The Sheikh's Arranged Marriage: The only thing worse than falling in love with the man she'd married was knowing he would never feel the same... (2 page)

The
Wedding Pin, a single diamond tipped pin that held the whole robe together was at the small of her back. Before she could guess his intentions, Tariq reached around her and unclipped it easily, holding her eyes as metres and metres of expensive fabric draped to the ground. His own look was sardonic.

“What are you doing?” She croaked a
s the fabric pooled at her feet. She refused to show how embarrassed she was. She was used to being shamed and embarrassed. If he thought she was going to break that easily, he had another thing coming.

“Appraising my purchase,” he
drawled, stepping back from her a little but keeping hold of her wrist.

Insolently, he raked his burning gaze over her naked body, lingering on her small upturned breasts, her
concave stomach, and the flesh that had been waxed completely free of hair, exposing her most vulnerable self completely.

“You have been well prepared for tonight,” he commented slowly, but there was no admiration in his
voice, only cool, hard judgement.

She pulled on her wrist but he
didn’t release his vice like grip. “What’s the matter, Rebecca? Don’t you want me anymore?”

She swallowed
. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. Why was her heart still racing like this? Why was her core feeling slick with moist heat? She should have been outraged, not turned on.

“Because I want you,” he said grimly, evidently not at all happy with his own desire.

She lifted her hooded gaze to his face, trying to understand the complex emotions she saw there. As if against his will, he pulled her towards him, and ran a hand along her stomach, bringing it up to gently cup the small swell of her breast. His eyes stared down into hers, and she refused to look away. Even as his thumb teased the aureole of one nipple, sending shooting sensations spasm-ing through her body, she held his challenging glare.

Sharp, hot spears of need drove through her body and she sucked in a shaky breath as the unexpected feelings coursed through her. “Tariq,” she whispered breathily, when he dipped his head and took her other nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. On instinct, she pressed her body as firmly against his as she could, revelling in the sensation of his starched robes against her exposed flesh.

His hands roamed down her body, touching gently, evoking goosebumps of sensation everywhere they went. As his fingers moved lower and lower, her body felt aquiver, and she thought she might burst from the pleasure he was providing. But it was nothing compared to how her body reacted when his fingers brushed against the entrance to her core. Gently, his hand separated her thighs and her eyes flew up to his face. She wished she had been able to understand what she saw there. He looked cold and determined, not anywhere near the turned-on mess that she was.

All rational thought deserted her when he slide a finger inside her and teased her clitoris. But Tariq watched, hungrily, as his blushing bride fell apart at his hands. Her passion was so wanton, so innocent, that he felt his own control slipping.

Rebecca whimpered deep in her throat. Her husband was speaking low and quiet in Arabic, and his words were like tiny kisses against her neck. As she felt her body start to spasm pleasurably with total release, she threw her head back and cried out, not letting go of him for fear she’d fall over. She rode wave after wave of blissful pleasure, until finally she could breathe normally once more.

Tariq
took a step back from his wife, whose face was flushed with pleasure, her blue eyes holding an unmistakable sheen of desire. He schooled his features to show disinterest.

“Go, Rebecca.”

“Go?” She repeated, her surprised disappointment obvious.

“Yes. Go. I have no interest in claiming your body tonight.”
He sounded so calm, so unaffected by her. Of course he was! He was no virgin. This was all very ordinary for him. Except for the forced marriage bit, she guessed.

She bent down and fumbled for her robe, tried to pull it around herself. It was too complicated, with so many folds and tucks and twists.
Her hands were shaking with anger and nervousness, as his dark gaze continued to watch her efforts. In the end, she wrapped it around her shoulders like a sheet, simply for modesty.

Although a part of her wished the ground would open up and swallow her to its molten core, she felt a surge of strength as she looked at this man who had married her
against his will. “Let’s get one thing straight, Your Highness.” She said with dignity. “I am not your purchase. I am your wife.”

“How could I forget,” he muttered and turned away from her.
He didn’t move until he’d heard the door click shut behind his Queen.

CHAPTER TWO

Rebecca spent the following morning stressing about her next confrontation with Tariq, and wondering what she should do. It was only when Monique, her chief attendant and protocol advisor, informed her that the Emir had travelled to Fattid on urgent business that she could relax a little.

He was gone, and she could try to find her feet
, and some inner-peace, before he returned. As if that would be possible! Visions of the previous night danced on her eyelids, and she felt her pulse quicken with remembered pleasure.

She had to distract herself, or she’d beg her husband for a repeat performance when she next saw him.
And she hoped she could hold on to some pride in their marriage.

The palace was enormous. T
en thousand rooms, each more ornately decorated than the next. She latched onto the thought in the hope that it would be just the distraction she needed. “I would like to explore the palace after lunch, Monique,” Rebecca’s voice was firm. She expected opposition, but Monique surprised her.

“Of course, your highness.”

“Rebecca. You must continue to call me Rebecca, Monique.” She corrected immediately.

“But yo
u are now the Queen,” Monique sounded far from pleased with the idea.

Rebecca frowned. “You’re royalty too, aren’t you?”

Monique shrugged her slender shoulders. “I am the niece of a Sheikh. I am high born, rather than royal. Too high born to pursue my chosen career, and not high born enough to make any real difference.”

“What is your chosen career?” Rebecca asked
with genuine interest as she scooped a little baba ghanoush onto a pita bread.

“
Journalism. It is not appropriate, I have been told.”

“I’m sorry,”
Rebecca bit into her lunch. “You must be able to do something.”

