Defying her Desert Duty (11 page)

Of course she’d wanted to do it. Why wasn’t he surprised?

‘But the Emir said he owed my father his throne and his life. Apparently years ago there’d been an uprising by several tribal leaders. They’d tried to unseat the Emir and put one of their own in his place.’

Zahir stiffened. ‘I know. My father was one of them.’ The words scalded his tongue.

‘He was?’ Her eyes roved his face as if searching for something. ‘You’re not very like him, are you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Even now his skin crawled at the knowledge that man’s blood ran in his veins. ‘You didn’t know him.’

‘I know
you
, Zahir.’ The way she spoke his name was like a caress.

He was so besotted he was hearing things now. He should step back but couldn’t shift his feet. As for lifting his hold on her arms—it was impossible!

‘I know you’re a man of honour. A man who takes his responsibilities seriously.’ Her lips curved in a wistful smile. ‘I also know you’d never neglect a child of yours.’

‘Of course not.’ His lips thinned as he thought of the work still to be done to protect the rights of children, and others needing help, in his province.

‘Of course not.’ She twisted her hands and suddenly it was she holding him, her fingers on his soft yet strong. Ripples of illicit pleasure radiated from her touch.

‘I saw you with that toddler. You didn’t just save him, you cradled him and comforted him till his mother was calm enough to hold him. Then you made sure all the others were okay too, especially the teenager who blamed herself for not noticing he’d gone. You were gentle and understanding.’

‘Anyone would do the same.’ His voice was threadbare, stretched tight by the feel of Soraya holding him so tenderly. How he’d longed for her touch.

He should move away.

‘Not everyone. Especially when the child was promptly sick
everywhere.’ Her smile as she met his eyes was beguiling. He felt its impact deep in his diaphragm. ‘You’re a natural with kids. You’d be wonderful with your own.’

Suddenly he didn’t need to break her hold. She did it, wrapping her arms around herself, as if chilled despite the balmy evening.

He wanted to comfort her, knowing from her stricken expression she felt pain. But he didn’t trust himself to hold her then let her go.

‘Anyway,’ she said briskly, looking at a point near his shoulder. ‘When the uprising occurred, my father sided with the Emir. In fact, he was with him when the palace was stormed. He was injured protecting the Emir and apparently it was the sight of blood drawn in the royal council-room that shocked the more sensible leaders into negotiation. The Emir always said my dad saved his life as well as the peace of the nation.’

‘I’ve heard the story. But I hadn’t realised that was your father.’

Soraya lifted her shoulders. ‘It was a long time ago and I don’t think either of them like to talk about it. Later, when my father got sick, the Emir did something truly extraordinary.’ Her pale face lifted and he saw a genuine smile there, like a beacon in the shadows. ‘He gave a kidney to save my father.’

‘I had no idea.’ Zahir was stunned. It must have happened the year he’d been sent to study in the USA. ‘They kept it very quiet. I’ve heard nothing about it.’

No wonder. For a nation’s ruler to risk his wellbeing like that was almost incomprehensible. Zahir could think of no other who would do it. But Hussein was in a class of his own.

‘It’s easy to thank someone, but to repay a debt like that …’ Soraya shook her head.

‘He’s a special man.’ Zahir had known that since he was four.

‘Yes.’ Her dark eyes clung to his. ‘He is. So when he asked for marriage, my father was thrilled. He knew I’d be marrying the very best of men.’

Zahir nodded, unable to fault her father’s logic, even though
thinking of her with Hussein made hot pincers tear at his innards.

‘So you see,’ she added in a low voice that tugged at him, ‘I have every reason to marry him and none to refuse.’

‘Except you don’t love him.’

Her eyes widened but the surprise on her face was nothing to his own. Since when had romantic love featured as even a passing fantasy in his thoughts?

