of her. Whatever pretense she’d been able to manage had fallen behind like Atiq’s white washed stonewalls. ‘‘You have dozens of valets and butlers and maids to escort me to bed.’’
‘‘I know. I pay their salaries.’’ He smiled sardonically. ‘‘But I am the sultan, and you, laeela, are my princess.’’
He walked her through the semidark corridors, candles lit in high wall sconces, the soft flickering yellow light reminding Nicolette of a medieval castle and yet the blue paint, and the gold and black mosaics were exotic instead of frightening.
He opened the door of her room, checked inside, made sure all was in order. ‘‘Is there anything you need?’’
‘‘No.’’
He said good night then, and left her. Nicolette shut the door, leaned against the door, wishing with all her might that Malik would have stayed. She needed to be with him. Needed to be close to him. Even if they never made love, she just wanted one night in his arms.
She slowly started to undress and a knock sounded on her door. Opening the door, Nic discovered Malik. A lump filled her throat. She was so glad to see him and it’d only been a couple minutes since he left. ‘‘Get lost?’’
His crooked grin tugged on her heart. ‘‘I forgot something,’’ he said.
‘‘What?’’
He wrapped his hands around her arms and pulled her against him. She felt the hard length of his body touch every soft curve of hers. Dropping his head, he kissed her. Malik’s lips felt won derfully cool against her heated skin and she closed her eyes.
‘‘This,’’ he murmured against her lips.
‘‘You returned for a kiss?’’
‘‘What is more important than love?’’ With the tip of his finger he outlined her brow bone and then her small, straight nose.
She shivered at the touch, and yet questioned his words. Love. But he didn’t mean love. Not in the Western sense, the way she knew love. He meant love as one that is familiar, important, betrothed.
After all, everyone had arranged marriages in Baraka. No one married here for love. There was a way of doing things, the bridegroom paid a sedaq, bride price, to the family of the bride, and the bride presented the groom a dowry, and in her case it was the ports and harbors of Melio.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ she answered, belly tightening, nerves jumping as he continued to touch her, his hand exploring the column of her throat, the sensitive spot at the top of her spine, and now her long hair which she’d just loosened.
‘‘You have lovely hair,’’ he said, fingers sliding through the long strands.
‘‘Thank you.’’ The words stuck in her mouth.
‘‘I’m so glad you’re not a blonde. I think brunettes are much more striking,’’ he added, holding a tendril up to the light, letting the dark brown and rich auburn highlights glimmer against his skin. He turned the long strand over. ‘‘You haven’t ever wanted to be fair, have you?’’
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