Postcards From Paris: Bound by His Desert Diamond / Amorous Liaisons / The Secret to Marrying Marchesi. Sarah Mayberry
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how rigidly his jaw was clenched beneath the smooth, olive skin.
Next to him stood Rashid, who was to serve as best man. In contrast to Zahir’s complete stillness he fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, smoothing his hands over the trousers of his suit. He shot Anna a cold glance and again she registered that same peculiar sense of unease.
And so the long ceremony began. The sonorous voice of the priest echoed around the vaulted ceiling of the chapel—a chapel full of honoured guests from around the world. But Anna was only aware of one man, so acutely aware that she thought she must shimmer with it, radiate an aura that was plain for all to see.
Somehow she managed to get through the service, the daze of hymns, prayers, readings and blessings, only seriously faltering once, when Zahir slipped the platinum wedding ring onto her finger. The sight of it there, looking so real, so final, sent her eyes flying to his face, searching for a crumb of comfort, some sort of affirmation that they were doing the right thing. But all she saw was the same closed, dark expression that refused to give anything away.
Finally the organ struck up for the last time and the bride and groom made their way back up the aisle as man and wife. As they stepped outside, they were met with a loud roar from the crowd and a barrage of flashing cameras. It seemed thousands of people had gathered to be a part of this special day, braving hours of standing in the cold to catch a glimpse of their princess and her new husband. A short distance away, the car was waiting to take them back to the castle for the wedding breakfast, but first Anna was going to spend a few minutes chatting to the crowd. They deserved that, at least. Walking over to the barrier, she bent down to accept a posy of flowers from a young child, smiling at the sight of his chubby little cheeks red from the cold. The crowd roared louder and suddenly arms were reaching out everywhere, bunches of flowers thrust at them, cameras and phones held out to capture the moment.
‘We need to get into the car, Annalina.’ Zahir was right behind her, whispering harshly into her ear.
‘All in good time.’ She politely accepted another bunch of flowers. ‘First we need to acknowledge the kindness of these people who have been hanging around for hours waiting to congratulate us.’ She could feel Zahir’s displeasure radiating from him in waves but she didn’t care. They weren’t in Nabatean now. This was her country and she was going to set the rules. She continued to smile into the crowd, accepting armfuls of flowers that she then passed to a couple of burly men who had appeared behind them. She noticed they shot a startled glance at Zahir. ‘Why don’t you go and talk to the people over there?’ She gestured to the barrier on the other side.
‘Because this is not on the schedule, that’s why.’
‘So what? Life doesn’t always have to run to a schedule.’ She passed more flowers back to the minders, enjoying herself now, especially the sight of these burly men wreathed in blooms. ‘You need to loosen up a bit, accept that this is the way things are done here.’
But Zahir showed no signs of loosening up. Instead he continued to move her forward by the sheer wall of his presence, so close behind her that his barely repressed ire bound them together. Anna turned her head, hissing the words past her smile: ‘You might at least try and look as if you’re happy.’
‘This isn’t about being happy.’ No, of course it wasn’t. How foolish of Anna to forget for a moment. ‘Schedules are there for a reason. And impromptu walkabouts provide the ideal chance for a terrorist to strike.’
‘This is Dorrada, Zahir.’ Still she persisted. ‘We don’t have any terrorists.’
They had reached the car now, Zahir having to duck his head to get in to this ancient vehicle that had once been her father’s pride and joy. He seemed far too big for it, caged in by it, as the doors closed behind them, muffling the cheers of the crowd.
‘May I remind you that you are now married to me, Annalina? To Prince Zahir of Nabatean?’ He turned to face her, his eyes as black as stone. ‘And we do. From now on, you will treat security with the respect it deserves. Otherwise, you may not live to regret it.’
* * *
Zahir’s eyes strayed across the crowded ballroom yet again, searching out Annalina. She wasn’t difficult to find. Still wearing her wedding dress, she was by far the most beautiful woman in the room without exception, moving amongst the guests with practised ease, charming them with her grace and beauty, occasionally taking to the floor to be whisked around by some daring young buck or crusty old dignitary.
Zahir didn’t dance. Never had he seen the need. But tonight he found himself wishing that he did, that he could have parted the crowd on the dance floor, firmly tapped on the shoulder whichever interloper it was at the time and removed Annalina from his clutches. Other men touching his bride did not sit well with him. More than that, it spread a hot tide of possessiveness through him, the like of which he had never known before. It was something he knew he had to keep in check.
At least until tonight, when he would have Annalina in his bed. Then she would be all his, in every sense of the word. It was that thought that had got him through today: the long-drawn-out ceremony, the tedious wedding breakfast and now this irksome ball that it appeared would never come to an end. His tolerance and patience had been severely tested, neither being qualities that he had in abundance. But the day was finally drawing to a close, the waiting nearly over. And as the time approached when at last they would be together, alone, so the thrum of awareness increased, spreading through him, until it was no longer a thrum but a thudding, pounding urge that held his body taut, rang in his ears.
From across the other side of the room Annalina looked up, meeting his gaze, a gaze which he knew he had held for too long, that was in danger of betraying him with its intensity. She angled her head, something approaching a smile playing across her lips, her eyes deliberately holding his, refusing to look away.
God, she was beautiful. A fresh wave of lust washed over him, tightening the fit of his tailored trousers. She might be all demure decorum now but tonight he would have those restrained lips screaming his name in pleasure, those searching eyes screwed shut against the delirium of his touch, his heated thrust. Bringing her to orgasm that night in the log cabin had been the single most erotic experience of his life. But the experience had ended badly—seeing him consumed with rage, fighting to maintain his composure, dangerously close to losing it. This was what Annalina did to him. She stirred up emotions that were totally uncalled for. Awoke the warrior in him when the situation called for restraint and respect—not pumping testosterone and raging hormones.
As the supreme leader of the army of Nabatean, Zahir had seen some terrible things, had done some terrible things, that still had the power to haunt him when he closed his eyes against the night. But that was war, the most brutal savagery imaginable, man turning on his fellow man. It had been a hideous, necessary evil but he was vindicated by the fact that Nabatean was now a successful, independent country, free from the oppression and tyranny of its war-mongering neighbour. Many would say that Zahir should be extremely proud of his achievements. That he had accomplished what no man had ever thought possible. But, despite his pride in his country, Zahir would never be able to accept praise for his victory, let alone celebrate it. Not when his parents had paid for his success with their lives.
He had learned his lesson in the most painful way possible. Never again would he allow himself the luxury of such gratification, no matter for how brief a period of time. Self-indulgent pleasure was to be avoided at all costs. He just needed to remember that when he was around Annalina.
Not that his feelings for her were all about pleasure, far from it. Annalina stirred up extremes of emotions that were as threatening as they were mystifying.
For a slightly built young woman, weighing, he would estimate, little more than eight stone, this was extremely perplexing. Even if she’d been a trained assassin, armed to the teeth, he knew he would have no trouble overpowering her, throwing her to the ground, dispatching her if necessary. But she wasn’t a trained assassin and she wasn’t armed, at least, not with a recognisable weapon. She was no threat. So why did his body insist that she was, firing the blood through his veins as if he had stepped into an ambush, had a blade at his throat?