CHAPTER NINE
‘ALLOW ME TO congratulate you on your lovely bride. You’ve chosen well, my friend.’
Tariq followed the direction of the old Emir’s gaze, though he knew what he’d see. Despite having been married for months now, his attention kept straying to the far side of the reception room, to his wife. As if he couldn’t get enough of her. Samira glowed, her skin peach-perfect, her delicious body ripe and even more voluptuous than when they’d married. Those luscious breasts seemed fuller, more pert than ever.
He forced his attention elsewhere but his eyes snagged on the alluring curve of her smile, her graceful gestures.
Pride swelled. Samira was a superb hostess.
She chatted easily with guests: diplomats, VIPs and... Tariq noted a familiar handsome face and blond hair, the project manager overseeing the rebuilding project in the mountains. Nicolas Roussel hung on her every word. Samira took such an interest in the project that every time Tariq turned around Roussel was at her side.
Just as well Tariq knew she wasn’t interested in any man but himself.
‘Thank you.’ He nodded, acknowledging the Emir’s compliment. ‘I count myself fortunate.’
For she didn’t just excel at social events. Samira was also a caring queen. Her personal gift of sewing machines and bolts of fabric, sent to women in the flood-ravaged mountain villages, had been just right. It had lifted their spirits, as well as given them a potential source of income. She’d even commissioned fine embroidery from them for use in her designs and had laid the groundwork for a successful local enterprise.
‘I admit I wondered about a queen who runs her own business.’ The old man shook his head, raising his hand when Tariq would have spoken. ‘But I stand corrected. It seems to me that your wife’s experience as an entrepreneur gives her a broader view of the world. My wife and I have enjoyed her company during our visit. And,’ he chuckled, ‘my daughter is smitten with the gown your wife designed for her. She’s a very talented woman.’
Tariq inclined his head. The Emir, ruler of a neighbouring state, was notoriously conservative and his good opinion hard-won. Samira had done well to impress him.
‘I believe so.’
‘It was sensible of you to lose no time providing a mother for those boys of yours. I hear she dotes on them. No doubt she’s getting broody about having some of her own too, eh? It shouldn’t be long.’ He winked.
Tariq stiffened. The old man didn’t say anything others weren’t thinking. Yet Tariq remembered Samira’s pale features as she’d told him she could never have children. Her pain had dragged at him like a plough scraping through rough soil.
‘We’re content as we are,’ he said through tight lips.
‘No need to poker up about it. I’ve seen the way you look at her. The pair of you can barely keep your eyes off each other. You’re obviously both besotted.’ He clapped an arm on Tariq’s shoulder. ‘You’re a red-blooded man with a beautiful wife. Make the most of it.’ He turned his head. ‘Ah, I see I’m wanted. If you’ll excuse me?’
Tariq had to work to keep his face bland as the older man moved away. The Emir had rattled him more than he’d thought possible.
Besotted? Hardly. He was incapable of such unguarded emotion. That was a strength he’d accrued from his strict, unsentimental upbringing. There’d been no room for love in his formative years, no soft, feminine influence. It was only later he’d learned such invulnerability was also a flaw.
When he’d discovered Jasmin, carefully chosen for their arranged, dynastic marriage, loved him.
It had been unexpected, unwanted. Terrible.
For, no matter how much he respected and admired her, Tariq hadn’t been able to return those feelings.
His mouth thinned. Samira had been adamant she didn’t want romantic love. Perhaps he should have come straight out and told her he was incapable of it. If he’d been able to fall in love it would surely have been with Jasmin. She’d been gentle, loyal and hard-working, deserving of love. And he’d seen how she’d suffered when her feelings weren’t returned.
He’d tried so hard and failed abysmally. She’d never won his heart, leaving him to conclude that, like his upright but emotionally isolated uncle, he didn’t have a heart to win.
He’d done his best to make it up to her in attentiveness. But it hadn’t been enough. He’d seen it in her eyes.
Tariq had failed her. The knowledge ate at him like a canker. Despite his wealth and power he hadn’t been able to save Jasmin’s life. Nor had he been able to give her the one thing she’d craved—love.
Abruptly Tariq turned his back on the group surrounding Samira, his heart pounding.
The Emir was mistaken. Samira didn’t want love. She’d married him for his sons.
And he... He wanted her, craved her. He’d craved her even when she’d been with another man. Even when he’d been married to another woman.
So much for being a man of honour!
A chance sighting of a press photo of Jazeer’s scandalous princess had been enough to send him into a lather of activity, extending his already full schedule in an attempt to work off desires he had no right feeling. Guilt had driven him to be the ideal husband to Jasmin in every way left open to him.
Tariq breathed deep. The past was past. He’d done the best he could for Jasmin. And as for wanting Samira—she was his wife now. Why shouldn’t he desire her?
They had the perfect marriage. Respect. Affection. Phenomenal sex. But no illusions of love.
* * *
‘Risay, you’re becoming such a big boy.’ Samira smiled encouragingly as he tackled the long noodles in his bowl, amazed at how he’d grown in the months since the wedding.
Beside him Adil was absorbed in pulling the pasta apart and dropping it from his high chair. He caught Samira’s eyes, picked up another thread of pasta, then let it fall, crowing with delight as it hit the floor. Samira laughed. ‘And you, Adil, are going to be a charmer with that cheeky smile and those big green eyes.’
Just like his father. No one would call Tariq cheeky, but his smile made her heart flip over. It transformed his face from austere to stunningly charismatic. Every time she saw it Samira’s breath caught beneath her ribs.
She shifted in her seat. Strange that she had that slightly breathless feeling now, as if carrying the boys down the corridor and putting them in their high chairs was more effort than before.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’
Samira smiled up at Sofia who’d just appeared with the boys’ juice cups. ‘Yes, thanks. Just getting a bit more comfortable.’
She tugged at the fabric of her skirt that had bunched high when she sat. How could the waistband need adjusting again?
She’d got in the habit of wearing loose dresses in
