Six Sizzling Sheikhs. Оливия Гейтс
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Lucy had told herself it was better that way; perhaps she and Khaled needed a little distance. Yet today she didn’t want distance, she didn’t want fear. She wanted hope. She wanted to believe.
She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mum. At least, not for today.’
Dana’s arms closed around her. ‘I’ll try,’ she whispered, and Lucy heard the trembling emotion in her mother’s usually dry voice. She pressed her cheek against her mother’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender soap.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘For being here today, and every day.’
Dana gave Lucy’s shoulder a squeeze and stepped away. Neither of them had ever been particularly adept at showing emotion; Tom Banks had taken care of that. Yet Lucy appreciated even these small gestures. They still meant so much.
A discreet knock sounded at the door, and Lucy knew it was time. She gave her mother a tremulous smile. ‘Here we go.’
The palace corridors had never seemed so long or twisting. The only sound was the rustle of silk, and the thundering in her ears of her own beating heart. Her mouth felt dry, her hands cold and slick. Yet even amidst the tremendous nerves was a building sense of anticipation, of hope.
How she wanted to hope.
A liveried servant led her to the reception room where a hundred dignified guests waited in hushed expectation. Since Lucy’s father was absent, she would be walking down the aisle alone for every endless step until she came to Khaled’s side.
She could see him now, framed by the room’s panelled doors, his profile to her—harsh austere, familiar.
‘It is time.’ The servant stepped away, and Dana went to find her seat with Sam. Lucy took a step forward into the room.
She felt the gaze of a hundred guests like a single eye trained on her, assessing this unknown English woman, now to be royal bride. Her legs trembled and her step wobbled. She looked up, and Khaled’s gaze held hers.
He smiled.
It was a small gesture, perhaps it was meaningless, yet it didn’t feel that way. It felt like sunlight, like a bond finally forged between them, drawing them together. Hope burst within her, blooming like a flower, twining its way around her heart and strengthening her soul. Lucy smiled back, and her steps firmed as she walked the rest of the way down the aisle to Khaled’s side.
Silently he reached out his hand, his fingers twining with hers, drawing her closer as the service began.
Lucy didn’t remember much of the service. They were essentially married twice, first in the Arabic tradition, and then in the Western one. She didn’t have to say or even think much. She was conscious only of sensations: the fluid fabric of her gown against her hips; the strong, sure feeling of Khaled’s hand in her own rather clammy one, the whir of a ceiling fan that sent intermittent puffs of warm, dusty air over her.
And then it was over. Khaled led her out of the hall, into another room, this one prepared for a feast. Crowds surrounded them, pressed kisses against her cheek, clapped Khaled on the shoulder. It was a blur, strange and just a little bit frightening, and Lucy was glad Khaled never left her. His hand never dropped hers. She needed his strength.
Platters of food and drink circulated, and people began to dance, both Western dances and traditional Arabic ones. The music was loud, the laughter raucous. Both Khaled and Lucy sat on the side, smiling and watching; by silent agreement, they’d chosen not to dance.
Lucy was content to sit there next to Khaled, to enjoy the flurry of activity and the peals of laughter, and feel his solid strength by her side. She greeted the guests who came to congratulate her, smiled, nodded and spoke words she couldn’t remember. Somehow it all passed her by—the food and drink, the noise and music, the people and lights. She was conscious, so achingly conscious, of only one thing: Khaled.
And then it too was over. Khaled rose, drawing Lucy with him, and amidst a chorus of well-wishes—some bawdier than others—and more kisses and embraces, they left. Lucy kissed Sam, his silky hair brushing her cheek as he lay in Dana’s arms, sleepy and satisfied. She met her mother’s eyes over her son’s head and they both smiled, needing no words.
Out in the corridor Lucy followed Khaled past the reception rooms and public galleries to a distant part of the palace, far from the noise and the people. They walked silently along the narrow corridors, up twisting flights of stairs, until in the highest tower he led her to a set of rooms that could only be described as the palace’s honeymoon suite.
A wide four-poster bed dominated the bedroom, piled high with silk pillows in shades of umber and sienna. Candles flickered around the room, casting pools of light and shadow. The doors were thrown open to a terrace outside, and Lucy saw that the sun had set, leaving a violet sky spangled with stars.
She moved to the doors and let the night air blow over her, cool her flushed cheeks and calm her suddenly racing heart.
They were finally alone.
Behind her she heard Khaled move, and she tensed with both expectation and nervousness as he came towards her.
‘Would you like a bath?’ he asked after a moment. His voice was low, smooth, bland. She had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.
‘Yes, all right,’ Lucy agreed. She turned and saw Khaled gazing at her with dark, fathomless eyes. ‘That sounds nice.’ She didn’t really want or need a bath, but it was a way to bridge the awkwardness of this moment, of this evening.
With a little smile she moved past Khaled to the door that led to a sumptuous bathroom suite.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ he told her, and Lucy jerked her head in a nod.
Safe in the bathroom, she turned both taps on full blast and dumped half a pint of scented bath foam into the bath as she exhaled shakily.
Why was she so nervous? She was acting like a frightened virgin, and she wasn’t that. She’d slept with Khaled before, for heaven’s sake; she knew his body and he knew hers. She knew what he liked, how he buried his face in her neck, how he liked to kiss her.
‘Help.’ Lucy didn’t realise she’d said the word aloud until it echoed through the marble-tiled bathroom. She held her hands up to her face and took two or three deep breaths. She needed to get a grip.
The bath was nearly full, so she turned the taps off and stripped, hanging her wedding gown on the back of the door. As she sank into the lavender-scented foam, she realised belatedly that she had nothing to wear other than her gown.
She had nothing.
Where were her clothes, her things? She felt vulnerable, as if Khaled had stripped her of her belongings intentionally. Perhaps he had. She didn’t know anything any more, didn’t know how to go forward, how to act, how to feel.
Help.
She stayed in the bath until the water began to grow cold, knowing that to delay longer would be obvious and therefore make things more awkward. Insulting, even.
To her great relief she saw a thick terry-cloth robe hanging by the door, and she slipped into it gratefully. She brushed her hair and washed her face, making liberal use of the exotically scented body-lotion. And then there was nothing left for her to do but open the door and face Khaled.
Face her marriage.
Face her wedding night.
She took another deep breath, drawing the air deep into her lungs, and opened the door.
Khaled lay stretched on the bed, his coat and tie discarded, his shirt partially unbuttoned. He looked relaxed, rumpled and sexy, and just the sight of him made sweet need stab deep in her belly.
‘Does your leg hurt?’ Lucy asked, noticing that he had stretched it out, and then she tensed, waiting for Khaled to be annoyed.
He just smiled.