He knew all about dynastic marriages. He’d make one himself one day. He’d tasted love at nineteen and thought his life blighted when his beloved’s father had deemed him, the bastard son of a traitor, not a worthy son-in-law. From that day he’d devoted himself to proving himself better and stronger than all his peers.

‘No.’ Soraya didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I don’t love him.’

Her words hung like a benediction in the air. Zahir’s heart felt full.

‘But he’s a good man. A decent man,’ she murmured. ‘I owe him my father’s life. Without the Emir I would have lost him years ago.’

‘So you’re repaying the debt.’

She nodded and Zahir had to quell the impatient urge to say the debt had been cancelled with Hussein’s actions. It was Hussein who’d owed Soraya’s father. But there was no point. He read determination in her fine features. Besides, how could he urge her to go against her conscience?

He could offer her no alternative. Not when he was bound by every tie of loyalty, duty and love to deliver her to Hussein. Not when the alternative would make her a social pariah, an outcast even to her family.

‘What of your own dreams? Your aspirations?’ The words spilled from him. He’d heard enough about her work to know she needed more from life. The idea of her as no more than a prop to grace Hussein’s regal table and be by his side at official functions seemed a travesty. Soraya had so much more to offer.

‘My dreams have changed.’ Again that small, wistful smile.
‘When I was young I had grandiose dreams of helping the nation. Now I … ‘

She shook her head. ‘Now I have the qualifications to do something really useful for our people. I’m hoping the Emir will let me use those skills to support some innovation. We have the resources, and know how in Bakhara to bring power to the outlying regions, for a start.’

‘Is that all you want? The good of others?’

Something flared in her eyes, an emotion almost too painful to watch.

‘In Paris I’d begun to dream of a different future,’ she murmured. ‘Where
I
got to choose for myself. I’d follow my career, spread my wings, make my own mistakes.’ Her lips twisted. ‘I learned how much fun it was to make friends with other women, not because they were from the right families or because we studied together, but because we clicked. I discovered a weakness for philosophical debate and pop music and fantastic shoes.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘Nothing earth-shattering or important. Nothing worth pining over.’

Except it was important to her: the right to choose her own path. She’d said as much in his arms on Bastille Day—that there was nothing as important as freedom. He ached at the thought of what she would give up.

‘What about you, Zahir? What do you dream of?’

His dreams? Why did they seem less vivid than before?

‘Hussein is making me governor of our largest province. It’s the province my father misruled as a despot and it will be my job to make it flourish and prosper.’

He waited for the pleasure he usually experienced as he thought of the challenge ahead. The satisfaction of knowing he’d be redressing the depredations of his father.

Nothing came. Not even pride at the fact Hussein valued and trusted him with this important role.

Instead his eyes locked on Soraya’s and something swelled between them. An understanding, an emotion he didn’t dare
name. His body was aflame and the need to touch her again was a compulsion.

Abruptly Zahir stepped back. He kept moving, needing distance before he forgot sense.

He ignored the over-bright shimmer in her eyes and the down-turned curve of her lips as she watched him go. ‘I need to talk to our host,’ he said.

‘Zahir?’ He stopped, heart hammering at the sound of his name on her lips.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m doing the right thing. Aren’t I?’

His head whipped round and again that thwack to the solar plexus hit him when her eyes met his.

He breathed deep and searched for the right answer.

He could find none that would satisfy both conscience and desire.

‘You’re doing the honourable thing.’ His voice rang hollow in the silence.

As he forced himself to walk away, he knew for the first time in his life that honour wasn’t enough.

S
ORAYA
paced the luxury hotel-suite, ignoring the view of a quaint Roman square as the sky morphed from peach and bronze to shades of violet and indigo.

Once she’d have watched enthralled, thrilled by the vibrant, fascinating city of Rome. She’d have revelled in today’s sightseeing, the historic sites, the curious byways and above all the people, so full of life and energy.

Yet the city had passed in a blur, overshadowed by the fact this was the end.

The end of her freedom.

The end of her time with Zahir.

