Kitabı oku: «Pleasure», sayfa 6
“No joke, sweetheart. There is more to the world than America.”
“Are you trying to scare me? Because it won’t work, your highness. Luckily for me, this is America, not Dubaac!”
He caught her face between his hands and kissed her, hard, again and again until he felt the first softening of her mouth under his.
The knowledge that she still wanted him, despite everything, made him want to push her back against the pillows and take her again and again until she was clinging to him, whispering to him, until his possession was all that mattered.
But he was not a fool.
She knew how to use her sexuality, and he knew better than to succumb to it.
So he drew back, ran his thumbs over the razor-sharp bones of her cheeks and smiled into her eyes.
“We are over the Atlantic, habiba. And though I am sure you find my title an amusing anachronism I assure you, it is quite real. It has power. For instance, it means that this plane is the equivalent of Dubaacian soil.”
Her eyes widened; he smiled.
“That’s right, habiba. For all intents and purposes, you are already in Dubaac. And, because of what just happened in my bed, you are now my wife.”
He let go of her so suddenly that she tumbled back against the pillows.
“And I,” he said, his smile gone, his eyes flat as glass, “am your lord and master.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MMADISON stared at the door Tariq had shut behind him.
Shut. Not slammed. A display of hot anger would have been frightening. His icy calmness was terrifying.
She flew to the door and locked it even though she knew it was an empty gesture. A lock would not keep him out. This was his plane, staffed by people loyal to a prince who thought he lived in an earlier century.
That he had brought her on board, carried her to his bed, kept her in it while he forced himself on her.
She bit back a moan.
Tariq hadn’t forced himself on her. She had responded to each touch, each kiss, urged him to do more, to take her and take her and take her.
No. She wasn’t going there. Her moment of weakness was in the past. She’d had sex with him. It wasn’t the end of the world. She was almost thirty, she was not a virgin; she’d had sex before.
But never like that.
Never so she wouldn’t have noticed if the world had ended as long as Tariq held her, moved deep, deep inside her.
Madison spun away from the door.
What he had done had been a pure, masculine flaunting of power. What she had done was disgrace herself, but reliving what had happened was pointless. Thinking about that—that nasty fairy tale he’d told her about kidnapped women and forced marriages, was pointless, too.
It had to be a lie.
Not even the Prince from Hell would think he could get away with that kind of thing.
He’d tried to scare her and he’d succeeded, but she was past that now. What mattered was getting through the next hours, until he wearied of this new game. That meant getting dressed, leaving this room and facing him with her head high.
First, she needed to clean up. She could smell his scent on her skin.
There was another door in the room. Did it open onto a bathroom? Yes. A bathroom, complete with a shower stall. She turned the water on full, stepped under it, reached for the soap.
His soap.
This same bar had slid over his body, over all those hard muscles, over the steel-in-silk part of him that had filled her.
Madison caught her breath.
She waited, let the water beat down on her bowed head. Then she got busy scrubbing and rinsing.
She dried off. Finger-combed her hair. Stepped back into the bedroom, flung open the drawers of a built-in dresser and found shirts and jeans. His clothing, of course, and she hated the thought of it against her skin but what choice did she have?
She dressed quickly, rolling up the legs of a pair of faded jeans, securing the waist with a belt she dragged through the loops and knotted. She plucked a shirt from the drawer, cotton so soft it might have been silk. The fit was a bad joke but she managed, folding back the sleeves, gathering the tails together and tying them just above the jeans.
Then she went back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.
A dressed-for-success vice president had boarded this plane.
The woman looking back at her now was a mess.
No makeup. Her hair was drying in wavy tendrils, the way it always did if she didn’t blow it dry. She looked ridiculous in Tariq’s clothing and there was no way his crew would not know why she was wearing it but hadn’t she just finished telling herself that they’d know, anyway, and that she didn’t give a damn?
All that mattered was finding out what he was up to because surely, he would not take her out of the States. He wasn’t a fool. Prince or no prince, she would bring charges against him.
He had to realize that.
Madison hesitated, hand on the knob. A deep breath. A slow exhalation. Then she unlocked the door and stepped into the cabin.
Someone had dimmed the lights, though a bright spotlight illuminated Tariq, who was seated on a leather love seat. A tall, ice-filled glass was on the table next to him; an open portable computer was in his lap.
