Defying her Desert Duty (10 page)

Sighing, he rubbed the towel over his face. ‘A bullet caught me.’

Soraya’s breath hitched in a hiss of dismay. Her heart hammered at the thought of Zahir in a gun’s sights.

‘It’s okay, Soraya.’ He must have read her horror, for his severe expression eased. ‘It was just a flesh wound and a bit of a knick to one rib.’

Just a knick …

‘How did it happen?’ Prying or not, she couldn’t leave it there.

‘I used to lead the Emir’s personal protection unit, remember? I came between him and someone who intended harm.’

Soraya clung to the side of the pool as weakness invaded her limbs. Zahir had put himself in front of the Emir. Taken a bullet meant for him!

Slowly she shook her head. ‘I can’t comprehend how you could do that. Put yourself in danger that way.’

‘Can’t you?’ Eyes of vivid emerald caught and held hers. ‘Isn’t there anyone you’d risk yourself for?’

Before she could answer he went on, ‘It was my job. What I’d signed on to do. More than that, Hussein is far more than an employer to me.’

The ripple of emotion across his stern features surprised her. ‘Hussein was the one who rescued me from my father’s palace when I was just a child. As supreme leader he forced my father’s hand into letting me go. Not that my father was bothered about keeping me.’ Zahir’s austerely sculpted lips curled in a smile that held no humour. It sent a terrible chill prickling down Soraya’s spine. What did he mean, his father hadn’t been bothered about keeping him?

‘Hussein has been father and friend to me. Mentor and role model. I don’t just owe him my job, but my life. If I’d stayed in my father’s palace I’ve no doubt I’d have died from neglect.’

The quiet certainty in Zahir’s calm tone turned Soraya’s blood cold. He’d said his early years were eventful but she’d had no idea.

‘What about your mother?’

Absently he swiped his towel over his shoulders. ‘I never knew her. She died when I was tiny. So there was no-one to
care that I ran feral, barely surviving. No-one to care that my father never legally acknowledged me as his.’

‘Zahir!’ Having grown up with at least one loving parent, Soraya found the picture he painted appalling. She could barely imagine being so alone.

He shrugged. ‘They weren’t married. She was one of his mistresses. A dancing girl. Why should he stir himself over a brat who wasn’t even legitimately his?’ His tone was blank, as if his father’s rejection didn’t bother him.

How could that be? Soraya knew too well the weight a parent’s rejection. She’d carried it ever since she was six. What hidden scars burdened Zahir? It must have been doubly painful for him not to have either parent there for him when he was young.

She’d seen behind Zahir’s mask of calm. She knew beyond the formidable control was a man of powerful emotions and blazing passion. A man who felt deeply.

The memory of that man sent heat spiralling in that secret feminine place.

‘Hussein gave me a home.’ Zahir’s voice deepened to that low burr that brushed the back of her neck into tingling heat. ‘He cared about me, raised me, made me who I am. I owe him everything, especially loyalty.’ Zahir paced the edge of the pool towards her, his words ringing between them, deliberate and measured.

‘I could never betray him.’

He was reminding her why there could never be anything between them, despite the shimmering heat that charged the air and the growing sense of a bond between them. Zahir was a man of honour and loyalty. How much more loyal could you get than to offer your life to save another?

No wonder he’d looked sick last night as he’d turned from her. By kissing her, he’d betrayed the man he’d admired all his life.

Against that, the guilt that hounded her paled. To her the Emir was a distant benefactor. How much worse this all was for Zahir, who knew and loved him.

Her heart twisted for Zahir. For the pain he’d borne in the past. For the hurt she’d unwittingly caused him.

And for herself, trapped between duty and desire, with no way out. Her throat closed convulsively. Was that all the future held? Duty?

Once she’d believed it would be enough. She’d thought emotional independence was all she needed.

Then recently she’d begun to imagine a future other than the one mapped out for her—a future of her own making, where she could pursue the half-formed hopes and dreams she’d dared to dream in Paris. Of a career, a future that was about
her
needs and interests, not the nation’s.

