It seemed this Cinderella really was getting her happy ever after, and Ahmed had even bought her glass shoes—well, silk encrusted with crystals—to cement the deal.
She reached Ahmed’s side. He looked at her with enough love in his eyes that a shiver slipped over her skin.
“Family and friends, we are gathered here today to join Ahmed Al-Qasimi in matrimony with Melanie Martin.”
From there, the ceremony became as much a blur as her first wedding had been. Ahmed had to nudge her when it was time to say ‘I do.’ She smiled up at him and said, “Qabul, qabul, qabul.”
I accept.
He grinned back and then said, “I do.” Then he leaned closer and asked, “Do I get to kiss you now?”
She smiled. “Only if you really mean it.”
“Oh, I do. As I mean every kiss that I give you, my wife, my own, my very sensual American.”
Epilogue
Melanie was nervous about leaving Caius with Casey and Khalid. And with the sultan. It was Caius’ first visit to Sharjah—and her and Ahmed’s first time back since their wedding. She’d been nervous about her reception—and a little worried the sultan might throw Ahmed into jail, take Caius and extradite her ass back to New York.
Instead, the sultan had taken one look at the fat, pouting and travel-weary baby, who was about ready to throw a royal tantrum and the man had broken into a stiff smile. “Ah, he looks just like Ahmed did at that age.” The sultan had swept Caius from Melanie’s arms, tossed him up, caught him and tickled the boy’s belly. Gurgling laughs—not screams—had followed. And yet she was still nervous about leaving her baby boy.
Ahmed slipped an arm around her waist. “Will you stop frowning? My father has what delights him—a grandson and a potential heir to the throne. And we have three days of babysitting. After my father, it will be my uncles and aunts who must see the boy, and Khalid’s Casey adores babies. You have made her day by letting her spoil our son.”
Melanie shook her head. The palace seemed overflowing with people—relatives, no doubt. A band was playing traditional music, which sounded off key to her, but it was the sultan’s party after all. He had made a few concessions to his sons.
The food offered up included lamb, beef, and a dazzling display of pastries. Melanie glanced at her husband. “Our son is going to be overfed, spoilt and impossible once we get him home again.”
Smiling, Ahmed said, “He is home, my sensual American. He will grow up in two worlds, with a foot in each.”
She glanced at him. “And will he grow up responsible—or more like you?”
Ahmed shook his head. “That will be up to him. For I am not going to make my father’s mistake of ruling his life. No, I will make a whole different set of mistakes with him that are entirely my own.”
The sultan had given over the baby to the line of waiting aunts and came over to Ahmed. Melanie watched, a breath caught in her chest. She knew that Ahmed still wanted his father’s respect—but things were different now. Ahmed no longer needed that. The sultan gave Melanie a glance and faced his youngest son. “That trick you played—letting me think you were marrying Nasiji.”
“Was no more than you deserved, Father, for trying to force me into something not of my choosing. I did warn you.”
For an instant, the sultan seemed what he’d always been—a hard man, his jaw set and his eyes flinty. But Melanie could see the signs of age on him, the sag to his jaw, the broadening nose that now seemed to stand out on his face, the lines around his eyes. Slowly, he gave a nod and a tight smile. “That you did.” He turned to Melanie. “Does he behave himself as a husband and a father should? You have no complaints?”
“And if I do, what? You’d beat him with a stick?”
The sultan face Ahmed—father and son. She could see Ahmed better no
w in the older man—the same strong nose and cheekbones, the stubborn chin. Their stares met, and Melanie held her breath. And then a tiny smile lifted the sultan’s mouth and he shook his head. “No, I think Ahmed too large now for beatings. But that does not mean he would escape without a stern lecture. A good woman is to be prized above all things, my son.”
Ahmed smiled and put a hand on his chest. “I live to do my father’s bidding.”
The sultan huffed out a breath. “No, you live to be the bane of your father’s life, but I will let that pass for now. We have guests, and it would please me if you would do more than stand in a corner with your lovely wife.”
Ahmed gave a laugh. “I think that is the first time you have ever asked me to circulate at a party. With pleasure, Father. Come, wife, you have people to meet and a smile to paste into place.”
For the next two hours, Melanie bowed, listened to endless Arabic—she only understood one word in three and didn’t have enough verbs to carry on a conversation. The baby seemed to dominate all discussion, but business crept into things, with others asking Ahmed to ask his father for favors. Ahmed seemed both pleased at such an idea and irritated.
Escaping at last to the food set out, he told her, “I never had such sympathy for my brothers, or such a wish to still be the son who is ignored and treated as if he can do nothing right. Now I seem to be the son who is golden, and I see my brothers basking in the company of lovely women while I must talk until I am sick of my own voice.”
She laughed. “Quite a change from when I met you in New York—you were the ultimate escape artist.”
He grabbed her hand. “Good. Let’s see if we can recreate that moment and find our own party. I find all this respect and good behavior to be…wearing.”