Читать книгу Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 31

CHAPTER FIVE

ASIM STARED ACROSS his desk at the woman before him, her head bent over her laptop.

Afternoon sun caught amber and russet tints in the hair she’d scraped back from her face. Idly he imagined it loose like it had been that first night, catching the light in a nimbus of gold and autumn hues.

He frowned. Blonde or brunette, or even tawny chestnut, no woman distracted him from his purpose.

His purpose was to protect Samira, no matter how tempted he was to believe Jacqueline Fletcher’s tale of desperation. Yet hearing her voice catch as she’d told him why she’d begun this work, watching the moonlight silver a face pinched with pain, he’d wanted to comfort her.

Instinct told him her pain was real. But years of experience warned him never to trust a reporter. For too long they’d fed like jackals on his family. If he made a mistake trusting her when he shouldn’t it would be Samira who’d suffer. The thought tightened every sinew.

Besides, Jacqueline Fletcher wasn’t what she seemed. Her clothes were so drab and unfeminine it was suspicious, as if she aimed to deflect his attention but took the camouflage too far.

He’d seen her pearly skin, the flash of vivid amber eyes, the russet of pubic hair and the rose pink of her full-body blush. And he wasn’t forgetting any time soon.

Heat doused him as she looked up. He felt wrong-footed, as if caught ogling an innocent. An innocent whom his cousin had trusted.

‘Here’s the reference I wanted.’ Her head tilted to one side as if she tried to read his expression and Asim stiffened as guilt eddied.

Instantly the shimmer of brightness in her eyes dulled and doubt jabbed him. Could she be such a good actress?

‘Go on.’

She paused but didn’t look away. Asim felt admiration stir. So often he merely had to hint at disapproval to find others giving way. Clearly his frown had no such impact on Ms Fletcher.

‘It’s a reference to diaries kept by...’ she looked down to check her facts ‘...your great-great-aunt Zeinab.’

‘And you found this where?’ It was the first Asim had heard of royal diaries.

‘There was a paper in the royal collection your grandmother thought would interest me. She arranged for your chief archivist to show me and it mentioned the diaries.’

‘Tell me more.’ This research project expanded before his eyes. First interviews with his grandmother, then visits to abandoned parts of the palace accompanied by various building experts, then meetings with an ever-expanding group of his grandmother’s old friends. Now the royal archives. When would it stop?

So much for his hope he’d soon see the back of Jacqueline Fletcher.

‘It mentioned arrangements to teach the ladies in the harem geometry, astronomy and poetry.’

Asim nodded. ‘All are traditionally important to my people. Astronomy and geometry aid navigation in the desert and poetry is prized among all the arts.’

Again that tilt of her head. ‘Yet the women of the palace weren’t likely to navigate alone across the dunes.’

Asim shrugged. ‘You think one should learn only the immediately practical? What about broadening the mind?’

‘I agree.’ Her gaze dipped. ‘It just surprised me that your ancestors felt the same way, especially when it came to educating women.’

He repressed anger. Wasn’t this the sort of too easy assumption many outsiders made? ‘Despite the stories you’ve heard, many of my predecessors were enlightened. They sought beautiful, clever women as their consorts, women whose company they could enjoy. Educated women who could share their lives as well as their beds.’

‘Which is why I’d like to access Zeinab’s diaries. They will be invaluable—’

‘No.’ A journalist prying into intimate family details? Even after generations the diaries could reveal material better kept private.

‘But if I could—’

‘It seems to me you have plenty of sources already.’

He supressed a smile as her eyes flashed. No longer drab despite her dowdy clothes, Jacqueline Fletcher looked vibrantly alive with her flushed cheeks and pouting lips.

‘The diaries will give a new perspective to the project, adding depth and texture.’

‘I take your point, Ms Fletcher, but I prefer to keep such private material private.’

She met his gaze, her brow pleated.

Enough. Asim glanced at his watch. It was time for his next meeting. He pushed back his chair.

She stood, planting her palm on the desk and leaning forward. As if he were an equal, not an absolute ruler who’d already granted her great favour.

‘Your Highness.’ The way she said his title was anything but obsequious. ‘Don’t you see? This could be a chance to provide an insight into a woman who was both educated and well regarded. The diaries could provide material to refute the sort of assumption I just made.’

Asim paused. She had a point, damn it. If this book was to be written, better it be done properly.

‘I’ll consider the matter and discuss it with the head archivist.’

She shook her head, leaning in till the faint sweetness of her skin reached his nostrils. ‘I talked to him and he...’ she paused ‘...didn’t see it as a priority.’

‘Didn’t he?’ Asim could imagine it. The head of that department was a dry old stick who wouldn’t have taken kindly to Jacqueline Fletcher’s enthusiasm.

‘No. But if you were to take a personal interest...’

Asim huffed out a laugh at her persistence, her sheer front. She didn’t take no for an answer, no matter how demure she pretended to be. Sooner or later something would catch her interest and she’d light up in enthusiasm or outrage.

