- -
- 100%
- +
But as he surveyed her delicately flushed cheeks, her sinuous body and the long, taut outline of her thighs beneath that pencil skirt, he realised why he kept the conversation going. Because, once conjured, he couldn’t erase the image of Samira, abandoned and sexy, in his bed.
Years ago he’d walked away from the teenage Samira because she’d been far too young and he’d been too honourable to act on his desire. That decision had haunted him. The fantasy perfection of ‘if only’ had overshadowed too many relationships.
But that Samira was gone. She was an experienced woman now, sensual and provocative in ways that spoke directly to his libido.
For long moments Samira said nothing. Her very stillness conveyed tension, heightening his curiosity. Finally she spoke, her gaze settling on a point near his collarbone.
‘I want a family.’
‘You have family. Your brother and his wife.’ But, even as the words emerged, he realised his mistake.
‘My own family.’ Her words confirmed it.
Tariq frowned. ‘But why me? Why us?’
He had no false modesty. Acquiring lovers had never been a difficulty. His wealth and status, not to mention his power, attracted many women. But Samira hadn’t seemed interested in his royal position, except to prove she was up to the task of being his queen. And as for her being smitten... He narrowed his eyes, watching her steadfastly staring at his collar. She gave no evidence of it.
Annoyance twisted sharply in his belly. He’d grown used to fending off women, not being ignored by them.
He watched her open her lips and found himself wondering if they were as petal-soft as he imagined. The direction of his thoughts sharpened his voice.
‘There must be plenty of eligible men. Why not find one you fancy and start a family together? Why come to me?’
Her mouth tightened and she raised her eyes. For an instant he could swear he read pain in that shimmering, gold-flecked gaze. No, not pain. Anguish. Then she blinked, banishing the illusion.
‘I told you, I’m not going to be swept off my feet again. I don’t want romance.’
Looking down at Samira’s beautiful, earnest face, Tariq suddenly felt ancient, like a greybeard surveying an innocent. Was she really too young to understand that was what women did? They fell in love, even if they then lived to regret it. It was in their nature. The heavy thud of his heart against his ribs tolled out the sum of such regrets. He’d grown intimately acquainted with them.
‘But taking on someone who already has children—’ The expression on her face stopped him midsentence. ‘Samira?’
She looked down at her hands. They were clenched together so hard the knuckles whitened. When she met his eyes again, her own looked desolate.
‘I want children. I’ve always wanted them.’ She breathed deep. ‘But I can’t have any of my own.’
Something lodged in Tariq’s chest. Something heavy that impaired his breathing. He couldn’t imagine the world without his boys so he had some inkling of how bereft Samira felt.
He wanted to reach out and comfort her, pull her in to him and cuddle her, for there was no mistaking her pain. Despite the years since they’d been close, she was still the girl he’d cared for too much.
But he was older and wiser now. At thirty-seven he’d learned there were times when a woman needed her dignity rather than the comfort of an embrace. When nothing he could do would ease the pain.
Memory stabbed hard, slicing through his ribs, tearing at his conscience. Jasmin...
‘You see now why I suggested marriage.’
Her quiet words dragged Tariq from a haze of memory and regret. He forced himself to focus.
‘You proposed marriage because you want my boys?’ Instantly his protective instincts were aroused.
‘Don’t sound so fierce, Tariq.’ She even managed a tiny smile. The sight of it and the sadness in her eyes squeezed his chest. ‘I don’t want to take them from you.’
She took a step forward, then another, and a waft of light scent filled his nostrils: warm cinnamon and sugar, innocently sweet yet improbably alluring.
‘I want to share them with you, look after them, grow to love them and support them.’
‘You want to marry me for my children?’ His mouth firmed. After a lifetime being chased by women, his pride smarted. Was anything designed to puncture a man’s ego as much as that?
Did she have any idea of the insult she offered?
He might be a father but he was a red-blooded male in his prime. A man, moreover, used to being the hunter, not the prey.
Samira stepped closer again, apparently unaware the movement brought her into his personal space. She was so close he felt the warmth of her body, saw the fine-grained perfection of her skin and the tiny shadows beneath her eyes that make-up didn’t quite conceal.
