For Duty's Sake (4 page)

Despite Angele's refusal to play a role in the wedding, her family had been at the palace since the prewedding festivities began. He had seen very little of her because he had been busy with state business. He had believed she was busy with the bridal party, even if she wasn't an official member of it.

“I will make arrangements for your last night here. There are no official events after the final breakfast that day.”

He put his arm out. “Now, I believe it is time we returned to the feast.”

She laid her small hand in the crook of his arm and let him lead her from his study, the stress this discus
sion had caused her evident in the fine tremors of her delicate fingers against his jacket sleeve.

Two nights hence, he would show her she had nothing to fear from him in any way.

 

Despite the sun having set an hour before, the tile floor on the balcony off Angele's room warmed her bare feet. She'd long since discarded the expensive but uncomfortable glittery heels she'd worn for the final celebratory feast of Amir and Grace's nuptials.

She still wore the figure hugging silk sheath. By an as yet undiscovered New York designer, its subtle composition made the most of her figure, hinting at bedroom seductions while having no single element that could be pointed to as anything other than proper.

Her father had been angry she'd foregone the traditional dress the women of the Jawharian royal family had opted to don for the evening feast. Only Angele
wasn't
a Jawharian princess, no matter how much her father might wish otherwise.

Her mother had stood up for her. Looking like American royalty in a beautiful European-designed gown, Lou-Belia had told Cemal to take a chill pill. The look on Angele's father's face had been worth the price of admission and then some.

But the expression that flashed over Zahir's features when he'd seen Angele's dress had been even better. His gray eyes had heated to molten metal and his lids had dropped in a look of pure sexual predatory interest before he'd schooled his features into diplomatic blankness. It hadn't been just the once, either.

She'd caught that heated stare directed her way more
than once over the course of the evening. Each time, it increased her desire for the feast to be over, for her one night with Crown Sheikh Zahir bin Faruq al Zohra to begin. The celebration
was
over now and she could go to Zahir as soon as she wanted. The only thing stopping her was the garment lying so innocently on her bed.

She'd discovered the
galabeya
upon returning to her room. The traditional wedding dress in this part of the world, the white silk gown embroidered with gold thread looked like it belonged in an
Arabian Nights
fantasy. The Arabic lettering in the intricate embroidery told the story of the first Sheikh's marriage to the wife that helped him found the house of Zohra.

A note from Zahir lay atop the
galabya
.

The day before, he had told her to come to him via the secret passages she'd never known for certain existed. She'd guessed, since the palaces in Jawhar all had them, but Angele had never been privileged with that information regarding the royal palace of Zohra. Until now.

Now, when she planned to leave the palace of Zohra tomorrow and never return to it.

With a deep sigh, she turned from the darkness toward the warm light emanating from her bedroom. The
galabeya
shimmered under the glow, calling to and repelling her with equal fascination.

He wanted her to wear a wedding dress on their single night together. It was mind-boggling, but not nearly as shocking as it should have been. Part of her wanted the fantasy. Her subconscious at least was on the same page as her soon to be former almost-fiancé.

So, why balk at his request? The
galabeya
was easily the most beautiful one she had ever seen, the needlework making the Arabic letters look like art and perfect in each stitch. The matching slippers were beyond elegant. And looking at them, she knew they were exactly her size.

How had Zahir managed that?

A tiny voice warned against the cost tomorrow to that kind of indulgence tonight. But it was her
one night,
the only time for her to be with the man of her dreams. Perhaps it would make the morrow harder, but she would not balk at letting it fulfill every fantasy possible.

She changed into the
galabeya,
shivering with a sensuality she'd kept locked deep inside since her first sexual feeling, as the silk whispered against her skin. She'd opted to wear a modern bra and panties in matching white silk and lace, rather than the traditional underclothes Zahir had left with the dress. After all, this wasn't a wedding, but a seduction.

Though she was not at all sure any longer who was seducing whom. Certainly Zahir showed none of the reticence about bedding her that he always had done before.

Perhaps it was because his relationship with Elsa had ended. The one and only time their picture together had featured in the media, it had quickly been followed by a discreet announcement that any liaison there might have been between the two had ended.

