Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (49 page)

To my great relief, Nijad has been persuaded that his excellent military leaders can be left alone to lead the troops stationed in the desert, rather than him continuing his hands-on role. He’ll still retain a strategic role, but won’t be putting his life on the line on a daily basis.

In a surprise move, the emir has insisted on inviting Sheikh Asad of Alair to the wedding. It seems they have unexpectedly cultivated a friendship during negotiations for the joint venture to drill for oil. But the fact his three sons have also been invited has caused some amusement, and not a little concern. Jasim put his head in his hands when he heard, asking loudly, “Will that man never learn?” Then he walked off, mumbling something about Aiza. Nijad just laughed; he’s certain his sister will be more than a match for his father if he tries to force her hand.

And Hunter,
dear
Hunter. It has been a rough ride but, at last, he’s been accepted in the role of ‘family friend’. Though, at first, he’d taken his brother-like role to the extreme. He quizzed Nijad until he assured himself my desert prince was the right man for me, showing his fierce possessiveness of his long-time friend; as protective as he’d been walking me home from school all those years ago. Nijad hadn’t taken to him at first, being wary of the man who seems to think he can hug me whenever he wishes. He’s growled at him more than once, I recall, smiling. But the men had come to accept that they both have roles in my life. And Hunter’s next role is to give me away.

Three days before the wedding Aiza arrives and we click in person at once, as I’d been sure we would from our virtual meetings. I love her sense of humour, her caricatures of her teachers in Switzerland and, probably sufficient to warrant charges of treason, impressions of her father, the emir. She has the poise and confidence to be expected of a princess, and I find myself wishing some of it would rub off on me.

Tonight there’s an informal family dinner to welcome her home. Sitting at the huge table in the ornate dining room, I feel a warm buzz coming over me. Glancing first at my husband, I then look round at Kadar, Jasim, Aiza and the emir. I’m content to be quiet for now, listening to them talking. The emir and Kadar are struggling to keep their dignity while the younger family members joke and laugh. The two serious men are most definitely the butt of several pointed remarks and I find I’m hard-pressed to suppress a smile. As Nijad turns and lifts my hand for a kiss, we accept the witticisms and wisecracks directed towards us, and I finally feel like I fit in. Stripped of the fancy environment and incalculable riches all around, this is like any other family, and exactly what I’d always longed for, but never thought I’d have. As a comment reaches my ears, something about trying to access someone’s Facebook account, I realise that they’re including me in their conversation and fun. I respond to the light-hearted comment with mock seriousness about privacy laws. Jasim and Nijad fall about laughing as I pretend to be affronted at the suggestion that I’d ever do anything illegal. It’s a good evening.

With so much to do, time starts going faster and faster as the wedding approaches, and the actual day dawns almost before I realise it. And most definitely before I feel ready. Although we’ve been technically married for weeks, we observe Western tradition and spend the night before the formal ceremony apart.

I wake feeling nervous, and preparations for the day start early. I’m bathed, washed, oiled, massaged and pampered. As I try to relax, I think back to the first time I had been prepared for my sheikh, and how different
things are now. Every oil rubbed in, every potion applied, makes me think of how Nijad will appreciate my soft skin. My only apprehension about this day relates to my anxiety about being in front of strangers. There’ll be bloody hundreds of people there today. I fight to regain my confidence and try to concentrate not on the day, but on the night ahead. Successful, I find my fear receding as anticipation runs like heat through my veins.

The wedding itself is a combination of East and West. I’ve chosen a cream wedding dress. My expanding figure means the sheath style I would have preferred has been rejected in favour of one with an empire waistline: a full satin skirt, hiding a multitude of sins, cascades from under my breasts. I have a long train made of silk and lace, and real Amahadian diamonds have been sewn in patterns on to the bodice and hem of the dress, and around the cuffs of the sleeves as well as dotted all over the gown. I’m literally wearing a king’s ransom which perhaps, on its own, justifies the extra guards who’ve been employed to provide protection today.

