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dinary about this.”
“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it,” she sighed melodramatically. It was the last opportunity she had for speaking. Hakim seemed intent on torturing her with pleasure, making her want him so badly that she was incoherent in the end. Phoebe’s mouth was bleating with pleas for him to take her, to make love to her.
Hakim, finally, pulled away and stood, his chest moving rapidly with his breathing, his cheek slashed with dark color. “I cannot, Phoebe. No matter how much I want to.”
She pushed up into a sitting position, uncaring that she was naked, and her hair a passion-tangled mess. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“Until we are married.” He put his hands on his hips and glared out across the blistering desert landscape.
“But that’s a week away,” she groaned.
It took them both a moment to realize what she’d said. Just like that, her agreement had slid from presumed to assured. She looked at him emotionally. “Yes. I’ll marry you.” Just please don’t hurt me, she tacked on silently.
Hakim felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Uncertainty was new to him, but he had been on tenterhooks with Phoebe. Nothing could be taken for granted. To himself, he wished his good friend Etienne could have lived to see their betrothal.
Phoebe reached for her dress and held it against her chest. Not for warmth, as the night air was like sunshine and strawberries, but because she felt strangely exposed. “What exactly does being a Saleena entail?”
He sat down opposite her, his face carefully blanked of emotion. He knew that if he seemed remotely pleased with the outcome, she might change her mind. “I’m afraid there’s a lot of pampering and training.” He took her hand in his. “You can be involved in planning some details of the ceremony, though being a royal wedding, there is much ceremony and procedure that cannot be dispensed with. It is a three day process, involving our private pledge, a more public, somber event that can last hours, and finally, a celebration – what you might think of as a reception.”
She bit down on her lip. “It sounds… onerous.”
“For some, perhaps. Not for you. You’ve grown up with the spotlight, to a certain extent. And certainly you’re used to the place tradition occupies in the lives of people in high office.”
“Since I presume you’re referring to Etienne, I think it only fair to tell you, he kept my mother and me insulated from his professional commitments. We were always shielded from that kind of thing. I guess you could say I’m a publicity virgin, too.”
He sucked in a deep breath, simultaneously lifting a hand to caress her cheek. “You will be fine.”
His confidence was flattering, but not shared by Phoebe. She watched as Hakim reached into a large, wicker basket and pulled out some berries. He offered one too her and she declined. She was too nervous to eat. “What are they?”
“Felisi,” he said, biting into one and showing her its interior. “It’s a little like your raspberries, and perhaps an orange, as well. Sweet, tart, and considered a national delicacy. They grow for only two weeks per year, and only in select regions of the country.”
He finished the fruit and then reclined a little. “Why did Etienne keep your mother out of the public eye? I can understand his desire to protect you – a child – but your mother was a well known socialite. I should have thought she’d have been a worthy addition to his social engagements.”
Phoebe swallowed past the resentment in her throat. She knew now why he kept Andrea closeted away. He didn’t want her mixing with the rest of the world. He wanted her at home, where his control was absolute. He wanted her to be caged, like a perfect rare bird, his to look at and enjoy, but certainly not to share.
“You tell me,” she drawled with acidity. “You’re the world expert on my step-father.”
Hakim frowned. He wanted to probe her further, but he sensed the divide over Etienne was one they would never be able to bridge. “It is not important,” he hedged, finally. “Regardless of your inexperience, I know you will excel in the spotlight.”
“Thank you,” she said with a small nod. She wanted to believe him. In truth, she hadn’t thought beyond Hakim, when she’d accepted his proposal. Now, she was facing the dawning realization that she was taking on a whole new lifestyle, and a whole new role. In a country she didn’t know, with a man she wasn’t sure she even liked. She looked away from him, doubt making her stomach hurt.
Sensing her anxiety, Hakim laced his fingers through hers. “Do you have someone you would like to invite, Saleena? I have a jet in London, and it is at your disposal.”
Her day had been a rollercoaster of emotions, and tears threatened to moisten her eyes now. She blinked furiously, and looked beyond him, to the waves the wind had shaped into the sand. She had no family, and he knew as much. But she had a friend who was as dear to her as a sister could be. “Yes.” She smiled, knowing it would all seem easier with Becca by her side. “But she would never fly in your jet.” She threw him a wry look. “She’s an environmentalist. If we weren’t getting married in a week, I suspect she’d get here over land instead of by air at all. As it is, she’ll book on the busiest commercial carrier she can find, and be sure to offset the carbon of her flight.”
She was babbling, and he knew it was nerves. He felt frustration that he couldn’t do the one thing he knew would set her at ease. That would set them both at ease.
“Do you know why we are prohibited from sleeping together until marriage?”
“Because you’re old fashioned?” She hazarded, wrinkling her nose in a gesture of teasing.
He smiled. “Not purely because I’m old fashioned.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed each of her fingers. “This is a tradition in Mehran, designed to encourage couples to get to know one another before marriage.”
“So we can see each other but just not…”
“Yes, exactly.” He kissed her mouth, a chaste kiss, but one that nonetheless set her pulse racing.
She pouted. “I am not sure I like this tradition. Can’t you do something about it? I thought you had some sway in this place.”
