Her Royal Protector (a Johari Crown Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) (18 page)

“Ah, that is what I came to tell you,” Arif said. “You are booked into the Gulf Eden spa this afternoon, for a number of…whatever it is spas offer.”

Aly stared at him in amazement. “You booked me treatments at the spa?”

“My mother did. When she heard about our adventures yesterday, she insisted that massage was the answer. When you meet my mother you will understand why I didn’t bother to argue. Anyway, no doubt she is right on this occasion. She asked me to tell you that this is her thank you for saving my life during the storm. Your first appointment—” he looked at his watch, “is in half an hour.”

“Oh,” Aly said, reduced to speechlessness once again.

…

“Right,” said Marlin, in a London accent, his hand tousling her hair with arrogant authority. “What are we doing with this?”

“A trim?” Aly said.

“How can I
trim
this lot?” His fingers lifted up a large lock of hair and he examined the ragged unmatched tips with heavy disapproval. “Who cut your hair, then?”

Maybe there was a TV program called
Brutal Celebrity Cutters
and Marlin had hopes. “I did.”

“She’s having a Full Makeover,” a breathless attendant told him. “She’s going to Roxane next. Sheikh al Najimi’s mother ordered it.”

With the merest flick of his eyebrows, Marlin shifted gear. “Right,” he said again, his fingers pulling up various bits of her hair to examine the hopeless job she had made of it. “Well, this shape is all wrong for your face,” he said diplomatically. Aly laughed. She knew her hair had no shape. “You want something to bring out those cheekbones. Needs to be shorter, and shaped round your head. And you’ve got sun damage—you want a bit of color conditioner to restore that.”

After a punishing shiatsu going-over that had taken all the kinks out of her stressed muscles, and various gentle exfoliation, hot oil, foot reflexology, and other treatments, Aly was feeling lazy and compliant. “Whatever you think.”

Marlin dropped his hands to the back of her chair, drew it back and regally signaled to the breathless assistant. “Use Mediterranean Midnight, and number two conditioner,” he ordered.

…

Aly stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, gazing at herself. Marlin had cut her hair into a cap, freeing the natural curl, shaping it to her head and teasing down two curls to underline the hollows under her cheekbones. Roxane, the makeup artist, had emphasized the slight upward tilt of her eyes, and painted them into shadowed mystery. For the rest, she had been pounded and pummeled and waxed and oiled till she felt like a pampered kitten. He toenails were green and her fingernails French polished.

When she opened the parcels it was clear Princess Shakira had thought of everything, including two sizes of strapless bra and matching lacy knickers. These still bore shop tags, so the Princess had done more than merely raid her own closet, but Aly was now beyond anything but gratitude for such kindness from a stranger. She turned away from the mirror and reached for one of the dresses Princess Shakira had sent her—a shoestring-strap dress in sheer emerald silk georgette, flocked with maroon and shot with gold, the bodice cut narrow to the hips and then blossoming into an airy, diaphanous froth to her ankles. A delicate matching scarf to drape over her elbows. The gold mules were half a size too small, but no problem to wear. The Princess might be an inch or so shorter than herself, but everything fit well enough. A maroon evening bag completed the outfit.

Aly stood staring into the mirror, really looking at herself, and saw a woman she had never let herself see before. No longer thin, plain, flat-chested, she saw a mobile, gamine face, small breasts, slender waist, curving thighs, delicate ankles.
Peri
Suha had said;
pixie, elfin
they had called her today. She would never measure up to Viola’s beauty, but….

Her grandmother. Was it true?

She heaved a breath and sighed it out. It wasn’t the hair, or the makeup, or the dress. What they called in the spa The Makeover had helped to shake her out of her old way of being. But nothing had really changed…except her vision. For the first time, as if she had thrown away distorted glasses, Aly was looking at herself with her own eyes, and not her father’s. And that was a gift beyond measure. Whatever his motives had been, she was indebted to Arif for so much—she could never hope to repay him.

She turned and crossed to the door, put out the light, and went out to the suite’s great room, where Arif was waiting for her.

Chapter Eighteen

He waited by a window looking out over the hibiscus-filled terrace to the lights of the town and the bay. He saw her first reflected in the glass, ethereal, half-imagined, standing on the steps above, and it was as if his own soul beckoned to him. He turned, but his heart so leapt with hunger that for a moment he could not smile.

“How beautiful you are,” he said, drinking in the sight of her as she stood for his approval. The curving mouth, glossy with pink and gold, as if she fed on rose petals and gold dust. Her eyes both shadowed and sparkling with an elfin delight. Her smooth slim shoulders rising out of the dress, just as in his dream.

“Am I beautiful?”

He walked over to the steps and held up his hand. “Don’t you know it?”

“I’m beautiful when you look at me,” she said, coming down the steps into the embrace of his arm.

He bent his head and brushed her lips with a kiss. “Then you are beautiful forever.” Hunger rose up in him; it had been a mistake to kiss her. He struggled for control and lifted his head, looking down into the flower face. His Beloved, his Rose.

“Let us go down,” he said shakily.

