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‘And that’s the only reason you want to know,’ she said quietly. ‘Because you like a challenge.’
‘All men like a challenge, Jane.’ His black eyes gleamed. ‘Haven’t you learned that by now?’
She didn’t answer—because how was she qualified to answer any questions about what men did or didn’t like? She was grateful when the dance ended so she could escape the temptation of his touch—though, bizarrely, she found herself missing the feel of his body pressed close to hers. But her emotions were already in turmoil and she realised it wasn’t going to get any better unless she took some sort of action. The trouble was that it was the wrong action. Her stomach was so churned up with the thought of the night ahead that she barely touched any of the wedding feast, but drank some of the sweet, herb-flavoured wine they called karazib instead, which immediately felt as if someone had injected fire into her veins. It was a warm and heady feeling, but she wasn’t sure it was a wise one.
Was that the reason for her slight unsteadiness as she and Zayed made their way towards the eastern section of the palace, their process lit by a series of blazing torches—making her feel as if they were taking part in some medieval pageant? They climbed to the top of the eastern tower and, in spite of her nerves, Jane was blown away by the scene which greeted them. Scattered rose petals and dried lavender scented a path towards the four-poster bed, which was draped with embroidered hangings. The room was lit by tall candles and, outside the window, the full moon cast a silver path directly onto the bed.
‘The palace staff have prepared the room for the bride and groom,’ Zayed said softly.
The wooden door banged shut behind them and Jane’s heart started hammering as she looked up at her new husband, unsure of what to do next. His shadow rose giant-sized on the wall behind him and he looked so dark and formidable as he stood in front of her that she honestly didn’t have a clue where they went from here. If she’d never even kissed a man, it followed that she’d never shared a room with one before and even though the room was vast the walls seemed to be closing in on her. She started to wonder what she had let herself in for when she’d confidently agreed to his proposal in that London club, which now felt like a world away. Zayed had told her that there was to be no consummation but perhaps neither of them had taken into account the one glaringly obvious stumbling block to that.
She swallowed. ‘There’s only one bed.’
‘But of course.’ He pulled off his silken headdress and let it flutter down. ‘It’s a honeymoon suite.’
‘I thought...’
‘What did you think, Jane?’
Nervously, she looked around the room, searching for some kind of loophole. She read plenty of stories where men and women ended up stuck in the same bedroom—but wasn’t there always a handy sofa or chaise-longue for one of them to spend the night on? Why, in here there wasn’t so much as an armchair—and that narrow bench-like seat beneath the window didn’t look wide enough to accommodate either of their frames.
‘We’re...not supposed to be having sex!’ she said carefully.
‘If you remember, I was the one who proposed celibacy within the marriage,’ came his cool reply. ‘You’re preaching to the converted.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘About?’
‘Sleeping. If we’re forced to share the same bed?’
He shrugged. ‘We lie side by side. We each allow ourselves to think how good it would be to touch one another in the most intimate way and we both reject the possibility, for obvious reasons. I lie there in a brief state of acute frustration before falling asleep—while you remain awake for hours, fretting, because that’s what women tend to do.’
‘You would know about that, of course.’
‘Of course,’ he allowed, with a slight incline of his raven head. ‘For I have slept with many women.’
‘And I suppose you’re proud of that fact?’
‘Of my ability as a lover, yes. Women enjoy my body—why wouldn’t I take satisfaction in the knowledge that I bring them intense pleasure?’
Why not indeed? Yet his swaggering assurance made Jane want to lash out at him until she told herself that nothing would be accomplished by such impetuous behaviour. Why would she be remotely bothered about the behaviour of a man she despised? What did she care about the pleasure he brought to other women? They would simply have to do as he suggested and lie chastely, side by side. Thank heavens she had packed several baggy nightshirts and brought them with her from England.
When Zayed disappeared into the bathroom, she lifted one arm above her neck and bent it at the elbow as she attempted to lower her hand far enough to undo the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her dress, but it was far from easy. With a great deal of wriggling she managed three before her shoulder started aching and she was almost weeping with frustration as Zayed returned, wearing nothing but a very small white towel wrapped low over his hips. And suddenly all thoughts of getting undressed drained from her mind as the silver moonlight illuminated his muscular body.
‘What...what do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, her breath coming thick and fast.
‘Getting ready to go to bed.’
She wanted to avert her gaze but it was impossible to look anywhere else other than at his mag
nificent body. At the broad, bare shoulders and powerful chest with the shadowed texture of dark hair, which contrasted against his gleaming olive skin. At the narrow hips and long, sturdy shafts of his muscular legs—and all the mysterious territory in between, which was covered by that insubstantial piece of white towelling. She swallowed. ‘I hope you’re not proposing to wear that in bed?’ she demanded.
‘What would you propose I wear?’ he questioned.
Even to her own ears it was a preposterous suggestion but it was the only alternative she knew. ‘Pyjamas.’
‘Pyjamas.’ His mouth twisted into the mockery of a smile as he repeated the word, making it sound as if he’d never actually used it before. ‘A disgusting piece of apparel which I have never worn and never intend to. I’m planning on sleeping naked. I always do.’
