Defying her Desert Duty (4 page)

Soraya didn’t know what finally tugged her attention from the latest projections, but something made her look up, a sixth sense that sliced through her absorption.

A cluster of men in dark suits stood on the far side of the lobby. She recognised one as a senior French politician, his face
familiar from news reports. But it was the tallest of the group who drew her frowning attention. His skin was burnished a dark honey gold, his features arresting.

Abruptly he looked up, his eyes locking instantly with hers. Shock danced down her spine at the impact.

Just like before.

The world had fallen away when he’d looked at her last night too.

Her hands jerked on the laptop keys. From the corner of her vision she saw a stream of extra rows appear in the carefully constructed table of technical analysis. Yet she couldn’t drag her eyes from his.

In leather and denim he’d been a virile bad boy with an undeniable aura of danger.

Today, in exquisite tailoring and with an air of urbane assurance, he looked like he’d stepped from the ranks of the world’s power brokers.

Who
was
Zahir El Hashem? Politician or heavy? Sophisticate or rogue?

Why did locking eyes with him make Soraya’s heart thud to a discordant beat that stirred unfamiliar sensations?

She jerked her gaze away, blindly hit ‘save’ on her document and fumbled to shut down the laptop.

She’d had no sleep and she was stressed; no wonder she imagined things. There’d been no instantaneous pulse of connection between them. She’d simply imagined its heavy weight constricting her lungs and drawing her belly tight.

Shoving her laptop into its case she looked up to see him striding towards her.

Trepidation struck her. An awareness that, despite his elegant apparel and their rarefied surroundings, there was an elemental toughness about him she’d do well to remember. Only last night she’d recognised the desert warrior in him. Now as he approached Soraya knew she hadn’t imagined the subtle scent of danger clinging to him.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you here?’ His low voice drew the
fine hairs on her nape to prickling attention even as dark heat pooled low inside. It only fuelled her anger.

She refused to feel fear … or anything else for him.

‘To see you, of course,’ she hissed, jerking to her feet and wishing she was taller so he couldn’t loom quite so effectively over her.

His narrowed eyes surveyed the room quickly and comprehensively. It was the sort of look she’d seen bodyguards use, searching for threat.

She’d give him threat!

‘We had an agreement.’ This time she kept her voice low and even. ‘You broke it.’

His dark eyebrows climbed high but he gave no other reaction. ‘Come.’ He gestured for her to precede him.

Instantly Soraya shifted her weight, widening her stance a fraction as if to plant herself more firmly. She had no intention of meekly following him anywhere.

‘I think not. We can talk here.’

Something flickered in those deeply hooded eyes. Something that might have been surprise or annoyance. Frankly, she didn’t care. Instinct told her not to be alone with him. She knew next to nothing about him and looking at that granite-carved jaw, she wouldn’t put it past him to try coercion.

‘This is not the place for our conversation. This is a delicate matter and the person I represent—’

‘Would perfectly understand my preference for meeting you here, rather than in a private room.’

He said nothing, just surveyed her with a look that was impossible to interpret. A look that seemed to take in everything from her too-fast breathing to the laptop she clutched like a shield to her chest.

Finally he nodded. ‘Of course. If that is what you wish.’ He turned and indicated a couple of chairs grouped at the rear of the room. ‘Though perhaps we could go some place where we’re less likely to be overheard.’

He had a point. Soraya nodded stiffly and let him usher her across the room.

Zahir frowned as he followed her. That instant surge of adrenalin in his blood, the momentary fear that something was wrong, had undermined his calm. All because she’d come looking for him when it was the last thing he’d expected.

It was absurd. Clearly she was in no danger. Panic was a weakness he didn’t indulge in. Yet his pulse thundered in his ears as he watched her thread her way across the room.

He didn’t like her, didn’t approve of her, so why the instant, gut-deep need to protect that had made him hurry to her? He wanted to put it down to duty honed by years of training, but it wasn’t that. From the first she’d stirred instincts and feelings that discomfited him. However much he fought it he felt … connected to her. Ever since that first, blinding moment of recognition.

She settled on a gilded sofa and made a production of crossing those long legs. As he seated himself opposite her, Zahir forced his gaze from the way the soft denim clung to each dip and curve.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Not really, but I had little choice.’ Her neat white teeth snapped off each word. ‘You weren’t answering your phone.’

Ah. That was why she was in a temper. When she’d wrecked his plans to return to Bakhara today he’d used the extra time to fit in some meetings. Clearly she expected him to be at her beck and call like some underling.

‘As you saw, I had business to conduct.’ He refused to apologise for not being available at her whim. ‘How can I assist you?’

Her eyes flashed ebony fire. ‘By keeping your word.’

Zahir stiffened. ‘That is not in question.’ Did she have any concept of the insult she offered him?

‘Isn’t it?’ She leaned forward and her scent insinuated itself into his nostrils. Light and delicate, like a field of mountain flowers awakening to the day’s first sun. It had haunted him all day, a sense memory he’d tried to forget. ‘We agreed
you’d give me today to get organised yet my flatmate rang me at five this afternoon because a team of removalists had turned up wanting to pack my belongings.’

Zahir settled back in his seat and inclined his head. ‘We agreed that you’d have today. We also agreed that I’d take care of the arrangements. I’ve done so. You’ve had your day to organise yourself.’

Colour mounted her cheeks and her eyes glittered with temper. Women could be so predictable when they didn’t get what they wanted. He waited for a blast of ungoverned rage.

It didn’t come.

Instead she sat back against the silk brocade of her seat.

‘You don’t approve of me, do you?’ Her voice was coolly measured. ‘Is that what this is about? Is that why you’re being so high-handed?’

