The Forced Bride Of Alazar

All during the flight to Nice her mind had raced in hopeless circles, trying to find a way out. A way forward. She was by nature an optimist, but her innate cheerfulness had taken a critical hit. She’d barely been able to summon a smile for the chauffeur, Thomas, who’d met her at the airport; he had been in the family’s employ for two decades, and had once taught her to ride a bicycle. His wife Lucille had worked as their cook and first showed Johara how to distil oil from plants, the beginning of her interest in natural medicine. She’d miss them both, and the quiet, simple contentment of the life she’d had, the life she realised now she’d taken for granted.

Then, while Thomas had been getting the car, Johara had made a split-second decision, acting on desperate impulse, something she never did. She’d run.

Her mind had been a blur of panic as she’d walked away from where Thomas had told her to wait, towards the shuttle bus that went to the train station in Nice Ville. Within an hour she’d been on a train to Paris, amazed that she’d actually done it. She’d run away. She’d freed herself.

And now that she’d booked into a shabby, anonymous-looking hotel on a side alley in the Latin Quarter, she wondered what on earth she was going to do next. She had her freedom, but she knew she was ill-equipped to deal with it. Taking the train and navigating the crowded streets of Paris by herself had already felt overwhelming, more than she’d ever dealt with before. How was she going to survive, get a job, make a life for herself?

And, she wondered with a shiver that this time she couldn’t suppress, how was she going to keep from being found? She shuddered to think of both her father and her husband-to-be’s reactions when they learned she’d run. Perhaps they already knew. Thomas, their driver, had probably already sounded the alarm.

Outside a church bell began to toll and a flock of sparrows rose in a dark flurry. Laughter from the streets below floated up, and all the sounds and sights, the sheer normalcy of them, lightened Johara’s spirits a little.

She could do this. She would do this. How hard could it be, to find some menial job that would keep a roof over her head and food on the table? Her needs were small and although she didn’t have much life experience she knew she was smart as well as a quick learner. Surely any life, no matter how small, was better than being forced into a marriage she didn’t want. Taking a deep breath, she turned from the window and went to get ready to look for a job.

Fifteen minutes later she was easing her way along the crowded streets of the Latin Quarter, clutching her bag to her chest as people moved past her in an indifferent stream. She hadn’t realised how noisy and crowded the city was. Her few experiences of Paris had been from behind the tinted windows of a limousine, and then she’d been ushered into one boutique or another with her mother, everything exclusive and private. And even those trips had been a long time ago—her mother had not roused herself to go to Paris, or anywhere, in years.

Spotting a sign for a small café, Johara decided to take the necessary plunge. She ducked into the tiny restaurant and stammered a question to the hassled-looking manager by the kitchen door, asking if he was hiring.

‘Do you have any waitressing experience?’ he asked, his voice full of scepticism as he eyed her up and down.

‘No, but—’

‘Sorry, no.’

Dejectedly she turned away. She repeated the same cringing experience in the next four cafés. All of the managers had looked at her with either doubt or disbelief when she’d asked for work, and Johara wondered how they could tell she was inexperienced. Was it the way she dressed? Spoke? Or was her naiveté that obvious, like a beacon above her head?

Her feet ached and her stomach rumbled—she hadn’t eaten since she’d been on the plane hours ago. Worse than either of those afflictions was the plunging sense of despair that she wasn’t going to be able to make it in the real world. And what would she do then? Slink back to Azim with her tail tucked firmly between her legs, her head lowered in guilty remorse, and accept a cold, loveless marriage with a man she didn’t like or even know?

No. She would rather pound every street in Paris looking for work than submit to a man as cold and cruel as Azim al Bahjat.

‘Salut, chérie,’ a man’s low, purring voice carried over the sounds of the crowd, and Johara turned, startled to realise he was talking to her.

‘Salut,’ she said cautiously. The man’s smile was wide as he lounged in the doorway of the shabbiest café Johara had ever seen, just a few tiny, dirty tables on a floor of cracked tiles.

‘Are you looking for work?’ He made a moue of sympathy. ‘Finding it difficult?’

‘A bit,’ Johara admitted. ‘Why?’ She nodded to the café. ‘Are you hiring?’