‘Not just the children, Tariq. I want a family. Someone to belong to. And I can’t think of a man I’d rather trust myself with than you. You’re decent and honourable.’
Competing emotions battled in Tariq’s gut. Pleasure at her belief in him. Annoyance that she saw him as some sort of comforting protector who conveniently had the kids she wanted. And a shudder of carnal pleasure at the sound of his name on her lips, which inevitably led him to imagine her crying it out in the throes of passion.
But she was wrong. He sifted all she’d said, realising it wasn’t really him she wanted, but some emasculated version of himself that existed only in her mind.
She didn’t know him, had never really known him.
If she had any idea of the darkness within him, or of the urges he suppressed right now—none of them decent or honourable, all of them primitive and utterly indecent—she’d run a mile.
It was time to stop this.
Tariq looked into her eager, open face. ‘You honour me with your offer, Samira. But the answer is no. I won’t marry you.’
CHAPTER THREE
SAMIRA HAD STEELED HERSELF for rejection but the reality was harder than she’d imagined.
The force of her disappointment threatened to take her out at the knees. Despite spending a lifetime projecting an image of calm, no matter how traumatic her reality, Samira felt her bottom lip begin to quiver.
She bit it. Hard.
She blinked and locked her knees, grateful her skirt hid her shaky legs.
Another second and she summoned up a semblance of a smile, ignoring the stagnant well of disappointment at the heart of her. She breathed deep, as if her lungs didn’t feel brittle and papery, like they were about to tear apart.
‘Thank you for hearing me out, Tariq.’ There, her voice was even and admirably cool. Not the voice of a woman who felt her last hope of happiness had been snatched away.
It had been an outrageous idea. She’d known it from the start. Foolish of her to pursue it.
‘I knew even as I asked that I wouldn’t suit. You need a much more appropriate wife than I could ever be.’
She glanced around for her bag, only to realise she still wore it over her shoulder. She unclenched her hands and grabbed the thin leather strap for something to do.
‘What do you mean, more appropriate?’ Tariq’s searing gaze pinned her to the spot.
‘Let’s not go there, Tariq. There’s no point.’ Samira stretched her smile wider and her taut facial muscles ached at the strain. ‘It’s time I left. I’ll say goodbye and wish you and your family all the best for the future. Thank you again for making time to see me.’
She was turning away, desperate to be alone, when long fingers closed around her upper arm.
Instantly she stilled as shock waves ripped through her body.
It had been four years since any man, apart from her brother, had touched her. And this was different—as if a channel of fiery liquid coursed under her skin.
Samira frowned, trying to remember Jackson Brent’s touch ever having inflamed such a reaction. But all she could remember were his charming smile, his easy lies and his insistence on kissing her in front of the paparazzi despite her protests.
‘What did you mean, Samira?’
Experimentally she tugged her arm. His hold remained firm.
A glance at his face, now close, confirmed he had no intention of relenting.
She remembered that look of adamantine determination from her early teens. Tariq had been visiting Asim and had somehow found out about her one act of rebellion in an otherwise cloistered, well-behaved life. She’d secretly been slipping out, dune-driving without supervision or a crash helmet. He hadn’t lectured her. It was as if he’d understood her need to escape her miserable home life, just for a few hours. He’d simply said he knew she had more sense than to risk her neck that way again and made her promise never to drive without him or Asim. He’d known her promise would bind her.
But she wasn’t a teenager trying to cope with her parents’ manipulation in their battle for supremacy. Why did he drag this out instead of letting her leave with some dignity intact?
She shrugged. ‘No doubt your advisors wouldn’t approve of you choosing a wife like me.’ She took a step away, only to pull up short when he refused to release her.
‘First, I make my own decisions, Samira, not my advisors; and second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Samira whipped around, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. ‘Don’t be coy, Tariq. We both know I’m tainted.’ When his face remained impassive she leaned closer, hurt turning to anger that he made her spell this out. ‘“Soiled goods”, isn’t that the phrase?’ Her chin hiked up, but given his enormous height she couldn’t look down her nose at him.
