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“You often sacrifice for your family.”
“It is my privilege to do so.”
“I believe you mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re an amazing man.”
“And you love me.” He had no intention of opening himself to that depth of emotion again, but he would protect hers. It was his duty to do so.
And he always did his duty.
“The wedding festivities will last into the wee hours of the morning. Tonight is not the ideal time for us to share our bodies for the first time.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You are in the country for the next three days?”
“Yes, we’re staying for the full wedding celebration.”
Despite Angele’s refusal to play a role in the wedding, her family had been at the palace since the prewedding festivities began. He had seen very little of her because he had been busy with state business. He had believed she was busy with the bridal party, even if she wasn’t an official member of it.
“I will make arrangements for your last night here. There are no official events after the final breakfast that day.”
He put his arm out. “Now, I believe it is time we returned to the feast.”
She laid her small hand in the crook of his arm and let him lead her from his study, the stress this discussion had caused her evident in the fine tremors of her delicate fingers against his jacket sleeve.
Two nights hence, he would show her she had nothing to fear from him in any way.
Despite the sun having set an hour before, the tile floor on the balcony off Angele’s room warmed her bare feet. She’d long since discarded the expensive but uncomfortable glittery heels she’d worn for the final celebratory feast of Amir and Grace’s nuptials.
She still wore the figure hugging silk sheath. By an as yet undiscovered New York designer, its subtle composition made the most of her figure, hinting at bedroom seductions while having no single element that could be pointed to as anything other than proper.
Her father had been angry she’d foregone the traditional dress the women of the Jawharian royal family had opted to don for the evening feast. Only Ange
le wasn’t a Jawharian princess, no matter how much her father might wish otherwise.
Her mother had stood up for her. Looking like American royalty in a beautiful European-designed gown, Lou-Belia had told Cemal to take a chill pill. The look on Angele’s father’s face had been worth the price of admission and then some.
But the expression that flashed over Zahir’s features when he’d seen Angele’s dress had been even better. His gray eyes had heated to molten metal and his lids had dropped in a look of pure sexual predatory interest before he’d schooled his features into diplomatic blankness. It hadn’t been just the once, either.
She’d caught that heated stare directed her way more than once over the course of the evening. Each time, it increased her desire for the feast to be over, for her one night with Crown Sheikh Zahir bin Faruq al Zohra to begin. The celebration was over now and she could go to Zahir as soon as she wanted. The only thing stopping her was the garment lying so innocently on her bed.
She’d discovered the galabeya upon returning to her room. The traditional wedding dress in this part of the world, the white silk gown embroidered with gold thread looked like it belonged in an Arabian Nights fantasy. The Arabic lettering in the intricate embroidery told the story of the first Sheikh’s marriage to the wife that helped him found the house of Zohra.
A note from Zahir lay atop the galabya.
My dear Angele,
You indicated a wish to have a wedding night. Please do me the honor of wearing this gown, worn by my grandmother in her wedding to my grandfather.
I look forward to seeing you in and out of it.
Zahir
The day before, he had told her to come to him via the secret passages she’d never known for certain existed. She’d guessed, since the palaces in Jawhar all had them, but Angele had never been privileged with that information regarding the royal palace of Zohra. Until now.
