Читать книгу Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 29
ОглавлениеASIM PACED THE COURTYARD, resolutely dragging his mind from imagining Jacqueline Fletcher discarding her less than adequate covering.
She was an enigma. Passionate and argumentative, not knowing when to give up. Fiery yet vulnerable. That made him want to ignore the danger she represented.
His desire to protect her was equalled by a burning desire of another kind and that was unnerving.
Yet he wanted to blame her for being alive when Imran wasn’t.
He spun on his heel.
What was his grandmother thinking, inviting a journalist here? Having a professional snoop under the same roof—no matter how large a roof—invited trouble. Any further invasion of his sister Samira’s privacy could tip her into a complete breakdown. The doctors hadn’t said it outright but it was what they feared.
His stomach knotted. Samira had endured so much because he’d failed to protect her. The knowledge ate at him like acid.
Reluctantly he’d supported her plan to study overseas, only to learn she’d embarked on a passionate affair with a Hollywood actor who was the epitome of shallow self-absorption. But Samira had had stars in her eyes, had talked of marriage and hadn’t seen him for what he was.
She’d only found out when he’d been discovered in bed with his co-star by the woman’s wrathful husband. Acrimonious divorce proceedings had ensued, eagerly reported by the press. Scandal grew with stories of multiple infidelities, drug use and even the corruption of minors.
Samira was an innocent party in the morass of stomach-turning revelations about her boyfriend and his co-star. But the press didn’t let up. Once the darling of the paparazzi with her stunning looks, aristocratic heritage and high-profile romance, now she was their prey.
She’d sought refuge here. Only he and his grandmother and a few select staff knew that, as well as being heartbroken, Samira had to recuperate physically too. That story would never make it into the press.
He’d never known fear such as he’d experienced when he’d thought he might lose her. He’d felt so ineffectual. But this, now, was a situation he could control.
Asim grimaced, raking his fingers through his hair. He’d do whatever it took to keep his little sister safe. He wouldn’t fail her again.
Had Jacqueline Fletcher told the truth about writing a book? Or was it a ploy to get a scoop on Samira?
Suspicion ran deep in Asim. How could it not after he’d witnessed the web of lies that had been his parents’ marriage? How could he trust the woman who’d been caught up in Imran’s death?
Yet he couldn’t get a handle on her. He knew she was a respected news reporter. She was Australian, though she’d spent years in Africa, Asia and the Middle East. He knew she’d been with Imran when he died.
Everything else was speculation.
Speculation and an unhealthy dollop of attraction.
Asim shook his head, fed up with his circling thoughts. It was time.
He knocked but didn’t enter. Better to be sure she was decently covered. The door swung inwards.
‘You!’ Those stunning eyes widened and it struck him again how fragile she looked. Was that real or some trick?
Asim stepped inside and she shifted back.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘You surprised me. I expected one of the servants.’
Is that why she was dressed in drab trousers and a navy top that leached the colour from her face? She wore no make-up and had pulled her hair back in a ponytail.
And still arousal beat low in his belly.
He frowned. Just because he’d seen this woman naked didn’t mean he was going to have her in his bed, no matter what his body wanted. He had more sense than to hook up with a journalist. After what had happened to Samira, how could he? Besides, his women were always poised, polished and beautifully dressed, at least to begin with.
Jacqueline Fletcher was...no; not ordinary. Not with those eyes or that mouth. But nor was she sophisticated.
‘It’s after one a.m. Why wake someone when I can lead the way?’ Besides, he intended to keep a personal eye on her.
He scanned the neatly made bed then picked up the single suitcase and laptop bag. She travelled light. His sister had arrived with more than half a dozen cases, probably full of shoes. ‘Is this all?’
‘Yes, but I’ll take the laptop.’ She reached out but at a look from him her arm fell.
Why so eager to take the computer? Because she had something there she didn’t want him to see or simply a journalist’s instinct to protect the tool of her trade? Suspicion stirred anew.
