Defying her Desert Duty (2 page)

Heat pooled low. Disgust, he assured himself.

The one time she’d impressed was when she’d stood up to him. Few people dared do that.

The look in her eye when she’d used that damned spike heel had, for a moment, arrested him. And the way she’d strode back across the dance floor, with the grace and hauteur of an empress, had made him want to applaud.

At least she had guts. She was no push-over.

The determined click of feminine heels snared his attention and he straightened from the wall.

Instantly the rhythm of those footsteps slowed and a disturbing fire sparked in his blood. He’d felt it each time her eyes collided with his.

Hell! Now he felt it from her mere glance.

A volatile mixture of fury, guilt and some other darker emotion surged to the surface.

This was
not
the way it should be. Zahir refused to countenance it.

He swung round to face her across the foyer of the nightclub. At this hour even the bouncer had deserted his post. They were alone.

‘You! What are you doing here?’ Her hand crept to her throat, then, as if recognising that for a sign of weakness, she dropped it to her side and lifted her chin. Subtly she widened her stance. What, did she mean to kick him in the groin if he tried to approach her?

It would do her no good, of course. Overpowering her would be a moment’s work.

But that wasn’t an option. Despite her flaws, she would be treated with respect. That was why he’d waited till they had privacy to approach her.

He ignored that ill-advised, inexplicable impulse to approach her on the dance floor.

‘We need to talk.’

But already she was shaking her head. Flyaway strands of dark chocolate tresses swirled around her slender throat.

Zahir forced his focus to her eyes. Dark as ebony, they held his unflinchingly. He gave her full marks for bravado.

‘We have nothing to discuss.’ Her gaze skated across his shoulders, his chest and back up again. ‘If you don’t leave me alone I’ll—’

‘What? Call out for lover-boy to rescue you?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and saw her gaze follow the movement. The low simmer of heat in his veins became a sizzle, igniting a temper he’d almost forgotten he had.

What was it about this woman that got under his skin? It was unheard of.

‘No.’ She took a mobile phone from her purse and flipped it open. ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘Not a wise move, princess.’

‘
Don’t
call me that!’ She quivered with outrage, her mouth a pout of wrathful indignation.

Too late, Zahir realised why he’d baited her.

Not because she deserved it.

Not because he was naturally crass.

But because he wanted her to look at him, respond to him, as she had on the dance floor. There, despite her defiant words, her body had melted against his just for a moment in an unspoken invitation as old as time.

Hell and damnation!

What was he playing at?

‘Forgive me, Ms Karim.’ Carefully he blanked his expression, speaking in the modulated tones he used when brokering a particularly difficult negotiation.

‘You know my name!’ She stumbled back a half-step, alarm in her eyes.

Registering her fear, Zahir tasted self-disgust on his tongue. Nothing he’d done tonight had gone as intended. Where was his professionalism, his years of experience handling the most difficult and delicate missions?

‘You have nothing to fear.’ He spread his palms in an open gesture.

But she backed up another step, groping behind her for the door into the bar. ‘I don’t hold conversations with strange men in places like this.’ Her gesture encompassed the empty foyer.

Zahir drew a deep breath. ‘Not even a man who comes direct from your bridegroom?’

S
ORAYA
froze, muscles cramping in shock as that one word reverberated through her stunned brain.

Bridegroom …

No, no! Not yet. Not now. She wasn’t ready.

Her heart rose in her throat, clogging her airways, lurching out of kilter. Her senses swam. It couldn’t be. She had months yet here in Paris—hadn’t she?

Soraya staggered back till the hand behind her met a solid surface. Fingers splayed, she pressed into the wall, needing its support.

Through hazy vision she registered abrupt movement: the stranger striding across the small space, arm raised as if to reach for her.

She stiffened and he slammed to a halt, his hand dropping. This close she should be able to read his expression but in the dim light his features looked like they’d been carved from harsh stone, betraying nothing. His eyes blazed, but with what she couldn’t discern.

At least he didn’t touch her again.

She didn’t want his hand on her. She didn’t like the curious heat that stirred when he did.

She dragged in a deep breath, then another, trying to calm her racing pulse. With him so close, watching like an eagle sighting its prey, it was impossible. She had nowhere to retreat to. And even if she did she knew he’d follow.

He had the grim, resolute aura of a man who finished what he started.

Her heart give a little jagged thump and she forced herself to stand tall. Even in her new shoes she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. He was big—broad across the shoulder and tall. Yet his physical size was only part of the impact. There was something in his eyes …

Soraya jerked her gaze away.

‘You’ve come from Bakhara?’ Her voice was husky.

‘I have.’

She opened her mouth to ask if he’d come direct from
him
, but the words disintegrated in her dry mouth. It was stupid, but for as long as she didn’t say the words she could almost pretend it wasn’t true.

Yet even in denial Soraya couldn’t pretend this was a mistake. The man before her wasn’t the sort to make mistakes. That poised, lethal stillness spoke a language all its own. There’d be no errors with this man. She shivered, cold to the bones.