The man’s smile widened. ‘As it happens, yes. Do you know how to be nice to customers?’

It seemed a strange question, and Johara shrugged. ‘I think so.’

The man eyed her up and down in a way that made her blush and shift uncomfortably, her bag clutched to her chest. ‘Then you can start tonight. Can you be back here at nine?’

Johara swallowed, hardly daring to believe that she’d actually found a job. She didn’t particularly like the look of the greasy man or the shabby café, but she was hardly in a position to choose. ‘Yes, of course.’

Back at the hotel she ate, showered and changed, trying to ignore the sense of unease she felt about the man and his offer of work. As she headed out into the sultry summer evening butterflies flitted in her stomach and she tried to walk as she saw other women walking, with their heads tilted at a proud angle, their hips swaying, as if they knew who they were and where they were going. Johara felt as if she knew neither and had no idea how to find out.

The café was full of noisy customers when she approached, relieved that she’d managed to get herself to the right place. So many of the narrow, cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter looked the same. The same beady-eyed man who had hired her met her at the doorway.

‘Ah, chérie. I’m so glad you came.’ He drew her by the hand into the hot press of people, one arm snaking around her waist. Alarm bells started clanging in Johara’s head as she tensed, her body arching instinctively away from him. No man had ever touched her so intimately, their hips bumping, her breasts brushing his shoulder.

‘Don’t be shy,’ he said with a laugh, pulling her closer, one hand brushing her breast. ‘Remember I said you had to be nice.’

Johara glanced around at the crowded café, and all the faces looked sweaty and leering. The man’s hand was still on her waist, the side of her body pressed tightly to his. The acrid smell of alcohol and sweat stung her nostrils and made her head swim.

She opened her mouth to say something, to explain this wasn’t quite what she’d thought it would be, but no words came out. And then someone else was speaking.

‘Get your hands off her right now.’ The words were clipped, the tone utterly lethal. The sneering smile on the man’s face slid right off when he caught sight of whoever was standing behind Johara. He held up his hands as he backed away.

‘Pardon, monsieur, I didn’t know she was taken.’

‘Now you know.’

Slowly Johara turned, her heart beating so hard she could feel the blood roaring in her ears. It couldn’t be...but of course it was. Azim stood in the doorway of the café, his eyes blazing black fire, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. With his powerful frame, the scar snaking down his cheek and his air of barely leashed fury, he was utterly terrifying. No wonder the man backed away. She wanted to run.

‘Don’t think of trying it,’ Azim said in a low, dangerous voice, and Johara knew he’d read her thoughts.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked in a shaky whisper.

‘Easily. Come with me. Now.’ As his strong, lean fingers circled her wrist and pulled her towards him Johara had no choice but to comply. She stumbled as he drew her from the café, throwing one hand out to the doorframe to keep from falling.

‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’

Azim slowed, his fingers loosening around her wrist, even as his expression remained icily furious.

‘My car is waiting.’

‘I’m not going with you.’ Johara wished she’d sounded more firm.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Azim snapped. ‘You can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ he gritted between clenched teeth, stepping closer to her, ‘I just took you out of a whorehouse.’

‘A...’ Her jaw dropped.

‘You do know what that is?’ Azim inquired. ‘I presume you’re not that innocent?’

A fiery blush rose from her throat to the crown of her head. ‘Yes, I know what that is,’ Johara muttered. ‘I’ve read books.’

‘Oh, well, then. You’re the voice of experience, I suppose.’ He shook his head, clearly disgusted, and pulled her, gently at least, towards the waiting limousine. This time Johara went without a murmur.

She clambered into the luxurious interior, the leather sumptuous and soft against her bare legs. Azim climbed in next to her and barked out an address to the driver before slamming the door and leaning back against the seat.

Realisations were firing through Johara, short-circuiting her synapses. ‘Was it really...?’ she began through trembling lips.

‘Yes,’ Azim stated flatly. ‘It was.’

Her teeth started to chatter as she realised how close she’d come to utter disaster. She could have been raped. She could have been sold into sexual slavery. She could have been... She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. She could hardly bear to think of it.

‘Are you cold?’ Azim demanded, and Johara shook her head. She wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

He eyed her for a moment, his expression utterly fierce, before he reached forward to the limo’s minibar and poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. ‘Here. Drink this. It will help.’

