He’d wondered that first night if she was a virgin, but she’d been adamant and he’d let himself be persuaded. Now he was convinced he’d been right. Jacqueline was passionate and eager but definitely inexperienced.
Or she had been.
Asim’s jaw clenched. At least that had relieved his earlier discomfort that he might be poaching on his cousin’s territory. Imran really had been just a friend. But now there was guilt that he’d seduced a virgin. A decent man would have pulled back straight away, respecting her innocence. But with Jacqueline Asim feared he had no control.
She was a houri, an enchantress.
She was disrupting his well-ordered life.
Was he mad, having an affair with a journalist? Logic should say yes but instinctively he trusted her.
He grimaced and entered the palace, nodding to a guard.
Sleep he could do without. He preferred to spend the midnight hours exploring Jacqueline’s insatiable appetite for passion. She interfered with his work too. Those daily briefings on her research became long interludes that left him smiling and sated yet still hungry for her.
Worse, she interrupted his thoughts. Yesterday during another round of trade negotiations he’d found himself recalling her pithy assessment of one foreign diplomat. On impulse he’d changed his carefully laid approach to test what she’d suggested was a weakness in the foreign position. And the hunch had paid off! She’d been correct.
He should thank her; she’d saved him time and effort. Yet that crossover from lover to advisor niggled.
Asim kept his women separate from his public life.
That would change a little when he had a wife, of course. His wife would be intelligent and experienced enough to deal with diplomats, royalty and all manner of VIPs. But in the meantime it disturbed him that he found himself thinking about Jacqueline so often.
That was another thing. She stymied his search for a bride. How could he devote himself to that important task when the passion between them flared so hot? Obviously it would dim with time, passion always did, but in the meantime he owed it to himself, and his country to choose an appropriate wife. Yet lately the few he’d seen hadn’t come close to arousing interest.
One had been superficially suitable: engaging, intelligent and well-bred. But he’d felt no spark of attraction. How could he spend his life with a woman if he wasn’t interested enough to bed her?
Another candidate he’d mentally dismissed as too short. Too short! Just because he relished the fact that when he kissed Jacqueline he didn’t have to fold himself in half to reach her lips. Plus the feel of her long, slim legs locked around his waist was currently one of his greatest pleasures.
Asim grunted in self-disgust. At thirty-five he needed to find a suitable wife and start a family, securing the throne for the future. He couldn’t afford to fixate on a woman as his father had done with his mother. Their passion had been unhealthily intense, turning into a sick relationship that had damaged all the family.
Starting today, Asim would do what he should have been doing: focus on his search for the perfect queen.
* * *
‘I’m so glad my grandmother finally brought you to visit.’
Jacqui watched her companion twirl her long sable hair. It was a nervous gesture Princess Samira had repeated several times since Jacqui had arrived.
The princess was a beauty. The harsh, extravagantly male cast of Asim’s aristocratic features were, in his younger sister, softened. They had the same hooded eyes, though in his sister’s case they were a rich sherry colour. Her mouth was lush, not thin, and her jaw, though determined, wasn’t uncompromisingly hard.
Yet despite her beauty there were shadows under her eyes and she had a lustreless quality as if weighed down by unimaginable woes.
‘I’m honoured you invited me.’ And intrigued that Lady Rania had left them alone after half an hour.
Jacqui’s chest squeezed in sympathy as the princess fumbled the traditional coffee pot she’d been tending, her hand unsteady. She looked tired and fragile but her minuscule frown as she concentrated on pouring the honeyed coffee into tiny cups reminded Jacqui of Asim.
But everything reminded her of Asim. He was in her thoughts constantly. She spent the night flush against his big, naked body, and even when she dreamed it was of him, not the horror that had haunted her for months.
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ Jacqui accepted a steaming, fragrant cup.
‘Please, call me Samira.’ The other woman smiled and Jacqui caught her breath at the impact a little animation had on her face. More than beautiful, she was stunning. No wonder the press was avaricious for photos. That face would sell millions of magazines.