But he was older and wiser now. At thirty-seven he’d learned there were times when a woman needed her dignity rather than the comfort of an embrace. When nothing he could do would ease the pain.
Memory stabbed hard, slicing through his ribs, tearing at his conscience. Jasmin...
‘You see now why I suggested marriage.’
Her quiet words dragged Tariq from a haze of memory and regret. He forced himself to focus.
‘You proposed marriage because you want my boys?’ Instantly his protective instincts were aroused.
‘Don’t sound so fierce, Tariq.’ She even managed a tiny smile. The sight of it and the sadness in her eyes squeezed his chest. ‘I don’t want to take them from you.’
She took a step forward, then another, and a waft of light scent filled his nostrils: warm cinnamon and sugar, innocently sweet yet improbably alluring.
‘I want to share them with you, look after them, grow to love them and support them.’
‘You want to marry me for my children?’ His mouth firmed. After a lifetime being chased by women, his pride smarted. Was anything designed to puncture a man’s ego as much as that?
Did she have any idea of the insult she offered?
He might be a father but he was a red-blooded male in his prime. A man, moreover, used to being the hunter, not the prey.
Samira stepped closer again, apparently unaware the movement brought her into his personal space. She was so close he felt the warmth of her body, saw the fine-grained perfection of her skin and the tiny shadows beneath her eyes that make-up didn’t quite conceal.
‘Not just the children, Tariq. I want a family. Someone to belong to. And I can’t think of a man I’d rather trust myself with than you. You’re decent and honourable.’
Competing emotions battled in Tariq’s gut. Pleasure at her belief in him. Annoyance that she saw him as some sort of comforting protector who conveniently had the kids she wanted. And a shudder of carnal pleasure at the sound of his name on her lips, which inevitably led him to imagine her crying it out in the throes of passion.
But she was wrong. He sifted all she’d said, realising it wasn’t really him she wanted, but some emasculated version of himself that existed only in her mind.
She didn’t know him, had never really known him.
If she had any idea of the darkness within him, or of the urges he suppressed right now—none of them decent or honourable, all of them primitive and utterly indecent—she’d run a mile.
It was time to stop this.
Tariq looked into her eager, open face. ‘You honour me with your offer, Samira. But the answer is no. I won’t marry you.’
SAMIRA HAD STEELED HERSELF for rejection but the reality was harder than she’d imagined.
The force of her disappointment threatened to take her out at the knees. Despite spending a lifetime projecting an image of calm, no matter how traumatic her reality, Samira felt her bottom lip begin to quiver.
She bit it. Hard.
She blinked and locked her knees, grateful her skirt hid her shaky legs.
Another second and she summoned up a semblance of a smile, ignoring the stagnant well of disappointment at the heart of her. She breathed deep, as if her lungs didn’t feel brittle and papery, like they were about to tear apart.
‘Thank you for hearing me out, Tariq.’ There, her voice was even and admirably cool. Not the voice of a woman who felt her last hope of happiness had been snatched away.
It had been an outrageous idea. She’d known it from the start. Foolish of her to pursue it.
‘I knew even as I asked that I wouldn’t suit. You need a much more appropriate wife than I could ever be.’
She glanced around for her bag, only to realise she still wore it over her shoulder. She unclenched her hands and grabbed the thin leather strap for something to do.
‘What do you mean, more appropriate?’ Tariq’s searing gaze pinned her to the spot.
‘Let’s not go there, Tariq. There’s no point.’ Samira stretched her smile wider and her taut facial muscles ached at the strain. ‘It’s time I left. I’ll say goodbye and wish you and your family all the best for the future. Thank you again for making time to see me.’
She was turning away, desperate to be alone, when long fingers closed around her upper arm.
Instantly she stilled as shock waves ripped through her body.
It had been four years since any man, apart from her brother, had touched her. And this was different—as if a channel of fiery liquid coursed under her skin.
Samira frowned, trying to remember Jackson Brent’s touch ever having inflamed such a reaction. But all she could remember were his charming smile, his easy lies and his insistence on kissing her in front of the paparazzi despite her protests.
‘What did you mean, Samira?’
Experimentally she tugged her arm. His hold remained firm.
A glance at his face, now close, confirmed he had no intention of relenting.
She remembered that look of adamantine determination from her early teens. Tariq had been visiting Asim and had somehow found out about her one act of rebellion in an otherwise cloistered, well-behaved life. She’d secretly been slipping out, dune-driving without supervision or a crash helmet. He hadn’t lectured her. It was as if he’d understood her need to escape her miserable home life, just for a few hours. He’d simply said he knew she had more sense than to risk her neck that way again and made her promise never to drive without him or Asim. He’d known her promise would bind her.
But she wasn’t a teenager trying to cope with her parents’ manipulation in their battle for supremacy. Why did he drag this out instead of letting her leave with some dignity intact?
She shrugged. ‘No doubt your advisors wouldn’t approve of you choosing a wife like me.’ She took a step away, only to pull up short when he refused to release her.
‘First, I make my own decisions, Samira, not my advisors; and second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Samira whipped around, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. ‘Don’t be coy, Tariq. We both know I’m tainted.’ When his face remained impassive she leaned closer, hurt turning to anger that he made her spell this out. ‘“Soiled goods”, isn’t that the phrase?’ Her chin hiked up, but given his enormous height she couldn’t look down her nose at him.
‘In both our countries there are people who disapprove of me, a woman who’s never been married but who had a lover.’ She tugged in a swift breath. Her heart hammered and her chest rose and fell as if she’d just finished an hour’s aerobic workout in the gym. But that was nothing to the distress curling deep inside.
‘I thought that wouldn’t matter to you since you’d already been married to a virtuous woman who gave you heirs. I’d assumed you weren’t hung up on the old ways. But I see I was wrong.’
She’d told herself again and again she had nothing to be ashamed of, having chosen to be with the man she loved. Perhaps that would have been true if Jackson had proved himself worthy of her love. But he’d betrayed her brutally, proved her a fool, her judgement and her dream of love fatally flawed. Instead of the luxury of dealing with her pain and disillusionment privately, it had all been blasted across the press. Her loss of innocence had provided fodder for the voracious masses eager for the