The Desert Lord's Love-Child: The Desert Lord's Baby

She couldn’t deny his verdict. But she had to know. “What changed your mind? You were cold, angry …”

His lips remained frozen in that smile that filled her with dread and lust and anticipation. “I’m still cold and angry. It will probably make it all the more explosive.”

She raised her hands, an attempt to dilute his convictions, stop her capitulation from being total. “If you think I’m riling you, if you think I can enjoy force …”

He barked a laugh. “Force? The only force I ever used was what I needed to unlock you from around my body.”

“That was when there was only goodwill between us, not this—this malice. Don’t make it change your mind about the marriage in name only you proposed.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock bafflement. “Were we in the same scene back there in your apartment? When did I propose or even imply that ‘in name’ bit? We were tearing at each other within hours of meeting, and now that we’re married, you think it a possibility to keep our hands off each other?”

“We only got married for Mennah.” She tried again, desperate to hang on to her separateness, knowing that this time, if she surrendered, there’d be nothing left of her.

“That we married for Mennah, that I would have never married you if not for her, has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been burning for sixteen months, needing to feel you underneath me, writhing and screaming your pleasure as I pound into you. No matter how we came to be married, we are. I’m your husband. And I want you. You will share my public life as my wife, and you will be my mistress again in private. And I will do everything to you, with you, for you. Everything, Carmen. And then more.”

Her legs gave out. She went down like a demolished building, missed the sofa, ended up on the floor leaning on it. She looked up at him, fighting the urge to beg him, if not for the tenderness he’d lavished on her before, then for some assurance what he felt wasn’t a cold lust that would consume her to ashes.

“I would have stayed and made you beg for everything you’re pretending not to want, but I have to meet my uncle now. I won’t be coming back, so you have our bed for yourself for the night. I won’t see you again, as is our custom, until the ceremony.”

He turned away, strode to the hall. At the connecting arch, he tossed over his shoulder.

“Get all the rest you can. You’ll need it.”

Nine

Carmen lay on her face on the massage-table, staring at her hands. Her skin had turned into reddish brown lace of extreme intricateness, a different design on each hand. It was as if she was turning into an alien species. A very pretty one, though.

“This is my best mehndi henna ever!” Ameenah exclaimed, marveling at her handiwork. She raised shining black eyes to Carmen, her smile displaying her lovely teeth and nature, deepening her dark beauty. “But then it’s your input that turned it into a masterpiece. It is ingenious, how you designed those patterns made of somow’el Ameer Farooq’s name in all the languages you know.”

Yeah. She’d gone all-out, to borrow a word of his.

Ameenah rose from her kneeling position before her. “I so hope he’ll decipher your homage without being told.”

Carmen only smiled. She was hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Writing his name all over her body was something she’d done for herself, on an unstoppable impulse, as if she’d feel closer to him this way, say all the things she couldn’t and had never been able to say out loud, make all the confessions he had no use for.

She rose, put on her clothes, marveling at how she’d been able to strip almost naked in Ameenah’s presence to get her henna done. Just like her husband, Ameenah made her, and Mennah, feel they’d known her forever, could depend on her. She already had in so many things during the day. Her wedding day.

After Farooq left her last night, she was too agitated to do anything, let alone sleep. But Ameenah breezed in, all smiles and welcome, bearing the list Farooq had given her to perform on Carmen in preparation for the wedding. And the wedding night.

After her first pensiveness and reluctance, Ameenah’s cheerfulness and enthusiasm infected her, made everything feel so much better, even fun.

She threw herself into the spirit of things, surrendered to Ameenah’s mastery of coddling as she carried out her crown prince’s directives. With the help of Salmah and Hend, her daughters, she sorted through her things for Carmen, got her acquainted with the mind-boggling facilities in the palace. Then, while Carmen fed Mennah dinner and answered e-mails, they went out, returned with a rack of clothes from which to choose a wedding outfit.

She’d known this was coming. She should have been surprised at the range and lavishness of the outfits and nothing more.

She did more. She burst into tears. She, who’d never shed a tear even when her mother had died, who hadn’t known what crying was until after she’d left Farooq. But she’d never thought she’d wear a wedding dress again, and for it to be something of this caliber, in which to marry Farooq …

The good part was the ladies were totally sympathetic. More, it seemed she won their hearts by displaying such human frailty, such emotional involvement. Ameenah let her know it was only fitting that Farooq married a woman who so deeply recognized the blessing of marrying him, who worshipped him as he deserved to be worshipped.

At the sight of the clothes, Mennah crawled at top speed, hurled herself among them, yelling in excitement at the feel of the rich layers of cloth, at the colors, no doubt recognizing the sheer decadence of each creation. She tried to chew and taste her favorites and, clever baby that she was, the one she chewed hardest was the one Carmen felt had been created for her.

An incredible burnt red-orange the exact color of her hair three-piece Pakistani/Indian/Arabian-design creation, it had a jamawar silk corset top with wide shoulder straps and a concealed zip closure at the back. It was scalloped on all edges, more elaborate at a décolleté that dipped just above her cleavage. It was heavily hand-embroidered with intricate floral designs of silver and gold thread and embellished in sequins, beads, pearls, crystals, semiprecious stones and appliqué in every shade of turquoise, azure and sky-blue, all the shades of her eyes. It had echoing armbands that rained gold beaded tassels, with matching chiffon veils attached that cascaded to her hands.

The skirt was a trailing lehenga of turquoise chiffon over shimmering azure silk taffeta lining, its embroidery and embellishments echoing the top’s, in coral, ruby and garnet shades with scalloping at the hemline. The third piece was a veil dupatta in dual shading of coral/crystal-blue with scalloped, heavily embellished borders and vivid azure edging on the corners.

When Ameenah moved to the next item on the list, adjusting it to fit her, Carmen threw herself into the pleasure of handling such exquisiteness, letting her sewing skills loose. Among them they turned it into a custom-made creation in under an hour. The enjoyment lasted until it was time for the next item on the list.

Choosing the accessories.

From Farooq’s mother’s jewelry. And Judar’s royal jewels.

Ameenah and half a dozen guards escorted Carmen to a gigantic vault deep underneath the palace. As she stepped inside, she knew how Ali Baba had felt on entering the cave of the forty thieves.

Beyond dazzled at the treasure she thought reason enough to have an invasion mounted on the palace, on Judar, she hesitantly chose a set matching her outfit’s colors. She wouldn’t have been able to choose based on anything else. It was a twenty-four-karat gold-lace Indian-style choker with a design undulating to a central pendant reaching below her collarbone, matching shoulder-length earrings, bracelet and anklet. All pieces were inlaid in aquamarines, sapphires and rubies, with eight-point star motifs with a diamond center, one karat each in the necklace and a ten-karat stone in the pendant.