On a sombre note, there are rumours that Abdul-Muhsi is trying to unite dissidents against the Crown in the southern desert, which provides the primary reason for the increased security. To bolster Amahad’s own security staff, some people are also in attendance from Grade A Security. The senior partners will attend as guests and others will be patrolling the banqueting hall when the reception gets going later on. Another is taking up a sniper position outside. One person hasn’t responded to our invitation: we are still waiting to see whether Jon Tharpe, Nijad’s best friend and former bodyguard, will attend.

Walking towards the room which has been prepared for the ceremony, I feel butterflies in my stomach. The closer I draw to the state rooms the more nervous I become. I just wish this wedding could have been as simple as my first! As I hang on to Hunter’s arm, he covers my hand with his in a gesture of support. I don’t need to explain to him how I’m feeling. But I know he’ll be proud of me today; only a few months ago I wouldn’t have been able to enter an English pub!

Shit! I wait for the signal, suddenly understanding I’m about to walk down the aisle in full sight of strangers, and will be expected to speak my vows in front of them. Hunter encourages me as if feeling the hesitancy in my steps, instructing me to focus on Nijad, who’s waiting for me at the altar. And when I do, I have eyes for nothing else. He’s wearing a traditional short tunic and trousers, a ceremonial, but nevertheless wicked-looking, scimitar in his belt, all enveloped by a deep maroon outer robe embroidered in gold thread. His headdress is white, showing off his olive skin to perfection, and around it is a golden agal. But it’s the look of amazement and disbelief on his face, together with the sincere, warm smile of approval that reaches from his mouth to his eyes, that keeps me moving towards him.

When I reach him, his breath touches my ear as he whispers, “You’re absolutely fucking beautiful. I’m the luckiest man in the world.” Then, even more softly and irreverently, he adds, “And I can’t fucking wait to get you out of that dress, however lovely you look in it.”

His impudence relaxes me, and to my great relief the ceremony passes without mishap, my voice sounding clear and loud despite my body shaking with nerves.

The receiving line is long; so many people offering congratulations on this, our formal marriage celebration. As I recognise heads of state, prime ministers and film stars standing waiting to shake our hands, I’m overcome with anxiety. I hadn’t realised there would be so many people here. To my absolute horror, I recognise the signs of an impending panic attack: my palms become sweaty, my breathing fast and erratic, and my head starts to swim. It is too much, it’s crushing me. I have to get away, I have to run…

Squeezing my hand tightly, Nijad bends his head to mine. “You know, I’m trying to decide whether to take your pussy or try your arse tonight.”

I choke and splutter, and then glance up to find him grinning at his joke. Worried, I quickly turn back to make sure the British prime minister, who happens to be next in line to offer his congratulations, hasn’t heard what my husband just said to me. As Nijad pats me on the back to relieve my apparent coughing fit, I find my stress has miraculously disappeared, and I’ve managed to get sufficient grip on myself to speak to the leader of my own country without making an ass of myself. The next time I shiver, it’s in anticipation of the wedding night ahead. What has my husband, my Dom, my Master, got planned?
He knows I’m not ready for that yet, doesn’t he?

Food and drink flow freely, but I know I’m not going to be able to remember anything that’s served. In fact, I barely eat anything at all. Nijad never leaves my side, and I’m grateful for his support and encouragement as I hold conversations with people, some of whom I’ve only ever seen on television before. It’s hard not to get star-struck. I also make sure I give equal time to the tribal leaders who have attended, trying hard not to remember that not so long ago they would have been pleased to see my head separated from my body! I please Sheikh Rais by addressing him and holding a short conversation in Arabic, and am happy to overhear his comment to Nijad that I will make a great ambassador for Amahad. How things have changed for me. I’ve certainly come a long way from my reclusive former lifestyle!

The party seems to go on for hours, but while I’m chafing at the bit to be alone with my husband, I recognise there are traditions and protocols to follow. At long last I find myself beside the emir.

