to this conversation. “That is not something I will discuss with you.”
“I’m not asking you to—I’m simply making an observation.”
“This entire conversation is insane.”
“No, what is insane is two people prepared to marry for the sake of nothing but family obligation in the twenty-first century.”
Her American upbringing had much to answer for.
“I will one day be king. The woman who rules Zohra by my side must be a suitable match.” Angele knew this. He should not have to repeat it for her. “Love has nothing to do with the obligations you and I must uphold.”
“You say it like it’s a dirty word.”
It was his turn to shrug. In his life? That particular emotion had caused more pain than pleasure.
“Your brothers have both found love.”
“They do not have the responsibilities of the crown to uphold.” And neither man had had a particularly smooth road to true love, either.
Zahir had no desire to follow in their footsteps in that regard. He had enough of his own challenges in life to face as ultimate leader and servant to his people.
“Your father doesn’t wear a crown.”
“Don’t play semantics with me—this is too important.” He could not believe she was saying these things. “I believed you understood the importance of your obligations.”
“My greatest obligation is to myself. I know you don’t see it that way.” She quoted an Arabic proverb he often used that was strangely apt to their situation. “I’m not that person. I don’t believe countries will topple if their leaders seek personal happiness in a manner of integrity.”
“What is honorable about breaking our engagement?”
“We aren’t engaged.” “As good as.”
“Really? You truly believe that?” she asked as if his answer carried great import.
“Yes.”
Unutterable sadness came over her features and the light in her eyes dimmed. “I’m sorry.”
“You will give up this idea of backing away from our wedding?”
“No.” Her voice was laced with determination, but there was a flicker of fear in her expression.
And suddenly, he thought he understood. Things that made no sense began to fall into a picture he could comprehend. She was concerned about their compatibility in the bedroom. As well she might be.
In one respect, she was spot-on. They were not a nineteenth-century couple where the bride and groom had been expected to go to the marriage bed untouched. Or, at the very least, the bride.
She’d spent her life in the United States, surrounded by a culture that had demystified sex and frequently glorified it. He had never made improper advances because, despite his claim, they were not actually engaged.
At first, Angele had been too young, and later he’d had his liaison with Elsa. A relationship doomed from the beginning, but one that allowed him to come as close to escaping the stranglehold of his everyday responsibilities as he ever would, if only for the brief moments they’d had together.
He had foolishly allowed his emotions to get involved. So, when he’d discovered he was not her only lover, he had been hurt. And he was still angry with himself for being that vulnerable.
In the midst of his own self-allowed turmoil and the growing crush of his responsibilities without outlet, he had neglected to notice the impatient discontent in the woman he was slated to marry. Yet another casualty to the folly of allowing emotions to reign in one’s life.
Angele shook her head and glared at him. “Stop it.”
“Stop what exactly?”
“Thinking so hard. I just know you’re trying to figure out a way to guilt me into maintaining the status quo. And that is not going to happen.”
“No, I can see it is not.” Angele needed reassurance that their marriage would not be devoid of passion.
Something he had done nothing to convince her of in the intervening years since the original contract was negotiated. Considering how his member stirred in his trousers at the sight of her in the sexy dress, he knew he would have no problem reassuring her now, however.
“You want to have sex with me.”
She flinched, but squared her shoulders and nodded. “I’m offering you your freedom. I do not think a single night of lovemaking too high a price to pay for that.”
The words were just noise to cover her sexual fears and insecurities. He understood that, but one thing stood clear. She considered a night in his bed a gift.
He looked deep into her eyes and made another realization—one that both inexplicably pleased him and stirred pity in his heart. “You are in love with me.”
Zahir had always known Angele fancied him something rotten, but he’d considered it a mere girlish crush. However this woman before him was no child and the feelings so apparent on her features had a depth that shocked him. Love was not a comfortable or safe emotion. From this point forward, it would not hurt her to love him, but she did not know that. He would never betray her as Elsa had betrayed him.
“What was your first clue? My clumsy attempt at a kiss at eighteen, or my slavish devotion and refusal to date other men despite the fact we are not formally engaged?”
If he expected shock from her at his revelation, or horror, he would clearly receive neither.
He did not point out that her love for him made no sense in light of her demands and threats to back out of their families’ arrangements. He had already decided she had no real desire to do that, she was simply looking for reassurances.
The need for which made even more sense in the light of her feelings for him.
Nor did he point out that her love was based on a distant relationship. How could she know him well enough to love him? But she believed herself in love and that was enough to cause her pain and worry in their current situation.
“I apologize for not realizing your feelings sooner.”
Acknowledging the hurt she must have experienced over the years of their pseudoengagement, was not comfortable, but he was not a man to shirk from his responsibilities. “Love is a painful emotion.”
“You’re telling me?” she asked with disbelief and then the horror came. The color drained from her face as her eyes registered a mortal wound. “You are telling me … that you loved her.”
For the first time in his life, he was tempted to outright lie. He had learned the art of misdirection and when it was most politic to withhold information at an early age, but he made it a practice never to tell a direct falsehood. Even for the sake of politics.
His
