The Forced Bride Of Alazar

Baubles, presents, a careless pat or smile—these things cost her father nothing. They’d been sops to appease her, not expressions of his love. It was so obvious now, so awful. For when his ambition was at stake, Johara’s happiness was a sacrifice he didn’t even have to think about making.

Her father had arranged her flight back to Provence that afternoon, so she could pack her things and collect her mother before returning for the wedding. Naima Behwar rarely left her bed, much less the villa in Provence, and Arif didn’t want the trouble of having to coax her out of either. Amazing, really, how Johara could now see how self-serving he was. Kindness only came when it was free. Why hadn’t she considered his father’s treatment of her mother—his indifference and impatience—as a true reflection of his character, rather than the presents and smiles he carelessly tossed her way? Why had she been so stupid and shallow?

All during the flight to Nice her mind had raced in hopeless circles, trying to find a way out. A way forward. She was by nature an optimist, but her innate cheerfulness had taken a critical hit. She’d barely been able to summon a smile for the chauffeur, Thomas, who’d met her at the airport; he had been in the family’s employ for two decades, and had once taught her to ride a bicycle. His wife Lucille had worked as their cook and first showed Johara how to distil oil from plants, the beginning of her interest in natural medicine. She’d miss them both, and the quiet, simple contentment of the life she’d had, the life she realised now she’d taken for granted.

Then, while Thomas had been getting the car, Johara had made a split-second decision, acting on desperate impulse, something she never did. She’d run.

Her mind had been a blur of panic as she’d walked away from where Thomas had told her to wait, towards the shuttle bus that went to the train station in Nice Ville. Within an hour she’d been on a train to Paris, amazed that she’d actually done it. She’d run away. She’d freed herself.

And now that she’d booked into a shabby, anonymous-looking hotel on a side alley in the Latin Quarter, she wondered what on earth she was going to do next. She had her freedom, but she knew she was ill-equipped to deal with it. Taking the train and navigating the crowded streets of Paris by herself had already felt overwhelming, more than she’d ever dealt with before. How was she going to survive, get a job, make a life for herself?

And, she wondered with a shiver that this time she couldn’t suppress, how was she going to keep from being found? She shuddered to think of both her father and her husband-to-be’s reactions when they learned she’d run. Perhaps they already knew. Thomas, their driver, had probably already sounded the alarm.

Outside a church bell began to toll and a flock of sparrows rose in a dark flurry. Laughter from the streets below floated up, and all the sounds and sights, the sheer normalcy of them, lightened Johara’s spirits a little.

She could do this. She would do this. How hard could it be, to find some menial job that would keep a roof over her head and food on the table? Her needs were small and although she didn’t have much life experience she knew she was smart as well as a quick learner. Surely any life, no matter how small, was better than being forced into a marriage she didn’t want. Taking a deep breath, she turned from the window and went to get ready to look for a job.

Fifteen minutes later she was easing her way along the crowded streets of the Latin Quarter, clutching her bag to her chest as people moved past her in an indifferent stream. She hadn’t realised how noisy and crowded the city was. Her few experiences of Paris had been from behind the tinted windows of a limousine, and then she’d been ushered into one boutique or another with her mother, everything exclusive and private. And even those trips had been a long time ago—her mother had not roused herself to go to Paris, or anywhere, in years.

Spotting a sign for a small café, Johara decided to take the necessary plunge. She ducked into the tiny restaurant and stammered a question to the hassled-looking manager by the kitchen door, asking if he was hiring.

‘Do you have any waitressing experience?’ he asked, his voice full of scepticism as he eyed her up and down.

‘No, but—’

‘Sorry, no.’

Dejectedly she turned away. She repeated the same cringing experience in the next four cafés. All of the managers had looked at her with either doubt or disbelief when she’d asked for work, and Johara wondered how they could tell she was inexperienced. Was it the way she dressed? Spoke? Or was her naiveté that obvious, like a beacon above her head?

