Irritation snaked through him at the realisation that due to Samia’s patent reluctance he’d be forced to spend longer in Europe than he wanted to. He could see his discreet security men in front of his house—necessary trappings for a head of state—but he was oblivious to all that. For once he wasn’t consumed with thoughts of politics, or the economy, or women.
He frowned. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. One woman was consuming his thoughts, and for the first time in his life it wasn’t accompanied with the enticing sense of expectation at the prospect of bedding her. And then he had to concede that it had been a long time since pure expectation had precipitated any liaison with a lover—it was more likely to be expectation mixed with a lot of cynicism.
Sadiq’s frown became deeper, grooving lines into his smooth forehead. Since when had he acknowledged the fact that for him bedding women was accompanied by a feeling of ennui and ever deepening cynicism? He suspected uncomfortably that it was long before he’d witnessed his close friends’ weddings in Merkazad.
Seeing his friends wearing their hearts on their sleeves had induced a feeling of panic and had pushed a button—a button that had been deeply buried and packed under years of cynical block building and ice. Perhaps that was what had precipitated his decision to marry? This impulse to protect himself at all costs—a desire to negate what he’d seen at Nadim and Salman’s weddings. The need to prove that he wasn’t ever going to succumb to that awful uncontrollable emotion again.
Even now he could remember that day, and the excoriating humiliation of baring his heart and soul to a woman who had all but laughed in his face.
In choosing to marry someone like Princess Samia he would be safe for ever from such mortifying episodes, because he was in no danger of falling in love with her. He was also safe from falling in lust. She was too pale, too shapeless. His stomach clenched … Funnily enough, though, he couldn’t get those enigmatic aquamarine eyes out of his head. And he had to concede she wasn’t unpretty. But she certainly wasn’t beautiful. He’d always accepted that the wife he picked would fulfil a role—an important one. As such, to find her attractive would be a bonus and a luxury. His responsibility to his country was greater than such frivolous concerns.
Altogether, she wasn’t as unappealing as he might have feared initially. He grimaced. He’d had his fair share of the world’s beauties. It was time to convert his lust into building up a country unrivalled in its wealth and economic stability. He needed focus for that, and a wife like Samia would provide that focus. He wouldn’t be distracted by her charms, and clearly she was not the coquettish type, so she wouldn’t waste time trying to charm him.
Sadiq’s frown finally cleared from his face and he turned his attention to the rolling business news channel on the muted television screen in the background. Despite the Princess’s reluctance he had no doubt that she would return the next day and give him the answer he expected. The alternative was simply inconceivable.
CHAPTER THREE
24 hours later
‘I’M not going to marry you.’
Sadiq’s mouth was open and he was already smiling urbanely in anticipation of the Princess’s acquiescence—already thinking ahead to buying her a trousseau and getting her out of those unflattering suits. Her bottom had barely touched the seat of the chair opposite him. He frowned. Surely she couldn’t have just said—
‘I said I don’t want to marry you.’
Her voice was low and husky, but firm, and it tugged somewhere deep inside him again. Sadiq’s mouth closed. She sat before him like a prim nun, hair pulled back and dressed in a similarly boxy suit to the one she’d worn yesterday. This one was just a slightly darker hue of blue. Not a scrap of make-up enhanced those pale features or those aquamarine eyes. Disconcertingly, at that moment he noticed a splash of freckles across her delicately patrician nose.
Freckles. Since when had he noticed freckles on anyone? Any woman of his acquaintance would view freckles with the same distaste as acne. Something nebulous unfurled within Sadiq, and he sat back and realised that it was a surprise—because it was so long since anyone had said no to him. Or been so reluctant to impress him. Princess Samia’s chin lifted minutely, and for a second Sadiq could see her innately regal hauteur. She might be the most unprepossessing princess he’d ever met, but she was still royalty and she couldn’t hide it.
The thin line of her mouth drew his focus then, and bizarrely he found himself wondering how full and soft those lips would be when relaxed … or kissed. Would they be pink and pouting, begging for another kiss?
Samia could see the conflict on the Sultan’s face, the clear disbelief. That was why she’d repeated herself. It had been as much to check she hadn’t been dreaming. She was trembling all over like a leaf. She’d tossed and turned all night and had kept coming back to the stark realisation that she really did not have a choice.
But when faced with Sadiq again, and the clear expectation on his face that she was there to say yes, she had felt some rebellious part of her rise up. This was her only chance of escaping this union. She crushed the lancing feeling of guilt. She couldn’t worry now about the fallout or she’d never go through with it. The thought of marrying this man was just so downright threatening that she had to do something—no matter how selfish it felt.
Sadiq’s voice rumbled over her, causing her pulse to jump. ‘There’s a difference between not marrying me, and not wanting to marry me. One implies that there is no room for discussion, and the other implies that there is. So which is it, Samia?’
Samia tried to avoid that searing gaze. He was sitting forward, elbows on his desk, fingers steepled together. The way he said her name made her feel hot. She was already unravelling at the seams because she was facing this man again, even though the heavy oak desk separated them. Even the threat to her sister wasn’t enough right now to make her reconsider. She’d cross that bridge if it came to it.
He hadn’t kept her waiting today. He’d been waiting for her. Standing at his window like a tall, dark and gorgeous spectre. And now he was utterly indolent—as if they might be discussing the weather. He wore a shirt and no tie. The top button was undone, revealing the bronzed column of his throat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, showing off muscled forearms more suited to an athlete than a head of state. Samia felt unbearably restless all of a sudden.
Abruptly she stood up, wanting to put space between them. She couldn’t seem to sit still around this man, and she couldn’t concentrate while he was looking at her like that—as if she were under a microscope. So clinically.
She went and stood behind the chair, breathing erratically. ‘Discussion …’ she finally got out. ‘Defintely the discussion one.’
Great. Now she couldn’t string a sentence together—and what was she doing, encouraging a discussion with one of the world’s greatest debaters? She paced away from the chair, feeling constricted in her suit. She’d never been as self-conscious about what she wore as she had been in the last thirty-six hours. Samia had always been supremely aware of her own allure, or more accurately the lack of it, and was very comfortable with a uniform of plain clothes to help her fade into the background. Or at least she had been till now.
She avoided his eye. ‘Look, I know you need a wife, and on paper I might look like the perfect candidate—’
Sadiq cut in with a low voice. ‘You are the perfect candidate.’ He stifled intense irritation. She was the only candidate. After carefully vetting potentially suitable brides from his world and dismissing them, she was the only one he’d kept coming back to. And once he’d set his mind