Читать книгу Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 30

CHAPTER FOUR

‘IS SHE ON your list of potential brides?’ Asim’s grandmother whispered as they stood side by side, farewelling guests from the formal reception.

He stiffened. He hadn’t sought the old lady’s help to find a wife but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to sway him.

‘I’m keeping my options open,’ he said as he watched the young woman in question leave with her parents. They’d loitered till the very end of the evening and he wondered if they’d hoped for some signal of preferment. If so they’d waited in vain. The girl was nice enough, but...

‘She’s very pretty,’ his grandmother murmured. ‘Very well brought-up.’

So well brought-up she’d barely spoken till Asim had asked her questions she had to give more than a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer to. Even then she’d kept her eyes downcast.

His gaze shifted to a knot of people so engrossed in conversation they hadn’t realised the reception was breaking up. At its centre was a familiar tawny chestnut head. Jacqueline Fletcher, nodding at something one of the country’s most renowned lawyers said. Even from here he saw the flash of her bright eyes. Asim couldn’t imagine her standing meek and silent before a man her parents wanted her to marry.

His lips twisted in a grim smile as he remembered how she’d been anything but meek. She was too opinionated, too outspoken for comfort.

‘And she’s obviously eager to start a family.’

Startled, Asim turned to stare at his grandmother, only then realising she referred to the woman who’d just left.

‘That’s a definite plus,’ the old lady murmured, ‘Since you want heirs. Did you know she volunteers at the children’s hospital? She adores children.’

‘I’d noticed.’ She’d only become animated when talking about children at the hospital and, blushing, about her hopes for a large family.

Asim liked children. He wanted his own. But he’d felt uncomfortable with a woman who seemed to have no interests beyond that.

‘Her mother tells me she’s an excellent cook. I suspect she’ll be a wonderful home-maker.’

Asim arched an eyebrow and stared down at his grandmother. ‘Why the hard sell? It’s not as if I’m likely to starve for want of a good cook.’ A wide gesture took in the remnants of the superb buffet supper prepared by the royal chefs.

‘I’m just pointing out her good qualities. Why are you so touchy?’

He shrugged, frowning. Why did he feel dissatisfied? Tonight had been arranged so he could vet a potential bride in a setting which wouldn’t make his interest obvious. Yet the result was strangely disappointing. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I knew what I wanted and now I’m having second thoughts.’

She nodded. ‘A man like you needs more than a sweet mouse, Asim, even if she is a domestic goddess. You need a real woman.’

He discovered his eyes were fixed again on Jacqueline Fletcher. He blinked as his grandmother’s words sank in. A real woman.

But not one like his unwanted guest. So she could hold her own in conversation and had an enquiring mind. That was all. She didn’t even dress to make the most of her assets. That dark suit would have been acceptable at a business meeting, but not tonight, where the women wore full-length gowns of impeccable quality.

Did she aim to draw attention to herself in some perverse way? Or did she think to hide herself behind the boxy cut of that jacket? Perhaps she’d worn it because of him. Did she really believe the unflattering style would make him forget her svelte, alluring body now he’d seen it laid out before him?

‘Asim, dear. You’re scowling.’

His jaw firmed and he stiffened as he realised his grandmother was right. He’d been Sultan for ten years, had been attending formal events since childhood. Concealing his thoughts in public was second nature. Until now.

* * *

‘Allow me to escort you to your suite.’ The deep voice was as rich and tempting as the thick Arabic coffee sweetened with wild honey that was a local specialty. It slid right through her insides, scorching as it went.

Jacqui swung round to find the Sultan beside her. Her pulse throbbed faster and an unsettling frisson pulled her skin taut. She’d been so busy saying goodnight to her new acquaintances she hadn’t heard him approach.

All evening she’d kept her distance, though he drew her gaze constantly. A head taller than most of the glamorous crowd, he looked magnificent in pale trousers and a high-necked tunic of coppery gold that complemented the saturnine darkness and chiselled authority of his features. This time his turban was black.