‘I can just about manage them both.’ He nodded to the door. ‘After you.’
She moved with a grace that belied tiredness or nerves. Baggy trousers hid her slender curves but his mind filled the blanks.
Asim turned off the lamp and followed. In the dim corridor it took a moment for his eyes to adjust but he sensed when he reached her. His nostrils twitched as the sweet tang of her perfume reached him. Something fruity and light that made him think of summer.
‘I’ll lead. Just watch your step. The old tiles are uneven.’
Silently she fell into step.
His mouth quirked. Who’d have thought this woman could be so biddable?
On the other hand, there’d been something curiously refreshing about the way she’d continued to argue her case after he’d stated his decision. Maybe Imran had been right and he was too used to getting his own way now he’d been Sultan so long.
His cousin had liked her, he recalled with a pang that crushed his smile.
‘Where are we going?’ Her long legs stretched to match his stride. Automatically he eased his pace.
‘To a guest apartment where you won’t be disturbed.’ More to the point, she wouldn’t have a chance to disturb anyone else.
‘I’m very grateful for you taking the time to see me settled.’ She was like a prim little girl reciting polite words she’d been taught.
If only she knew. Asim took her personally to her new accommodation because he didn’t trust her. As soon as he had her installed he’d call security to ensure she didn’t indulge in any night-time prowling. He refused to compromise Samira’s safety.
‘Is it in a modern part of the palace?’
‘Yes, completed in the last ten years.’ When he’d become ruler his one indulgence had been to build a suite of modern rooms for his own use and that of his private guests. The apartments his parents had used were too full of memories he’d rather forget.
‘That will be...nice.’
Asim shot her a glance. ‘They’re very comfortable.’
‘I’m sure they are.’ She didn’t sound enthused.
‘But? There’s a “but” in there.’
‘Of course not.’ He waited. Finally she added, ‘It’s just that I barely had time to explore the old rooms and they were so beautiful. That wall painting, for instance, with the climbing roses and the birds. It was magnificent.’
Curiosity stirred. ‘You would like to stay in a place like that? Beautiful but cut off from the world?’ It wasn’t what he expected.
Moonlight lit her features as they passed through another courtyard. She looked serious, as if considering. ‘It has a certain appeal. I’d enjoy it...for a while. But I’m a modern woman. Seclusion would lose its charm and I’d end up feeling trapped with nothing to do.’
‘The women who lived there kept busy.’
She turned. ‘Pleasing the Sultan? Being available to meet his every need?’
Despite himself Asim’s lips twitched. She sounded almost prudish as she skated over the issue of sex.
‘You’ve been reading too much fiction. It wasn’t just the lord’s wife or lover who lived there, but all his female relatives.’
He gestured for her to precede him into a corridor illuminated by glowing wall lights. Modern marble flooring replaced worn tiles underfoot.
‘According to family tradition, that’s why my ancestors were so warlike and successful in battle. It gave them an outlet for their frustrations since their female relatives tried to rule the roost at home.’
She slowed and he stopped, turning. Pale before, her face was animated now, delicate colour highlighting regular features. Even her lips looked plumper, rosier.
‘There are two sides to every truth. I bet your male ancestors wouldn’t have given up the freedom to ride across their kingdom, pick fights with their neighbours and grow rich from trade and war even if it meant living a life of domestic bliss. And as for the right to take the most beautiful girl in the kingdom as their own—’
Asim raised his hand. ‘I see you’ve done your homework.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? Men will be men.’ In his family, particularly so. Marauders, warriors and rulers, they had a reputation for fierceness as well as for honour and their impeccable taste in women.
He looked down into wide, seductive eyes and for an instant knew sharp regret that those old days had gone. A hundred years ago he’d have been within his rights to clap an intrusive journalist in irons rather than risk her reporting private family matters.
