The Desert King / An Affair with the Princess

So, that had changed, too. Her methods. Her approach. There’d clearly be no more breathless adulation spilling from those deep rose lips. Instead she seemed bent on bombarding him with condescension and contempt. And she was letting him know right off the bat, in lieu of the greeting they didn’t owe each other. She had even before she’d laid eyes on him, coming all the way here only to turn around and hurl his parting words back at him, and through his men, too, just to make sure the slap landed effectively.

He’d bet she’d calculated, even counted on that to ratchet up his interest. That had remained the same, then. The masterful manipulation. In the past, her machinations had worn the guise of erratic spontaneity and had wrung the same response from him. She’d just changed her strategy to suit their tarnished status quo and the new poised creature she was now projecting.

And b’Ellahi—it was working. Spectacularly. When it shouldn’t. When he shouldn’t let it.

He could do nothing else. She’d walked in here training those fathomless eyes on him, her gaze familiar yet someone else’s, throwing his own choice of cruelty back in his face and taking the wind out of his sails. Worse, she’d knocked him off course.

He’d intended to railroad her, unilaterally charting the rest of their regretfully unavoidable union. He’d summoned her here to inform her of his plans, and her role in them: to abide by them.

But she’d thrown down the gauntlet. And he could no more not pick it up than he could stop breathing.

It was beyond him not to engage her.

Shaking off the last of his paralysis, realizing he was about to hand her a measure of control, he twisted his lips, let his gaze run in enraged delight down her new ripeness.

“I agree. It did take desperate times to make me recant my decree of never laying eyes on you again.”

Those strong, supple shoulders jerked with an incredulous huff, bringing thick, undulating locks of the gleaming mahogany that had grown to a waist-length waterfall splashing over breasts snug and full in her cream jacket. “Recant your decree? Better watch it. You’re a breath away from having a hyperpretentious crisis and falling into a pompous coma.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

But it was no good resisting. Amusement surged to his lips, tugging them into a painfully grudging smile. But it didn’t stop there, burst forth in a guffaw.

Ya Ullah, she was yanking at his humor, as well as his hormones. The witch was still the only one who knew what to say and how to say it to appeal to his demanding sense of the absurd.

The one thing that cooled the heat of his chagrin at his helpless response was its effect on her. Her gaze wavered, her body language losing its confrontational edge. A laugh had been the last thing she’d expected, too. So what had she expected?

In answer to his unvoiced question, confusion flooded her eyes, her stance, spreading something too akin to mortification in his chest. And he knew what she’d expected. What she’d been trying to initiate. A fight. Dirty and damaging.

She’d expected him to tear back into her, more vicious than she’d been, to give her carte blanche to go all-out in turn. She’d expected this to spiral into another confrontation echoing the savagery with which he’d severed their liaison. But she’d intended to be an equal opponent this time, had drawn first blood, had intended to leave the battleground bloody yet victorious.

He should oblige her. Should let her show him what she had. Then he would show her, once and for all, who had the upper hand, that this was no democracy, that he’d settle for nothing less than total and blind obedience and that he would get it. He should let her know she had no say, no choice, could only save herself the indignity of being cowed by giving in first.

What he should do, and what he wanted to, were poles apart.

Without volition, he found himself moving toward her, in what thankfully must look like measured, tranquil steps when in reality they were impeded by the upheaval she’d kicked up inside him.

Her eyes widened as he approached her, and he almost groaned as her every detail came into sharper focus, the incredible mix of her Middle Eastern and Caucasian genes conspiring to form a beauty like no other.

The heart-shaped oval of her face still boasted that masterpiece bone structure, if it looked far less chiseled now that flesh softened contours that had been more skin over bone in the past. Her nose seemed less sharp, its slightly turned-up end even more overpoweringly elegant. Her lips, which had once spread so easily in eager smiles, looked even fuller, more ripe. But it was her eyes, as always, that struck him most and held his focus. Those mesmerizing eyes of hers, fringed by an abundance of black silk, their shape unique, their color even more so, chocolate fueled by the sun. Brand names had paid fortunes to have those eyes look out at the camera in dozens of high-profile ads. But they were far more hard-hitting now that they’d lost that intense, hungry look they’d been famous for.

