are finished.”
“But you loved her, didn’t you?”
“That is not something I’m ever going to discuss with you.” The past was over. He and Angele had a future to build.
His youthful feelings embarrassed him and they were over regardless.
“You don’t need to. The photos show the truth, if you look for it. I didn’t … I don’t think I wanted to believe it was possible. It was painful enough to accept you were so much more relaxed and happy with her.”
“You gleaned all this from a single photo?”
“No, but that’s not something I want to discuss right now.”
No, right now, she wanted reassurances he was more than happy to give. Nevertheless … “We can hardly disappear from my brother’s wedding feast.”
“Why not? You did.”
“I had business to attend to if my father was to remain free to preside over the festivities.” “You often sacrifice for your family.” “It is my privilege to do so.” “I believe you mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re an amazing man.”
“And you love me.” He had no intention of opening himself to that depth of emotion again, but he would protect hers. It was his duty to do so.
And he always did his duty.
“The wedding festivities will last into the wee hours of the morning. Tonight is not the ideal time for us to share our bodies for the first time.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You are in the country for the next three days?” “Yes, we’re staying for the full wedding celebration.”
Despite Angele’s refusal to play a role in the wedding, her family had been at the palace since the prewedding festivities began. He had seen very little of her because he had been busy with state business. He had believed she was busy with the bridal party, even if she wasn’t an official member of it.
“I will make arrangements for your last night here. There are no official events after the final breakfast that day.”
He put his arm out. “Now, I believe it is time we returned to the feast.”
She laid her small hand in the crook of his arm and let him lead her from his study, the stress this discussion had caused her evident in the fine tremors of her delicate fingers against his jacket sleeve.
Two nights hence, he would show her she had nothing to fear from him in any way.
Despite the sun having set an hour before, the tile floor on the balcony off Angele’s room warmed her bare feet. She’d long since discarded the expensive but uncomfortable glittery heels she’d worn for the final celebratory feast of Amir and Grace’s nuptials.
She still wore the figure hugging silk sheath. By an as yet undiscovered New York designer, its subtle composition made the most of her figure, hinting at bedroom seductions while having no single element that could be pointed to as anything other than proper.
Her father had been angry she’d foregone the traditional dress the women of the Jawharian royal family had opted to don for the evening feast. Only Angele wasn’t a Jawharian princess, no matter how much her father might wish otherwise.
Her mother had stood up for her. Looking like American royalty in a beautiful European-designed gown, Lou-Belia had told Cemal to take a chill pill. The look on Angele’s father’s face had been worth the price of admission and then some.
But the expression that flashed over Zahir’s features when he’d seen Angele’s dress had been even better. His gray eyes had heated to molten metal and his lids had dropped in a look of pure sexual predatory interest before he’d schooled his features into diplomatic blank-ness. It hadn’t been just the once, either.
She’d caught that heated stare directed her way more than once over the course of the evening. Each time, it increased her desire for the feast to be over, for her one night with Crown Sheikh Zahir bin Faruq al Zohra to begin.
The celebration was over now and she could go to Zahir as soon as she wanted. The only thing stopping her was the garment lying so innocently on her bed.
She’d discovered the galabeya upon returning to her room. The traditional wedding dress in this part of the world, the white silk gown embroidered with gold thread looked like it belonged in an Arabian Nights fantasy. The Arabic lettering in the intricate embroidery told the story of the first Sheikh’s marriage to the wife that helped him found the house of Zohra.
A note from Zahir lay atop the galabya.
My dear Angele,
You indicated a wish to have a wedding night. Please do me the honor of wearing this gown, worn by my grandmother in her wedding to my grandfather.
I look forward to seeing you in and out of it.
Zahir
The day before, he had told her to come to him via the secret passages she’d never known for certain existed. She’d guessed, since the palaces in Jawhar all had them, but Angele had never been privileged with that information regarding the royal palace of Zohra. Until now.
Now, when she planned to leave the palace of Zohra tomorrow and never return to it.
With a deep sigh, she turned from the darkness toward the warm light emanating from her bedroom. The galabeya shimmered under the glow, calling to and repelling her with equal fascination.
He wanted her to wear a wedding dress on their single night together. It was mind-boggling, but not nearly as shocking as it should have been. Part of her wanted the fantasy. Her subconscious at least was on the same page as her soon to be former almost-fiancé.
So, why balk at his request? The galabeya was easily the most beautiful one she had ever seen, the needlework making the Arabic letters look like art and perfect in each stitch. The matching slippers were beyond elegant. And looking at them, she knew they were exactly her size.
How had Zahir managed that?
A tiny voice warned against the cost tomorrow to that kind of indulgence tonight. But it was her one night, the only time for her to be with the man of her dreams. Perhaps it would make the morrow harder, but she would not balk at letting it fulfill every fantasy possible.
She changed into the galabeya, shivering with a sensuality she’d kept locked deep inside since her first sexual feeling, as the silk whispered against her skin. She’d opted to wear a modern bra and panties in matching white silk and lace, rather than the traditional underclothes Zahir had left with the dress. After all, this wasn’t a wedding, but a seduction.
Though she was not at all sure any longer who was seducing whom. Certainly Zahir showed none of the reticence about bedding her that he always had done before.
Perhaps it was because his relationship with Elsa had ended. The one and only
