Читать книгу Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 37

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ASIM WALKED WITH his entourage through the throng, exchanging greetings. They’d assembled in the plain where festivities were traditionally held. Once, tribes had travelled days by horse or camel to get here. Tonight, on the tenth anniversary of his accession to the throne, most had driven and some had flown around the globe.

There was laughter and feasting after a day of entertainment: displays of horsemanship, archery and shooting as well as athletics, dancing and horse racing.

Satisfaction buzzed. Jazeer had prospered and developed in ways that made him proud. He wasn’t solely responsible, but his government had achieved much, far more than under his father’s unstable rule.

He neared the gateway to the royal enclosure, on high ground abutting the citadel. The crimson and gold Jazeeri royal banner flared and snapped in the breeze.

Movement beneath it caught his eye and he paused, his breath locking.

How did she do it?

He should be immune to Jacqueline Fletcher or at least accustomed to her presence. She spent every night in his bed and they shared more hours awake than he had shared with any previous lover. Yet still she made his heart hammer.

His gaze roved over the slim figure in amber. She was stunning, a beacon glowing in the early evening light. Her dress shimmered, the long skirt moulding her neat hips and giving a tantalising hint of gorgeous long legs.

Immediately desire throbbed, as if his body had been trained to respond to the mere sight of her. He registered vague disquiet. This fascination should be ebbing. Instead it had escalated.

He wanted to be with her, stripping off that dress that flowed over her slender curves like apricot syrup. This on the night when he should be rejoicing in his achievements and the accolades of his people!

She made him want to forget his duty. He wanted to lose himself in her. Or at least be with her, seeing her delight in the spectacle and listening to her refreshingly honest assessment of everything, from the pageantry to the behind-the-scenes lobbying by guests. He sensed danger in the way she distracted him, making him lose focus. It was his duty, his responsibility, to keep control and protect those, like Samira, who relied on him.

Asim made himself turn. It was a test of willpower that he stay away.

His grandmother and her cronies would take Jacqueline under their wing. He’d remain here, doing his duty till it was time for the fireworks.

As the light faded and he finally made his way back to the enclosure a ruffled press secretary raced over to report a breach of security. Amongst the invited media, a cameraman and reporter from a major magazine were on the premises. A magazine that had pursued Samira relentlessly. Its staff had been banned from all royal premises. Yet they were in the royal enclosure, large as life.

Asim marched up the hill, barking questions to his stumbling retainers.

How had they entered? He couldn’t believe his efficient security team had slipped up so badly.

But there was a conundrum. For it appeared the pair had press passes that had been checked and double checked and proven genuine.

Only years of self-discipline prevented Asim taking the steps three at a time. The Sultan of Jazeer never publicly showed haste or fury. He topped the rise and his heart pumped an aggressive rhythm.

It was worse than he’d thought.

A sweeping look took in the cluster of photographers held back by security staff. Their lenses were trained on the platform overlooking the plain below. On it posed women dressed in flamboyant rainbow colours. Among them he saw Jacqueline in full-length amber looking luscious as toffee and, in a gown of deepest violet, Samira.

Asim halted, pulse hammering, barely able to believe his eyes. Samira hadn’t planned to attend. When he’d tried to persuade her weeks ago she’d claimed she needed time before facing crowds again. What was she doing here?

A barrage of sound hit and the sky exploded in fireworks.

Asim was stalking forward, his jaw clamped, when a hand touched his arm. About to shake it off, he looked down into his grandmother’s concerned face.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of them.’ He started forward but her hand tightened.

‘No. That’s exactly what you won’t do.’

‘Sorry?’ He couldn’t believe his ears. The old lady had supported his strategy to protect Samira.

‘They’re here now. If you cause a scene it will fuel the flames. Look—they’re not talking to Samira, just taking photographs.’

Asim followed her gesture, confirming that, while Samira was in full view of the press, his staff kept them from questioning her. The women came together in a neatly choreographed move and posed for the cameras, a burst of multi-coloured light adding to the spectacle.

‘It’s deliberate,’ he murmured, taking in the scene properly for the first time. The beautiful women, the glamorous dresses, the backdrop of ancient fortifications and stunning pyrotechnics. The scene would enthral millions of avid viewers.

‘Of course,’ his grandmother responded. ‘Don’t inflame the situation.’

