that such an unfavorable opinion crossed my mind for a second, when the exact opposite is true. I fully realize how overwhelmed you must be. Everything has happened so fast, and
Maolai Walai’el Ahd
is formidable—and, when he has his sights on a goal, inexorable.” This man
was
all-seeing. And they sure saw eye to eye in evaluating Farooq. “But he is also magnanimous and just. You have no reason to feel apprehensive,
ya Ameerati.
Everything will be fine.”

Okay, here was where their concord ended. Even if she agreed the qualities mitigating Farooq’s ruthlessness existed, Hashem didn’t know that Farooq no longer considered her entitled to his magnanimity, was dealing out his brand of justice by using Mennah to pressure her into giving up her freedom and choices. She was also not buying Hashem’s prognosis for a second.

How could everything be fine? Ever again?

She could only pray it would one day grow tolerable.

To have Hashem’s allegiance as an extension of his to Farooq, mixed in with his pity for her as a casualty of his master’s inescapability, a man of such insight and importance in Farooq’s life, might grow comforting. Right now she had to make him leave her to her turmoil.

She answered his original question. “Thank you, Hashem. I promise to avail myself of your services if I think of anything.”

With a last probing look, he bowed and walked away, obviously loath to leave her in her state without offering service or solace.

Instead of relief, the moment he disappeared from her field of vision, chaos rushed in to fill the vacuum he’d left behind. Everything her eyes fell on contributed to her imbalance.

In both her personal and professional lives, she’d lived and worked where power brokers weaved their pacts, where billionaires flaunted their assets in an addiction to competition and for leverage in business. She’d been in the bowels of private citadels, of diplomatic and hospitality fortresses. She’d studied beauty and luxury, learned their secrets and power and how to utilize their nuances to enthrall the most jaded senses, smoothing her clients’ path to winning their objectives through the goodwill engendered by perfectly designed and realized events.

This jet surpassed anything she’d ever experienced in taste and sheer, mind-numbing opulence. She’d had an idea it would be something unprecedented when she’d laid eyes on it. It was surely the first bronze-finished Boeing 737 she’d ever seen. Then she’d set foot on its plush carpeting and had plunged deeper into the surrealism of being with Farooq, being introduced as his wife and deluged in the veneration of a culture that revered its royals. All her knowledge of the best that money could buy had only sent her mind boggling in appreciation of every detail around her.

She gaped again at every article of genuine art, every flawless reproduction in design, everything spanning centuries and cultures, the classical meshing with the modern, the Western with the Middle Eastern, disparate forms of beauty melding with luxury and futuristic technology in a symphony of unlikely harmony.

She fingered her seat’s armrest. A panel slid open, exposing a set of buttons. Hashem had said they gave her control over all amenities, from service to entertainment to climate control. She pushed one with a screen icon. Her head snapped to the left as an eighteenth-century mural disappeared with a smooth whir to reveal a screen of a size she hadn’t known had been manufactured yet.

No need to experiment further. There’d only be more wonders, a refresher course as well as a first-time close-up of Farooq’s affluence and power. And this was only his transportation…

She was staring down at her sweaty palms, fighting another wave of dizziness when her senses overloaded. She almost moaned at the force of the breach. Farooq.

She didn’t want to raise her eyes. Didn’t want to watch him approaching, obliterating her autonomy, shrinking the world into the parameters of his presence, his desires, his decrees.

She did, saw his eyes firing with satisfaction at her slumped pose. He closed in on her like a force of nature, two men from his extensive entourage trying to keep up with him, documenting his muttered orders. They’d disappeared by the time he reached her, a partition sliding behind them to isolate the dining area where he’d seated her before going to “arrange matters” from the rest of the jet.

He looked down at her with the same intensity as he had when he’d been on top of her, demanding she repeat his land’s ancient marriage rite.

Her heart lurched like a captured bird in her chest.

Oh God, she’d really done it.

She’d really married him.

She’d lain beneath him, feeling him imprinting her, hard with an indiscriminate reaction to feeling a female body beneath him, had repeated the words that had bound her to him in a marriage without love or respect—or anything, really. A sham. A cold-blooded ruling on his part, a capitulation on hers.

It’s all for Mennah. It’s all for Mennah.

Maybe if she repeated the mantra enough she could endure this. The feeling of forever plummeting into an abyss.

She snatched her gaze away from his, fingered Mennah’s baby monitor receiver, praying for her daughter to wake up so she could run to her and be spared another exposure to Farooq.

All she heard over the amazingly low drone of the jet’s engines was the soothing Middle Eastern music through the surround sound system, and Mennah’s soft breathing.

Mennah had awakened during their departure, had bubbled with excitement in response to Farooq’s delight in her all through the trip in his limousine right up to the jet and through takeoff. She’d executed her sudden sleeping maneuver an hour ago, and he’d secured her car seat in one of the jet’s bedroom suites.

“You haven’t eaten.”

At his rebuke, her eyes fell on the masculine, square-cut silver service set and cutlery, laid out before her on midnight-blue silk tablecloth, nestling among sparkling crystal and crisp white napkins. She’d picked something from the extensive menu Hashem had provided. It had been served with great fanfare under polished brass domes, placed to simmer over gentle flames. Hashem had raised the covers to show her the cookbook perfection below and the aromas of the haute cuisine creations had hit her salivary glands. Her stomach had fed on its emptiness, churned with revulsion against being catered to as if she was a beloved mistress when she was just a necessary evil, an abhorred hostage.

Corrosion surged again in her throat. “I’m not hungry.”

His jaw hardened. “You haven’t eaten in the last seven hours. Your stomach must be feeding on itself by now.”

Gee. What was it with men suddenly being able to read her mind? Or was she just too predictable to live?

“You’ll have to excuse my stomach if it isn’t functioning to your calculated expectations. After all that’s happened in said seven hours, all it feels now is the urge to heave out its nonexistent contents. Just imagine what it would do to existent ones.”