The Sheikh's Princess Bride. Annie West
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of female companionship. Since his wife had died he’d been again dubbed one of the world’s most eligible men and, according to the whispers Samira heard, there was no shortage of women on hand to ease his broken heart.
‘You’re very direct.’ His eyebrows bunched and she shrugged, refusing to apologise.
‘I thought you’d appreciate my honesty, as I appreciate yours. That’s what I’d expect in a marriage.’
‘Honesty?’
Samira took a half-step forward, drawn by the intensity of his stare.
‘Honesty and respect.’ She licked her dry lips before continuing. ‘I assumed you’d want something similar. That you wouldn’t look for love in a second wife. I thought you’d want someone capable, loyal and committed. Someone who could help raise your sons.’ Samira paused. ‘Was I wrong? Are you looking for romance?’
‘Who said I was looking for anything?’ His stare was enigmatic, giving nothing away.
Samira spread her hands. ‘You have two children under two and a country to run. Your schedule must be manic. But I know you well enough to understand you’ll want the best for your boys.’ She looked straight into his eyes and was rewarded with the slightest of nods.
‘I’m sure you’ve hired the best staff available to help with them.’ Again that infinitesimal nod. ‘But no nanny can replace a caring mother. A mother who’s committed to being there for them all their lives.’
She drew in a quick breath, knowing her breathing was too shallow, her heart racing, now they came to the crux of it all: the reason she’d braved this almost-stranger and proposed marriage.
‘I’ve always loved children; you know that, Tariq.’ Even in her teens she’d taken every opportunity to be with youngsters, getting into trouble for spending too much time playing with the servants’ babies in parts of the palace princesses weren’t supposed to know existed. ‘I’d make a good mother. You can rely on me.’
* * *
Tariq wondered if Samira had any idea how appealing she looked, her dark-honey gaze earnest, her expression serious, her hands clasped in unconscious supplication before her.
Unconscious?
Could any woman so beautiful not be aware of her allure?
Yet Samira wore a conservative suit, not a low-cut dress. Her make-up was barely there, her hair neatly up at the back of her head.
And he knew an overwhelming urge to see her panting and flushed, her rich, dark hair in lush abandon around her shoulders, her body bare and inviting.
Desire hammered him, turning muscle and soft tissue into beaten metal, hard and uncompromising. His lungs bellowed as he hauled in oxygen, fighting for control.
The casual way she’d spoken of his lovers, about her own, tugged at something primitive and deep-seated inside him. Tariq knew if ever he possessed Samira he wouldn’t share her with anyone else.
And her wistful expression when she’d spoken of her ex-lover, admitting she didn’t regret the relationship, even after he’d betrayed her so brutally... Tariq wanted to twist the guy’s neck in his bare hands! Brent hadn’t deserved her.
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. What was he thinking?
Shame smote him, the knowledge that Samira had always been his weakness, even when his loyalties had lain elsewhere. The last thing he needed was to give in to this ancient folly. Besides, saddling himself with a wife was one complication he didn’t need.
Yet she was right. A roster of nannies was no long-term solution for his boys. He wanted the best for them. Jasmin had wanted that too and he’d promised her before she’d died...
He scraped the back of his neck with one hand, feeling the iron tension there. Hell! He’d imagined this was some simple social visit from Samira since they were in Paris for the same event. He hadn’t expected her to trawl every one of his ‘no go’ subjects.
‘You’ve spoken about what I’d get out of marriage. But you haven’t mentioned why you’re so eager for it. Why do you want this?’ Tariq didn’t know why he was asking. It wasn’t going to happen.
But as he surveyed her delicately flushed cheeks, her sinuous body and the long, taut outline of her thighs beneath that pencil skirt, he realised why he kept the conversation going. Because, once conjured, he couldn’t erase the image of Samira, abandoned and sexy, in his bed.
Years ago he’d walked away from the teenage Samira because she’d been far too young and he’d been too honourable to act on his desire. That decision had haunted him. The fantasy perfection of ‘if only’ had overshadowed too many relationships.
But that Samira was gone. She was an experienced woman now, sensual and provocative in ways that spoke directly to his libido.
For long moments Samira said nothing. Her very stillness conveyed tension, heightening his curiosity. Finally she spoke, her gaze settling on a point near his collarbone.
‘I want a family.’
‘You have family. Your brother and his wife.’ But, even as the words emerged, he realised his mistake.
‘My own family.’ Her words confirmed it.
Tariq frowned. ‘But why me? Why us?’
He had no false modesty. Acquiring lovers had never been a difficulty. His wealth and status, not to mention his power, attracted many women. But Samira hadn’t seemed interested in his royal position, except to prove she was up to the task of being his queen. And as for her being smitten... He narrowed his eyes, watching her steadfastly staring at his collar. She gave no evidence of it.
Annoyance twisted sharply in his belly. He’d grown used to fending off women, not being ignored by them.
He watched her open her lips and found himself wondering if they were as petal-soft as he imagined. The direction of his thoughts sharpened his voice.
‘There must be plenty of eligible men. Why not find one you fancy and start a family together? Why come to me?’
Her mouth tightened and she raised her eyes. For an instant he could swear he read pain in that shimmering, gold-flecked gaze. No, not pain. Anguish. Then she blinked, banishing the illusion.
‘I told you, I’m not going to be swept off my feet again. I don’t want romance.’
Looking down at Samira’s beautiful, earnest face, Tariq suddenly felt ancient, like a greybeard surveying an innocent. Was she really too young to understand that was what women did? They fell in love, even if they then lived to regret it. It was in their nature. The heavy thud of his heart against his ribs tolled out the sum of such regrets. He’d grown intimately acquainted with them.
‘But taking on someone who already has children—’ The expression on her face stopped him midsentence. ‘Samira?’
She looked down at her hands. They were clenched together so hard the knuckles whitened. When she met his eyes again, her own looked desolate.
‘I want children. I’ve always wanted them.’ She breathed deep. ‘But I can’t have any of my own.’
Something lodged in Tariq’s chest. Something heavy that impaired his breathing. He couldn’t imagine the world without his boys so he had some inkling of how bereft Samira felt.
He wanted to reach out and comfort her, pull her in to him and cuddle her, for there was no mistaking her pain. Despite the years since they’d been close, she was still the girl he’d cared for too much.
But he was older and wiser now. At thirty-seven he’d learned there were times when a woman needed her dignity rather than the comfort of an embrace. When nothing he could do would ease the pain.
Memory stabbed hard, slicing through his ribs, tearing at his conscience. Jasmin...