JEMMA LAY IN his arms on the blanket in the sand, resting comfortably, happily. There was no place she’d rather be than here, in his arms, against his chest. “What day is this?” she asked, lifting her chin, to look at him.
“I think I’ve lost count,” he said, smoothing her hair back from her brow.
She lifted a brow. “Really? I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“So what day is it?”
“Day eight. The last day and night of your half of our honeymoon.”
She waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
“Tonight you are still in control,” she added, blushing a little. “But tomorrow I take over. Tomorrow I’m in charge for the next eight days and nights.”
She smiled into his eyes, waiting impatiently for him to say something, something warm and sexy. Something encouraging. Something.
But he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his dark eyes somber, expression grave.
Her heart did a funny double beat. Nervous and uncomfortable, she chewed the inside of her lower lip. “You’ve gone awfully quiet,” she murmured.
His jaw shifted, his lids dropping, hooding his eyes. “I have been thinking a great deal about tonight.”
“So have I. I think it’s time you let me pleasure you.”
“I don’t think there is going to be a tonight.”
Jemma froze. Blinked.
“There is just...today,” he added quietly.
For a second she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything at all.
“I married you so you wouldn’t have to remain in Haslam under house arrest for seven years. But the eight days are up. I have fulfilled my responsibility as a groom, and I can now return you to London, without losing face.”
She still couldn’t take it all in. She took his words apart, bit by bit, processing them. Digesting them.
He didn’t want an eighth night. He didn’t want to be married to her. He intended to put her on a plane for London.
She licked her lips, her mouth dry. Parched. “I’m confused,” she whispered.
“I did what needed to be done,” he said carefully, after an endless moment, a moment where the silence cut, wounded.
Jemma slowly pulled away, and then scooted away, and sat up. She crossed her legs, hiding herself. “You never intended to keep me as your wife?”
“It’s not feasible. Nor realistic. My mother wasn’t happy in Saidia. You wouldn’t be happy here, not long term. You’d be better marrying an American or a European man. Someone Western with Western thought processes and beliefs.”
“So all this time...these eight days and the past seven nights...what was it about? Just sex?”
He shrugged. “Please.”
“But you said pleasure could lead to more. You said pleasure could lead to love.”
“I was wrong.”
She looked at him, then away, trying to ignore the panic in her head and the sickening rush of hurt and pain through her veins.
This wasn’t happening, not now. She’d fallen in love with him and she’d given herself to him.
“Why?” she whispered, staring out at the white sandy beach and the sea beyond. “Why do this to me? Why go through all the motions and seduce me and pleasure me and pretend to care? Pretend to want me?”
“I do care about you. I never had to pretend to want you. I still want you. I still desire you. But I’ve realized I care too much about you, to trap you here in Saidia. You need more than this desert and my palaces. You need the world you grew up in.”
“This isn’t about me,” she said, interrupting him. “This is about your mother. It’s about her relationship with your father, not about you and me.” Jemma drew a rough, unsteady breath. “I am not your mother. I am not sheltered. I am not a naive young American girl thinking she’s being swept off by Valentino. I’ve experienced hard things and known tremendous pressure, and public criticism, and personal shame. So don’t think for me, and don’t make decisions for me, at least, not without consulting me, because, Mikael, I know what I want and need, and I want and need you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I don’t know who you were in the past. I never knew you as a boy or a young man, but I know who you are now. You’re smart, courageous, honest. Brave. You have strong morals and values, and a fierce desire to do the right thing. I love that about you. In fact, I love you.”
“You don’t love me. You love the pleasure, you love the sensation.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s not. I’ve seduced you with pleasure. I bonded you to me with all the hormones from sex and orgasm.”
“Stop talking,” she said, springing to her feet. “Your words are killing me. They’re poisonous. Toxic. Just get rid of me now. Drop me off at the airport. But don’t say another awful, hateful word.”
He rose, towering over her. “You’re being irrational.”
“I am? Really? You spent eight days seducing me. Eight days making love to me in every conceivable position, showering me with gifts, assuring me that as your wife I’d be protected, safe, secure. Well, your idea of security is very different from mine, Sheikh Karim!”
“I’m sending you home to protect you.”
“From what? Whom? The paparazzi? The media? The bloodthirsty public? Who are you protecting me from?”
“Me,” he ground out, his voice low and hoarse.
