Читать книгу Defying her Desert Duty - Annie West - Страница 7

SORAYA 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.

Soraya’s heart pulsed quicker as she recalled those overpowering emotions—the fury and indignation, the compulsion to know more, the feel of his gaze on her. The blast of untrammelled awareness when he’d held her.

She blinked and looked away.

Silence thickened, broken only by the eager waitress returning with their coffees: espresso for him, café crème for her. Automatically her hands wrapped round the oversized cup and she tilted her head, inhaling the steamy scent of hot cream and fragrant coffee.

‘The Emir also sent me with news.’

Soraya nodded and lifted the cup to her lips, needing its heat. Even draped in his jacket she was cold. Cold with a chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the creeping frost that crackled through her senses. The chill of foreboding.

‘He asks that you accompany me to Bakhara. It’s time for your wedding.’

Her slim fingers cupped the bowl of milky coffee so tightly Zahir saw them whiten. She didn’t look up, but kept her eyes fixed on her drink. Following her gaze, he saw the creamy liquid ripple dangerously as her hands shook.

Instinct bade him reach out before she spilled the hot coffee and burned her hands.

Sense made him keep his hands to himself.

Bad enough that he knew the feel of her in his arms. Worse that he’d wanted …

No! He thrust the insidious thought aside.

Tiredness was to blame. The freedom of travelling the open road on his bike was what he’d needed after weeks locked in diplomatic negotiation on Hussein’s behalf. But it had been a long journey.

As for the hum of awareness deep in his belly—it was a while since he’d shared his bed. That was all.

‘I see.’ Still she didn’t look up. Nor did she drink. Instead she slowly lowered the coffee to the table, her hands still clamped round it as if for warmth.

Zahir frowned.

‘Are you all right?’ The words were tugged from his lips before he realised it.

Her mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile that somehow lacked humour. ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

She lifted her head slowly, as if it was an effort.

Yet when her eyes met his he read nothing in them but a slight shimmer, as if the coffee’s steam had made her eyes water. They were remarkable eyes. In the gloom of the club he’d thought them ebony. Here in the light he realised they were a dark, velvety brown, rich with a smattering of lighter specks, like gold dust.

Zahir sat back abruptly and lifted his espresso. Pungent and rich, the liquid seared his mouth and cleared his head.

‘The Emir has set a date for the wedding?’ Her voice was cool and crisp, yet he sensed strain there. Just as he saw strain in the rigid set of her neck and shoulders.

He shrugged. ‘No date was mentioned to me.’ As if Hussein would consult him on the minor details of his nuptials! That was what wedding planners were for. No doubt there were hordes of them, eager to have a hand in what would be the wedding of the decade.

‘But …’ She frowned and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Resolutely he shifted his gaze from her lush mouth and turned to survey the café. It was doing a roaring trade in early-morning coffees for the market workers eager for a takeaway caffeine fix. Yet here at the rear Zahir and his companion were totally alone.

‘The Emir wants me to return?’

Hadn’t he just said so? Zahir turned and found himself drowning in dark eyes that, if he didn’t know better, he’d say held fear.

Nonsense. What was there to fear? Any woman would be ecstatic with the news he’d come to take her back to marry the Emir of Bakhara. If Hussein’s character weren’t enough to attract any woman, his personal wealth, not to mention his position of supreme authority, were bonuses few women could resist.

Soraya Karim had nothing to fear and everything to gain.

‘He does.’

Zahir watched her shift in her seat. Her shoulders straightened, banishing the hint of a slump. Her chin lifted and her posture morphed into one of cool composure. Like the woman who’d stalked away from him in the club.

His heart gave a kick of appreciation and the dormant fire in his veins smouldered anew.

Hell! Since when had any woman had such an effect on him? Not even his last lover, naked and eager in his bed, would have garnered such an instantaneous response.

