The Sultan's Harem Bride (6 page)

Each day it grew harder to concentrate on her words or remember the need to be suspicious. He wanted to strip away her shapeless trousers and loose shirts and touch the pearly skin he remembered. His body tightened as he imagined her writhing in pleasure against him.

Except he was in the process of selecting a bride. He had no time for sexual diversions. Besides, honour dictated he shouldn’t seek a mistress and a wife at the same time.

His brain said that. His body refused to listen. It told him a few hours’ diversion was exactly what he needed.

Her teeth snagged on her bottom lip and he lifted one hand, pressing his thumb there, feeling her swift intake of breath.

‘Don’t. You’ll draw blood.’

‘Then let me go. I don’t want this.’

Liar.

Asim was tempted to demonstrate how much she wanted precisely this. It would be easy to kiss her till she surrendered. He’d carry her to a bed and relieve them both of the pressure that had built inexorably since the night he’d found her naked in the harem.

‘Please, Asim.’

Whether it was the fact she pleaded, this prickly, opinionated woman, or the way she said his name, in a voice barely concealing distress, Asim felt a fist lodge in his chest. Reluctantly he opened his hands and stepped back.

She looked up, those feline eyes gleaming with a slumbrous heat that made a mockery of her protest and his caution. Then he read the tension in her mouth. She’d paled, the tiny smattering of freckles across her creamy skin standing out like blood on parchment.

‘I’m sorry I intruded.’ She ducked her head and spun away. ‘I should have realised you might want the pool.’

The fist in his chest twisted.

‘Don’t!’

Alarmed, she stared back over her shoulder.

‘Don’t apologise.’ He breathed deep, filling the void in his lungs. ‘I don’t like it when you’re...meek.’ The words surprised him as much as her. He felt the shock of that admission reverberate through him, even as he saw it ripple across her face.

He didn’t approve of the way she argued with him, refusing to be silenced after he’d made a decision. It happened daily when she tried to wheedle access to records or palace staff or ancient pavilions that had been locked up as unsafe generations ago. Yet seeing her hesitant and downcast was like watching a bright light dim.

For long seconds their eyes locked. Long enough for him to notice that in the syrupy late-afternoon light her eyes flashed with shards of gold.

Slowly her mouth eased into a crooked smile.

‘In that case, Asim...’ She paused over his name as if savouring it. ‘I promise not to be meek with you again.’

She scooped up her towel and wrapped it around herself, hurrying towards her room. But her chin was up and her shoulders back and, despite his body’s howl of protest at her departure, Asim found himself smiling.

CHAPTER SIX

‘I
T
’
S
GORGEOUS
,
BUT
I can’t accept it.’ Regretfully Jacqui tore her gaze from the liquid fall of pewter silk in her hand and turned to Lady Rania.

‘Of course you can. You’ll look marvellous.’

‘It’s kind of you but unnecessary. I’ll wear my skirt and jacket to the dinner.’ Seeing the other woman’s raised brows, she hurried on. ‘I’m here for business, not pleasure.’

Lady Rania shook her head. ‘You have a lot to learn, Ms Fletcher. There is no reason why business cannot be spiced with pleasure, or why a lovely young woman cannot make the most of herself. After all,’ she continued with a glance at Jacqui’s long-sleeved top, ‘The dress is modest.’

Jacqui didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t admit she’d never worn a formal evening gown and had no wish to start. This slinky dress would highlight the deficiencies of her lanky frame. There’d be nowhere to hide in it.

Yet the slide of silk through her hand was seductive.

Jacqui wondered how it would feel, wearing this designer original against bare skin, and shivered. Maybe because her riotous imagination pictured strong, bronzed hands stripping it off her—Asim’s hands.

Carefully she laid the dress over the exquisitely upholstered sofa. Everything in the dowager’s apartments was delicate and feminine, everything Jacqui wasn’t.

‘It’s just...’ She wiped her palms down her trousers.

‘Yes?’ The old lady gestured for her to sit. ‘You know it would give me immense pleasure to do this for you, Ms Fletcher. I don’t think you realise how much your project has meant to me.’ She smiled wistfully, a small hand gesture conveying a hint of frailness Jacqui had never noticed before. ‘Everyone these days is interested in moving forward but never in looking back. It does an old woman good to be useful again. My friends and I have been useful, haven’t we?’

‘Absolutely.’ Jacqui leaned forward. ‘You’ve been a mine of information. My research would never have got off the ground without you.’ She paused, wondering if the dress was meant as a farewell gift. Was this a signal her stay was about to end? ‘I had hoped to continue working with you a little longer...’