He wouldn’t even look below her neck. His general look from afar had caused enough damage.

He found himself two steps away from her, looking down the inches between them. In two-inch heels, she stood a glorious six feet high. A rush of pleasure filled him at not having to stoop to look into someone’s eyes, into a woman’s.

Aih, lie to yourself. You’ve only missed this—her height, her presence, her eyes looking back at you. Her.

It was better to acknowledge his weakness, to deal with it, rather than fight it and lose more to its dominion. This encounter wasn’t going as he’d intended, so he’d better go with it wherever it intended to go and improvise along the way.

He cocked his head at her. “Got whatever baggage you have against me off your chest? Or do you need a few more minutes of uninterrupted abuse?”

She raised her eyebrows, now dark, dense wings when once they’d been plucked to about one third of their true exquisite shape. “Baggage? Try a load of justified antipathy. And statement of fact can’t be categorized as abuse.”

His lips twitched again. “Watch it. You’re on that slippery slope to pompous coma yourself.”

Her lips twitched in answer, twisting his guts with the need to crush them beneath his. “I’m not the one who slipped and fell on a throne and had its fumes of grandeur go to his head.”

His smile widened, fatalism setting in this time. There was no point resisting the inevitable. “I assume the grandeur dig is about sending royal guards to fetch you?”

“Actually it started a bit earlier than that. With a subjectless e-mail graced with another of those decrees of yours. You’re one of a few living men who can literally be called a royal pain.”

He huffed a chuckle. His brothers shared that opinion, but even they hadn’t put it so succinctly. “You’re a royal, too—and a pain among other things—even if you choose to disregard the fact. So you still object to the royal treatment?”

Her gaze ran over him again, sweeping aside another portion of his restraint. “Once upon a time I thought you did, too. But I was a space cadet back then. I would have believed anything. I’ve long since landed on terra firma.”

He stared at her. Into her eyes. And realized what was so different about them. Their pupils. Those used to expand and constrict almost constantly, turning their every glance into a live wire that electrocuted him whenever they fell on him. He’d realized too late that had been a sign of her chemical dependencies. Those pupils were unwavering now.

Other signs of her addiction—the malnourished tinge to her complexion, the fragility of her flesh and bones, the fluctuating energy that used to emanate from her—were also gone. She was now the picture of health. And stability.

He’d first attributed the changes in her to the weight gain that had followed quitting her modeling career. But now…could it be? Had she somehow overcome her addiction?

If she had, it was a miracle. And he’d believed there were no miracles in addiction. But even if she was in rehab, she must have been clean for years. This level of stability and health wasn’t reached in less than that. He knew, only too well.

So had she been trying to beat her addiction all along? And with the clear evidence that she’d succeeded, shouldn’t he have stuck by her, as he’d intended to do before he’d found out about the rest of her vices?

B’Ellahi, he’d just answered himself, stating the irrefutable reason he’d owed no support to the faithless wretch she’d been.

No. He couldn’t have acted differently in the past.

But this was the present where it was no longer personal, where everything had changed, starting with her. Fate had decreed she was no longer a disgrace but the solution to a huge mess. And she seemed to have realized how damaging her earlier excesses had been. Now she should understand the need to heed the expectations that came with her new status.

Not that she did. Seemed this new stability didn’t extend to responsible behavior.

He pursed his lips on the too-welcome surge of animosity. “It doesn’t seem you’ve landed anywhere firm. I am told you’re still as erratic and as irrational as you ever were.”

She gave him a bored look. “You are told? By little royal tweeties, no doubt. Erratic and irrational, huh? According to whose rulebook of stability and rationality?”

“According to the one universally accepted by our species.”

“That’ll be the day, when the whole species agrees on anything, let alone the rules of rationality.”

“Maybe that was too generalized. It was doomed to be false.”

