Читать книгу The Sheikh Who Blackmailed Her: Desert Prince, Blackmailed Bride / The Sheikh and the Bought Bride / At the Sheikh's Bidding - Ким Лоренс, Chantelle Shaw - Страница 9

RAFIQ emerged on the balcony just as Gabby loosened her grip on the rail and her body swayed forward. A violent curse was drawn from his lips as he surged forward, his fingers closing like steel bands around her upper arms as he jerked her back to safety.

Gabby’s knees had gone. Head spinning, she was only vaguely conscious of her heels dragging across the floor in the moment before she found herself hauled upwards. With a sigh she leaned back into him, her heart pounding after her near escape. His arms came up around her waist, anchoring her there, drawing her closer.

‘Don’t worry—I’m not going to jump.’ Now that the moment of sheer terror was over she was becoming a lot more conscious of other details—disturbing details, like the hot, hard imprint of his body where her spine curved into his lean length. She was tempted to stay where she was and prolong the moment. ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m not good with heights.’

‘I’m disappointed. I thought nothing frightened this jumping-from-moving-vehicles action woman.’

One arm still wrapped in a supportive band across her midriff, Rafiq felt her ribcage rise as she sought to suck in a deep breath before responding huskily, but with a lot less attitude than she had shown so far.

‘So sorry to be a disappointment, but we all have our weaknesses.’ It seemed a good time for her to remember that her weaknesses did not usually include being attracted by obvious beefcake—even the exotic variety.

Very exotic, she thought as the clean, musky and very male scent of his body teased her quivering nostrils. Her eyelashes brushed her cheeks as her gaze fastened onto his fingers, long and tapering where they lay on her arm. A large red stone set in a thick gold band decorated one finger. If the stone had been real it would have been worth a small fortune.

Was he married?

Did he have a brood of children and an adoring doe-eyed wife who worshipped him? The images of domestic harmony that passed before her eyes made Gabby feel vaguely dissatisfied.

Was it envy? Obviously not of the woman who was married to this total stranger, but Gabby was twenty-four, and she had never even met anyone she cared enough about to have a serious relationship with—this was one area of her life where she was risk-averse.

As recently as the previous weekend Gabby had produced a jokey response when her friend Rachel had made an exasperated suggestion that she should lower the bar and maybe have a little fun.

Gabby was no prude, but she wasn’t sure she wanted the ‘fun’ her friend was talking about—and she wasn’t about to admit that she was a closet romantic. And anyway, everyone would treat her confession as a joke. She was simply not the type of girl anyone expected to admit she believed there was someone special for everyone—someone worth waiting for.

But she couldn’t help but occasionally wistfully wonder if there actually was anyone out there for her, and she found it increasingly difficult to even imagine meeting someone she wanted to share her life with. Maybe Rachel was right? she mused. Maybe she was just making life difficult for herself …?

It could be she was doomed to stay single. Oh, well—there were worse things—things like being married to a man every woman under a hundred lusted after, she thought.

As she sucked in another tremulous breath Rafiq could feel the tremors running through her body. She felt soft, warm, scarily delicate. The man in him recognised that he was strongly attracted to her; the Prince in him knew that even had circumstances been different, even if he hadn’t just been given a death sentence, a woman like this would not be for him.

There had never been any room for distraction in his life, and that went double now. His glance flickered across the top of the blonde’s tousled head. There was no doubt this woman had distraction written all over her.

Her colour heightened, Gabby pulled away and walked back in to the octagonal room. She couldn’t decide if her legs felt as shaky as those of a newborn colt due to her fear of heights and the accumulated stress of the last two days, or to this badly timed visceral reaction to a stranger.

Now, that was weird—because she had never been attracted to men like him, who projected animal magnetism. As she tilted her chin to meet his level dark gaze she was forced to acknowledge she had never actually met men like him before.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. She was guessing there were no other men like him …

‘Why do you want to speak to the King?’

Self-recrimination tautened her soft face as his question made her realise she was in danger of losing focus here.

‘I really don’t see why that would be any of your business.’

There was another bang on the door—loud enough to make Gabby flinch.

Without taking his eyes from Gabby’s face, he nodded towards the door. ‘It is possibly his business.’

Gabby glared at him. ‘Well, if you must know I want the King to intercede. It’s my brother—he’s under arrest, awaiting trial.’

