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I shake my head slowly, my eyes opening to find him staring at me, eyes loaded with intent.
“Go to bed now, before I change my mind.”
Zahir
I deserve a medal. I swam for an hour after she went inside, my body pulling through the water as far as I could go before it became too shallow and my knuckles grazed the sandy bottom. Then I’d turn around and swim back the other way, hoping I could wear myself out enough to put her from my mind. What the hell is happening to me? Thirty six hours ago I hated this woman with a passion and now what? Because she’s blinked her enormous blue eyes at me a few times and played dumb about her father’s determined efforts to overthrow my government I’m wanting to see the best in her?
Since when did I get so soft? So gullible?
It’s not that I think she’s lying to me. I truly believe Amy has no idea about her father’s actions, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t do whatever she could to further his goals. The question is this: at seventy nine, with his daughter already installed on the throne as my wife, will he continue to stir up trouble? Is it possible he just can’t help himself?
My face is grim as I turn to face her. The bed is not wide enough for us. I can’t help but touch her as I lie here, my back pressed to the soft feather-filled mattress, my breathing hushed in case I wake her. She is now sleeping on her stomach, a sight that brings a reluctant smile to my face. Her head is turned in my direction, her lips parted as she breathes quietly, in and out, over and over. My fingers ache to move her hair – it’s falling over her brow and I wonder if she’d be more comfortable with it out of her way?
But touching her would be a bad decision. Employing all my willpower, I close my eyes and keep my hands right where they are, balled into fists at my side. Ending this honeymoon as soon as possible is the last thought I form before drifting into a shallow, unsatisfying sleep, and it’s the first thought I capture when I wake, a scant few hours later.
Amy
“What do you mean, ‘go back to the palace?’”
He lifts a shoulder in half a shrug. “Is it a complicated concept?”
“We’re meant to be out here for three days,” I remind him stubbornly. “That was your decree, not mine. What’s changed?”
Unconsciously, I invoke the exact question I’d asked the night before, as he bathed naked in the oasis, beneath the stunning, full moon. Heat glows in my cheeks at the reminder of that.
“Well, quite simply, we’ve decided to shelve the matter of a baby, so I cannot see the point in remaining here.”
Indignation fires in my blood. So because we’re not sleeping together, he wants to go back to the palace and ignore me? Until when? I reject that idea immediately, refusing to let him dictate a plan that seems guaranteed to lead to unhappiness for both of us.
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Absolutely not. I refuse.”
“Amy, I’m not sure if I need to point this out to you, but you do realise –,”
“Yes, yes, I know,” I interrupt, waving a hand through the air. “You’re the all-mighty Sheikh and I’m supposed to do whatever you say, just like everyone else in this country seems to.”
The beauty of his grin surprises me. I hadn’t expected it and it’s like the sun cutting through the tent, bathing me in warmth.
“Actually, I was going to point out that you are at least a foot shorter than me, and half my body weight. I could pick you up and carry you to the car over one shoulder without any difficulty.”
My eyes narrow and I work to conceal my first response to this; I hope he doesn’t understand how the idea of what he’s described has sent my heartrate through the roof. “But you won’t,” I say unevenly.
“No?”
“No,” I agree, formulating a plan on the fly. “Because this is our honeymoon and there are other things we can do besides…” the words falter on my lips. Damn it, he’s right. I do act like some shy little virgin around him, and it’s starting to drive me crazy. I force myself to level a stare at him. “That. Sex.” I clear my throat. Smoothe. Really smoothe.
“Such as?” He drawls, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Such as getting to know one another,” I say firmly, moving into the kitchen and pulling two glasses from the shelf. I fill them with the Pomegranate juice I spied the night before, placing them on the tabletop with determination. “You can tell me about Qabid, all the things I don’t know but should.”
He’s standing there, immovable, like a brick wall.
“You can tell me about yourself,” I push, sitting down, fixing him with a determined look. “Tell me about your childhood and your life as Sheikh, what you like and don’t like. Tell me about the tattoos on your chest – when you got them, what they mean. Your favourite foods, likes, dislikes.”
His expression doesn’t change for a long time, then finally he lifts one thick, dark brow. “Why?”
It’s so absurd that I laugh. Lifting my left hand to show the enormous ring on my finger, I point to it. “Because I’m your wife. I don’t know how long we’ll be married, but shouldn’t we have at least a passing knowledge of one another? Or do you plan on ignoring me completely once we return to the palace?”
His features change; it takes me a second to understand what I’m seeing written across his face.