She was never dull.

‘Very well.’ He made a quick decision. ‘I’ll look at these diaries and, if appropriate, you will be allowed access under supervision.’ His raised hand silenced her thanks. ‘I understand that while you speak our language you can’t read it fluently, so a staff member will translate any relevant sections.’ A carefully picked curator who would protect the royal interests.

The radiance of her smile sent a trickle of heat through him and his mouth firmed.

Jacqueline Fletcher was convincing as an honest, dedicated writer rather than a conniving, duplicitous opportunist. But Asim wasn’t completely sure yet.

The only thing he could be sure of was that his attraction to her was a complication he could do without.

* * *

If you need me in the night I’m not far away.

It had been days since the Sultan had said that but the words taunted Jacqui as she slid through the water.

Surely he hadn’t intended it to sound so...intimate. As if he expected her to invite him into her bed. Yet the sizzle of electricity between them was real. Even she could recognise desire.

Unless the sizzle was only her body’s response to a potently masculine and charismatic man, not his response to her. Her mind and her body had let her down these past months. Had she imagined the sultry interest in his hooded eyes, projecting her own breathless awareness onto him?

Had he really brought her to his apartments in case she suffered night terrors? She spluttered, swallowing water.

She’d been so busy branding Sultan Asim high-handed, she’d disregarded the soft spot he’d shown for his grandmother and his protectiveness to his sister. He wasn’t just an arrogant potentate. He knew how to care.

Could that caring extend to her? It seemed unlikely. Yet the alternative, that he desired her, was impossible.

Jacqui had no illusions about her sex appeal. She’d been a gawky tomboy, always playing sport with the boys. Puberty came late and no one noticed since her body had steadfastly refused to grow curves like other girls’. She’d simply stayed one of the boys. Not the sort of woman to attract a man like Sultan Asim with his renowned eye for beauty.

She remembered her few attempts in her teens to discover the secret of looking feminine. Her mum had pretended she was still a little girl and her stepmother, when forced to, had bought the same T-shirts and jeans for Jacqui as for her sons. She’d viewed Jacqui’s occasional efforts to dress up as selfish attention seeking.

So Jacqui had taught herself with the help of hand-me-down magazines. The results had been spectacularly awful. There’d been no one to warn her that the pink frilly dress she’d spent all her savings on and the vibrant hot-pink lipstick made her look like a clown. Or a transvestite, as one of the little cats in her class had exclaimed.

By the time she was working Jacqui had learned the best she could achieve was neat professionalism and to avoid bright colours and clingy fabrics. Better to blend in than draw attention to her shortcomings.

A slamming door made her turn, treading water.

Late afternoon light slanted across the courtyard as a tall figure strode to the pool. Jacqui’s eyes bulged and she almost forgot how to stay afloat until instinct shook her lax limbs into movement.

She’d thought him imposing fully dressed. But the Sultan of Jazeer had a body that looked even better without clothes. Almost without clothes. White swim shorts rode low on his hips, revealing acres of burnished skin.

Hot needles of excitement pricked Jacqui’s flesh as she watched his easy, athletic lope. Those shoulders were even wider than she’d imagined, his body lean but well built. The dusting of dark hair across his chest emphasised the bunch of muscles as he moved.

She exhaled, trying to slow her racing pulse as she tracked the line of dark hair that arrowed down, plunging beneath his shorts.

Belatedly her brain engaged as she realised where she was staring. And that he watched her.

Jacqui struck out for the far edge of the pool, splashing in her haste.

She had sex on the brain, and it was the fault of Lady Rania and her friends. What had begun a few days ago as a small reference group of old ladies had grown with daughters, granddaughters and friends who saw their afternoon gatherings as an excuse for socialising. When Jacqui had asked about preparation for marriage in the harem, soon they’d been swapping stories that made her blush.

The art of pleasing a man sexually had been an essential part of a harem education. The trouble was now Jacqui’s head was full of images of her trying those techniques on the Sultan’s taut, powerful body!

Obviously she’d been cooped up here too long. She was having some weird harem fantasy.

At last she neared the edge and reached out, only to find him standing there, hands on hips, watching. Shock made her suck in a breath that turned out to be water and sent her under.

Spluttering, she grabbed for the rim of the pool. Instead of hard tiles she felt warm flesh. An instant later the water rushed by as he hauled her straight up and out of the pool. Jacqui found herself planted on her feet, his hands spanning her waist as she bent, coughing.

Was his touch hot or was that searing sensation her nerve endings going into overload?

Finally Jacqui blinked and straightened, hyper-aware of his hands encircling her middle. His long fingers made her waist seem tiny.

Her vision was filled with a broad chest that just asked to be touched and a squared-off jaw that proclaimed male power. She curled her hands into fists, fearing she might do something unforgiveable like reach out.

Yet when she made to shift away his hold firmed.

Shakily Jacqui pushed her sodden hair back and raised her face. Dark eyes surveyed her from under half-lowered lids.

