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‘It is as it is.’ He lifted his shoulders.
‘Fine by me.’ She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes for a moment as the flavour reached inside her, comforting her, bringing peace to her fractured soul. ‘I’d prefer it that way, anyway.’
His eyes flashed with something she couldn’t interpret. Mockery? Frustration? Pain? She blinked away.
‘You are afraid.’
‘Of you? No.’
‘Not of me.’ He didn’t move, but his words seemed to wrap around her. ‘Of yourself.’
‘What?’ She took a gulp of coffee.
‘You are afraid of wanting me, even after what’s just happened.’
Her heart began to thud inside her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and there was a silent plea on her features, a look of confusion and uncertainty, and, yes, of want. Of need.
He stood then, bringing himself to the space beside her, propping his bottom on the edge of the table and spinning her chair, so she was facing him. ‘We should not have slept together.’ His hand lifted to her hair, running over its find gold ends as though he couldn’t help himself. ‘I knew I wanted you the moment I saw you, and yet you should have been off-limits to me.’ His hand dropped to her cheek. ‘Just as I should have been to you. And yet we couldn’t stop this.’
She swallowed, her throat shifting with the movement. His hand dropped to her shoulder, his thumb padding across the exposed bone there. ‘I want to promise you I won’t touch you again, but I am afraid too, Daisy.’
The admission surprised her.
‘I am terri
fied of how much I want you, even now. Even when I know you must hate me for bringing you here, for railroading you into this marriage.’
Her mouth was so dry. She could only stare up at him, but his confession was tangling her into a thousand knots.
‘I do hate what you did,’ was all she could say.
His eyes swept shut, briefly, his lashes thick and dark against his caramel skin. Her stomach hurt. Her heart ached. Her body was alive with fire and flames and yet inside there was a kernel of ice that refused to budge.
‘I can conquer this,’ he said simply, dropping his hand and standing. ‘I had no choice but to marry you, but I will not sleep with you again. You have my word.’ His hand formed a fist at his side as though even then he was having to force himself to rail against his instincts and not touch her. ‘You do not need to fear this.’
Oh, but she did. She was terrified of how she wanted him. Hearing him be so honest about his own struggles made her acknowledge her own—inwardly at least. Yes, she wanted him. Even as they’d said their vows her insides had been heating up, her body acknowledging that, in him, she had met her perfect match.
But she could barely admit that to herself, let alone to him. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
So prim! So formal! Good. Let him think she was grateful for this reprieve instead of desperately wanting to contradict his edict.
If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. ‘Let’s keep going. There is much you need to know before we land.’
CHAPTER NINE
IN NEW YORK, he’d made a promise to her. Space. Time. Freedom to think, away from him. And he intended to uphold it even when the knowledge that she was in the palace, only a wall separating them, had him wanting to go to her, to speak to her, to see her, to assure himself she was okay. Yet he had made this promise and it seemed small, in the scheme of all that he was asking of her, and therefore vital that he respect it.
In the three weeks since they’d arrived in the RKH, he’d upheld his promise. Maintaining his distance, receiving his updates from Zahrah to assure himself that Daisy was coping, and that she was well. He’d organised medical appointments to ascertain her physical health, and that of the baby. And he’d managed the politics of their marriage like a bull at a gate. A top PR firm was engaged to sell the message in the media. This was a new age for the country and his marriage to Daisy Carrington symbolised a step forward with the west. Reaction had been, for the most part, positive. Though there were some quarters that publicly questioned his choice and voiced great offence that the Sheikh of the RKH should turn his nose up at the two women who had widely been known to be candidates as his prospective Emira.
As for those women, he’d met with each privately, and to them he’d sold it as a love story.
‘I was not prepared for how I would feel to meet her. I wish I had been able to resist, but there were greater forces at play.’
It had been easy to sell that message. It hadn’t been love at first sight with Daisy, but it had been infatuation, and that was equally blinding.
There were those who seemed to accept his choice to marry an American, but not Daisy. Stories about her had run in the press. Fewer in the RKH papers, which were generally respectful of the palace and its privacy, but, in the blogs and cheaper tabloids, derisive pieces about her status as a divorced woman had been printed. Someone had found photos of her first wedding, so he’d seen her smiling up at her first husband, and something inside him had fired to life, filling him with darkness and questions. He wanted to know about this man she’d married—by choice. The man she must have loved at some point, even if she didn’t now.
And he’d wanted to silence the stories that speculated on all sorts of things in Daisy’s life before him, things he knew to be false without having had the conversations. Rumours that she’d travelled across America with a rock band, the inference being that she’d slept with the whole slew of musicians. Suggestions that her role at the hotel had been to appease guests in whatever manner she found suitable. And yes, the inevitable suggestion that this baby wasn’t actually his.
