The attendant paused before a set of double doors that looked as if they were made of solid gold. Johara had been in the palace a few times before, for her brief meetings with Malik, but they’d always taken place in a small, comfortable room. Azim had chosen far more opulent surroundings for this initial introduction.
‘His Highness, Azim al Bahjat,’ the attendant intoned, and, with fear coating her insides with ice, Johara stepped into the room.
Sunlight poured from several arched windows, nearly blinding her so she had to blink several times before she caught sight of the man she was meant to marry. He stood in the centre of the room, his body erect and still, his face grave and unsmiling. Even from across the room Johara could see how black and opaque his eyes were, like a starless night in the desert. His dark hair was cut so close she could see the powerful bones of his skull, and a scar snaked from the corner of his left eye to the curve of his mouth, clearly long since healed over although the wounded flesh still looked red and livid. He wore an embroidered linen thobe, the material emphasising his lean, muscular form, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long, powerful legs.
The whole effect was beyond intimidating. Terrifying was the word that came to mind, and she had to fight not to take an instinctive step back towards the doors, towards safety, away from this man whose face even in repose looked frightening. Looked cruel, although perhaps that was simply the darkness of his eyes, the livid red of the scar.
If she looked at his features reasonably, Johara told herself, fighting off the panic, she could see that he was an attractive man, his features even, his nose a straight slash, his mouth a mobile, sensual curve. Underneath his linen thobe his body was powerful and he moved with a graceful fluidity, taking a few steps towards her before stopping to survey her as she was surveying him, those dark eyes sweeping from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, giving away nothing of what he felt or thought.
Then Azim inclined his head in what Johara supposed was a greeting. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped, cold. ‘We will marry in one week’s time.’
JOHARA’S MOUTH DROPPED open as Azim’s words reverberated through the grand room. Those were the first words out of his mouth—not hello, nice to meet you, or any of the other forms of basic introduction acceptable to civilised society? Just this chilling dictate that the clenching of her stomach made her fear she would have no choice but to obey.
‘I am glad you are agreeable,’ he added shortly, turning away, and Johara realised he’d taken her silence for acquiescence—and was now effectively dismissing her. As far as her future husband was concerned, their conversation was over, and they hadn’t even said hello.
‘Wait—Your Highness!’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper, and Johara cleared her throat, frustrated by her fear. This was too important a moment to act the shocked maiden. Azim turned back to her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a hard, flat line that looked as if it never saw a smile.
‘Yes?’
‘It is only...’ Johara gulped as she collected her scattered thoughts, the fragments of her dashed hopes. Their conversation—if she could use that word—had been so abrupt she could hardly believe it was over. She hadn’t even had a chance to think. ‘This has all happened so quickly. And we had never met before today—’
‘We have met now.’
Johara stared at him, searching for some glimmer of warmth in those starless eyes, a hint of a smile in the uncompromising line of his mouth. She saw neither. ‘Yes, but we do not know one another,’ she continued, trying to make her tone both light and reasonable. ‘And...marriage.’ She spread her hands, tried for a smile. The pep talk she’d given herself on the plane seemed woefully improbable now, and yet she had no other plans, no other weapon. ‘It is a large step to take for two people who have not laid eyes on one another before this moment.’
‘Yet one you have, I have been told, been prepared to make for some time. I do not see any reason for your objection now?’ The lilt of his voice suggested a question but Johara was wary of answering it. He did not seem as if he was waiting for a response.
When she dared to look into his eyes, she wished she hadn’t. They felt like two black holes she could tip right into and fall for ever. ‘I only meant...’ she tried, ‘shouldn’t we get to know one another first? In order to—’
Azim’s expression did not change a modicum as he answered, cutting her off. ‘No.’
Johara took a deep breath, clinging to the remnants of her composure that was now in shreds. Even in her worst imaginings she hadn’t expected Azim to be this unrelentingly cold. His expression was pitiless and impatient, his arms folded over his chest, as if she was wasting his time. How could she marry a man such as this? And yet she had to. Her only hope was some kind of negotiation as to the terms.
‘Our marriage then will be one of convenience,’ she stated.
His mouth twisted, drawing the puckered flesh of the scar along his cheek tight. ‘Surely you had already come to that conclusion.’
‘Yes, but I mean...’ She faltered, unsure how to present the suggestion that had seemed so logical, so amenable, on the journey here. She had not anticipated Azim al Bahjat’s attitude of stony indifference, underlaid by a hostility she didn’t understand. Unless she was being paranoid? Perhaps he was like this with everyone. Or perhaps he was simply nervous, as she was.
The prospect was laughable. Azim al Bahjat did not look remotely uncertain or nervous. He was a man utterly in command of the situation—and her. Still Johara persevered. ‘Malik and I had discussed—’
‘I do not wish to talk about Malik.’ Azim’s voice was the quiet snick of a drawn blade. ‘Do not mention him to me again.’
Johara fell silent, chastened by this dictate. Her father had told her Malik was acting as Azim’s advisor, but the lethal warning in his voice made her wonder if their relationship was fraught. Or perhaps it was the relationship with her that was fraught. ‘I’m sorry. I only meant it would make sense for our marriage to be an arrangement that is convenient to both of us.’
‘Make sense?’ For a moment Azim looked coldly amused. ‘How so?’
Encouraged by the mere fact that he’d asked a question, Johara plunged into her explanation. ‘As you might know, I have spent most of my life in France. I am not as familiar with Alazar as you are—’
‘You are Alazaran-born, with your bloodline able to be traced back nearly a thousand years.’
Yes, she knew of her precious ancestry, descended hundreds of years ago from the sister of a sultan. ‘All I meant is,’ she explained, ‘France is my home, and has been since I was a young child. I’ve only been to Alazar a handful of times in my whole life.’
Azim’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘A notable lack in your upbringing. You will have to familiarise yourself with its customs immediately.’
This wasn’t going at all the way she’d intended. Hoped. ‘What I mean to say is,’ Johara tried yet again, ‘I would like to live in France for as much of the year as possible. Of course, I would come to Alazar when needed, for state functions and the like.’ She spoke quickly, tripping over her words, desperate to come to an agreement. ‘Whenever I’m needed, of course. It seems a suitable arrangement to us both—’
‘Does it?’ Azim cocked his head, his narrowed gaze sweeping over her, a dark searchlight. ‘It does not seem so to me. Far from it, in fact.’
Frustrations warred with despair and Johara clenched her fists, hiding them in the stiff skirts of her dress. ‘May I ask why?’
‘My wife belongs with me, not pursuing her own interests in another country,’ Azim stated, a hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘The Sultana of Alazar must be by the Sultan’s side, or in the