The Desert Lord's Love-Child: The Desert Lord's Baby

His seeming belief in her abilities sent her heart soaring. The images he provoked shot it down, rent and bloodied. Images of the whirlwind of preparations for a life- and world-changing event, the reign of her imagination and skills when freed from constrictions of budget and possibilities, of escalating excitement, of jitters of responsibility, of pride of achievement. Of anticipation of ecstasy …

If-onlys cut off her breathing. She stumbled again.

Again he kept her upright, kept talking as if he hadn’t crushed her with more futile dreams. “But with my uncle so frail, I wouldn’t have gone all-out even if we had the time. It’s for the best we didn’t.”

They entered an elevator that seemed to be an extension of the hall, seemed not to move at all before the doors opened again. Into the past. Into the heart of Arabian Nights.

He tugged her through a huge hall ringed with Arabian-style arches leading to the bowels of a palace within the palace.

The incense fumes rising from mosaic burners hanging from the ceiling hit her compromised balance. He supported her, his touch deepening the dreamscape quality of it all as they passed the central arch through pleated damask drapes woven in rich-earth Berber/Moroccan patterns into a passage lined by sculpted-rock columns. At the base of each, an antique brass lantern blazed, giving the columns’ engravings the impact of incantations.

She stared ahead as they approached massive cedar double doors worked in camel bone and silver that looked as if they’d been transported through millennia intact. They swung soundlessly open with a murmur and a touch from Farooq.

Whoa. Holy voice recognition and fingerprint sensors!

The feeling of stepping centuries both backward and forward in time intensified as they entered another hall with golden light radiating from henna sconces on warm sand-colored walls leading into gigantic living and dining areas interconnected by more arches. Many rooms lay hidden behind closed doors. The whole place, with its enormous proportions, its lavish yet tasteful decorations and furnishings with that incredible ethnic and ultramodern blend, redefined the laws of beauty and luxury.

He led her into one of the living areas. A spherical, intricately fenestrated brass lantern hanging from the ceiling with spectacular chains lit the space. The starry canopy it created showcased the Egyptian mosaic, hand-carved furniture and the plush Moroccan-style couches. It also cascaded over Farooq, adding an unearthly effect to his beauty.

Finding her eyes back on him, he said, “All the things you specified are here. If you need anything else, order it from Ameenah, your head lady-in-waiting. She’s Hashem’s wife. She’ll also get you acquainted with the mechanisms running the place, privacy, security, Internet and entertainment, to mention a few. I’ll give her a list of what needs to be done tomorrow. Tonight, relax, take a shower and have an early night. I want you well rested. Tomorrow is the biggest day of your life.”

The last sentence rocked her. She turned her swaying into a bend to pick up a hand-woven silk brocade pillow, her tremors into interest over its intricate patterns.

“So these are my and Mennah’s quarters?”

He gave her a steady look. “These are my quarters. Ours now. Our bedroom suite is through this passageway.” He flicked a hand toward it before indicating the closed doors around them. “Pick one of these rooms to be Mennah’s, where your ladies-in-waiting can tend her when both of us are occupied.”

“But I thought …” She couldn’t continue, couldn’t breathe. Just couldn’t.

He gave her a serene look. “You thought … what?”

She fought to the surface at his prodding, rasped, “I—I thought I’d have separate quarters.”

“And how did you come by that thought?”

Suddenly anger slammed into her. She grabbed at the strength it infused into her limbs, her voice. “I came by it because this isn’t a real marriage.”

He smiled. As mirthless a smile as those got. “Oh, this is a real marriage. I’d say it’s far more real than any you’ve ever heard about. Notification of our belated marriage ceremony has made it to every embassy. During our flight I received the personal congratulations of every head of state on earth, and though it’s on such short-notice, the confirmation of attendance of four major powers’ presidents and a dozen kings and queens.”

A stunned giggle escaped her. “That’s what you call not going all-out? Oh, man …”

“All-out would have been having everyone here for ten days as the royal wedding proceedings unfold. Three days and nights of festivities ending in your henna night, and seven more of palace on national celebrations following the wedding. Having a ceremony after sunset with a banquet for two thousand or so, most of them the entourage of the dignitaries who can’t afford not to pay their respects to my king and me in person, is keeping it beyond simple. Everyone understands the reasons for that, though, what with us being ‘married’ already with a child, and with King Zaher not in the best of health.”