“You have done well, Princess. I had concerns you would not cope.”

I can’t quite understand whether the emir is praising me, or telling me of his relief that I hadn’t embarrassed him, but I decide to take it as a positive remark, so bow my head gratefully.

He’s looking at me carefully. “I never thought we’d have a hacker in the family, but Kadar tells me we should be grateful you are on our side.”

The emir unnerves me. I never know what to make of him, and am overawed by the amount of power he holds. I don’t know how to treat his remark. I think he was trying to make a joke but don’t laugh in case I’ve read it wrong. So I simply nod in acknowledgement, and then manage to catch Nijad’s eye. He grins and comes to my rescue, excusing us from his father.

We make a circuit of the room and pause to talk to Aiza. Her attention is distracted as she watches the dancers on the floor pairing up. The reason for her lack of attention becomes evident when a handsome-looking man comes over to us. He nods politely but addresses Nijad’s sister. Bowing extra low, he holds out his hand.

“Princess, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Prince Rami of Alair. Would you give me the great pleasure of allowing me this dance?”

It makes me smile when she accepts. I wonder whether this is a set-up by the emir but, either way, she’s been ensconced with family most of the night and she deserves to have some fun. And Rami is certainly a good-looking man. I watch as he takes her hand and leads her to the dance floor, quickly sweeping her up into his arms, and they start to sway to the music.

Observing them, I happen to catch a glimpse of Hunter across the room. I raise my hand to wave at him when I realise his attention isn’t on me at all. With narrowed eyes he’s closely watching Aiza and Prince Rami dance. What the heck is that about? Then I have to smother a laugh as I see Sheikh Rais also glaring at the dancing couple.
Hmm, something to watch, methinks
. Prince Rami is going to have a run for his money. This could be interesting to watch pan out.

As I’m wondering whether it’s time to make our escape, not least because the close presence of Nijad is having a decided effect on my nether, Kadar comes up to us, and shakes his brother’s hand.

“She’s well liked. She’ll be an asset to the family.” There’s no need to explain who he is discussing. I want to shout,
Hello-ooo, I’m right here!
Sometimes it sucks to be so short.

The emir has also joined us. Unfortunately even my high heels can’t compensate sufficiently for my lack of height while standing between three such tall men, and they have a personal conversation above my head, ignoring me entirely.

“Cara works a room well.” This from the emir. “Everyone I’ve spoken to likes her.”

“Just what I was saying,” Kadar agrees.

“And you told me kidnapping a British citizen was a mistake!”

The emir’s statement amuses me, but it doesn’t detract from my desire to sink my stiletto heel into his foot.
I’m here!

“This time.” Kadar doesn’t seem to like his father being smug. “It’s not something I’d ever like to attempt again.”

Relegated to the role of eavesdropper, I can only listen as they continue to speak. “And you, my son … I’d like to see you married and settled.”

Glancing up, I see the gleam that appears in his father’s eyes. He looks like he’s plotting.

“Leave me alone,” Kadar growls. “I’ll find my own wife in my own time.”

The emir merely stares at him. At that moment Jasim walks past us, lost in his thoughts, disinterested in the revels still going on around. Rushdi eyes him thoughtfully. “And what about Jasim?” he asks his oldest son.

“Jasim is restless,” Kadar agrees. “He needs some time in Europe.”

The emir inclines his head in agreement.

Nijad pulls me away to an alcove where we are out of sight. He gazes at me intently. “What do you want, Cara?”

I put my head on one side, unsure what he’s asking me. For him to take me to bed is currently top of my list.

“We can live in London – or New York, perhaps. Anywhere you want. But perhaps not Paris.”

“I thought you were needed here?”

He shrugs. “I am, but I want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy here. I’m happy where you are.” To emphasise my words I give him a kiss. His sigh of relief tells me it was the right answer.

“Jon is here. I spoke to him while you were with my father.”