Defying her Desert Duty (3 page)

Soraya’s heart pulsed quicker as she recalled those overpowering emotions—the fury and indignation, the compulsion to know more, the feel of his gaze on her. The blast of untrammelled awareness when he’d held her.

She blinked and looked away.

Silence thickened, broken only by the eager waitress returning with their coffees: espresso for him,
café crème
for her. Automatically her hands wrapped round the oversized cup and she tilted her head, inhaling the steamy scent of hot cream and fragrant coffee.

‘The Emir also sent me with news.’

Soraya nodded and lifted the cup to her lips, needing its heat. Even draped in his jacket she was cold. Cold with a chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the creeping frost that crackled through her senses. The chill of foreboding.

‘He asks that you accompany me to Bakhara. It’s time for your wedding.’

Her slim fingers cupped the bowl of milky coffee so tightly Zahir saw them whiten. She didn’t look up, but kept her eyes fixed on her drink. Following her gaze, he saw the creamy liquid ripple dangerously as her hands shook.

Instinct bade him reach out before she spilled the hot coffee and burned her hands.

Sense made him keep his hands to himself.

Bad enough that he knew the feel of her in his arms. Worse that he’d wanted …

No! He thrust the insidious thought aside.

Tiredness was to blame. The freedom of travelling the open road on his bike was what he’d needed after weeks locked in diplomatic negotiation on Hussein’s behalf. But it had been a long journey.

As for the hum of awareness deep in his belly—it was a while since he’d shared his bed. That was all.

‘I see.’ Still she didn’t look up. Nor did she drink. Instead she slowly lowered the coffee to the table, her hands still clamped round it as if for warmth.

Zahir frowned.

‘Are you all right?’ The words were tugged from his lips before he realised it.

Her mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile that somehow lacked humour. ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

She lifted her head slowly, as if it was an effort.

Yet when her eyes met his he read nothing in them but a slight shimmer, as if the coffee’s steam had made her eyes water. They were remarkable eyes. In the gloom of the club he’d thought them ebony. Here in the light he realised they were a dark, velvety brown, rich with a smattering of lighter specks, like gold dust.

Zahir sat back abruptly and lifted his espresso. Pungent and rich, the liquid seared his mouth and cleared his head.

‘The Emir has set a date for the wedding?’ Her voice was cool and crisp, yet he sensed strain there. Just as he saw strain in the rigid set of her neck and shoulders.

He shrugged. ‘No date was mentioned to me.’ As if Hussein would consult him on the minor details of his nuptials! That was what wedding planners were for. No doubt there were hordes of them, eager to have a hand in what would be the wedding of the decade.

‘But …’ She frowned and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Resolutely he shifted his gaze from her lush mouth
and turned to survey the café. It was doing a roaring trade in early-morning coffees for the market workers eager for a takeaway caffeine fix. Yet here at the rear Zahir and his companion were totally alone.

‘The Emir wants me to return?’

Hadn’t he just said so? Zahir turned and found himself drowning in dark eyes that, if he didn’t know better, he’d say held fear.

Nonsense. What was there to fear? Any woman would be ecstatic with the news he’d come to take her back to marry the Emir of Bakhara. If Hussein’s character weren’t enough to attract any woman, his personal wealth, not to mention his position of supreme authority, were bonuses few women could resist.

Soraya Karim had nothing to fear and everything to gain.

‘He does.’

Zahir watched her shift in her seat. Her shoulders straightened, banishing the hint of a slump. Her chin lifted and her posture morphed into one of cool composure. Like the woman who’d stalked away from him in the club.

His heart gave a kick of appreciation and the dormant fire in his veins smouldered anew.

Hell! Since when had any woman had such an effect on him? Not even his last lover, naked and eager in his bed, would have garnered such an instantaneous response.

He rubbed his hand across his jaw, noting the stubble he hadn’t bothered to remove. Lack of sleep was the problem. He’d been awake for thirty-six hours—eager to get here and get this over quickly so he could return to the new challenge that awaited him.

