Читать книгу Defying her Desert Duty - Annie West - Страница 8

SORAYA knew disapproval when she saw it.

Despite his almost expressionless face, that flat, accusing stare said everything his words didn’t.

If it hadn’t been imprinted on her so early perhaps she’d never have recognised it. But nothing, not time or distance, could erase the memory of her father’s relatives whispering and tutting over the sordid details of her mother’s misdemeanours—or their certainty that, if unchecked, Soraya would go the same way to ruin. Even the servants gossiped in delighted condemnation.

Stifling the urge to lash out, Soraya withdrew into herself. What did she care if the Emir’s lackey didn’t approve of her? Even if, far from being a lackey he was one of the most powerful men in the country?

She had more on her mind than winning his approval. His news changed her life.

‘Give me tomorrow,’ she said, her voice husky with tension that threatened to choke her. ‘Then I’ll have a better idea.’

How long to pack her gear, say her goodbyes and, above all, get her research in some sort of order? She feared however long it took wouldn’t be enough.

Anxiety welled and she beat it back. Time enough to give in to fear when she was alone. She refused to let this man see her weak.

Abruptly she stood. He rose too, dwarfing the booth and crowding her space. Instantly she was transported to the club where his touch had sapped common sense. Where just for a moment she’d wanted to lean close to his powerful frame rather than escape his hold. Fear closed around her.

‘I want to go home.’ Even to her own ears her voice held a betraying wobble. Paris had become her home, a haven where she’d been able to spread her wings and enjoy a measure of freedom for the first time. The idea of returning to Bakhara, to marriage …

‘I’ll see you back.’ Already he was ushering her through the café, one hand hovering near her elbow as if to ensure she didn’t do a runner. He dropped payment on the counter where the waitress beamed her approval.

What was wrong with the girl? Couldn’t she see he was the sort of bad-tempered, take-charge brute who’d make any woman’s life a misery?

Clearly not. The waitress’s gaze followed him longingly, needling Soraya’s temper.

‘Thank you but I can make my own way.’

To her chagrin he was already hailing a taxi—a miracle at this time of the morning. It was daylight but the city was just stirring. Before she could reiterate her point he was opening the door for her then climbing in the other side.

‘I said—’

Her words disintegrated as he gave her address to the driver. Her heart thudded and she sank back in her corner.

Of course he knew her address. How else would he have located her? But the thought of Zahir El Hashem shouldering his way into her cosy flat sent disquiet scudding through her. Instinct warned her to keep her distance.

She didn’t want him near her.

The fact that he sat as far from her as the wide back seat allowed should have pleased her. Instead it struck her as insulting. He didn’t have to make such a conspicuous issue of keeping his distance, so grimly silent.

What she’d done to annoy him, she had no idea. He was the one whose behaviour was questionable, following her every move in the nightclub. What was that about?

Fifteen minutes later they stood on the pavement before her building. He’d overridden her assurance that he needn’t see her to the entrance, just as he’d paid the taxi fare as she fumbled for cash. Polite gestures no doubt but he insidiously invaded her space, encroaching on her claim to be an independent woman.

Never before had that claim seemed so precious.

Her heart plunged as she thought of what lay ahead.

A promise to keep.

A duty to perform.

A lifetime of it.

So much for the tantalising sense of freedom she’d only just found. The dreams she’d dared to harbour. She’d been mad to let herself imagine a future of her own making.

‘Here. Thank you.’ She tugged his jacket off her shoulders. Instantly she missed its heavy, comforting warmth and, she realised with horror, its subtle spicy scent. The scent of him.

She looked into his shadowed face, unable to read his expression. But there was no mistaking the care he took not to touch her as he took the jacket from her hands. As if she might contaminate him!

Why had she, even for a moment, worried what he thought of her? She’d long ago learned to rise above what others thought, what they expected. Only by being true to herself and those she cared for had she found strength.

‘Goodbye. Thank you for seeing me home.’ What did it matter if her voice was stilted with indignation? She inclined her head stiffly and turned, unlocking the door.

‘It’s no trouble.’ His deep voice rumbled, low and soft as a zephyr of hot desert wind, across her nape. Too late she realised she felt his warm breath, a caress on her bare skin as she stepped into the foyer and he followed.

Soraya slammed to a halt and felt the heat of his big frame behind her. Static electricity sparked and rippled across her flesh. It dismayed her. She’d never known anything like it.

But, she rationalised, till tonight she’d never been so close to a man other than her father.