Her feet ached and her stomach rumbled—she hadn’t eaten since she’d been on the plane hours ago. Worse than either of those afflictions was the plunging sense of despair that she wasn’t going to be able to make it in the real world. And what would she do then? Slink back to Azim with her tail tucked firmly between her legs, her head lowered in guilty remorse, and accept a cold, loveless marriage with a man she didn’t like or even know?

No. She would rather pound every street in Paris looking for work than submit to a man as cold and cruel as Azim al Bahjat.

‘Salut, chérie,’ a man’s low, purring voice carried over the sounds of the crowd, and Johara turned, startled to realise he was talking to her.

‘Salut,’ she said cautiously. The man’s smile was wide as he lounged in the doorway of the shabbiest café Johara had ever seen, just a few tiny, dirty tables on a floor of cracked tiles.

‘Are you looking for work?’ He made a moue of sympathy. ‘Finding it difficult?’

‘A bit,’ Johara admitted. ‘Why?’ She nodded to the café. ‘Are you hiring?’

The man’s smile widened. ‘As it happens, yes. Do you know how to be nice to customers?’

It seemed a strange question, and Johara shrugged. ‘I think so.’

The man eyed her up and down in a way that made her blush and shift uncomfortably, her bag clutched to her chest. ‘Then you can start tonight. Can you be back here at nine?’

Johara swallowed, hardly daring to believe that she’d actually found a job. She didn’t particularly like the look of the greasy man or the shabby café, but she was hardly in a position to choose. ‘Yes, of course.’

Back at the hotel she ate, showered and changed, trying to ignore the sense of unease she felt about the man and his offer of work. As she headed out into the sultry summer evening butterflies flitted in her stomach and she tried to walk as she saw other women walking, with their heads tilted at a proud angle, their hips swaying, as if they knew who they were and where they were going. Johara felt as if she knew neither and had no idea how to find out.

The café was full of noisy customers when she approached, relieved that she’d managed to get herself to the right place. So many of the narrow, cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter looked the same. The same beady-eyed man who had hired her met her at the doorway.

‘Ah, chérie. I’m so glad you came.’ He drew her by the hand into the hot press of people, one arm snaking around her waist. Alarm bells started clanging in Johara’s head as she tensed, her body arching instinctively away from him. No man had ever touched her so intimately, their hips bumping, her breasts brushing his shoulder.

‘Don’t be shy,’ he said with a laugh, pulling her closer, one hand brushing her breast. ‘Remember I said you had to be nice.’

Johara glanced around at the crowded café, and all the faces looked sweaty and leering. The man’s hand was still on her waist, the side of her body pressed tightly to his. The acrid smell of alcohol and sweat stung her nostrils and made her head swim.

She opened her mouth to say something, to explain this wasn’t quite what she’d thought it would be, but no words came out. And then someone else was speaking.

‘Get your hands off her right now.’ The words were clipped, the tone utterly lethal. The sneering smile on the man’s face slid right off when he caught sight of whoever was standing behind Johara. He held up his hands as he backed away.

‘Pardon, monsieur, I didn’t know she was taken.’

‘Now you know.’

Slowly Johara turned, her heart beating so hard she could feel the blood roaring in her ears. It couldn’t be...but of course it was. Azim stood in the doorway of the café, his eyes blazing black fire, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. With his powerful frame, the scar snaking down his cheek and his air of barely leashed fury, he was utterly terrifying. No wonder the man backed away. She wanted to run.

‘Don’t think of trying it,’ Azim said in a low, dangerous voice, and Johara knew he’d read her thoughts.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked in a shaky whisper.

‘Easily. Come with me. Now.’ As his strong, lean fingers circled her wrist and pulled her towards him Johara had no choice but to comply. She stumbled as he drew her from the café, throwing one hand out to the doorframe to keep from falling.

‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’

Azim slowed, his fingers loosening around her wrist, even as his expression remained icily furious.

