The Sultan's Harem Bride (13 page)

‘Samira said you disagreed.’

Jacqui shrugged. ‘He could have reassessed the situation when Samira felt better.’

‘So you came up with tonight’s scenario.’

‘Samira and I did together. As I said, she’s stronger than you think.’

He nodded. ‘She is. Between you, you’ve turned the secret of her isolation on its head. The press think she’s spent her time working on what will be a stunning formal fashion collection. They’re slavering for more. That sort of interest could be a springboard to a successful career.’

Jacqui smiled, relieved that he could see the positives in what they’d done. ‘She’s talented enough to do it too.’

‘I can’t thank you enough, Jacqueline.’ His voice dipped to a low note that never failed to do funny things to her insides. ‘You’ve been a true friend to Samira and my grandmother. You’ve given them both something they needed at a very difficult time in their lives.’

His intensity made her skin prickle and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

‘It was only—’

Asim raised his hand. ‘It wasn’t
only
anything. When you arrived here I expected trouble and instead you’ve done my family considerable service. A service that deserved far more than my distrust.’ He drew a slow breath. ‘If there’s anything I can do to make amends, you must tell me. We owe you so much.
I
owe you.’

Words trembled on her tongue. Hungry, eager words that would reveal how much she wanted from him.

Jacqui firmed her lips rather than blurt them out. She hugged her knees. She’d experienced so much with Asim, more than she’d ever expected, and still she wanted more. The depth of her neediness scared her. Was there no end to it?

Better to keep her distance. After all, though he’d apologised, he’d made no move to close the gap between them. Wasn’t it safer that way?

Yet she couldn’t staunch the slow bleed of hope and happiness. She wanted to be held and caressed and treasured.

The realisation almost stopped the air in her lungs. She’d begun to want too much.

‘There’s nothing I need,’ she said briskly. ‘Except to finish my research.’ Turning from his searching gaze, she looked towards the rising sun, a glimmer on the horizon. ‘I plan to visit the Asada oasis before I leave Jazeer. It used to be a favourite with the royal harem ladies and I want to take photos.’

The idea of leaving was like a physical blow. Her time in the palace had passed too quickly. She’d lived from day to day, not daring to think ahead, throwing herself into her project and immersing herself in the wonder that was her affair with Asim. Each day had been a revelation to a woman who’d thought never to smile again.

But her time was up. Regret shivered down her backbone.

Even if Asim’s distrust hadn’t shattered her illusory peace, the realisation of her vulnerability to him would have.

‘We can do better than that. I’ll take you to the oasis and you can stay in the royal pavilion there. It’s rarely used, but I guarantee you’ll love the old rooms.’ His tender smile made Jacqui’s stomach dip. She almost cried out at the sense of loss engulfing her.

It was one thing to know their affair was over. It was another to find the courage to move on. She couldn’t seem to switch off her feelings.

‘Thank you, but I couldn’t impose.’

‘Don’t treat me like a stranger, Jacqueline.’ His smile died, his voice turning harsh.

Why she fidgeted under his gaze, she didn’t know. He was the one who’d been at fault, not her.

But he was trying to make amends, wasn’t he?

The trouble was she wanted more than access to royal buildings from Asim. Much more.

She wanted his arms around her in the night when she woke from a nightmare. She wanted that gleam in his eyes as they made small talk at some official reception, promising delicious intimacies to come. She even wanted to debate politics with him! Spending a tranquil hour chatting with Asim at the end of the day had become one of her greatest pleasures.

Now she felt bereft.

It struck her how rootless she was. For years she’d had no real home. Visits to family were short and infrequent and her flat was a spartan place she didn’t miss. She’d felt more at home in Asim’s palace than she could remember feeling any time in the last eighteen years.

What did that say about her life?

* * *

Asim tossed a piece of wood onto the fire, watched the sparks flash and heard the greedy hiss as flames took hold. In the flare of light Jacqueline’s face was pensive, almost sad.

His gut twisted. He needed her smile, her gurgle of throaty laughter, the flash of animation in her sultry, amber eyes.

He needed
her
.

The realisation was stark and undeniable.

He needed her as he’d needed no other woman.

That made a mockery of his attempts to negotiate a compromise.

He didn’t want compromise! He wanted Jacqueline.

It was only now he’d lost her that he understood how important she was.

Asim frowned. He couldn’t recall another lover having had such an impact. He chose his women for their beauty and good humour, for intelligence and sophistication. For their ability to please.