God. This was too huge. Could he be pulling her leg?

One look into his eyes told her he wasn’t. It was probably bigger than her malfunctioning mind could fathom at the moment.

Which gave her hope. “So staying in your quarters is to keep up appearances, right?”

His expression dulled with boredom. “If it pleases you to think that, by all means, go ahead.” The boredom evaporated as his pupils engulfed his irises like a black hole would the sun. “But I won’t be keeping up appearances and it won’t be for an audience’s benefit that I’ll take you, feast on you, ravish you every night.”

Her heart almost fired from her rib cage. “But—but that isn’t why we got married.”

He inclined his head at her, goading, relishing shredding her nerves. “Why did we get married?”

“Spare me the rhetorical questions, Farooq,” she quavered.

“Zain. I’ll answer them for you. We married for Mennah. And pray tell how did she come into being? Isn’t she the living, glorious proof of how much we enjoyed each other’s bodies?”

A harsh sound tore open her shutting down lungs. “Sorry to disillusion you but enjoyment doesn’t have much to do with conceiving.”

“Granted.” He moved toward her with the leisure of a cat that had all the time in the world to give his kill a nervous breakdown, putting her out of her misery not even on his mind. “But Mennah’s conception was a product of absolute pleasure.”

She backed away a step for each of his. “That was then.”

“And this is now. You dare tell me you don’t want me now?”

“I dare all right. Tell you I don’t want … this. I don’t know what you want.”

“How can I possibly be more blatant about what I want?”

“You don’t want me.”

His stare lengthened in the wake of her impassioned cry. Then he picked up her hand, dragged it to him, and this time, he pressed it to his erection. “How do you explain this then?”

She quaked in his hold, her depths gushing in response, unable to muster strength or coordination to snatch her hand away. Not wanting to. Wanting to cup him, map the hardness she wouldn’t come close to encompassing, go down on her knees before him, expose him, feel him, taste him, worship him. Only him.

But for him, it wasn’t and would never be only her.

The knowledge bled out of her. “You just want sex. Any good-looking woman would do.”

“So I’m indiscriminately promiscuous and terminally shallow.” Before she could define his reaction as mocking or insulted, he went on, his pupils fluctuating, giving his eyes the look of flickering flames. “But if sex with any ‘good-looking woman’ will do, and we both know I can take my pick of the best-looking who exist, why do I want it with you?”

“Why indeed.” And that was a legitimate question. She had no solid theories why he had before, beyond the lure of her total eagerness for him and the why-not factor. Now, she could think of one reason. She said it out loud. “Maybe it’s the novelty of a woman you can’t have.”

“Ah, a challenge to jog my jaded senses.” He took the pillow she was holding like a shield, swung it with an effortless flick to the sofa, reached out a hand to her hair, wound a thick lock over and over his fingers, then tugged. Gentle enough not to hurt her, inexorable enough to show her where he wanted her. Against him. He had her there, from breast to calves, his erection pressing into her hip, one leg between hers, rubbing, sawing, until all she wanted was to open them, beg him to end the torment, do all the things he’d threatened, all the things he’d promised. Then his whisper poured into her brain. “I already had you. I have you again. And I’ll have you again. And again. And all the time.”

She pushed against him, her breath burning, everything shaking out of control. “No. You won’t.”

He let her go, left her to stumble with the force of her unopposed struggle, smiled at her. “Are you sure about this?”

“I won’t let you have me. Not like this.”

“Like what? In total hunger, giving you ecstasy?” His certainty, its truth, sent response surging like lava inside her. “Is this what you’re objecting to? Too much satisfaction? Maybe you want something a bit … racier, riskier? Maybe some domination, a tinge of danger, of pain? I can oblige you. I probably will, after all this time. I’m not feeling anywhere near gentle. But then, I’m sure you won’t want me to be.”

She sank deeper in the mire of desire and desperation. “No, Farooq, I don’t want this.”

The translucency of his eyes fogged, his lips stretching to reveal teeth perfect but for too-sharp canines. “You want nothing more than this. You want nothing but this.”