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CHAPTER EIGHT
KHALILLEANEDLOW to the stallion’s mane, his eyes focussed on the waving lines of the horizon, the early morning sun already beating down on his back. He rode hard, the wind rushing past him a balm he needed, the freedom of the desert one of the few things that could bring him a sense of relief.
Every day since India had arrived, he’d done this—pursuing the dawn in a fruitless attempt to catch it, pitting his power and strength against the elements of the universe. He wasn’t seeking victory though, so much as attempting to outrun his thoughts.
His engagement to Fatima had been a disaster. For one thing, he’d believed himself in love, which was, he realised now, just about the worst reason one could have for getting married. Particularly a wedding of this sort. He didn’t need a wife he loved, he needed one who would provide him with heirs, and in this way, India was perfect. Two children already on the way meant the order of succession would be protected.
But he had been careless with Fatima—because he’d loved her. He’d trusted her and believed her: mistakes he would never make again. It was the only explanation for why he’d palmed off the arranging of the marriage contracts to his lawyers rather than overseeing negotiations himself. He’d presumed Fatima would want nothing—that she would know that, as his wife, she could have whatever she wished. It hadn’t been enough, though. Her greed had known no bounds, and as her list of demands had grown more and more outrageous, his legal team had sought to protect him, with no idea that she had something in her belly he would have paid his entire kingdom to keep safe.
He leaned lower, murmuring quietly to the horse so his ears pricked and he began to move faster, cooperating with the Sheikh’s commands.
A week ago, India had arrived in Khatrain, and since she’d provisionally agreed to marry him, he’d steered clear of her. But that, he realised, was a mistake. If he’d been more involved in the negotiations with Fatima, he might have been able to prevent what had happened. He should have been able to save their baby. He would never forgive himself for the fact that his carelessness had led to that tragedy—he had to do whatever he could to protect these babies, here and now.
He would care for India, he would manage their marriage negotiations personally, and then, on the day of the deadline she had imposed, they would marry.
Discomfort pressed against him. He had never imagined he’d be in this position. He was a highly sought-after bachelor, his bed never empty for long, the prospect of marrying him something many princesses and heiresses had made clear they wished to fulfil. India was not one of them.
And that bothered him.
What was he expecting? That she’d jump at the chance to marry a man who’d scorned her the morning after they’d slept together? That she’d ignore the way he’d spoken to her, ignore the fact he’d treated her like—
He made a low growling sound, his frustration bursting from him. He hated how they’d met. He hated that he’d used her, and that she’d used him. He hated the way he’d spoken to her the morning after they’d slept together, but, more than that, he hated the idea of her using her beautiful body to seduce men purely for financial gain.
And yet, what if Ethan had lied?
The question had been hammering away at him since he’d left America. What if he was wrong? What if she was telling the truth? The sun shifted, rays of warmth beating across his back. He clamped down on his naïve desire to believe her, or even to set aside what he knew of her career. He’d believed in Fatima, and it had cost him the world. He would never be so stupid again. India was to be the mother of his children, but he could never allow himself to trust her. Too much was at stake.
But that didn’t mean he could keep ignoring her either—or pretending to ignore her. No purpose was served by running away from her—if he wanted to get her out of his mind, he needed to keep her in his life, in his bed, so that he no longer spent every waking minute craving her to the point of distraction... They were to marry, and the sooner he found a way to live with that—and her—the better.
India disconnected the call with Jackson, a frown on her face. She hated lying to her little brother, but it was for the best. Until she was absolutely certain that she was marrying Khalil, and staying in Khatrain, she didn’t see any point in bringing him up to speed. It was just easier to pretend she was still in New York, that life was continuing as normal—or in their new normal, at least.
A knock sounded at her door, startling India out of her thoughts. She put down her phone on the tabletop and stood, just as the door opened and Khalil strode in—but not as she’d ever seen him! He wore loose linen pants, long to the ankle, and his chest was bare, moist with perspiration. His hair was damp, and there was an intensity in his eyes that spread fire to her core. India hadn’t seen him in a week, and her body ached for him, so seeing him in her room, dressed like this, was enough to shoot her pulse into overdrive, big time.
‘Khalil.’ Her voice was hoarse. She stood exactly where she was, even as he began to move towards her and her first instinct was to jolt her legs into action and touch him. The instinct shocked her; she mentally bolted her feet to the floor. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Yes.’
Was it possibly he was regretting their arrangement? She stood perfectly still, watching as he strode towards her, but with every step he took, an answering thud landed in her heart, so her pulse was thick and thready by the time he reached her. His eyes furrowed, as though he were lost in thought, his expression inscrutable. He had six freckles across his cheeks, barely recognisable because of the depth of his complexion, but up close she could see them and they mesmerised her.
‘This isn’t working.’
She swallowed hard. ‘What’s not?’
‘Ignoring you. It won’t work.’
Her pulse jumped.
‘If we’re going to get married, we need to act like it.’
She ignored the torrent of adrenaline and desire that tore through her, aiming to keep a restrained, cool expression on her face. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we have to be seen together.’
Disappointment seared her; she blinked away, and he made a throaty sound of understanding. Damn it, why was she so easy to read?
‘Publicly, but also we must be together privately. It’s the only way.’
‘We can wait three weeks. Until we know for sure—’