Jacqueline Fletcher was just a little too sharp and questioning, a little too unpolished. Yet she charmed his family, his courtiers and guests, and she charmed him. Her passion was instinctive rather than subtle, honest rather than practised. He liked her mind, her inquisitiveness, even her damned independence.

Even after tonight’s fiasco the link between them was strong. The sizzle of passion hadn’t faded, though inevitably it must. He’d known enough women to understand that. Besides, nothing that burnt so bright could last indefinitely.

Yet Asim acknowledged with a flash of disturbing insight that he’d never be content to part from Jacqueline till this ardour faded.

He didn’t want other women. He’d even let his bridal search stall, distracted by her.

Giving her up wasn’t an option. Not yet.

He had to win back her trust.

Asim drew in a slow breath and faced the unpalatable fact he’d been avoiding. Jacqueline wouldn’t be won over by platitudes and a trite apology. She needed to know the whole truth.

She deserved to know it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Y
OU
BELIEVE
ME
to be
overprotective.’

Beyond the flames Asim saw Jacqueline shrug but she said nothing.

He unknotted his hands and flexed his fingers. When that reporter had pumped Jacqueline about Samira, Asim had come within an inch of decking him. Hot fury surged and the need for violence had twanged every taut sinew. As if the man he’d spent a lifetime moulding himself into—honourable, thoughtful and judicious—was a sham.

As if he’d reverted to the unbridled, unthinking emotion that had been his parents’ hallmark.

His sudden lust for blood, his desire to wrap his fingers around the reporter’s throat, had made a mockery of everything he’d striven to be. Distaste filled his mouth.

‘You know my parents had a troubled marriage.’

Jacqueline lifted her head as if startled at the direction of the conversation. Slowly she nodded.

‘My earliest memory is the sound of fighting. Not physically,’ he added quickly when he read her expression, ‘Though there were lots of breakages. Ornaments and mirrors didn’t last long in the royal apartments.’

Asim paused, remembering. ‘I used to lie in bed, listening to the rhythm of the arguments. I became expert at reading the progress of a fight. I’d tell myself it would be over soon, when my parents kissed and made up, or temporarily separated.’

He shook his head. Amazing how some memories stayed fresh. His parents had soured his view of marriage and taught him that so-called love was a curse to be avoided at all costs. Was it any wonder he’d been in no hurry to find a bride? Shackling himself to a life partner, even in a carefully arranged transaction devoid of romance, was a step he’d put off for years.

‘I protected Samira as much as I could.’

‘They hurt her?’ Horror edged Jacqueline’s voice.

‘Not intentionally. But she suffered. One minute she was petted and fussed over, and the next they were too busy screaming at each other to notice her. The poor kid never knew what to expect from day to day.’

‘Nor did you.’

He blinked. Was Jacqueline taking his part?

‘I was older. I’d learned to cope. But for a long time Samira thought she was to blame for their unhappiness, or when one of them stalked out and wasn’t seen for weeks. She had nightmares for years, night terrors, they called them. I used to sit with her and try to keep her safe.’

‘Surely you had a nanny or someone to look after you?’

Asim smiled humourlessly. ‘We had plenty, but they never lasted. Either my mother sacked them because she believed they were seducing our father, or he sacked them because he believed they were spying for her.’

Asim rolled his shoulders.

‘The details don’t matter. I just wanted you to understand that Samira has always been vulnerable. She was caught in the middle of our parents’ wrangling and she was distressed by it.

‘They were never happy for long and when they were apart they spent their energy trying to best the other. Eventually my mother decided to use Samira to help her cause.’ Asim breathed deep, ploughing his hand through his hair. He hated thinking of his parents.

‘I found her being quizzed by a “friend” of our mother. The woman was a journalist and she put words into Samira’s mouth, twisting innocent statements into appalling accusations about our father. Samira was thirteen and distraught, trying to set the record straight and horrified at the way everything she said was distorted.’

‘That’s awful! No wonder you don’t like reporters.’

Asim permitted himself a tiny smile. ‘Some more than others. I’ve learnt they’re not all tarred with the same brush.’

Jacqueline’s eyes met his and heat punched low in his belly. ‘What happened?’

‘Our father stopped the story, but years later rumours circulated. It was too late to worry about them. Our parents died suddenly in an accident and I had more urgent things to worry about than sourcing lies in gossip columns.’ Accession to the sultanate at twenty-five, in a country damaged by his father’s ineffectual rule, had been no picnic.

‘The point is Samira blamed herself.’

‘She was just a child! No decent journalist—’

Asim lifted his hand. ‘I know. But ever since then she’s had a horror of dealing with the press.’

