Cinderella and the Sheikh

chapter Twelve



"Sabah il-khair, Barid," Libby said to the uniformed servant as he passed her in the open hall on the way to the breakfast room. Only the slight twitch of his lip before he bowed to her told her that she'd absolutely butchered the greeting.

She tried it again, until he smiled at her. She continued down the hall, greeting every servant by name as she passed.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she anticipated seeing Rasyn again. He'd only left her an hour ago, saying he had some business before breakfast. It was always like that. Every time she saw him was like a reunion after a long absence.

Was it like that for all married couples, she wondered. Or just newlyweds? Would this tingly sensation fade over time?

Newlyweds. Her mind reeled. Despite the fact that she'd forgiven him, his heavy-handed version of marriage had cost her the thing that every woman wanted—her own special wedding.

The irony was that she'd never wanted a big ceremony. Just some ceremony. But he hadn't known because he'd never asked. A private wedding in the desert, even just the two of them, would have suited her. If she'd known about it. Which she hadn't.

She shook her head to clear away her resentment, making a strand of hair cling to her cheek. She wiped it away, but she couldn't wipe away her doubts so easily. No matter what he said or did, one doubt remained, her fear she wasn't right for him.

He was tall, handsome, strong, rich, and he loved her above everything else, even inheriting a kingdom. He'd proven that. Though she cared for him, cared deeply, she knew they could never have a marriage like her parents had.

Her chest tightened as a half-lost memory drifted thought her mind: Her mother and father sitting together at the kitchen table, looking at some papers together. Finances? Vacation brochures?

She couldn't imagine Rasyn and herself doing that, ever. He would make decisions. If she objected, he would persuade her, like he had in New York, or ignore her, like he had in the desert. That was her future.

The bleak picture drained away the hope that had been growing in her. A hollowness opened up in her chest.

He had more education, more money, more experience of the world. They just didn’t fit together. Sooner or later he would realize that and regret everything.

She felt nearly sick. Nothing had changed, except to get worse. More than ever, she had to keep her heart locked away, keep him from working his way inside.

She reached the breakfast room door, forced a smile and went in.

"Sabah il-kha..." The words faded on her lips as she met a pair of midnight-black eyes.

Rasyn's eyes. Rasyn's straight and proud nose. Rasyn's sculpted lips. Rasyn's wide-shouldered, slim-hipped build. But not Rasyn.

Imaran folded his newspaper and stood, sliding his dark gaze over her from the top of her unveiled head to the tips of her red-painted toenails, definitely lingering on her breasts in her loose Egyptian cotton tunic.

His gaze chilled her, as if he didn't see her as a person, but assessed her like something he was considering acquiring. An Arabian mare. Or a Bentley sports car.

"Uhm," she said. "I'll just come back later."

Instead of his usual robe or military uniform, Imaran wore a crisp Western-style shirt in black, with a shiny black silk tie. "Please. Stay. We are cousins now. I feel we should get to know each other."

He smiled, a reasonable facsimile of Rasyn's honest grin. Except something in it put Libby on her guard. She scanned her mind for some excuse that wouldn't insult the man and came up empty. Holding back a sigh, she nodded and let Ali, another servant, pull out the chair for her.

Before she could thank him for placing the linen napkin on her lap, Imaran barked an order. The servant bowed deeply and left the room.

Her heart thudded into overdrive. It was all she could do to keep her hand from shaking as she reached for the silver toast caddy. Imaran didn't pick up his newspaper. Instead, she felt his critical gaze on her every move.

She decided to be civil. "How are you today?"

"Concerned." His dry tone made her shiver. "For my cousin. I cannot quite figure out his plan."

Every fiber in her body warned that he was baiting her, but reluctant curiosity compelled her to probe further. "His plan?"

"He has married a woman who is completely inappropriate for him and I cannot understand what he means by it." Imaran leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her. "I have a theory."

She could barely squeeze the words from her tight throat. "He loves me."

"How do you put it in your culture? That story does not fly with me. You do not know him very well. He is not a man who is led around by his heart."

