Olivia Gates - The Desert Kings

So there was a curse. And something terrible had happened. Zayed had suffered, as did the family. But why? What had happened?

Manar appeared with towels on her arm. “My lady, I’ve drawn your bath. It’s time for you to begin preparing for your wedding. The ceremony is in less than two hours.”

The ceremony was short and simple, neither religious nor sentimental. She and Zayed stood next to each other in the palace reception room for the exchange of vows and rings. It was essentially a civil ceremony with fifteen witnesses, immediate family and a few visiting heads of state, with the rest of the guests to join them later for the luncheon.

Zayed had surprised her with another dress, this one for the wedding. He hadn’t brought it to her personally, but one of the palace staff carried it to her room and it was perfect. The long silver-gray skirt had a fitted matching top with snug three-quarter sleeves. The glamorous yet understated design reminded Rou of Hollywood fashions in the 1940s, and Manar knew exactly what to do with Rou’s hair, twisting and putting it up like a 1940s pinup.

Her only jewelry was her wedding ring and her own simple pearl stud earrings, but it was enough, and now with the service concluding, and the Sarq Minister of Justice giving them the traditional Sarq blessing, it was over.

They were married.

She darted a nervous glance at Zayed as they turned to face their guests. He looked so calm, so strong, and she wondered at his composure in light of what he had said last night.

What was this curse hanging over his head? And what had he done to bring such shame to his family? It must have been significant for palace staff to still gossip about it so many years later.

His gaze caught hers, and he smiled faintly, but there was no time for words as they were being swarmed by Jesslyn and Sharif’s children eager to give their uncle and new aunt hugs and kisses.

The greetings and congratulations continued through lunch. Close to seventy attended, with many international names and faces, including a former American president, an ex-British prime minister, and a host of royal figureheads along with some of the region’s most powerful men, like the Sultan of Baraka, Malik Nuri; Nuri’s younger brother, Kalen; and their friend and neighbor, the desert chieftain, Sheikh Tair.

Sitting at the head table, Rou’s gaze drifted around the room, puzzling a little over the number of powerful men in attendance, men without their wives.

“What’s the matter?” Zayed asked, leaning toward her to whisper in her ear.

“All these men … they’re so famous, and powerful. Aren’t they all heads of state?”

“Most, yes.”

She gave her head a shake. “But why are their wives not here? Why are they here alone?”

“They’ve come for the coronation and the wedding, but the coronation is for men only.” Zayed looked into her eyes. “But you knew that, right?”

“No.” She frowned and then ducked her head. “Am I not allowed to be there, either?”

“No, laeela . I am sorry.”

“Ah.” She looked up, managed a smile. “It’s probably quite boring.”

His gaze held hers. “Sometimes the laws are very archaic. I am sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” But she could see from the sympathy in his eyes that he knew she was disappointed. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be emotional here, not in front of everyone.”

His lips curved, his long black lashes dropping to conceal his deep gold eyes, eyes that always seemed to see too much. “I like your fiery side. When you’re passionate, your eyes blaze and your lips tighten and you become so very righteous. It’s exciting.”

Under the tablecloth she slipped her foot on top of his and pressed down, pinching his foot beneath hers. He let out a little oath and looked at her, surprised, and she lifted her eyebrows. “Let that be a warning. You don’t want to provoke me.”

He grinned, showing off a rare dimple deep in his cheek. “I have a suspicion that you are all ice on the outside, but all fire underneath.”

She opened her mouth to protest but couldn’t, not when he looked into her eyes like that, looking so long, so deep that her pulse leaped and her head swam. No one ever looked at her the way Zayed did. He looked with interest, with curiosity, with hunger.

Hunger.

Her face flooded with warmth, the same warmth coursing through her veins, a tingling that started in her belly and radiated out making her skin sensitive and her nerves dance.

His dark head tipped near hers. “I look forward to when we’re finally alone,” he said, his voice so low that no one could possibly hear but her.

Air caught in her throat. Her fingers curled into her palms, her enormous blue diamond wedding ring heavy and still so new on her hand.

“It won’t be long now,” he added, “an hour at the most. And don’t worry, I will take it slow. There is nothing to fear.”

Embarrassed, she lifted her chin and whispered fiercely, “I’m not afraid. It’s not my first time.”

“You’re not a virgin?”

She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her eyes just as over-bright. “I’m thirty years old.”

His lips tugged, and it appeared as though he were trying very hard not to smile. “I will still take my time. I promise to make it pleasurable for both of us.”

Zayed’s gaze rested on her face, enchanted by the vivid wash of rose in her cheeks. It’d been a long time since he met a woman that blushed.

“You don’t have to drag it out,” she said, lips compressing. “We have a job to do. Let’s just get it done.”

“Is that how you view lovemaking?”

She gave him a sharp look and muttered, “We’re not in love, therefore it’s not lovemaking.”

“Is there a more scientific name you prefer?”

He could see her mind race, considering all the different possibilities, and none of them pleased her. Her mouth compressed even smaller, her chin set. “To call it sex is fine.”

And Zayed, who had so much on his mind, and so much pain in his heart, felt something else in his heart, and it wasn’t sorrow or grief, but a lightness that hadn’t been there in weeks.

My God she was funny. And nervous. And tongue-tied.

And perfect. Perfectly prickly. Perfectly priceless.

An hour later they’d said their goodbyes to their guests and were excused from the after party and now were in Zayed’s wing. His suite of rooms and the furnishings were bold and royal and utterly magnificent. Rou stood in the middle of his living room, noting how his plaster walls were draped with regal tapestries and the low couches and drapes were all rich midnight-blue velvets and silks embroidered with gold.

Turning her head, she saw an open doorway, and through that she glimpsed an enormous bed, this, too, covered in rich blue velvet. She looked away, wishing she hadn’t seen it, knowing exactly what would happen in there in just a matter of time.

“A glass of champagne?” he asked, reaching for a bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket.

She hadn’t had anything to drink at lunch—only half the guests drank due to culture and religion—but a glass of champagne sounded perfect now. It might even take away that terrible bite of nerves. “Please,” she said, pressing a hand to her stomach as if she could quiet the butterflies.

“Do sit,” he said, as he expertly popped the cork.

She looked around for a safe spot to sit and chose the only single chair in the room. Zayed smiled as he noted her choice of seating, which only made her sit taller and straighter on the low velvet chair.

He filled two crystal flutes, carried them to her and handed one over.

“Cheers,” she said quickly, brightly.