Beside him she felt like a drab sparrow. For a fleeting moment she wished her travel wardrobe included something sexy and feminine, until reality punctured the illusion. She didn’t own anything like that. Besides, she’d look ridiculous, a scarecrow pretending to be a fairy princess.

‘Your Highness, thank you for the invitation to tonight’s reception. You have such interesting guests.’

His dark gaze was impenetrable. She should be used to it. She saw it every day in his office when he subjected her to twenty minutes of questions and answers more gruelling than any editorial inquisition. Twenty minutes in which he assessed her with the intensity of a scientist viewing a lower life form.

And never once had she discovered the man behind the formal interrogation. She sensed a sharp intellect and decisive mind but there’d been few glimpses of the man she’d met that first night, the one whose quick distrust, kindness and latent sexuality had fascinated her.

Just as well. She didn’t need that distraction.

‘Had, Ms Fletcher. The evening is over.’

She looked around and realised he was right. The last scattered guests had left.

‘Then I’ll say goodnight too, Your Highness. Thank you again.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’ He fell into step beside her and she was inordinately conscious of his height and the swing of his arm close to hers as they exited the opulent room. He turned with her into the wide corridor away from the marble and gilt public rooms.

‘Really, there’s no need to see me to my door.’

‘It’s not out of my way.’ He gestured for her to precede him under a stone archway decorated with carved calligraphy and semi-precious stones.

Reluctantly she stepped through. Those short daily interviews were unsettling enough. Walking empty corridors with him reminded her too strongly of that first night when he’d found her naked and screaming. He made her feel vulnerable, as if her defences had been scraped away like a layer of skin by the hot desert wind.

Or maybe it’s because you’re so aware of him as a man. A hot, sexy man.

His hand shot out and grabbed her elbow when she stumbled.

‘I’m fine.’ Jacqui made to tug out of his hold but found she couldn’t.

His eyes weren’t blank any more. What she saw there made her breath quicken and sent a charge jolting to the apex of her thighs. Heat seared to the tips of her ears as she identified her body’s reaction.

Arousal.

Jacqui swallowed over a throat lined with sandpaper.

For days she’d assured herself she’d imagined the throb of desire that first night. She’d focused on her work, interviewing Lady Rania and poring over documents. She’d kept her reports to her royal host businesslike. But in the dark of her solitary room each night she’d felt a rush of heat that made a liar of her.

Her breath quickened as he tilted his head, watching.

Then abruptly she was free, his strong fingers sliding away.

‘Forgive me, Ms Fletcher. I realise you didn’t invite that.’ His lips curved in a wry smile that set her heart battering her ribs.

It took a moment to realise he referred to her defiant announcement that if she wanted his touch she’d invite it.

Suddenly Jacqui remembered the warmth of his skin on hers that first night. How his dangerous smile had undone something vital inside her. How, even when annoyed at his superior attitude, she was always aware of him.

‘I should go. I have a busy day tomorrow.’

She turned into another corridor and infuriatingly he fell into step. He was so close she heard the faint swish of silks and linen as he strode beside her.

‘So I understand. My grandmother is excited by the prospect of you meeting her old friends. I gather they’re spending the afternoon with you, discussing harem life.’

‘You know about that?’ Jacqui hadn’t told him in advance, suspecting he’d object to her spending time with women who were intimately acquainted with his family. He’d made it clear his family was off-limits. The discreet presence of a guard who trailed at a distance whenever she left her suite to meet Lady Rania or investigate the deserted harem constantly reminded her that she was here under sufferance.

If she hadn’t been so engrossed by her research, or so desperate to make a success of it, she’d have bridled at the surveillance. It made her smile grimly that, after the dangers of her old job, now she was relegated to pure desk work Sultan Asim felt he had to take precautions against her.

‘My grandmother has spoken of little but this gathering.’ He paused. ‘Whatever comes of this project, I must thank you for bringing pleasure to her at a very difficult time.’

Jacqui’s pace faltered. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear.

‘I’m pleased you think so. But it’s she who’s helping me. Without her involvement this project wouldn’t be possible. When Imran...’ She cleared her throat. ‘When your cousin mentioned the possibility of interviewing her I hardly dared hope she’d agree.’