‘In both our countries there are people who disapprove of me, a woman who’s never been married but who had a lover.’ She tugged in a swift breath. Her heart hammered and her chest rose and fell as if she’d just finished an hour’s aerobic workout in the gym. But that was nothing to the distress curling deep inside.
‘I thought that wouldn’t matter to you since you’d already been married to a virtuous woman who gave you heirs. I’d assumed you weren’t hung up on the old ways. But I see I was wrong.’
She’d told herself again and again she had nothing to be ashamed of, having chosen to be with the man she loved. Perhaps that would have been true if Jackson had proved himself worthy of her love. But he’d betrayed her brutally, proved her a fool, her judgement and her dream of love fatally flawed. Instead of the luxury of dealing with her pain and disillusionment privately, it had all been blasted across the press. Her loss of innocence had provided fodder for the voracious masses eager for the story of her heartbreak. She’d felt defiled.
Was it any wonder she refused to trust herself to romance again? No man could tempt her with talk of love. The very idea chilled her to the marrow.
This time she yanked her arm so hard in Tariq’s grip it hurt. But still he didn’t release her.
Instead he moved closer, dwarfing her with his height and his massive shoulders. But it was his eyes that held her.
‘Don’t tell me you believe that!’ His brow pleated as he looked down at her.
‘Why not?’ She glared back. ‘You’re seen with a new woman at almost every social event but none of them last. So it’s not as if you’re in a relationship and I’m poaching on anyone’s territory. I’m suitable, more than suitable, in every other way except for that.’
‘Your virginity...’ he paused on the word and the hairs on the back of her neck rose at his tone ‘...isn’t an issue for me. That might have been relevant a generation or more ago but things have changed.’
‘You think?’ Samira’s laugh was bitter. She surged forward into his personal space as unpleasant memories crowded. ‘Tell that to the men who’ve offered to set me up as their mistress! Men who wouldn’t dream of paying court to me as a possible wife. Men whose views haven’t quite galloped ahead into the twenty-first century.’ She paused, catching her breath, telling herself anger wouldn’t change anything. ‘Of course you don’t want to rock the boat when there are so many who still think that way.’
Tariq’s face turned to stone, but his eyes blazed with a heat that almost scared her.
‘Who has insulted you like that?’ His fingers dug into her arm.
‘Tariq! Let me go. You’re hurting.’ Fear trickled through her insides at his fierce expression. She couldn’t recall him ever looking this way. It was like staring into the face of a warrior intent on blood.
‘My apologies.’ The words were stilted but in an instant his hand was gone, the savage light in his eyes muted.
Yet Samira was still trapped. His big frame cornered her, blocking access to the door.
‘Who was it?’ He growled, the sound tracking across her skin and burrowing deep inside. ‘Tell me.’
‘Why? There’s no point.’ Restlessly her fingers slid along the slim strap of her bag. ‘I’m not accepting their offers.’ She shivered. Such an arrangement would destroy her.
‘Does Asim know?’
Samira’s lips twisted. ‘You think I’d tell my brother about that? You have to be joking.’
She’d had enough trouble getting Asim to promise not to lay a hand on Jackson Brent all those years ago. Vengeance wouldn’t help, only inflame the situation. Now here was Tariq, looking like he wanted to take somebody apart limb from limb.
A kernel of heat flared in the cold emptiness of her abdomen. He mightn’t want her but he cared enough to be incensed on her behalf.
Samira sighed; his protectiveness was one of the attributes that would make him a wonderful husband and father.
She straightened to her full height, wishing she’d worn higher heels so she didn’t feel so dwarfed. It wasn’t just his size. He bristled with a furious energy that made her far too aware of the solid muscle and power in that long, strong body of his.
She dragged in oxygen, telling herself she wasn’t overawed by this macho male. Wasn’t her brother another of the same?
Her deep, sustaining breath drew in something new: sandalwood and spice and hot, male flesh. Her nostrils flared eagerly and she stiffened, stunned as a swirl of reaction eddied within.
Samira stepped back, disturbed at the way her body betrayed her.