But he wouldn’t have kept Jacqueline Fletcher in a dungeon. He’d have had her in one of those rooms adorned with murals of paradise. The bonds around her wrists would have been silk...
Suddenly she stepped back, her expression wary, as if she read his mind.
Asim blinked and refocused, stunned at his thoughts.
‘Not far now,’ he murmured, leading the way again.
What had come over him? He’d seen his share of naked women. Some would say more than his share. In his youth sex had been one of his favourite things. It still was, but these past months he’d exercised abstinence, distracted by Samira’s problems and the need to finalise the agreement that had been signed tonight.
Maybe that was the problem. Once he’d have celebrated such a significant coup in the arms of a delectable woman. Instead he found himself guarding an unwanted intruder. An intruder with none of the glamorous allure he was used to, yet who provoked lurid thoughts of her naked and responsive in his bed.
He opened the tall entrance door to the Sultan’s apartments.
He’d keep Jacqueline Fletcher from his sister. If she decided to wander she’d have to get past him first then his guards. Besides, he couldn’t have left her far from anyone after that nightmare. Its trauma had been obvious.
Asim remembered Samira’s frantic nightmares years ago when their parents’ love-hate relationship had see-sawed violently. After screaming rows and smashing china, was it any wonder his kid sister had had bad dreams? She’d been weak and frightened afterwards.
No, he was doing the right thing, securing this woman close.
‘This way.’ He walked through the atrium and into a colonnade that ran beside his favourite courtyard.
‘This is stunning.’ She stopped to stare. ‘Absolutely breath-taking.’
Asim followed her gaze. Trees offered shade during the day and the end of the courtyard was taken up by a long swimming pool, illuminated by underwater lights that showed off its aquamarine tiles. Concealed lighting above emphasised the decoratively carved arches of the colonnade, lending a traditional air.
‘I’m glad you approve. I had a hand in the design.’
He ushered her through a door into a private sitting room.
‘Oh my. It’s...’
Asim strode ahead into the bedroom and put her case down. ‘Too modern?’
He turned to find her standing in the middle of the room, eyes alight and a hint of a curve on her lips.
His pulse quickened. What effect would a full-blown smile have? He killed the thought, feeling as if it was a betrayal of his cousin.
She shook her head, turning to take in the airy space and the filmy curtains at the windows and pulled back from the bed. ‘Absolutely not. It’s sumptuous and gorgeous yet comfortable.’ Abruptly she fixed him with that disturbingly direct look. ‘It doesn’t feel like a guest suite.’
Asim shrugged. ‘That’s what it’s designed for.’ He didn’t add that only his intimates stayed here, one or two close friends and a handful of lovers.
Instantly he imagined her writhing naked on this bed...and she wasn’t alone.
Abruptly he gestured to the bathroom, disturbed at the way his mind strayed around her. ‘You’ll find all you need. If not, call housekeeping. There’s a phone beside the bed.’ He spun away. ‘I’ll wish you a good night.’
‘Wait!’ Her voice came from close on his heels. He turned and there she was, within touching distance.
Clearly he was getting too used to being treated with royal distinction. Her nearness surprised him. Outside his family no one but a lover got this close without permission.
A buzz of anticipation filled him. Is that what he wanted from this woman? It was a lunatic idea yet his body’s response told its own story.
‘You’ve got my laptop.’ She reached but stopped short of grabbing it from under his arm.
For a moment Asim considered refusing to return it. He could search it for anything she’d written about Samira.
Only for a moment. Such an act was beneath him.
Besides, anything she’d written could be rewritten and was probably already saved elsewhere.
With a slight bow he extended the case. ‘What would a journalist be without a computer?’
She opened her mouth as if to contradict him then snapped it shut. ‘Thank you. And thank you for your hospitality. The rooms are marvellous. I feel very privileged to be able to stay in the palace while I research.’
Asim shook his head, watching dismay tighten her features. ‘Enjoy the accommodation but don’t thank me so soon, Ms Fletcher. You’ll be leaving tomorrow.’
