Midnight in the Harem

In the midst of his own self-allowed turmoil and the growing crush of his responsibilities without outlet, he had neglected to notice the impatient discontent in the woman he was slated to marry. Yet another casualty to the folly of allowing emotions to reign in one’s life.

Angele shook her head and glared at him. “Stop it.”

“Stop what exactly?”

“Thinking so hard. I just know you’re trying to figure out a way to guilt me into maintaining the status quo. And that is not going to happen.”

“No, I can see it is not.” Angele needed reassurance that their marriage would not be devoid of passion.

Something he had done nothing to convince her of in the intervening years since the original contract was negotiated. Considering how his member stirred in his trousers at the sight of her in the sexy dress, he knew he would have no problem reassuring her now, however.

“You want to have sex with me.”

She flinched, but squared her shoulders and nodded. “I’m offering you your freedom. I do not think a single night of lovemaking too high a price to pay for that.”

The words were just noise to cover her sexual fears and insecurities. He understood that, but one thing stood clear. She considered a night in his bed a gift.

He looked deep into her eyes and made another realization—one that both inexplicably pleased him and stirred pity in his heart. “You are in love with me.”

Zahir had always known Angele fancied him something rotten, but he’d considered it a mere girlish crush. However this woman before him was no child and the feelings so apparent on her features had a depth that shocked him. Love was not a comfortable or safe emotion. From this point forward, it would not hurt her to love him, but she did not know that. He would never betray her as Elsa had betrayed him.

“What was your first clue? My clumsy attempt at a kiss at eighteen, or my slavish devotion and refusal to date other men despite the fact we are not formally engaged?”

If he expected shock from her at his revelation, or horror, he would clearly receive neither.

He did not point out that her love for him made no sense in light of her demands and threats to back out of their families’ arrangements. He had already decided she had no real desire to do that, she was simply looking for reassurances.

The need for which made even more sense in the light of her feelings for him.

Nor did he point out that her love was based on a distant relationship. How could she know him well enough to love him? But she believed herself in love and that was enough to cause her pain and worry in their current situation.

“I apologize for not realizing your feelings sooner.”

Acknowledging the hurt she must have experienced over the years of their pseudoengagement, was not comfortable, but he was not a man to shirk from his responsibilities. “Love is a painful emotion.”

“You’re telling me?” she asked with disbelief and then the horror came. The color drained from her face as her eyes registered a mortal wound. “You are telling me … that you loved her.”

For the first time in his life, he was tempted to outright lie. He had learned the art of misdirection and when it was most politic to withhold information at an early age, but he made it a practice never to tell a direct falsehood. Even for the sake of politics.

His honor would not stand for it.

“It does not matter. Ms. Bosch and I are finished.”

“But you loved her, didn’t you?”

“That is not something I’m ever going to discuss with you.” The past was over. He and Angele had a future to build.

His youthful feelings embarrassed him and they were over regardless.

“You don’t need to. The photos show the truth, if you look for it. I didn’t … I don’t think I wanted to believe it was possible. It was painful enough to accept you were so much more relaxed and happy with her.”

“You gleaned all this from a single photo?”

“No, but that’s not something I want to discuss right now.”

No, right now, she wanted reassurances he was more than happy to give. Nevertheless … “We can hardly disappear from my brother’s wedding feast.”

“Why not? You did.”

“I had business to attend to if my father was to remain free to preside over the festivities.” “You often sacrifice for your family.” “It is my privilege to do so.” “I believe you mean that.”

“I do.”

“You’re an amazing man.”

“And you love me.” He had no intention of opening himself to that depth of emotion again, but he would protect hers. It was his duty to do so.

And he always did his duty.

“The wedding festivities will last into the wee hours of the morning. Tonight is not the ideal time for us to share our bodies for the first time.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You are in the country for the next three days?” “Yes, we’re staying for the full wedding celebration.”

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 discussion 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 blank-ness. 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.

My dear Angele,

You indicated a wish to have a wedding night. Please do me the honor of wearing this gown, worn by my grandmother in her wedding to my grandfather.

I look forward to seeing you in and out of it.

Zahir

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.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE 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 supernova 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.