Monarch of the Sands

‘None of this has been as I planned it,’ he said suddenly. ‘I never planned—foolishly, as it happens—to take you as my lover. I told you back in England that I thought I could resist you—but now it seems t

hat was an arrogant and unrealistic assessment of my own will power.’

In spite of all the intimacies they had known in bed, she found herself blushing at his growled admission.

‘Yes.’

‘Of course, if you had told me that you were a virgin, then I would have resisted you.’ There was a heartbeat of a pause. ‘But you didn’t tell me, did you?’

‘No.’ Frankie bit her lip—because now she could definitely hear reprimand in his voice. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘And once I’d possessed you, it was too late,’ he added. ‘For by then I was ensnared.’

She looked at him, unsure of how to respond. Was that supposed to be a compliment, or some kind of territorial boast? ‘Ensnared?’ she echoed.

‘You don’t like the word? Would captivated suit you better?’

She nodded, still not certain where any of this was leading. ‘Maybe.’

He gave a short laugh. How refreshingly honest she was. And how beautiful. All that sweet promise which could never be his. Soon, her delicious, scented body would no longer grace his sheets at night. With any other woman, it would have been a simple matter to dispatch her—but surely Francesca deserved the truth. ‘Maybe you want me to say that I love you?’ he questioned quietly. ‘As I think you love me.’

She felt her stomach twist itself up into little knots because words of love weren’t usually accompanied by a heavy weariness of the voice. And there was something dark written on his face which was filling her with foreboding. ‘Not if it isn’t true.’

‘Because I do,’ he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘You see, I do love you, my anisah bahiya.’

Her lips were trembling so much that her stammered response was barely audible. ‘You d-do?’

Grimly, he nodded his dark head. ‘Yes. Unfortunately, I do. And it’s because I love you that I’m afraid I have to send you away from here.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THERE was a dense and heavy silence while Frankie’s emotions took a trip on some demented roller coaster, which rocked her to the core. ‘You say you love me, yet you’re sending me away?’ she whispered.

Zahid nodded, determined that the sapphire swim of her eyes would not sway him. Didn’t she realise what such an admission of love had cost him? ‘I have to.’

Perhaps pride should have stopped her from interrogating him—but what price pride when her whole future lay at stake? ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will if you think about it, Francesca. The longer you’re here—the more I risk compromising your reputation. You say you don’t care about such a thing, but I do. More than that, we both risk getting deeper and deeper into a relationship which has no future—not now and not ever. I must marry a woman from my own country,’ he said bitterly. ‘I told you that at the very beginning and nothing has changed.’ Except that he had behaved like an impetuous and thoughtless fool and they would now both pay the price for that behaviour. ‘I must take a wife—or two—maybe even three.’

The bizarre conversation they were having now took on an even more surreal aspect. ‘Three?’ she echoed as she snatched her hand away from his. ‘Three wives?’

He met the disbelieving blue blaze in her eyes. ‘I am allowed four by law, although I doubt whether I—’

‘Zahid, please!’ Frankie interrupted and her sorrow was replaced by an indignant kind of fury. ‘Please don’t stand there and make out that we have no future because you’re following some kind of moral code—and then add that you’re going to take what amounts to almost an entire football team of wives!’

He guessed that now was not the time to point out that her numbers were out by about seven. He reached towards her again but she shook her head, stepping back from him as if he were contaminated. ‘Francesca—’

‘Don’t touch me.’ She was aware that her eyes were swimming with tears but she didn’t care. ‘Why did you bring me here today—so far from the palace? Why didn’t you just tell me back there?’

Because he had wanted to avoid someone overhearing exactly the kind of scene they were having now. The kind of scene he’d never had with a woman—because no woman had ever got this close to him before. And if he was being honest, hadn’t he thought that he might win her round with kisses and soft caresses? Hadn’t there been a stupid, unrealistic part of him which had hoped that she might agree to continue their affair back in England? With him visiting her as often as he could—showering her with gifts and luxuries as if that might in some way compensate for his absence?

But he could not do that, he recognised. Not to Francesca. He could not offer her so little because that would devalue the kind of person she was. And it would sully what they had both shared.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply.

‘Don’t—don’t apologise,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m not some kind of victim, Zahid. So will you please take me back to the palace now? And then I’d like to return immediately to England.’

Zahid tensed up, for he was unused to anyone laying down furious demands like this—yet even he could see that she had a right to be angry. But surely they needn’t part on terms of such bitterness. Couldn’t they end this affair the same way they’d started it—consumed and comforted by the act of love?