"You're the one who doesn't know him." Her words sounded like a petulant child's. "You're jealous of him."

He didn’t speak. Instead, one corner of his lip turned up in a parody of Rasyn's smile. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. "My cousin and I have always competed. He just wins more often. Perhaps more often than he should. But he is like a brother to me. I would do anything for him. Even this."

Imaran reached into the pocket of the jacket draped over the back of his chair, and drew out a sleek leather folder. With practiced ease, he flipped it open and raised a platinum pen.

"How much?"

She blinked, not understanding, before she realized what it was. A checkbook. Her breath went raspy, as if all air had been vacuumed from the room.

"For what?" Her words sounded strangled.

"The child." Imaran didn't look up. "Rasyn's heir. It explains everything."

He thought Rasyn had married her because he thought she was going to have his baby. From the sound of it, he thought that she'd seduced Rasyn to trap him into fatherhood.

"I admire you." His tone was flat. "You saw an opportunity to advance yourself and took it. Very admirable. At least Rasyn's heir will not have the blood of some cowardly, unintelligent female in its veins."

She swallowed past the solid wad of emotion in her throat. "There's no baby."

He looked up. The intensity of his gaze dared her to look away. The hard set of his jaw turned her stomach. Was this the environment Rasyn grew up in?

He raised a slashing black eyebrow. His tone told her he believed she was lying. "If you take the money and go, you will not have to put up with this pretence of a marriage. It will save you a lot of effort and you can start a life of luxury in the country of your choice right away. I will arrange for a bodyguard to ensure your safety, and to encourage you to stay in good health while you carry the child. No drugs or alcohol. As soon as the heir is born, he or she will be delivered to us, here. Everyone benefits."

"'Everyone benefits'." She was stunned by the callous words. Did Imaran hate her for her lowly birth or her hair color?

"I am sure you don’t care to be saddled with a child. And if it is a son, he will inherit a country, but he will not be in the line of succession if you remain married."

Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears for the man who resembled her Rasyn so much, but was nothing like him on the inside. Over the years, King Anwar's preference for Rasyn had hurt Imaran more than anyone would ever know.

"Or perhaps you are not yet pregnant. This will save you all the effort."

"How did you get so cruel?" she asked.

He snorted as he pulled away from the table. "Rasyn has had many women. Don’t imagine that he loves you."



***



Rasyn entered the breakfast room to see his bride waiting for him. The buttery yellow tunic she wore set off the fire of her auburn hair and the sea-green of her eyes. Its conservative cut hid her full breasts and the curve of her hips from the prying eyes of other men, and, unfortunately, his as well.

She didn't look up when he entered, but stared at her toast as if she could read the secrets of the world in it.

He couldn't resist the opportunity. And, since she was his wife now, he could indulge himself. It was practically his duty.

Keeping his steps soft, he strode up and captured her face between his hands before she realized he was there. She gasped, startled, and he took the chance to cover her open mouth with his own. Libby stiffened in shock. Then, as he explored her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of the fresh orange juice she'd been drinking, he felt her relax, soften, melt against him.

She trusted him, he realized. He'd worked and fought for it, and now, she trusted him completely.

Too bad he was betraying her in every possible way.

He broke the kiss with a little nibble on her bottom lip. Not only because of the tension in his stomach caused by his guilt, but because if it continued, there was a real danger that he would pull her down to the floor and take her there.

He brushed his lips over her knuckles. "Good morning."

"Sabah il-khair, Rasyn." Her pronunciation was flawless, but she looked at the floor when she said it. "How is the king?"

For once, there was good news. His uncle had improved overnight. As he told her this, she seemed distracted. "Is something wrong, Love?"

She drew in a quick breath and lifted her chin. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, "Nothing. That's good news about your uncle. It's just... what do you think will happen now?"

He ignored the obvious lie. She was no good at deception. Which was a good thing. Moving to his chair, he poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot, and wondered why she'd dismissed the servants. She usually seemed to enjoy talking to them when no one else was around. "Why should something happen?"