He left before her inevitable protest. Yet he was surprised she didn’t scurry after him.
He carried the image of her hurt eyes until he finally slept. Then he dreamed of a slim, pale-skinned woman laid out on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Her hair was the tawny colour of the Jazeeri lion for which the country was famous and her voice husky as she pleaded for him to do all the things his burning body desired.
* * *
Asim paced his grandmother’s sitting room. He’d slept badly and dealing with the Emir and his precious niece this morning had sapped his patience. He’d walked a razor-sharp line between hospitality and discretion and hadn’t relaxed until he’d finally farewelled his guests. The assembled crowd’s gaze had been like a dagger between his shoulders every time he’d even looked at the woman. She, devil take her, had cast him sultry looks and leaned close whenever they spoke.
He sighed and propped one arm on the window embrasure. It was a relief to have the woman out of his palace.
Now he just had one more female to eject.
If only his grandmother wasn’t so obstinate about keeping her.
‘It won’t work. It’s naïve to think she can remain if we want to protect Samira.’ This time he’d keep her safe, keep control of the situation.
‘Of course it will work. I’ll see to it. They’ll be in separate parts of the palace complex and Ms Fletcher will be busy with her research. She strikes me as a woman of considerable focus.’
Asim looked at the little dumpling of a woman from whom, he suspected, he’d inherited his determination. He wished she’d been here in the palace during his boyhood. She’d have been a welcome addition to their unstable household with her brisk common sense and kind heart. But his mother hadn’t taken to her so despite centuries of custom his grandmother had retired to a summer palace in the foothills.
Yet for once Asim felt in sympathy with his departed mother. The Lady Rania, once fixed on an idea, was hard to budge.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, summoning patience.
‘It’s a recipe for disaster, putting a journalist under the same roof as a beautiful princess who’s on the run from the press.’
‘Ms Fletcher isn’t that sort of journalist. She’s not interested in kiss and tell affairs. She’s here for a real story. I told you about the book she wants to write.’
Yes, he’d heard about the book. The table near his grandmother just happened to be littered with articles Jacqueline Fletcher had published about women’s lives in Africa and East Asia. Clearly the woman was a workaholic. Given her demanding news job, he wondered how she’d found time.
‘You really think there’s a difference between a “news” journalist and the paparazzi?’ He couldn’t believe her naivety. ‘Let either one sniff a story and they’ll be onto it in a flash. Right now, Samira is news.’
‘Samira is always going to be news.’ His grandmother folded her arms. ‘With her wealth and looks it can’t be avoided. It’s a matter of managing that.’
‘You think having that woman here will help her manage the fallout?’ He couldn’t believe what he heard.
His grandmother fixed him with a shrewd stare. ‘I think the two matters are quite separate. I see no reason for you to be concerned. I’ve already had a security assessment done on Ms Fletcher.’
‘You have?’ So his grandmother hadn’t been as blindly trusting as he’d thought.
She nodded. ‘Her life’s an open book, and most of the pages are about work.’ She paused. ‘This project is important to her. She wants very strongly to make it a success. She won’t jeopardise that by biting the hand that feeds her.’
Asim choked back a comment about taking the money and running. The press would pay handsomely for candid snaps of his sister right now, and even more for an insider’s story on her state of mind, true or not.
‘But why write this book? She’s used to the quick adrenalin fix and high profile of current affairs. Why walk away from that at just twenty-eight? She’s on the way to big things.’ He’d done more checking of his own last night. ‘It’s too convenient.’
‘You’re too concerned with conspiracy theories, Asim. She and I have corresponded for some time. Even before Imran...’ The old lady sucked in a shuddering breath. Her fingers knotted in her lap. ‘He’d suggested she contact me and I believe she views it as her duty to your cousin to see it through.’
‘Duty?’ Asim bit out. ‘It’s a little late for that now he’s dead.’