Gabby watched comprehension and distaste spread across his lean face. Her chin lifted. She had seen this response before, but most people attempted to conceal it. He did not.

‘Your brother is the English drug-smuggler?’

Indignation sparkled in her eyes as she retorted, ‘My brother is not a smuggler.’ She saw the look of cynical contempt in the tall Arab’s face and struggled to stop her eyes falling guiltily from his. ‘What’s the point?’ she said, throwing up her hands in disgust. ‘You’ve already made up your mind,’ she accused angrily. ‘Everyone in this stupid place has already made up their minds,’ she added, with an emotional quiver in her voice as she realised Paul didn’t stand a chance.

The embassy man had been right—his fate was sealed.

The idea hit him like the classic bolt from the blue. He had been searching for an answer to his problems and the answer had come looking for him—or as good as.

He smiled, and his answer glared back at him with loathing.

Had he gone mad?

Admittedly on the surface it seemed a crazy, desperate idea, but sometimes you had to think outside the box—something he was famed for, though admittedly he had never ventured this far outside on previous occasions.

He’d never had to.

His thoughts raced. This girl possessed the qualities his brother was lacking: toughness, resourcefulness and a healthy lack of respect for people in authority. And loyalty was a quality you could not buy. How many people would have gone to the lengths she had for a brother? And even now, when she knew deep down it was hopeless, she refused to give up.

And he had something she needed.

Looking at the defeated slump of her slender shoulders, and at the tears sparkling on her cheeks, Rafiq felt a moment’s doubt about his intentions. He quickly pushed aside the disquiet and walked towards the door. This was about the future of his country. He could not afford sentiment.

Gabby lifted her head at the sound of the lock being clicked.

With the door half open he turned back to look at her, and Gabby lifted her chin. She had not realised until this moment that she had hoped, quite irrationally, that this stranger might be on her side. Which probably made her certifiably stupid.

Gabby waited, sickly anticipating armed men appearing. When they didn’t she moved towards the door, but any tentative hope she had that the coast might miraculously be clear for her to make her escape vanished when she heard the sound of deep male voices outside.

One belonged to the man who had just walked out, the other possibly to the man who had been escorting her from the premises—though it was hard to tell, because he wasn’t sounding cold or dismissive now.

If anything he was sounding … well, deferential.

Gabby was still trying to make sense of this conundrum when the tall Arab reappeared. He closed the door.

Gabby noticed immediately that the air of hauteur she had noticed in his manner was now more pronounced. She folded her arms protectively across her chest as she regarded him with deep suspicion. She was missing something.

He waved a hand towards a low divan covered in tumbled silk cushions. ‘Have a seat, Miss Barton.’

Gabby didn’t miss the significant fact that this was not a suggestion. ‘What’s going on? The guard—where is—?’

‘I have convinced Rashid that you offer no immediate threat to security.’

She gave a dubious shake of her head. ‘And your word was enough to make him go away?’

‘Perhaps I should introduce myself?’ Without breaking eye contact with Gabby, he bowed fractionally at the waist and said, ‘I am Prince Rafiq Al Kamil.’

The hot colour flew once again to Gabby’s cheeks.

If the introduction had come from anyone else she would have thought them delusional and politely asked if they had taken their medication, but as her gaze travelled up the length of the tall figure, from his dusty feet to his gleaming dark head, she had to bite back a groan at her own stupidity.

She might have been looking for royalty, but in her own defence she hadn’t been expecting to find it so literally. If she had been thinking straight she might have worked it out herself—his whole manner proclaimed that he was speaking the truth.

So this was what the end result of centuries of breeding looked like … She had to admit that even to someone who felt a natural repugnance for arranged marriages he was a pretty good advert.

A mortified flush climbed to her cheeks. ‘You’re the Crown Prince?’ she said, feeling stupid.

He inclined his head in regal acknowledgement and drawled sardonically, ‘A poor second, I realise, to the King, but my father is at present out of the country. You don’t look very pleased,’ he mused, studying her flushed face and sparkling eyes. ‘Is this not what you wanted? A chance to plead your brother’s case at the highest level?’

Despite the fact she had what she wanted, instead of taking this heaven-sent opportunity to ingratiate herself and plead Paul’s case, she remained on her feet and shouted angrily, ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were?’ Adding, ‘And how do I know you even are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’

A look of astonishment chased across his lean features. ‘You wish me to prove who I am?’