Now even that seemed unreal, unsatisfactory, a poor facsimile of a
real
future. For the first time in her life Soraya caught a glimpse of what life might be like with more than solely career or duty to fill it. With a man she cared for, a man who made her blood spark and her soul take flight. A man like Zahir …

Like a tidal wave, realisation crashed down on her. She grabbed for the edge of the pool, desperate for support as her world reeled.

‘Time to move. We’re leaving here, and remember you need to pack.’ Zahir turned his back rather than let his gaze run over her again.

The swimming lesson had been as testing as he’d feared. Even the mention of what he owed Hussein only succeeded in racheting up the level of sick guilt in his belly. It did nothing to drive out his fascination with Soraya. It was as if she’d got under his skin, like a desert sandstorm infiltrating every defence.

What
was
it about Soraya? Even in the throes of first love he hadn’t felt so … saturated by his feelings. They impinged on every thought after years of him bottling them up. He was aware of her as if she was part of him. Nor was it simple sexual awareness. If only it were that!

He slung the towel round his neck then shot a glance over her shoulder.

She hadn’t moved. She stood, hands braced on the flagstones at the edge of the pool, head bent as if winded.

‘Soraya?’ Concern spiked. He turned back to her. She didn’t look up, and he saw her breasts rise and fall quickly as if she’d just swum a sprint. He yanked his gaze higher and realised her face was pale.

He’d thought it impossible to feel more guilt, but he’d been wrong. The way she stood, as if absorbing a body blow, told him she battled pain. Because of him? His chest constricted hard.

Disregarding his resolution not to touch her again, he extended his hand. ‘Come on, princess. It’s time we left.’

‘I told you before—
don’t
call me that!’

Zahir’s blood frosted as she looked up and he read the haunted depths of her eyes. The slight shadows that spoke of a sleepless night were more pronounced in her milky-white face. Her skin looked drawn too tight. Even her lush mouth seemed pinched.

‘Soraya?’ His scalp itched with warning. Something was very wrong. ‘What is it?’

She shook her head and looked away.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s nothing. I overreacted.’

Zahir’s brow knotted. Even in the face of his blatant disapproval she’d stood defiant and proud. Yet now she looked as if the merest breeze would knock her down.

‘Because I called you princess?’

She gave no response, ignoring his hand and clambering stiffly from the pool. Yet even in the sun she shivered, and he draped his towel around her. It said something about her state of mind that she stood meekly while he wrapped it close, rubbing her arms through the towelling.

‘Soraya?’ She met his gaze but her eyes had a dazed, blind look that worried him. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ He refused to move away. Finally she spoke again. ‘My mother used to call me that, you know.’ Her
lips stretched in a parody of a smile. ‘When I was tiny I even used to believe I was a little princess. At least that I was
her
princess.’

The towel slipped and she clutched it close.

‘It just goes to show how gullible children are, doesn’t it?’ Her voice rang hollow. ‘I wasn’t special enough to make her stay when her latest lover called. She left me behind then without a second thought.’

A shudder racked her and Zahir had to fight the need to tug her close and wrap himself around her. She looked … fragile.

But a moment later Soraya recovered. She straightened, pushing her shoulders back in that familiar way and turned to survey the pool.

‘The last time she called me that was the day I almost drowned. I was wading in a pool and I was sure she was still there, watching me. I didn’t find out till later that was the day she’d left us to go to her lover.’

His heart wrenched at the pain he read in her taut features. At the hurt she battled even to think of venturing into water again. He’d believed her strong and determined but he hadn’t known the half of it.

‘I should have remembered that lesson,’ she murmured.

‘What lesson?’

‘Never to expect too much.’ Her expression held infinite sadness as she turned and walked away.

Zahir felt as if someone had taken a knife to his belly and gutted him.

S
ORAYA
leaned on the railing of the giant motor cruiser and took in the brilliant cluster of lights that was Monte Carlo. Even the water was gold and silver, reflecting the illuminated city climbing the hills.

