Something her husband might never give her.
I could almost hate you.
Tariq stared out at the cobbled streets of Paris, Jasmine's words ringing in his head. He was used to being adored by her, being the center of her attention, as he'd been since their first meeting. He'd never considered being with a Jasmine who didn't treat him that way.
He didn't like the sensation. Not when his need for her ran so deep that he missed her every moment she wasn't by his side. He'd only survived the four years without her by working night and day, striving for mindless exhaustion. Her laughter and affection since her return had been a balm to the hunger inside him. Now she was furious with him.
He'd underestimated the woman she'd become. A woman who apparently felt things more deeply and wildly than he'd given her credit for. She'd always had quiet feminine courage, but this was the first time she'd dared to rebuke him for his actions with such blunt honesty. He finally listened to the inner voices he'd been ignoring, accepting that she'd changed dra matically from the Jasmine he'd known.
That Jasmine would never have hated him.
That Jasmine had also walked away from him.
If he opened his heart just a little, what would this Jasmine do? Would she treat him with the same disregard she'd shown four years ago or...? The possibilities were as intriguing and as tempting as the evocative scents borne on the Paris winds.
But first, he'd have to win Mina back. She was his. She wasn't allowed to hate him.
Chapter Eight
"W hat do you mean, he's in the courtyard?" Jasmine cried, shoving her hands through her tumbled hair.
Mumtaz shrugged her delicate shoulders. "I persuaded Hiraz to delay him so I could warn you."
"But it's Friday night. He wasn't supposed to be back until Monday!"
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Mumtaz's eyes widened. "I must go. I wish you luck." She slipped out the door. Jasmine heard her say something to Tariq.
With a muted cry of frustration, Jasmine secured the azure silk robe around her waist. It was too late to change. She didn't want to greet Tariq wearing a robe that hit her midthigh, with her hair loose around her shoulders, but the doorknob was turning. Quickly, she settled onto the stool in front of her dressing table and picked up her brush. At least this way, if her legs collapsed, he wouldn't know.
She heard Tariq enter the room and close the door. Her fingers tightened convulsively around the carved wooden handle of the brush, but she continued the smooth, full-length strokes, ignoring his presence. She felt him move until he was standing behind her. He leaned forward and put both hands on her dressing table, one on either side of her, effectively caging her with his body. She kept brushing her hair, though she couldn't feel her fingers anymore because they were shaking so hard. She didn't look in the mirror, avoiding the trap of green fire that awaited her.
"How's your throat infection?" He reminded her of one of her earlier excuses, not referring to the last painful call.
"Much better."
"I can hear that. And you're feeling well?"
"Yes." She tried to avoid touching her head to his chest. Every time she moved an inch away, he leaned closer, until she was on the edge of her stool with nowhere to go.
"Good. I was worried, as you seemed to be sleeping so much when I called." Though his tone was calm, she knew he had to be furious. He wasn't a man used to being repri manded.
And she wasn't ready to face his anger. Despite her bravado, she didn't hate Tariq. Her feelings for him were raw and undefined, but they didn't come close to hate, and their depth and promise scared her. What if she began to love him even more deeply than she had all these years?
The heat of his body seemed to surround her. She wondered if he'd subtly moved. It was becoming difficult to continue to brush her hair, because with every stroke, she touched him. She chanced a peek at his arms and saw that he'd lessened the gap between them. He was wearing a blue shirt, his jacket discarded.
He reached out, took the brush from her nerveless fingers and put it on the dresser. Then he tucked her hair behind her ears, baring her face. She froze as he stroked the knuckles of one hand down her cheek in a simple but powerful caress, reminding her of the times he'd done that after -they'd made love. She curled her fingers into fists and gritted her teeth against the response he could call forth so easily. The memory of his parting gibe helped, but it wouldn't hold up forever against this gentle persuasion.
"Will you also refuse to talk to me now that I am home?" He continued the lazy caress.
"I'm talking to you right now." She was overjoyed when her voice didn't break.
