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Why was she getting so freaked out?
He hadn’t rejected her, he’d simply stated how things would have to proceed.
But why then couldn’t she get rid of the sharp stab of inadequacy?
Ameera finished adjusting the veil, as the wedding music began and the dive-bombing butterflies threatened to explode out of the top of her head.
‘It is time, Your Highness,’ Ameera squeezed her hand. ‘Do not fear, you will make His Majesty a wonderful bride.’
Except he doesn’t want me as a bride, or anything else.
‘Thank you, Ameera,’ she said, gripping her friend’s fingers back.
The huge brass-panelled doors to the room opened and she was forced to let Ameera go.
Clasping her hands together, she stepped out into the courtyard, flanked by the Queen’s honour guard—who were dressed in long red robes embroidered with gold thread.
Just keep going. And don’t trip.
She forced her feet to move in the red silk slippers along a path lit by torchlight and strewn with rose blossoms leading into the palace’s central garden. She could see faces, so many faces staring back at her. She tried to take some of them in to calm down the dive-bombing butterflies and the pain in her stomach.
A striking man dressed in black tribal wear cradling a beautiful toddler in his arms bowed his head as she passed, while his equally stunning and heavily pregnant wife, who held an identical toddler’s hand, curtsied and sent her a sunny smile.
That smile helped to get Orla past the next line of lavishly dressed diplomats and dignitaries, their critical gaze making her certain they must be able to see what a fraud she was. Then she passed another equally handsome man and his three children of varying ages—who had to be royal t
oo—and his beautiful wife. The woman winked at her as she curtsied and whispered in a British accent, ‘Keep going, Your Highness, you’re nearly there.’
A nervous smile tugged at Orla’s lips, but then she rounded the corner, and the smile died.
Her breath caught in her lungs and her steps faltered as her gaze landed on Karim standing at the end of the line of guests.
He stole the last of her breath; his tall, muscular build made even more overwhelming, if that were possible, by the gold and silver robes of the King and the fierce planes and angles of his face only made more dramatic by the ceremonial headdress.
Royalty totally suited him, she thought, desperately trying to tame the giddy leap of her heart and the now flame-grilled dive-bombing butterflies.
His golden eyes locked on her face, then flared with heat as she approached. The weight of arousal dropped deep into her sex and tangled with the stabbing pain of his rejection.
His shoulders tensed, his sensual lips pressed into a firm line and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he reached out a hand and captured her trembling fingers.
‘Orla…’ he murmured, his voice so husky it seemed to stroke every inch of exposed skin. He blinked as if collecting himself then said so low only she could hear it, ‘This won’t take long.’
But I don’t want it to end.
She stifled the foolish romantic thought.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she get this whole thing in perspective? How could she wish for more when she’d always known this wasn’t real?
He drew her to his side and folded his arm under hers to hold her steady, as the officiant began to read out the marriage rites. She had been told the ceremony itself would be brief, but somehow she lost track of time, the force of him beside her completely overwhelming her senses.
She couldn’t hear the officiant’s words over the punch of her own heartbeat. Couldn’t smell the delicate garden perfumes of orange and jasmine and rose over the intoxicating musk of man and soap. Couldn’t feel anything but the strength of his big body next to hers, his thumb absently stroking her knuckles and making the pounding in her sex painful. And couldn’t see anything but the blur of colours through the jewelled veil and the commanding aura of this man who was about to become her husband… And yet not.
After what felt like several millennia, the words she hadn’t understood had all been said. Turning, he lifted the veil and she saw the slash of colour highlight his cheekbones before his eyes flared with a fierce longing that detonated in her sex.
He swore—his expression full of frustration—then captured her face in callused palms and bent to cover her lips with his.
Applause and cheering, gunfire and the pop of firecrackers surrounded them, but as he feasted on her mouth, delving deep, the possessive kiss destroyed the last of her sanity. She clung to his waist in a desperate attempt to anchor herself and the only sound she could hear was them both, surrendering to the storm of need.
She wanted this, she wanted him, and God help her that was one thing she couldn’t fake.