All around her was luxury. From the multi-million-dollar vessels crammed into the marina to the exclusive party she’d left on the other deck.

Was this what her life would be like as the Emir’s wife?
A
world of untold wealth and privilege?

Fervently she wished she could be thrilled by the prospect. Another woman might have found nothing but pleasure in the comforts of extreme wealth but Soraya had so much on her mind, they left her unmoved. They were comforts Zahir took for granted, fitting easily into this rarefied world of diplomats, royalty and celebrities.

He might have been a bodyguard once, and a lost soul as a child, but he’d moved on. He was strong, confident, a man sure of himself and his purpose, with nothing to prove.

Her heart squeezed haphazardly as she thought of her weeks with Zahir. Despite the caution they exercised, she’d slipped further under his spell.

Riding horses in the Camargue, eating heavenly bouillabaisse in a tiny waterfront restaurant, even visiting lavender fields and a perfume factory; Soraya couldn’t have asked for a better companion. He’d been pleasant, amusing and caring.

Yet he scrupulously kept a telling distance between them. He hadn’t touched her again. Even during her swimming lessons, and he insisted on those daily. He supervised, instructed and encouraged but kept to the side of the pool.

How she missed his touch! His strong arms around her.

A sigh shuddered through her.

She couldn’t ask for more. Briefly she’d been angry at his unswerving loyalty to the Emir, for it meant there was no chance for
them
. But there
was
no ‘them’. There were too many obstacles against it. Besides, Zahir’s loyalty was part of what made him the man he was.

All she could do was store up memories against a future when he must be a stranger to her. That was what she’d done, gathered memories, as if they could comfort her when she gave herself to another man.

She’d railed at a fate that bound her to a marriage she didn’t want. How much worse now when, too late, she’d discovered what it was to care deeply?
For the wrong man.

Pain tore through her and she gripped the railing harder. She wanted …

No! She couldn’t allow herself to go there.

That morning of her second swimming lesson Zahir had thought her upset because he’d called her ‘princess’.

It was true the casual endearment had evoked painful memories. But the real anguish had come from the realization that she, who’d thought herself immune from love, had fallen for a man who could never be hers.

She was head over heels in love with Zahir.

The knowledge made her body sing with excitement and her soul shrivel. It was wonderful, delicious and terrible. A blessing that was a curse.

Travelling with him was torture and pleasure combined. Maybe if he felt nothing for her it would be easier, but his punctilious distance told her he felt something for her too. That knowledge kept her on a knife edge of torment, trawling back through conversations, seeking proof of his feelings. Like
Bastille Day, when he’d asked about the possibility of her loving someone other than her betrothed.

If only circumstances had been different.

‘Soraya. What are you doing down here when the party’s in full swing upstairs?’

Zahir halted several paces away. His eyes ate her up; she was luscious in a long dress of dusky rose. A gown that was innocently demure by the standards of the scantily dressed socialites at the party. Yet it skimmed her body in a way that reminded him too clearly of the hour-glass figure that tempted him during each day’s swimming lesson.

Heat clutched deep in his belly.

Her scent, wildflowers rather than hothouse exotics, teased his nostrils. Her hair, held back by jewelled clips, cascaded down her back in a ripple of thick silk.

More than one man had cast covetous eyes on her tonight and Zahir had been busy staking a possessive claim on her to prevent any untoward advances.

Staking a claim on behalf of Hussein
, he reminded himself.

She half-turned but didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I wanted some peace and quiet.’

At her words he stiffened. He’d seen her excited, happy, indignant and angry, but never listless.

There’d been inevitable tension after their kiss. But he’d worked hard not to let her see that taste of her had driven him to the brink of endurance. For her part, Soraya had thrown herself into sightseeing with a fervour that gave no hint she wanted anything else.

At first he’d wondered if she was a little too enthusiastic, then chided himself. It wasn’t that he
wanted
her pining for what could never be.

‘You’re not enjoying yourself?’ Tonight he’d sought safety in numbers. This exclusive society party had seemed a perfect alternative to a night alone with Soraya and the terrible gnawing tension within.