Would she feel this strange surge of power in the air and across her skin when she went to the Emir?

Despite the heat of Zahir’s body Soraya shivered.

‘I’ll see you to your apartment.’

Flattening her lips at his assumption she couldn’t look after herself in her own building, she strode across the foyer. No point arguing. She had as much chance of budging him as of moving the Eiffel Tower.

But she refused to share the miniscule lift. The thought of being cocooned with him in that cramped space sent a spasm of horror through her. She’d rather take the five flights of stairs, even if her new shoes were pinching.

Soraya was ridiculously breathless when she reached her floor. She shoved her key in the door and turned to face him.

He wasn’t even breathing quickly after their rapid ascent. Nor did he feel that strange under-the-skin restlessness that so unnerved her. That was clear from his impassive face. He looked solid and immoveable. Nothing pierced his control.

‘Here.’ He held out a thick cream card. On one side was a mobile-phone number. No name, nothing else. On the other he’d scrawled in bold, slashing strokes the name of a hotel she knew by reputation only. ‘Call me if you need anything. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.’

No point in assuring him again she’d do her own organizing; it would be a waste of breath. He had the look of a man who heard what he chose to hear. She’d sort out the details later when she wasn’t so weary.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, resolutely hauling her gaze from his clear-eyed stare. ‘Good night.’

Behind her she pushed open the door to the apartment.

‘Is that you, Soraya?’ From inside, Lisle’s husky voice shattered the stilted silence. ‘We’re in the bedroom. Come in and join us.’

A stifled noise made her look up. Zahir El Hashem looked for once shaken out of his complacency. His eyes were wide and his mouth slack. He blinked and opened his mouth as if to speak but Soraya had had enough.

She stepped through the door and swung it closed. For the length of five heartbeats she stood, her back pressed against the door, waiting for his imperious summons, for there was no doubt he’d been about to speak.

Instead there was silence. Even through the door she sensed his presence, like a disapproving thundercloud. Her skin prickled as if she’d touched a live wire and her pulse pattered out of sync.

‘Soraya? Julie’s here too. Come on in.’

‘Coming,’ she croaked, knowing she had no hope of escaping Lisle or her sister. Julie must have stopped by to see how things were with her twin as soon as Lisle’s boyfriend had left.

Girly gossip wasn’t what Soraya needed but at least it would take her mind off the news she’d just received: that her wonderful adventure in Paris was over and she was returning home to fulfil the duty she’d been bound to from the age of fourteen. The duty she’d become accustomed to thinking was in some far-off future that became less real with every passing year.

Yet as she snicked the bolt shut and scooped up Lisle’s carelessly discarded camisole, Soraya was surprised to realise it was Zahir El Hashem’s strong features that filled her mind. Not those of her betrothed.

Zahir stared at the door, one hand still raised as if to stop it shutting. Or force it open.

Shock held him rigid. It wasn’t a familiar feeling. He was a man of some experience. Little surprised him. To be at a loss because she’d been invited to make up a threesome with the lovers he’d seen last night should be impossible.

Yet he rocked back on his feet, his gut clenching as if he’d caught a hammer blow to the belly. Searing bile snaked through his system.

Despite what he’d seen earlier, he’d almost convinced himself he’d been mistaken about Soraya. That the woman who carried herself with such poise and grace, yet with that intriguing shadow of anxiety in her eyes, was special. When he’d relaxed his guard he’d liked her, despite his doubts.

Stupid wishful thinking!

Had she deliberately sidetracked him?

Valiantly he’d tried to keep his eyes off the syncopated sway of her pert backside as she climbed the stairs in precarious heels. Even when he’d managed not to look he’d imagined the slip of soft fabric across warm, rounded flesh. His palms had tingled with remembered heat.

Anger welled. His hands fisted and his jaw ached as he clenched his teeth against the need to bellow out her name.

She’d played him for a fool. Tried to con him.

He felt … gutted.

He slumped against the door, hand splayed against it for support, recalling that discarded scrap of lingerie casually discarded just inside the door.

He’d spoiled her fun at the club and, he realised now, with the news she had to return to Bakhara where her every move would be scrutinised. Was she even now hauling that slinky dress over her head to join her friends in a little early-morning debauchery?

Nausea writhed.

Breathing heavily, Zahir sought calm.

Could he have misread what he’d seen and heard? He had so little evidence. Was he wrong to assume the worst? It was tempting to hope so.

Till he realised how much he wanted to be wrong. Fear feathered his backbone as he registered the sense almost of longing within him.

