The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(9)

I ran my hands under the dryer four times. Each time, I told myself: Now, you will make up your mind. You will walk out the door and either go home or return back to the table. But each time I reached the bathroom door, I was as undecided as when I’d had my hands under the dryer.

Finally, I walked to the door and out. And back to the table.

Rashid looked relieved to see me. “I thought you’d left.”

I sat down and smiled shyly. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. But here I am.”

Rashid reached for my hand, thought better of it, and merely nodded.

“I’m glad you came back.” He gestured to a piece of bread on my side plate and said, “Dig in.”

Seeing it, I could only laugh in response. Carved there on the crispy surface, with clumsy, shaky lines, was my name.

“I had to do something to occupy all my waiting time.”

I glanced at the already half-empty bread basket.

“Looks like you had time to do quite a lot.”

Rashid took a hearty bite of the flatbread in front of him and grinned.

“I like bread.”

By the time the waitress arrived with our meal—one colossal dish of kibbeh and another of couscous—we’d finished the bread and fallen into easy chatter.

“So, what about you?” I asked mid-chew.

Rashid took a minute to swallow and sigh before responding.

“What about me?”

“Are there any problems I should know about regarding my possible future husband?”

Rashid’s face grew grave. “Oh God, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.” He gave a regretful shake of his head. “Well, I’m an addict. And I have no plans to quit anytime soon.”

I raised a brow and waited for him to explain.

“As you could probably already tell, carbs is one. And caffeine. Though I make up for the carb addiction with my gym addiction.” I took a moment to briefly appreciate his sculpted body, which was, in truth, god-like. “The coffee thing could pose a problem if you won’t enjoy learning how to use a new top-of-the-line coffee machine every month.”

Laughing in spite of myself, I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You won’t even answer your own question.”

Now, his face wasn’t mock-grave anymore. “It’s like you said; we don’t know each other well enough yet.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Why ask a question you aren’t willing to answer yourself?”

He lifted his chin. “Good point. You are the clever one, aren’t you?”

I shot him a smirk. “Nice move changing the subject.”

Dessert was an elaborate pastry with spiced fruit inside. As we ate, Rashid explained his reasoning for choosing the beautiful restaurant.

“I just wanted to give you an idea what life would be like, living in an Arabian palace.”

“Oh, really?”

He shook his head. “Nah. It’s half off food today.”

I was so concentrated on taking in my surroundings, with its sweeping curtains separating the different sections and vases of lush plants towering over the pillows, that I almost didn’t notice the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Unthinkingly, I jokingly smacked his hand, then froze.

“Oh, Rashid, I’m sorry, I…”

Shaking his head and smiling softly, he put his hand on mine.

“Don’t apologize. If you’re going to be my wife, then you’re going to have to consider me your equal, not some pompous prince you have to toady to.”

“It’s so easy to forget you’re a prince. You’re so down-to-earth. I am really so sorry.” I felt myself blushing deeply.

He kissed the back of my hand—just a brush of his lips, but it was enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“Lacie, please. We’ve been talking together easily enough so far. If I wanted someone to bow and stumble all over themselves when talking to me, I’d have married one of my servants.”

I eyed him with curiosity.

“You have servants?”

Rashid nodded nonchalantly. “We call them attendants, and we certainly pay and treat them much better than servants, but yes.”

I sighed. “Is there anything you don’t have in this wonderful, paradisiacal country of yours?”

Without hesitation, Rashid said, “Yes.”

“And what’s that?”

“You.”

Our eyes met.

“Good answer.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes wouldn’t leave mine, and I found my face drawing closer and closer to his. His gaze flicked to my lips, and I was just thinking, He wouldn’t dare, would he? when the waitress returned.

Once again, Rashid paid for the meal, despite my protests.

“We can write it off as an expense of being my wife, if you like.”

“Rashid…”

But already he had taken my hand and was pulling me out of the restaurant, back out through the bird and plant-filled entrance.

Outside, we stopped.

“How do you like gondolas?”

“Gondolas?” I asked, dumbfounded.