That flagrantly carnal look seared her into silence. Her breath caught as his gaze dropped to her mouth. To Jacqui’s horror she felt her nipples pebble as erotic energy zapped through her.

Why was he looking at her like that?

‘Thank you, Your Highness. But I can stand without help.’

‘Asim.’

‘Sorry?’ She stared at his mouth, not trusting her ears.

‘I reserve the right to use first names with women I save from drowning, Jacqueline.’

The sound of her name in that deep, rich voice sent a quiver of excitement through her.

She was in deep trouble.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary, Your Highness. Besides, I wasn’t drowning.’

‘Asim.’ His fingers curled in, securing her, and she fought not to wriggle with pleasure. ‘Say it.’

He looked every inch the arrogant prince with his austerely aristocratic features. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing to glittering obsidian shards.

Heaven help her, he was more powerfully attractive than any man she’d ever seen.

‘Really, there’s no need.’

His eyebrows rose loftily and there was steel beneath the velvet of his voice. ‘You reject my offer of friendship?’

* * *

Asim looked at the woman in his hold and felt hunger rise, sharp and raw. She couldn’t be trusted. She was a journalist, one of the breed that had feasted on the carcass of his parents’ marriage and now preyed on his vulnerable sister. He’d be a fool to let her close.

Yet when he looked at her he saw simply a woman.

An infuriating, challenging, surprising woman who didn’t know when to shut up or when simply to obey.

A woman who in her sleek, rust-brown one-piece swimsuit looked like a naiad. Water sluiced over her lithe frame, accentuating each streamlined curve and hollow. Her limbs glowed in the late-afternoon light, giving her a luminous quality that made her seem otherworldly.

Except the woman beneath his hands was real, so fine-boned his fingers almost spanned her waist.

But it wasn’t her waist that drew his attention. His gaze fixed on her lips, pink and inviting.

‘Asim,’ she said finally in a throaty murmur that sounded more like invitation than capitulation and made his blood rush hot and hard.

‘That’s better.’ His voice was a low growl and he heard her gasp.

He wanted to hear her gasp like that while she lay beneath him and he took them both to paradise.

Jacqueline Fletcher invaded his peace. Every day she visited his office to report progress. She was businesslike and brisk but those stunning slanted eyes would flare amber fire when something fascinated her. Then she’d forget her formality and her whole being would come alive with an enthusiasm Asim wanted to capture and taste.

Each day it grew harder to concentrate on her words or remember the need to be suspicious. He wanted to strip away her shapeless trousers and loose shirts and touch the pearly skin he remembered. His body tightened as he imagined her writhing in pleasure against him.

Except he was in the process of selecting a bride. He had no time for sexual diversions. Besides, honour dictated he shouldn’t seek a mistress and a wife at the same time.

His brain said that. His body refused to listen. It told him a few hours’ diversion was exactly what he needed.

Her teeth snagged on her bottom lip and he lifted one hand, pressing his thumb there, feeling her swift intake of breath.

‘Don’t. You’ll draw blood.’

‘Then let me go. I don’t want this.’

Liar.

Asim was tempted to demonstrate how much she wanted precisely this. It would be easy to kiss her till she surrendered. He’d carry her to a bed and relieve them both of the pressure that had built inexorably since the night he’d found her naked in the harem.

‘Please, Asim.’

Whether it was the fact she pleaded, this prickly, opinionated woman, or the way she said his name, in a voice barely concealing distress, Asim felt a fist lodge in his chest. Reluctantly he opened his hands and stepped back.

She looked up, those feline eyes gleaming with a slumbrous heat that made a mockery of her protest and his caution. Then he read the tension in her mouth. She’d paled, the tiny smattering of freckles across her creamy skin standing out like blood on parchment.

‘I’m sorry I intruded.’ She ducked her head and spun away. ‘I should have realised you might want the pool.’

The fist in his chest twisted.

‘Don’t!’

Alarmed, she stared back over her shoulder.

‘Don’t apologise.’ He breathed deep, filling the void in his lungs. ‘I don’t like it when you’re...meek.’ The words surprised him as much as her. He felt the shock of that admission reverberate through him, even as he saw it ripple across her face.

He didn’t approve of the way she argued with him, refusing to be silenced after he’d made a decision. It happened daily when she tried to wheedle access to records or palace staff or ancient pavilions that had been locked up as unsafe generations ago. Yet seeing her hesitant and downcast was like watching a bright light dim.

For long seconds their eyes locked. Long enough for him to notice that in the syrupy late-afternoon light her eyes flashed with shards of gold.

Slowly her mouth eased into a crooked smile.

‘In that case, Asim...’ She paused over his name as if savouring it. ‘I promise not to be meek with you again.’

She scooped up her towel and wrapped it around herself, hurrying towards her room. But her chin was up and her shoulders back and, despite his body’s howl of protest at her departure, Asim found himself smiling.