Sheikh With Benefits (7 page)

"Okay. I will." Daliya's whole face brightened with a glow of anticipation and mischief. "We'll find hockey players or something."

If only she could share Daliya's enthusiasm. There was hope for a decent life—but she would never allow another man into her bed. Not after all she'd shared with the only man she would ever love. And who, after tomorrow, she would never see again.

Chapter Seven

One day, and his whole world had changed. Javad swallowed his chuckle, but permitted himself a whisper of a smile as he strode into the official reception for the Orméan Crown Prince. Arya. Things had worked out so efficiently. The piece he hadn't known was missing from his life had fallen into place with no effort or concern on his part. Now all he had to do was assure her of her position with him and things would be complete between them.

Tonight, they would finally dance together, he promised himself, scanning the room for her.

This reception was more to his liking. It seemed the entire upper class of Ulai had accepted the invitation. He had arranged a twelve-piece band to play a mix of traditional Ulain songs and Western-style jazz. The music wafted down to the dance floor from the high marble balcony above. Servers with traditional, alcohol-free drinks quietly cruised the room, seeing to the needs of the guests.

He spotted a dark grey dress through the crowd. A shining metallic silver that again had every man's eye, he noted with irritation. At least it was suitably modest tonight. The front covered her to her collarbone. Then she and her dance partner made another turn, and his pulse ratcheted. His fist went into his pocket. Her entire back was on display, framed by a flow of silver material. No one but him had ever seen those particular freckles before last night, he was sure. No one else would see them again, he promised himself. Her partner had only two choices—put his hand on the bare skin of her spine, or too low on her back. Far, far too low.

Her dance partner's face came into view. A face he knew like his own. Darius. With
his
Arya. He had never been jealous of his brother until this moment, but now the feeling was all-consuming. Darius was expected to marry a foreign princess, but if he desired the daughter of an ambassador, it was not out of the question. Especially if love was involved, and with Arya, it would have to be. But who would not fall in love with her when he took the time to know her?

His rage blew through him like a hot desert wind. He fought for control, and only won by telling reminding himself who she was. Arya, who gave herself to him, and no one else. Arya, his sweet friend he had ignored for too long. Now she would have all his attention.

To calm the strange whirlwind inside him, he planned, as usual. Truly, Arya might be in Darius' arms, but it was only a dance. They were in public, and there was a suitable three inches of space between their bodies. Nothing to worry about.

Across the room, her father spoke to a member of the Royal Cabinet. Good. He'd been hoping the man would be present tonight. It made things simple and smooth.

He accepted the glass of hibiscus
sharbat
a waiter offered him and took a sip. The sweet, flowery drink kept his teeth from clenching. The plan was this: he would wait until Arya and his brother finished the dance, and whisk her into a private corner. There, she would accept his proposal. He knew she would. She saw things so clearly. She had known he was in love with her before he had himself. The whole idea of her sleeping with Darius was nonsense, had always been nonsense.

It had simply taken that naked dress to put his body in tune with his heart, where she had been the only woman for months now.

After, he would speak to her father, who would delight at a closer alliance with the royal family. She would be the perfect diplomat's wife. Hadn't her father trained her for just such a thing, as his own father had trained him to serve the Crown?

It all made so much sense. Flawless, perfect sense. A mosaic with tiles that fit together snugly, each piece contributing its own flash of color to a cohesive whole. Similar to the floor on which he stood, which depicted the famed battle of Ulai that had won the country's freedom from the juggernaut of the Persian Empire.

Yet the
sharbat
tasted like vinegar to him. The music rang off-key in his ears. There was nothing wrong with any part of his plan, and it would make every person involved happy. However, something about it irritated him immeasurably. He simply could not identify what it was.

She and his brother twirled past him. She pretended not to notice him watching her, but he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. Yet she spoke to his brother intently. Yesterday she had barely been able to look the king in the eye. Now it was almost as if she was in deep negotiations with him.

