Kate Walker - One Desert Night

She drifted through the feasting and celebrations that followed the wedding as if in some sort of delirium, a feeling that was only increased by being hidden behind the concealing curtain of her veils. If she wanted to eat, she would have to slip the food under those curtains in order to reach her mouth.

But the reality was that she couldn’t eat a thing, just pushed the rich, spicy food around on the gold surface of her plate, unable to think of swallowing a morsel. Beside her Nabil sat, his hand resting on the arms of his chair, his long body seeming relaxed in his seat. But this close to him she couldn’t be unaware of the way that those deep, dark eyes watched the room, noting every movement. The wary alertness bothered her.

‘Sire...’

Her voice, dry with apprehension, croaked slightly as the sound pulled his head round, black eyes seeming to sear through the concealing veil and on to her face.

‘My name is Nabil,’ he said softly enough but with an edge to his own name that brought her up sharp. Her eyes drawn to the sudden movement of one long, bronzed hand, she saw how those strong fingers had clenched over the gold fork that lay beside his plate. A plate that he had barely touched either. Suddenly she was stingingly aware of the fact that his given name was one so very few people had the right to use. In his position as the head of government, the ruler of Rhastaan, he was the Sheikh, the King, His Highness—but how few people could call him just Nabil .

And suddenly, from the mists of bitter memory, she had an unwanted recollection of the shocking scenes played out on the televisions sets of the country ten years before. In the deafening silence of the aftermath of the assassination attempt, Nabil, his own face marked with the blood of the glancing wound he had suffered, had bent over the fallen body of Sharmila, his pregnant Queen. As he’d lowered his head to hers, it had been possible to see how her lips had moved to silently form one word: Nabil.

‘N-Nabil...’ she tried hesitantly, wanting to reach out and touch her fingers to that hand so tightly clamped around his fork. But it seemed as if a force field of distance, of rejection, shimmered around him, and instead she clenched her own hands in her lap, fearful of shattering the atmosphere with a dangerous move.

Nabil made his fingers ease their hold on the fork he held. Now was not the time to think of how many years it had been since he had heard a woman—other than Clementina—use his name in that way. Nor to recognise how those damned veils muffled everything about her voice so that it could come from any female, old or young. It seemed so strange that the only image he had of the woman who was now his wife was the image of her as a girl that had pushed him into a decision that might just turn out to be as foolish and rash as the one that had made him take Sharmila as his first wife. But at least this decision had been made with his head, not the rush of desire and loneliness that had pushed him into Sharmila’s arms.

Or the one that had had him actually considering taking Aziza’s sister’s maid to bed.

Damn it, no! He had let Zia creep into his mind at exactly the point he should not be thinking of her. His focus should be on his bride—on Aziza.

An Aziza who was obviously no longer a child. She had blossomed—physically at least. That slender body was still all woman, high, firm breasts and gently curving hips, but her face was totally concealed behind the veils that tradition demanded, frustrating any attempt to actually see what she looked like. He knew her sister was the reputed beauty but surely Aziza couldn’t have lost all the angelic prettiness that he remembered? All those years ago, she had been the one who had treated him like a person, not as a potential king, marked out by the role that was all Jamalia and her parents seemed to see. She had giggled when he’d spotted her stealing sweetmeats, pressed a finger to her lips to warn him not to betray her. And that smile...

Silently Nabil cursed the tradition of the golden bridal veil. If only he could see through that damned gauze—see his wife!

Burning with frustration, he gave up trying to penetrate the material that concealed Aziza’s face and let his gaze drop abruptly to look down at her still full dish.

‘You are not eating.’

To Aziza’s ears it sounded like an accusation, a reproof.

‘I—I’m not hungry.’

To her amazement a corner of Nabil’s mouth quirked up into a sudden and unexpected smile at her response.

‘That is not like the Aziza I remember.’

‘You—remember?’ It hit her hard in her stomach, her mind reeling in shock to think that he recalled her at all.

‘You stole the candied fruits from the table,’ he told her. ‘I remember wondering how you could get away with that when you were barely tall enough to see over the top of it.’

‘I took them for my nurse!’ Aziza answered sharply, discomforted at the thought that he recalled her as only a greedy little girl. She wanted him to think of her as a woman. The woman he had chosen. The woman he wanted.

‘Of course you did.’

When he laughed like that she felt that she might melt, slipping from her chair to lie in a pool at his feet. It seemed impossible to believe that this gorgeous, sexy male could be interested in her at all. And yet he’d had the chance to marry her sister...

Realisation was like a shock to her heart, snatching away her breath so that she was grateful for the fact that the veil hid so much from those burning black eyes. If he had seen her and Jamalia together, then he must know that she was the Zia who had claimed to be only his sister’s maid. He’d seen her, recognised her and still chosen her. It made her head spin to think of it and more than ever before she cursed the masking of the veil that meant she had no hope of reading what was really in those glittering dark eyes.

‘Do you still like sweetmeats?’

A change had come over Nabil’s voice. It had deepened, taking on a husky edge, and those dark eyes were searching the table, looking for something. A moment later he was leaning forward, waving away the attentions of the servant as he pulled a polished dish of sugar-coated grapes and dates towards him. Picking up a luscious-looking grape, he held it out towards her temptingly.

‘Try this.’

It wasn’t the sweet treat that was tempting, Aziza reflected as she felt the noise and the colour of her surroundings fade away until there was just her and Nabil and the glistening green of the fruit between them. Her mouth was watering but not with the need to taste the fruit.

‘Here...’

Before she was aware of what he had planned, he had leaned closer, using his free hand to lift the side of the veil and slipping his fingers in to lift the grape to her mouth, pressing it softly against her lips.

‘Taste.’

She couldn’t do anything but respond as he said. Her eyes fixed on him through the veil, she let her mouth fall open, took in the grape and bit into it. Fresh, crisp juice flooded her mouth, contrasting with the delicate dusting of spiced sugar.

‘Good?’

Aziza could only pray that he would catch the tiny nod of her head that was all she was capable of. Savouring the delicate mouthful, she chewed slowly, swallowed and immediately wished for...

‘More?’ He seemed to be able to read her mind, moving the remainder of the grape so that it rested against her mouth.

Nabil could feel her soft skin, the warmth of her breath on the fingers that held the grape, but he wished to hell that he could see her face and know exactly who he had married.

She was nothing but a blur behind the damned veil. Dark hair, dark pools of eyes. But then those were what he recalled from the hazy memories of all those years ago. She had to have changed...