…

They were shown to a table hidden by a trellis, on a terrace above the scented gardens, looking out over the sea. Candles on the tables, the mooring lights of the boats below, the tiny flickering glow from distant islands, the full moon in a blacker than black sky, all offered their witchery and enchantment to the night. The scent of jasmine on the air, the sight of Arif in black and white, his blue eyes, his devil’s beard. Their quiet chat about nothing important. It all made for magic.

Then, when he had ordered and they were alone, Arif laid his hand palm upward on the table in invitation. Aly gazed down at it, so strong and sculpted, so bronzed against the white cloth. A burn of anticipation built in her lower spine and flowed up her back to her head, lifting every hair to attention.

“Give me your hand, Aly,” he ordered, his voice rough with need. Her heart choking her, she laid her hand in his. Strong fingers curled over hers from wrist to fingertip, wrapping her in safety. Electric sensation shafted out to ignite her blood. “And look at me.”

A tiny flame was reflected in his eyes. Her gaze was caught and locked to his.

“Why did you run away from me, my heart of hearts?”

Her throat closed. She swallowed but couldn’t speak.

“I don’t believe it was for the reason you told me,” he said, his voice hoarse with feeling she couldn’t read. The hand enclosing hers tightened. “Was it, Aly? Did you so hate the touch of my body?”

She swallowed. “No,” she said. “No.”

His hand clenched almost painfully on hers, and his eyes went black. A wave of pure powerful masculinity pumped over the table. Aly’s heart started to misfire. She
was
afraid. He was so potent, so male, and she was so vulnerable.

“Arif, why did you make love to me?” she whispered.

His eyes narrowed with a look of such passionate intent she felt the burn. “Because wanting you was overwhelming, Aly. I did not understand how inexperienced you were. I should have known. My need blinded me, and that was unforgiveable.”

“Not because you suspected me of treachery and thought that sex was the way to disarm me and learn the truth?”

“Aly.” His jaw clenched, and her heart twisted in sorrow.

“I overheard you,” she said sadly. “I was sleeping in my cabin and your voice woke me. You were talking about Trojan Percy and the Kaljuks. My father’s gold mine scam. You were saying that you knew I wasn’t a risk. Bragging that you had reason to be certain.”

His face was unreadable.

“Is that why you made love to me? To make me talk?”

His other hand reached over the table to cover the hand that he held, and his touch was honey. Hope surged through her.

“No, Beloved,” he said. He closed his eyes and shook his head in self-condemnation. “No.”

“I thought it was all a lie. And after that I didn’t really think, Arif. I just ran.”

“I see,” he said. “Aly—” The look in his eyes now almost suffocated her, and she had to trust that, or nothing was real in the world.

“But that—I think now that that wasn’t the only reason. Was it?” she asked, breathless with her own courage. Two weeks ago she could never have made such an assumption. “You do want me, too.”

“Yes, I want you. I want you now,” Arif said, his voice rough. He heaved a breath. “It was a mistake to start this conversation here. If my mouth were on yours, if my body were inside you you would know the truth. That stupid doubt formed no part of my need, Beloved. None.”

Her belly was hot golden lava. Her heart choked her.

“Arif…” she protested.

“There were a thousand overwhelming reasons why I had to make love to you, Aly, had to have you in my bed, had to bury myself inside you, had to love you. Getting information from you was not one of them.”

If she melted any further they could pick her up with a mop. But she had to know it all. “But I did tell you my secrets, didn’t I? Everything you wanted to know. All about Webson Attary and the false marking.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “But you told me all that
before
we went to bed.”

Aly blinked at him, her mouth open as the magical night of lovemaking formed and reformed in her memory. At last she gave a helpless little laugh. “You’re right. It was Julian we talked about afterwards. How did I get the memory so confused?”

“But let there be always truth between us, my Rose. There was a time when I thought I would take you to my bed for such a reason. It was an excuse, a way to want you without admitting it.”

She could only watch him and listen.

“I have been a fool, Aly. Blind. I wanted to make my life fit a preconceived pattern. But you are my life.” He waited, gazing at her, and she was drowning in blue. “Aren’t you? Tell me that it is so.”

Her heart thundered in her chest. Candlelight caressed all the planes and hollows of his strong, beautiful face. The music was as soft as the night air. A sleepy bird in a tree beyond the terrace queried the light. The scent of jasmine and rose filled her nostrils. And her heart opened into joy.

“Is that what you want?” she whispered.

“That is what I want. Will I succeed, Aly?”

Her throat closed tight with tears, but she could still smile.

…

“Good night, Madame, good night, Excellency,” the maitre d’ said, bowing them out. “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”

For the first time, Aly did not feel invisible or inadequate at such a time. “It was perfect,” she said.

He couldn’t seem to bow low enough.

“Your cover is blown,” Aly observed to Arif when the door had closed behind them.

“Yes, and it has been salutary to see how differently I am treated as a Cup Companion than as mere Jafar Hamrahi,” he replied, leading her along the thickly-flowered outdoor path towards their suite.