He looked calm and contained, every dark hair in place, his clothes neat and unruffled.
Why did that made her angry?
“Tariq.”
He looked up, saw her, let his eyes sweep over her. She could read nothing whatsoever in his face. Her temper, already at a simmer, began to boil.
“I see you found something to wear.”
Madison raised her chin. “Not the latest in fashion, but it will have to do.”
“I also see that we’re finally on a first name basis.”
“I want an explanation.”
“Do you?” A slow smile softened his mouth. “I’ll be happy to oblige, habiba, though I would have thought what happened in my bed was clear enough.”
He was trying to embarrass her. And he was succeeding—but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it.
God, what a horrible man!
“How long before we’re home?”
“Sit down, Madison.”
“Answer the question.”
His eyes narrowed. “Try asking it with some courtesy and perhaps I will.”
“I want to know how long it’s going to take until—”
“Six hours.”
She blinked. “Six …?”
“We’ve been flying for four hours. Six more, and we arrive in Dubaac.”
“I said, home. New York. If you think you can frighten me by pretending we’re—”
“Why would I want to frighten you, habiba? My home is Dubaac. That is where we are going.”
“You mean—you mean, when you said—when you said—”
Tariq shot to his feet.
Crimson patches had ridden high on her cheeks when she’d finally emerged from his bedroom. Now, she’d lost color so quickly he was afraid she might faint, and he’d already been the cause of that once before.
He wasn’t going to let it happen again.
Bad enough he’d made love to her without asking if it was safe for the baby. At least, then, he’d had an excuse. The part of his anatomy that had been doing his thinking wasn’t much for logic.
But he could have dealt with what she’d just asked him with a little more finesse.
It was only that she drove him insane when she got that holier-than-thou look on her beautiful face.
“Sit!” he barked, and before she could protest, he caught her in the curve of his arm and drew her down on the love seat with him. “Are you going to pass out?”
“No,” she whispered.
No, indeed, he thought grimly.
“Put your head forward.”
“I’m fine.”
“Did I ask your opinion, habiba? Bend forward. Lean against me.”
She wanted to argue or, better still, ignore the command, but his hand was on the back of her head, gently but insistently easing it forward. With a sigh, she let her forehead settle against his shoulder.
The terrible truth was that she did feel woozy. The doctor had said her health was excellent but that in early pregnancy some women might feel that way.
“Ahh,” she said, and shut her eyes at the wonderfully cold sting of ice against the nape of her neck.
“Good?”
She nodded. Wonderful, was more like it, but why tell him that?
“Is it—is it the child? Are you—”
“No. It’s nothing like that. The baby’s okay.”
“Perhaps we should not have.” He hesitated; his voice lowered and she felt the warmth of his breath at her temple. “Perhaps we should not have made love.”
Madison looked up. “What we did,” she said, “was have sex.”
“Lean your head against me, damn it!” The ice cube moved lightly over her skin again. “Perhaps you should eat something.”
“We just had lunch …”
“Hours ago,” he said sternly. “Besides, you are eating for two now, remember? Yusuf!”
Yusuf came running, as if conjured by Aladdin’s lamp.
“My lord?”
“Bring us something to drink. Water. Juice. Something cold.”
“Certainly, your highness.”
Yusuf inclined his head and started toward the galley. Tariq’s bellow stopped him.
“Sir?”
“Bring something sweet, as well. Cake. Chocolate.”
“Of course, your highness.”
“And do it quickly!”
“I will, sir.”
Madison, face still tucked against Tariq’s shoulder, gave a little laugh.
“Doesn’t he know that dawdlers can be drawn and quartered?”
“Very amusing. Do you feel better?”
“Yes. I can get up now.”
“You cannot.” She heard the cube of ice plop back into the glass. “What you may do is lift your head. Slowly. Good.” His arm tightened around her. “Sit still and take deep breaths.”
“Are the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ not part of your vocabulary?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
Yusuf appeared with a tray. Tariq took a tall glass of iced orange juice from it and held it to Madison’s lips. “Drink.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, I’m pregnant, not—” Her eyes lifted to Yusuf’s, whose face was a perfect blank. “I’m pregnant,” she hissed to Tariq, “not sick. I don’t need you to hold the glass for me.”
