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You want me to kiss you, do you...? From the depths of her memory came the sound of Sheikh Nabil’s voice, dark with mockery and contempt, so clearly that she could almost believe he had come into the room behind them. You stupid little fool—you wouldn’t even know who you were kissing. What kind of man you wanted...
Did Jamalia know what sort of a husband she would get in this man? Did she understand—or did she even care? It seemed that all her sister cared about was the title of Sheikha, the ceremonial role, the wealth and luxury that would come with it. At least her sister wouldn’t be pushed into a totally subservient place as Nabil’s wife, as might have happened in the past. In the ten years since his first wife had died, the Sheikh had worked ceaselessly it seemed to ensure that women had a better life, more equality. Hadn’t she longed to take advantage of it herself, to be able to go to university to study languages? Another mark against her, in her father’s opinion. After all, who would want to marry a bluestocking, someone who spent so much of her free time with her books? At least she’d learned to drive and enjoy the independence that gave her, while her sister had never bothered to take driving lessons.
But then of course, if she became Queen, Jamalia would never need to steer her own vehicle. She would have a sleek, luxurious, armour-plated official car at her disposal, together with a professional chauffeur, on duty day or night, whenever she wanted him.
Jamalia as Queen... Why did her stomach seem to drop, her nerves clench, at just the thought? Not at the thought of her sister as Sheikha—but as Nabil’s wife.
* * *
‘That is the woman you mean?’
Nabil was already turning away from the two-way mirror through which he had been observing the two women in the room beyond them. He had seen enough. If the truth was told he had seen more than he had ever wanted or expected.
He had never anticipated that he would see her. That the woman who had plagued his thoughts would be there in the room with his prospective bride. Well, of course he had known that this Zia was Jamalia’s maid. She had said so herself. But he hadn’t known that Zia would be here, now, with Jamalia when he had come to see her today. He had expected Jamalia’s mother to be acting as chaperone and instead had found himself staring straight at Zia.
And that had thrown everything off-balance.
It had forced him to remember the heavy throb of his blood when he had been talking with Zia on the balcony. The way that the soft scent of her skin, mixed with some light floral fragrance, had drifted towards him on the night air, making him think of the secrecy of a bedroom, soft sheets...
Damn it to hell! Even now he was thinking of her—of Zia—when she should be the last thing on his mind. Perhaps he should have taken her to bed on that night—when she had been practically begging him to do so—and got this sensual itch out of his system.
‘Sire?’ Omar was waiting for him to continue. ‘And she is the woman of your choice?’
‘She...’ This was getting worse. He’d almost said yes to Omar’s selection of a bride when his mind had been full of some other woman. Of bedding his prospective bride’s maid.
Clearing his thoughts with a brutal shake of his head, he brought his mind back into focus.
‘No. No, she’s not.’
How could he ever marry Jamalia when as his Queen she would surely bring her maid with her? And yet how could he now refuse to take Jamalia as his wife and risk insulting her father by rejecting his beautiful daughter?
He could see why Jamalia had been selected. She was stunning; there was no doubt about that. She would look magnificent as Queen. But he wanted more than a queen, someone who would give him an heir to his throne. He also wanted someone who would be a mother to his children. He hadn’t acknowledged how much that mattered to him until now. Until he had seen Jamalia preening in the mirror, her total sense of entitlement reminding him of nothing so much as his own mother.
Having been the child of a woman who loved her role as Queen so much that she had never had time for her son, he never wanted any child of his to go through that. He had seen his parents for perhaps an hour or less each week. Times when he had been brought from the nursery, spruced up and groomed, ready for the formal occasion that spending time with his mother had always been. Brought into her private sitting room, he’d had to bow the requisite three times before he could even approach her. And he had always known that the delicate touch of her hand on his head as she commented on how he had grown was one of the two gestures of ‘affection’ she would allow him.
