The Unlikely Mistress

She opened her mouth to object but maybe she read the determination in his eyes, for slowly she unwound the bun and shook her hair free. He watched as it flowed down over the embroidered silk of her green tunic—a heavy fall of golden brown tumbling over her shoulders. A lump rose to his throat as his gaze flickered, mesmerised, to the pale oval of her face. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. Well, he knew exactly what she would do. After an initial hesitation, her lips would open to allow the thrust of his tongue and then she would respond hungrily, if the expression in her eyes was anything to go by. His imagination began to fly. How long before her conscience forced her to stop him? he wondered. Long enough for him to explore beneath her tunic to discover if her panties were already wet? Long enough for him to peel them down and pleasure her with his finger, feathering it against her moist crack until she was screaming out in helpless pleasure?

He swallowed.

No. He must not allow himself to be distracted by lust. They had a deal and he would stick to it. And besides, wouldn’t it give him an added power over her if he allowed her desire to simmer away without provocation? To let her discover the strength of his indomitable will in resisting her?

He flicked her a glance. ‘We need to think about our honeymoon.’

‘Yes.’

She spoke carefully. ‘It is a great honour to accompany you on a state visit to your embassy in Washington.’

His eyes narrowed as he heard the stilted quality of her words. Was she disappointed he hadn’t taken her to one of the desert cities he suspected she craved to visit? Perhaps to the fabled and wondrous city of Qaiyama, with its ancient monuments and some of the country’s oldest artwork? Well, that was too bad. He wasn’t going to risk being alone in the romantic beauty of a Bedouin tent with her when he wasn’t allowed to touch her.

Up until their wedding yesterday, Zayed wouldn’t have cared where they had gone but he had witnessed some profound changes in his new wife over the last twenty-four hours. He had seen her body as no other man had ever seen it. He had spent the night with her even though they had not kissed, and that had been a first. He had discovered she was a stranger to pleasure but realised that her young and fertile body was instinctively crying out for a man like him to show her such pleasure, because the drive of the hormones was more powerful than the voice of reason.

This whole make-believe marriage was based on it not being consummated, but there was another reason why he could not contemplate being alone in the desert with her. Because Jane was the kind of woman who would never recover from a liaison with a man like him, if his will should weaken. He suspected she would become obsessed with him if he made love to her—and who could blame her? In many ways, he guessed he was her ideal man—he was the ruler of a country she adored. Like some fantasy figure from the pages of the manuscripts she spent her life deciphering, he had stepped into her life. He had transformed her into his Sheikha—and that was pretty stirring stuff for the Englishwoman. Just imagine if he allowed them certain intimacies... If she discovered what he was truly capable of in bed—or out of it. Why, she would spend the rest of her days heartsick and aching for him and he would not do that to her. He must not hurt her in that way.

Infused with a sudden sense of satisfaction at his own magnanimousness, he smiled. ‘Yes, an honour indeed,’ he said. ‘Our embassy in Washington is eagerly anticipating our arrival and preparations are under way for a party to introduce you to the wider world. And we can enjoy the city, which has much to offer—have you ever been there before?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never been to America.’

‘It’s a beautiful country—and there will be enough diversions for us to stop focussing on what we can’t have, and concentrate instead on what we can. There are some rare texts you might be interested in looking at, while I can discuss the takeover of Dahabi Makaan with my advisors.’ His mouth hardened as he looked at her. ‘It might not be the most conventional honeymoon in the world but right now it’s the only one on offer.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

WASHINGTON SEEMED SMALLER and more manageable than it looked in all the news broadcasts, though Jane suspected that she was seeing the city differently as the wife of one of the world’s most powerful rulers. A red carpet awaited them when they touched down at Dulles International Airport and they were driven straight to the beautiful gilded building in Massachusetts Avenue, known as ‘Embassy Row’, which housed the Kafalahian Commission.

The welcome they were given was rapturous. All members of staff—both Kafalahian and local—had lined up to meet them and Jane wondered if she would ever get used to all this pomp and ceremony, before reminding herself that such fears were unnecessary. You won’t need to get used to it. It’ll be over before you know it, so better not get too comfortable in your new role.