Tariq frowned but he handed her the glass, then watched carefully as she drained it.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
“I was speaking to Yusuf.” Deliberately, Madison smiled at the attendant, who looked horrified as he took the glass from her and scurried off.
Tariq glared at Madison.
“Do you think you will win allies by insulting me?”
“When are you taking me home?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Answer mine first.”
By Ishtar, the woman was impossible! Had she no sense of propriety? They would have to discuss her behavior, and soon.
“Not until you tell me if you feel all right.”
“I already told you that I did.”
“That’s not what I mean.” A muscle knotted in his jaw. “Before. What we did.” Damn it, he was stumbling all over his words. “When we made love. Did I hurt you?”
“I told you. We didn’t make love, we had—”
“Madison. Please. Did I hurt you?”
Please? That was a first. She thought about lying, but to what end? “No,” she said, “you didn’t.”
“Good. Because I—I did not think …”
“It’s too late to apologize.”
His eyes narrowed; he caught her chin and turned her face to him.
“I am not apologizing. A man would be a fool to apologize for what happened in that bed.” He paused. “But I should have considered your condition. I should have thought of the child.”
“The baby.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You said ‘the child …’ You always say ‘the child,’ except when you call my baby your heir.”
“I’m not trying to quarrel with you, Madison. I only asked if the child—the baby—is all right.”
“My baby’s fine.” Her cheeks bloomed with color. “Sex won’t hurt it, not even the kind a man forces on a woman.”
“Is lying and pretending you didn’t want what happened the way you make peace with yourself for crying out in my arms?” he said, his voice rough.
“You forced me into this situation. If you hadn’t—”
“We would have ended up in bed eventually.”
“That’s a lie!”
“It’s the truth and you know it. We wanted each other from the beginning. That I ended up spending my seed in your womb by means of a syringe instead of as nature intended was a quirk of fate.”
Madison stared at him. His eyes had gone that shade of silver she knew meant he was aroused. And, incredibly, so was she.
How could talking about a sexless act be so sexy?
And how could he have taken the conversation so far from where it belonged?
“I don’t know why we’re talking about this. The only thing I want to discuss is—”
“I took the liberty of preparing some things besides chocolate and cake, your highness.” Yusuf paused beside them with a wheeled cart. “Shall I—”
Tariq waved his hand. “We will serve ourselves.”
The attendant inclined his head and left them. Tariq uncovered platters of cakes and cookies, a selection of cheeses, crusty bread, fruits and chocolates. Everything looked and smelled delicious.
Tariq filled a plate and put it in front of her.
“Eat,” he commanded.
She thought of saying no. Of telling him she was not one of his servants, trained to sit and stay on cue but her stomach gave an unladylike growl. Tariq laughed, she shot him a cold look, and dug in.
She emptied her plate, drank more iced orange juice and just when she looked wistfully at the coffee in Tariq’s cup, Yusuf appeared with a pot of mint tea.
“Thank you,” she said, and was rewarded with a blush.
“You are welcome, my lady.”
“Princess.”
Both Yusuf and Madison looked at Tariq. He smiled as he reached for her hand, though his eyes flashed a warning.
“The lady has done me the honor of becoming my wife.”
“No,” Madison said sharply, and winced as his hand tightened almost painfully on hers.
“My wife wished to keep our news secret as long as possible,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “but since we will land in my country—her new country—in another few hours, I thought it was time to announce our news. You, Yusuf, are the first to know.”
Yusuf beamed at them both. “It is wonderful news, sir, and I am honored you shared it with me. May you have a long and happy life.”
“Thank you.” Tariq smiled. “And now, if you would give us privacy for the rest of the flight …”
Madison controlled her temper until they were alone. Then she tore her hand from Tariq’s and shot to her feet.
“You can tell all the ridiculous lies you like—”
“It was no lie,” he said calmly. “Or have you already forgotten what I said about an old custom of my people?”
“It is not a custom of my people! It is not a custom anywhere in the civilized world!”
“Watch what you say to me, wife.”
“Do not call me that! Just because you have some—some barbaric bit of folklore that must make anthropologists shriek with joy doesn’t mean that I—”
Tariq was on his feet, his hands cupping her shoulders before she could finish the sentence.