"No. You are answering my questions and hiding yourself from me."
She didn't say anything.
"You are very angry with me, my Jasmine?" The husky timbre of his voice was close to her ear, his body almost totally enclosing her. "You have not calmed down?"
"I'm not angry." Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. The anger had long since burned out, leaving behind a residue of hurt so deep she felt ravaged.
He kissed the lobe of her ear. A shiver raced through her. She couldn't disguise the instinctive reaction, but neither did she do anything else.
"Ah, Mina, you cannot lie. Come, look at me. Welcome your husband home."
His words were an unwanted echo of his commands before he'd left. "Do you wish to have sex? If you'll move, I'll get on the bed." Dark and violent emotions rose in her throat, daring her to release them. She stifled the urge, refusing to let Tariq see just how badly he'd hurt her when he'd brought her deepest fear to the surface and given it form.
His body turned to stone around her. She could feel his muscles tensing as if to strike. He drew back so fast that she nearly fell off the stool, unbalanced. She'd barely got herself grounded when he lifted her and stood her in front of him. In bare feet, she only came halfway up his chest. Startled, she almost met his eyes but managed to fix her gaze on his shoulders.
"Mina, do not do this. You know you will turn into liquid fire in my arms." He curved one hand over her hip and used the other to cup her cheek, but didn't force her to look up.
"Yes, I know you can make me pant at any time." She swallowed the lump in her throat as she repeated his taunt. A taunt so true it made her cry inside. If he touched her much longer with those sensitive fingers, she'd shatter like fine crystal. Something wild and needy in her recognized his touch and wouldn't let her pull away. "I'm not going to fight you."
He growled at her response and pulled her into a bruising embrace, holding her head against his chest. Jasmine had to fight every instinct she possessed not to respond. Her hunger for him was a clawing being inside her. She reminded herself that she was prized but not irreplaceable. Not irreplaceable. He felt only momentary lust when he touched her. When she remained stiff, arms at her sides, he released her.
"Go to bed, Jasmine." He sounded tired and defeated. Leaving her standing in the center of the bedroom, he pushed through the connecting door and into his room.
The door shut with a quiet click.
Out of nowhere, exhaustion slammed into Jasmine. Dreading this confrontation, she'd barely slept the past five nights. Still wearing the silk robe, she crawled under the blankets. However, a sense of loss kept nudging her awake. She knew it was a lie. She'd never had anything to lose. Still, she wanted to go to her husband and hold him... soothe him.
"No." No, she wouldn't give in to the need, when he clearly saw nothing wrong with his treatment of her. Respect, she repeated to herself. She was worthy of respect.
Tariq threw his balled-up shirt across the room. She'd denied him! He'd never expected that from Jasmine. He had relied on her generous nature to forgive him. Time and distance, and Jasmine's passionate anger, had made him regret his cruel words. That day in her solar, he'd allowed the wounded beast inside him to speak, full of years of pent-up anger and pain. It would have been better to keep that uncontrollable part of himself locked up.
H
e'd been feeling instead of thinking, and the words that had slipped out had been weapons aimed at his wife. More than that, they'd been untrue. He had four years of midnight awakenings to attest to the fact that she was irreplaceable.
What if the damage was irreversible? What if Mina did hate him? Her body had been so stiff in his embrace, her lips so silent. She'd been like a small creature frozen in front of a predator. The painful image forced him to accept that what he'd felt from Jasmine hadn't been anger or a need for revenge, but... hurt. His temper vanished in the face of that truth. He had hurt his wife, his Mina. There was no satisfaction in that knowledge, only disgust at himself. She was his to protect. Even from himself.
For the first time in an eternity, Tariq was uncertain about his next act. A sheik could rarely indulge in indecision, but it appeared that a husband had plenty of opportunity to do so. He knew he'd acted badly, but he wasn't a man accustomed to asking for forgiveness. With a sound akin to a growl, he stalked into the shower, his mind on the small woman with big blue eyes next door.