At last they were taken to their suite. It was the first time they’d been alone all day and Jane kicked off her shoes and sank onto the huge bed, watching Zayed as he walked over to the desk. She wondered how the staff would react if they knew the truth about their marriage. If their welcome would have been quite so rapturous if they’d realised it was nothing but an empty farce—and that the sexy Sheikh of Kafalah would lie chastely by the side of his new bride that night and all the nights which followed.

But it was funny how even the strangest of situations became normal after a while. This was only their fourth day together as man and wife but already she was growing less self-conscious about being alone with Zayed. Adhering to an unspoken agreement not to test their resolve any more than was necessary, they went to bed at different times, and when she awoke in the morning he was always gone. At least he was able to lose himself in the hard exertion of a desert ride on one of his famous black stallions. Jane’s diversions were more gentle in nature but they provided her with a welcome distraction.

In the few days before they’d left for Washington, she’d spent her days exploring the corridors of the rose-gold Kafalahian palace, putting in many hours in the library, before escaping into the beautiful gardens during the cooler, rose-scented evenings.

In many ways it should have been a dream come true—the culmination of all her academic endeavours—to be granted free access to a place she’d been learning about since she was eighteen. And yet it was strange how the human spirit could often defy expectation. How was it that the illuminated manuscripts, the exquisite statues and paintings were far less compelling than her thoughts about Zayed Al Zawba? She used to hate him, but somehow she couldn’t seem to hate him any more. Perhaps it would have been easier if she did. But people were irrational and out of her initial animosity towards him had grown a complicated cocktail of feelings.

She found herself admiring his strong work ethic, his razor-sharp mind and obvious dedication to his people. He was encyclopaedic in his knowledge about his country and, for an academic like her, to be able to tap into such first-hand knowledge was truly exciting. She still felt she didn’t really know him. He remained an enigma and that was clearly how he liked it. Yet beneath the implacability of the royal mask he wore was something dark. Something painful. She’d discovered that on their wedding night when that terrible dream had made his face become distorted and his body grow rigid with fear. And last night it had happened again.

Jane bit her lip. She’d woken to the sound of that broken cry as he’d uttered broken words she couldn’t understand. His body had been bathed with sweat, his eyes wide open as he stared at the nameless thing which was haunting him—and once again she had cradled him for as long as it took for the demons to go on their way. Yet this morning his shuttered features had warned her to keep her distance, so that still she hadn’t dared ask him the cause of the nightmare. She told herself it was no business of hers. She told herself she shouldn’t care that he was hurting.

But she did.

The thought of the despair she’d seen in his eyes was so unexpectedly painful that she sucked in a sharp breath and Zayed turned to look at her, lifting his head from the stack of diplomatic papers he’d been flicking through.

He frowned. ‘Something wrong?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m a little nervous, I guess.’

‘Of what?’

Of the pain I heard in your voice last night. Of the bleakness I saw in your eyes. She forced herself to be pragmatic. To be the bride she was expected to be. The cool-thinking academic who didn’t think or behave like other women, not the clinging partner who demanded to know his every thought. ‘Oh, come on, Zayed. You might be used to all this.’ She made an expansive movement with her hand, which took in the billowing silk of the primrose-coloured drapes and the exquisite furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. ‘But I’m not.’

He shrugged. ‘I thought you were adapting pretty well to the far more lavish setting of my palace in Kafalah.’

‘That was different. I’ve studied Kafalah so much that I almost feel I’ve been there before. Here I feel as if we’re on the world stage. And tonight I shall be dressed like a desert queen and brought in front of the city’s finest and no doubt every female will be wondering how I could possibly have bagged myself one of the world’s most eligible men.’

He put the pile of papers down. ‘I thought we’d established—and which I thought I’d made very clear to you—that you’ve been looking beautiful since our wedding? Disturbingly so. I don’t think anyone in their right mind will be wondering that. Did you see the coverage in this morning’s papers, describing you as the jewel in Kafalah’s crown?’