In addition, Angele could not let herself forget the offered price for this night was ultimately Zahir's freedom. Perhaps that, if not she directly, accounted for his increased ardor in her regard. Whether or not he was willing to admit it, he clearly wanted out of their pseudoengagement.

Or had he always been attracted to her in some fashion, but unwilling to act on it because to do so would force the issue of their marriage?

She preferred that scenario to the one where he found the prospect of freedom so appealing, it alone birthed lust in him over her body.

Refusing to analyze the confusing situation any further, she brushed out her hair and changed her makeup to a neutral palette with eyes that were rimmed in kohl.

If not for the highlights in her hair and barely there underclothes, she could have been a bride of Zohra from a hundred years ago. She saw no one in the secret passageways, but heard a peal of feminine laughter as she passed the access to what must have been Amir's rooms.

It sounded much too close to be muffled by walls. Having no desire to be caught on her way to Zahir's room, Angele scooted into a crevice as the sound of bare feet padded down the passage she had just passed.

“Shh…the operative word here is secret,” Amir said in a loud whisper to his still giggling wife.

“How did I not know they existed all the times I stayed in this palace?”

“You were not yet my wife.”

“I am now.” Grace sounded both awed and very pleased by that fact.

“Indeed.” Amir's voice was laced with pure possession, however.

“So, are we going to explore?”

“Would you rather do that, or return to our rooms and celebrate our marriage?”

“Guess.” Silence filled only with the sound of kissing and increasingly heavy breathing followed. Then, Grace said in a husky voice, “This week-long wedding thing is pretty neat, I must say. Western brides only get one wedding night.”

Their voices faded as the footsteps returned the way they had come and Angele released a pent-up breath. She did not know how Zahir had stood maintaining a hidden affair for so long.

One night was enough to stretch Angele's nerves tighter than a model's corset….

S
HE
made it to Zahir's room without further incident. Then she stood in front of the lever that would swing an ancient wardrobe within the room open like a door, and gathered her courage. This was it. The moment she'd craved far longer than anyone else would ever know.

She reached out to pull the lever, but the “door” was already opening. It swung inward to a room lit by numerous candles.

Clad in the traditional wedding garments of the Zohra royal family, Zahir looked at her with an expression so serious, it made her breath catch. “I began to think you had changed your mind.”

Unable to speak, she shook her head.

“Your wedding night awaits.” He stepped back. “Come.”

Her heart hammering, she followed him into the candlelit room, but jerked when he reached behind her, and then blushed at her jumpiness.

“Be at peace. I am only closing the access to the corridor.”

“Can just anyone come in through it?” she asked, another worry finding its place in her maelstrom of emotions.

“Only the family knows of its existence, and a select few of our security detail, those whose families have served the royal house for generations.”

“But still.” What if his brother, or father, or something, decided to make a late night visit?

“I have locked it from this side. The lever on the other side of the wall will not move.”

Relief washed over her. “Amir and Grace were in the corridor.”

Zahir's entire body tensed. “Did they see you?”

“No.”

He nodded, relaxing a little. “It would not have been a total tragedy, but I would prefer you not to be made the object of speculation.”

She begged to differ. If she'd been seen, dressed as she was, it
would
have been both humiliating and a huge and total tragedy. Nothing would stop her uncle from forcing the marriage if she were caught in such a circumstance.

Thank goodness, only the royal family of Zohra knew of the passages. And her.

“How did you know I was in the corridor? Is there some kind of alarm?”

Zahir merely shrugged, but there was an odd expression in his eyes, the soft light of the candles giving his angular cheeks a burnished glow that almost looked like a blush.

He reached out and cupped her cheek. “You look beautiful.”

“You didn't like my dress earlier?”

“You know I did.”

“Do I?”

“Oh, yes.” His hand slipped around her head and settled against her nape. He used the hold to gently tug her forward until their bodies were a mere breath apart. “You are a minx. How did I not realize this before?”

“Minx is such an old-fashioned word.”

“I am an old-fashioned guy.”

“You think?”

“In some ways, I am very traditional.”

Then, before she could answer, he lowered his head and she finally got the kiss she'd always wanted.

And it was every bit as tender and romantic as she could ever have hoped. Letting out a little sigh of pleasure, she let her lips part slightly.