‘It’s that important to you?’

She nodded. More than he could know. What had begun as an interesting idea for the future had become her lifeline, her only option. And one final homage to her friend.

‘Please.’ He gestured and Jacqui stared, discovering they’d reached the spacious courtyard outside her suite. ‘Take a seat.’ He led the way to a pair of comfortable looking chairs in the garden.

Jacqui hesitated. ‘I really should—’

‘I’d like to talk to you.’ He stood, a commanding figure bathed in moonlight. It gleamed on the fine fabric of his clothes and turned his eyes to a dark glitter.

Instinct warned against a tête à tête in the darkness. But he was her host. She was indebted to him. She couldn’t walk away.

Reluctantly she stepped from the lit passageway and took a seat, struggling to sit upright when the cushions invited her to lounge. He sat turned half towards her, half towards the long pool that shimmered invitingly.

Silence surrounded them.

‘I’m curious,’ he said at last. ‘Why would a woman like you embark on this particular project?’

‘A woman like me?’ She strove to keep the indignation from her voice. What was he accusing her of now?

His reluctance to have her here, his hawk-like scrutiny of her research and her daily guard proved he didn’t trust the press. But she’d hoped she’d allayed his concerns and he’d begun to trust her a little.

‘I’ve read your profile, Ms Fletcher. You’re one of Australia’s youngest foreign news reporters and well regarded. You received an award for media excellence, though you were in hospital and missed the ceremony.’ Jacqui tried and failed not to stiffen at the casual mention of the time when shock and guilt, as much as her injuries, had incapacitated her. ‘You rarely take leave and when you do it’s to follow another story. You have a reputation for doggedness and for grasping the bigger picture.’

‘You’ve checked me out.’ It shouldn’t surprise her yet Jacqui sat straighter, nerves jangling.

‘Of course. Don’t pretend you haven’t done the same.’ Jacqui felt the challenge in his stare though his eyes were shadowed.

Finally she nodded. ‘You inherited the crown at twenty-five. You were educated in France and England, including at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. You’ve got a Master’s degree in business administration.’ She paused, reflecting on those old reports of extreme sports and hard partying.

‘Despite your early reputation for...adventure, since taking the throne you’ve gained a name as a broker in diplomatic and trade negotiations and as a leader of vision. You’ve built on your nation’s loyalty to your family and are well respected.’

‘Touché, Ms Fletcher.’ Laughter threaded his voice, making it far too appealing.

Her fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. Sitting in the darkness with this man whose presence sent her senses into hyper-awareness was a supremely bad idea. Her nostrils twitched. She wished he’d doused himself in some expensive aftershave any man might buy. Instead, she guessed that far too appealing spice and man mix was innate to him.

‘And so?’

‘And so, after checking your credentials, I’m intrigued. Why step away from your career to write about a lifestyle that no longer exists?’

‘I hope plenty of people will be interested in reading about life in a harem.’

‘Because sex sells?’

He leaned towards her and she shifted back. ‘The book won’t be about sex.’ She waved a hand. ‘Or only in part.’

‘But that’s what readers will expect.’

Jacqui shrugged. ‘I want to paint a portrait of a vanished way of life.’

‘The question remains. Why give up a challenging, successful job for which you’re receiving accolades to write this book?’

Her breathing hitched and when she swallowed it felt like she’d gulped a block of ice. It froze her from the inside. She tried to prise her fingers from their claw-like grip on the arms of the chair but couldn’t.

He leaned closer. ‘I’m surprised your network has given you time off for this. Surely they want you doing what you do best?’

Jacqui bit down a sour laugh. What she did best.

What she used to do best.

‘I didn’t take leave,’ she admitted in a rush, the blood pounding in her ears. ‘I resigned.’

Even now the admission dealt her a sickening blow. After years building her career it still stunned her that she’d actually walked away from the only thing that had given her purpose and identity—her work.

As long as she could remember she’d wanted to be a journalist. Now that part of her life was over and it was no more than she deserved. Because of her Imran had lost his life. The price she paid was small by comparison. Her shoulders inched high as tension radiated up from her clawed hands.