She flung her head back, stared into his eyes, furious. “Maybe it’s time you let go of the past, and your self-loathing and hatred. Maybe it’s time to forgive. Because you are so determined to be fair to your country and your people but, Mikael Karim, you are not fair to yourself, and you’re screwing up royally right now. You had me. You had my heart. And you’ve just thrown it all away.”
They didn’t speak on the walk back to the car.
They didn’t speak, either, as the car traveled the long private driveway lined with hibiscus and palms to the enormous black and gold iron gates that marked the entrance to the Karim family’s private beach.
The gates opened and then closed behind them. Jemma turned her head as if to get a last look at the brilliant blue coastline before it disappeared and swiftly wiped away a tear. The sun shone down on the water, and the ocean sparkled. She turned back to face the front, and wiped away another tear, seeing how the red gold sand stretched before them, reminding her of the Kasbah and the Bridal Palace and how Jemma and Mikael had spent the past eight days there.
All the experiences. The sensation. The pleasure. The emotion.
The car picked up speed on the empty highway. There was so little traffic in this part of Saidia that the driver could fly down the black ribbon of asphalt. He did, too.
Mikael stared out the window, lost in thought, and Jemma left him to his thoughts.
One minute all was quiet and the next they were smashed sideways, slammed off the road in a screech of screaming brakes, screeching metal and shattering glass.
The impact knocked Mikael’s car sideways, and the two cars, hit again, and once more, before the red sports car went sailing overhead to land off the road in the sand.
The heavy black sedan spun the opposite direction, until it finally crashed on the other side.
For a moment inside the car there was no sound.
Mikael shook his head, dazed.
“Jemma?” Mikael’s hard voice cut through the stillness as he turned toward her.
She lay crumpled against the door, her face turned away from him.
“Jemma,” he repeated more urgently, reaching for her, touching the side of her face. It was wet. He looked at his hand. It was covered in blood.
* * *
She was flown by helicopter to the royal hospital in Ketama. Mikael traveled with her, holding her hand. Mikael’s chauffeur walked away with cuts and bruises like Mikael, while the driver of the other car didn’t need a helicopter. He’d died at the scene.
Jemma spent hours in surgery as the doctors set bones and dealt with internal bleeding. She then spent the next few days heavily sedated.
Mikael refused to leave her side. Fortunately, he was the king, and this was the royal hospital named after the Karim family, so no one dared to tell him to leave her, either.
The doctors and specialists had all said she’d be okay. She was simply sedated to help reduce the swelling. She would mend better, and be in less pain, if she were sedated, and resting.
Mikael wanted her to rest, but he needed to know that she was okay.
So for three days he slept next to her bed. Nurses brought coffee to him. His valet brought him clean clothes daily. Mikael used Jemma’s hospital room shower when needed.
He struggled with that last day, the beach trip to Tagadir, her reaction when he told her he was sending her away, and then the silent car ride before the sports car slammed into them.
Was the accident karma?
Was this his fault, again?
He leaned over the bed, gently stroked her cheek, the bit of cheek he could reach between all the bandages. The shattered window had cut her head badly. They’d picked glass out for hours before finally getting the side of her head stitched and stapled closed.
He’d been furious that they shaved part of her hair, but the doctors insisted they had to. Now he just wanted to see her eyes open. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to apologize and tell her he loved her and it wasn’t lack of love that made him send her away, but the need to protect her, and do the right thing for her.
She didn’t understand how much she meant to him. She was laughter and light and life.
She was his soul mate.
His other half, his better half. Yes, his queen.
That afternoon on the beach, she’d said hard things to him, but she’d also spoken the truth.
Mikael’s battle wasn’t with her. His battle was with himself.
He didn’t like himself. Didn’t love himself. Couldn’t imagine her, her of all people, loving him.
And so he was sending her back to a world he wasn’t part of, sending her to people who were more deserving.
Mikael closed his eyes, his fist pressed to his forehead, pushing against the thoughts and recriminations, as well as the memories tormenting him.
He should have been a better son to his mother. He should have denounced his father once he realized his father had lied, that his father had broken his promise to his mother. He should have given his mother the assistance, advice, and support she’d needed.
But he hadn’t. And she’d died alone, in terrible emotional pain. And he couldn’t forgive himself for his part in her suffering.
How could he?
He squeezed his fist tighter, pressed harder against his forehead, disgusted. Heartsick.
She’d be alive now if he’d given her help. She’d be alive if he’d acted when he should have. It would have been easy. Asking forgiveness was not that complicated. It was simply a matter of pride.