From the first his instinct had screamed a warning about Soraya Karim: she was dangerous. She tested his control to the limit and messed with his judgement.

He couldn’t let her undermine his duty too.

Zahir sighed and scrubbed his hand over gritty eyes, suddenly more tired than he could remember. How could he break it to Hussein that the woman he planned to marry might not be fit for the honour?

‘I’m sorry, madam. I’m afraid the guest you enquired about isn’t available.’

‘Not in or not available?’ Soraya tamped down the steaming anger that had been simmering for hours. ‘It’s important I see him as soon as possible.’

‘Excuse me a moment while I check.’ The receptionist turned to confer with a colleague, leaving Soraya free to focus on her surroundings.

The foyer was luxurious in the bred-in-the-bone way you’d expect of one of Paris’s grandest hotels. From the crimson carpet leading in from the cobblestoned pavement to the discreetly helpful staff, exquisite antiques and massive Venetian glass chandeliers, the placed screamed money, but in the most hushed and refined tones. The guests, whether wearing couture, business suits or staggeringly mismatched casuals, took the opulence in their stride, as only the super-wealthy could.

Soraya in her workaday jeans, T-shirt and loose jacket had never felt so out of place. Her family, one of the oldest in Bakhara, was comfortably off but had never aspired to this sort of rarefied luxury.

Even her shoes, her one pretension to elegance, had been snaffled in a miraculous end-of-sale bargain.

She stood taller. None of that mattered. All that mattered was seeing him. A tremor of repressed fury skated down her spine. Hadn’t he promised her a day to get her bearings and then contact him? He’d had no right …

‘I’m sorry for the delay, madam.’ The receptionist was back. ‘I’m able to tell you the guest you asked for has left strict instructions not to be disturbed.’

Soraya’s lips compressed. That was why he hadn’t answered his phone for the past two hours and she’d finally had to leave her work and come here in person. As if she didn’t have more important things to concern her!

Why give her his phone number if he was going to be incommunicado for hours?

An image flashed into her brain of the waitress at the café melting at the sight of his blatant masculinity.

Was that why he couldn’t be disturbed? Some assignation with an adoring woman?

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘In that case I’ll wait till he is available.’

With a humph of disgust, Soraya stepped away from the desk.

Zahir El Hashem would soon discover she was no pushover.

In the early hours of this morning she’d been numb with the shock of his news, so dizzy with it she’d let him take charge. Now she’d had time to absorb the fact that she had no choice but to face her future head-on. That didn’t stop the regrets, the anxiety, the downright fear. But she had to be strong if she was to survive the ordeal ahead. At the moment that meant teaching Zahir she wasn’t some lackey to be ordered about at his convenience.

She was, like it or not, his Emir’s future queen and a woman in her own right.

Soraya stalked across the room, oblivious now to its refined opulence, and plonked herself down on a plump sofa. She unzipped her laptop case and switched on the computer.

She’d rather be angry than fearful. And better than either was to immerse herself in something she really cared about. Two minutes later she was focused on her report, seeking an elusive error in the heat-transfer calculations.

Soraya didn’t know what finally tugged her attention from the latest projections, but something made her look up, a sixth sense that sliced through her absorption.

A cluster of men in dark suits stood on the far side of the lobby. She recognised one as a senior French politician, his face familiar from news reports. But it was the tallest of the group who drew her frowning attention. His skin was burnished a dark honey gold, his features arresting.

Abruptly he looked up, his eyes locking instantly with hers. Shock danced down her spine at the impact.

Just like before.

The world had fallen away when he’d looked at her last night too.

Her hands jerked on the laptop keys. From the corner of her vision she saw a stream of extra rows appear in the carefully constructed table of technical analysis. Yet she couldn’t drag her eyes from his.

In leather and denim he’d been a virile bad boy with an undeniable aura of danger.

Today, in exquisite tailoring and with an air of urbane assurance, he looked like he’d stepped from the ranks of the world’s power brokers.

Who was Zahir El Hashem? Politician or heavy? Sophisticate or rogue?

Why did locking eyes with him make Soraya’s heart thud to a discordant beat that stirred unfamiliar sensations?

She jerked her gaze away, blindly hit ‘save’ on her document and fumbled to shut down the laptop.

She’d had no sleep and she was stressed; no wonder she imagined things. There’d been no instantaneous pulse of connection between them. She’d simply imagined its heavy weight constricting her lungs and drawing her belly tight.