Lady Rania smiled gently. ‘I look forward to that. In the meantime, allow me to do this. Tonight will be a formal dinner and it would please me if you wore my gift.’

Put like that, Jacqui had no choice. ‘Thank you.’ She eyed the spectacular fabric and gulped. She could do this. She couldn’t offend or disappoint the woman who’d been so good to her. ‘I’m honoured by your gift.’

‘Excellent.’ Lady Rania sat straighter, that hint of frailty abruptly extinguished by her radiant smile.

* * *

Three hours later Jacqui took a deep breath and looked in the mirror.

She blinked and looked again.

That was
her
?

The woman in the mirror looked subtly elegant. Not ungainly or scrawny. A few weeks of eating the delicious palace food must have helped her put back on the weight she’d lost. She wasn’t much of a cook at the best of times and in the months following Imran’s death preparing meals had been too much bother.

Jacqui stroked her palms down the fragile silk covering her hips and thighs and felt a ripple of excitement glissade across her skin. She knew nothing about couture but even she recognised this had been styled by an expert. From the delicate drape of the cowl neck that made the most of her less than impressive bust, to the belt of silver metal links that cinched her waist and the full-length sweep of skirt, the dress was fabulous.

She twisted, frowning as she surveyed the narrow slit at the back of the bodice. It was just wide enough to prevent her wearing a bra. But what was the point of it when she was covered from neck to toe?

Swivelling back, she stared again. With her shoulder-length hair up in a deceptively casual knot that had required the expertise of Madame’s personal attendant, and subtle make-up that enhanced her eyes and glossed her lips, she didn’t look like boring old Jacqui Fletcher.

She recalled the way Asim called her Jacqueline in that slow, lilting way, as if he rolled the sound around his mouth. Did she look like a Jacqueline now?

She’d always thought it ironic her parents had chosen such a feminine name for a tomboy like her. Jack suited her better. But tonight... She cocked her head and a slow smile spread across her face. Trepidation gave way to excitement.

Tonight perhaps she had it in her to be Jacqueline for a few hours.

* * *

Asim dragged his attention back to the pretty brunette beside him. Her hands fluttered like tiny birds as she talked. Delicate colour flushed her cheeks and her eyes sparkled. The acid green of her halter-neck dress showed off her smooth olive skin to perfection and her glossy curls danced.

She laughed and without pause launched into another line of conversation. Asim’s smile grew fixed.

No one could accuse her of being meek. She was talkative and friendly. Her trill of laughter turned heads and made their neighbours at the long dining table smile. Nor had she mentioned children. Instead of being fixated on babies her conversation ranged from the economy to her work in television and the latest reality television show, about which Asim now knew more than he wanted.

After two hours in her company he longed for silence.

Fortunately as Sultan there were many demands on his time. He and his wife need not live in each other’s pockets. If he wished, he could avoid her easily.

After all, he didn’t seek a love match. A shudder skipped down his spine at the thought. With his parents’ example before him he knew any such relationship would turn destructive. That was the nature of love, at least in his family. He had no doubt he carried the same defective taint as his parents. Children of dysfunctional families usually did.

No, he didn’t do love. He wanted a mother for his children and a helpmeet. She’d take her place at his side and share the burden of official entertaining.

Yet why saddle himself with a chatterbox, no matter how bright and cheerful? Asim wanted a woman who could hold her own in conversation but also knew when to hold her tongue.

Unbidden his gaze slid down the table to the svelte vision in silver that had robbed him of speech when she’d entered the room.

He stiffened, horrified at the way his attention kept straying there.

Jacqueline Fletcher wasn’t the woman he sought. She didn’t chatter, but she was more likely to question his decisions than support them. Right now she fielded the attention of two diplomats, a businessman and a cabinet minister who, rumour had it, was on the lookout for a new bride after a recent divorce.

Heat rippled under Asim’s skin. She’d played him for a fool. All those weeks she’d covered herself up, he’d almost believed she was uncomfortable showing off her body.

Now she flaunted herself. With that clinging dress moulding her ripe breasts like a lover’s caress, she might as well have worn a sign saying ‘open to all offers’. And this after she’d pushed him away that day at the pool!

If she wanted to hook a man to enliven her stay, his royal dinner wasn’t the place.

With a scowl he turned back to his companion.

* * *

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Jacqui slammed to a halt, her hand going to her throat as that familiar, deep voice sounded behind her. To her horror, awareness unfurled in the pit of her stomach. If only she could conquer this response to him. But it grew worse, not better. She’d spent half the night snatching glances at him entertaining VIPs, among them a number of beautiful women.

Snagging a shallow breath, she turned and there he was, resplendent even in the low light of the quiet corridor, wearing a tunic of scarlet silk shot with silver, dark-grey trousers and a matching turban. All the other men tonight, even the handsome young diplomat who’d been so attentive, had faded into the background near Asim.