Zahir's tongue swept inside, claiming her mouth with unhesitating, if gentle, demand. Her arms moved of their own volition, her hands clasping behind his neck as she melted into him. His big body shuddered at the full-on contact and she could feel the evidence of a tightly leashed desire pressing impressively against her stomach.

The evidence that he did indeed want her made her bold and she tangled her tongue with his, responding to his kiss with an abandon she'd never known she was capable of.

She'd spent so many years repressing her sexual desires, they rushed through her now with the power of a California wildfire.

She moaned, moving against him, needing more than the kiss, but too involved in it to do anything about that.

As if he could read her mind, Zahir's hands began exploring her body through the thin silk of the wedding
galabeya.
He traced the embroidery along her spine, sending raptures through her body.

When his hands cupped her bottom, she could not suppress a needy whimper. An approving growl came from deep in his chest as he lifted her to press the apex of her thighs against his hardness.

Her legs spread of their own volition, but the skirt of the long Arabic gown constricted how far she could do so. He didn't seem to mind, making another sound of approval as he intimately thrust against her. The contact between them, even through the layers of silk of their clothing, sent electric sparks exploding along her nerve endings. His thrusts became more urgent as she felt warm moisture develop between her legs.

How could this feel so good? How could she feel so out of control already? They weren't even naked yet.

He tilted her pelvis just so and suddenly sensation unlike anything she'd ever known was making her womb clench. She mashed her mouth against his, needing to be closer.

He gave her what she needed, taking their kiss into something wildly carnal.

Unfamiliar tension built inside her, pleasure tinged by almost panic at the unfamiliarity of it, made her body shake even as she pressed against him in wanton need for something she couldn't give name to.

And then it came, that nameless something, a super-nova of sensation that made her body go rigid as she cried out against his mouth. A sob built in her throat as the pleasure burst, and ebbed, and burst again.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She could
only feel and that was too much. Too intense and yet she never wanted it to end.

But something this immense had to end, or kill her. She was sure of it.

Her heart felt ready to explode from her chest. If this is what he could do to her with a kiss, she was never going to survive what was to come.

The jolts of pleasure grew farther apart as her body ebbed toward relaxation more and more until she was completely limp against him. Her grasp on his neck nothing more than a caress, really, as her muscles certainly weren't supporting her.

Finally, breaking the kiss, he swung her high against his chest and smiled down at her. “You are amazing.”

She could not speak to respond, merely shook her head. He was the incredible one, playing her boldly like a sitar's strings.

“Making love to you will be my greatest pleasure.” She forgave him the smug tones edging his voice.

They were well-earned. Besides, his words weren't smug at all. He could have said it would be
her
greatest pleasure, and they both knew that would be the case.

She was a virgin after all.

Making the other claim was a sop to her feelings that she could not help loving him for. Tonight would definitely not be the beginning of her learning to suppress that love like she always had her feminine sensuality.

That would come later, when she was not in his arms, experiencing feelings and emotions beyond comprehension.

Even so, she wanted to ask if he meant it, but knew that would be a very stupid thing to do in the
circumstances. A negative answer was so not what she wanted to hear right now. Still, she could not help giving him a doubtful look.

His expression turned intensely serious as he carefully laid her on the huge bed. “You are the only woman I have ever touched that has been mine alone. You cannot know what satisfaction that gives me.”

She wanted to call him a chauvinist. Tell him he was arrogant beyond belief. But most of all, she wanted to ask what he meant. Of course, Elsa would not have been untouched when Zahir began seeing her; his former mistress would have had liaisons with other men.

Angele didn't do any of that, though, because for the first time in all the years she had known this man, a glimmer of vulnerability showed through his super-controlled exterior.

“All yours.” For tonight.

His teeth flashed in another sensual smile. “All mine.”

If he sounded like he was making a permanent claim, she convinced herself it was simply her ears hearing what they craved. Not a truth that resonated in her heart.

“You will make love to me now?” she asked softly.

“I have been making love to you since you stepped into my room.”

She did not question it. She certainly could not deny it.

He began to undress, pulling back the layers that named him crown sheikh of his people until he stood before her in the soft glow of a hundred candles, his perfect body completely open to her gaze.

Skin a shade darker than hers covered bulging muscles she would not have expected in a man who spent his days playing politician. She'd always known he was strong, but now she believed the rumors that none of the security force in the palace could best him on the sparring mat.