Before she could revel in his concession, he moved, clamped a hand on her elbow. She jerked in surprise. And response. He knew it. That same response was jolting through him, lodging in an erection that was developing the consistency of rock. And all he’d done was touch her through her jacket and blouse. But then, he’d been semihard just thinking of her, had been fully aroused since he’d heard her voice. He could only liken his condition now to a seizure.

Why wasn’t life simpler? Why did he have to heed logic and pride and duty? Why couldn’t he just drag her to the floor and feast on her, with no past, present or future considerations?

Before he was tempted to do just that, he gave her a tug in the direction of the terrace before releasing her elbow as if it burned him. “Hurl whatever insults you like at me over dinner. In my e-mail, I did promise a meal.”

She darted a step away, taking her eyes into shadow. He couldn’t read her reaction. Then her lips twisted. “You sure? Food will only give me more energy and make the invectives come easier.”

Shaking his head at the exhilaration her every word caused to rev inside his chest, his lips widened again. “They can come easier? This I have to hear.” Then, tamping down on the clamoring urge to snatch her into his arms, he gestured for her to precede him.

With a last considering tilt of her head, she turned and headed to the terrace. He walked behind her, devouring her every nuance and move, hormones a scalding stream in his arteries.

They stepped out onto the terrace where the waxing moon had just turned gibbous, illuminating the sky, dimming the stars and casting rippling silver over the infinity of the ocean.

She took in the view, her arms hugging her midriff. Her scent, free of artificiality, unchanged, unforgotten, the very distillation of sensuality, rode the gusts of gentle summer breeze, enveloping him. He ground his teeth on another surge of lust, bypassed her, walked to the table laid out with the meal kept hot over gentle flames. His hands tingled over the back of a chair, then with an inaudible curse, he pulled it back for her.

She arched one eyebrow at his gesture, then pointedly walked to the other chair and sat herself down.

Aiw’Ullah, that was what he deserved for succumbing to his moronic, chivalrous programming around her.

He sat down in the chair he’d pulled back, realized it had been a good thing she’d refused to sit in it. He had the lights coming from the room at his back. This way he’d remain in relative shadow as he wallowed in the infuriating pleasure of poring over her beauty, which was bathed in both artificial and natural light.

He watched her as she sampled what he’d ordered of appetizers, food unique to Judar. Her evident appetite and enjoyment boosted his viewing pleasure. Here was another thing about her that had changed diametrically. She used to be almost anorexic, a state he’d later realized had been induced by the drugs she’d taken for just that end, the ones she’d become dependent on.

He found himself teasing her. “Don’t let consideration for your table partner stop you from wiping it clean.”

She chewed on without looking at him, spoke only when her mouth was empty and she was uncovering one of the simmering dishes. “Don’t worry. I don’t consider you at all.”

Like its predecessors, that comment flowed with the bad blood he’d established. This time he realized what the spasm that shot through him was. Regret. If only…

But he of all people had no time for if-onlys. He wasn’t just a man with his own emotions and convictions at stake, he was a monarch whose actions controlled the reins of peace in a whole region.

“You don’t consider anyone at all,” he bit off.

“By that you mean I’m not bowing to everyone’s wishes without a word, don’t you? What did you all expect me to do? To feel? To say? Oh, two more parents? Cool! The old ones aren’t my real ones? Bummer. They lied to me all my life? Shame. All those hunky cousins are really my half brothers? Phew. Good thing I haven’t lusted after any of them. I have to give up my life to get bartered in a political game to a boor? Whatever. Can I have a latte now?”

This was no laughing matter. But the way she’d delivered her parody, her choice of words, her sheer cheekiness, was irresistible. His chuckle overpowered him.

She sighed. “Glad you see the black humor in this ‘situation.’ It is what sharr el baleyah ma yodhek was coined for, a plight big enough that only hysterical laughter can do it justice.”

He gave a grudging nod. “The revelations must have been a shock, I grant you that….”

She clapped in mock delight. “Ooh, can I frame your grant?”

He fisted his hands against the urge to lunge across the table and drag her over to him and willingly rose to her bait. “You can. I can even issue you a royal declaration for a more frame-worthy concession.”

