Never Refuse a Sheikh Page 10

  There was applause.

  “That must have been very hard.”

  She had no idea. No idea about any of it. No idea that one night, just before his mother had died, she’d told him he wasn’t Tariq’s son. That she’d had an affair with a man she’d met while studying at university. Altair had been seventeen and the revelation had shattered the life he’d known forever. While at the same time, a part of him had been glad. Tariq didn’t understand him, never had, his rules and his emphasis on proper behavior maddening to a young man like Altair.

  Nevertheless for three years he’d kept it secret because he’d promised his mother he’d never tell. But dissatisfaction and a deep yearning for a connection with someone who understood him soon led him to questions about his real father. And a need to find him. Talk to him. His mother had given him a name but, loyal to her memory, he hadn’t followed it up.

  And then as the politics of his country shifted and changed, as unrest began to tighten its grip, the perfect opportunity came.

  His biological father had risen to become the leader of the rebel faction and Sheikh Amir needed someone to negotiate a peace with them. Altair volunteered, grabbing at the chance to meet the man who’d fathered him. Amir hadn’t wanted to choose him—he was far too young, far too passionate to be an effective negotiator—but, unexpectedly, Tariq had argued that it was time for Altair to take on some responsibility. And so he’d been chosen.

  The rebel leader had been a firebrand of social justice, passionate with his beliefs, and Altair, chafing under Tariq’s stern upbringing, thought he’d found at last the missing piece of himself.

  Full of yearning to connect with the man who’d haunted his dreams for three years, Altair revealed to the rebel leader who he was. The man had seemed to welcome him with open arms and after several bottles of wine, Altair had told him everything about himself and his childhood. About his family. About his life as the son of Amir’s closest advisor.

  About the palace and the royal family.

  And then that night the rebel leader took everything that Altair had told him and used it to creep into the palace and slaughter Sheikh Amir and his wife, plunging Al-Harah into civil war.

  Killing Tariq as well.

  Ever since that night, a night he wished so many times he could have over again, he’d pushed his guilt and his grief down to the bottom of his soul. Decided never again to be the man whose unthinking yearning to know who he was had nearly destroyed an entire nation. He would be, instead, the man who fixed it.

  The man Tariq had tried to bring him up to be.

  Safira turned from the applauding crowd and glanced at him, still smiling.

  And he felt again that traitorous part of himself sink its claws deep, that terrible yearning sensation, the heat of intense desire.

  Why now was this so difficult? Why now was it the daughter of the sheikh he’d killed with his actions, who tested his resolve so completely?

  Why had he felt, for one single, shining instant back there in the limo, a sudden, deep yearning to tell her everything? That she would understand?

  Her smile was without self-consciousness or affectation. Honest and generous. And there was heat in it too, whether she meant it to be there or not.

  She was everything he could not allow himself to be.

  She is everything you yearn for.

  His jaw tightened. Yearning was not permitted. It led only to destruction.

  Speeches began, Safira coming to stand beside him, her warm body and her scent threading through his senses, calling to him.

  Dear God, he had to master this somehow, because he had a feeling it was only going to get worse.

  Safira shifted beside him, a tiny, restless movement. One that betrayed her impatience. She was like a flame, always moving, always bright. Hot and constantly shifting. Constantly burning.

  And he wanted to burn with her.

  He cursed silently. No. He needed to control the fire between them, not add fuel to it. Their physical chemistry had to be contained, the heat in it removed. Perhaps if he kept himself away from her until their wedding night, that would work. Distance, that was the key. Then maybe he’d have built up enough resistance to make being with her purely about physical release, nothing more.

  The decision steadied him as the tour of the new hospital followed the speeches. Apart from the little signs of impatience she betrayed, Safira behaved like the queen she would one day be. There was only one doubtful moment when, as they were leaving, one ill-mannered journalist asked her whether she’d heard the rumors about her being a poor choice for queen. And that there were doubts about her even being a Kashgari.

  She paused as the question was thrown at her, frowning.

  It was clear to Altair that the man was only baiting her, wanting a reaction, so he laid a hand on the small of her back and bent his head so his mouth was near her ear. “Do not let him get to you. He only wants to provoke you.”

  There was tension in her muscles, her mouth tight.

  “He is a small man,” Altair continued. “And you are stronger.”

  As if he knew he’d caught her somewhere painful, the journalist added a rude follow-up comment, something about whether a princess could really be a princess having been brought up by desert filth.

  But Safira had clearly listened to him because Altair felt her muscles relax. Then she lifted her chin and swept past, regal as her mother. Whispers of approval and respect followed in her wake, echoing his own.

  So. It seemed his princess was capable of being very royal when she wanted to be, not to mention rather intimidating.

  As the doors closed behind them and they pulled away from the curb, Safira turned to him. “Did you see that? I ignored him. Like he wasn’t even there. That was good, wasn’t it?”

  He nearly smiled at the look of triumph on her face. “Yes, you cut him beautifully.”

