Free The Sultan's Choice by Abby Green Page B

Simone had looked at him with dry amusement.
‘Chéri,
that dress alone contains about three hundred more yards of material than the excuse for a dress you bought the last time you were here—so, yes, it’s fine.’
    His eyes snapped open again but that image of Samia—one long slender leg revealed in a thigh-high slit, bare shoulders and that enticing cleavage—was burned onto his retinas. He went and poured himself a shot of whisky and walked to the window, which looked out over the immaculate floodlit gardens. How long had she been keeping that body hidden under those boxy suits? All her life, he’d guess, and yet for all of her apparent shyness and insecurity he was seeing more and more tantalising flashes of something much more feisty.
    It had been some kind of torture today, watching her parade in front of him in a range of outfits. And he couldn’t fathom it. He’d watched women parade in front of him for years and it had never had such a profound effect on him.
    But with each successive fitting today Sadiq’s tension had risen and risen, to the point that he’d had to leave or turn into a slavering fool in front of the impeccably cool Simone, whom he suspected had already noticed the change in his usually unflappable demeanour.
    The wedding dress and underwear fittings had not come soon enough, and he’d all but run out of the salon. And now he stood here, hand clenched around his glass, wondering why he felt so threatened at facing the unexpected realitythat he desired his wife-to-be. Surely this had to be a
good
thing? His wedding night would be no hardship.
    Even at that thought his body hardened, and Sadiq cursed. He was reduced to being turned on—as if someone was controlling a remote mechanism from a distance! He took a deep gulp of the drink and winced slightly, chastising himself. He had nothing to fear. He was being ridiculous. It was as simple as this: he was embarking on an arranged marriage and his head was merely telling his body that he desired his wife. Biology, pure and simple, to ensure that he sired heirs.
    Nevertheless, when Sadiq sat down and tried to concentrate on important correspondence trepidation skated over his nerve-endings.
    A little later Sadiq sat back in his chair and twirled a wine glass in his hands, the ruby liquid catching the light. Samia was mesmerised by the play of muscles in Sadiq’s forearm and had to force herself to remember what he’d just asked.
    ‘My father remarried when I turned two. Alesha was a distant cousin of his, from the northern territory of Burquat.’
    Sadiq’s eyes narrowed on Samia and she looked down to her empty dessert plate.
    ‘That’s it?’
    Samia shrugged minutely, uncomfortably aware of how the material of her top skated over her suddenly sensitive skin. ‘She wasn’t … very maternal. I think she viewed my brother and I as a threat.’ She looked up at Sadiq again and tried a wry smile. ‘You see, my father truly loved our mother, even though it had been an arranged marriage. And when she died …’ Samia’s smile faltered when she thought of the deep wells of sadness her father’s eyes had been. ‘He was devastated.’
    Sadiq frowned. ‘You said she died in childbirth with you?’ Samia nodded and swallowed, pushing down the emotionshe always thought she had no right to feel—that yawning sense of loss. ‘She developed pre-eclampsia and by the time they realised why she’d gone into labour early it was too late. She slipped into a coma and died a few days later.’
    Wanting to divert the attention from herself, Samia asked, ‘You never had any brothers or sisters?’
    He looked up, and the sudden tension in the air and in Sadiq’s face warned Samia that she had strayed into sensitive territory—which made her curious.
    He shook his head. ‘No. Just me.’ He smiled, but it was tight, and drained the last of his wine.
    She’d obviously touched a nerve and was instantly intrigued. She watched the strong column of