Shoving her laptop into its case she looked up to see him striding towards her.

Trepidation struck her. An awareness that, despite his elegant apparel and their rarefied surroundings, there was an elemental toughness about him she’d do well to remember. Only last night she’d recognised the desert warrior in him. Now as he approached Soraya knew she hadn’t imagined the subtle scent of danger clinging to him.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you here?’ His low voice drew the fine hairs on her nape to prickling attention even as dark heat pooled low inside. It only fuelled her anger.

She refused to feel fear … or anything else for him.

‘To see you, of course,’ she hissed, jerking to her feet and wishing she was taller so he couldn’t loom quite so effectively over her.

His narrowed eyes surveyed the room quickly and comprehensively. It was the sort of look she’d seen bodyguards use, searching for threat.

She’d give him threat!

‘We had an agreement.’ This time she kept her voice low and even. ‘You broke it.’

His dark eyebrows climbed high but he gave no other reaction. ‘Come.’ He gestured for her to precede him.

Instantly Soraya shifted her weight, widening her stance a fraction as if to plant herself more firmly. She had no intention of meekly following him anywhere.

‘I think not. We can talk here.’

Something flickered in those deeply hooded eyes. Something that might have been surprise or annoyance. Frankly, she didn’t care. Instinct told her not to be alone with him. She knew next to nothing about him and looking at that granite-carved jaw, she wouldn’t put it past him to try coercion.

‘This is not the place for our conversation. This is a delicate matter and the person I represent—’

‘Would perfectly understand my preference for meeting you here, rather than in a private room.’

He said nothing, just surveyed her with a look that was impossible to interpret. A look that seemed to take in everything from her too-fast breathing to the laptop she clutched like a shield to her chest.

Finally he nodded. ‘Of course. If that is what you wish.’ He turned and indicated a couple of chairs grouped at the rear of the room. ‘Though perhaps we could go some place where we’re less likely to be overheard.’

He had a point. Soraya nodded stiffly and let him usher her across the room.

Zahir frowned as he followed her. That instant surge of adrenalin in his blood, the momentary fear that something was wrong, had undermined his calm. All because she’d come looking for him when it was the last thing he’d expected.

It was absurd. Clearly she was in no danger. Panic was a weakness he didn’t indulge in. Yet his pulse thundered in his ears as he watched her thread her way across the room.

He didn’t like her, didn’t approve of her, so why the instant, gut-deep need to protect that had made him hurry to her? He wanted to put it down to duty honed by years of training, but it wasn’t that. From the first she’d stirred instincts and feelings that discomfited him. However much he fought it he felt … connected to her. Ever since that first, blinding moment of recognition.

She settled on a gilded sofa and made a production of crossing those long legs. As he seated himself opposite her, Zahir forced his gaze from the way the soft denim clung to each dip and curve.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Not really, but I had little choice.’ Her neat white teeth snapped off each word. ‘You weren’t answering your phone.’

Ah. That was why she was in a temper. When she’d wrecked his plans to return to Bakhara today he’d used the extra time to fit in some meetings. Clearly she expected him to be at her beck and call like some underling.

‘As you saw, I had business to conduct.’ He refused to apologise for not being available at her whim. ‘How can I assist you?’

Her eyes flashed ebony fire. ‘By keeping your word.’

Zahir stiffened. ‘That is not in question.’ Did she have any concept of the insult she offered him?

‘Isn’t it?’ She leaned forward and her scent insinuated itself into his nostrils. Light and delicate, like a field of mountain flowers awakening to the day’s first sun. It had haunted him all day, a sense memory he’d tried to forget. ‘We agreed you’d give me today to get organised yet my flatmate rang me at five this afternoon because a team of removalists had turned up wanting to pack my belongings.’

Zahir settled back in his seat and inclined his head. ‘We agreed that you’d have today. We also agreed that I’d take care of the arrangements. I’ve done so. You’ve had your day to organise yourself.’

Colour mounted her cheeks and her eyes glittered with temper. Women could be so predictable when they didn’t get what they wanted. He waited for a blast of ungoverned rage.

It didn’t come.

Instead she sat back against the silk brocade of her seat.

‘You don’t approve of me, do you?’ Her voice was coolly measured. ‘Is that what this is about? Is that why you’re being so high-handed?’

Momentarily he was thrown by her directness. He encountered it so rarely since he’d moved into the diplomatic sphere. It was the sort of tactic he used himself to great effect when others preferred to circle the truth. Cutting through the niceties to the heart of the matter was sometimes the most effective way forward.