His reactions were haywire.

‘The Emir has asked me to escort you home.’ He curved his mouth in a reassuring smile and reined in his impatience—as if he had nothing better to do with his time than act as her minder on the trip from Paris to Bakhara.

Yet he couldn’t begrudge Hussein this favour. Soraya Karim
would soon be his bride—of course he wanted her kept safe on the journey.

A pity no-one had thought to keep an eye on her while she partied in Paris!

‘I thank the Emir for his kindness in providing an escort.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘However, it would have been helpful if you’d contacted me before you arrived. That would have given me time to prepare.’

Zahir frowned at the hint of disapproval in her carefully polite tone.

What was there to prepare? Surely, as an eager bride, she’d jump at the chance to return to Bakhara and the opulent bridal gifts Hussein would shower upon her.

After years of delay Hussein was finally ready to proceed with the wedding. His chosen bride should be grinning with delight.

Instead she surveyed Zahir coolly.

‘I’m here to assist. You can leave the details to me.’ Winding up the lease on her apartment and organising a team of removalists would be the work of a few phone calls.

She nodded. ‘I’m obliged to you. However, I prefer to make my own arrangements.’ She paused. ‘When is the Emir expecting me?’

‘I’ve organised a flight tomorrow night. The royal jet will fly us back.’ A day to complete his nursemaid duties and deliver her safely to Hussein. Then Zahir could make his way to his new post. He’d been itching to get to it for weeks.

‘The Emir expects me
tomorrow
?’ Her face leached of colour, leaving her looking unexpectedly fragile.

Zahir opened his mouth then shut it again.

This wasn’t going to plan. He’d envisaged her eager to return to Bakhara and embrace her new life as wife of the country’s ruler. He’d expected excitement, gratitude, even.

Instead she looked horrified.

A thread of curiosity curled within him till he blanked it out. He wasn’t interested in understanding Soraya Karim, especially
as he had a fair idea he wouldn’t like what he found on closer inspection. He prized loyalty above all things and Hussein deserved better than a fiancée who couldn’t be trusted to keep away from other men.

‘There’s a problem with tomorrow?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disapproval.

His nostrils flared with distaste as he wondered if she needed extra time to say goodbye to that lanky fool from the nightclub. Surely she wouldn’t delay her departure for
him
? Or had he been a ploy? Perhaps she’d been trying to make the handsome blond guy at their table jealous.

He’d observed the covetous glances she’d attracted in that bar. Anger stirred at the notion she’d played fast and loose with Hussein’s trust.

‘No, tomorrow’s not convenient.’ Just that. No explanations, no apologies, just a shimmer of defiance in those fine eyes and a hint of mulish wilfulness in her down-turned mouth.

Despite himself, Zahir felt a spark of appreciation for the way she stonewalled him. The negotiators this last week could have done with some of her spunk. They might have come out of the joint-venture deal with a better share of the profits.

But that didn’t negate the fact that she disrupted his plans. True, Hussein hadn’t specified a date for his bride’s return, but Zahir wanted to conclude this task and move on to his new role. He hadn’t been so eager for anything in years.

‘And when will it be
convenient
?’

Colour rose in her cheeks and her lips parted as if to protest his curt tone. Zahir’s pulse missed a beat and heat combusted deep in his belly as he watched her mouth turn from sulky to an enticing O. With his jacket pulled around her shoulders and her hair coming down in soft curling tresses, she looked inviting, available,
tempting
.

Not like the fiancée of his mentor and best friend.

Her eyes widened as if she read his response despite the savage control he exerted to keep it hidden.

The tension between them notched higher. It trembled in the
air, a pressure that had more do with his reaction to her than with the subject under discussion.

This couldn’t be!

It
wouldn’t
be.

By hook or by crook he’d have her back in Bakhara, safe with her fiancé and out of his life, before her feet could touch the ground.

S
ORAYA
knew disapproval when she saw it.

Despite his almost expressionless face, that flat, accusing stare said everything his words didn’t.