He rubbed his hand across his jaw, noting the stubble he hadn’t bothered to remove. Lack of sleep was the problem. He’d been awake for thirty-six hours—eager to get here and get this over quickly so he could return to the new challenge that awaited him.

His reactions were haywire.

‘The Emir has asked me to escort you home.’ He curved his mouth in a reassuring smile and reined in his impatience—as if he had nothing better to do with his time than act as her minder on the trip from Paris to Bakhara.

Yet he couldn’t begrudge Hussein this favour. Soraya Karim would soon be his bride—of course he wanted her kept safe on the journey.

A pity no-one had thought to keep an eye on her while she partied in Paris!

‘I thank the Emir for his kindness in providing an escort.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘However, it would have been helpful if you’d contacted me before you arrived. That would have given me time to prepare.’

Zahir frowned at the hint of disapproval in her carefully polite tone.

What was there to prepare? Surely, as an eager bride, she’d jump at the chance to return to Bakhara and the opulent bridal gifts Hussein would shower upon her.

After years of delay Hussein was finally ready to proceed with the wedding. His chosen bride should be grinning with delight.

Instead she surveyed Zahir coolly.

‘I’m here to assist. You can leave the details to me.’ Winding up the lease on her apartment and organising a team of removalists would be the work of a few phone calls.

She nodded. ‘I’m obliged to you. However, I prefer to make my own arrangements.’ She paused. ‘When is the Emir expecting me?’

‘I’ve organised a flight tomorrow night. The royal jet will fly us back.’ A day to complete his nursemaid duties and deliver her safely to Hussein. Then Zahir could make his way to his new post. He’d been itching to get to it for weeks.

‘The Emir expects me tomorrow?’ Her face leached of colour, leaving her looking unexpectedly fragile.

Zahir opened his mouth then shut it again.

This wasn’t going to plan. He’d envisaged her eager to return to Bakhara and embrace her new life as wife of the country’s ruler. He’d expected excitement, gratitude, even.

Instead she looked horrified.

A thread of curiosity curled within him till he blanked it out. He wasn’t interested in understanding Soraya Karim, especially as he had a fair idea he wouldn’t like what he found on closer inspection. He prized loyalty above all things and Hussein deserved better than a fiancée who couldn’t be trusted to keep away from other men.

‘There’s a problem with tomorrow?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disapproval.

His nostrils flared with distaste as he wondered if she needed extra time to say goodbye to that lanky fool from the nightclub. Surely she wouldn’t delay her departure for him? Or had he been a ploy? Perhaps she’d been trying to make the handsome blond guy at their table jealous.

He’d observed the covetous glances she’d attracted in that bar. Anger stirred at the notion she’d played fast and loose with Hussein’s trust.

‘No, tomorrow’s not convenient.’ Just that. No explanations, no apologies, just a shimmer of defiance in those fine eyes and a hint of mulish wilfulness in her down-turned mouth.

Despite himself, Zahir felt a spark of appreciation for the way she stonewalled him. The negotiators this last week could have done with some of her spunk. They might have come out of the joint-venture deal with a better share of the profits.

But that didn’t negate the fact that she disrupted his plans. True, Hussein hadn’t specified a date for his bride’s return, but Zahir wanted to conclude this task and move on to his new role. He hadn’t been so eager for anything in years.

‘And when will it be convenient?’

Colour rose in her cheeks and her lips parted as if to protest his curt tone. Zahir’s pulse missed a beat and heat combusted deep in his belly as he watched her mouth turn from sulky to an enticing O. With his jacket pulled around her shoulders and her hair coming down in soft curling tresses, she looked inviting, available, tempting.

Not like the fiancée of his mentor and best friend.

Her eyes widened as if she read his response despite the savage control he exerted to keep it hidden.

The tension between them notched higher. It trembled in the air, a pressure that had more do with his reaction to her than with the subject under discussion.

This couldn’t be!

It wouldn’t be.

By hook or by crook he’d have her back in Bakhara, safe with her fiancé and out of his life, before her feet could touch the ground.