Once dressed, she almost chickened out. But the memory of Bian's expression—looking like she was all that and more while Christine was something the cat wouldn't even bother dragging in—drove her to stiffen her back. She gave one last, longing look to the books. The guards would be here any minute to sweep them back to the treasury, and she'd barely gotten started with them. But she'd have tomorrow.
She headed out, leaving the jeweled books for the guard to pick up.
Chapter Thirteen
Arif stared at Christine as she strode into the room, her steps long despite her small size. She looked as if she belonged in the clothes of his people. His heart had not lied—she was the only one for him. But he still did not know if she felt the same. The days the astrologer Nadira had forecast as auspicious for marriage were approaching and would soon be gone for the year. That meant he must do his best to convince his Christine to move the ring to her left hand, and then he would ask her for the last time to marry him, and she would say yes.
He headed to meet her, took her hand, and led her into the room.
A new ambassador from Dijobuli had arrived, and a few local dignitaries would want to meet his Christine. What he really wanted was to sweep her away on Mahbouba's back and carry her off to a desert fortress where he could have her all to himself. Even more, however, he wanted his Christine to shine.
And she did.
She had lined her eyes with kohl, and her dark brown eyes dominated her oval face. Her pale skin glowed, and he hoped that could only be due to her being happy. She smiled and greeted the guests with Arabic or English, as was appropriate. She earned approving nods, and so what if Aunt Bian glowered? She, too, would eventually see that Christine was meant to be by his side.
Sweeping his Christine off to gather a plate of food from the buffet table, Arif leaned close to ask, "Enjoying yourself?"
She smiled up at him. "More than at any academic function I've ever been to. I never thought I'd be rubbing shoulders with sheikhs and diplomats."
He shook his head. "They are just people. The ambassador you met, the one from Dijobuli, the country to the east of us, he is here to try and make a match for his sheikh's daughter, so he is disappointed to see you by my side. And the king over there, the fat one, he pines still for my Aunt Bian, who has refused his offer to marry five times."
Christine's hand shook, and she almost dropped her plate. Arif caught the china and righted it for her. "What’s the matter?"
"Nothing…just, well, I could almost imagine what it might be like to stay here. Except…you know, I should have called my dad tonight."
Arif took the plate from her. He swept her out of the peacock throne room and into the gardens. Pulling out his mobile, he offered it to her. "Call him. Now."
Her eyes widened, but she took the phone and punched in a number. A few moments later, she was chattering to her father about the books she had seen today. Arif smiled. What he wouldn't give to be able to do the same—to spend a few minutes with a father whose voice he barely remembered and a mother whose perfume had once smelled of old roses. He was pleased he could do this for his Chr
istine.
She rang off and handed back the phone. "Dad actually sounded excited."
Smiling, Arif took back his mobile and tucked it away. "And you?"
She shook her head. "We keep talking about me, but I want to hear what you want for a change—other than you want to be married."
He gave a small laugh but took her hand and walked into the garden. "What do I want? What does any man want? A family—happy children. My country to do well. Zahkim has oil, but too often the money goes to the rich, and not those who keep working their hands to the bone. We've had troubles between those who want to modernize and those who don't. But there's great potential in our young people. I want—need—someone beside me who could help to lead Zahkim into a better world." He glanced at her, searched her face for answers. "I want someone who loves me for myself—but who also loves Zahkim. Is that too much to ask?"
"I don't know." Glancing over her shoulder, she gestured to the party. "We should probably get back."
He smiled and touched a finger to her face. "I have made my appearance, and you have made yours. Come with me instead, will you, habibi?" For once he held out his hand to her instead of taking her hand. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He held his breath. Would she choose him tonight?
With a small smile, she put her smaller hand into his.
She was going to let herself be happy in the here and now. She promised herself that. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. The soft robes swirled around her legs, and the coins jingled as she moved. She grinned as she and Arif slipped away like teenagers sneaking out after curfew. He ran up the stairs to his rooms with her, and she giggled like she was a kid about to be caught.
Once the door shut behind them, he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss took her breath away. He didn't demand, didn't push—this kiss was coaxing and tender, a soft press of his mouth over hers. He moved his lips to her cheek, to her neck, to the spot just behind her ear that sent a tingle down her spine.
Her robes—and his—slipped off. Wasn't that the blessing of traditional garb? Easy on and easier off. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her to his bed, then put her down as if she were made of glass. He stretched out next to her. "What do you want, habibi? Tell me."
"World peace? The Finlay Medal for my work—I saw my dad win it when I was ten. He published his thesis and became the boy wonder of academia for a time, and then became the old man everyone laughs at."
He put a finger over her lips. "No—not him. You. At this instant, what do you want?"
She put her arms around his neck. "You to make love to me."
"Ah, that I can do."