“Wow. You’ve grown generous in your old age. Don’t splurge on those decrees and declarations, though. They might dry up on you.”

“Can you by any stretch of your admittedly wildly fertile imagination see that happening?”

“Nah, this here Pacific would dry up first.”

“This here Pacific has to take care of its own abundance. I have that of my decrees and declarations taken care of. As for you—” he leaned closer, his gaze sweeping resigned appreciation over her “—it’s abundantly clear your own old age has been good to you.” He raised one eyebrow. “If not to your tongue. I don’t remember it being anywhere near this…forked.”

That tongue came out to glaze those perfect lips, sending his hunger roaring to sample the moisture, drain it. “No? Are you sure your memory, once so reliable, isn’t going?”

“My memory will be the last thing that dims in me, around the time I turn a hundred and twenty.”

“You intend to deteriorate that soon?”

“Just being realistic here.”

“Heh. You probably are, too. But one word of advice. In this constant gloating state over your superiority, don’t drive while anywhere outside of Judar. You’d be apprehended for driving under the influence of a mind-altering high.”

“What and whose purpose do I serve if I don’t act on my superiority? You don’t see a lion hiding his just so that other animals won’t think him full of himself.”

“A lion, huh? You’re really stretching to fit the job description, aren’t you? Lord-of-all-you-survey galore.”

“You mean you don’t think the shoe fits?”

“You mean you think any shoe exists to fit your figurative foot?”

“One must never give up hope.”

“You mean you don’t give hope decrees?”

“I don’t currently have it on my subjects’ roster, no.”

“That must be why there’s still hope.”

“I’m working on acquiring its controlling shares. Enjoy wild, unregulated hope while you can…” He paused when her eyes stilled on him with a new intensity until he groaned. “What?”

“I’m watching for the moment you slip into that coma. I’m also debating seeking help or leaving you passed out on the floor.”

Another laugh took him by surprise. Just as this whole meeting had. This tug-of-war of wills and wits had dragged him into its rapids, was so fluent, so unlike anything he’d had with her, yet somehow the same. Their conversations in the past had been about mutual pleasure, not one-upping each other with witty salvos, but they’d been perfectly matched, totally on the same wavelength, kindred in tastes and views and perceptions. And how he’d missed that.

But the mind that had housed all those qualities he’d craved had also been infested by vices that had appalled him…

Her voice brought him out of his unsavory musings. “But all macabre comedy aside, that’s how you all wanted me to react, right? So you could move on with your plans without the inconvenience of pausing for a few minutes to think about how I’m grappling with my identity and past, plus your proposal to completely mess with my future?”

“I am pausing for a whole evening.”

“Yeah, sure. You want to hear about how I’m coping. Your memory isn’t going but gone if you expect me to believe that.”

He pursed his lips. “We must leave the past in the past.”

She imitated his expression. “How very convenient for you.”

“It’s convenient for both of us. For our future together.”

She jerked as if he’d slapped her, flooding his mind with the emory of her similar reaction when he’d revealed to her the ugliness of his agony and madness seven years ago.

After a long, frozen moment, she rasped, “This was all fun and reminiscent of the sordid past. But let me set one thing straight. We don’t have a future together. Our kingdoms will have to come up with another way to secure whatever they’re hatching together. I’ll never marry you, not for politics, not to save my life.”

It was his turn to stiffen as the mind-warping disillusionment of the past crashed into him, blasting away all softness and the spell she’d been weaving—that he’d let her weave—on him.

She’d changed, all right. Not for the better, as he’d been fooling himself up till now. But into a vindictive harpy who’d send a whole region to hell to have her revenge on him.

He sat forward in his chair slowly, slammed her with his own rage and animosity. “This was my mistake, as it was in the past—being so civil and accommodating that I give you illusions about your importance. But in reality, you always served only one purpose. The difference now is that it’s a worthwhile purpose for a change. And you will serve it. As for what you think or feel, it’s time you realized that your emotions and identity, your past and future, you, don’t matter. Not at all.”