‘My car is waiting.’

‘I’m not going with you.’ Johara wished she’d sounded more firm.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Azim snapped. ‘You can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ he gritted between clenched teeth, stepping closer to her, ‘I just took you out of a whorehouse.’

‘A...’ Her jaw dropped.

‘You do know what that is?’ Azim inquired. ‘I presume you’re not that innocent?’

A fiery blush rose from her throat to the crown of her head. ‘Yes, I know what that is,’ Johara muttered. ‘I’ve read books.’

‘Oh, well, then. You’re the voice of experience, I suppose.’ He shook his head, clearly disgusted, and pulled her, gently at least, towards the waiting limousine. This time Johara went without a murmur.

She clambered into the luxurious interior, the leather sumptuous and soft against her bare legs. Azim climbed in next to her and barked out an address to the driver before slamming the door and leaning back against the seat.

Realisations were firing through Johara, short-circuiting her synapses. ‘Was it really...?’ she began through trembling lips.

‘Yes,’ Azim stated flatly. ‘It was.’

Her teeth started to chatter as she realised how close she’d come to utter disaster. She could have been raped. She could have been sold into sexual slavery. She could have been... She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. She could hardly bear to think of it.

‘Are you cold?’ Azim demanded, and Johara shook her head. She wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

He eyed her for a moment, his expression utterly fierce, before he reached forward to the limo’s minibar and poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. ‘Here. Drink this. It will help.’

Her numb fingers curled around the glass. ‘Help...?’

‘You’re in shock.’

She glanced down at the amber liquid, its pungent smell making her grimace. ‘I’ve never drunk hard alcohol before.’

‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Azim watched her, his very gaze commanding her to drink, and Johara raised the glass to her lips.

The whisky burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. Somehow she managed not to sputter, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, thrusting the glass back at Azim.

‘No more.’

A tiny smile curved his mouth, making his scar pucker. ‘Not bad for the first time. You didn’t cough.’

‘I wanted to.’

‘You have strength of spirit.’ From his tone she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

She turned to look out of the window, unsettled by the sudden and overwhelming turn of events. Outside the limo the streets of Paris streamed by in an electric blur.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few tense, silent minutes had ticked by.

‘To my flat.’

‘How did you find me? Easily, I know, but...’

‘Your driver alerted your father, who told me.’

So her father had betrayed her yet again. She wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. ‘Was he angry?’

‘Furious,’ Azim answered shortly. ‘What did you expect?’

For someone who loved her to think about her happiness. But of course her father had never really loved her. How long, she wondered, was that going to hurt? ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. She felt tired and near tears, trapped and humiliated, as if she were a naughty child being marched to the corner.

‘Even I did not think you would be so stupid and selfish as to run away,’ Azim said. Anger thrummed through his voice. ‘Even though you had made it clear what you thought of our forthcoming marriage.’

‘As did you,’ Johara returned, half amazed by her own audacity. She never spoke to her father, or anyone, like this. It felt good to speak her mind to someone, even if she’d regret it later.

‘So I did.’ Azim was silent for a moment and Johara found herself suddenly conscious of his nearness, the powerful length of his thigh brushing hers on the seat. She could smell his aftershave, the mingled aromas of sandalwood and cedar. Her senses stirred in a way that felt unfamiliar and intriguing. She had a bizarre desire to shift closer, to feel the length of his leg against her own, a prospect that horrified her. This man was her enemy. He was also, unless she managed a miracle, going to be her husband.

Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’

‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?

‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’

‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.

‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.

‘Is there where you live?’

‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.

The slide of his strong hand against hers was an unexpected jolt, as if she’d touched a live wire. Shocked by the sensation, she let out a gasp, and then registered Azim’s cool smile of satisfaction with wary confusion.

The smile disappeared as soon as she’d noted it, their gazes locking in a taut battle of wills before Azim dropped her hand and turned towards the building. On legs as shaky as the rest of her, Johara followed.

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