Grimly Asim nodded, forcing himself to stand and watch those vultures snap photo after photo.

Yet he felt betrayed. Someone in his palace had arranged this press intrusion and put Samira at risk. A few weeks ago she’d barely had the energy to stir herself and here she was, posing like some catwalk model for the paparazzi.

When he got his hands on the person who planned this, they’d wish they’d never been born.

* * *

Jacqui wondered if the smile she’d pasted on looked convincing or was a grimace of stress. These days she didn’t like crowds and being on show, a reluctant model for Samira’s gorgeous creation, shredded her nerves. But Samira had insisted, latching onto this opportunity with a feverish determination that convinced Jacqui she had to do her bit to make it a success.

Even though it meant keeping it secret from Asim.

No doubt he’d get on his high horse when he discovered what they’d done, but when he saw how well it worked he’d accept it was a masterstroke.

Of course he would.

But no one had mentioned fireworks.

Each crack of sound plunged her back into that day of chaos, blood and death.

The acrid scent of gunpowder turned her stomach. The whole display was torture, testing her resolve to the limit, cracking it till she feared any minute she’d fling herself to the ground, curling in a foetal position as the world shattered around her.

Another explosion splintered the air and she flinched. The hairs on her nape and arms prickled and she fought to keep the contents of her stomach down as terror iced her blood.

‘That one was close.’

Mouth dry, she nodded at the reporter, trying to feel grateful for the mundane observation.

‘And it seems to have been the finale of the show. Now we can talk.’

‘Of course.’ She’d been unable to think or speak during the barrage. Now she frantically drew on her reserves of strength, hoping years of experience in front of the camera would come to her aid.

She wasn’t used to being interviewed. She’d shunned even her network’s request for an interview after the bombing. But surely she could do this for Samira. Jacqui gripped her hands tight together.

Tentatively she began, confidence building as she followed the script she and Samira had developed. The interviewer tried to probe about Samira’s private life but it was easy enough to turn the conversation back to what they’d agreed: Samira’s dresses and her design style; the celebration; the magnificent citadel as a backdrop for what promised to be a blossoming design career. He even asked about her presence here and Jacqui relaxed a little more, describing her research and the generosity of the royal family.

‘So tell me, Jacqui. What’s happening between the princess and her ex? Our readers are desperate for more. You’re an insider now.’ The reporter leaned close, his smile gloating as he returned to his favourite subject. ‘Just a hint will do and we can develop the story further.’

Jacqui forced her features into a smile, though she gritted her teeth. She’d known he wouldn’t want to accept her ‘no comment’, but he’d have to.

‘I—’

‘You have all you need for your story.’ A deep voice sliced through the night air, making her jump. ‘The interview is over.’ Long fingers gripped her elbow, turning her inexorably to face the tall man looming out of the night. Dark eyes flashed.

‘Your Royal Highness.’ The reporter half-bowed but managed to thrust a microphone forward.

Asim ignored it, ignored him, towing Jacqui away past security staff and VIPs. They didn’t hurry but moved purposefully, though Asim paused occasionally to exchange pleasantries with guests.

Only Jacqui, with his hand anchoring her like a manacle of iron, guessed the tension riding him. It vibrated, a palpable force that sent shivers of apprehension through her.

‘Should you be seen holding my arm?’ she hissed between clenched teeth as the photographers turned their lenses towards them. ‘Surely it’s not a good idea to—’

‘Don’t presume to give me advice on appropriate behaviour.’ His whisper cut like a blade. His grip tightened almost to the point of pain and Jacqui sucked in a shocked gasp.

Instantly Asim’s hold relaxed but the angle of his jaw spoke of trouble, of fury barely contained.

‘I need to see Samira.’ Jacqui turned her head. ‘She did so well but she needs—’

If his voice had been dangerous before, it was lethal now. ‘Never presume to tell me what my sister needs.’

A glacial chill crackled down Jacqui’s backbone.

He paused and drew in a mighty breath that lifted his impressive chest, reminding Jacqui of the latent power in his big form. A power he carefully leashed when they were together. She sensed he was on a knife-edge of control and anxiety feathered through her.

Asim wasn’t a violent man. But she’d never seen him like this. Even his controlled pace spoke of barely contained ire.

