Desert Fantasies: Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh. Barbara McMahon
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stroke of his thumb again. ‘Perhaps I do not find reason to smile.’
‘This is our wedding day.’
She glared at him then, allowed her eyes to convey all the resentment and hatred she had for him and for being forced into this position. ‘Precisely!’ she hissed. ‘So it is not like there is anything to smile about.’
A muscle in his jaw popped. His eyes were as cold and flat as a slab of marble, and she knew at that moment he hated her, and she was glad. There would be no more hand stroking if she could help it.
She sipped her water, celebrating her good fortune, but her success and his fury were short-lived, his features softening at the edges as he scooped up a ripe peach from a tray of fruit. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his fingers over the velvet skin of the peach almost as if he was caressing it, holding it to his face to breathe in its fresh, sweet scent. ‘There’s always the anticipation of one’s wedding night to bring a smile to one’s face, wouldn’t you say?’
And he bit deeply into the flesh of the peach, juice running down his chin, his eyes fixed on hers. Challenging. Mocking.
‘You’re disgusting!’ she said, already rising to leave, unable to stand being alongside him a moment longer.
‘And you,’ he said, grabbing hold of her wrist, the corners of his lips turning up, ‘are my sheikha. Do not forget that.’
‘What hope is there of that?’
‘None at all, if I have anything to do with it. Now sit down and smile. You are attracting attention.’
She looked around and saw heads turned her way, the faces half openly curious, the other half frowning, except for the three men who sat at a table nearby who looked to be almost enjoying the show, the same men who had been with Zoltan last evening at the pool.
‘Who are those men?’ she asked, sitting down to quell curiosity and deflect attention from herself rather than because she wanted to, determined not to accede to his demand quietly. It worked. People soon returned to the feast and to the conversation.
‘Which men?’
‘The three you were with last night,’ she said, rubbing her wrist where he had held her, damning a touch which seemed to leave a burning memory seared on her flesh. ‘The ones sitting over there looking like the falcons that caught the hare.’
He knew who she was referring to before he followed her gaze to see his three friends sat talking amongst themselves, openly amused by the proceedings. ‘They are friends of mine.’
‘Are they the ones who were with you the night you came to Mustafa’s camp?’
He looked back at her, amused by her choice of words. ‘You mean the night we rescued you?’ The glare he earned back in response was worth it. ‘Yes, they are the ones. On the left is Bahir, in the centre, Rashid, and the one on the right is Kadar.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘He is the one with the scar on his back?’
‘That is him.’
He waited for her to ask for details, like most women he knew would, but instead she just nodded, surprising him by asking, ‘And you are the only one married?’
‘As of today.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, “why”?’
Alongside him she shrugged and took a sip from her glass of water, taking her own sweet time to answer. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I see three men who are clearly of marriageable age and who all look fairly decent with their clothes off. Your friends are all—what is that expression they use in women’s magazines?—ripped?’
Her words trailed off, leaving him to deal with the uncomfortable knowledge that she thought his friends looked good with their clothes off, his gut squeezing tight in response. He didn’t like that. He didn’t want her looking at them. He looked over to where the trio sat, knowing that if they only knew they would never let him live it down.
‘And of course,’ she continued, ‘you all seem quite friendly.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, already suspecting where this was going.
For the first time she chose to look directly at him, rather than choosing to avert her eyes. She arched one eyebrow high, her eyes brimming with feigned innocence. ‘Naturally, I was wondering, maybe you’re all gay or something? Not that that’s a problem, per se, you understand. But it would explain why none of you have wives or women.’
He could not believe what he was hearing. If they had been anywhere else … If they had been anywhere but sitting in the midst of a crowded room where they were the centre of attention, he would have rucked up her golden skirts and shown her just how far from gay he was right here and now.
But he did not have to resort to such means, not given their eventful, albeit brief, history. She could not have forgotten already. ‘I seem to recall a certain incident in the library yesterday. I seem to recall you being there. Do you really have cause to wonder if I am gay?’
She shrugged again and picked a grape from a bunch, the first item of food he’d seen her take. ‘So maybe you swing both ways,’ she said, her eyes outlined and as bold as that sharp tongue of hers. ‘How am I supposed to know? After all, you were the one who said you never wanted a wife. And you are only marrying me so you can get the throne of Al-Jirad. What do you expect me to make of that?’
He growled, looking around at their guests, happy, loud and deep in the celebrations, and wondered if anyone would actually notice if he did drag her off to some sheltered alcove and put her concerns about his sexuality to bed this very minute. The thought made him stir, and not for the first time today. The moment she had walked into the ballroom, shrouded from head to toe in her golden wrapping, looking more like a goddess than any woman he had ever seen, he had lusted to peel each and every one of those robes and veils from her until she stood naked before him.
‘Let me assure you,’ he said, aware of three pairs of eyes studying them intently, judging their interaction, instead of watching the dancers like everyone else, no doubt hoping for more sparks to further entertain them. ‘You need have no concerns on that score.
‘And one more thing,’ he added almost as an after-thought, when he noticed she was now making an entire course of grape number two. ‘If I might suggest something?’
‘What?’
‘In the interests of allaying any and all concerns you have about my sexuality, you would be wise to eat something much more substantial. You’re going to be needing your strength tonight.’
The grape went down the wrong way, the dancers finished, and it was only that the applause drowned out the sound of her coughing that hardly anyone realised she was choking.
Bastard!
Her father topped up her water but she was already on her feet, one of her attendants coming to help her manage her robes. ‘Where are you going?’ Zoltan demanded to know, rising to his feet beside her.
‘The bathroom. Is that permitted, Your Arrogance?’
He let her go this time and she swept from the room, on the outside a cloud of sparkling gold, on the inside a raging black thundercloud.
She bypassed the bathroom, needing to stride the long corridors, needing to pound the flagstones in an effort to pound the man out of her psyche, until finally she stopped by an open window looking over yet another shady garden. She breathed deeply of the fragrant air, praying it lend her strength. She needed space. Space from that barbarian she was now wedded to. Space from the knowledge that tonight he would expect to make her his wife in every sense of the word.
And she was so very afraid.
She should never have goaded him. She should have known he would find a way to strike back at her, that her