Her stomach sank, a faint impression of nausea wrapping itself around her. “You can tell him that I would rather have bamboo shoots shoved up my fingernails,” she muttered.
“Noted.”
She turned and saw Taj standing in the doorway. She froze and her two aids bent their heads and scurried out of the room.
“Did you bring bamboo, sugar?” she asked, turning her Texas drawl up a notch.
“I thought perhaps you would prefer tea,” he said, lifting a delicate china cup up to chest level. “It’s green tea, no caffeine. I thought it might be preferable to torture.”
“Tea, yes, a meet-the-press moment, no.”
“Our engagement must be announced.”
She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep from falling apart. “I haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours.”
“We’ll need to marry before it becomes obvious you’re pregnant.”
“I forgot you’re traditional around here.”
“Show me the royal family that disregards such traditions completely. Have they disregarded them in Santina?”
Angelina thought of Princess Carlotta, of the shame the press had put her through for having a child out of wedlock. Even now, years after the fact, it marked her. Marked her entire existence, and the existence of her son. “No.”
“Then do not play like Rahat is such an anomaly. We have traditions to uphold, certain expectations we must meet. You will become accustomed to it.”
“I’m not sure I can,” she said, her voice hardly achieving the volume of a whisper.
When he responded, his tone was surprisingly gentle. “What other option is there, Angelina?”
She could leave. She could go into hiding. Hope that he never found her. She could take her child away from his father; she could steal her child’s birthright. Deny it the chance to be royalty, the first born of a king.
Yes, she could do that. But it would be wrong. It would be selfish. If Taj were a bad man, if he were incapable of being a good father, of loving their child, then maybe it would be excusable. But the fact was, he was just as likely to be a good parent as she was.
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.”
“That’s…sexist enough,” she said.
“How? It has nothing to do with you being a woman, and everything to do with being the wife of a sheikh. I have particular duties as ruler, and you have particular duties as the spouse of a ruler.”
“So if I was sheikh…”
“You very likely wouldn’t be called sheikh.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “Fine. If I were sheikha,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “then you would be expected to fulfill my sexual needs and hang on my arm at events?”
“That sounds fair,” he said, a frown marring his features. “I take it you are not thrilled with my expectations?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, feeling panic start to rise in her breast. “Does any of it matter? I’m