The look on his face after dinner last night, when his eyes had fallen to his stomach, had nearly brought her to her knees. There had been tenderness there, a longing that had made her chest ache in response.
No, she could not take Taj’s child from him. She couldn’t take her baby from his father.
And that meant, no matter how much it sucked for her, she had to stick it out.
She met Taj’s eyes and her heart tripped and fell over itself. There were certain things that wouldn’t be a hardship. Being with Taj…it had been incredible. Unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
He had been as amazing as she’d imagined. No, even more amazing.
But she was afraid of what he made her feel, too. Afraid of getting involved with him again. Afraid of loving him again.
He was arrogant and entitled, with strong and proud tendencies when he was angry. Loving him should take effort. Yet, she found it was a lot harder to stop herself from loving him. And that was just stupid.
“There is no other option,” she said.
“You knew that from the beginning.”
She nodded. “Yes. I did.” From the moment she’d seen the positive test, she’d known. It was either hide the truth from him forever, or embrace life as his queen. “But…where did these dresses come from?” If she really was going to be his wife she would take a stand here at least. She wasn’t wearing cast-off gowns from cast-off women.
His face hardened, for a moment he looked like he’d been carved from stone. “They have been here. Just as this room has been here. Awaiting its queen.”
“What?”
“They are yours. I had them prepared when you accepted my proposal.”
“And you…kept them?”
He tilted his chin upward, the gesture making him look haughty. Defiant. “I was to marry one day with or without you. Clothes are altered easily enough, why should I replace them.”
“Why indeed?” she struck back. “If the woman in question does not matter, if she’s only part and parcel to a business agreement then why does it matter what she might want? Who she is?”
“It matters,” he said, his voice rough.
She took a step back, her stomach curling in. “Oh. I…I…”
He appraised her for a moment, his dark eyes searching. “It will not be so bad to be my wife, will it?”
She didn’t know what to say. Words stuck in her throat. Words in denial and in agreement.
His expression hardened. “Well then, let us prepare to speak to the media.”
She had a feeling she’d done the wrong thing. But she could not find the words to placate him. Because they would be a lie.
It would be hard to be married to him. Hard to guard her heart against feelings she didn’t want but wasn’t certain she could deny.
“You were exquisite,” Taj said as he closed the limo door and encased them in the air-conditioning.
“I hardly spoke.” She felt horrible. Her head was pounding, and she was still shaking from having to sit there in front of so many people.
“And in Rahat, that will be considered a bonus.”
“Oh, I do hope you’re joking,” she said, treating him to her deadliest glare. In addition to the headache, she was hot, starving and in no mood to take garbage off anyone. Least of all Taj.
He shrugged, as if shaking off her anger. “I was. Sort of. But the way the more traditional citizens of my country think is not necessarily the way I think.”
“And how do you think, Sheikh Taj Ahmad, because I think I’m entitled to know that seeing as I’m about to leg-shackle myself to you for the rest of our lives.”
Something flashed in his dark eyes. Amusement mixed with something deeper. Deadlier. “A leg shackle doesn’t do anything for me fantasy-wise. Handcuffs, perhaps.”
“I am in no mood,” she said, keeping her sharp glare trained on him.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice stiff. “I expect a wife to meet my needs. To provide me with heirs.”
“What?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat. “Meet your needs? What does that mean?”
“I expect for her to share my bed, to accompany me to events, to have my children. That’s straightforward enough.”