His thumb stroked her hand and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the warmth from his touch coursing up her arm. Why did he do that?
She did not want to feel this way. She hated him. She must not feel that way. And yet still her flesh tingled and burned, her breasts felt plumped and heavy and her thighs bore an unfamiliar ache …
It was not fair. And while she grappled with the reactions of a traitorous body, she was barely aware of the staff descending from every direction, filling glasses and delivering steaming platters until the table was sagging under the weight of food that she knew must smell wonderful and taste delicious. But she smelt nothing, could bring herself to taste nothing.
‘Perhaps you might smile,’ Zoltan leaned close to say.
Through the fog of her senses, she heard the bite in his voice, the rebuke, and it woke her from her stupor. This was Zoltan next to her, the barbarian sheikh. If she had witnessed need in his eyes, it was the need to possess her to take the crown of Al-Jirad. That was what she had witnessed in those greedy eyes. Nothing more.
She pulled her hand from his and used it to reach for her water so he could not take it back and stir her senses with the gentle stroke of his thumb again. ‘Perhaps I do not find reason to smile.’
‘This is our wedding day.’
She glared at him then, allowed her eyes to convey all the resentment and hatred she had for him and for being forced into this position. ‘Precisely!’ she hissed. ‘So it is not like there is anything to smile about.’
A muscle in his jaw popped. His eyes were as cold and flat as a slab of marble, and she knew at that moment he hated her, and she was glad. There would be no more hand stroking if she could help it.
She sipped her water, celebrating her good fortune, but her success and his fury were short-lived, his features softening at the edges as he scooped up a ripe peach from a tray of fruit. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his fingers over the velvet skin of the peach almost as if he was caressing it, holding it to his face to breathe in its fresh, sweet scent. ‘There’s always the anticipation of one’s wedding night to bring a smile to one’s face, wouldn’t you say?’
And he bit deeply into the flesh of the peach, juice running down his chin, his eyes fixed on hers. Challenging. Mocking.
‘You’re disgusting!’ she said, already rising to leave, unable to stand being alongside him a moment longer.
‘And you,’ he said, grabbing hold of her wrist, the corners of his lips turning up, ‘are my sheikha. Do not forget that.’
‘What hope is there of that?’
‘None at all, if I have anything to do with it. Now sit down and smile. You are attracting attention.’
She looked around and saw heads turned her way, the faces half openly curious, the other half frowning, except for the three men who sat at a table nearby who looked to be almost enjoying the show, the same men who had been with Zoltan last evening at the pool.
‘Who are those men?’ she asked, sitting down to quell curiosity and deflect attention from herself rather than because she wanted to, determined not to accede to his demand quietly. It worked. People soon returned to the feast and to the conversation.
‘Which men?’
‘The three you were with last night,’ she said, rubbing her wrist where he had held her, damning a touch which seemed to leave a burning memory seared on her flesh. ‘The ones sitting over there looking like the falcons that caught the hare.’
He knew who she was referring to before he followed her gaze to see his three friends sat talking amongst themselves, openly amused by the proceedings. ‘They are friends of mine.’
‘Are they the ones who were with you the night you came to Mustafa’s camp?’
He looked back at her, amused by her choice of words. ‘You mean the night we rescued you?’ The glare he earned back in response was worth it. ‘Yes, they are the ones. On the left is Bahir, in the centre, Rashid, and the one on the right is Kadar.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘He is the one with the scar on his back?’
‘That is him.’
He waited for her to ask for details, like most women he knew would, but instead she just nodded, surprising him by asking, ‘And you are the only one married?’
‘As of today.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, “why”?’
Alongside him she shrugged and took a sip from her glass of water, taking her own sweet time to answer. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I see three men who are clearly of marriageable age and who all look fairly decent with their clothes off. Your friends are all—what is that expression they use in women’s magazines?—ripped?’