Against his will, his eyes devoured every detail of her face. Her long black eyelashes trembling against her creamy skin. The pink tip of her tongue darting out to lick the center of her full, red lips.
Jasmine’s dark hair, once long and stick-straight, now was thickly layered past her shoulders, cascading over a flowy, diaphanous dress that seemed straight out of a 1930s Hollywood movie. The gown skimmed her full breasts and hips, tightly belted at her slim waist. Her graceful, slender arms could be seen through long sheer sleeves.
She was almost entirely covered from head to toe, showing bare skin only at the collarbone and hands, but the effect was devastating. She looked glamorous. Untouchable. He wanted to grab her shoulders, to touch and taste and feel her all over and know she was real. Just the mere contact of his fingers against hers burned his skin.
Then he realized what Umar Hajjar had said.
Jasmine—Hajjar’s bride?
As if he’d been struck by a blow, Kareef abruptly released her. He glanced down at his fingers and was almost bewildered to find them whole. After the electricity he’d felt touching her hand, he’d half expected to find his fingers burned beyond recognition.
With a deep breath, he slowly looked up at her. “You—are married?”
Jasmine’s dark eyes met his, stabbing into his soul as deeply as a blade. Licking her lips nervously, she didn’t answer.
“Not yet,” Umar purred beside her. “But we will be. Immediately following the Qais Cup.”
Kareef continued to look at Jasmine, but she didn’t speak. Not one word.
Once, she used to chatter away in his company—she’d cajoled away his bad moods, making him laugh in spite of himself. He’d found her easy conversation relaxing. Charming. Perhaps because it was so natural—so unguarded and real. She’d been shy at first, a bookish girl more comfortable with reading newspapers and studying charts than speaking to the son of a sheikh. But once he’d coaxed her out of her shell, she’d happily told him every thought in her head.
They’d both been so young then. So innocent.
Fire burned through him now as he looked at her. Jasmine. Her name was like a spell and he could barely stop himself from breathing it aloud. He had to force his face to remain expressionless, his body taut and implacable as if ready for battle.
To attack what? To defend what?
“I’m so pleased you could attend our party at such late notice,” Umar continued, placing his hands on Jasmine’s shoulders. “We await your permission to serve dinner, my king.”
Kareef found himself staring at Umar’s possessive hands on her shoulders. He had the sudden urge to knock them away—to start a brawl with the man who had once saved his life!
But this wasn’t just any woman. It was Jasmine. The girl he’d once asked to be his wife.
“Sire?”
“Yes. Dinner.” Still clenching his jaw, Kareef motioned to his two bodyguards to attend to the horses. He glanced toward the white pavilion and all the eager waiting faces. Several of the bolder guests were already inching closer to him, trying to catch his eye, hoping to join the conversation. After so many years of solitude in the northern desert of Qais, Kareef was not known for his sociability. But somehow being inaccessible and cold had just made him more desirable to the elite Qusanis of Shafar. Everyone in this godforsaken city seemed desperate for the barbarian king’s attention, his favor, his body or his soul.
He wasn’t even crowned yet, but according to Qusani tradition they already called him king—and treated him almost like a god. The people of Qusay had seen what he’d done for the desert people of Qais, and wanted that same prosperity for themselves. So they worshipped him.
Kareef hated it. He’d never wanted to come back here. But a few weeks ago, shortly after the death of the old king in a plane crash, his cousin, the crown prince, had abruptly removed himself from the line of succession. Xavian—no, Zafir, Kareef corrected himself, so strange to suddenly call the man he had thought his cousin by a new name!—had learned he had not a single drop of Al’Ramiz blood in his veins, and he’d abdicated the throne. He’d left to jointly rule the nation of Haydar with his wife, Queen Layla.
Zafir’s decision had been correct and honorable. Kareef would have approved his actions completely, except for one thing: it had forced him to accept the throne in his place.
And now—he would see Jasmine married to another man before his very eyes.
Or would he? Legally, morally, could he allow it?
He cursed beneath his breath.
“You honor us, sire.” Umar Hajjar bowed. “If I may ask another favor…”
Kareef growled a reply.
“Will you do my future bride the honor of escorting her into the pavilion?”
He wanted Kareef to touch her? To take her by the hand? Just looking at Jasmine was torture. She’d once been an enchanting girl with big dark eyes and a willowy figure. Now she’d grown into her curves. She’d become a mature woman. Her expression held mystery and hidden sorrows. A man could look into that face for years and never discover all her secrets.
Jasmine Kouri was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman Kareef had ever seen in his life.
And she continued to look at him silently with her dark gaze, her eyes accusing him of everything her lips did not. Reminding him of everything he’d nearly killed himself to forget.
Kareef closed his eyes, briefly blocking her from his vision. He forced his body to be calm, his breathing to become steady and even. He discarded emotion from his body, brushing it from his soul like dirt off his skin. After so many years of practice, he knew exactly what to do.
Then he opened his eyes and discovered he’d learned nothing.
Looking at Jasmine, years of repressed desire dissolved his will into dust. Heat flashed through him, whipping through his skin like a sandstorm flaying the flesh off his living bones.
He wanted her. He always had. As he’d never wanted any woman.
“Sire?”
Unwillingly, Kareef held out his arm, a mark of the highest respect for another man’s bride. When he spoke, his voice was utterly cold and controlled.
“Shall we go in to the banquet, Miss Kouri?”
She hesitated, then placed her hand on his arm. He could feel the heat of her light touch through the fabric of his sleeve. She tilted her head back to look up at him. Her beautiful brown eyes glittered. “You honor me, my king.”
No one but Kareef could hear the bitter irony beneath her words.
The party guests stepped back with deep, reverent bows as he led Jasmine up on the dais, Umar following behind them. Once they were on the dais, Kareef dropped her hand. He picked up a gold flute from the table.
Instantly, the two hundred guests went silent, waiting breathlessly for their new king to speak.