“You will not take that tone with me!”
“You tell your—your slave that I’m married to you and all you’re worried about is how I sound when I talk to you? I don’t know if you’re just thickheaded or so out of touch with reality that you—”
He kissed her. It was either that or silence her some other way and he had never been a man to use violence on a woman …
Besides, he loved her taste.
She struggled. He cupped her face, held her captive to his kiss, felt a rush of fierce joy when her lips softened and he felt the first sign of her sweet, eager response.
“Hate me all you like,” he said hoarsely, “but you will obey me. You will respect me.” His eyes darkened. “And when I take you to bed, you will answer my passion with your own because it is what you want, habiba, it is what you shall always want, even as you hate me with all your heart.”
He kissed her again and as she melted against him, the stirring of an emotion far more dangerous than desire coursed through his blood.
It stopped him for an instant, but Madison moved against him and he forgot everything but wanting her.
He swept her into his arms, carried her through the cabin and into the bedroom, shouldered the door closed and came down on the bed with his wife in his arms.
“I do hate you,” she whispered, but her arms held him tight as she brought his head down to hers for another kiss.
His blood thundered, but he forced himself to go slowly, to undo the buttons of her shirt, the zipper of her jeans.
His shirt.
His jeans.
Could she possibly know how sexy she’d looked, wearing them?
He spread the shirt open, kissed her breasts, loving their silken texture, the sweet taste of her nipples. He slid his hand down the back of her jeans, slipped his fingers between her thighs and stroked the tender, weeping flower he found there.
Madison cried out.
He caught the cry with his mouth and fought to hang on to his sanity.
“Please,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt, and he pulled back, stripped it off, groaned as he felt her hands on him, exploring him, stroking over his chest, his shoulders, moving down his ridged abdomen. And when she found him, cupped her hand over the taut denim, Tariq gritted his teeth, gave in to the exquisite pleasure for a heartbeat and then caught her wrists and brought them to her sides before it was too late.
Carefully he gathered his wife to him. She was trembling and he was aroused beyond anything he had ever experienced, but he knew that to take her again would be wrong.
She was pregnant. She was exhausted. She was torn between hating him and wanting him.
And he—he needed something more from her than sex, something that had no name.
The room was dark. The air was cool. He drew up the duvet, eased Madison’s head to his shoulder. Her breath sighed against his skin as he lay his hand gently over the place in her body where the child—where their child—lay dreaming. “Go to sleep, habiba,” he said softly. She bristled, as he should have known she would. “Do not tell me what to do, Tariq! I am not the least bit—” She yawned. He smiled. A second later, she was asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MADISON awoke with a start.
She lay in a canopied bed the size of a football field in a vast, high-ceilinged room. Sheer curtains that diffused the sunlight pouring through a wall of glass.
The bed linens were soft and cool against her skin.
Her naked skin.
She shot up against the pillows, clutching the bedcovers to her breasts. Where am I? she thought and even in that moment of terrifying disorientation, she wanted to laugh at the pathetic cliché.
Except, it wasn’t a cliché, it was the truth.
Her memories of the night were fragments of a dream. The last thing she recalled with any clarity was Tariq carrying her to bed on his plane, undressing her, caressing her, holding her in his arms.
Madison closed her eyes.
Had she really fallen asleep that way? In his arms? Her head on his bare shoulder, his breath warm against her temple?
And after that, what? Everything was murky. The plane, landing. Tariq, wrapping her in a quilt, carrying her to an SUV that sped along a road under a sky shot through with silver.
“Madame?”
Madison’s eyes flew open. A woman stood in the open doorway, a tentative smile on her lips.
“Forgive me, my lady. I knocked, but there was no answer.”
“No.” Madison forced an answering smile. “No, that’s all right. Who are you?”
“I am Sahar. Your servant.”
Her servant? What did you say to that?
“I have brought you mint tea.”
“Mint tea,” Madison said brightly. “That’s—that’s excellent.”
“Do you wish it in bed, or shall I put it near the windows?”
“Oh. Ah, by the windows will be.” Madison took a deep breath. “Sahar?”
“My lady?”
“Where—exactly where am I?” The woman’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “I mean,” Madison said quickly, “what is the name of this place?”
