The Sheik's Angry Bride (6 page)

She covered his mouth with her hand, not wanting to hear him say the word.  She jerked out of his arms and stepped away.  “I’m so relieved that you think just…doing that…” she spat out, “will help me get over my anger at being sold into marriage with you.  But I have news for you, Your Highness,” she said with a sneer, “I don’t like you.  I don’t want to be married to you.  I know that I don’t have a choice, that both of our countries need this marriage, but I’m not going to be that silly little girl that comes to your bed all eager and excited.  No!  I’ll be your wife.  But…”

“Don’t say it, Layla,” he told her, trying to be stern and not chuckle at her anger.  She was just so beautiful when she was spouting off treason like this.  His body hardened even more, aching to show her the wonders of the marriage bed.  Just two more days, he promised himself. 

She huffed angrily, too furious to say anything more.  So instead of giving him a good piece of her mind since her mind had obviously gone somewhere else, she stormed out of his office, slamming the door behind her. 

Garon watched her go, thinking about calling her back and finishing that interlude with a bit more satisfaction.  He eyed his large desk and contemplated all the delights he could show her.  But he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to tamp down the lust that was still rampaging through his own body.  One thing was certain, he said as he let his aide know that they could start the next meeting, his marriage was certainly going to be interesting.  He would never be bored. 

Layla walked back to the suite of rooms she’d been sleeping in, trying hard to tamp down her fury.  She felt like she was going to explode with anger at any moment.  She must have looked it too because the servants took one look at her face and bowed out of the room. 

And that made her even more angry.  She didn’t want people to be afraid of her.  But she was actually afraid of herself right at the moment. 

She pulled on workout clothes and once again, headed for the gym.  After an hour of running, she felt slightly better.  She’d worked off a great deal of her anger and she was ready for whatever came next.  She pressed the end button on the treadmill and grabbed a towel, wiping off the perspiration as her breathing slowed down. 

“You’re late for your final fittings,” her mother snapped as soon as Layla stepped into the suite.

Layla looked at her mother, curious about her life.  “Mother, are you happy?” she asked. 

Her mother sighed.  “Happiness is not important.  What is important is getting to your fittings on time.”  She glanced down at her watch pointedly. “And you have thirty minutes.  There won’t be any time to do your hair and nails, much less your makeup.”

Layla looked down at her nails.  “There’s nothing wrong with my manicure,” she commented but should have kept her mouth shut.

“It is the wrong color!” her mother explained with impatience.

Layla didn’t respond.  She walked into the shower and closed the door, shutting out her mother and her ridiculous notions about life and what was important.  Of course happiness was important.  That was the entire point of being alive.  It was why people worked fifty weeks out of every year just so they could afford a vacation for those other two weeks where they could take off to the forests or camping.  It was why people ate chocolate or drank martinis, why they flew to exotic places to see amazing sight from nature.  And it was why people fell in love. 

Well, she could accomplish all of them but one for her life. 

At least one good thing would come from her wedding. Her mother would fly back to their country with her father.  Of course, that would leave her alone with Garon, but she would eventually figure out a way to deal with him.  Obviously, she’d failed in her efforts today.  She shuddered as she remembered how he’d touched her and kissed her.  That had been wrong on so many levels.   She was a lady.  Ladies simply did not feel things like that for their husbands.  They were basically business partners.  Not lovers. 

She quickly showered and dressed, trying to find something that would be easy to take off and on so that the fitting appointment would be easier and more efficient.  Layla had two more days of relative freedom.  That realization struck her as terrifying.  And really, it was only one more day because she would be wed by the second day.

She pulled on a pink blouse and black slacks along with a pretty pair of flowered shoes.  The buttons on the blouse would help during the fittings so her hair wouldn’t get messed up pulling on and off the dresses, nor would her makeup accidentally come off onto her clothes.  A very important trick her mother had taught her growing up.  Layla couldn’t count the number of hours she’d spent in boutiques trying on one outfit after another while her mother surveyed her figure, examined her complexion in various lights against the color of the outfit and goodness, don’t get her started on the shoe shopping!  Layla would be perfectly happy if she never had to try on another pair of shoes for the rest of her life.  “Shoes are the cornerstone of one’s wardrobe!” her mother would say constantly.  Or even better, “A good pair of shoes is like an underline on a perfectly worded quote.  It brought attention to the positive!”

Layla knew that she was almost a traitor to her gender because of her shoe hatred.  But what was a woman to do?  She’d spent hours, literally hours some weeks, trudging from one shoe store to another, trying to find the perfect shoe for different outfits.  It was almost a religion for her mother. 

But that was the reality for one in the public eye, she supposed.  The press photographed her mother and father constantly and that would be even worse for Layla now that she was going to marry a sheik.  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad though.  Wouldn’t the shoe retailers come to her?  Or even better, wouldn’t she have someone who does all the shopping for her?  Oh, goodness, that would be wonderful! 

She slumped down on a satin covered chair in her suite, her mind whirling with the realization that she would be someone’s wife.  Garon’s wife!  His wife in two days!  That gave her less than forty-eight hours! 

“Layla!” her mother snapped.

Layla jerked out of her reverie and stood up.  Squaring her shoulders, she walked out of her suite and down the long hallway where the designers and seamstresses had been diligently working on the final touches of her new wardrobe. 

“Good morning!” the designer, a lady by the name of Giana, clapped her hands as soon as Layla entered.  “Are you excited?  Only two more days!”

