‘Careful, Zayed—that sounds awfully like a compliment.’
‘And I imagine that sublimating your femininity was something which became a habit for you, because your pretty sister attracted all the attention. And that men were the last thing on your mind when you got a place at one of the best universities in the country.’
Jane swallowed. She wanted to damn him for his candid assessment even though the analytical side of her brain couldn’t help but admire how accurately he had identified her personality type. ‘Bravo,’ she said. ‘If ever you get bored with ruling your very own desert country, you could always try a career move into psychology.’
He gave a low laugh. ‘Careful, Jane,’ he warned silkily. ‘You may have rejected the very obvious methods of making yourself attractive to men, but I’m assuming nobody warned you about the sexual frisson produced by verbal sparring.’
Danger suddenly entered the air. A potent and powerful danger, which made Jane acutely aware of the cool evening air on her spinal column and the fact that all the buttons were now undone. She was half dressed in a bedroom with a near-naked sheikh standing right behind her—and wasn’t there an unfamiliar part of her which wanted him to put his fingers right back where they had been? To start stroking her bare skin and slide the heavy dress down over her hips? Despite being freed from the tight corset, her breathing felt even more constricted and her voice was tight as she spoke. ‘I’d like to get ready for bed now, if you don’t mind.’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to avert my eyes?’
Ignoring the sarcasm which coated his words, she nodded. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I want.’
‘Very well.’ He walked over to the window and stared out at an indigo sky, which was spattered with stars. ‘Feel free.’
Pulse racing, she hurried over to the wardrobe where the palace staff must have unpacked and hung up the clothes she’d brought with her but, despite her frantic search, she couldn’t find her comforting nightshirts anywhere. The only garments which confronted her were several lace-trimmed satin nightgowns so delicate that when her fingers brushed against them, she was half afraid of tearing them.
‘My nightshirts aren’t here,’ she said.
‘You mean those hideous baggy T-shirts?’
‘Where are they?’
‘Gone, I imagine. And replaced with garments far more befitting for a queen.’
Indignantly she turned round to look at him then, and oh-so-predictably, the sight of his body spotlighted by the moonlight completely jarred her equilibrium. The small white towel slung low at his hips seemed ridiculously small for the purpose for which it was intended. Because surely it was supposed to conceal the most secret part of his body instead of drawing attention to it so that she could hardly bear to drag her eyes away, just as he’d arrogantly stated.
‘You had no right to throw away my things!’
‘Nothing to do with me. Blame your ladies-in-waiting,’ he retorted coolly. ‘They probably thought it outrageous that the new Sheikha should be gracing her husband’s bed clad in such unflattering attire.’
She directed her gaze to the floor, staring at the ground rather than the groin. ‘Then what am I supposed to wear?’
‘Once again you are testing my patience, Jane,’ he said steadily. ‘Just select one of the nightgowns specially flown in from Paris as part of your trousseau and wear one of those. Gratitude is optional, but would be much appreciated.’
Grabbing the first one on the rack, Jane didn’t trust herself to answer as she scuttled into the bathroom and stepped out of her wedding dress and underwear before pulling the extravagant piece of lingerie over her head. Scrubbing the kohl make-up from her eyes and washing her face, she pulled the priceless emerald clips from her hair but an unexpected glimpse of herself in the mirror made her blink in disbelief. Because this was another unknown Jane. Not like the bride she’d been earlier—because that Jane had simply ticked a lot of necessary boxes and resembled pretty much any other royal Kafalahian bride down through the ages. But this Jane was different.
She swallowed.
Scarily different.
The kohl had gone but she’d been unable to shift the berry-red stain from her lips, which suddenly looked all pouty and trembling. Her loose hair tumbled freely over slippery satin and the material clung to her like a second skin—gleaming against the swell of breasts emphasised by a delicate edging of fine lace. She looked feminine but also...wanton. How could that be when Zayed hadn’t laid a finger on her? But her eyes were unusually dark and two high lines of colour were slashed against her otherwise pale skin. And the nubs of her nipples were outlined clearly against her suddenly engorged breasts. Why, they looked almost twice their normal size.
How could she possibly go into their bedroom and face him when she looked like this—as if she were crying out for a man to have sex with her—while inside she felt vulnerable and scared and hopelessly out of her depth?
And then an image of Zayed’s hawk-like features and near-naked body swam into her mind and su
ddenly her vulnerability drained away as an unfamiliar curiosity began to creep over her. What would happen if she returned to the bedroom and rubbed her body up against his, the way a cat sometimes did when it was winding its tail around someone’s ankles? What if she pulled his dark head towards hers and demanded he kiss her? Would he?
That depended. She suspected that his will was as strong as iron, no matter how much she tried to tempt him—even if someone like her could tempt him, which she doubted. This marriage was conditional on their not having sex—why on earth would he break that clause on their first night together, thus making the ceremony they’d gone through a complete waste of time? If he’d wanted a sex-filled marriage then he would have chosen his American mistress, or somebody else he fancied like mad.
Her cheeks were flaming as she ran her wrists under the cold tap and tried to shut down her decadent thoughts. Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled herself for the onslaught to her senses as she returned to the bedroom. But she needn’t have bothered because Zayed was no longer standing where she’d left him, bathed in moonlight. He was in bed, his hard body outlined perfectly beneath the thin white sheet, his dark head contrasted against the snowy pillow. As he slept, his powerful chest rose and fell with each even breath and she found herself envying his ability to blot everything out when she felt so churned up inside.
And then she remembered something else. Something which all the excitement and turbulence of the day had driven clean out of her head. Once again she was reminded of the look on his face as she’d entered the throne room. Not the initial disbelief, nor the brief flicker of lust—but something else. A dark and haunted look, steeped in pain and the faintest hint of vulnerability. She wondered if she should ask him about it, then wondered if she had the right. Not really. Zayed wasn’t a puzzle she was supposed to gradually unpick. He was nothing to her, just as she was nothing to him.
But as Jane climbed silently into bed beside him she suspected a fretful night lay ahead of her, just as he had predicted.
CHAPTER SIX