  Her eyes glowed with pleasure at the compliment. “He was very annoyed with me. Serves him right.” Her expression changed, turned half-shy. “So …” She shifted again, her thigh pressing along his. “Do you think my performance at the hospital was good? I did not come across as too nervous?”

  His amusement fled as his body, already half roused, woke into full aching life at the warmth of her so close to him.

  Cursing silently, Altair pulled away. “If you were nervous I could not tell.”

  “Oh good.” She didn’t seem to notice his retreat, staring down at her hands on the white leather of her purse. “I wondered if people saw my mother when they looked at me. I wondered if I …”

  “Measured up?”

  She glanced up at him. “Yes, exactly.”

  “You did.” There was no question about it. He remembered the sheikha, a vivacious presence and beloved by her people. She’d been there in Safira, no question. Yet that wasn’t all that had been there. “But you are not only your mother. You have your own strengths.”

  Her passion had been there, shining through. He’d seen it in her smile and in the way she’d held herself. And his people had been drawn to her, no mistake.

  You need her not only for her blood and to give you heirs. You need her in order to connect with your people. Because she has what you do not.

  The truth was undeniable. He knew that although his people respected him, they feared him more than they loved him. And it was this fear that did more to fuel unrest within the country than it did to aid peace.

  But he could not change that. He’d had to be hard, uncompromising and ruthless. Only strength and cold purpose had held the country intact after years of civil war, not the love of the people. Love helped no one.

  Yet now you have peace, you need her to keep it.

  He was starting to think that he did. She had more potential to help him than he’d initially believed.

  Safira’s brow creased. “What strengths?”

  He should not tell her, not after what she’d promised him. Yet he found himself speaking anyway. “You are passio
nate. The people respond to that.”

  The crease between her brows deepened. “I thought that was a flaw.”

  “It is. But it can also be a strength.”

  Her gaze focused suddenly and when she spoke her voice was quiet. “Perhaps I am not the only one who needs to hear that.”

  He stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “I am not the only passionate one.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Yes, sheikh.” She stared at him as if she knew things about him that he didn’t know himself. As if she saw him. Not the man he was now, but the headstrong, stupid boy he’d been. “I think you do.”

  “No, princess. You are wrong.” He let her hear the edge of iron in his voice. Reminding himself as well as her. “Maybe once I was passionate. But it was years ago and I am not that man anymore.”

  And he held her gaze, gave her back nothing but cold, hard granite. Letting her see the truth, that there was no passion inside him anymore.

  Her triumphant glow and dazzling smile slowly faded from her face. “Yes,” she said eventually in a colorless voice, drawing away from him. “I see now I was mistaken.”

  And it felt as if he’d poured water all over a brightly burning fire, leaving nothing behind but smoking ashes.

  He told himself it didn’t matter.

  He told himself all the way back to the palace.

  Chapter Seven

  Safira sat on the stool in front of her dressing table, trying not fidget as the stylist fiddled around with her hair and the makeup artist painted her eyelids with metallic gold eye shadow. But it was difficult, especially with the complex jumble of emotions sitting in her gut.

  She’d tried to speak to Altair a number of times since they’d gotten back from the hospital visit, yet every time she went to his office the door was firmly closed and one of his aides was stationed outside.

  He was not to be disturbed. She should get herself ready for the diplomatic cocktail function that was planned for that evening.

  But she didn’t want to leave it until then. She wanted to discuss this getting to know each other business now.

  Annoyed, frustrated and a little bewildered, she’d gone back to her apartments via the stables, spending an hour with the horses to calm herself before going to wait until the stylist and makeup artist had arrived to get her ready for the function.

  But even the calm from the warm familiarity of the horses was starting to dissipate.

  She didn’t understand why Altair had gone cold in the limo on the way back to the palace. Why he’d casually told her that her passion was a strength, only to shut down when she’d tried to turn it back on him.

  Maybe she’d been too clumsy with it, but then he seemed to shut her down whenever she tried to talk about him. Keeping her at a distance the way he kept everyone else.

  She didn’t know what compelled him to hold her at arm’s length, but one thing was certain—he was lying about the fact that his passion had died long ago and she wanted to find out why.

  If he was going to be her husband, she wanted to know him. And anyway, hadn’t she been open and honest with him? Why was it so difficult for him to return the favor?

  Safira stared at the woman in the mirror.

  You have your own strengths. You are passionate.

  He’d told her that wasn’t always a flaw, that it could be a strength. Perhaps it was time to discover the truth of that statement.

  Tonight there would be some opportunity for them to be in private somewhere, and she would confront him about it then. In her own way.

  The stylist and the makeup artist spent what seemed like hours painting her and intricately braiding and coiling her hair, before putting her into an exquisite gown the bright color of turquoises.

  It was strapless, gathered under the bust before cascading in a long, gauzy fall of sheer silk to her feet.

  Safira liked it, but she refused the necklace of pearls that the stylist wanted her to wear with it. Nothing but the heavy gold choker Altair had given her would do. She didn’t really know how wearing that would change things, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind him of what had happened between them the night he’d given it to her.