They left the royal enclosure, passed the guards and entered the passageway that led into the palace then wound confusingly. Still he didn’t speak and with each tap of her heels Jacqui’s tension screwed to breaking point. She should say something, explain, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

They emerged in a garden surrounded by a pillared arcade. No lights shone but the moonlight revealed the old harem courtyard. A breeze whispered through the leaves of a climbing vine, making a desolate sound.

There to the left was the chamber where she’d woken from her nightmare to discover Asim standing over her.

It seemed a lifetime ago.

Asim swung her to face him. In the silvery light he looked as grim and forbidding as an ancient idol awaiting a blood sacrifice.

Jacqui swallowed and met his eyes. She’d known this would be tough. Keeping tonight’s plan a secret had weighed on her conscience, but Samira had been insistent she needed to do this her way, not Asim’s. In the end Jacqui had banked on the fact Asim would be so happy seeing his sister emerge from seclusion that his anger would be short-lived.

How wrong she’d been.

‘I was warned against you, you know.’ The words were a sliver of sound on the night air, slashing through her neat justifications.

‘Warned?’ Jacqui frowned, thrown by the change of subject. Wasn’t this all about Samira?

He didn’t let her go, just stood toe-to-toe, staring down at her as if he wished he’d never laid eyes on her.

She felt bruised by that look, her heart thundering in distress.

‘You don’t think your presence in the palace or my bed is a complete secret, do you? From the first I’ve had advisors warning me against you. Not least my press secretary. He said you’d cause trouble.’

‘Now hang on there.’ She stiffened. Asim’s press secretary had been part of Samira’s problem. ‘I haven’t caused any—’

‘Really?’ His head reared back, lips curling disdainfully. ‘I should have known better. So what’s your excuse? Are you saying you didn’t inveigle your way in here by playing on the sympathies and grief of an old lady?’

Jacqui’s breath hissed in. ‘No!’

‘That you had no compunction using any tactic you could to get close to us? To me and my sister, particularly my sister?’

Abruptly he released her and stepped back, his expression sharp and accusing.

Something cracked open inside her and she knew pain would follow as soon as the shock wore off. Jacqui had expected concern over their tactics but not this!

‘Did you think my staff wouldn’t discover it was you who persuaded Samira to approve the press passes for those vultures?’ His face thrust forward into her space, his demeanour intimidating. ‘You think no one heard you promising him an exclusive interview?’ Asim shook his head and Jacqui could have sworn she read regret on his grim features, not simply anger.

He lifted one hand and swiped it down his face, as if rubbing away an unpleasant sight.

The sight of her?

Hurt warred with indignation as Jacqui stared, disbelieving, at her lover. The man she’d grown closer to than anyone else in her life. Something crumpled inside.

How could he speak to her like this after what they’d shared?

What, sneered a tiny voice, sex? You think that makes you special to him? How many women do you think he’s had? You’re just a novelty.

Correction: were just a novelty.

She gasped as pain sliced deep. Her chest heaved and her head spun from lack of oxygen.

‘Samira and Rania trusted you.’ Asim’s voice had lost that pulse of terrible anger. Instead it sounded hollow, like the aching void that opened up inside Jacqui’s chest. ‘And I let them. I encouraged them.’

He shook his head. ‘So tell me, Jacqueline, what’s your excuse? Money? They’d pay a pretty sum for a scoop. Or was it a chance to get back into reporting? Have you had enough of your self-imposed exile from the media?’

Jacqui opened her mouth but no words emerged. It felt like something had broken inside. It took all her strength to stand there, facing him.

She firmed her lips. What was the point, explaining herself when he’d already judged her?

With anyone else she would have tried, but with Asim... He of all people should know her well enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’d trusted him, reached out to him as she never had to anyone.

Piercing regret filled her and she knew that soon it would be replaced by anguish. Oh, she could give him the explanation he said he wanted, but should she have to? What was the point? She felt battered in places she couldn’t even name. Places deep within.

Finally she shook her head.

‘Nothing to say? You surprise me.’

Yet still he lingered, hovering like some great, dark cloud about to swoop down and engulf her. As if he actually wanted her to persuade him.

When she remained silent, her gaze fixed on a point over his shoulder, he finally moved.

‘Later,’ he warned in a low growl. Then he marched away into the night.

* * *

Asim returned to the celebrations, accepting compliments and congratulations. Yet he acted on autopilot, his mind on the woman he’d left in the harem.

