Millions To Spare

nipples.

He sucked in a breath, so she tried it again, smiling to herself when she realized he liked it. She swirled down lower, and lower still.

He gasped. “You want this to be over quick?”

“I have no idea.”

“Trust me, you don’t.” He retrieved her hands, putting them safely against his back.

But when his wandered to her thighs, she copied his movements. They stared at each other, alternately kissing and touching and teasing, as their bodies grew slick and the tension ratcheted up between them.

Then finally, he trapped her wrists in one hand, holding them out of harm’s way. He gently urged her thighs apart, watching her expression as he positioned himself above her.

Her breathing was laboured, her skin itchy hot, her limbs and her body twitchy with need. He touched against her, and her eyes went wide. Her lips went soft and she leaned up to kiss his mouth.

Her hips flexed, and her thighs quivered.

“Now,” she pleaded.

“I can’t believe-” He pressed against her.

She groaned and arched and freed her hands to wrap her arms around his neck.

“I can’t believe,” he repeated, “that I’m about to ruin both our lives.”

Then he flexed, and she gasped, and his solid thickness filled her. Heat instantly pulsed where their bodies joined.

She brought up her knees, and sharp pain was replaced by swirling desire.

“You okay?” he gasped, even as his body moved in its own rhythm.

“Don’t…” she groaned back. “Stop…” She sucked in a breath. “Ruining my life.”

“Brittany.” His hand slipped beneath her buttocks, refining their angle. “I could ruin your life forever.”

Events had quickly spiraled out of Julia’s control. Although there was a serious language barrier, the thrill of a wedding seemed universal. Ahmed’s wife, Habeeba, had immediately begun issuing orders, while the oldest daughter, Rania, pulled Julia into one of the bedrooms.

She laughed and gestured for Julia to sit on a small chair in front of a gilt, oval mirror. When she began combing Julia’s hair, Julia quickly realized she was being prepared to be a bride. She wanted to protest that it was unnecessary, but Rania seemed so excited that she didn’t have the heart to stop her.

Rania smoothed Julia’s hair back into a flat braid. Then she offered her a warm cloth and gestured for her to wash her face. Julia smiled and nodded, trying to express her appreciation without words.

She didn’t know what Harrison was doing outside, but she hoped it was more along the lines of getting the local marriage official and filling out the paperwork.

She was far from convinced this was a good idea. But if they were going to do it, they’d better get it done and get out of here.

She had no doubt Muwaffaq was scouring the desert for them, and she doubted he’d stop to ask for their passports.

Chatting as she worked, not seeming the least bit concerned that Julia didn’t understand her, Rania carefully applied cosmetics to Julia’s freshly washed face. She brushed and blended, and stroked the subtle colors onto Julia’s eyes, lips and cheeks.

Then, apparently satisfied, she pulled over another small, wooden chair and reached for Julia’s hands. As she began washing them, Julia forced out another smile. She didn’t really need a manicure. A preacher alone would do the trick.

She surreptitiously glanced behind her.

Where was Harrison?

Then, the bedroom door opened. But Julia’s sigh of relief was short-lived. Instead of Harrison come to rescue her, she saw Habeeba coming through the door. The woman carried a small, ceramic bowl and a hand towel.

She spoke to Rania, who stood up and relieved her mother of the bowl.

Then Habeeba sat down across from Julia and reached for her hands. Before Julia knew what was happening, the older woman had dipped a brush into the dark paste in the bowl and started to draw on the back of Julia’s hand.

Julia fought an instinct to snatch her hand away. But, quickly, an intricate design of scrolls and flowers appeared. Rania and her mother chatted to Julia and with each other, with Rania pointing and commenting as the drawing took shape.

Julia got that it was some kind of wedding tradition. She also realized the paste must be made from henna dye.

The talking and painting went on and on. When the older woman finally finished her hands, Julia breathed a sigh of relief. But Rania immediately went to work on her feet. A good hour later, they finished off with a small pattern at the base of her neck.

Finally satisfied, they motioned for Julia to hold still and let the dye dry. They brought her a snack of bread and yogurt, with tea to wash it down.

Habeeba then returned to the kitchen, while Rania began organizing colorful clothing and fabrics.

“Harrison?” Julia finally forced herself to ask, afraid of moving for fear of ruining their designs, but growing more desperate to know what was going on outside.

Rania made a frantic negative gesture with her head and hands.

Julia sighed.

Obviously, there was no seeing the groom before the ceremony. It was amazing how many customs transcended cultures.

Finally, it was time to wash the henna paste off with water. Then Rania helped her dress in a brightly patterned tunic in burgundy, white and coral blue. They adorned her neck, ears and wrists with heavy gold, then added an intricately embroidered head scarf, woven with gold and silver threads and draped to cover the lower half of her face.

She gazed at her exotic image in the small mirror, then down at hands that seemed to belong to someone else. Despite the knowledge she’d have to hide this secret forever, she began to hope somebody out there had a camera.

Rania touched her arm. With a smile, the young woman nodded toward the bedroom door. Julia understood.

It was time.

Suddenly nervous, trying to keep it all in perspective, and hoping the sweat on her palms wouldn’t make the henna run, she started for the door.

Exotic, half-tone string music was playing in the main room, and they entered to see Ahmed and Habeeba, their two other daughters and a man who was obviously the marriage official standing in the middle of the room. The women were dressed in bright colors, the men in crisp whites. Then she caught sight of Harrison. He smiled reassuringly, dressed in a simple white cap, a bright white tunic and matching trousers.

Not sure what to do, Julia stood with the women on one side of the room while the preacher began speaking. She didn’t understand a word of what was said. And when the man stopped talking, Harrison didn’t kiss her. Instead he motioned for her to join him at the table.

She didn’t feel married. Which was a relief, really. Walking down some kind of aisle in a white dress and repeating vows she wouldn’t keep would have been much worse than this foreign ceremony and the Arabic certificate in front of her.

“This could be anything,” she said, sitting down to pick up the pen.

“It’s a prenup.”

She shot him a look of astonishment.

“I’m joking.” Then he paused. “But you’re not going after Cadair or anything, are you?”

“No.”

Harrison’s wealth was completely safe from her. Even if she was corrupt enough to try to capitalize on the marriage, she doubted any court would award her a settlement. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to come back and visit the UAE. In fact, it might be a while before she left Kentucky again.

He pointed to a line on the page. She drew a breath, told herself it was nothing but a temporary legal contract,