What could she have to discuss with his brother after last night? She should be concentrating on their new-born relationship.

Unless.
If she regretted being with him—which wasn't possible—she would be making arrangements to leave Ulai. Her father would never permit that, and no one could overrule her father.

Except Darius
. The king could assign her to, say, the Ottawa Embassy. In that case, her father could say nothing. Arya currently danced with the person who could solve her dilemma.

Javad inhaled sharply before he realized he was doing it. He had not considered this. He loved her. She loved him. Despite that, he might lose her.

Over the noise of the band, the conversations of the other attendees, the swish of luxurious fabrics swirling across the dance floor, he heard her laugh. Not loudly. In fact, she nearly swallowed the sound. But he had heard it. Darius had made her laugh. Had she laughed when they were together last night? Not at anything he'd said, at least.

He watched her face over Darius' shoulder as her smile fell, her features once more becoming sober and restrained. She'd seen something that made her stop. He tracked where she'd been looking. Straight at her father, whose eyes burned hot lasers in her direction.
Remember who you dance with,
his pointed gaze said.
Don't embarrass me,
it warned.

Sudden, unfamiliar rage thundered in his ears. That attitude had made Arya into little more than her father's servant, had praised her silence, and put her in beige dresses for nearly thirty years. Placed her in the background while her sisters rebelled. Perhaps even kept him from noticing her, and so kept them apart for far too long.

And he, just yesterday, had thought exactly like her father, of matching her with old Sheikh Zakharias. The idea enraged him now, both the possibility of her union with the man, and that he had thought of it. For her. For Arya, of all people. She was—would always be—the most important person in his life, and he had felt she deserved no better than an old man in a wheelchair.

Fuck that.
The words shot thought his mind, leaving Javad shocked at his own mental swearing. And he knew then what was wrong, why he was so disturbed by the idea of quietly arranging their marriage.

Fuck her father, he thought, for once relishing the way the foul word unleashed his emotions. Fuck everyone in the room, and what they thought. Fuck quiet and restrained, and fuck anyone who made Arya stop laughing ever again. Fuck them all.

"I beg your pardon?" Javad's mental rant was interrupted by a small, aged voice at his elbow. A white-haired woman in a rust-colored dress looked up at him with a flash of fire in the set of her mouth. "What did you say, Your Highness?"

His fist was no longer in his pocket, he realized. He knew he should recover himself and say something diplomatic to her. But his fist was out of his pocket. The spirits of his ancestors, the rebels who broke the republic from the empire whispered in his mind, telling him to take what he wanted and to make it his own no matter the cost.

"Ma'am," he said with great politeness. "I believe what you heard was, 'Fuck them all.'"

She gave him a wide grin. "The best idea I've heard in years," she told him.

"I'm going over there to sweep the woman I love off her feet," he told her. "I intend to make a scene no one here will forget for the rest of their lives. I know perfectly well that my brother has no designs on her, and that she would never think of him that way, but she deserves to know that I will do anything for her, and that she is mine, and that I will fight for her even if I have to create a villain out of thin air to do it. My brother may exile me for damaging his authority. Her father will definitely never approve of the marriage. They—" Here he paused for dramatic effect. "May go fuck themselves."

"An excellent plan." Her eyes danced with the light of a woman half her age. "If I was younger, she might have competition."

Never
, he wanted to tell her, but he was a diplomat still. "If you were younger, I would have you both." He paused for a beat. "Perhaps at the same time."

She tittered with delight. "Go to her."

He favored her with a deep bow before striding across the dance floor to fight for the woman who belonged to him, his imaginary robes streaming in a desert wind that wasn't there.

Chapter Eight

"But," His Royal Majesty King Darius the Fifteenth whispered in her ear, "perhaps I do not want you to go back to Ottawa."

