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‘Walk out that door and you take with you your own reputation and that of your family. As you are so determined to point out to me, you are now my Queen and as such you are expected to share my room. My bed.’
His cold-eyed gaze left her face and drifted over towards the door into his bedroom. If there was anything that brought home to her just how much things had changed since the moment they had almost stumbled through that door in a hot-blooded rush, she’d thought for the bed, it was the look that was stamped on to his stunning features. Every muscle in his face was set hard as stone, his jaw tight, those sensual lips clamped into a thin, hard line.
Did that twist of her heart, the sudden fluttering in her throat speak of excitement or fear? Was she always condemned to suffer ambiguous feelings about this man? At one moment wishing to be anywhere but here, at another knowing that she would be the target of bitter disappointment if she was never to know him fully.
‘Oh, you need not look so appalled, habibti.’
He actually smiled when he saw her expression.
‘I think that neither of us wants to rush into anything tonight. The country needs an heir but for tonight the country must wait. It has waited years already—what will one more night matter?’
He couldn’t let her go, Nabil acknowledged inwardly. He had known that as soon as he had seen her turn and walk towards the door. But he knew only too well where his reckless desire for another woman had led him. Once the ghost of Sharmila had come between them, everything had been blackened and distorted by those memories.
Aziza or Zia were one and the same it seemed, but he still had to question whether that meeting on the balcony had been as innocent as it had appeared or something else. He knew what he wanted to think, but what he wanted had only shown him in the past that where women were concerned he was a fool, and a blind one at that.
As a king, he needed a queen. As a man, he needed a woman. When he had seen Aziza walk away from him, her head held high, her back as straight as a spear, those lush hips undulating with every step she took, she had looked every inch a queen: beautiful, stately, regal. And he had wanted her like the devil.
He still wanted her. So much that his whole body hurt. Even as he had come out with that ‘one more night’ line, his unappeased desire had been like a scream in his head.
She was his wife for goodness’ sake! What he wanted to do was to grab hold of her, lift her from her feet and carry her into the bedroom—throw her down on to the black silk covers and lose himself in the heat and beauty of her body.
Hell, no! There was more to play for here than just a night of hot sex. This marriage was supposed to have been for the future of the country. He was not prepared to take risks with it.
‘We have all the time in the world. So you can have my bed tonight—without me in it. I will take the couch.’
‘Oh, but...’
The protest tumbled from those plump rose-tinted lips as her eyes widened in shock—distress at being caught out? Or was she really as concerned as she appeared?
‘Surely the couch will be too small—uncomfortable for you? I should sleep there.’
‘Still playing the dedicated maid, little one?’ he murmured, smiling down into her uplifted face. But it was a smile that chilled the evening air, her stomach twisting into tight, painful knots. ‘I’m flattered—but there is no need for your concern. Believe me, in the desert I have slept on far harder beds, or no mattress at all. I will be fine.’
If he slept at all. The thought of lying through the long hours of the night knowing that Aziza was only metres away amongst the soft cushions of his bed left him doubting that he would enjoy a moment’s sleep throughout the night.
‘And I suppose you still want to make sure that I don’t try to sneak out in the night, to meet with the fellow conspirators you have imagined I’m working with?’
Aziza’s head came up, golden eyes blazing defiance above pale cheeks that had been drawn tight across her fine cheekbones. The Queen was back and it twisted in his guts to see her there, cursing the need for caution that held him back from enjoying the wedding night he had anticipated.
‘It must be hell to be so cynical about people—and always looking for something underneath the surface, never trusting anyone.’
‘You get used to it.’
The admission shocked Aziza, stunning her into silence. Once again her thoughts were torn in two different ways, feeling both repelled at the black cynicism of his statement and troubled at the thought of what had made him live like this. When his hand went up to rub at the scar on his cheek, she was tormented by images of the day he had been injured, the way he still reacted to any possible threat.
