Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,38

and that he was sexy as all get out himself. Rough. Raw. Ready. And she hadn’t realized how much she liked that, or what she might be missing for the rest of her life. She inhaled deeply, scrubbed her hand over her face.

“I must have had an itch of my own,” she said quietly.

“Touché,” he said. “Next time save your itch for your fiancé.”

“Oh, you’re a real bitter piece of work, you know that,” she whispered, turning away from him, humiliated.

The humidity and heavy silence that weighed down between them became almost unbearable as they traversed an endless plateau of smooth rock that trapped the sun’s heat and radiated it back at them. A snake, long, black with a yellow stripe, slithered out of their way and into a dark crevice. Dalilah worried her engagement ring, turning it round and round her swollen finger, angry at herself for starting the argument, and for the need she felt now to defend herself. But no matter how she thought about coming at a defense, she knew this tough-ass mercenary who’d been around the block more than a few times would not understand.

How could she explain that she’d been in Haroun’s company a total of five times in her life? She could count the occasions on one hand. And each time had been in the presence of a royal chaperone, as per traditional decree. The wedding contract stipulated the couple follow a traditional courtship, and as per Sa’ud custom, once a woman had met with a man in this manner, this many times, it constituted an engagement anyway, contract or not.

But she’d never kissed Haroun, barely even touched him, apart from posing for official engagement photographs. It was decreed she come to the marriage utterly pure.

Dalilah had been raised to accept this. It was her royal heritage, and her duty to her kingdom, to fulfill this political contract. And it was a relatively small price to pay compared to what the rest of her family had sacrificed and endured for their kingdom. Da’ud, her eldest brother, had been assassinated on his yacht in Barcelona as he slept. Her parents had also been assassinated—throats slit in their palace bed. Zakir, next in line to the throne, had been forced to give up his career to take the throne at a time of violent unrest while he’d tried to hide the fact that he’d been going blind. Omair in turn had been doomed to hunt the globe in an attempt to unveil the assassins and exact revenge. And pulling the strings, creating all the problems that had plagued the Al Arifs, had been the Ghaffars, led by Aban Ghaffar, aka The Moor.

To learn that his son Amal was here, in Africa, alive—to discover that this violent battle for their lives and kingdom was not over—was terrifying. Overwhelming.

The least Dalilah could do was forge ahead and fulfill her marriage obligations with Haroun. The political alliance would strengthen the Al Na’Jar army and economy. Sa’ud and other Middle Eastern allies would come to their defense if needed.

She had to do this even more so now to protect her brothers, their growing families. And the innocent people of her nation.

This was not a time for inner conflict and selfish desire.

Dalilah stared out over the dry scrub, the red rocks of the Botswana plains, and wished she could return to the clear convictions she’d once held.

It shouldn’t feel as difficult as it did—Haroun was a striking and likable man. He seemed kind, smart, easy enough to be with. But there was no chemistry at all. How could she tell Brandt what his kiss had truly done to her? Or why she had even kissed him, or how it all fed into the mounting insecurities and fears over her own future with Haroun?

Sure, she might come to feel something for Haroun. But the idea that she might never, ever experience true love, the giddy highs of real passion—the stuff of films and great books, emotions that drove people to fight wars, create magnificent art, build soaring temples—depressed her.

As much as Brandt mocked her for being royal, it wasn’t easy. She couldn’t have the things normal people aspired to, even though her needs as a woman might be just as deep and real as the next woman’s.

He reached into the backseat suddenly, yanked out the whiskey bottle, held it between his thighs as he unscrewed the cap, took a deep swallow. She watched his Adam’s apple working, and slow fingers of