‘That was why she was adamant about me being interviewed tonight instead of her.’ Jacqueline nodded slowly. ‘She said she usually managed with a smile and a “no comment”.’

‘That worked until Jackson Brent.’ Asim watched his hands clench into fists. This time he felt no remorse at the tide of loathing that filled him. If he didn’t know it would make things worse for his little sister, he’d enjoy taking the actor apart with his bare hands.

‘A smile and no comment is probably the best thing she could have done,’ Jacqueline said. ‘It lifted her above the rest of the players in that little drama. It showed she has class and integrity. She won a lot of sympathy.’

‘She shouldn’t have to win public sympathy!’ The words slid out between gritted teeth.

‘I know, Asim. I understand.’

He met Jacqueline’s eyes over the fire and there it was again, that arc of energy, that link between them, as real as if she’d touched him. He read her regret and somehow it calmed him.

‘What you don’t know is the full story. I spoke to Samira before I came here and she agreed to me telling you.’ He’d hated even asking.

‘I know enough.’ Jacqueline frowned. ‘Her boyfriend, her lover...’ she paused on the word and Asim wondered what she was thinking ‘...had an affair with his married co-star. Her husband caught them and is dragging his wife through an acrimonious divorce. Now the press are dragging up every detail of both their marriage and the relationship between Samira and Jackson Brent.’ She spread her hands. ‘Since Samira is gorgeous and talented, plus she’s a princess with wealth and an exotic background, it’s not surprising the press want her story.’

Asim inhaled slowly, a familiar weight crushing his chest. ‘But what they don’t know, what they must never know, is that Samira was pregnant at the time.’

‘Oh, Asim!’ Jacqueline’s eyes bulged, her face a mask of horror. ‘She didn’t...?’

He nodded, his gut clenching as he remembered his sister, parchment-white and dazed, her face marred by the salt tracks of tears, lying beneath a starched sheet, a nurse hovering. ‘She miscarried just after she arrived here. Whether from the stress or whether it was going to happen anyway, no one could say.’

Asim had never felt so helpless, so utterly useless, in his whole life.

‘I’d always done my best to look out for her. It went against every instinct to do nothing when she hooked up with Brent. But I told myself she had to grow up some time. She had to make her way in the world.’ He dropped his head, torn between shame that he hadn’t done better by Samira and frustration that she’d made him promise not to exact revenge on Brent.

‘I wasn’t much of a protector. All I could do was look after her till she recuperated and give her privacy.’ The feeling that the world had spun out of his control, that there was nothing he could do for someone he cared for, wasn’t one he ever wanted to experience again.

‘You did the best you could. You did all anyone could.’ Supple fingers closed around his fist and a jolt of power sizzled through him. Jacqueline had moved to sit beside him, he realised. Her arm was across his, her slim frame warming his side.

Asim clamped his other hand over hers, unwilling to let her slip away again. He didn’t try to understand how her touch, her sympathy, could ease his turmoil. He simply accepted that they did.

He breathed deep, drawing in the scents of sand and warm, sweet woman, and felt that terrible roiling in his stomach quieten down.

‘You were right, Asim. You had to let her go. She’s not a child.’

He stared at their joined hands. They looked so
right
.

‘Samira was so fragile, so distraught, we feared she might have a complete breakdown. The one thing I knew was she had to be kept safe from the press.’

‘And then I turned up, bearding the dragon in his den. No wonder you hated the idea of me staying in the palace.’ She squeezed his hand and, despite everything, Asim’s mouth turned up at the corners.

‘I’ve been called many things but never a dragon.’

‘Really?’ He caught a lighter note in her voice. ‘But it’s so apt. You’re very fierce and proud, and handsome, in a dangerous sort of way.’

Asim huffed humourlessly. ‘Don’t forget fire-breathing.’ His hold on her tightened. ‘Jacqueline, I’m ashamed of how I reacted tonight. I saw you with that reporter and I lost it. I should have known better.’

Jacqui felt the ripple of tension through Asim’s broad shoulder and arm. Regret laced his voice as he squeezed her hand and she felt the last of her fury fade.

She’d been hurt, unbelievably hurt, but now she understood what had driven Asim and why he’d overreacted.

‘I’m not surprised you lost it,’ she murmured eventually. ‘Tonight pressed every one of your hot buttons: your fears for Samira, your need to protect her, your distrust of the press. Even down to the idea of a female journalist taking advantage of her.’ It all made a skewed sort of logic.