‘Not so fast.’ Tariq paced with her, hemming her against a sofa. ‘I want to know—’
‘No. You don’t.’ Finally Samira reasserted herself, projecting the composure she gathered about herself when the going got tough. ‘It’s none of your business, Tariq. You’re not my keeper. In fact you’ve just passed up the opportunity to be anything to me but an old friend. An acquaintance.’
His mouth flattened and she sensed his keen brain sifting her words. He didn’t like them but there was nothing he could do.
‘So, once more, thank you for your time and goodbye.’
She didn’t offer to shake hands. The imprint of his touch still burned her upper arm. Not from pain but, she assured herself, because she wasn’t used to being so close to a man. The tremulous little stirrings in her belly—the quickened breathing, the reaction to his skin’s aroma—were proof of that. It wasn’t anything personal.
‘Wait.’
Samira hesitated, then slowly lifted her eyes to his. There it was again, a twinge of something that felt far too much like physical awareness.
‘What is it?’ The words shot out, crisp with challenge.
‘Have you asked anyone else?’
Her eyes widened. ‘To marry me?’ Did he think she’d lined up a list of candidates to interview by the hour?
What sort of woman did he think she was?
Desperate.
The word surfaced despite her efforts to suppress it. And she was. But not desperate enough to do this more than once. Today’s humiliation was enough.
Besides, only Tariq had tempted her to think of marriage. There was no other man she trusted enough.
‘Only you,’ she said at last, daring him to preen at the compliment.
‘And will you ask anyone else?’ He leaned closer, looming over her as if to intimidate.
Except Samira was undaunted. She might have laid herself open to rejection but she had her pride. That and her determination never to give up were what kept her going. She didn’t need his interference or his sympathy.
Anger spiked.
Deliberately she reached out and tweaked the precise knot in his silk tie, twitching it unnecessarily, then patting it in place, ignoring the heat of bone and solid muscle beneath his shirt.
‘It’s kind of you to be interested in my plans, Tariq, but what I do is none of your business. It ceased to be when you rejected my proposal.’ She favoured him with a gracious smile that masked her desire to see him squirm. ‘I’ll give your regards to Asim and Jacqui when I see them, shall I?’
His hand clamped over hers as she made to withdraw it. He pressed her palm against the crisp, body-warmed cotton of his shirt so she caught the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her touch. It felt too intimate.
She should have known not to play provocative games with Tariq. He had so much more experience than her.
‘Not just yet.’ He paused, his keen gaze roving her features. ‘Come back tomorrow for my final answer.’
Samira stared back, hope and disbelief vying for supremacy, anticipation stirring. ‘You seriously want time to consider?’
His thumb stroked hers in a long sweep, drawing a tiny, jittering reaction through her.
‘You raised some persuasive points.’ He murmured in that dangerously deep voice. ‘It would be premature to reject the idea out of hand.’
Did he hope to delay long enough to go behind her back and contact Asim, hoping her brother would scotch her plans?
As if it mattered. She wasn’t in the market for just any husband. If Tariq turned her down, that was it.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Samira narrowed her gaze and pulled her hand from his before the tingling in her fingers spread up her arm.
He shrugged, the movement emphasising his superior size and strength, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘You took me by surprise. I need to think about it.’
Slowly, Samira nodded. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt. What other choice did she have? She smiled, hope rising tentatively, and watched something flicker and intensify in that deep gaze.
‘I understand. It’s not a decision to be taken lightly.’ She hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘You needn’t worry, either, that I’d interfere with your...personal life.’ A flush warmed her cheeks but she ploughed on. It had to be said and it might be a clinching argument in her favour. ‘I know you have a lot of lovers and I don’t expect...’ Samira paused, searching for words.
‘You don’t expect me to give them up? Is that it? You give me carte blanche to play the field?’ Tariq’s tone was harsh and for some reason she didn’t understand why he looked angry.
Samira frowned, wondering what she’d said to stir his temper. Surely she was offering the sort of arrangement any man would appreciate?
She understood his decency, his honour and strength, but after so many years apart he was a stranger in many ways.