He hadn’t expected it from her.

Unwilling admiration stirred.

‘My opinion of you is not in question, Ms Karim. My role is simply to facilitate your safe arrival to Bakhara.’

‘Don’t give me that! You’re more than a courier.’ She nodded to where he’d stood saying farewell to his guests. ‘That’s clear from the leaders who came here to meet you. You’re trying to railroad me for your own reasons.’

She was clever too. Obviously she’d recognised the man tipped to become the next French foreign minister.

But what disturbed him was her accusation he was pushing her to hurry because it suited him.

He should have contacted Hussein this morning and voiced his concerns about Soraya Karim. But he’d baulked at the notion. That sort of conversation had to take place man-to-man, not long distance. It had the added advantage that Zahir could then walk away from her and concentrate on the work he’d been preparing for all his life.

‘What is it about Paris that keeps you delaying? What’s more important than your promise to marry?’

The colour faded from her cheeks and for a second he saw something flicker in the rich depths of her pansy-dark eyes. Something that looked like genuine pain. It surprised him for it seemed at odds with his image of a selfish pleasure-seeking woman.

‘I have things to wrap up before I go.’

Things or relationships? His jaw tightened.

‘Surely it won’t take more than a day to say goodbye to your special friends.’ He nodded curtly to her laptop. ‘And no doubt you’ll stay in contact.’ Was she the sort who suffered withdrawal if disconnected from social media?

Her smooth forehead puckered then she shrugged. ‘I have some work to finish too.’

Soraya almost laughed aloud as a flash of disbelief widened his eyes. Clearly he thought her some dilettante who used university as an excuse for a holiday in Paris.

He recovered quickly. ‘It’s summer. University break.’

‘Have you heard of summer school? Between semesters?’

‘I applaud your diligence.’ But his tone belied his words. ‘Are you saying you have to be here to complete your work? Surely alternative arrangements can be made?’

Circumstances being the fact that she was expected to return home meekly and marry a man, a virtual stranger, more than thirty years her senior.

Cold wrapped itself around Soraya’s chest and seeped into bones that seemed suddenly brittle and aged. She drew a deep breath, willing away the panic that threatened whenever she thought too far ahead.

That was the problem; she’d forgotten to think ahead. For too long she’d assumed the future was nebulous and unreal. From the moment at fourteen, when her father had explained the honour bestowed on their family by the Emir’s interest in her, through every year when Emir Hussein had remained a distant yet benign figure.

At fourteen the betrothal had been exciting, like something from an age-old tale. Later it had grown less and less real, especially when her fiancé had shown little interest beyond polite responses to her father’s updates on her wellbeing and educational progress.

Now it was suddenly all too real.

‘It’s not just the work,’ she blurted out. ‘I’d planned to be here longer and I want to make the most of my time in France.’

‘I’m sure you’re doing just that.’ His lips twisted.

She ignored his disapproval. ‘I can finish up some of my work elsewhere, but not all of it.’ She gestured to the laptop. ‘Besides, I don’t want a direct flight to Bakhara.’

His only response was to lift his eyebrows, stoking her impatience.

‘I intend to travel overland. In all these months I haven’t been out of Paris and I want to see more of the country before I return.’

And store up some precious memories—of her last days of freedom. It wasn’t too much to ask. Once she returned she’d be the woman the Emir and his people expected. She’d marry a man renowned for his devotion to duty and her life would be circumscribed by that.

She needed this time, just a little time, to adjust to the fact that her life as an individual was ending. The alternative, to return immediately, stifled the breath in her lungs and sent panic shuddering through her.

‘That’s not possible. The Emir is expecting you.’

She nodded, glad now that she’d found the courage to do what she’d never done before and call the Bakhari Palace, giving her name and asking for the Emir. It had been surprisingly easy.

‘Yes, he is.’ For the first time she smiled. ‘I spoke to him today. He thinks it’s a wonderful idea that I take my time and soak up some of the sights along the way. He agrees it will be educational for me to get a better understanding of other places and people, not just Paris.’

It had felt odd talking to the man who for so long had been a distant figure and who soon would be her husband.

Zahir’s stunned expression would have pleased her if she’d wanted to score points off this man who always seemed so sure of himself. But she had more important concerns.

‘I’ve got till the end of the month.’ That would give her the breathing space she so desperately needed. There was only one problem, but right now it should be the least of her worries. She squared her shoulders and met his eyes. ‘The Emir’s only stipulation was that you accompany me.’