Arya felt his hot breath and got shivery. Not because of him, but because his voice was so similar to his brother's. It set off a chain reaction of memory. Javad licking her neck. Javad sucking her breasts. Javad between her thighs.

Exactly why she needed to go away so badly. "Your Majesty, I would be a great help there. I did excellent work for my father, and I know how the Embassy operates. I have years of experience in the office, and both the diplomatic and expatriate community know me."

"You would be a woman on her own," he said, spinning her around to music that didn't register in her mind. "It reflects badly on myself."

She had no choice but to convince Darius to let her go. She couldn't exist under her father's roof any longer and she couldn't marry Sheikh Zakharias. If she had to keep coming to these parties and endure Javad staring her direction like he was now, she would probably expire from embarrassment.

The only alternative was marrying him.

If she knew Javad at all, the man had planned his strategy for the situation last night. First, he'd talk to her, offer her marriage. He would assume she'd agree, and up until she'd talked to her sister, he would have been right. Then, he'd speak to her father. If she refused him, he'd speak to her father anyway. If anyone could convince her to marry Javad, it would have been her father. Once. No more.

While her body and her heart each voted an enthusiastic yes, her mind had a veto. She couldn't tie herself permanently to a man who put restraint above everything else. Who would teach their children to be seen and not heard and would scowl at them for just being themselves. She knew the effect that would have on their personalities all too well, and no way would she let it happen to her kids the way it had happened to her. Her sister was right. Time to strike out on her own.

"But, Your Majesty." She put on her best flirty smile, probably a pale imitation of her sisters', but she'd work on it, she decided. "You could come visit me. In fact, it would be a great insult to Canada if you didn't. Don't think of it as looking bad, think of it as being progressive."

"Hmm." He faked thoughtfulness as he gave her a dramatic twirl. "I would like to progress with you."

At the idea of him one, flirting with her, and two, wanting to progress anywhere with her, a laugh escaped her.

She felt her father's censure from across the room, like the sights of a rifle centered right on her. It killed any amusement she felt.
You're embarrassing the family,
it said.
Shut your mouth,
it said.

Her first reaction was to stiffen, to collapse in on herself. But then she saw Javad's scowl directed straight at her father. What was that supposed to mean? And was Javad actually frowning? In public? It seemed too insane to think of.

Well, she felt a bit insane herself. She put steel into her resolve and pressed her body closer to Darius.

"Did you know that the first foreign visit by any U.S. President is always to Ottawa? When Obama came, he bought maple leaf shaped cookies for his daughters. The bakery still has a big picture of him out front. Imagine what they would do if a real-life
king
visited?"

Darius chuckled. "Canada might be pleased, but it is possible my brother might castrate me."

"I don't know what you mean," she said, as smoothly as he turned her in the dance.

"Arya, your father is inscrutable. It is impossible to know what he thinks or feels. Do not start following his example, or you and my brother will dance around each other for the rest of your lives, and never dance together," he told her. "Unless, of course, you did a tango last night."

Her cheeks turned into an inferno. She clamped her teeth shut. One word, any word, from her, would betray everything she felt and thought.

"Speaking of the man who may assault me for dancing with you," Darius said, his voice full of good-natured humor. "He approaches now."

Panic exploded in her chest. She realized the song was ending. He would wait subtly at his brother's elbow until the music stopped, then she would be in his arms. It was much easier to resist him when he wasn't holding her, smelling clean and male, and reminding her of last night. One look into her eyes on the dance floor and he'd know she loved him. It might be impossible to resist him then.

The steps of the dance brought her around, so she could see Javad. She stopped in place, flash-frozen by what she saw. Darius did an unkingly double-take.

Javad moved toward them with anger in his stride, with an adamantine look on his normally cultured features. He moved with purpose, focus, and determination across a dance floor where everyone else glided with grace. He looked like a man going to battle. Others must have thought so, too, by the way they parted to let him pass. Arya swore he rammed the shoulder of a man who didn't get out of the way quickly enough.