Postcards From… Collection. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
of pillows and embroidered silk throws. She sat on the edge, sinking down into the soft mattress, then ran her fingers over the coverlet, her eyes immediately drawn to the wedding ring on her finger. So it was true—she really had married her dashing Arabian prince. There was her evidence.
Being reunited with Zahir today, seeing him again in all his gorgeously taut, olive-skinned flesh, had been both wonderful and agonising. Because it had confirmed what she already knew in her heart. That Zahir was like a drug to her, a dangerous addiction that had invaded her cells to the point where she found she craved him, ached for him. But, just like an addiction, she knew she had to face up to it in order to be able to control it.
Because giving in to her weakness, letting it take over, control her, would be her undoing. Over the years she had learnt how protect herself, to hide her emotional vulnerability. She had had to. Because there had been precious little love in her life since her mother had died. She didn’t blame her father for his coldness. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t love her the way she wanted him to. It was hers. And when she’d tried to please him—agreeing to marry Henrik, for example—she’d ended up just making things worse. The broken engagement, the dreadful shame, the crippling humiliation only served to compound her feelings of lack of self-worth. She feared she wasn’t capable of being loved, in any sense of the word. And for that reason she had to protect her own heart. She had to be very, very careful.
She thought back over the day she and Zahir had just shared, their wedding day. She had been so aware of his presence—every second of every hour—that it had felt almost like a physical pain. Standing rigidly beside her during the ceremony, silently consuming his meal next to her at the wedding breakfast or scowling across at her during the ball, her skin had prickled from the sense of him, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, her nerve endings tingling.
But then towards the end of the evening something had happened, something telling—thrilling. Their eyes had met across the ballroom and they had shared a look, an understanding. Zahir’s gaze had scorched a path between them, his hooded, mesmerising eyes spelling out exactly what was on his mind. Hunger and desire. It had been a look of such unconscious seduction, such inevitability, that it had weakened her knees, caught the breath in her throat. Zahir wanted her. She was sure of that. And she wanted him too, more than she could ever have imagined wanting any man, ever. That didn’t mean she could let down her guard—in fact now she would need to protect herself more than ever. But it did mean that the time was right. They were both ready.
So when Zahir had turned and left the ballroom Anna had prepared to leave too. Heart thumping, she had made her excuses to her guests, hurrying her goodbyes in her rush to follow him, to be with him. Because tonight was the night that Zahir would make love to her. And this time she was determined that everything would be all right.
Now she smoothed her hands over the folds of her wedding dress. All day long she had had visions of Zahir undressing her, his fingers impatiently tugging at the fiddly buttons, pulling the fine lace over her shoulders, watching the dress fall to the ground.
Well, maybe she would save him the bother. Standing up, she twisted behind her and undid the top buttons as best she could then wriggled out of the dress and placed it carefully over the back of a chair. Next she pulled out the clips that held up her hair, undoing the braids and threading her fingers through to release them until her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She looked down at herself. At the white lace bra and panties, the white silk stockings that revealed several inches of bare skin at the top of her thighs. Goosebumps skittered over her. Away from the fire, the room felt cold. But inside Anna already burned for Zahir’s touch, her body clenching at the thought of it. She wanted him so badly.
On impulse she pulled back the covers and got into bed, squirming into the sheets. Would it please Zahir to come across her like this—still in her underwear? She had no idea. She had no sexual experiences to draw on. All she knew was that, lying here semi-naked like this, she felt as sexy as hell, and that had to be a good place to start. Her hand strayed to her panties, to the soft mound of hair beneath. Tentatively her fingers slipped under the skimpy fabric, finding their way to her intimate folds. She was damp, already very aroused. Slowly, slowly, she started to gently rub herself, prepare herself for Zahir, for what was to come. Letting out a sigh, she rested her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes.
A sudden noise snapped them open again—the wail of an ambulance siren. Pushing herself up to sitting, Anna rubbed her eyes. She hoped a guest hadn’t been taken ill. What time was it? And where was Zahir? She noticed that the fire was burning low in the grate—she must have fallen asleep. Checking her watch, she realised that nearly an hour had passed since she had come to the bridal suite. More than enough time for Zahir to have joined her.
A terrible fear gripped her heart. Pulling back the covers, she tugged a throw off the bed and wrapped it around her, her body already starting to shake. She moved over to the fireplace, bending to pick up a log and throw it onto the glowing embers, watching the shower of sparks. Then, settling into a low chair, she drew up her knees and pulled the throw around her, her mind racing in all directions.
Maybe he had been waylaid. Perhaps one of the guests, one of the many foreign dignitaries that he had been conversing with all day, had suggested they talked business before he retired to bed.
Maybe he hadn’t been able to find the right room. Maybe he was wandering around the castle right now, opening doors, calling her name. Although it was pushing it to think that a man who could navigate the vastness of the desert by the stars alone would have trouble finding his way to the marital bed.
Or maybe he had been taken ill. The ambulance she had heard just now might be coming to whisk him to hospital because he’d been struck down with some mystery ailment. But that seemed equally unlikely. It was impossible to believe that Zahir Zahani had ever had a day’s sickness in his life.
Which only left one more possibility—the most painful one of all. He wasn’t coming. She must have misinterpreted the look he had given her in the ballroom—or, worse, she had imagined it completely. Like a starving dog, she had gobbled up the scrap being thrown to her, convinced that it was the start of a feast, that her hunger would finally be satisfied. But she had been wrong. And now, like a useless cur, she had been abandoned.
As she stared into the flames that were starting to leap into life, she felt the tears blocking her throat. Now the real reason Zahir wasn’t here was all too obvious.
He didn’t want her. Now he knew the truth, that she was frigid, incapable of ever being able to satisfy him, he had no use for her. Somehow this time, without even having got Zahir to her bed, she had managed to fail yet again.
* * *
Zahir stared at the man sprawled at his feet. Anger was still coursing through him, clenching his fists and his teeth, holding every muscle rigid in his body.
Bending down, he grabbed hold of Henrik’s shoulder and roughly turned him over, hearing him moan as he did so. Blood stained the snow where his face had been, seeping into the icy imprint. His face was a mess with blood flowing from his nose and mouth, his lip split and swelling. Judging from the angle of his jaw, it was definitely dislocated.
Zahir let out a long, slow breath, releasing the last of his rage into the darkness of the night. The Beast of Nabatean. So that was how he was known in the West. And now he had just lived up to his name.
Well, so be it. He didn’t give a damn. If European society wanted to look over their monocles, hide behind their simpering manners and call him a beast, then he would accept the title. Accept it with pride, in fact. For it was his strength, his fearlessness—and, yes, at times the brutality of his decisions—that had won his country their independence. He would value that over their delicate Western sensibilities a thousand times.
But Annalina...that was a different matter. Was that how she thought of him? Like some sort of beast or barbarian that fate had cruelly delivered to her door? To her bed? The thought struck him like a savage blow. Certainly he had done nothing to dispel the myth. He had never shown her the slightest care or consideration. Because he didn’t know how. He was a military man, comfortable only with logic and detachment, proud