“You look like an ancient Bedouin warrior.”

“A man cannot be weak and lead his people.”

“I have never questioned your mental stamina.”

“You mean you
have
questioned my physical prowess?” he asked and then laughed, the sound free and full of genuine amusement.

That laugh was as much a gift as the pleasure he drew so unnervingly from her body.

She choked on her own amusement. “Of course not, I just…”

Her eyes could not help devouring him with hungry need. He was so incredibly masculine, his hardened sex standing out from his body in impressive splendor.

“I think you like looking.”

“I think I do, too.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don't make it a habit of looking at naked men.”

There was that laughter again and she could not even mind it was at her expense. “I should hope not.”

“It suddenly occurs to me that I'm debilitatingly naive for a woman from my adopted country.” She doubted there was a single woman who worked on the fashion magazine that employed her as an editorial assistant that was as innocent to sexual things as Angele.

“You are exactly as you should be.”

She knew he meant it, but she could not help thinking
that if she'd been a bit more experienced, perhaps he would not have found Elsa such a fascination.

She dismissed the thought as unnecessary and destructive. Elsa Bosch was not here, was not even in Zahir's life any longer. Angele was. For now. And at this moment in time, that was all that mattered.

“I think I could stand here and let you look and you would come from that alone.”

“Arrogant.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps, but you cannot know what a pleasure it is to have those doe-soft brown eyes eating me up like the tastiest dessert at the feast.”

“I doubt there is another man alive who I would find more appealing.” She didn't mind telling him the truth.

Tonight was not for self-protection. That started tomorrow. When she flew back to the States, no longer a virgin and no longer the promised future bride to the heir to the throne of Zohra. “Naturally.”

She laughed again, her heart tripping in her chest at his obvious desire to be seen as the best in her eyes.

“Naturally.”

“No other woman can compare to you lying on my bed as you are.”

Wearing his grandmother's
galabeya,
he meant, looking like the bride she would never be. But surprisingly the thought did not make her sad, but rather brought a smile to her face. “You've never brought another woman in here, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“You're living out your teen fantasies, aren't you?” she teased.

He shook his head. “They're much more recent than that.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but he reached down and caressed his shaft with a sure hand. She gasped. She wanted to be doing that.

“All in good time,” he said as if reading her mind.

Then he stepped forward until he stood against the bed. “It's time to undress my bride.”

It wasn't a real wedding night, but he was going to make it as close to one as possible for her. And she was going to let him.

She wasn't surprised when his first action was to remove the slippers on her feet, but it shocked her speechless when he leaned down to take each foot into his hand and place a soft, sensuous kiss on the arch. He didn't stop there, either, but caressed her feet, pressing points that seemed directly linked to the empty ache inside her.

She was moaning and clenching her thighs by the time he'd moved his attention to her calves.

“Such soft, silky skin, but I know a place you will be softer.”

Her breath came in harsh pants and she shook her head.

“I assure you, you are. Soft, delicious and wet.”

Delicious? Did he mean…but her thoughts splintered as he pushed her gown up to expose her thighs to his gaze and that talented mouth.

Words gasped out of her without meanings as she
discovered that her inner thighs were far more sensitive than she'd ever realized.

He chuckled, the sound wicked and delicious. “Are you sure it is the right time to be praying,
ya habibti
?”

“I…what? It…”

That smile that told her he was about to do something naughty creased his sensual mouth. Then, he pushed her
galabeya
higher and suddenly stopped, letting out a deep sigh of clear approval. “Oh, this is nice.”

“You like my panties.”

“Oh, yes,
ya habibti,
very much.” He stroked a single finger right over her clitoris and pressed down into the silk.

She jolted, arching her body toward that teasing touch.

“I do like these, but I am going to adore what is underneath them.”

“You are so much earthier than I ever expected.”

“I told you, I am a traditional man of my people. We celebrate the delight of pleasure.”

“Your Bedouin tribes, perhaps.”

“You would be surprised.”

Maybe she would be. Like Jawhar, Zohra was one of the few Arabic countries whose outlook and culture had always suffered less religious oppressions than their surrounding neighbors or the rest of Eastern Europe.