Sheikh's Forbidden Queen: Zarif's Convenient Queen / Gambling with the Crown. Carol Marinelli
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you were drunk...and all the time you were ill,’ Zarif breathed in a hoarse undertone of remorse, dark eyes blazing gold over her flushed face, his lean hand tightening over hers. ‘If Halim’s doctor had not been present and able to administer an immediate shot of adrenalin, you could have gone into cardiac arrest.’
Ella breathed in slow and deep. ‘But I didn’t. I’m fine,’ she told him quietly. ‘What a thing to happen in public—you must’ve been very embarrassed.’
‘Embarrassment was the least of my concerns,’ Zarif admitted. ‘I wronged you. I made an unjust assumption and you suffered for it. Hanya told me you’d drunk a lot of alcohol.’
Ella stiffened. ‘That is a lie. Belle gave me one drink. It may have been a large drink but there was only one and I didn’t finish it.’
‘It is immaterial. I should naturally have given you the benefit of the doubt. It is my duty to look after you and I failed and it could have cost you your life,’ he breathed harshly.
‘How on earth could you have known that I was going to suffer a severe allergic reaction to something I ate?’ Ella asked ruefully. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It was just bad luck.’
‘Nonetheless, we will be very, very careful about what you eat in the future,’ Zarif decreed. ‘Dr Mansour warned me that another attack could be fatal. He asked me to call him as soon as you wake up.’
In a daze, Ella watched Zarif unfurl his cell phone and within minutes the middle-aged doctor put in an appearance. He confirmed that it was possible to suddenly become allergic to a substance that one might have eaten for years without ill effects but while urging her to exercise caution he was considerably less dramatic about her prospects than Zarif had been. Zarif, Ella registered, was in still in shock at her collapse and blaming himself for it. The oxygen mask removed because she was breathing easily and the IV removed because she faithfully promised to drink lots of water, she levered herself up against the pillows once they were alone again.
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘I suppose it’s no use telling you that I’m usually as healthy as a horse.’
‘I owe you an apology,’ Zarif murmured tautly. ‘I misjudged you. I should have realised that you were genuinely ill.’
‘How could you have?’ Ella parried uneasily. ‘I didn’t realise what was wrong with me either.’
‘You need to rest now,’ Zarif told her simply. ‘Could you eat something first? You’ve had very little today.’
Ella identified the hollow sensation inside her as hunger and smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, I am hungry.’
Servants brought food while Ella watched Zarif from below her lashes. He had removed his headdress and his luxuriant black hair was tousled as though he had run his fingers through it several times. He needed a shave as well, black stubble cloaking his stubborn jawline and somehow highlighting the effect of his beautifully modelled mouth. In truth, still clad in the gold robes that glimmered richly even in the lamp light, he looked utterly amazing and beautiful and she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him.
‘You should’ve stayed with your guests,’ Ella remarked uncomfortably, struggling to rein in her overpowering reaction to his lean, lithe, dark good looks.
‘I’m your husband. You should always be my first priority,’ Zarif fielded in surprise. ‘What sort of husband would behave otherwise?’
Ella was silenced while she mulled over that response. He certainly seemed to feel a lot more married than he had the day before. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She wasn’t sure. She picked pieces from the various dishes spread on trays around her on the bed and ate with an appetite that surprised her. When Belle and Betsy arrived to visit her, she greeted them with an apologetic wince.
‘I’m a real party pooper, aren’t I?’ she sighed.
‘I should never have given you that vodka,’ Belle commented guiltily. ‘It’s my fault that Zarif initially assumed that you were tipsy.’
‘I’d blame Hanya,’ Betsy said, disconcerting Ella with that frank opinion. ‘I think she convinced Zarif that you had drunk enough to be dancing on tables. She quite deliberately misled him to make you look bad.’
‘But those stupid prawn appetisers would have wrecked your wedding night anyway,’ Belle pointed out sympathetically. ‘And at least Zarif knows the truth now.’
It was only then that it actually occurred to Ella that it was her wedding night and she flushed, amazed that she had so easily forgotten what had earlier dominated her every thought. She exchanged fond goodbyes with her new sisters-in-law and promised to visit them when she was next in London—whenever that might be. As they departed she slid out of the high bed, keen to go for a shower and freshen up. That was when Zarif chose to reappear.
‘I’m going for a shower,’ she told him tightly, murderously conscious of the horribly old-fashioned and shapeless white nightdress that she had been put in after her collapse and hoping very much that Zarif had not been involved in undressing her.
Zarif scanned her tense figure and anxious face. Sheathed in a white cotton gown that could only have belonged to someone either very old or very modest, she looked like an angel with her wealth of blonde hair tumbling round her shoulders and her blue eyes big and bright above her pink cheeks. Doubtless she was worried that he might be selfish enough to try and claim his marital rights regardless of her weakened condition and he straightened his broad shoulders.
‘I’ll sleep elsewhere tonight,’ he told her flatly.
Ella added two and two and made four. ‘This is your room?’
Zarif nodded, brilliant dark golden eyes veiled as if he was reluctant to remind her that she was his wife and that this was their wedding night.
‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you out of your room,’ Ella declared, tense with discomfiture and determined not to prove any more of a nuisance than she had already been. ‘Stay—we’re grown-ups, surely we can share the bed?’
Without another word, she vanished into the bathroom, which she was relieved to discover was infinitely more modern than the one she had used at the start of the day. Indeed the jets from the power shower stung her out of her lethargy and soon had her reaching for a towel. She had no choice other than to don the same old-fashioned nightie when she was dry. The bedroom was empty when she emerged and she wasted no time in climbing into the bed.
About ten minutes later, Zarif returned to the bedroom, naked but for the towel knotted round his narrow hips. Water droplets still clung to the dark curls of hair scattered across his virile pecs and his hair was still damp, spiked up by a rough towelling. Her attention roamed to the muscled planes of his strong brown back and lean hips before straying without her volition to his heavily muscled torso and the hard, corrugated slab of his flat stomach.
Her mouth ran dry as he extracted something from a drawer and let the towel drop carelessly to the floor, exposing taut brown buttocks. Muscles rippling, he yanked on a pair of black boxers and she suddenly closed her eyes tight, embarrassed that she had been spying on him, ashamed that she could be twenty-four years old and still that naively curious about the male body.
Wouldn’t everything have been easier had she been more experienced? Sleeping with Zarif would then have been no big deal, she told herself. Only to change her mind as she lifted her lashes half a sneaky inch and watched him stroll towards the bed with the predatory grace of a prowling panther, almost stopping her heart dead with excitement in the process. She swallowed hard as he doused the lights and the bed gave beneath his weight.
‘You know if you want to, you can... I’m feeling fine now,’ she told him with startling abruptness, utterly fed up with the ridiculous level of nervous tension he inspired in her and ready to do virtually anything to put it to flight.
Perplexed by that unexpected offer, Zarif flipped over on his side to peer at her, his dark eyes gleaming in the