The Sultan's Choice

She’d repressed any hint of sexuality since then, not wanting to invite any cruel criticism or attention. Diverting her mind from the painful memory, she thought back to the phone call she’d received from Sadiq early that morning, just before she’d left for work.

‘I’ve set up an appointment with a personal shopper this weekend. You’ll need a trousseau. And wedding outfits. The festivities alone will last three days.’

Samia had sat down on the chair beside the phone, the future yawning open before her and looking scarier and scarier. ‘Does it have to be three days? Why can’t we just get married here in a civil ceremony with a couple of witnesses?’

He’d chuckled darkly and it had made Samia want to hit him. ‘Because I’m a sultan and you’re a princess about to become a queen, that’s why. Also,’ he’d continued briskly, ‘you need to be protected. As of this morning you’ll have two bodyguards, and you will be transported to and from work in one of my cars. The news may not be public yet, but enough people know, or suspect something.’

Samia’s sense of personal freedom was disappearing fast, like an elusive shimmering oasis in the desert. ‘But—’ She’d started to protest, but had been cut off.

‘That’s non-negotiable. As of this moment you are under my protection. It’s simply too dangerous for you to proceed as you have done. You’re about to be married to one of the biggest fortunes in the world, not to mention the fact that you can also lay claim to one of the world’s last remaining untapped oil bounties.’

At least, thought Samia with a hint of hysteria, she didn’t have to worry that Sadiq was marrying her for her money! Any lingering sense of anonymity was a delicate thread about to break for ever.

Five days later

Sadiq was in the waiting area of one of the private dressing suites in London’s most exclusive department store. Samia had been spirited away to somewhere within the labyrinthine rooms to be fitted out in a range of designer outfits, while he was waited upon hand and foot by a veritable army of beautiful women, all of whom were making their interest glaringly obvious.

The latest blonde offered him an array of newspapers and he picked one. She lingered far too long, causing Sadiq to bid her a curt thank-you. Once, not so long ago, he would have looked and decided if she was worth bedding. But not today, and never again.

That thought didn’t fill him with the claustrophobia he might have expected. He had to admit that his resolve to stay faithful wasn’t entirely down to the fact that he was about to be married but because curiosity and desire just weren’t there.

He hadn’t seen Samia again until he’d picked her up that morning. He’d told himself that he had to come with her because, after seeing her wardrobe, he couldn’t trust that she would pick appropriate outfits. He conveniently ignored the fact that she’d been assigned a stylist with plenty of experience.

Samia had been waiting outside her apartment building, her hair tied back and looking pale and haunted in faded jeans, a light long-sleeved top and jacket. More unadorned than the servants who worked for him at the Hussein castle in B’harani. He’d had to quell irritation and also the disturbing flare of desire. Her jeans clung lovingly to slim legs and a pertly plump bottom. And the thin material of her top showed him again that her breasts were well shaped and more generous than he’d first assumed.

He’d reassured himself that his burgeoning desire for his fiancée was purely his head instructing his body to feel something for the only woman he would sleep with ever again, but the anticipation firing up his blood made a mockery of that assertion.

When he’d formally asked Samia to marry him after their dinner, he’d been overcome with a sense of desperation that she should agree—the first time he’d felt anything like it. or the first time in a long time. And he hadn’t welcomed it.

A curious sense of fear tightened his body now, as he heard the whisper of movement which meant his fiancée was returning to parade the first of her outfits for his pleasure. He’d decided that Princess Samia would make him a good, uncomplicated wife, and suddenly the road ahead seemed paved with complications he’d not accounted for.

Samia wanted to yank the silver sheath excuse for a dress up over her bust and down over her knees, but was too intimidated by the personal shopper who reminded her painfully of her stepmother. Looking her up and down while she’d stood there in her plain underwear, she’d muttered something like, ‘Well, there’s not much we can do. You ‘re too short for most of these dresses …’

Battling back trepidation at the thought of being paraded in front of Sadiq like a slave girl at an auction, Samia fixed her gaze forward, determined not to see the undoubtedly disappointed expression on his face. She’d not even looked at herself in the numerous mirrors.

They emerged into the waiting room and Samia was aware of the big, powerful body lounging indolently on a cream sofa. Instantly her pulse quickened and that heat coiled low in her belly. She was teetering in sky-high heels and felt as unstable as a new foal on spindly legs.

Sadiq saw Samia emerge from behind a luxurious velvet curtain. He automatically raked her up and down with his eyes, as he had done with numerous women in the past—a reflex. This was usually an erotic prequel for their mutual pleasures later on. But never in his life had any of those women had this immediate an effect on him. So immediate and forcible that he had to angle his body in such a way as to disguise its rampant response.

Samia’s hair was still tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck. He’d had to curb his urge to ask her to take it down earlier, as if she were his mistress and she wasn’t pleasing him. Now she was avoiding his eye, and she was obviously excruciatingly embarrassed. He could see the telling red flush creep over her chest and up her neck and something inside him twisted.

But she was simply the most erotic vision he’d ever seen in his life. Far from his first impression of no curves, an almost boyish figure, she actually possessed the body of a houri. Without the boxy suits, jeans and unflattering top, she was all slender limbs and curves. He couldn’t take his eyes off the full line of her bosom, like some kind of out-of-control teenager. Her skin looked silky-soft and pale golden, and he could imagine the contrast between his skin and hers as their limbs entwined. The acute ache in his groin intensified.

His voice came, low and authoratitive. ‘Leave us for a moment, please.’

To his relief the stylist and her assistants melted away.

Privacy was something he’d never had to worry about before, having always managed to stay in control. It was as if some invisible barrier had existed between him and women before, keeping them at some kind of a distance, but here with Samia … there was no barrier … just heat.

The dress was totally inappropriate, but it revealed the intoxicating combination of Samia’s innocence and an earthy sexuality that she clearly had no clue she possessed. He didn’t expect for a moment that she wasn’t experienced, but he would bet right then that any lover she’d had hadn’t awoken her sensuality, and a fiercely primitive feeling swept through him.

And then he realised that Samia was still r

esolutely avoiding his gaze. Her reluctance for this scenario was palpable. He had an uncomfortable flashback to the way his father had used to insist on his mother parading the latest fashions from Paris he’d bought for her. He knew this was nothing like that, but his desire was doused as effectively as if he’d stepped into a freezing cold shower.

His voice was arctic. ‘That dress is entirely unsuitable. Clearly we’ve come to the wrong place. Go and change. We’re leaving.’

Sadiq saw Samia’s jaw tense, and the set of her shoulders as she turned and walked stiffly back through the curtain, and had to restrain himself from stopping her and explaining … what? That for a second he’d been afraid that he’d turned into his father? His overweight, overbearing father, who had flaunted his women in front of his only son as if it was something to be proud of, and in front of his stoic wife like a punishment for as long as Sadiq could remember?