Familiar hands, rough but gentle, stroked the naked line of her spine. Jasmine frowned, sure that she'd been clothed before sleep, but in this dream, skin touched skin. A kiss on her nape, on each vertebra, possessive hands grasping her hips... She moaned and turned onto her back, welcoming her lover. When he pressed his lips to her breasts, she arched into him. Waking thoughts merged with hazy dreams as her fingers tangled in thick silky hair. A beard-roughened jaw angled across her breast. She shivered and the spot was immediately kissed.
"Tariq," she whispered, awake and aware. It was too late to stop her response. Her whole body was open in invitation. Jasmine sighed and gave in to the inevitable. Whatever he said, whatever he did, he was hers. How could she possibly deny him when he touched her as if she was precious?
When he kissed her, she returned his kiss joyously, unable to hide how much she'd missed him. He shuddered against her and broke away to drop kisses across her breasts. Under her fingers, his shoulder muscles bunched as he moved down her body, dropping a line of kisses across her stomach and flicking his tongue over the indentation of her navel.
Shivers racked her body as he found an unexpectedly sensitive spot. Her reaction made him repeat the quick caress. Her stomach muscles clenched and her hips jerked upward without conscious control. Pressed so close, she could feel his heartbeat in the pulse of his body.
She parted her thighs for him without prompting, but he didn't rise to possess her. He lifted her left leg and placed it over his shoulder. Her sensitive skin burned from the heat of his body. Then he rubbed his rough jaw across the tender skin on the insides of her thighs.
She gasped. "Tariq, please."
He soothed the roughness with his tongue, sending her nerves into further disarray. Then he repeated the whole process with her right leg. Just when she thought that she could feel no more pleasure, he dipped his head and bestowed the most intimate kiss of all upon her.
She screamed and would've squirmed away, but his hold on her hips kept her in place as he slowly, and with great care, introduced her to this shatteringly intimate form of loving. His only aim was her pleasure.
With the tiny slice of her brain that was functioning, she knew this was Tariq's apology. Her warrior was adoring her body, cherishing her response. He couldn't say the words, but he was showing her that she was more than an object to satisfy his lust. How much more, she didn't know, but even the depth of her hurt couldn't survive against this kind of tenderness.
She clutched handfuls of the sheets and gave herself up to his caresses. Once more, she gave her heart and soul to Tariq, her vows to keep him at bay disintegrating into dust. She felt the change in him immediately. His intense, concentrated caressing continued, but his shoulders were no longer so tense under her thighs, and his hands were anchors rather than vices forcing her to stay in place. And then she couldn't think. She found the kind of freedom that she could only find in his arms and splintered on the wings of pleasure. He held her until the tremors subsided and then gently entered her, as if unsure of his welcome.
Tears pricked her eyes at his hesitation. He wasn't acting the autocratic despot now. The silent question delivered the final blow to any lingering hurt. She deliberately clenched her inner muscles and held him prisoner, telling him without words that he was wanted, needed, loved. At the same time, she curled her arms around him and dropped kisses across his shoulders. With a groan, he began to move.
"Welcome home," she whispered, just before she crested the highest pinnacle of desire for a second time that night.
A long while later, she gathered enough confidence to ask, "Why did you return early?"
Tariq spooned her deeper against him and dropped a kiss on the curve of her shoulder where it met her neck. "The trade agreement was completed earlier than expected."
"Did you..." She began to ask him about the agreement, then stopped, unwilling to be rebuffed. He'd loved her with fire, but she was afraid that she'd be waking up beside the cool, reserved stranger he'd become after Zeina.
"What, Mina?"
" Nothing."
He was silent for a while and then said, "Zulheil now has a contract with several Western states that will allow our artistic products to cross their borders without duty."
She took the olive branch, prepared to meet him halfway. "Why artistic products?"
"Zulheil's jewelry and other artistic products are highly prized. They are our third biggest export. The agreement goes both ways." He chuckled, warming her heart. "They think their goods will flood our markets, but they're wrong."
