Postcards From Paris. Sarah MayberryЧитать онлайн книгу.
is a young country. It is our duty to procreate, to provide a workforce for the future, to build upon the foundations we have established.’ Ah, yes: duty. They were back to that again. ‘But I don’t intend to make constant demands on you.’ He paused, thick lashes lowering to partly obscure his eyes. ‘If that is what you’re worrying about.’
Did she look worried? Anna had no idea what expression her face was pulling—she was too busy trying to control her body. And the thought of him making constant demands on her was only intensifying the peculiar feeling inside her. She needed to get a grip, and fast.
‘In that case...there is something that you need to know. Before we get married, I mean.’
‘Go on.’
Suddenly her whole body was painfully alive to him, every pore of her skin prickling with agonising awareness. The hairs on her arms, on the back of her neck, stood on end with craving, desire and the tortured anxiety of what she had to tell him.
‘I’m not sure.’ She reached for the security of a tendril of hair, twisting it round and round her finger. ‘But it’s quite possible that I am not able to...’
‘Not able to what?’
‘Not able to actually have sexual intercourse.’
ZAHIR’S DARK BROWS LOWERED, narrowing his hooded gaze until it was little more than twin slits of glinting stone. He twisted slightly so that his knee now touched hers, moving one arm behind them and placing it palm down on the cushions so that it anchored him in place. Anna could sense it, like a rod of muscled strength, inert yet still exuding power. Even seated he was so much taller than her, so much bigger, that she felt dwarfed by him, shaded, as if weakened by his strength.
‘I don’t understand.’ He stared at her full in the face, with no trace of embarrassment or sensitivity for her predicament. She had presented him with a problem, that much was clear from the brooding intensity of his gaze, but it was a determination to get to the facts that had set his face in stone. ‘What do you mean, you can’t have sexual intercourse? Do you have some sort of physical abnormality?’
‘No!’ Anna pulled at the neckline of her dress, hoping it would dislodge the lump in her throat as well as cool herself down. The temperature in the small room seemed to have ramped up enormously. ‘At least, it wouldn’t appear so.’
‘Have you been examined by a physician?’
‘Yes, I have, actually.’
‘And what were the findings?’
‘They could find no physical reason for the...problem.’
‘So what, then? What are you trying to tell me?’
‘I’m trying to tell you that, when it actually comes to...you know... I can’t actually... I fear I’m not able to accommodate a man.’ Anna finished the sentence all in a rush, lowering her eyes against the shame that was sweeping over her that she should have to confess such a thing to the most virile, the most sexually charged, man she had ever met. A man who was now no doubt about to break off their short engagement.
There was a brief silence punctuated by Zahir’s shallow breathing.
‘Can I ask what has led you to this conclusion?’
Oh, God. Anna just wanted to make this hell go away. To make Zahir and the problem and the whole miserable issue of having sex at all just disappear. Why couldn’t she just forget men, and getting married, and go and live in spinster isolation with nothing but a couple of undemanding cats for company? But beside her Zahir was waiting, the small amount of space between them shimmering with his impatient quest for information. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to tell him.
‘Prince Henrik and I...’ She paused, cringing inside. ‘We never consummated our betrothal. You might as well know, that was why he broke off our engagement.’
‘I wasn’t aware that that was a prerequisite of a fiancée.’ His eyes scoured her face. ‘A wife, yes, but surely before marriage a woman is at liberty to withhold her favours?’
‘That’s just it, I didn’t deliberately withhold them. It turned out that I was completely...unsatisfactory.’
‘So let me get this straight.’ Oh, dear Lord, still Zahir persisted with his questions. Couldn’t he let it drop now? In a minute he would be asking her to draw him a diagram. ‘You wanted to have sex with your fiancé but for some reason you weren’t able?’
‘Yes, well, sort of.’ Since he had posed the question so baldly, Anna was forced to accept that she hadn’t actually wanted to have sex with Henrik at all. In fact, the thought of his pallid, sweaty hands fumbling around her most intimate areas still made her feel a bit sick. But the point was it had been expected of her. And she had failed.
‘It was more Henrik’s idea. He said it was important that we consummated our relationship before the wedding. “Try before you buy”, I believe was his expression.’
Zahir’s lip curled with distaste.
‘And, as it turned out, it was just as well he did.’
This produced a low growl, like the rumble of a hungry lion, then a silence that Anna felt compelled to fill.
‘I just thought you ought to know. Before we marry, I mean. In case it might prove to be a problem for us.’
‘And do you think it will, Annalina?’ Leaning forward, Zahir stretched out a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his touch surprisingly gentle. Then, holding her chin between his finger and thumb, he tilted her face so that she had no alternative but to gaze into those bitter-chocolate eyes. ‘Do you think it will be a problem for us?’
With her whole body going into paralysis, including the beat of her heart and pump of her lungs, it was quite possible that staying alive might prove to be a problem. She stared at the sweep of his jawline—the one facial feature that probably defined him more than any other. As if hewn from granite, it was as uncompromising and as harshly beautiful as him. There was an indentation in the squared-off chin, she noted—not a dimple. A man like Zahir Zahani would never be in possession of a dimple. A strong dusting of stubble shaded its planes.
On the bridge in Paris, when she had so recklessly decided to kiss him, she had been dimly aware that his skin had felt smooth, freshly shaved. But how would it would feel tonight, now, with that tempting shadow of dark beard? Suddenly she longed to find out, to feel it rasp against her cheek like the lick of a cat’s tongue. He was so very close...so very difficult to resist.
‘I don’t know.’ Finally finding her voice, Anna blinked against the erotic temptation. That was the truth: she didn’t. Right now she didn’t know anything at all. Except that she wanted Zahir to kiss her more than anything, more than she cared about her next breath. She found herself unconsciously squirming on the makeshift sofa, the rough weave of the tribal rugs scratching the exposed bare skin of her thigh as her dress rode up.
What was she doing? This had not been her plan at all. When she had summoned up her courage, faced Zahir with her guilty, frankly embarrassing, secret, it had been with the intention of letting him know what he was taking on here. That his fiancée was frigid. Anna still felt the pain of the word, hurled at her by Henrik as he had levered his body off her, before pulling on his clothes and storming off into the night. Frigid.
His accusation had torn into her, flaying her skin, leaving her staring up at the ceiling in horrified confusion. Not to be able to perform the most basic, natural function of a woman was devastating. She was inadequate, useless. Not a proper woman at all, in fact. The doctor’s diagnosis hadn’t helped. Being told there was nothing physically wrong with her, that there was no quick fix—no medical fix at all, in fact—had only added to her lack of self-worth. Neither had time softened the blow, her deficiency seeping