Aly laughed. “You didn’t get such a good table the other night?”

“Nor quite such devoted and obsequious service. You were responsible for much of the change, of course. I was not accompanied by a beautiful woman last time.”

“It did seem to be
de rigueur
,” she said, because the room had been full of amazing women, but she was done apologizing. People would just have to take her as they found her, with none of the advance apologies or self-deprecation designed to pre-empt criticism.

They talked as they walked, their voices soft on the perfumed night air, saying nothing and everything, and all the time her heart was beating the rhythm of need, her body liquid with hunger and anticipation.

When he looked at her in the shadows his blue eyes were dark sapphire. Could one drown in sapphires? They were the midnight sea.

And at last they were home. He unlocked the door onto the softly-lighted suite. “I can wait no longer,” Arif said hoarsely, and he turned and his arm tightened around her as he lifted her face for his kiss.

…

Later, as they lay entangled in each other and the sheets, she murmured, “I never even imagined it could be like that.”

Masculine satisfaction made him smile. She had responded like the woman of his dreams, her shy self-consciousness giving way to a wild sensual abandon under his tutelage. Giving and demanding without shame so that he, too, had been swamped and drowned, a pleasure like nothing he had ever experienced. A place he had never been, where he could go only with her. “Like what, my rose?”

Aly lifted herself up on his chest and looked down at him with wide open eyes, and in those grey depths he saw all he would ever ask from life. “Like the storm. Everything threatened and then—coming through alive. Alive, and…” she searched for the word, “…changed.”

He lifted his head to kiss her lips, his hand clasping her head, then sliding possessively down the female curves of neck, shoulder, back, hip, to clasp and press her body. Owning it. “Changed,” he said. “Yes. For me, too.”

She sighed luxuriously, turning over, and his hand found her breast. She arched into his touch like a cat. “Oh, that’s lovely,” she whispered after a moment. “You never did that before.”

He laughed. “Do you expect to exhaust all my talents in one night? We have all the time in the world, Aly. And there will be new pleasures to fill each day.”

He felt her go still. “Arif…” she began, and his heart kicked him hard.

“Have I not understood after all, my rose? Do you object to forever?”

“But…”

“I will not ask you to give up anything, Aly. Of course you will go back to London and your work. We will find a compromise. You want to be here anyway, for part of the year, you told me so. You want to study the language. We can make it work.”

“Arif, are you sure?” he heard the old doubt in her voice.

He bent up over her, his hand clasping her cheek, urgent and possessive. He gazed down into her eyes, searching for the answer he needed.

“I am sure, Beloved. You belong to me as surely as my own name. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you know that we have come home? I love you. Give me an answer, Aly.”

“Yes, oh yes,” she whispered.

…

Later, she said, “I’ve got something to show you,” and struggled up out of arms reluctant to let her go.

Aly went to her own room and snatched up her trip notebook. On the way back she paused in the bathroom, where
now
in the mirror she seemed to see another person—as if Arif’s passionate, soul-stirring lovemaking, and not makeup and hair, had been the real makeover—and returned to where he was now propped up on pillows. The hunger in his eyes went straight to her heart.

“What is it?” he asked, as she lifted the notebook.

She opened and passed it to him, sinking down beside him on the bed.

“This is my general trip diary. I noted down our planned schedule at the outset, you see? Here.” Several pages held a long list of island names, with compass coordinates and dates. A black line was scored through them all. “That was our original plan, Richard and Ellen and I drew that up way back. The next section is the curtailed trip we planned when I was going to go alone.”

She turned the pages and showed him the new, shorter list. “See? Now check out where I would have been yesterday afternoon if I’d been on schedule.”

Arif’s eyes followed her finger down to where it stopped at yesterday’s date. She ran it over to the island name, and felt him go still. “Faatin Island,” he read aloud in a hoarse voice.

“I’d have been there on my own. On
Oneira
,” she whispered. “You saved my life, Arif. If I’d been caught in that storm I’d never have made it through, and if I’d been safe in the harbor when it hit but caught on the beach by those men…” She stopped, because he had flung the notebook aside and reached up to claim her with his arms, with his mouth.

“
Barukhallah.
So close I came to losing you?” He pulled her down into his embrace, his hungry kiss drowning her. “Is it possible?”

“I love you,” she whispered when he lifted his mouth again. “I love you so much. You’ve changed my life. I owe you a debt that I don’t think could ever be repaid.”

“Not true,” he interrupted her, a finger to her lips. “There is a way for this debt to be repaid.”

“What way?” she whispered.

“Your life is now in my keeping, Beloved. Isn’t that what they say? When a life has been saved, it belongs to him who saved it.” His hands stroked her, hungry, urgent, face and breast and thigh. “Isn’t that what it means?”

“Does it?” she asked, half choking with love and desire.

“Tell me it does.” His hands pressed her, and his possessive mouth teased her lips till body and heart were aflame with love. “I love you, Aly.” His voice growled with need, sending heat all through her. “I will love you forever. Tell me you belong to me. Tell me that is what it means.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Arif. That’s what it means.”