Their eyes connected, and Gabby’s short burst of irrational anger subsided. She shook her head, retracting the challenge before taking the seat he had previously proffered. She would have infinitely preferred the dark wood chair beside it to this low divan that would not have looked out of place in a harem.

How did harems work?

Did he have one?

The questions popped unbidden into her head, and it was hard to mentally drop the theme as she watched him lower his long, lean length into the slatted designer chair she would have preferred herself. It was not exactly difficult to see him in the role of desert predator.

‘Would you like some refreshment?’

She shook her head, and took a deep breath before launching into her practised impassioned plea. He didn’t interrupt, even when—despite her intention to make her argument with dispassionate cool and not come across as a hysterical female—her voice became suspended by tears and she had to wipe her wet face on the hem of her shirt.

‘And so,’ she finished, having presented what she hoped was a compelling argument, ‘my brother was foolish—really stupid,’ she conceded. ‘But he didn’t do anything criminal. You could say he’s the victim here.’

‘You could. But I would not.’ If the man she spoke of had been a youth, a teenager, he might have felt more sympathy, but it was incomprehensible to Rafiq that a man of thirty could be as naive as the man she described.

Gabby bit her lip. ‘He made a mistake. But he doesn’t deserve to go to jail for twenty-five years. If it helps, I can promise to make his life a living hell if you let him come home.’

Gabby could see no softening in his attitude as he wondered aloud, ‘Does your brother appreciate what a powerful advocate he has in you, I wonder?’

Frustration robbed her retort of diplomacy. ‘I’m not here to ask for favours. I’m here to demand justice. And if that doesn’t work—’

He raised a brow. ‘Demand?’

‘All right,’ she conceded, back-pedalling. ‘I’ll grovel and tell you you’re marvelous—even though you don’t seem to have heard a word I’ve said.’ Had anything she’d said made any impact on him? ‘Oh, and I have these,’ she added, lifting her bottom from the divan and extracting the papers she had stuffed in her back pocket. ‘Character references. I’m not saying that Paul is a saint, because he isn’t, and quite honestly he doesn’t have the sense he was born with. But there isn’t an ounce of vice or malice in him,’ she promised sincerely. She smoothed the papers before extending her hand.

There was a pause before Prince Rafiq took them from her, but he made no attempt to look at them. His eyes remained directed with an intensity she found unnerving on her face.

‘Aren’t you going to look at them?’

‘I’m sure they show your brother in a favourable light. You would hardly bring me anything that did not do so.’

Frustration bubbled up in Gabby. ‘If you weren’t going to take me seriously why did you let me waste my time talking?’

‘Because I wanted to see how much your brother’s freedom means to you.’

‘Like a lab rat, you mean?’ she suggested, her tone of polite enquiry at stark variance with the militant sparkle in her eyes. ‘You were dangling candy?’

His eyes slid over her body and he gave a shrug. ‘I can think of more flattering analogies,’ he observed drily.

‘Don’t tell me—dog? Donkey …?’ He, she thought, her eyes sweeping his face from under the protective sweep of her eyelashes, would be something lean, sleek and unpredictable … A panther, perhaps—although there was something wolfish about him now, as he bared his teeth in a smile that left his remarkable eyes cold.

Ignoring her cranky interjection, he conceded, ‘I wanted to gauge what you might do to gain him a pardon.’ His dark eyes narrowed as he scanned her face. His voice was soft as he asked, ‘What would you do, Miss Barton?’

Gabby shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, do?’

‘I mean what price do you put on your brother’s freedom?’

She felt the first flicker of real hope, but remained cautious as she asked, ‘Are you saying you could get Paul released?’

‘I could.’

‘But will you?’

The pause stretched, and Gabby held her breath.

‘That is … negotiable.’

Shaking with relief, she surged to her feet. If he had been anyone else she would have kissed him. Her eyes brushed his mouth, and the image that flashed in her head sent her stomach into a rollercoaster dip.

She tried to pretend the heat rush was an air-conditioning fault rather than hormones, and trained her gaze on a relatively non-fantasy-provoking area of his anatomy. Although there was nothing aesthetically unpleasing about middle of his chest.

‘I’ll do anything!’ she pronounced.