Beautiful women with come-hither eyes and smiles that
promised pleasure were here tonight in droves. Yet none had drawn a second glance from him.

Not one could hold a candle to Soraya for beauty or character. She was gentle—despite her bravado in standing up for herself—capable, caring, inquisitive and deeply fascinating. Her fierce independence, her determination and natural exuberance, entranced him. With her he’d felt more than he had in a decade and a half. It was like emerging from a grey half-life into a world of sunshine and colour.

‘The party is amazing. Thank you for bringing me.’ Yet she didn’t sound as enthusiastic as when she discussed her research project. ‘So many interesting people. So many celebrities. And I’ve never seen so much bling in my life.’

‘But?’

She shook her head and those long tresses slid and curled around her slim back. Was it ridiculous to resent the fact she wore her hair down tonight? He hated the way men looked at her, imagining that bountiful hair loose around her shoulders as she made love.

He knew they did. Any man would.

He did. God help him!

‘But it’s only days till our flight from Rome to Bakhara.’ Her husky words drew his belly tight. ‘It’s crept up on me and I needed time to digest it.’

She was going home to marry the finest man he knew.

Zahir ignored the wave of nausea that passed through him at the thought.

‘I know Hussein is looking forward to seeing you.’ If Hussein had any idea of the lovely woman she’d become, he’d be eager for her arrival.

Soraya bowed her head as if in assent. But her grip on the railing reminded him of a falcon’s claws clamped hard and sharp on a leather glove.

‘Soraya?’ He took a pace towards her then, realising, stopped. ‘
Are
you all right?’

‘Of course.’ She tilted her chin up as she stared across the shimmering brightness. ‘What could be wrong?’

Something was. He’d come to recognise the way she angled that neat chin as a defence mechanism.

He reminded himself his duty was simply to return her safe to Bakhara, not delve into her thoughts and fears.

Yet telling himself couldn’t make it so. Nor could he banish the suspicion he knew
exactly
what was wrong. That, despite her proud front, Soraya felt as he did. That they’d circled an unspoken truth for weeks.

‘Tell me!’

Perhaps the harshness in his voice surprised her for she turned her head, eyes wide and it was there again, that jangle along the senses as if lightning had sparked between them.

Damn it. He shouldn’t feel this. He shouldn’t feel anything except impersonal concern for her wellbeing.

Yet what he felt was personal. Far too personal.

Did she feel it too? Was that why she whipped her head round so fast?

‘Soraya. Please.’ It was no good telling himself this was merely a job. It had ceased to be ‘just a job’ the moment he had seen her in that Paris nightclub.

‘I don’t want to go back,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t want …’ Her voice dipped and she swallowed convulsively. That single movement spoke of a vulnerability that tugged at something in his very core. Something he couldn’t name.

He found himself behind her, not touching, but mirroring her body with his as if to protect her. He couldn’t keep back.

‘What don’t you want, Soraya?’ His breath held.

A deep breath lifted her narrow shoulders. ‘I don’t want to marry the Emir.’

Like the boom of a bomb blast, her words rocked him back on his heels.

Elation ripped through him, a momentary inward cry of delight, till he smothered it, using every particle of will-power left to him.

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she didn’t want to marry Hussein. But he wouldn’t let the words come. He knew what he wanted her answer to be and he couldn’t let either of them go there.

To betray Hussein would make him no better than his traitor father. And it would bring her nothing but shame and public disgrace.

His body snapped taut almost to breaking point. His chest rose and fell hard as he dragged in one sharp breath after another. Silence welled. One wrong word could shatter the world in a way that could never be repaired. The air around them strung close with tension.

‘Why marry him then?’ He told himself it was time to remind them both that this was what she really wanted. She’d just temporarily lost sight of the fact.

‘Because I promised,’ she whispered. ‘It’s arranged.’

‘And you can’t go back on your word.’ It wasn’t a question, it was recognition that she, like him, had standards to live by. Zahir had never broken a vow. He knew the value of a promise—particularly a promise given to the man who’d made him who he was today.

