The Sheikh's Princess Bride

She bit it. Hard.

She blinked and locked her knees, grateful her skirt hid her shaky legs.

Another second and she summoned up a semblance of a smile, ignoring the stagnant well of disappointment at the heart of her. She breathed deep, as if her lungs didn’t feel brittle and papery, like they were about to tear apart.

‘Thank you for hearing me out, Tariq.’ There, her voice was even and admirably cool. Not the voice of a woman who felt her last hope of happiness had been snatched away.

It had been an outrageous idea. She’d known it from the start. Foolish of her to pursue it.

‘I knew even as I asked that I wouldn’t suit. You need a much more appropriate wife than I could ever be.’

She glanced around for her bag, only to realise she still wore it over her shoulder. She unclenched her hands and grabbed the thin leather strap for something to do.

‘What do you mean, more appropriate?’ Tariq’s searing gaze pinned her to the spot.

‘Let’s not go there, Tariq. There’s no point.’ Samira stretched her smile wider and her taut facial muscles ached at the strain. ‘It’s time I left. I’ll say goodbye and wish you and your family all the best for the future. Thank you again for making time to see me.’

She was turning away, desperate to be alone, when long fingers closed around her upper arm.

Instantly she stilled as shock waves ripped through her body.

It had been four years since any man, apart from her brother, had touched her. And this was different—as if a channel of fiery liquid coursed under her skin.

Samira frowned, trying to remember Jackson Brent’s touch ever having inflamed such a reaction. But all she could remember were his charming smile, his easy lies and his insistence on kissing her in front of the paparazzi despite her protests.

‘What did you mean, Samira?’

Experimentally she tugged her arm. His hold remained firm.

A glance at his face, now close, confirmed he had no intention of relenting.

She remembered that look of adamantine determination from her early teens. Tariq had been visiting Asim and had somehow found out about her one act of rebellion in an otherwise cloistered, well-behaved life. She’d secretly been slipping out, dune-driving without supervision or a crash helmet. He hadn’t lectured her. It was as if he’d understood her need to escape her miserable home life, just for a few hours. He’d simply said he knew she had more sense than to risk her neck that way again and made her promise never to drive without him or Asim. He’d known her promise would bind her.

But she wasn’t a teenager trying to cope with her parents’ manipulation in their battle for supremacy. Why did he drag this out instead of letting her leave with some dignity intact?

She shrugged. ‘No doubt your advisors wouldn’t approve of you choosing a wife like me.’ She took a step away, only to pull up short when he refused to release her.

‘First, I make my own decisions, Samira, not my advisors; and second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Samira whipped around, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. ‘Don’t be coy, Tariq. We both know I’m tainted.’ When his face remained impassive she leaned closer, hurt turning to anger that he made her spell this out. ‘“Soiled goods”, isn’t that the phrase?’ Her chin hiked up, but given his enormous height she couldn’t look down her nose at him.

‘In both our countries there are people who disapprove of me, a woman who’s never been married but who had a lover.’ She tugged in a swift breath. Her heart hammered and her chest rose and fell as if she’d just finished an hour’s aerobic workout in the gym. But that was nothing to the distress curling deep inside.

‘I thought that wouldn’t matter to you since you’d already been married to a virtuous woman who gave you heirs. I’d assumed you weren’t hung up on the old ways. But I see I was wrong.’

She’d told herself again and again she had nothing to be ashamed of, having chosen to be with the man she loved. Perhaps that would have been true if Jackson had proved himself worthy of her love. But he’d betrayed her brutally, proved her a fool, her judgement and her dream of love fatally flawed. Instead of the luxury of dealing with her pain and disillusionment privately, it had all been blasted across the press. Her loss of innocence had provided fodder for the voracious masses eager for the story of her heartbreak. She’d felt defiled.

Was it any wonder she refused to trust herself to romance again? No man could tempt her with talk of love. The very idea chilled her to the marrow.