His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut, trying to hold the burning tears back. Forgive me, he thought, sending a silent prayer up to his mother.
And not that he deserved any help, or protection, but Jemma did. Jemma deserved so much, and maybe his mother could pull a few strings up there. Maybe his mother could do something on Jemma’s behalf.
Help her, Mother. Help my Jemma. Help her heal, if you can.
And then gently, carefully he lifted Jemma’s hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to her skin.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, holding her hands, his lips pressed to her skin, but he wouldn’t let her go. He refused to let her go. He needed her.
He loved her.
He couldn’t be the man he wanted to be without her.
She had to survive and forgive him. She had to survive to be his friend, his lover, his companion. She had to survive so he could make things right with her.
“Forgive me, laeela,” he whispered, exhausted by the vigil by her side, but not wanting to be anywhere else, either. He wouldn’t leave her. Not now. Not ever.
Her eyes fluttered. Mikael sat forward. He stroked her brow, where her delicate, dark eyebrows arched. “Forgive me,” he repeated. “I need you to come back. I need you with me.”
“Forgive...” Jemma whispered, her eyes fluttering again, and slowly opening. Her brows tugged. Her gaze was unfocused. “Mikael?”
“You’re awake.”
“Where am I?”
“Ketama. The royal hospital.”
“Why?”
“There was an accident.” He stood, and gazed down intently into her eyes. “You were hurt.”
It seemed hard for her to focus, but otherwise her eyes looked the same, clear and cool and green.
She blinked, and licked her lips, her mouth dry. “Do you have any water?”
“I’ll ring the nurse.” He pushed the button on the side of the bed. “Do you hurt?”
“A little. Not bad.” She frowned. “I don’t remember an accident.”
“That’s all right. You don’t need to. It was bad. It’s a miracle you’re here.”
She was silent a long moment. “What day is it?”
“Monday.”
“No, what day? Of the eight days?”
He leaned over, kissed her gently on the cheek. “Day eleven, or twelve. I forget. It’s been a blur.”
“Oh.” And then her expression changed, her brows knitting, tightening. “You’re sending me home. You don’t want me.”
“Let’s not talk about that right now.”
“You don’t love me.”
“Jemma. Laeela,” he said roughly, sounding agonized.
She turned her face away from him, closed her eyes. “It’s fine. I want to go home. I want to go now.”
A knot filled his throat. His chest ached with bottled emotion. “You can’t go anywhere until you’re better.”
She tried to sit up. She winced at the effort.
“Lie down, be still—”
“I won’t have you making decisions for me,” she interrupted hoarsely. “I won’t have you commanding me or dictating to me, because you’re just like the others. You’re just the same, making promises you never intended to keep—”
“That’s not true,” he interrupted fiercely, before lowering his voice. “I love you. I do. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. I didn’t want a love match, but love found me anyway in you, and the only reason I was sending you home was to give you your freedom and future back.”
“But my future is with you! My home is with you. And you, you—” She broke off and squeezed her eyes closed even as tears seeped beneath her lashes. “You don’t even care.”
“I care,” he said, leaning over her, and kissing her carefully on the forehead, between bandages. “I care so much that I only want what’s best for you, and I am not sure Saidia is best for you. It wasn’t good for my mother. She was lonely here.”
“But I’m not your mother,” Jemma answered, opening her eyes. “And you’re not your father. We can have our own marriage, and we can do it all differently. We can do it right. But you have to believe that, too. You have to fight for us, too.”
“I’m fighting,” he murmured, stroking her cheek gently, tenderly. She was all bruises, scrapes and stitches and more beautiful than any woman in the world. “I’m fighting for us, fighting for you. I haven’t been able to leave your side, afraid that if I left, you’d disappear.”
She struggled to smile even as tears fell, slipping from the corners of her eyes. “I’m here.”
He smiled down at her, and caught a tear before it slid into her hair. “Yes, you are, my wife, my heart, my queen.”
Jemma’s lower lip trembled. “You can’t ever threaten to send me away again.”
“I won’t. Not ever. We are going to make this work, and we will have hard days and arguments and hurt feelings, but I promise you, I am here for you and with you. You and I are meant to be together.”
“Not because it’s your duty,” she whispered.
He smiled. “No, it’s not because of duty. We are together because you are my love, and the queen of my heart.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from IN THE BRAZILIAN’S DEBT by Susan Stephens.