His grandmother shook her head. ‘You can’t blame her for what happened. You read the reports. You know she was as much a victim as Imran.’
Reluctantly he nodded. Logic told him the old lady was right. But Jacqueline Fletcher’s presence here still felt wrong.
Not to Lady Rania. ‘How can I turn my back on her when it was the last thing Imran asked of me?’
Asim watched his grandmother battle tears and his gut clenched. In seconds the clever, feisty woman he loved was gone, replaced by a fragile, grieving old lady whose distress tore at him. He felt as if someone was slowly disembowelling him with a rusty spoon. She’d always seemed indomitable but his cousin’s untimely death had aged her as not even the loss of her son and daughter-in-law had.
Imran’s loss had shocked them all. But for his grandmother it was a blow from which Asim feared she’d never recover. Unless she had something else to focus on.
With a sigh, he sank onto the arm of her chair and covered her age-knotted hands. He knew he’d regret this.
‘You really want Jacqueline Fletcher here?’
Her hands stilled. ‘I promised Imran.’
In their family a promise was an unbreakable bond.
Imran and Jacqueline Fletcher. Just how close had they been? The question had taunted him through the long night.
Asim closed his eyes, thrusting aside the futile wish that his grandmother’s peace of mind could be achieved through other means. The only way forward was to take control of the situation, however unpalatable, and mould it into what you wanted.
‘And if she proves unworthy of your trust?’
‘I may be getting on in years, Asim, but I’m not in my dotage.’ The indignation in her tone was a relief. ‘I’m still a good judge of character. And talent.’ She gestured to the papers on the table. ‘Read those and tell me she’s not gifted. She’s got a journalist’s instinct for a story, but it’s tempered with humanity and respect.’
‘Respect?’ It wasn’t a word he associated with the press.
‘Read them and see.’
To please his grandmother, he scooped the papers up. The last thing his crowded schedule permitted was leisure for reading.
‘You’ll let her stay?’
Reluctantly he inclined his head. ‘Since you wish it.’
‘You won’t regret it, Asim.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He would permit no one to hurt either his sister or his emotionally fragile grandmother. If Jacqueline Fletcher crossed that line she’d answer to him.
* * *
Jacqui paced the antechamber. Sitting still wasn’t an option. Her response to a problem was to resolve it quickly. Except the Sultan had been unavailable all day. One didn’t simply interrupt a busy head of state, no matter how infuriating and high-handed his attitude.
‘His Highness will see you now.’
Jacqui spun round to see a young man gesturing her towards an open door.
Her empty stomach clenched. This was it. Lady Rania had assured her this morning that she’d persuade her grandson. But, remembering his severe expression and the glint of honed steel in his eyes, Jackie wondered if anything would shift him when he’d made up his mind.
Once she’d have been sure she could persuade him, but her self-assurance had shattered, leaving her questioning her judgement in coming here.
Yet if Jacqui didn’t have this project, what did she have? Her insides heaved as she fought panic.
‘Thank you.’ She straightened her jacket with clammy hands and entered.
Though she was prepared, the sight of the man standing near the vast desk made her breath catch. He was taller than she remembered and memory hadn’t exaggerated the breadth of those shoulders. Or the keenness of that stare.
Briefly she wondered if she should curtsey but knew she couldn’t carry it off. Besides—heat seared her—after he’d had an eyeful of her nude body last night it was a little late for such niceties.
‘Good afternoon, Your Highness.’ Her gaze took in his finery: a long grey tunic embroidered at the high collar and hem, worn over pale, loose trousers that tucked into boots. No dagger at his side this time, but he wore a neat white turban threaded with silver. He looked imposing, his spare features harsh.
‘Ms Fletcher. Please sit.’
And let him tower over her?
‘Thank you but I prefer to stand.’
‘Fine. What I have to say won’t take long.’