"How do you know that?"
"Because, Mina--" he squeezed her with unexpected play fulness "--we have had such an agreement with the United States for years."
"Really? But there's no mass-market stuff in your streets." She snuggled into him, her head pillowed on his arm.
"My people are used to the best handcrafted goods. The riches of the land are shared by all. The cheap things they send are never bought."
"You're snobs."
Her husband shrugged. "But we are rich enough to be so."
His unrepentant reply made her laugh. She couldn't temper her responses to him when he let his shields fall. "So you're getting the best of this bargain? Why don't they know about the experience of the Americans?"
"Nobody likes to admit their mistakes. What would it look like if the world's biggest power had been ...I have lost the word," he paused, waiting for her.
"Conned?" she suggested cheekily.
"Yes. It would not look good for them if they were seen to have been conned by a tiny sheikdom from the desert. A poor, primitive people."
She laughed so hard that she cried. "Primitive!"
When she'd stopped giggling, Tariq bit her lightly on her shoulder to catch her attention. She turned into his arms, aware that she'd capitulated too easily, without waiting for words of apology to banish her heartache. But she'd always known that Tariq would never humble himself in such a blatant fashion. He was too much the desert warrior for that. For now, his incredibly tender loving was enough.
It was a start.
Early the next morning, Jasmine sat on the edge of her Zulheil Rose fountain, listening to the cool splash of the water and the quiet sounds of the birds. Kept awake by her newly reinvigorated demons, she'd made the decision to leave Tariq sprawled in bed, and face them. Face them and defeat them.
First, she accepted that she'd never truly been loved. Not the way she needed to be loved.
Perhaps if she'd chosen Tariq four years ago, he might have learned to love her like that. Perhaps. However, back then, she'd been young and needy compared to Tariq's strength and confidence. While he'd cherished her, he'd also been her care taker. Her love for him had been deep and achingly true, but it had been the love of a girl growing into womanhood. Tender. Easily bruised.
Though her hurt had made her doubt her feelings, since she'd come to Zulheil her love had matured and grown, fed by h
er awakening emotions for the man Tariq had become. All vestiges of the youth were gone, but in his place was a man of integrity, power and charisma. A man who touched her with tenderness that turned her heart inside out. A man who was, quite simply, magnificent.
She loved this Tariq with an intensity that even his anger couldn't destroy. This love was tougher and gave her the cour age to look behind his remarks, to the pain she'd caused. This love gave her the strength to fight for her lover.
From the first day she'd arrived, Tariq had been demanding. Now, she saw that as a gift. He no longer thought of her as a girl to be protected, but as a woman who had to confront her mistakes.
That was the first truth. The second was that she still wasn't loved. And that terrified her. Her naive belief in her ability to reach Tariq with her love had been smashed beyond repair that day before Paris, and she couldn't face that kind of tor ment again. She'd been rejected so many times in her life that once more might break her. So, while she would continue to fight for her sheik's trust, she wouldn't do it by offering him her heart... or betraying her hunger to be loved in return.
"I think we're getting somewhere," Jasmine said to Mum taz two weeks later. They were browsing in an art supply store in Zulheina. "He's talking to me."
"Talking about what?"
"Business, mostly." She was drawn to the easel in the corner.
"Hmm, that is good, but what about your relationship?" Jasmine ran her fingers down the polished wood of the easel. Perfect. Leaning down, she picked up several prepared canvasses and stacked them on the easel. Tariq had always liked to prepare his own, but these would do for a start.
"I don't want to ruin it by pushing." She wandered over to the oil paints and began selecting tubes. Pthalo blue, burnt umber, viridian hue...
"You are waiting for something?" Mumtaz absently added titanium white to Jasmine's collection.
"I want some sign that... I can't explain it." Ever since his return from Paris , Tariq had treated her with kid gloves, keeping an emotional barrier between them. He didn't hurt her with his anger any longer, but conversely, she couldn't breach his shields to teach him to trust in her again.