Her numb fingers curled around the glass. ‘Help...?’

‘You’re in shock.’

She glanced down at the amber liquid, its pungent smell making her grimace. ‘I’ve never drunk hard alcohol before.’

‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Azim watched her, his very gaze commanding her to drink, and Johara raised the glass to her lips.

The whisky burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. Somehow she managed not to sputter, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, thrusting the glass back at Azim.

‘No more.’

A tiny smile curved his mouth, making his scar pucker. ‘Not bad for the first time. You didn’t cough.’

‘I wanted to.’

‘You have strength of spirit.’ From his tone she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

She turned to look out of the window, unsettled by the sudden and overwhelming turn of events. Outside the limo the streets of Paris streamed by in an electric blur.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few tense, silent minutes had ticked by.

‘To my flat.’

‘How did you find me? Easily, I know, but...’

‘Your driver alerted your father, who told me.’

So her father had betrayed her yet again. She wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. ‘Was he angry?’

‘Furious,’ Azim answered shortly. ‘What did you expect?’

For someone who loved her to think about her happiness. But of course her father had never really loved her. How long, she wondered, was that going to hurt? ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. She felt tired and near tears, trapped and humiliated, as if she were a naughty child being marched to the corner.

‘Even I did not think you would be so stupid and selfish as to run away,’ Azim said. Anger thrummed through his voice. ‘Even though you had made it clear what you thought of our forthcoming marriage.’

‘As did you,’ Johara returned, half amazed by her own audacity. She never spoke to her father, or anyone, like this. It felt good to speak her mind to someone, even if she’d regret it later.

‘So I did.’ Azim was silent for a moment and Johara found herself suddenly conscious of his nearness, the powerful length of his thigh brushing hers on the seat. She could smell his aftershave, the mingled aromas of sandalwood and cedar. Her senses stirred in a way that felt unfamiliar and intriguing. She had a bizarre desire to shift closer, to feel the length of his leg against her own, a prospect that horrified her. This man was her enemy. He was also, unless she managed a miracle, going to be her husband.

Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’

‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?

‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’

‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.

‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.

‘Is there where you live?’

‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.

The slide of his strong hand against hers was an unexpected jolt, as if she’d touched a live wire. Shocked by the sensation, she let out a gasp, and then registered Azim’s cool smile of satisfaction with wary confusion.

The smile disappeared as soon as she’d noted it, their gazes locking in a taut battle of wills before Azim dropped her hand and turned towards the building. On legs as shaky as the rest of her, Johara followed.

CHAPTER FOUR

A THOUSAND THOUGHTS and feelings whirled through Azim as he stalked through the foyer of the apartment building, ignoring the concierge’s murmured pleasantries. Foremost was fury, that Johara had shamed him in such a way by publicly absconding days before their marriage. After that came disgust, that he’d led her to do such a thing. As angry as he was about her runaway attempt, he knew he’d handled their first meeting badly. He just didn’t know if he had it in him to make amends.

Beyond those two negative emotions was a deep-seated relief that he’d saved Johara from, at best, a very unpleasant evening, and at worst, a lifetime of enforced prostitution—and then finally primal, masculine satisfaction, for in the moment when their hands had touched he’d felt her reaction, like a spark travelling up his arm, igniting in his belly. She desired him.

Perhaps she didn’t want to, perhaps she didn’t even realise it, but he knew. He’d seen it in the flare of her pupils, heard it in her surprised gasp and felt it in the shudder that had gone through her, just as he’d felt his own body’s response. Their marriage, then, would at least have sexual chemistry—and that was no small thing.

They didn’t speak in the tiny, enclosed space of the antique lift that juddered up towards the penthouse. Johara pressed herself against the grate, her grey eyes startlingly wide and looking almost silver in the dim light. He’d seen her only in the shapeless robes, and now he noted the slender and enticing curves highlighted by the sundress she wore. The thin, gauzy material clung to her small, pert breasts and tiny waist, flaring out about her long, slender legs. No wonder that disgusting pimp had wanted her for his whorehouse. She was gorgeous, innocence and sensuality in one jaw-dropping package, and she didn’t even realise how alluring she was.