Jacqui’s insides tumbled in a sickening corkscrew. She planted her feet in her low-heeled shoes and braced herself. She should have argued her case last night but she’d been swaying with exhaustion after twenty-four hours of travel and then the trauma of the nightmare.
He paced closer and she had to make a conscious effort not to retreat. His gaze pinioned her like a hunter marking his prey.
Atavistic fear quivered through her as he came close and she read something in his stare that wasn’t simply disapproval or dismissal. Something made her remember the brush of the silk coverlet against her bare skin and the strange jittery sensation deep in her core. She swallowed hard.
‘You’re lucky to have such an advocate, Ms Fletcher.’ He was so close his breath warmed her and his hot spicy scent teased her nose. ‘My grandmother is very taken with you. So I’ve decided you can stay.’
It took Jacqui whole seconds to take it in. She goggled.
‘I can?’ A smile trembled on her lips but they were too stiff to curve properly. Relief was a swoop of sensation through her chest so strong it hurt. She’d been so sure he’d banish her from the palace, perhaps the country.
‘You may.’ There was no lightening in his expression. If anything, it sharpened. He leaned closer, looming so her pulse jumped. ‘But I have conditions.’
Jacqui nodded, feeling the force of his disapproval. ‘Yes?’ Her voice was a scratch of sound.
‘One, absolutely no photos without permission.’
‘Of course. I—’
‘Two, no attempt to report on my family’s personal lives. A social history is one thing, digging for gossip is another. I won’t hesitate to sue if necessary.’
Outrage stirred. ‘That’s not what I’m here for!’
Astonishingly his hand reached out to cup her chin, tilting it up till his face filled her vision. Tension snapped between them and an unfamiliar sensation shot through her as his fingers splayed over her throat, reinforcing her vulnerability to his superior strength.
No man had ever held her like that. Jacqui was torn between wide-eyed anxiety and a sudden, startling jab of excitement. She hated men who threw their weight around, who encroached on women. But as she arched back in his hold part of her thrilled at his masculine power.
She blinked. She must be going mad.
‘My family is precious to me and I won’t have them harmed.’ He paused, his jaw tight. ‘I’ve seen what damage the press can do.’
Slowly she nodded, surprised and a little daunted by this glimpse of the man behind the royal title. The man she was sure would bring retribution on anyone who hurt those for whom he cared. Curiosity stirred.
‘Three.’ He paused, his gaze flicking to her parted lips then to her eyes. To her dismay her mouth tingled from that look. ‘You will sign a contract agreeing to these terms and I will meet with you regularly for updates on your progress. I intend to take a very personal interest in this book of yours.’
Jacqui swallowed. ‘Of course.’ She made to jerk her head away but his grip firmed. He didn’t hurt her but the sensation of being at his mercy sent anxiety scudding through her, as it was meant to. Her jaw clenched. ‘There’s no need to assault me to make your point.’
‘Assault?’ His brows rose. ‘I’m simply reminding you that while you’re in my home, and in my country, my will is law. If you attempt to take advantage of my family you’ll pay dearly. Understood?’
‘I understand.’ For a moment longer Jacqui stood unmoving. Then abruptly she slumped from the knees, her body weight dragging his arm down, pulling him off-balance. A twist, a jerk and she was free; another quick movement as he reached to support what he presumably thought was her fainting body and now it was she who gripped him, her thumb hard on the pressure point in his hand. His skin was firm and warm under hers.
Her chest pounded as adrenalin shot through her blood. She stifled a grin at the surprise in his coal-dark eyes. Suddenly, for the first time in months, she felt strong and confident. It was a heady relief after so long doubting herself.
‘And I hope you understand, Your Highness, that I won’t be intimidated.’ Beneath her touch his pulse throbbed an infuriatingly even rhythm. ‘If ever I want a man to touch me, I’ll invite him.’
Slowly his mouth curved in a smile as lethal as a scimitar. ‘I’ll be sure to remember that, Ms Fletcher.’
Strangely, his words didn’t reassure.