If it hadn’t been imprinted on her so early perhaps she’d never have recognised it. But nothing, not time or distance, could erase the memory of her father’s relatives whispering and tutting over the sordid details of her mother’s misdemeanours—or their certainty that, if unchecked, Soraya would go the same way to ruin. Even the servants gossiped in delighted condemnation.

Stifling the urge to lash out, Soraya withdrew into herself. What did she care if the Emir’s lackey didn’t approve of her? Even if, far from being a lackey he was one of the most powerful men in the country?

She had more on her mind than winning his approval. His news changed her life.

‘Give me tomorrow,’ she said, her voice husky with tension that threatened to choke her. ‘Then I’ll have a better idea.’

How long to pack her gear, say her goodbyes and, above all, get her research in some sort of order? She feared however long it took wouldn’t be enough.

Anxiety welled and she beat it back. Time enough to give in to fear when she was alone. She refused to let this man see her weak.

Abruptly she stood. He rose too, dwarfing the booth and
crowding her space. Instantly she was transported to the club where his touch had sapped common sense. Where just for a moment she’d wanted to lean close to his powerful frame rather than escape his hold. Fear closed around her.

‘I want to go home.’ Even to her own ears her voice held a betraying wobble. Paris had become her home, a haven where she’d been able to spread her wings and enjoy a measure of freedom for the first time. The idea of returning to Bakhara, to marriage …

‘I’ll see you back.’ Already he was ushering her through the café, one hand hovering near her elbow as if to ensure she didn’t do a runner. He dropped payment on the counter where the waitress beamed her approval.

What was wrong with the girl? Couldn’t she see he was the sort of bad-tempered, take-charge brute who’d make any woman’s life a misery?

Clearly not. The waitress’s gaze followed him longingly, needling Soraya’s temper.

‘Thank you but I can make my own way.’

To her chagrin he was already hailing a taxi—a miracle at this time of the morning. It was daylight but the city was just stirring. Before she could reiterate her point he was opening the door for her then climbing in the other side.

‘I said—’

Her words disintegrated as he gave her address to the driver. Her heart thudded and she sank back in her corner.

Of course he knew her address. How else would he have located her? But the thought of Zahir El Hashem shouldering his way into her cosy flat sent disquiet scudding through her. Instinct warned her to keep her distance.

She didn’t want him near her.

The fact that he sat as far from her as the wide back seat allowed should have pleased her. Instead it struck her as insulting. He didn’t have to make such a conspicuous issue of keeping his distance, so grimly silent.

What she’d done to annoy him, she had no idea.
He
was the
one whose behaviour was questionable, following her every move in the nightclub. What was that about?

Fifteen minutes later they stood on the pavement before her building. He’d overridden her assurance that he needn’t see her to the entrance, just as he’d paid the taxi fare as she fumbled for cash. Polite gestures no doubt but he insidiously invaded her space, encroaching on her claim to be an independent woman.

Never before had that claim seemed so precious.

Her heart plunged as she thought of what lay ahead.

A promise to keep.

A duty to perform.

A
lifetime
of it.

So much for the tantalising sense of freedom she’d only just found. The dreams she’d dared to harbour. She’d been mad to let herself imagine a future of her own making.

‘Here. Thank you.’ She tugged his jacket off her shoulders. Instantly she missed its heavy, comforting warmth and, she realised with horror, its subtle spicy scent. The scent of
him
.

She looked into his shadowed face, unable to read his expression. But there was no mistaking the care he took not to touch her as he took the jacket from her hands. As if she might contaminate him!

Why had she, even for a moment, worried what he thought of her? She’d long ago learned to rise above what others thought, what they expected. Only by being true to herself and those she cared for had she found strength.

‘Goodbye. Thank you for seeing me home.’ What did it matter if her voice was stilted with indignation? She inclined her head stiffly and turned, unlocking the door.

