“I know what kind of queen my country needs. It needs someone who believes in it utterly, and who will be loyal to it, absolutely.”
The vizier nodded, not noticing any shortcomings in Zavian’s statement. “Exactly. It needs a Tawazun princess.”
Zavian didn’t reply.
Gabrielle ranher fingers lightly over the objects of her passion, which, growing up, had been more familiar to her than dolls, before pushing the tray back into the cabinet. After spending a morning in meetings with the museum director and his team, she’d managed to secure a whole afternoon alone with some of the country’s most precious artifacts. She’d told him she needed time to inspect each piece personally and its data. It wasn’t exactly true, and she suspected the director knew it. But it seemed either he didn’t mind or had been told to give her free rein. She suspected the latter.
She glanced around the room at the ancient pottery shards, at the fragments of ornate tiles and rare, intact pieces in their display cases. The pieces, which illuminated the everyday life of the Bedouin a thousand years earlier, were her whole life. At the age of three, her grandfather had pushed a soft brush into her hands to sweep away the sand from buried objects. As an impressionable girl, she’d lain in her tent at night, moved by the songs, poetry, and music of the Bedouin who continued to live their tribal lives as they had done for centuries in the desert. And then later she’d developed a career which had extended beyond the desert, all the way through to the hallowed halls of Oxford. She might have left it a year ago, but there was no denying that Gharb Havilah and its people and culture were her life.
And, while she worked tirelessly towards these artifacts receiving international recognition for their cultural significance and artistry, her life in the desert had taught her one other thing. It had ingrained in every pore of her skin, in every pulse of her blood through her body—her need for freedom. Being confined to the palace was killing her.
Reluctantly, she locked away the last piece and gave the windowless room one last sweeping glance. She’d be staying there, working through the evening surrounded by her favorite objects if she could have her way. But there was only one person who could do as they wished in Gharb Havilah, and that was the king. And he’d again summoned her to meet him. But it wasn’t a public reception this time. It was dinner. She just hoped there would be plenty of other people seated between her and Zavian.
Zavian sat alonein the grand dining room, its mahogany table polished, reflecting the wrought gold lamps overhead. The darting flames of candles—caught by the breeze flowing in through the open doors—cast moving shadows over the ceiling. The door opened, and he rose instinctively to meet her. He’d arranged this meeting, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing her again. He devoured every detail of her hungrily with his eyes, needing to know her again.
She hesitated at the entrance and looked around as the door was closed behind her. She glanced around the room at his servants, who stood at each of the four corners of the room, ready to jump to his command and provide for his every need. He was accustomed to it, but he noted the wariness in her blue eyes, which were colorless in the candlelight.
He flexed his hands, forcing himself not to go to her, not to take her in his arms, because in that one moment before speech, before anything else, there was only them. And he wanted her, just as he always had.
Then she looked away, and he remembered everything that had happened. Their passion, her rejection. Simple, final. Or so she’d thought. But she was unfinished business for him, business hehadto finish before he could move on with the last piece of the jigsaw that was his life. Before he married and had a family. He wanted her, he would have her, and only then could he continue with his life.
He rubbed his fingers together before extending his hand to her, his body and head remaining rigid and composed. “Gabrielle.”
She walked the length of the table, her large eyes never leaving his. She looked at his hand and then held his gaze once more. She didn’t take his hand. An insult he was not accustomed to, an insult he would not forgive lightly.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked. Her voice trembled, but the jut of her chin and fierce eyes revealed it shook through anger, not nerves. She’d never been able to hide her feelings. They flitted across her face as openly as the shadows and wind upon the desert sands.
He indicated the food before them, deliberately misunderstanding her question. “To dine with your new employer, of course. Please, take a seat.”
She hesitated only briefly before taking her seat, sensibly realizing she had no choice. She looked smaller than he remembered, fragile against the large-framed mahogany chairs he’d inherited from his great-grandfather’s extravagant reign. She’d lost weight. He hadn’t expected that. He’d held the image of her twelve months ago in his head ever since she’d left. But time hadn’t stood still.
He nodded to his butler who stood at the door, and suddenly the doors were opened, and trays of steaming food were brought in and served, and their wine glasses were filled with the best French white wine, which he knew was her favorite.
“Just like old times, Gabrielle,” he couldn’t help teasing. He had her where he wanted her now, and he could afford to relax a little.
She looked around at his staff, whose presence he scarcely registered anymore. “Hardly,” she muttered.
He frowned and followed her gaze. He signaled to his servants to leave the room. After the door closed with a subtle click, leaving them entirely alone, he turned to her.
“Is that better?”
He could see the struggle in her gaze. “I didn’t mean for you to dismiss them.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I was merely pointing out how you’ve changed.”
He sat back in his chair and carefully placed his wine glass onto the table, giving himself time for his irritation to fade. It didn’t. “I am now King of Gharb Havilah,notsecond in line to the throne. My father is dead, as is my elder brother. Of course I have changed. As have you. But not enough. I’d have preferred it if you’d changed more.” And he meant it. If she’d changed beyond recognition, grown stouter, dyed her hair, assumed the latest fashions, he might not have felt that same slam of lust in his gut. But even as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. Deep down, he knew that no amount of change would affect how much he needed her. And it was this he had to remedy. Twelve months of separation had made no difference. He hoped one month’s togetherness would exorcise her hold over him.
“I assumed you didn’t invite me to dine purely to insult me.”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then why?”
“Why are you here?” He needed to stall her. “I wish to dine with my new employee.” He opened his arms in a gesture of innocence. “Is that so surprising?”
Her eyes darkened with annoyance. “Yes, it is. I was under the impression my contract had been organized by the museum director, that I washisemployee. I hardly expected to dine with the king.”