If only that reminder could strengthen him now! Temptation was here before him, made flesh in a way that threatened everything he knew of himself.

‘That’s right. It’s my duty to marry him.’

Duty. Another word that ruled Zahir’s world.

Wasn’t it duty that kept him standing here, his body a mere hand span from hers? That tiny distance represented a yawning chasm, cleaved by his conscience. No matter what he wanted, duty kept her safe from his touch.

Yet it didn’t prevent him feeling her heat, scenting her skin and hair, hearing her shaky little inhalations of breath. Almost, he embraced her. He remembered the imprint of her soft body against his and his will-power frayed.

‘I promised him and my father. I owe them so much and it’s what they both want.’

But not what she wanted.

‘Did your father coerce you into it?’ The suspicion drove bile to the back of Zahir’s throat. Hussein would never do such a thing, but perhaps her father would.

‘No.’ Her voice rang true. ‘My father is a dear man. He would never force me.’

‘Then why did you agree?’ Zahir hated the plea that broke his voice, but he was past dissembling.

She turned around and suddenly they were just a kiss apart. He ordered himself to move back but his feet wouldn’t obey. He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets rather than be tempted to touch.

Her beautiful oval face tilted up towards his.

‘I was fourteen, Zahir.’

‘So young?’ He frowned. Despite the old customs of his people, such an early betrothal was no longer the norm.

What had Hussein been thinking? Zahir’s heart skipped at the unpalatable suspicion Hussein had been attracted to a girl barely in her teens. But their long engagement countered that idea.

The arrangement was odd. Why hadn’t Hussein chosen a woman closer to his own age? Why wait ten years to marry?

Unless the betrothal had been hastily arranged?

The constitution stipulated the Emir of Bakhara had to be married, a family man with the prospect of heirs. Fortunately for Hussein a formal betrothal was as binding as marriage and there’d been no-one eager to hurry him into a second marriage when his beloved first wife had died. Had he chosen an early betrothal to keep the balance of power while he came to terms with his widower status?

‘And you wanted to be queen.’

Soraya shook her head. Traditional Bakhari chandelier earrings scintillated at her ear lobes, drawing his eye to her delicate ears and slender throat.

Zahir clenched his hands tight in his pockets rather than reach out and stroke that delicate skin.

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Not particularly, though the royal glamour was very exciting. But after a while I saw possibilities. As the Emir’s consort I could be useful. Help our people. Devote myself to good works.’ Her mouth twisted wryly as if mocking her earlier self.

‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’ It sounded laudable, if distant from a flesh-and-blood marriage.

‘Of course there’s not.’ Abruptly she looked away. ‘That’s exactly what I tell myself now when I try to imagine the future.’

A future when she would be Hussein’s bride. In Hussein’s arms.

‘So why agree to the marriage?’ Zahir’s voice was rough. ‘For the money? The prestige?’

‘Zahir!’

Her shock made him look down, to discover he held her arms in a vice-like grip. Instantly he eased his hold.

‘I’m sorry.’ Yet he couldn’t let her go. The touch of her soft flesh made him war with himself. ‘Why, Soraya?’

‘Because he saved my father’s life.’ Her eyes were dark pools of stormy emotion that dragged him down. A self-destructive part of him wanted to dive into those depths and never surface again.

‘How?’

It shouldn’t surprise him. He had first-hand knowledge of Hussein’s generous spirit. Not only had Hussein saved Zahir as a child, he’d never held his father’s treachery against him, measuring him against his own deeds rather than the taint of his blood kin.

‘My father had a kidney disease,’ Soraya responded. ‘He needed a transplant, but you know how long the waiting list is for donors.’

Zahir nodded. Organ donation was still new in Bakhara and convincing people to join a donor registry was an uphill battle.

‘He would have died while waiting for a transplant.’ A tremor passed through her. ‘I was too young to donate to him, and he wouldn’t give his permission for me to do it.’