His Defiant Desert Queen

“I did what needed to be done,” he said carefully, after an endless moment, a moment where the silence cut, wounded.

Jemma slowly pulled away, and then scooted away, and sat up. She crossed her legs, hiding herself. “You never intended to keep me as your wife?”

“It’s not feasible. Nor realistic. My mother wasn’t happy in Saidia. You wouldn’t be happy here, not long term. You’d be better marrying an American or a European man. Someone Western with Western thought processes and beliefs.”

“So all this time...these eight days and the past seven nights...what was it about? Just sex?”

He shrugged. “Please.”

“But you said pleasure could lead to more. You said pleasure could lead to love.”

“I was wrong.”

She looked at him, then away, trying to ignore the panic in her head and the sickening rush of hurt and pain through her veins.

This wasn’t happening, not now. She’d fallen in love with him and she’d given herself to him.

“Why?” she whispered, staring out at the white sandy beach and the sea beyond. “Why do this to me? Why go through all the motions and seduce me and pleasure me and pretend to care? Pretend to want me?”

“I do care about you. I never had to pretend to want you. I still want you. I still desire you. But I’ve realized I care too much about you, to trap you here in Saidia. You need more than this desert and my palaces. You need the world you grew up in.”

“This isn’t about me,” she said, interrupting him. “This is about your mother. It’s about her relationship with your father, not about you and me.” Jemma drew a rough, unsteady breath. “I am not your mother. I am not sheltered. I am not a naive young American girl thinking she’s being swept off by Valentino. I’ve experienced hard things and known tremendous pressure, and public criticism, and personal shame. So don’t think for me, and don’t make decisions for me, at least, not without consulting me, because, Mikael, I know what I want and need, and I want and need you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t know who you were in the past. I never knew you as a boy or a young man, but I know who you are now. You’re smart, courageous, honest. Brave. You have strong morals and values, and a fierce desire to do the right thing. I love that about you. In fact, I love you.”

“You don’t love me. You love the pleasure, you love the sensation.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s not. I’ve seduced you with pleasure. I bonded you to me with all the hormones from sex and orgasm.”

“Stop talking,” she said, springing to her feet. “Your words are killing me. They’re poisonous. Toxic. Just get rid of me now. Drop me off at the airport. But don’t say another awful, hateful word.”

He rose, towering over her. “You’re being irrational.”

“I am? Really? You spent eight days seducing me. Eight days making love to me in every conceivable position, showering me with gifts, assuring me that as your wife I’d be protected, safe, secure. Well, your idea of security is very different from mine, Sheikh Karim!”

“I’m sending you home to protect you.”

“From what? Whom? The paparazzi? The media? The bloodthirsty public? Who are you protecting me from?”

“Me,” he ground out, his voice low and hoarse.

She flung her head back, stared into his eyes, furious. “Maybe it’s time you let go of the past, and your self-loathing and hatred. Maybe it’s time to forgive. Because you are so determined to be fair to your country and your people but, Mikael Karim, you are not fair to yourself, and you’re screwing up royally right now. You had me. You had my heart. And you’ve just thrown it all away.”

They didn’t speak on the walk back to the car.

They didn’t speak, either, as the car traveled the long private driveway lined with hibiscus and palms to the enormous black and gold iron gates that marked the entrance to the Karim family’s private beach.

The gates opened and then closed behind them. Jemma turned her head as if to get a last look at the brilliant blue coastline before it disappeared and swiftly wiped away a tear. The sun shone down on the water, and the ocean sparkled. She turned back to face the front, and wiped away another tear, seeing how the red gold sand stretched before them, reminding her of the Kasbah and the Bridal Palace and how Jemma and Mikael had spent the past eight days there.

All the experiences. The sensation. The pleasure. The emotion.

The car picked up speed on the empty highway. There was so little traffic in this part of Saidia that the driver could fly down the black ribbon of asphalt. He did, too.

Mikael stared out the window, lost in thought, and Jemma left him to his thoughts.

One minute all was quiet and the next they were smashed sideways, slammed off the road in a screech of screaming brakes, screeching metal and shattering glass.

The impact knocked Mikael’s car sideways, and the two cars, hit again, and once more, before the red sports car went sailing overhead to land off the road in the sand.

The heavy black sedan spun the opposite direction, until it finally crashed on the other side.

For a moment inside the car there was no sound.

Mikael shook his head, dazed.

“Jemma?” Mikael’s hard voice cut through the stillness as he turned toward her.

She lay crumpled against the door, her face turned away from him.

“Jemma,” he repeated more urgently, reaching for her, touching the side of her face. It was wet. He looked at his hand. It was covered in blood.

* * *

She was flown by helicopter to the royal hospital in Ketama. Mikael traveled with her, holding her hand. Mikael’s chauffeur walked away with cuts and bruises like Mikael, while the driver of the other car didn’t need a helicopter. He’d died at the scene.

Jemma spent hours in surgery as the doctors set bones and dealt with internal bleeding. She then spent the next few days heavily sedated.

Mikael refused to leave her side. Fortunately, he was the king, and this was the royal hospital named after the Karim family, so no one dared to tell him to leave her, either.

The doctors and specialists had all said she’d be okay. She was simply sedated to help reduce the swelling. She would mend better, and be in less pain, if she were sedated, and resting.

Mikael wanted her to rest, but he needed to know that she was okay.

So for three days he slept next to her bed. Nurses brought coffee to him. His valet brought him clean clothes daily. Mikael used Jemma’s hospital room shower when needed.

He struggled with that last day, the beach trip to Tagadir, her reaction when he told her he was sending her away, and then the silent car ride before the sports car slammed into them.

Was the accident karma?

Was this his fault, again?

He leaned over the bed, gently stroked her cheek, the bit of cheek he could reach between all the bandages. The shattered window had cut her head badly. They’d picked glass out for hours before finally getting the side of her head stitched and stapled closed.

He’d been furious that they shaved part of her hair, but the doctors insisted they had to. Now he just wanted to see her eyes open. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to apologize and tell her he loved her and it wasn’t lack of love that made him send her away, but the need to protect her, and do the right thing for her.

She didn’t understand how much she meant to him. She was laughter and light and life.

She was his soul mate.

His other half, his better half. Yes, his queen.

That afternoon on the beach, she’d said hard things to him, but she’d also spoken the truth.

Mikael’s battle wasn’t with her. His battle was with himself.

He didn’t like himself. Didn’t love himself. Couldn’t imagine her, her of all people, loving him.

And so he was sending her back to a world he wasn’t part of, sending her to people who were more deserving.

Mikael closed his eyes, his fist pressed to his forehead, pushing against the thoughts and recriminations, as well as the memories tormenting him.

He should have been a better son to his mother. He should have denounced his father once he realized his father had lied, that his father had broken his promise to his mother. He should have given his mother the assistance, advice, and support she’d needed.

But he hadn’t. And she’d died alone, in terrible emotional pain. And he couldn’t forgive himself for his part in her suffering.

How could he?

He squeezed his fist tighter, pressed harder against his forehead, disgusted. Heartsick.

She’d be alive now if he’d given her help. She’d be alive if he’d acted when he should have. It would have been easy. Asking forgiveness was not that complicated. It was simply a matter of pride.

His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut, trying to hold the burning tears back. Forgive me, he thought, sending a silent prayer up to his mother.