The Desert Lord's Love-Child. Оливия Гейтс

      “Out the other side without owing anyone anything. To freedom with dignity. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

      He leaned forward, scooped her up, brought her to rest half over him in one move, one of her legs pressing against his hardness. He kept her gaze tethered as he whispered, soft and inescapable, “Name your mahr, Carmen.”

      She lay against him, flayed by his warmth and breath, suffering a widespread neurological malfunction. “I can name anything? You once told me you’d meet any demands I made.”

      His hand weaved in her hair, his eyes intent on her lips. “Anything. As long as it isn’t something unreasonable.”

      She tried to sit up, felt him expand at her wriggling. “Let’s see, what can be unreasonable enough for you? How about your fleet of jets? And a hundred million dollar token?”

      He ground her harder into his erection. “Done. And done.”

      This jolted her enough to break the body meld. “Whoa. So not done. I was joking. You know the concept, don’t you?”

      His eyes glowed like slits into an inferno. “I appreciate a slap and tickle as much as the next man, Carmen, but this is no joking matter. Your mahr is something only you can estimate, and it is something I’m honor-bound to give you.”

      She ran her hands through her hair, raised them. “Okay, okay. How about a blinding stone in an obscene size?”

      “You will have my mother’s betrothal jewelry and whatever you wish of Judar’s royal jewels. This is your shabkah, not your mahr. Shall I consider my fleet and the sum you specified your choice?”

      She shot up sitting straight. “You certainly shall not. What would I do with a fleet and a hundred million dollars?”

      His pout was cynicism itself. “You want investment advice?”

      “Listen, I’m not cut out to be a businesswoman or a shopper, so assets and money would be wasted on me.” His eyebrows rose, spoke volumes. She cried, “Does this mahr have to be material?”

      He threaded his fingers together. “As long as we’re alive, yes. When we’re ghosts you can have an immaterial one.”

      “Clever. You know what I mean. Can’t it be something … moral?”

      “Material things can be quantified. And they last.”

      “If you think so,” she scoffed, “then I feel sorry for you.” “Says the woman who married for ‘moral’ considerations only to find out how lasting those were. And what would the ‘something moral’ you want to ask of me be? Love?”

      The word, his ridicule as he threw it at her, skewered her. “We agreed that doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it doesn’t matter.” “Then what do you want?”

      She took a deep breath, asked for something as impossible. “A clean slate.”

      Eight

      In a life that had exposed him to betrayals, danger and conspiracies of world-shaking scope, few things ever took Farooq by complete surprise, by storm. If fact, only three things had.

      They all involved Carmen.

      The way he’d felt when he laid eyes on her. Her telling him she’d had enough of him and walking out. And now, her request.

      A clean slate.

      She was asking him to surrender his anger, to deny his memory, to erase his knowledge of her crimes. She wanted to start fresh. What for? A way back into his good opinion and goodwill? Into his emotions? Another shot at his faith? Everything she’d once made him lavish on her, and she’d squandered?

      The worst part was how she understood him. How she always said or did the perfect thing at the perfect time to have the desired effect on him. His first reaction to her request had been to snatch her in his arms, singe her skin off with the violence of relief, the liberation of capitulation. He still wanted to let his new insight into her ordeals and her exponential effect on him wipe his memory, soothe away the lacerations, drive him to hand her power over him again. He fought the temptation with all he had.

      She wasn’t here because this was a shiny new beginning and it was her choice to start over, but because he’d given her none. If it had been up to her, no matter her reasons, he would have never found her and Mennah, and Judar would be heading for destruction.

      He must never forget that.

      But she was flushed with the agitation of hope, while the dread of the little girl who’d grown accustomed to being turned down clouded the heavens of her eyes, made the redrose petals of her lips tremble, and his convictions evaporated as they formed.

      And that was why he couldn’t relent.

      She’d been destructive as his mistress. As his wife, the mother of his daughter, she’d be devastating. If he let her.

      He braced against the pain as he ended this hope for something he wanted as much as she seemed to … more. “Since temporal control to change the past isn’t one of my powers, a clean slate is probably the one thing I can’t grant you.”

      It was a good thing he’d given himself that pep talk. Otherwise he would have relented upon seeing her flame dim.

      Which was what she probably wanted him to see.

      Which he did see. That this was no act. That she was scared of her new life, wanted to make peace, wanted a chance. A second chance. And he’d just denied her that.

      He bit back a retraction, a promise of all the chances she wanted, if only she’d promise never to lie to him again. Which proved her spell was turning into compulsion. She’d promise anything he wanted. Words were easy.

      Or they were supposed to be. The ones with which he fought the thrill her seeming lack of avarice provoked had to be forced to his lips kicking and screaming.

      “Since you won’t name your mahr, I’ll use my discretion. And you’ll accept it. I’m not having this debate again.”

      Her flame went out.

      Unable to bear the dejection coming off her in waves, he looked out of the window, pretended to ignore her again.

      Tomorrow night he’d give her his undivided attention.

      Approaching Farooq’s palace was like one of those scenes in movies where the heroine nears a boundary that, once crossed, would plunge her into a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.

      She was about to cross into one wrapped in the other.

      Not that she cared right now. She’d asked for the impossible. He’d pointed that fact out. And she felt … gored.

      She knew why she had. Asked. Why she did. Feel this way. Because he made her hope there was a chance it wasn’t impossible. A chance to start over, be more than a stray lost in a world she had no place in, clutching a tattered shield of wisecracks and the inconsequence of her dignity.

      “Is all this yours?”

      The question surprised her. She hadn’t intended to ask it.

      His eyes turned back to her. “I have my own home, but even if I haven’t been living here for the past three years to deal with all that my uncle can’t deal with now, we would have come here first anyway. The royal palace is where all royals marry.”

      This kept getting better. “You mean this is the royal palace? And we’ll live with the king? And his family?”

      His expression filled with mockery. “I assure you your in-laws will not be a source of intrusion. The palatial complex stands on over one hundred hectares, with a three-mile stretch of beach, and its connected annexes boast three hundred twenty rooms and ninety-five suites. And that’s not counting the central building housing the royal quarters and halls for royal functions. It will be like