Her heart shuddered to a halt then picked up again unsteadily.

Rome was their last stop. Tomorrow they’d board a royal jet that would take them to Bakhara.

Desperation was a coiling queasiness in her stomach, a rusty taste on her tongue, as if she’d drawn blood when she bit her lip.

Tomorrow she’d face the man who would become her husband. She was no nearer finding the equanimity she needed for that than when Zahir had broken the news.

Zahir.

She clutched at a velvet curtain for support, reliving the delicious feel of his hair in her hands as they kissed.

That kiss had blasted away the convenient platitudes she’d
hidden behind. It had revealed in shocking, glorious detail how much she wanted him. How much she needed him.

Heat consumed her. Was she so like her mother? So weak in the face of sexual desire? In the face of love?

Yet this didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like strength, light and honesty. A heady euphoria edged with terrible fear that it could never be.

She’d tried to convince herself she couldn’t be in love with anyone so aloof and bossy. But the frightening man she’d met in Paris wasn’t the real Zahir.

Zahir was proud and inclined to take the lead, but he wasn’t a bully. He went out of his way to visit places she had her heart set on, patiently waiting as she combed markets, hunting gifts for her dad and Lisle. He took pleasure in the same things she did, chatting to farmers about the harvest, playing with the local kids. He was warm-hearted and caring. A man generous with his time.

He’d continued her lessons daily till she could swim unaided, determined she’d be safe in the water. He’d stuck to his promise despite the strain of those lessons.

Zahir was excellent company, even if he kept a conspicuous distance from her.

How she craved his touch. His affection.

He felt something for her, she knew it. It was there in his carefully blanked expression and in the fierce, possessive light in his eyes when she caught him off guard.

The memory of that look melted her bones.

She loved him. Yet they couldn’t be together. The thought scooped a gaping hole inside her chest.

She was destined for the man who’d given her back her father when she’d been about to lose him. Who’d given her years she’d feared she’d never have. Who’d honoured her with his proposal. By all accounts he’d been a faithful and caring husband to his first wife. Soraya knew he’d respect and care for her.
But it wasn’t enough.

She’d been an innocent ever to think devotion to her country or even her career was enough.

Why couldn’t she have love too?

The dangerous thought eddied in her brain.

There were a multitude of reasons she couldn’t have Zahir’s love. She couldn’t ask him to run away with her and betray the man he looked on as his father.

Yet she yearned for him with every cell in her body.

Was it too much to ask for a taste of that forbidden dream? For a morsel to comfort her in the long days ahead when she lived not for herself but for her country and the man who, however decent, could never be Zahir?

Soraya’s breath escaped in a whoosh. She’d feared she shared her mother’s weakness. But her mother had been in love with the idea of falling in love. Instinctively Soraya knew there’d be no other man after Zahir. He was the one. As for the future—that was immutable. She’d be faithful to the man she married.

But couldn’t she allow herself a taste of love to sustain her through a future that loomed barren and bare? Just one night?

Zahir was unbuttoning his sleeves as he pushed open the door to his room. He needed a cold shower. Better yet, a couple of hours in the hotel’s gym, then a cold shower. Though he knew it wouldn’t help. His mind would be full of …

‘Soraya!’

He slammed to a stop just inside the room.

Like an answer to forbidden cravings there she was, standing silhouetted by the glow of a bedside lamp. The soft light lingered lovingly on her ripe figure and his throat closed as all his blood drained south. Her hair was down in dark, rich waves that begged for his touch.

‘What are you wearing?’ His voice was a hoarse rasp.

She fiddled with the tie at her waist but said nothing. She didn’t need to. It was obvious that beneath the embroidered silk wrap she was naked. No strap line marred its smooth texture
and she’d done it up so firmly the fabric pulled tight across breasts and hips, cinching in at her waist.

His body raced into sexual overdrive, pulse humming, heat escalating, arousal burgeoning. His breath was choppy as he fought to drag in air.