  The function itself wasn’t as large as the one where she’d been presented, but it was no less important. She’d been briefed beforehand on all the western company directors that would be attending, Altair trying to allay their fears of civil unrest in order to attract more investors to Al-Harah and its companies.

  She could see the wisdom in that. The visit to the children’s hospital had given her a vision of what Altair was trying to achieve and it was a vision she shared passionately. He was, in many ways, rather like her father. Making sure his people were well cared for and healthy, that there was food and water for all.

  And that when there was trouble, he would defend them. To the death.

  Except, Amir had never been that cold. He’d managed to care for and defend his people, while remaining accessible and approachable. She certainly didn’t remember him being aloof.

  Unlike Altair.

  She’d seen the people’s reaction to him at the hospital. They’d kept their distance from him at the same time as they’d mobbed her.

  No wonder he felt so uneasy on his throne. His people felt uneasy with him.

  She watched him now from her place at the side of the grand receiving room where the function was being held. The room wasn’t as large as the ballroom, but it was famous for the mosaics inlaid in the walls and the ceiling, golds and blues and reds and fragments of mirror. The entire room’s lighting was designed to make the mosaics glitter and shine like a bowl full of colored jewels.

  It was beautiful, one of the few rooms she remembered from her childhood, when she used to creep in at night with a candle, just to make the room glitter.

  Altair was standing in the middle of a group of similarly tuxedo-clad men. He was the tallest one there, radiating his usual aura of cold charisma and granite strength. Tall and lean, and impossibly powerful, impossibly beautiful in black. He was talking and the other men were obviously hanging on his every word. Yet all present kept a distance between themselves and him, as if they were afraid or didn’t want to get too close.

  No wonder. He was proud, intimidating, no warmth in him whatsoever. And he made no effort to bridge the gap. Very similar to the way he had been in the limo on the way back from the hospital.

  Why? What was he hiding? What didn’t he want people to see?

  He hadn’t spoken to her since they’d entered the room together and then it had only been a murmured greeting.

  He’d liked your gown, though.

  Oh yes, he had. She hadn’t missed the flare of heat that had burned in his amber eyes, before it was swiftly and completely masked. He wanted her, there could be no mistaking it. Well, perhaps she could use that. Sayed had taught her to use whatever weapon she had on hand after all. Yet … how?

  Starting to find the noise of the ballroom intrusive and the sound of people’s conversation distracting, Safira put down her wine glass and headed toward the doors of the courtyard that lay beyond. She needed to get out for a moment, get some fresh air and think this through. Consider how to approach him, get the answers she wanted.

  Outside was a lush green garden with a fountain at the center. It was dark, the sky studded with stars, glittering like the mosaics in the room where the party was being held. The night air was heavy with the remains of the day’s heat and the scent of flowers—jasmine, queen of the night, and roses.

  Safira walked down the stairs from the balcony and went slowly over to the fountain to lean against the stone rim, listening to the peaceful sound of the water. Spray was a fine, cool mist on her skin and she let herself enjoy it for a moment. She was still used to the desert and its dry, gritty heat; the sound of flowing water was a delightful novelty.

  Looking down into the water, she could see the reflection of the moon and the stars, so close.
As if she could reach out and touch them. Sometimes she used to sleep out under the bare desert sky and then, too, the stars seemed so near.

  Altair was like those stars. Remote, cool, untouchable. And yet … when she got close … he turned into the blazing desert sun.

  He was passionate, no matter what he said. He was passionate just like her.

  Then that is how you must reach him to get your answers.

  It was, of course, the obvious answer.

  She ran her hand through the cool water of the fountain, the reflection of the stars wavering. She’d never seduced a man before, never even thought about it. Had no idea how to even start. But it couldn’t be any harder than anything else she’d already done. Could it?

  The sound of a footstep came from behind her.

  She turned around, knowing who it would be, the spicy scent of him carrying through the smell of the night-blooming flowers.

  The moon was behind him, turning him into a tall, broad patch of darkness.

  “What are you doing outside, princess?” His voice held polite enquiry, but she could sense the edge of something harder underneath it. “Your absence was noted.”

  Safira leaned back against the stone rim of the fountain, her heartbeat beginning to accelerate. It was one thing to decide to seduce a man. Another thing entirely to actually do it. “I wanted some fresh air.” She paused, trying to see his face in the darkness. “Did you think I’d run away?”

  “You promised me you would behave.”

  She took a breath. “I have decided I need an incentive.”

  “What incentive?”

  “Answers.”

  There was a silence, the soft splashing of the fountain the only sound.

  “Answers to what?” His tone was expressionless.

  His face was in darkness, but she could almost feel the burn of his gaze. It made fear curl inside her. She ignored the feeling. “To you, Altair.”

  Another silence.

  “There will be no answers.” His voice this time was cold. Hard. “And you will keep the questions to yourself.”