‘Does your father know you wear clothes like these?’ he demanded and Johara pressed back even farther away from him.

‘My father lets me wear what I like.’

Wasn’t around to notice or care, Azim filled in silently. He’d taken Arif’s measure at their first meeting; the older man had been more than eager to have his daughter exchange grooms weeks before the wedding. While it suited Azim’s purposes admirably, it did not endear him to the man. He was the worst combination of weakness and lust for power, just as Caivano had been. It had led to his tormentor’s downfall, and it would eventually lead to Arif’s. He would not have such a man in his cabinet.

The lift jolted to a stop and the doors opened. Azim ushered Johara out to his flat, a soaring, open space that took up the entire top floor of the building.

Johara stepped out, craning her neck to take in the vaulted ceiling and huge windows. The doors of the lift closed behind Azim and he stood watching her, noticing the way her dress clung to her hips, the fabric whispering about her shapely legs as she moved. A dark, curling tendril of hair lay against the nape of her neck and he had the absurd urge to lift it and see the delicate skin beneath.

She turned to face him, her trembling lips pressed together, her chin raised in challenge. Even though her rebellion tried him sorely, he could not help but admire her courage. He hadn’t thought she’d possessed the audacity to make a run for it. He was, perversely and annoyingly, pleased that she’d been that daring, even if he was still furious that she’d tried.

‘So?’ Johara asked, her voice managing to be both strident and shaky at the same time. ‘What now?’

Azim folded his arms. ‘You will marry me.’

‘Of course.’ She let out a high, trembling laugh. ‘Of course, I have no say in the matter.’

Irritation, and something deeper and rawer, rippled through him. ‘If I am not mistaken, you have known about your arranged marriage for nearly your whole life. Why are you resisting now?’

‘Because.’ Johara looked away and said nothing more.

Azim regarded her coolly. ‘Because of me, you mean.’

She shot him one wild glance before turning away again, giving him a view of her profile, the high forehead, the smooth curve of her cheek, the heavy mass of hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. ‘You have made your intentions clear,’ she said. ‘You have no interest in getting to know me.’

‘Did Malik?’ He hadn’t wanted to mention his brother, hated even thinking about Johara married to him, sharing his bed. Quickly Azim banished the image. ‘Well?’ he demanded when Johara did not answer. ‘Did he?’

Johara glared at him, the lift of her chin now seeming stubborn rather than courageous, and entirely aggravating. ‘Not particularly,’ she said after a moment, the words drawn from her reluctantly and yet ringing with stark honesty.

‘Well, then.’ Azim didn’t know what point he’d been trying to prove. That his bride-to-be objected to wedding him more than his brother? That she was repelled by him, by the scar on his face? What would she think if she saw the scars on the rest of his body? Not, of course, that she ever would.

‘If I’m honest,’ Johara said after a moment, her voice quiet, ‘I wasn’t looking forward to marrying Malik, either. What woman wants to marry a stranger for the sake of a crown?’

‘I imagine there are many.’

‘I am not one of them.’

‘But you agreed.’ He cocked his head. ‘Your father insisted on that.’

‘He would.’ A new bitterness spiked her words and she looked away again. ‘I agreed because I’ve known nothing else. Because...’ She shook her head, clearly not wanting to say more.

‘If you were so reluctant, why did you not say something to my brother?’

‘I just didn’t want to think of it. I...I pretended it wasn’t going to happen and I told myself I could carry on with my life as normal afterwards. It was easier to do that, since I hardly ever saw him. We only met a couple of times, for no more than a few minutes. And I had my life in France.’

A life she seemed desperate to get back to. Was someone waiting for her there? Perhaps his bride was not as innocent as her father claimed, although considering her obvious naiveté he found that a difficult notion to entertain. ‘It seems remarkably shortsighted,’ he remarked. ‘Your marriage was in a matter of months.’

‘I know.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘The closer it got, the less I tried to think of it. A child’s response, but perhaps I was a child.’ Her lips trembled again and to Azim’s horror he saw a single, silvery tear slip down her cheek. She dashed it away with a grimace. ‘Perhaps I still am.’

‘You are not a child.’ The response he’d felt in her earlier, the woman’s body he saw now, told him as much. ‘But you are innocent and have lived a sheltered life. That is not a bad thing.’

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