He’d waited for her to convince him there was some error, that her blatant betrayal of trust was a mistake. He’d wanted her to persuade him.

Even with the evidence of his eyes and the reports of his staff he hadn’t wanted to believe she’d betrayed them.

He’d wanted to believe in her.

A flash of light filled the air, a thunderous explosion that turned heads and made bystanders jump. Asim whipped his head around, relaxing when he realised it was one final sally from the pyrotechnics.

But with the realisation came something else. Something disquieting.

Only now with a cooler head did he recall a detail he hadn’t registered before. When he’d approached Jacqueline and the reporter, he’d been intent on their words, on what secrets she might give away. Now memory conjured up her tight, defensive stance, the way she’d flinched at the fireworks.

She had a fear of sudden loud noises. She’d admitted it herself, and he’d seen it the day they’d turned a corner in one of the palace gardens and frightened some birds that had shot up into the air with a loud clap of wings. The sound had been like a muffled gunshot and Jacqueline had dived for cover, only his grip on her arm stopping her.

She still suffered from the trauma of that explosion. Hadn’t he soothed her more than once when she’d cried out in her sleep, her skin hazed with heat and her limbs twitching in terror?

Would she have submitted herself to the trial of a fireworks display for a cash payoff from some magazine?

His ingrained distrust told him, yes, people did remarkable things for money.

Instinct told him the scenario was wrong. Jacqueline wouldn’t corrupt herself like that. She appreciated beautiful things, but her idea of beauty was more likely to be a faded, romantic mural than riches. The usher who’d shown her the crown jewels had reported she’d been as fascinated by the intricately embroidered silks worked by the harem women as by the fortune in gems they’d worn.

Asim frowned. If she’d wanted to sell her story, why do it here?

His gaze moved to where his sister sat with her friends and grandmother. To a casual eye Samira looked bright and cheerful. But Asim had known her all her life. He’d seen her pull on that smiling mask too often. This evening taxed her to the limit.

Doubt shivered through him.

No. Not doubt. Certainty.

He recalled the times he’d seen Jacqueline and Samira, heads together, chattering like long-lost friends. The way Samira, with her usual impulsiveness, had opened her arms to this stranger. And Jacqueline’s rare, glowing smile when the pair were together.

She’d done this for Samira.

She’d braved the crowd and the barrage for her new friend.

How often had she said Samira needed to stop running and face the world? And he, so used to protecting his kid sister, had known it was too soon.

Whatever the rights of the matter, he had his answer. Loyalty, not personal gain, had motivated her.

What else would have got Jacqueline up on the dais in front of cameramen, dressed in one of Samira’s sexy creations? This was the woman who still couldn’t quite believe in her own physical allure.

Asim scrubbed a hand over his face as the enormity of what he’d said to her sank in. Her glassy stare and the stark whiteness of her features in the moonlight as she’d refused to explain told their own story.

‘Asim?’ He turned.

A lifetime’s practice at hiding emotion came to the rescue. ‘Had enough, Samira? It’s been a big night.’

‘It has. But a success, don’t you think?’

‘A huge success. And it was an unexpected pleasure having you present. Thank you, little one. I’m proud of you. It took a lot to face everyone and you did it in style.’

If only he’d thought sooner about what the effort had cost Jacqueline.

Samira shrugged. ‘It was time I stopped hiding. After all, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘On the contrary!’ His sister had been a victim, first of her scumbag of a boyfriend and then of the paparazzi.

‘That’s what Jacqui said. She said I should hold my head up and look the world in the eye.’

‘Did she?’

Samira nodded. ‘That’s what she does when things don’t work out. She said sometimes pretending to be confident, even when you felt horrible inside, is enough to get you through the tough times.’

Asim’s chest squeezed.

That was what Jacqueline had been doing, parading herself in that slithery silk dress in front of the media, surely her worst nightmare come to life. And then to do it under a cannonade of fireworks! What guts that had taken.

Had her proud defiance as she faced his blistering accusations been her pretending to be confident when she felt horrible inside?

‘Asim? Are you all right?’ Samira clutched his arm, her expression concerned.

‘Of course.’

He almost laughed aloud that he could lie so smoothly. Far from being all right, he was ashamed of himself. How could he have got it so wrong?