‘And you are?’ Soraya forced herself to speak.

One slashing black eyebrow rose, as if he recognised her question for the delay tactic it was.

‘My name is Zahir Adnan El Hashem.’ He sketched an elegant bow that confirmed his story more definitively than any words. It proclaimed him totally at home with the formal etiquette of the royal court.

In jeans, boots and black leather, the movement should have looked out of place, but somehow the casual western clothes only reinforced his hard strength and unyielding posture. And made her think of formidable desert fighters.

Soraya swallowed hard, her flesh chilling.

She’d heard of Zahir El Hashem. Who in Bakhara hadn’t? He was the Emir’s right-hand man. A force to be reckoned with: a renowned warrior and, according to her father, a man fast developing a reputation in the region as a canny but well-regarded diplomat.

Her fingers threaded into a taut knot.

She’d thought he’d be older, given his reputation. But what made her tense was the fact that the Emir had sent
him
, his most trusted royal advisor. A man rumoured to be as close to the Emir as family. A man known not for kindness but for his uncompromising strength. A man who’d have no compunction about hauling home an unwilling bride.

Her heart sank.

It was true, then.
Absolutely, irrefutably true.

Her future had caught up with her.

The future she’d hoped might never eventuate.

‘And you are Soraya Karim.’

It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who she was.

And hated her for it, she realised with a flash of disturbing insight as something flickered in the sea-green depths of those remarkable eyes.

No, not hatred. Something else.

Finally she found her voice, no matter that it was raspy with shock. ‘Why seek me out here? It’s hardly a suitable time to meet.’

His other eyebrow rose and heat flooded her cheeks. He knew she was prevaricating. Did he realise she’d do almost anything not to hear the news he brought?

‘What I have to say is important.’

‘I have no doubt.’ She dragged her hand from the supporting wall and made a show of flicking shut her phone and putting it away. ‘But surely we could discuss it tomorrow at a civilised time?’ She was putting off the inevitable and probably sounding like a spoiled brat in the bargain. But she couldn’t help it. Her blood chilled at the thought of what he’d come all this way to tell her.

‘It’s already tomorrow.’

And he wasn’t going anywhere. His stance said it all.

‘You have no interest in my message?’ He paused, his eyes boring into her as if looking for something he couldn’t find. ‘You’re not concerned with the possibility that I bring bad
news?’ His face remained unreadable but there was no mistaking the sharp edge to his voice.

The phone clattered to the floor from Soraya’s nerveless fingers.

‘My father?’ Her hand shot to her mouth, pressing against trembling lips.

‘No!’ Colour deepened the razor-sharp line of his cheekbones. He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. Your father is well. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’

‘If not my father, then—?’

An abrupt gesture stopped her words. ‘My apologies, Ms Karim. I should not have mentioned the possibility. It was thoughtless of me. Let me assure you, everyone close to you is well.’

Close to her. That included the man who’d sent him.

Suddenly, looking into the stormy depths of Zahir El Hashem’s eyes, Soraya realised why he’d pushed her. How unnatural of any woman not to be concerned that sudden news might bring bad tidings about the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.

Guilt hit her. How unnatural
was
she? Surely she cared about him? He deserved no less. Yet these last months she’d almost fooled herself into believing that future might never come to pass.

No wonder his emissary looked at her so searchingly. Had her response, or lack of it, given her away?

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she murmured, ducking her head to cover the confusion she felt. At her feet lay her phone. She bent to retrieve it only to find her hand meeting his as he scooped the phone up.

His hand was hard, callused, broad of palm and long-fingered. The hand of a man who, despite his familiarity with the royal court, did far more with his days than consider protocol.

The touch of his flesh, warm and so different from her own, made her retreat instinctively, her breath sucking in on a gasp.
Or was it the memory of that same hand holding her tight against him on the dance floor? Fire snaked through her veins, making her aware of him as
male.

‘Your phone.’

‘Thank you.’ She kept her eyes averted, not wanting to face his searching stare again.

‘Again, I apologise for my clumsiness. For letting you fear—’

‘It’s all right. No harm done.’ Soraya shook her head, wishing it was the case, when all she could think of was that her reaction betrayed her as thoughtless, ungrateful, not deserving the good fortune she’d so enjoyed.

Worse, it was proof positive the doubts she’d begun to harbour had matured into far more than vague dissatisfaction and pie-in-the-sky wishing.

‘Come,’ he said, his voice brusque. ‘We can’t discuss this here.’

Reluctantly Soraya raised her head, taking in the deserted foyer, the muffled music from the club and the mingled scents of cigarette smoke, perfume and sweat.

He was right. She needed to hear the details.

She nodded, exhaustion engulfing her. It was the exhaustion a cornered animal must feel, facing its predator at the end of a long hunt from which there was no escape.

She felt spent. Vulnerable.

Soraya straightened her shoulders. ‘Of course.’

He ushered her out and she felt the warmth of his hand at her back, close but not touching. Something in the quiver of tension between them told her he wouldn’t touch her again. She was grateful for it.