In the other chair her inquisitor sat comfortably, fingers steepled together.

‘I see.’ Something about his inflection suggested that, even if he didn’t see the whole picture, he guessed most. The idea of him silently dissecting what she’d said pushed her into speech.

‘I’m sure your grandmother has told you about the essays I’ve written.’ She snatched a breath and hurried on. ‘They were well received and I’d always thought one day I’d try my hand at a book.’ Like when she retired.

‘It’s good sometimes to work on something longer term, without the quick demands of current affairs reporting.’

Except she’d thrived on pressure and deadlines. Being without them now created a new sort of pressure, increasing her fear that she wasn’t cut out for this longer project. Was this all a huge mistake?

‘And yet it’s a remarkable decision for a woman with such a promising career,’ he mused. ‘To cut herself off from work which, from what my cousin used to say, was a vocation, not a job.’

Jacqui’s breath hissed between her teeth. This man was too insightful.

‘I assure you I’m devoting all my energies to this. I’m not playing at it.’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘But you must understand my doubts about this unlikely career choice. Especially when it coincides with heightened media interest in my sister’s whereabouts.’

‘You think I’m here to get a scoop on your sister?’ Jacqui frowned. ‘If that were so, surely I’d be staking out the private Caribbean island where she’s staying?’ That was where the pundits reckoned she was hiding, licking her wounds after a disastrous love affair.

Jacqui shook her head. Tunnel visioned as she’d been, she hadn’t considered Princess Samira relevant. ‘There was I thinking you doubted my qualifications. Or that I intended to write some titillating fiction about sex slaves rather than a well-researched history.’

‘Both crossed my mind.’ The admission was a slap in the face, making her skin tingle and igniting a spark of professional pride. ‘But what I’ve gleaned from our daily interviews and my investigations has reassured me somewhat.’

‘Somewhat!’ Annoyance spiked. How disappointed he must have been when she’d reported on her research. So far she’d focused on marriage celebrations and the training of young girls in domestic skills like preparing the spectacular sweets for which the royal court was famous. Nothing at all salacious.

He shrugged casually, the movement drawing attention to those wide, straight shoulders. ‘Your arrival just as Samira is being hounded by the press is too coincidental.’ He paused. ‘I’ve allowed you to remain for my grandmother’s sake, but I can’t be completely easy with your explanation.’

‘You don’t have much time for the press, do you?’

‘My caution comes from experience.’ His voice was steely.

Jacqui remembered the reports about his lovers and his jet-setting lifestyle before he’d inherited the throne. Even now he captured headlines wherever he went. The combination of stunning looks and extreme wealth guaranteed it. Then there were older reports she’d skimmed about his parents’ volatile relationship. They’d provided perfect fodder for sensationalist media outlets with gossip about break-ups, lovers and jealous rages.

‘I’m a journalist, not a paparazza!’

‘So you tell me.’

Jacqui pursed her lips, thinking. He’d given her support...so far. But he could change his mind at any stage. Only one thing would convince him—the truth.

A shudder ripped through her and she hunched forward, her arms automatically crossing, holding tight, as if that could keep the pain at bay.

She could keep her secrets and hope he didn’t change his mind about letting her stay. Or tell him what he wanted to know. Tell him what she’d not told a soul.

His patient silence, the sense of a listening presence in the anonymous darkness, won out. Or maybe she was just tired of hugging the truth to herself.

‘Everything I told you is true.’

‘But there’s more.’

Yes, damn him. There was more. She sucked in a sustaining breath.

‘I can’t do that job any more. I’ve tried and...’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t.’ Jacqui heard the wobble in her voice and bit her lip. ‘I tried being in the field again and I just...shut down. I couldn’t function. Even being in the newsroom, working at that end, with the bustle and the people and the pressure, it was too much.’ She blinked and lifted her head to stare up at the clear, bright moon. She remembered staring at a moon like that from her lonely hospital bed that first night, when she still couldn’t believe the horror she’d witnessed.

‘Ever since the bombing, since Imran died, I haven’t been able to work.’

‘Post-traumatic stress?’