‘I’m not looking for love or sex, Tariq.’ Valiantly she suppressed a shudder at the thought of deluding herself with either, making herself vulnerable again. ‘I don’t expect you to pretend you feel for me what you did for your first wife.’ She’d had her fill of pretence from a man. All she wanted was honesty. ‘And it would be unfair to expect you to be celibate. I understand a man like you has needs.’
‘Needs?’ Tariq’s gaze honed to shards of rough-cut emerald.
‘Yes.’ Samira swallowed, refusing to be daunted, reminding herself that she was worldly and experienced. ‘Sexual needs. But it’s companionship I want from you, Tariq. Respect and support. The shared bond of caring for your children. A purpose in life.’
She petered to a stop, feeling she’d revealed too much. ‘I want to be a reasonable wife, Tariq.’
A reasonable wife.
The words echoed with a dull clang in the void where Tariq’s heart supposedly lodged.
He couldn’t believe he was hearing this.
Samira—gorgeous, seductive Samira—was offering herself in marriage and telling him in the same breath she didn’t want to consummate the arrangement?
How did women come to have such twisted, unfathomable minds?
He’d never heard anything so preposterous.
Marriage to Samira but no sex.
Presumably no touching at all.
No kissing either.
His gaze lingered on the plump bow of her ripe lower lip and a groan rose in his throat, to be savagely repressed. The whole idea was a recipe for madness. He should squash it now before she got her hopes up.
But it was too late. Those stunning eyes shone brighter and she watched him expectantly.
As if at any moment he’d thank her for denying himself the one thing he really wanted. The one thing he’d wanted since he’d seen her again. If he were truthful, that he’d wanted for far too long. Samira. Samira up against the wall of last night’s venue, with her long skirt rucked up around her waist as he pleasured her. Samira in his bed, sharing his shower, or breathless beneath him on the long couch just behind her. He’d pictured her on it since he’d walked into the room and saw her caressing it. She was so tactile, a true sensualist.
Samira any way he could get her.
Breathe. Deeper. Slowly.
How could any woman be so naive? Especially a woman with such natural sensuality? It was there in her walk, her love of texture, the way her eyes lingered with that hint of longing that belied the words emerging from her lips.
How could she think of denying them such pleasure?
Yet she thought she was being reasonable, generous, even.
In his years of marriage to Jasmin he’d never considered straying. His word was his bond and he was traditional enough to believe marriage was about loyalty.
‘That’s noble of you, Samira.’ He paused, scarcely believing the words emerging from his mouth. ‘I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.’
* * *
Twenty-six hours later Tariq halted in the doorway to the twins’ playroom in the luxury hotel suite. A crisis in Al Sarath had disrupted his schedule and he’d missed his meeting with Samira. She couldn’t possibly have waited this long for him.
He’d told himself it was just as well. Yesterday he’d found himself arranging to meet her again, driven by the need to prevent her propositioning someone else.
The thought of her with another man, offering to marry him, even with that crazy ‘no sex’ stipulation, gouged a chasm through his belly.
He wasn’t her keeper.
He didn’t want a wife. The thought of replacing Jasmin with Samira made him break out in a sweat. He might lust after her but how could he sign up to another marriage?
Yet for twenty-six hours he’d imagined little else. Her saner argument for marriage—to provide a loving, stable environment for his boys—made sense. Too much sense.
Tariq had put off for too long the need to find a mother for the twins. A warm, gentle woman who’d nurture them. A caring woman who’d love them as Jasmin would have.
A shiver scudded down his spine and the old blackness fringed his vision.
His boys deserved a mother. Already he realised he had to provide more than he could now with his taxing schedule. His wasn’t a job he could set aside when family commitments demanded. His country, his people, relied on him.
Now, standing in the shadow of the half-open door, he confronted the most compelling reason yet for action—their happiness. He’d thought Samira had left hours before, but no, she was there, to the delight of his boys.
At the centre of the room his sons sat astride plush cushions filched from the lounge, enthusiastically jogging up and down to the rhythm of Samira’s lilting voice. She had a clear contralto voice that tugged at long-forgotten memories of early childhood.
She sang a made-up song about Adil and Risay riding, one on a camel and one on a horse. Each time the boys heard their names they giggled and jogged faster, urging on their imaginary mounts, till at last the song ended.