Three

Aliyah didn’t jerk this time.

Not even when the fork clattered to her plate, fracturing the silence that had fallen in the wake of his barrage.

Time reversed like a screeching record. It came to a jolting halt at her last time in this mansion. Then it started to play. Memories of begging his valet to let her wait for him. Trembling on the way up to his bedroom. Gambling away the last of her pride. It hit Pause on his face as he’d issued his final threat. Then it all overlapped, merged with the same savage face now flaying her with his loathing.

Fool. Reason and self-respect lashed her, harsher than he could ever be. She’d been letting them slip away ever since she’d laid eyes on him again. They sneered at her now, at her flimsy struggle to slow down her headlong plunge under his spell. At the way she’d let him encroach on her senses, wiping her memory as he’d advanced.

After his initial shock—which she could only attribute to her changed appearance—he’d seamlessly changed tacks, scorching her with the appreciation smoldering in his eyes, the awareness in his vibes and the amusement in his expressions, his words.

He’d laughed at her barbs, volleyed them back without rancor, baring himself to her ridicule, appearing to enjoy it, had stopped trying to reciprocate the abuse that had soon ceased to be that, morphing into teasing instead. He’d lulled her into loosening her grip on her rage and memories.

Then he’d mentioned a future. Together. And reality had slapped her in the face. With the rush of recollections. With the realization that every second of this evening had been another undetectable maneuver of a master manipulator.

She’d groped for her resolve, said what she’d come here to say. And he’d decided it was more efficient to give up trying to coax her into submission and was now coercing her into it.

He leaned forward in his seat, magnifying his silhouette against the light radiating from the room, his face in the moonlight a hewn mask of inhuman beauty and coldness.

Then he spoke, his voice freezing her. “Now that I’ve made this clear, let me make another thing as unequivocal. This marriage is happening. That’s not up for negotiation. I’ve only called you here to discuss our terms in the deal.”

Her vision began to blotch. She inhaled a choppy stream of oxygen before it blinked out, heard her wavering whisper. “It’s another hostile takeover for you, this so-called marriage, isn’t it? You make no distinction between discussing one or the other.”

He leaned back in his seat, relieving her of a measure of his influence so that breathing turned from a struggle to a mere effort. “For once we agree. Hostile takeover just about sums it up. You’re hostile, and I am taking over.”

“You’ve got that only half right. I sure am hostile. With the best and worst of reasons. Not that you, your imminent majesty, are the essence of friendliness. As for taking over, not in this life. In any other, you can take your ‘deal’ directly to whatever devil you worship, in whatever hell you’ll end up in.”

He sat forward again, probably to make sure she saw the glint of revulsion in his eyes before he grated, “I am taking my deal to the devil I have to deal with, am walking into the hell I have to end up in. Now stop aggravating the ugliness of the initiation rites of this hellish pact and state your terms.”

She wasn’t crumbling under his onslaught. She wouldn’t let him shove her to the ground and walk all over her again.

Her scoff was still weak as she choked on his venom. “Have you gone deaf from the repeated injury of perpetually hearing only your own voice booming inside your head? I said in plain English there’ll be no deal. You need it translated to something you understand better? Mafee sufquh.”

“Lell assaf, es’sufquh mafee menha maffar. To translate—regretfully, there’s no escaping the deal, in case you no longer understand more than the rudiments of your mother tongue.”

Indignation at the dig she’d heard a thousand times infused heat into her chilled bones, steadiness in her voice. “I’m as much an American as I am a Zohaydan, even if in reverse to what I thought. So don’t play the turning-my-back-on-my-roots card.”

His lips stretched on a silent snarl. “How about the turning-your-back-on-your-family card?”

“Oh, no, not that one, either. You don’t know anything about me or about how it’s been with my parents, not in the past when there were only two, and surely not now there are four of them. You have nothing to do with any of it, so don’t you dare even have an opinion on how we all deal with it. Keep out of it and it’ll turn out fine. The only person I’m turning my back on here is you.”