Layla smiled weakly, so overwhelmed by the idea that she couldn’t even work up a fake happy attitude for her nuptials.  “I can hardly believe it,” she lied.  She could believe it.  She could because this was what she’d been raised to do.  What she hadn’t anticipated during all of those lessons on comportment, history and politics, was having a man like Garon for her husband.  Although, really…no one could have prepared her for a man like Garon.  He was…

“Good morning, ladies,” Garon’s deep voice said from the doorway as he strode confidently and arrogantly into the area reserved exclusively for women. 

Layla swung around, her blue eyes wide with horror as she watched him casually enter the dressing area.  Did he care that he was entering a sacred area?  Not in the slightest!  He just walked in as if he owned the place!

Well, she supposed that he actually did own the area.  And the room, the palace and…good grief, one could argue that he owned everything!  Anything he didn’t own, he ruled. 

That didn’t matter right now though.  He should respect this area.  He should respect some small aspects of a woman’s life that needed to remain private!

“What are you doing here?” she demanded as politely as possible despite the fact that her heart had skipped into overdrive as she took in his broad shoulders and his long legs that carried him into the room with an arrogance that was both impressive and astounding.  The calming effects of her run a few hours ago had disappeared and her temper was once again boiling over.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shocked expression on Giana’s face as well as the horror of the other seamstresses.  “You can’t be in here.  You’ll ruin the surprise of my wedding dress!”  They were all too surprised by his presence and not sure how to tell him to get out. 

When she said those words, the ladies looked much more relieved, some of them even nodding their heads as they agreed with her assertion that the wedding finery should be protected until the wedding day. 

“So keep the dress hidden,” he said, walking right up to her.  As he towered over her, she refused to back away.  “I want to see the rest.  I need to make sure that you will be adequately draped in the most beautiful materials once we are wed.”

Layla fisted her hands at her sides, but hid them behind her back so that he couldn’t see how angry he was making her.  “I can assure you that these ladies have been working diligently to ensure that you will not be embarrassed with me by your side.”

He lifted his hand, running a finger down her neck and smiling when she shivered.  “I trust your fashion sense.  But there might be things I want to add.”

Her eyes widened with that declaration and her heart fluttered annoyingly once more.  “I doubt you’ll be disappointed,” she replied, thinking of all those sheer and lacy bits that the designer had already created.  Things she hadn’t objected to before her first meeting with this man.  Now however…

Garon’s hand froze.  “Is that a promise?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words couldn’t come.  Her mind was racing, thinking of all of the sexy clothes Giana had insisted on creating.  When she’d first seen them, she had blushed but knew that they were normal for a wedding trousseau.  Unfortunately, after being around Garon, understanding this crazy sexual need that she was determined to fight, she didn’t want those outfits to come out of their tissue paper wrappings.  She didn’t want to parade around Garon in those things.  He didn’t need any additional enticement!

She opened her mouth to tell him no, that she wouldn’t be keeping those clothes.  But the words wouldn’t come.  Especially when his thumb came up and rubbed gently against her lower lip. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” he told her, a promise in that look that tightened her tummy and caused her breath to hitch in her throat. 

He turned his head and caught sight of a sheer, purple fabric.  He lifted the bolt of fabric up and looked over at her.  “Has this been used for anything?” he asked.

Layla’s mouth dropped open but in shock this time and her body started shivering when he came up behind her.  With one hand he held the end of the fabric but dropped the roll to the floor, draping the sheer material over her figure.  “I would love to see your body draped with this fabric,” he said softly into her ear.  “Would you do that?  For me?”

She opened her mouth, wanting to tell him no, but then his chest shifted against her back and she inhaled sharply, closing her eyes to try and fight that pull, the same pull that had gotten her kissed earlier this morning.  The same pull that had been creating such a furious response in her every time he touched her. 

She suspected that, to the rest of the people in the room, the embrace looked relatively innocent except for the fact that the man was asking for an outfit to be made that would reveal her body to his hungry eyes.  What they didn’t know was that he was pressing himself against her, his body’s response to their conversation obvious to her since it was now pressing against her bottom. 

She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror, didn’t want to see the way he was almost embracing her as he held the purple fabric against her figure, his arms touching her in places that she’d never been touched before.  “There are others in the room, Your Highness,” she said, hoping that would tamp down what he was doing to her. 

Not a chance!  “Everyone out of here.  Now,” he ordered.

The women scurried out of the room.  Mere seconds after he’d issued the command, Layla was alone with Garon, held captive in his arms by the material in front of her and his hard, tall, muscular body behind her. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, biting her lower lip to try and fight him. 

“Why not?” he asked, the hand holding the fabric was now holding her as well, his hands moving across her stomach in a caress that was very far from innocent. 

When his hand moved lower and lower, she waited tensely, wondering what he was going to do.  How far would he dare?  She wasn’t aware of the way her body arched ever so slightly, silently encouraging his bold touch.  Nor was she aware of the way she’d stopped breathing, everything inside of her trying to anticipate what he was going to do. 

She gasped when his hand slipped inside her slacks and she almost fell to the ground when she felt his fingers against the skin of her stomach.  She grabbed his wrist, trying to stop his hand from moving lower but he was stronger than she was.  And when his fingers touched the light hair…and lower…all she could do was stand in his arms with her eyes closed and accept the caress, breathless to feel something more. 

A noise burst through the sensual haze and she jerked back, out of his arms.  She saw the woman with her arms loaded with new fabrics and Layla wasn’t sure who was more startled, herself or the seamstress as she stared at the two other occupants of the room.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered out, stepping back out of the room and closing the door. 

Layla was so horrified by what had almost happened that she swung around, her eyes blazing fire at Garon.  “You….!” She tried to think of something to say that would wipe that confident, triumphant look off of his face.  She was shaking so badly, both from what she’d almost allowed him to do as well as from being caught letting him touch her like that.