Fingers of pale grey spread across the dawn sky, vying with the streetlights in the deserted alley. She looked around for a long, dark, official-looking vehicle. The place was deserted but for a big motorbike in the shadows.

Where to? She couldn’t take him home; not with Lisle
and her boyfriend there. The place was roomy but the walls were thin.

‘This way.’ He ushered her towards the main road then down another side street with a sureness that told her he knew exactly where he was going.

She supposed she should have asked for proof of identity before following him. But she dismissed the thought as another delaying tactic. There was no doubt in her mind that he was who he said.

Besides, she felt like she’d gone three rounds in a boxing ring already. And this had only just started! How would she cope?

A shudder rippled down her spine.

A moment later weighted warmth encompassed her. She faltered to a stop. Around her shoulders swung a man’s heavy leather jacket, lined with soft fabric that held the heat of his body and the clean fragrance of male skin.

Soraya’s nostrils flared as her senses dipped and whirled, dizzy with the invasion of her space and the onslaught of unfamiliar reactions.

‘You were cold.’ His words were clipped. In the gloom his face was unreadable, but his stance proclaimed his distance, mental as well as physical.

He stood tall, the dark fabric of his T-shirt skimming a torso taut with leashed energy. His hands curled and the muscles in his arms bunched, revealing the blatant power his jacket had concealed. Resolutely she stopped her eyes skimming lower to those long denim-clad legs.

He looked potent.
Dangerous.

‘Thank you.’ Soraya forced her gaze away, down the street that had begun to stir with carriers hefting boxes. A street market was beginning to take shape.

Relief welled. Surrounded by other people, surely the unfamiliar sensations she felt alone with him would dissipate? She’d been like a cat on burning sand for hours, all because of him.

She dragged his jacket in around her shoulders, telling herself
the shock of news from Bakhara unnerved her. Her sense of unreality had nothing to do with the man so stonily silent beside her.

Zahir shortened his pace to match hers. She had long legs but those heels weren’t made for cobblestones. They slowed her walk to a provocative hip-tilting sway far slower than his usual stride.

Resolutely he kept his eyes fixed ahead, not on her undulating walk.

Heat seared his throat and tightened his belly. How could he have been so stupid? So thoughtless? The look on her face when she’d thought he brought bad news about her father had punched a fist of guilt right through his belly.

Damn him for a blundering fool!

All because he’d judged her and found her wanting. Because she wasn’t eager to hear the news from Hussein. Because she didn’t care what tidings he brought if they interfered with her night out.

Because she wasn’t the woman he’d presumed her to be, a woman worthy of Hussein.

Not when she spent the night snuggling up to another man, dancing with him, bewitching him with those enormous, lustrous eyes. Letting him paw her as if he owned her.

Zahir cupped the back of his neck, massaging it to ease the tension there.

Resolutely he shoved aside the whisper of suspicion that he’d have welcomed the chance to keep her in his own arms, feel her lush body pressed close.

This wasn’t about him.

It was about her.

And the man to whom he owed everything.

‘Thank you.’ Soraya hugged the jacket close as he stood aside, holding open the door to a brightly lit café.

Entering, she felt she’d strayed back in time a century.
Wooden booths lined the walls, topped with mirrors etched in lush
art nouveau
designs. There were brass fittings of an earlier age, burnished and welcoming, and posters from a time when women wore corsets and men sported boaters or top hats.

But the whoosh of the gleaming coffee machine was modern, as was the sultry smile the petite, female
barista
bestowed on Zahir.

Something tweaked tight in Soraya’s stomach. A thread of annoyance.

No wonder he was so sure of himself. He must take feminine adulation as his due.

Not this female.

Her heels clacked across the black-and-white tiled floor, giving the pretence of a confidence she didn’t feel. Her legs shook and each step was an effort.

Sliding into a cushioned seat she focused on the café rather than the man who sat down opposite her.

If she’d had to guess she’d have said he’d favour a place that was sleek, dark and anonymous. Somewhere edgy, like him. Not a café that was traditional and comforting with its beautiful fittings and aura of quiet bustle.

A waitress had followed them to their table, her eyes on Zahir as they ordered.

He was worth looking at, Soraya grudgingly admitted, averting her gaze from his hard, sculpted jaw with its intriguing hint of morning shadow.

‘You’ve come all the way from Bakhara,’ she said flatly when they were alone. ‘Why?’

She needed to hear it spelled out, even though there was only one reason he could be here.

‘I come with a message from the Emir.’

Soraya nodded, swallowing a lump in her dry throat. Tension drilled down her spine. ‘And?’

‘The Emir sends greetings and enquires after your wellbeing.’

She speared him with a look. An enquiry after her health?
That could have been done through her father, who updated the Emir on her progress. Suddenly she was impatient to hear the worst. The delay notched her tension higher.

‘I’m well.’ She kept her tone even, despite the fact she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. ‘And the Emir? I hope he is in good health.’

‘The Emir is in excellent health.’ It was the expected response in the polite give-and-take of formal courtesy.

The sort of courtesy that had been so completely lacking in her dealings with this man.