‘It’s no trouble.’ His deep voice rumbled, low and soft as a zephyr of hot desert wind, across her nape. Too late she realised she
felt
his warm breath, a caress on her bare skin as she stepped into the foyer and he followed.

Soraya slammed to a halt and felt the heat of his big frame behind her. Static electricity sparked and rippled across her flesh. It dismayed her. She’d never known anything like it.

But, she rationalised, till tonight she’d never been so close to a man other than her father.

Would she feel this strange surge of power in the air and across her skin when she went to the Emir?

Despite the heat of Zahir’s body Soraya shivered.

‘I’ll see you to your apartment.’

Flattening her lips at his assumption she couldn’t look after herself in her own building, she strode across the foyer. No point arguing. She had as much chance of budging him as of moving the Eiffel Tower.

But she refused to share the miniscule lift. The thought of being cocooned with him in that cramped space sent a spasm of horror through her. She’d rather take the five flights of stairs, even if her new shoes
were
pinching.

Soraya was ridiculously breathless when she reached her floor. She shoved her key in the door and turned to face him.

He wasn’t even breathing quickly after their rapid ascent. Nor did he feel that strange under-the-skin restlessness that so unnerved her. That was clear from his impassive face. He looked solid and immoveable. Nothing pierced his control.

‘Here.’ He held out a thick cream card. On one side was a mobile-phone number. No name, nothing else. On the other he’d scrawled in bold, slashing strokes the name of a hotel she knew by reputation only. ‘Call me if you need anything. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.’

No point in assuring him again she’d do her own organizing; it would be a waste of breath. He had the look of a man who heard what he chose to hear. She’d sort out the details later when she wasn’t so weary.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, resolutely hauling her gaze from his clear-eyed stare. ‘Good night.’

Behind her she pushed open the door to the apartment.

‘Is that you, Soraya?’ From inside, Lisle’s husky voice shattered the stilted silence. ‘We’re in the bedroom. Come in and join us.’

A stifled noise made her look up. Zahir El Hashem looked
for once shaken out of his complacency. His eyes were wide and his mouth slack. He blinked and opened his mouth as if to speak but Soraya had had enough.

She stepped through the door and swung it closed. For the length of five heartbeats she stood, her back pressed against the door, waiting for his imperious summons, for there was no doubt he’d been about to speak.

Instead there was silence. Even through the door she sensed his presence, like a disapproving thundercloud. Her skin prickled as if she’d touched a live wire and her pulse pattered out of sync.

‘Soraya? Julie’s here too. Come on in.’

‘Coming,’ she croaked, knowing she had no hope of escaping Lisle or her sister. Julie must have stopped by to see how things were with her twin as soon as Lisle’s boyfriend had left.

Girly gossip wasn’t what Soraya needed but at least it would take her mind off the news she’d just received: that her wonderful adventure in Paris was over and she was returning home to fulfil the duty she’d been bound to from the age of fourteen. The duty she’d become accustomed to thinking was in some far-off future that became less real with every passing year.

Yet as she snicked the bolt shut and scooped up Lisle’s carelessly discarded camisole, Soraya was surprised to realise it was Zahir El Hashem’s strong features that filled her mind. Not those of her betrothed.

Zahir stared at the door, one hand still raised as if to stop it shutting. Or force it open.

Shock held him rigid. It wasn’t a familiar feeling. He was a man of some experience. Little surprised him. To be at a loss because she’d been invited to make up a threesome with the lovers he’d seen last night should be impossible.

Yet he rocked back on his feet, his gut clenching as if he’d caught a hammer blow to the belly. Searing bile snaked through his system.

Despite what he’d seen earlier, he’d almost convinced himself
he’d been mistaken about Soraya. That the woman who carried herself with such poise and grace, yet with that intriguing shadow of anxiety in her eyes, was special. When he’d relaxed his guard he’d liked her, despite his doubts.

Stupid wishful thinking!

Had she deliberately sidetracked him?

Valiantly he’d tried to keep his eyes off the syncopated sway of her pert backside as she climbed the stairs in precarious heels. Even when he’d managed not to look he’d imagined the slip of soft fabric across warm, rounded flesh. His palms had tingled with remembered heat.