‘Soraya!’ Somehow he was walking towards her, though he told himself to keep his distance.

Their gazes collided and he almost groaned at the familiar blast of connection between them.

Her nipples pebbled and his palms ached to reach out and cup the proud bounty of her breasts. Yet he managed to stop a pace away. Desire scorched him. More than desire; a yearning that was as much of the mind as the body. It engulfed him with a force that left him shaking.

‘You shouldn’t be in here.’ It emerged as a plea.

‘I couldn’t stay away.’ She swallowed convulsively and the pulse at the base of her neck raced out of control.

His blood beat just as fast. Just as haphazardly.

How many nights had he dreamed of her coming to him? How many mornings had he lashed himself with guilt over the imaginings he hadn’t been able to conquer?

It was wrong. But he couldn’t overcome it. He felt too much for her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted in his life. That alone told him how dangerous this was.

Soraya trembled as his gaze devoured her. A muscle worked in Zahir’s jaw and she felt the tension come off him in great waves. His hands twitched and she wanted them on her. Surely his touch would relieve the ache deep inside?

‘I want to make love with you, Zahir.’ A weight lifted off her chest with the words and she dragged in her first free breath since she’d come to his room. ‘Please.’

He stood stock-still. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he didn’t even breathe.

Fear warred with hope. Grabbing the last of her courage she stepped forward, till the heat of his body encompassed her. Still
he said nothing, didn’t move a muscle. It was as if he’d locked down, rejecting her and what was between them.

Soraya refused to give in so easily. With a daring she didn’t know she had, she reached out and grabbed his hand, placing it on her breast.

Instantly his fingers tightened, cupping her, and she swayed against him, captive to sweet, unfamiliar sensations. Fiery threads unravelled from her breast to her belly and lower, to the place where the ache was strongest and she felt hollow with need.

Gently he squeezed and she moaned as pleasure coursed through her. Much as she’d craved his touch, she just hadn’t
known
…

She rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his mouth. But at the last moment he moved and her lips landed on the sandpapery skin of his unshaved jaw.

An instant later his hands bit into her upper arms and he put her from him. Cruel fear invaded her bones as she looked into flinty eyes.

‘Don’t, Soraya.’ His voice was harsh.

‘Please, Zahir. I love you.’ The words came out in a rush, but she couldn’t regret them, even as she saw his head rear back in shock. She put her hands on his restraining arms and felt the muscles bunch and tighten. ‘I thought—’

‘You
didn’t
think!’ He almost spat the words as he let her go and strode away across the room. ‘How could you even consider coming to my room like this?’ He braced himself against the far wall, his head hanging down between wide shoulders that rose and fell with each huge breath.

Despair welled. He was rejecting her.

Soraya knew this was her only chance. She had to make him understand.

A moment later she stood beside him, her hands busy with the tie of her robe.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice was hoarse.

‘Showing you I know exactly what I’m doing.’ She paused
and hefted in a shuddery breath. ‘It’s true, Zahir. I love you.’ The whispered words sounded loud in the stillness. ‘I didn’t want to. I didn’t plan it. But I …’ Welling emotion choked her. ‘I can’t pretend it hasn’t happened. I can’t face the future without knowing just once what it’s like to be yours.’

Finally her clumsy fingers managed to unknot the belt. She tore it open and shrugged the silk wrap off her shoulders. It slid down sensitised flesh that tingled as if from a lover’s caress.

She jutted her chin high; trying not to cower at the realisation she was naked before his gaze. She felt vulnerable and weak, yet at the same time strangely buoyed, freed for now of the oppressive weight of duty and fear of the future.

Zahir’s eyes turned hot and hungry and flames licked her deep inside.

‘Please.’ Her voice was thick. ‘I’m only asking for tonight. Just one night.’

He said nothing. Had she made a terrible mistake?

But Zahir’s expression told her she hadn’t been mistaken. He did care, did want, just as she did.