"King Anwar has made you his heir."

His uncle had made the official announcement the day before. The coffee suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. He smiled at her anyway and avoided lying. "Thanks to you."

She frowned. "But Parliament made a law against it."

"Abbas is a constitutional monarchy. When the ruler and the Parliament disagree, Parliament wins."

"Your cousin will like that."

He nearly flinched at the comment. It hardly mattered if she didn’t like Imaran. Perhaps they'd find a way to get along in future. Winning his life's goal would probably put Imaran more at ease with himself. Perhaps the right wife would soften his hard edges when he found her.

"He's the best man for the job."

"You don’t want to be king." Her words came out in a rush.

He reached for a newspaper as casually as he could. "Do not be absurd."

"Why don't you want to be king?"

He couldn’t deny it. She would see though the lie. Yet he couldn't reveal all to her. He willed himself to breathe. "You would not understand."

"It's because of Imaran."

He looked at her through half-lidded eyes. "If I believe he is the better choice, what is it to anyone?"

"There's something off about him. Something desperate."

"He feels his heart's desire slipping from his grasp. Once the kingdom is securely under him, he will relax into his role. He is far more qualified than myself."

"You've said that before." She sipped her coffee. "He might be qualified, but you're a natural leader. You're smart, charismatic, and persuasive. But none of that matters—you want Imaran on the throne."

Her eyes went wide in sudden realization. "Oh my God. This isn't about him—it's about what happened while you two were in university. His heart attack. You feel guilty about it."

His mind raced through a dozen denials. In the end, he decided on a strange tactic—the truth.

"I failed my cousin," he said. "I will not fail my country."

She reached for his hand, and squeezed his rough fingers in her own. "It's okay, you know. You don’t have to rule if you don't want to. Just tell your uncle. He'll listen."

"He will not," he said plainly.

"But—"

He raised a hand in interruption. "He did not."

"Oh." The blood drained from her face as she realized the implications. "I'm sorry."

Uncle Anwar hadn't listened. Only one person had, and she was sitting across from him. He felt an odd warm tightness under his ribs at that thought, but couldn't take the time to analyze the feeling. This was dangerous ground, his instinct told him. Best to move the topic along. "It does not matter, Libby. The future of Abbas and our happiness are both assured. Is that not enough for you?"

"Of course, but this just doesn’t seem like you. Ordering people around makes you happy and you're turning down the chance of a lifetime."

"I will never regret being with you," he assured her.

She gave him a tentative smile. "Well, I don’t want to bear the brunt of your need to control things for the rest of your life. You're going to have to start some kind of business and hire some employees that you pay really well to put up with you."

Truthfully, he had been thinking along the same lines. Perhaps when this was over, he might safely involve himself in some business without raising Imaran's jealousy. He could see himself as the head of a company, or perhaps...

"I have been considering this. What do you think about some kind of resort on an island off the coast?"

She considered it. "I think you'd enjoy ruling your own little kingdom."

He looked at the woman who he'd intended to use and throw away. A month ago, he'd left Abbas with the purpose of finding someone who he could tolerate for a year or two. Libby—beautiful, practical Libby— had become more than that. He couldn't imagine his life without her. Now, or ever.

Inspiration struck him. "Libby, what do you think about going on a honeymoon? Perhaps Bermuda."

She moved her toast around on her plate. "We're not married in Bermuda."

He leaned over and caught her little hand in his grip. The feel of her delicate bones sent a need to protect her surging through him. All he wanted to do was assure her that everything was going to be all right from now on. That they'd make a flawless life together. "Then what do you say about eloping to Bermuda? Just you and I. And a few friends to witness the ceremony. Your mother, if you wish it."

She started to gnaw on her lip, which he knew was a sure sign of her stress. What could be wrong?

"Let's just get through Prince Hani's ball for us in Damali first." She cocked her head and smiled at him.

He dropped her hand. That was her second attempt to hide her feelings from him today.

"It's a ball for you," he said, crisply. "Not for us."