‘But you didn’t deserve that tirade. You put yourself out for my sister.’

Jacqui shrugged. ‘She’s a good friend.’ Amazingly, after just weeks, it was the truth. They had clicked in a way Jacqui never had with another woman. In the past she’d kept to herself, focusing on work, the part of her life where she felt competent, where she
fitted
. Her friendships had been limited to colleagues and her job meant she was often moving on. Only Imran had been a constant, keeping in touch even when they weren’t working together.

‘So I understand now.’ He paused. When he spoke again his voice was gruff. ‘What you did for her—not just managing the press, but posing with her model friends to show off her designs for the cameras—that took real guts.’

Asim was right. Being photographed with a bevy of beauties had tested her. It was one thing to bask in Asim’s assurances, quite another to parade for the press. Only knowing how much it meant to her friend had kept her there. Samira’s need was greater than hers.

‘Then there were the fireworks.’ Asim shifted and she looked up to see his eyes fixed on her. ‘How did you manage? You hate loud noises.’

Jacqui lifted her shoulders, arrested by the gleam of warmth in that look. Heat trickled through her where just a short time ago there’d been an arctic chill.

‘I don’t know. The first bang nearly had me on the ground, till I realised everyone was looking up and smiling. After that it was easier.’ No point admitting every eruption of sound had jarred through her like the crack of doom.

‘You’re a remarkable woman, Jacqueline Fletcher.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘All I did was help Samira choose how to face the public. She just needed a positive angle.’

Asim shook his head. ‘Don’t downplay it. I know your demons.’ His thumb stroked her wrist. ‘I’ve seen the nightmares and I’ve watched you break into a cold sweat at a sudden loud noise.’

Jacqui squirmed, trying to move away, but he wouldn’t release his grip.

‘I’m fine.’

‘But you never talk about it.’

Her breath snatched in as tension clamped her ribs. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

Asim said nothing. Reluctantly she looked up to find him regarding her through narrowed eyes.

‘What? You think everything would suddenly be better if I relived it all?’ Sharp anger rose. He knew nothing about it! She’d been through it all multiple times in counselling.

‘It seems to me you’re reliving it anyway. How often do you dream of Imran?’

Like air rushing from a punctured balloon, Jacqui’s ire bled away. No matter how she tried to escape, the memories crowded back. Memories of that day, the doom-laden sense of guilt and regret, rather than recollections of her friend alive and happy.

She shook her head, hunching her shoulder.

‘Jacqueline!’

‘What?’ She met his stare, striving for defiance and finding only pain. She pulled air into her tight lungs. He refused to back down.

‘Have you seen a dead body, Asim?’

He nodded.

‘Have you ever seen someone blown apart by a bomb?’ She snatched another breath, the movement jagging pain through her chest. ‘What about a street full of debris, where it’s hard to make out what used to be people? Living, breathing people who just seconds before were—’ Her next breath was a sob and she stopped, sinking her teeth into her lip, trying to fight the trembling that radiated from somewhere deep inside.

‘I’ve seen that too,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s unspeakable.’

Jacqui’s gaze lifted to his and held. She saw old pain and anger, and something that made her feel suddenly not so alone.

‘But you weren’t responsible,’ she murmured. Asim was a protector, a statesman, a man who worked for peace in his region.

‘Nor were you.’

Jacqui’s eyes blurred. ‘I led him into it. It was my fault. I had the scoop. I should have checked it out before dragging him in.’

‘Why? So it could have been you lying there in a bomb crater and not Imran? How would that be better?’

Jacqui yanked at his hold but Asim’s grip was implacable.

‘Imran has people who grieve for him. Your grandmother, you. People who—’

‘And you think no one would miss you?’

She lifted her shoulders, trying to imagine the reaction of her parents and half-siblings if she’d died. They’d have been shocked but would they really have missed her?

‘You’re wrong,
habibti
.’ A strong hand cupped her face, lifting it till she stared into stormy eyes. ‘
We’d
miss you—Samira and my grandmother and me. And so would your family.’

Ridiculously Jacqui felt her lower lip tremble. She didn’t cry except in her sleep when the nightmares devoured her. Yet Asim’s tenderness unplugged the dam of grief she’d held at bay so long.

‘He had all his life ahead of him,’ she mumbled. ‘And it was snuffed out because of me. I should have taken precautions—’

‘Listen to me.’ Asim leaned closer, his breath warm on her face. ‘It wouldn’t matter what precautions you’d taken. Imran was his own man. He’d have been there with you if there was a chance of a scoop. He lived for his job.’