Sahar looked at her. Madison figured the expression on her face was pretty much the same expression that had been on her face the time a befuddled tourist had asked her where the Empire State building was while standing directly in front of it.
“It is the Golden Palace, of course.”
The Golden Palace. “Of course,” Madison said. “And, ah, and the city is …?”
Sahar’s expression went from bemused to alarmed.
“We are in the city of Dubaac, my lady.”
“Right. Dubaac. The city. In the country of—”
“The city, the country are one,” a male voice said. Tariq strolled into the room and waved his hand in dismissal. “That will be all, Sahar.”
The servant bowed and scuttled out the door. Tariq closed it, then leaned back against it, arms folded. Madison’s heart banged against her ribs. He looked different. Taller, somehow. More imposing, if that were possible. And—and, yes, beautiful in a cream-colored shirt, faded jeans and riding boots.
“Good morning, habiba. Did you sleep well?”
“Do you care?”
He grinned. “I can see we’re off to a fine start.”
“We are off to no start.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, you are not welcome in this room, Tariq—and where are my clothes?”
His smile tilted. “Don’t you really mean, ‘Who undressed me and put me to bed?’ ”
Why did he always manage to make her blush? “An excellent question but then, I have a lot of excellent questions. And I’m not asking them until I am out of bed and dressed.”
“No one’s stopping you.”
“You are.”
“A little late to worry about modesty,” he said, his voice silken, “don’t you think?”
“Damn it, Tariq …”
“Sahar undressed you and put you to bed.”
He could see it wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Her face, lovely in the bright light of morning, was a study in surprise.
“It would have been improper for me to have done so.”
“But—but I thought—I mean, if you and I are—if we really are—”
“Husband and wife, habiba, are the words you’re searching for.”
“Don’t play games with me.”
He had wondered how she would be this morning. Subdued, he had told himself and told himself, too, that he hoped that would be the case because it would make everything that came next easier.
But his wife was not subdued. Frightened, yes. The tremor in her voice gave it away, but she was facing him as she always did, chin high, eyes steady. A tiger ready to do battle even though he had turned her life upside down, stolen her away from everything familiar, forced her into his bed.
Tariq’s throat went dry.
Except, he hadn’t forced her. She had gone willingly, moved beneath him eagerly, matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch.
Damn it!
He swung away, shocked by the swift response of his body, angered by it. He strode into the dressing room, determined not to let her see the evidence of her power over him, and returned with a long silk robe that he tossed on the bed.
“Get up,” he said harshly, “and make yourself presentable.”
“Presentable? How? I have nothing to—”
“There are clothes for you in the dressing room.”
“Clothes for the last woman you kidnapped and brought here?”
His jaw tightened. Did she really think he would indulge her in debate … or tell her he had never brought a woman here, to the Golden Palace? There was no need for her to know that.
As it was, he had enough to tell her—and to prepare her to accept.
“Select something appropriate,” he said coldly. “Then we will have coffee and talk.”
“Appropriate for what?”
He looked at her, sitting up in his bed, against his pillows, holding the silk robe over her breasts.
Her skin would feel as soft as the robe.
It would slide over her nipples, turning them into tight little buds. He could still recall their taste. Sweet. Cool. Delicate. And the scent of her skin, just there. Like wildflowers on a June morning.
Was he insane?
They were minutes away from facing his father, from gaining the approval he had not yet told her their union would require, and he was turning as hard as a schoolboy staring at his first centerfold.
It made him even more angry. It was her fault. Surely it could not be his!
“I asked you a question, Tariq. Appropriate for what?”
Her mouth was trembling. He wanted to go to her. Take her in his arms. Tell her—tell her—
“And I told you to get up,” he snapped. “Learn to do as you are told and things will go easier for you. And before you bother telling me that you hate me. Hatred is always the prerogative of a wife.”
She snarled a word at him. He ignored it, turned his back, folded his arms and let his damnable imagination take over as he heard the whisper of silk, the pad of bare feet, the hiss of the shower running in the en suite bathroom.
And groaned.
Why was he standing here when he could strip off his clothes, go to her, step under the water and take her in his arms?
She would protest, because she hated him. But hating him didn’t keep her from wanting him and once he touched her, drew her naked body back against his so she could feel the urgency of his desire, she would sigh his name, let her head droop against his shoulder as he cupped her breasts, as he slid his hands down her body in the most intimate of caresses.
