Page 53 of At the Sheikh's Bidding
Twice through the afternoon, she signaled to the bartender, who brought them over food and more drinks to sustain them.
At last, the words began to slow and fade as emotional exhaustion kicked in. “You see,” he said finally. “If only I’d prevented her from meeting up with the man who’d posted the private video, if only I’d ignored what she’d said and sorted him out myself, if only I’d made sure I stayed with her when she was vulnerable instead of allowing her the space she’d asked for, she’d be alive today.”
“That’s a lot of if onlys,” she said quietly.
“But they were all things I wanted to do, and should have done to protect her. I shouldn’t have allowed her to continue on that path. I should have taken control.”
“Like you do now,” she commented.
“Exactly,” he sat back. “So you understand.”
“Yes, I understand,” she said, her steady gaze never leaving his exhausted one. “I understand why you feel compelled to control everyone now. But I also understand that you’re wrong.”
A blaze of anger filled his eyes, and he leaned forward. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”
“Every word,” she confirmed. “You can’t control other people. You can advise them—which you did—and you can guide them—which you tried to—but, ultimately you can’t control anyone else and you can’t take responsibility for anyone else. Their life is their own. And, as frustrating as that is, there’s nothing you can do about it. You have to respect that, and them. And that’s what you did with Layla. You respected her and allowed her the freedom to live her own life. That she destroyed it isn’t down to you. There’s nothing you could have done. You weren’t the man responsible for putting intimate images of her on social media. He alone is responsible for what happened to her.”
He shook his head. She had to get through to him. She leaned forward and gripped his shoulders.
“No,” she said firmly. “You cannot deny it, because it’s the truth. Amare, please, listen to me. Deep down, you know it’s true. You can only guide people. My father tried to control me with a will of iron and it forced me away, and made me run a mile whenever I detected a whiff of control. If you’d have tried to control Layla, she’d have resented it and it would have driven a wedge in your relationship. It wouldn’t have worked. She was a grown woman. Face it, you arenotresponsible for Layla’s death. You never were. Grief made you want to find a scapegoat, and it was yourself. Because it was easier to hurt yourself than to feel the pain of grief. It’s time to grieve and accept her loss and also accept that you had nothing to do with it.”
Amare looked at her in silence for a while. And, just when she was about to speak again, he gave a brief nod and finished his brandy and sat back, lacing his fingers and frowning as he looked at her.
“I guess you may have something,” he at last conceded. “Although I can’t quite believe it here,” he said, tapping his fist against his heart.
She replaced his fist with the flat of her hand. “Maybe not yet, but you will. Because I know that your heart is big and accommodating.”
He took her hand and kissed it, studying her fingers and blinking as he did so, pressing his lips together as if he were trying to control a flood of emotion.
“I don’t know about my heart, but you’ve just proved yours is as big as I suspected.” He looked up into her eyes, and she could see they were misted with tears. “Question is, has my controlling behavior driven you away? Or will you stay? Here, with me?”
She opened her mouth to reassure him because that was her instinct after everything he’d just told her. But the truth was, she didn’t know if she was ready to commit to him fully. If he had his complications, so did she. Could she risk being with this man who she had no doubt she loved, but who wouldn’t find it easy to manage his controlling ways? Could she turn her back on the life she’d created independent of everyone, and join this man in a new life—a life of the unknown, with a man who was struggling with control issues? Could she?
“Honestly?” she said at last. “I don’t know.”
But his focus on her didn’t waver, and she could see his determination strengthen as he gripped her hand between both of his. “I understand. And I’ll show you with everything that I do that I’m not someone to be feared like you feared your father. I’ll show you how good our future will be together. I promise. Give me a week and I’ll show you.”
She nodded. “A week,” she said.
As they walked outside into the Paris streets at dusk, she knew he believed in his promise. But despite the love she felt for him, would living with him prove to be as much as a prison as her early home had been? She didn’t know yet, but she knew that she’d find out.
She’d promised him a week. She just hoped it would be long enough.
CHAPTER23
Janey thought she’d never forget that first week they spent together in Paris. After what had happened in Amare’s apartment, she’d imagined things would be difficult between them, as they both were forced to face their fears and be honest with each other about them. But it proved to be totally the opposite.
From the nights when there had been nothing between them—no secrets, no fears—nothing but themselves exploring each other with nothing to hide, or hide behind. To the days when they’d explored areas of Paris she’d never been to before, and they’d dined and danced and spent time with friends, all the while talking to each other. So much talking. It was as if, now the barriers had fallen away, what was revealed was clear to see. They loved each other. There was a bond between them which had been there from the beginning and which refused to be ignored.
This new knowledge was captured in their lovemaking, which was also different. No longer was there a sense of urgency. When they’d made love before, there had been an edge to it. It had almost been as if each of them had been trying to possess the other, scared the moment would escape before they could capture it. But after that afternoon in Amare’s apartment, something had changed, and Janey knew their relationship had transitioned into something deeper, more profound.
And it was reflected in their every movement. Rarely were they apart, and when they were together, either she or Amare would reach for each other instinctively, seeking each other like a flower turns its head towards the sun.
This new loving tenderness was present in everything Amare did. It was there in the way he curled his fingers through hers and raised her hand to his lips, his eyes closed, the moment stretching until he released her with a smile.
And it was there, at night, as he explored her body and her mind and her soul and heart, making sure she was happy, making sure she was content, making sure she felt free, like a butterfly held in his open palm, able to leave at any moment, but treasured during whatever time she gave him.
And it was here, again, now, as they returned home from shopping for books in a quaint backstreet on the Île Saint-Louis. The week she’d agreed to had ended. But he hadn’t asked her what her plans would be, and she hadn’t told him. Partly because, at first, she hadn’t known for sure and later, after she’d made her decision? Well, she’d decided to wait to see what he would do ornotdo. Because, despite everything, she felt a shadow of doubt. What if she was imagining all of this? What if, at the end of the week, he said thank you and goodbye? Now the week had ended, she knew she’d soon find out—one way or another.