He stalked towards her, every inch the autocrat, his mouth a straight line, his look brooding.

‘I repeat, where are you slinking off to, Ms Fletcher?’

‘Slinking?’ She stiffened. And
Ms Fletcher
when she’d finally got accustomed to Jacqueline? ‘I’m not
slinking
anywhere.’

He halted less than an arm’s length away, well inside her personal space. Jacqui frowned. Since that day at the pool he’d been scrupulous about maintaining his distance.

‘No? Then why carry your shoes if not to be quiet?’

‘They’re new and they rubbed.’ She’d felt like Cinderella leaving the ball, knowing the night’s magic was over when she’d had to remove the sandals.

‘But you’ve missed the way to your suite.’ If anything his expression grew sterner. What was his problem?

‘I wasn’t going there.’ She hadn’t wanted the evening to end. Attending a royal banquet was an affair to remember. The company had been fascinating and she’d basked in the pleasure of knowing she looked almost pretty. She was too wired to sleep.

‘You have an assignation?’ Asim moved closer, his brow lowering. His expression made her shuffle back, disquiet rippling across her nerves. Suddenly the isolation of this rarely used corridor struck her.

‘Assignation? No.’ She stared squarely back at those dark eyes, indignation swelling. Was this about her supposedly digging up dirt on his sister? She’d thought they’d moved on from that.

‘But this is the way to the rear gate of the palace.’

‘It is?’ She shrugged. ‘It’s also the way to the harem. I thought I’d sit in one of the garden courtyards for a while.’ She’d avoided the one near her rooms ever since Asim had hauled her out of the pool and her body had gone into meltdown.

‘Is there a problem,
Your Highness
?’ She was sick of the way he stood there, glowering. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She could have eaten her dinner with her fingers rather than the exquisite antique gold cutlery and he wouldn’t have noticed; he’d been too busy gawping at the vivacious beauty at his side. ‘If not, I’ll go.’ She moved past him, her happiness stupidly dashed by his hostility.

A hand snaked out, shackling her wrist and pulling her to a halt mid-step. Jacqui gasped. Even through the long, fitted sleeves his touch singed.

‘What did you think you were doing, wearing
that
to the banquet?’ His gaze scorched a trail from her neck to her breasts and lower, to where the silk flared over her hips before swirling to the floor.

The tone of his voice mixed anger with disapproval and for a moment hurt assailed her. Then she recalled Lady Rania’s delight when she’d seen Jacqui in the dress, and the interest in her dinner companion’s eyes.

‘Dressing for dinner.’ She bristled. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to take his bad mood and shove it, but he had the power to eject her from the palace. She drew a slow breath and pretended not to notice the way his gaze flickered on the movement. ‘Your grandmother—’

‘No!’ He raised his free hand. ‘Don’t bring her into this. This is about why you chose to wear that—’ he gestured disparagingly to her beautiful dress ‘—to an important royal occasion. You must have known the effect it would have.’

Jacqui stared up at him, seeing a flash of fury, and felt her eyes widen. He was serious. And he was mightily offended.

To her horror something crumbled a little inside. Could she have got it so wrong? Had Lady Rania been too polite to tell her she’d been mistaken about the gown suiting her? Had the diplomat’s assiduous attention been too over-done? Could he have felt sorry for her, trying to masquerade as glamorous when she wasn’t?

Jacqui swallowed and it felt like razor wire lodged in her throat. She’d never been a good judge of fashion. Had she been blinded by the beauty of the dress into thinking it could transform her with a mere slither of its silk?

A horrible churning sensation filled her insides. Normally she didn’t worry too much about how she looked. But tonight she’d thought...

‘It won’t happen again, Your Highness.’ Her voice was wooden but she refused to look away and let him see how much the truth hurt. ‘Next time, if there
is
a next time, I’ll wear my suit.’

He nodded stiffly. ‘That would be preferable to making an exhibition of yourself.’

Jacqui tore her hand from his, anger and hurt spiralling uncontrollably. It was one thing to know her limitations after having her stepmother harp on them so often, but it was horrible to hear
him
spell them out.

‘Damn you!’ She snarled the syllables between gritted teeth. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’ Her breath sawed in her throat as she strove for breath. ‘We can’t all be glamorous and sexy like you but that doesn’t give you the right to belittle others for the way they look.’

Jacqui marched away, only to catch herself up on her long skirt. Cursing under her breath, she scrabbled at the slippery silk, lifting it enough to walk, and strode off.

She’d gone two steps when he grabbed her elbow and swung her round to face him.