Then he would turn her toward him, she would raise her mouth to his, wind her arms around his neck and he would cup her bottom, lift her to him, feel her legs wrap around his hips as he thrust deep, deep into her heat.
Tariq groaned again. He was a man in the sweetest kind of pain.
She was killing him, this woman he had not wanted in his life. Killing him—and his sanity depended on concentrating on the long nights he would spend, making her pay the penalty for it.
Madison stood under the shower, waiting. She knew Tariq’s game.
Any minute now, he’d open the bathroom door and step into the shower stall with her. As far as he was concerned, he could bark at her, order her around, then take her in his arms and dazzle her with his sexual expertise. Well, it wasn’t going to work this time. It wasn’t going to work at all, she realized as the minutes slid past, because it wasn’t going to happen. The door to the bedroom stayed shut. She was alone, and he was going to leave her that way. Good, she thought grimly. The last thing she wanted was him forcing himself on her again. Caressing her. Kissing her.
A little sound whispered from her lips. What was happening to her? She was changing into a woman she didn’t know.
Too little sleep, that was the problem. That, and the change in time zones.
Madison frowned, lifted her face to the spray and blanked her mind to everything but survival.
The dressing room opened off the bath as well as the bedroom. It was the size of her Manhattan living room and filled with clothes. Acres of them. Trousers. Sweaters. Blouses. Dresses. Gowns. Shoes. There was lingerie, too: delicate bras and thongs in soft shades of peach and palest blue, all surely handmade.
She selected a bra. A thong. A gorgeous pair of white cotton trousers and a white silk T-shirt.
Everything fit perfectly.
Her mouth thinned.
Tariq obviously preferred his women to be built as she was. Surely all these things, this suite, had been arranged by a prince for his mistress. For his mistresses.
Not that she gave a damn.
She dropped the towel, dressed quickly, slid her feet into a pair of exquisite white high-heeled sandals. The dressing room was mirrored; Madison glanced at her reflection, ran her hands through her still-damp hair, flung open the door and marched into the bedroom.
“Here I am,” she said briskly, “appropriately dressed or—”
But the room was empty.
Tariq had drawn back the gauzy curtains, revealing a door in the wall of glass. He stood on a stone balcony beside a table set for breakfast, sipping from a cup as he looked out over a turquoise sea.
Madison’s breath caught.
How beautiful this place was. How beautiful Tariq was.
If only he’d brought her here because he wanted her. Because he needed her. Because she was someone he cared for instead of his virtual captive.
Did he sense her presence? He must have because he swung toward her, his gray gaze sweeping from the top of her head to her toes and then back up again.
She thought her heart would stop at the sudden glint in his eyes.
“You look.” He cleared his throat. “You look beautiful, habiba.”
She came within a breath of saying he did, too, before she regained her senses.
“I’m so glad you approve,” she said, frost clinging to every word.
“Come,” he said, motioning to the table. “Sit with me and have breakfast.”
The word made her salivate. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “And I’m not Sahar. I don’t take orders from you.”
His gaze flew over her again. “No,” he said softly, “you are not.” Smiling, he held out his hand. “Join me. Please.”
She wondered how much the simple word had cost him. Enough to make doing as he’d asked worthwhile? She decided it was, if only because not eating was foolish and she knew she’d need all her wits about her to make him stop toying with her.
She ignored his outstretched hand, pulled out a chair for herself and sat down at the table. Tariq shrugged and sat down across from her. She’d half expected him to clap his hands or press a buzzer that would bring Sahar running. Instead he poured her juice, served her crepes with crème fraiche and tiny raspberries, and filled her cup with tea.
She was almost painfully aware of him watching her as she ate. Finally he cleared his throat.
“Good?”
She thought of lying, but what was the point?
“Yes.”
“And you feel well? The baby—”
“The baby’s fine. So am I—unless you count the fact that I’m angry as hell!” She put down her fork, touched her mouth with her linen napkin and decided there’d never be a better time than right now. “Tariq. I want this nonsense to end.”
His eyes narrowed. “Nonsense?”
“Nonsense. You know. The flight here. This—this little sojourn at—at—”
“The Golden Palace.”