She lifted her shoulders in a tight movement. ‘Trouble sleeping, trouble handling more than one task at a time.’ It almost killed her to admit that. She’d been so proud of her professional skills. ‘Trouble with loud noises and too many people.’ On bad nights she couldn’t even face darkness, fearing sleep and the nightmares it might bring. And beyond all that was guilt that she’d led Imran to his death. She’d been responsible.

‘Tonight was the first night I’ve been able to stand being in a crowd of people without searching for suspicious packages or jumping at shadows.’

She told herself that was progress, but in some ways tonight had only made it all worse. For she’d spent the evening in conversation with such fascinating people, people she’d normally pursue for an interview. She’d had an idea for a report on current regional trade negotiations, but the thought of following it through had made her queasy. She’d been second-guessing herself, wondering if the idea was as good as she believed or if her judgement was flawed.

Forcing herself to face him, she laid herself bare, ignoring the shrieks of her ragged pride.

‘I need this project. Once I realised I couldn’t go back I had nothing. No job, no hope for the future. Until your grandmother and I corresponded again after...Imran.’ Jacqui swallowed over the obstruction in her throat and forced herself to continue. ‘She was so enthusiastic, I realised the project was too big for the article I’d planned. It needed a book. So here I am.’

Jacqui didn’t add that her work defined her. Relationships had never succeeded for her. She’d never belonged anywhere as she had in journalism. Burying herself in reporting, building a life around her professional goals was all she had.

Moonlight silvered the strong lines of his face as he surveyed her.

Did he believe her or still think this was a conspiracy to uncover dirt on his sister? Had she bared her secret shame for nothing? Was he going to kick her out?

‘Thank you for sharing the truth.’ His voice was rich and slightly rough, like crushed velvet rubbing on bare skin. ‘I suspect you haven’t shared that with many.’

None. But she refused to tell him that.

Jacqui was an intensely private person, having learned to rely only on herself from the day her parents had split. It had been difficult, discovering at ten that neither of your parents loved you enough to want you full time. That you came a poor second to their new families. That you didn’t belong except as an unpaid babysitter. But it had made her strong. She gave thanks now for that strength.

‘I realise it was difficult for you.’

She nodded, her throat still closed.

‘I’ll continue to monitor your progress’ He paused and she felt his scrutiny like a touch. ‘But you’ve put my mind at rest for now.’

For now? What hoops did she have to jump through to win this man’s approval?

Jacqui felt wrung out. She wasn’t sure she had the stamina to go another round with the Sultan, no matter how desperate she was.

Abruptly he stood. ‘Come, it’s late. I’ve kept you from your bed.’

In the gloom he extended his arm and for an insane moment Jacqui thought he meant to accompany her to bed. A jagged slash of heat scorched her, resolving into an eddying pool of liquid warmth deep in her abdomen.

‘In my country a handshake is a sign of trust.’

Reluctant despite the unlooked-for compliment, Jacqui reached out and took his hand. It was just as she remembered, firm, warm and strong.

Instead of the expected handshake he pulled her to her feet till they stood toe-to-toe, close enough for her to feel his breath on her forehead. The heat in her belly flared and sparked and a new kind of tension stirred.

There it was again, that searing stare that spoke of things far more intimate than news stories or remembered anguish. Breathlessly Jacqui told herself it was a trick of the moonlight that made his eyes glitter.

Yet instinct made her pull free of his hold. Not because of what she thought she saw there but because of the answering hunger growing inside, banishing the last glacial chill of memory.

She’d never known such an overwhelming response to a man. It made her want to run and hide.

‘Good night.’ She kept her head up, resisting the impulse to rub away the imprint of his touch. It was too unsettling but she knew better than to reveal that.

‘Come, I’ll see you to your door.’

‘There’s no need to go out of your way.’ Her voice sounded scratchy and breathless and she cursed this sudden rush of hormones.

‘It’s not out of my way at all. Haven’t you realised yet that you’re staying in my private wing?’

Even in the darkness his slow smile packed a punch that made her reel.

‘So if you need me in the night I’m not far away.’