“For the next month, I am here to help you adapt to royal life. Beyond that,” she shrugged again, “we shall see.”

Rebecca finished the small vegetarian meal, and stood. The food she had eaten so far had been delicious, but she’d stuck to safe choices and not eaten too much. It was a world away from the simple fare she was used to.

“A security escort will accompany you, Your High
ne- Rebecca.” Monique looked past Rebecca and signalled to one of the Assani army, standing by the door to the women’s dining room.

“Thank you,” Rebecca flashed a small smile at her exotic
looking attendant. She was grateful beyond words that she hadn’t insisted on accompanying Rebecca on her mission of exploration. What Rebecca needed most was time to find her feet. She needed to marshal her thoughts and develop a new defence against Tariq. She simply couldn’t fall apart with hunger every time he was near her. Particularly when it was so obviously a one sided attraction.

Assan was a progressive Arab state. Women in the cities wore western style clothes, albeit unstintingly modest, and so Rebecca had dressed in a simple grey business suit with a pale pink t-shirt underneath. These were her own clothes, and it felt like a rebellion against everything
Tariq had accused her of being the night before, to dress in her simple school teacher garb.

If she was after his excessive wealth, she would have already stocked up on designer loot. Instead, she’d bought only the wedding clothes and some new underwear. She coloured, remembering the thoughts that had prompted her to select so many stunning lace
lingerie sets. It was safe to say that those fantasies could be put out to pasture.

She sighed heavily as she went from room to room, careful not to touch, but just look. She asked her security escort in halting Arabic for the name of some of the paintings she didn’t recognise, but his responses were too fast for her fle
dgling grasp of the language. And so she reconciled herself to it being a silent tour.

Once Rebecca had started to discover the vast beauty of the palace, she didn’t want to stop. She had never been in a building with such history and culture. As they moved away from the royal wing and took a long corridor through the back of the palace, Rebecca saw a small group of children, playing in the courtyard beyond. They were running around and laughing, despite the heat of the midday sun. All were running but one, she noticed with sadness. Behind the group of children was another child, sitting in a rustic looking wheelchair. It was, in fact, a seat that had been turned into a
wheel chair with the addition of what looked to be bicycle wheels. She frowned and turned to her security guard.

“How do I get out there?” She asked in English. And then, at the quizzical expression on his brow, she pointed to her chest and then to the courtyard.

“Ah!” He nodded, leading her towards a glass panel that had a handle. He inserted a brass key and then pushed the door outwards. He said something in Arabic but held his hands over her head.

“Hat,” she nodded. “Please.”

He pulled a small radio to his mouth and spoke into it quickly, then followed her out into the paved courtyard.

“Hello,” Rebecca said
to the children. She’d guess they were all aged between five and nine, maybe ten. Even children knew who the pale woman with long blonde hair was, and silence immediately fell.

“
Please,” she said, knowing they wouldn’t understand her words but hoping her tone reassured them. “I just came to watch you play. Carry on.”

The oldest looking child approached her, holding out a soccer ball that was deflated on one side. It was too hot to play, but the sweetness of his gesture touched her and so she dropped it to the ground and gave it a small kick back. Then, she pointed to a wall near the wheelchair bound child to convey that she was going to sit and watch.

The oldest child nodded, and said something to the other children. Play resumed.

“Hello,” she said to the young girl, watching wistfully from the shade of a tree. “I’m Rebecca.”

“Sheikha,” the young girl said, a little fearfully.

“Yes, Sheikha,” she agreed. “And you? What’s your name?”
She pointed to the girl to help convey her meaning.

“Fatimah,” the girl said quietly.

The security escort walked over, hat in hand, and gave it to Rebecca. She placed it gratefully onto her head, already feeling her skin starting to burn in the dessert sun. As a school teacher, she couldn’t bear the thought of children missing out on an education, and as the afternoon went on, she realised these children must spend a lot of time playing soccer in the courtyard.

The next morning, Rebecca went straight to the
palace library. It was enormous. Almost like a mausoleum, it was so huge and completely devoid of signs of life. Every book looked priceless. Many were lined with gold. After touring aisle after aisle in a state of wonderment, she found the children’s books.

They were mostly in Arabic, though some Western Class
ics were there too. Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl. Lots of wonderful stories. She grabbed as many as she could carry and then headed off towards the courtyard she’d found the children in the day before. “Sheikha,” her security escort called out to get her attention.

She turned and he held out his hands, indicating that he would carry the books. She frowned. Getting used to a life with servants was going to take a while.
He followed two paces behind her, laden with books, as she led the way. The children were all there. As she saw their happy little tribe playing in the morning sun, she let out a small sigh of delight. She hadn’t realised until then how much she’d been wanting to see them again.

“Hello,” she called cheerily, waving to them. In the space of twenty four hours, they’d forgotten they were supposed to be shy around their new Queen. They came bounding up to see her, and clapped delightedly when she held the books out for them to read.

One of the books, the Berenstain Bears had been a favourite of hers as a young girl. She remembered her father reading it to her night after night, twice a night some nights. “Let’s sit,” she said to the children, indicating a circle at the base of the tree. She didn’t see the way the security guard frowned at the sight of Queen of Assan sitting on the ground with grubby little palace children.

She opened the book and pointed to the bear. She said the word Bear in English, and then pointed to the older child, who repeated it in Arabic.

They spent the next hour doing this for the whole book, and then again. When her skin could no longer handle the heat, she went inside, in search of Monique.