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Particularly as she was back in such an uncertain capacity. Was she to officially become Emira? Or to return to London, rejected by the Sheikh who had approached her for this union?
Something sweet floated past her. The fragrance of a bud that was better at night. She breathed it in deeply.
He’d kissed her.
The memory made her stomach squeeze.
He’d kissed her, and it had sent her whole body into an abyss of sensation that she hadn’t ever imagined possible.
The way he’d felt – so big and powerful against her slight frame – would stay with her forever.
And yet she stood on the balcony outside her suite of rooms, praying that he would tell the Sheikh she would make a good wife. That she was ready for the duties that becoming Emira would carry.
It was late when a knock sounded on her door. She looked inside, past the palatial bed, to the white and gold doors that provided access. She sighed, sending the desert one last soulful glance, and then padded back into her room.
She’d discarded the uncomfortable dress of earlier that day and opted for a pair of linen pants and a casual cream shirt. She had not been expecting any further interruptions. Even Abigail was safely tucked into her room next door.
“Good evening.” The servant bowed low, waving his hand to the floor in an obsequious manner. “I apologise for the late interruption, but his royal highness, the exalted Sheikh Khalid ash-Hareth has requested an interview.”
Her heart turned over in her chest. “Oh.” She looked down at her casual outfit. “Certainly. Please inform the Sheikh I’ll be there shortly.”
“I apologise, madam, but he was quite explicit that you should come immediately.”
“Oh, he was, huh?” She bit down on her lip in silent consternation. While she hardly felt dressed for an audience with her prospective husband, the fact that he was beckoning her so soon was positive.
She backtracked to the mirror and took a few moments to neaten her hair, then straightened. Outwardly she appeared calm, but her insides were fluttering.
The servant led the way through the marble tiled corridors of the guest wing and into the more lavishly decorated royal apartments.
With every step she took, Sally’s nervousness increased. She had come to Tari’ell to marry the Sheikh, and now? She was about to find out if he wanted that after all.
What if the devastatingly handsome cousin had said she wasn’t suitable? What if he’d said … what if he’d told the Sheikh what had happened between them? Memories of the kiss seared to the centre of her soul.
The hopes and dreams of her family and her people felt heavy on her slender shoulders. She moved quietly through the hallways, until the servant paused outside a set of gold doors. He knocked three times, and then stepped back, his hand lifted in a salute while he stared into the distance.
The door opened inwards, and another servant in matching attire took the same stance.
“Should I go in?” She asked in a sotto voce. When neither servant so much as batted an eyelid, she took in a deep breath for courage and took a step through the doorway. It was a spacious sitting room, with ornate furniture, decorative mirrors and a chandelier right in the centre. It dangled into the centre of the room, loaded with sparkling crystal and shimmering glass.
But there was no one there.
She looked from one door to another, a frown on her face as she contemplated what to do next.
A breeze rustled in at that moment, billowing a sheer cream curtain through the opening in the wall.
A balcony! Just like hers, she thought, walking towards it on autopilot. Her fate was beyond those billowing curtains.
She saw him immediately.
It was him.
Not the Sheikh, but his cousin. And though she was very angry with him for the way he’d interrogated her and then kissed her, she felt a thump in her heart as she looked upon his back. His hair was down now. Freed from its bun, it fell in thick waves to below his shoulders. He was wearing loose black pants and a dark shirt. He looked sinful and sexy.
He turned when she emerged, his dark eyes pinning to her instantly. He examined her as though she were little more than an object. Insolently, his gaze drifted from her hair, to her make-up-less face, and the casual clothes she wore.
She had an excellent game face, he thought with surprising admiration. Though he somehow just knew she was terrified, she was looking at him as if they were about to discuss something completely inconsequential.
“I was told the Sheikh wanted to see me,” she said finally, her accent distinctly English.