Anger welled. His hands fisted and his jaw ached as he clenched his teeth against the need to bellow out her name.

She’d played him for a fool. Tried to con him.

He felt … gutted.

He slumped against the door, hand splayed against it for support, recalling that discarded scrap of lingerie casually discarded just inside the door.

He’d spoiled her fun at the club and, he realised now, with the news she had to return to Bakhara where her every move would be scrutinised. Was she even now hauling that slinky dress over her head to join her friends in a little early-morning debauchery?

Nausea writhed.

Breathing heavily, Zahir sought calm.

Could he have misread what he’d seen and heard? He had so little evidence. Was he wrong to assume the worst? It was tempting to hope so.

Till he realised how much he
wanted
to be wrong. Fear feathered his backbone as he registered the sense almost of longing within him.

From the first his instinct had screamed a warning about Soraya Karim: she was dangerous. She tested his control to the limit and messed with his judgement.

He couldn’t let her undermine his duty too.

Zahir sighed and scrubbed his hand over gritty eyes, suddenly
more tired than he could remember. How could he break it to Hussein that the woman he planned to marry might not be fit for the honour?

‘I’m sorry, madam. I’m afraid the guest you enquired about isn’t available.’

‘Not in or not available?’ Soraya tamped down the steaming anger that had been simmering for hours. ‘It’s important I see him as soon as possible.’

‘Excuse me a moment while I check.’ The receptionist turned to confer with a colleague, leaving Soraya free to focus on her surroundings.

The foyer was luxurious in the bred-in-the-bone way you’d expect of one of Paris’s grandest hotels. From the crimson carpet leading in from the cobblestoned pavement to the discreetly helpful staff, exquisite antiques and massive Venetian glass chandeliers, the placed screamed money, but in the most hushed and refined tones. The guests, whether wearing couture, business suits or staggeringly mismatched casuals, took the opulence in their stride, as only the super-wealthy could.

Soraya in her workaday jeans, T-shirt and loose jacket had never felt so out of place. Her family, one of the oldest in Bakhara, was comfortably off but had never aspired to this sort of rarefied luxury.

Even her shoes, her one pretension to elegance, had been snaffled in a miraculous end-of-sale bargain.

She stood taller. None of that mattered. All that mattered was seeing
him
. A tremor of repressed fury skated down her spine. Hadn’t he promised her a day to get her bearings and then contact him? He’d had no right …

‘I’m sorry for the delay, madam.’ The receptionist was back. ‘I’m able to tell you the guest you asked for has left strict instructions not to be disturbed.’

Soraya’s lips compressed. That was why he hadn’t answered his phone for the past two hours and she’d finally had to leave
her work and come here in person. As if she didn’t have more important things to concern her!

Why give her his phone number if he was going to be incommunicado for hours?

An image flashed into her brain of the waitress at the café melting at the sight of his blatant masculinity.

Was that why he couldn’t be disturbed? Some assignation with an adoring woman?

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘In that case I’ll wait till he
is
available.’

With a humph of disgust, Soraya stepped away from the desk.

Zahir El Hashem would soon discover she was no pushover.

In the early hours of this morning she’d been numb with the shock of his news, so dizzy with it she’d let him take charge. Now she’d had time to absorb the fact that she had no choice but to face her future head-on. That didn’t stop the regrets, the anxiety, the downright fear. But she had to be strong if she was to survive the ordeal ahead. At the moment that meant teaching Zahir she wasn’t some lackey to be ordered about at his convenience.

She was, like it or not, his Emir’s future queen and a woman in her own right.

Soraya stalked across the room, oblivious now to its refined opulence, and plonked herself down on a plump sofa. She unzipped her laptop case and switched on the computer.

She’d rather be angry than fearful. And better than either was to immerse herself in something she really cared about. Two minutes later she was focused on her report, seeking an elusive error in the heat-transfer calculations.