She lifted one trembling hand and placed it on his chest. Beneath her palm he felt strong and warm. His heart thudded as quickly as hers. They both felt this yearning. She dragged in a deep, relieved breath and with it Zahir’s intoxicating scent.

‘Don’t!’ In a blur of movement he grabbed her hand and threw it off.

Shocked, Soraya stared up at a face of fury. The glitter in his green eyes was lethal, the twist of his mouth scornful.

She backed away a pace.

He followed, his face a mask of contempt.

‘Don’t think you can come to my room like some … some
whore
and tempt me into betraying Hussein.’ His coruscating glare lashed her from top to toe and Soraya shrivelled as if under a whip.

‘I thought better of you, Soraya.’

Despite the roar of blood in her ears, she thought she heard anguish in his voice. She must have imagined it.

‘You go to your husband tomorrow and it won’t be with my touch still warm on your body.’ He looked away as if the sight of her sickened him. ‘Get dressed and go to your room.’ He was still speaking as he strode away and yanked the door open.

A moment later the door of the suite slammed behind him.

Blessed silence descended but in Soraya’s head his words ran over and over.

A whore. He’d called her a whore!

With a muffled cry of pain Soraya lifted a shaky hand to her mouth, trying to keep back the bile that surged in her throat. Her legs gave way and she found herself huddled on the carpet.

Hours later Zahir stalked across the square towards their hotel. Even the Italians, who seemed to come alive in the evening, had vanished from the streets.

He was alone. Except he bore in his heart the image of Soraya, naked and impossibly tempting, offering herself to him as if he deserved such bounty.

Soraya, flinching under the despicable words he’d thrown at her in a last-ditch effort to shore up his rapidly failing control, when all he’d wanted was to gather her to him and learn the secrets of her beautiful body.

He felt sick with a pain no distance or mindless exercise could numb. How could he have treated her so? In his heart he’d recognised her desperation and need, for didn’t he feel them too? To lash out at her had been more than cruel—it had been unforgivable.

Nevertheless, he’d apologise as soon as she woke in the morning. Before they boarded the plane for Bakhara and her bridegroom.

In the hotel doorway he faltered, his hand going out to steady himself as turbulent emotions threatened to unman him. Grief, loss, shame and unrepentant longing.

‘Signor?’
The concierge moved forward but Zahir waved him away and made for the lifts.

He’d walked the streets for hours and was no nearer finding peace.

It was past time he returned, even if guarding Soraya from harm on this last night seemed like a contradiction in terms. With her pleading eyes, sweetly feminine body and throaty voice telling him she loved him, she was the most dangerous being on the planet.

She made him believe what he felt was meant to be.

Instead his logical brain reminded himself that he’d eschewed love since he was nineteen, preferring to deal with lust. That she was promised to Hussein. That he owed Hussein everything and couldn’t betray him.

His heart was heavy as he opened the door of the suite. The lights were on. Hadn’t she gone to bed yet?

He’d assumed she’d be locked in her room. Adrenalin surged at the prospect of seeing her again.

For he wanted—more than wanted. He needed her with every breath of his being. How he’d cope after he delivered her to Hussein, he had no idea.

The door to his room was open, the lights on. Surely she wasn’t …? No. It was empty. A shuddering breath escaped. Was it relief or regret that made his heart pump faster?

He turned back into the foyer, intending to turn off the lights in the rest of the suite, when he noticed Soraya’s door wide-open.

Frowning, he paced closer. The overhead light blazed on an empty room. A familiar splash of champagne silk sprawled across the corner of the bed, trailing onto the floor. He picked it up, inhaling the scent of wildflowers. The fabric was cold to the touch.

The hair on Zahir’s nape rose as he knocked on her bathroom door. When there was no response he jerked it open, only to find it empty.

Apprehension skittered down his spine as his senses went on alert. There was no sound in the suite as he strode from room
to room, flinging open doors, hauling curtains back from the wall, even checking cupboards.