Jane Porter - The Desert Kings - Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King

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.

He looked down into her eyes. “To a long and happy marriage.”

She flushed and winced, thinking his toast made hers sound shallow and insincere. “To a long and happy marriage,” she answered more quietly, clinking the rim of her flute to his. The crystal tinged and then she drank, letting the cold, dry champagne bubble across her tongue and fizz all the way down as she swallowed. The cold bubbles brought tears to her eyes and warmth to her middle. “This is good.”

“You don’t usually drink,” he said, taking a seat on the blue velvet couch across from her and stretching his arm along the back. He looked so comfortable, so at ease with himself and life that she felt a burst of envy. Life would be so different if she behaved as he did—owning his space, seizing it, taking as much as life offered. Unlike her, who tried to take as little as possible.

She took another quick sip. “Not much, no.”

“Why?”

“This is your inheritance,” she said, lifting a hand to gesture around the palatial suite. “Mine is a little different.”

His gaze narrowed. “Was it your mother or father who drank?”

“My father.” She felt her cheeks warm. “My mother preferred pills.”

His gaze rested on her flushed face. “Not you?”

“No. I’m an adult child of addicts. I have other issues. Lack of trust. Problems with boundaries. Serious need for control.” Her lips curved, self-mocking. “I’m sure none of this is news to you, though. You’ve spent enough time studying me.”

“You never talk about your parents.”

Her chin lifted. “I just did.”

“Your parents were very famous.”

“And famous for their lack of control.” She took another long sip from her champagne, her flute now half-empty, and then resolutely set the glass on the low table between them.