Momentarily he was thrown by her directness. He encountered it so rarely since he’d moved into the diplomatic sphere. It was the sort of tactic he used himself to great effect when others preferred to circle the truth. Cutting through the niceties to the heart of the matter was sometimes the most effective way forward.

He hadn’t expected it from her.

Unwilling admiration stirred.

‘My opinion of you is not in question, Ms Karim. My role is simply to facilitate your safe arrival to Bakhara.’

‘Don’t give me that! You’re more than a courier.’ She nodded to where he’d stood saying farewell to his guests. ‘That’s clear from the leaders who came here to meet you. You’re trying to railroad me for your own reasons.’

She was clever too. Obviously she’d recognised the man tipped to become the next French foreign minister.

But what disturbed him was her accusation he was pushing her to hurry because it suited him.

He should have contacted Hussein this morning and voiced his concerns about Soraya Karim. But he’d baulked at the notion. That sort of conversation had to take place man-to-man,
not long distance. It had the added advantage that Zahir could then walk away from her and concentrate on the work he’d been preparing for all his life.

‘What is it about Paris that keeps you delaying? What’s more important than your promise to marry?’

The colour faded from her cheeks and for a second he saw something flicker in the rich depths of her pansy-dark eyes. Something that looked like genuine pain. It surprised him for it seemed at odds with his image of a selfish pleasure-seeking woman.

‘I have things to wrap up before I go.’

Things or relationships? His jaw tightened.

‘Surely it won’t take more than a day to say goodbye to your special
friends
.’ He nodded curtly to her laptop. ‘And no doubt you’ll stay in contact.’ Was she the sort who suffered withdrawal if disconnected from social media?

Her smooth forehead puckered then she shrugged. ‘I have some work to finish too.’

Soraya almost laughed aloud as a flash of disbelief widened his eyes. Clearly he thought her some dilettante who used university as an excuse for a holiday in Paris.

He recovered quickly. ‘It’s summer. University break.’

‘Have you heard of summer school? Between semesters?’

‘I applaud your diligence.’ But his tone belied his words. ‘Are you saying you have to be here to complete your work? Surely alternative arrangements can be made?’

Circumstances being the fact that she was expected to return home meekly and marry a man, a virtual stranger, more than thirty years her senior.

Cold wrapped itself around Soraya’s chest and seeped into bones that seemed suddenly brittle and aged. She drew a deep breath, willing away the panic that threatened whenever she thought too far ahead.

That was the problem; she’d forgotten to think ahead. For too long she’d assumed the future was nebulous and unreal. From the moment at fourteen, when her father had explained
the honour bestowed on their family by the Emir’s interest in her, through every year when Emir Hussein had remained a distant yet benign figure.

At fourteen the betrothal had been exciting, like something from an age-old tale. Later it had grown less and less real, especially when her fiancé had shown little interest beyond polite responses to her father’s updates on her wellbeing and educational progress.

Now it was suddenly all too real.

‘It’s not just the work,’ she blurted out. ‘I’d planned to be here longer and I want to make the most of my time in France.’

‘I’m sure you’re doing just that.’ His lips twisted.

She ignored his disapproval. ‘I can finish up some of my work elsewhere, but not all of it.’ She gestured to the laptop. ‘Besides, I don’t want a direct flight to Bakhara.’

His only response was to lift his eyebrows, stoking her impatience.

‘I intend to travel overland. In all these months I haven’t been out of Paris and I want to see more of the country before I return.’

And store up some precious memories—of her last days of freedom. It wasn’t too much to ask. Once she returned she’d be the woman the Emir and his people expected. She’d marry a man renowned for his devotion to duty and her life would be circumscribed by that.

She needed this time, just a little time, to adjust to the fact that her life as an individual was ending. The alternative, to return immediately, stifled the breath in her lungs and sent panic shuddering through her.

‘That’s not possible. The Emir is expecting you.’

She nodded, glad now that she’d found the courage to do what she’d never done before and call the Bakhari Palace, giving her name and asking for the Emir. It had been surprisingly easy.

‘Yes, he is.’ For the first time she smiled. ‘I spoke to him today. He thinks it’s a wonderful idea that I take my time and
soak up some of the sights along the way. He agrees it will be educational for me to get a better understanding of other places and people, not just Paris.’

It had felt odd talking to the man who for so long had been a distant figure and who soon would be her husband.

Zahir’s stunned expression would have pleased her if she’d wanted to score points off this man who always seemed so sure of himself. But she had more important concerns.

‘I’ve got till the end of the month.’ That would give her the breathing space she so desperately needed. There was only one problem, but right now it should be the least of her worries. She squared her shoulders and met his eyes. ‘The Emir’s only stipulation was that you accompany me.’

‘I
KNOW
it’s not what you planned, Zahir, but I see huge benefits in this trip. Soraya was very convincing.’

Zahir gritted his teeth. He just bet she had been. He heard the smile in Hussein’s tone even over the phone. No doubt she’d employed her soft, sultry voice to best advantage in her long-distance call to Bakhara.

‘But a week is more than enough, isn’t it? The sooner she returns the better, surely?’

‘It will be a big change for her,’ Hussein answered slowly. ‘Living as my wife in the palace. Meeting VIPs, playing a role in diplomatic functions. Plus there’s the work that will be expected of her with our own people. She’ll be an advocate for many who, for whatever reason, are daunted by approaching their ruler directly. Giving her a chance to mix with as wide a range of people as possible can only be an advantage.’

He paused. ‘That’s one of the reasons I supported her studying in Paris. She needs to broaden her horizons, ready for her future role.’

Zahir stared unseeingly at the lights of Paris. His heart sank. Not just because Hussein supported Soraya’s plan to delay her return. Far worse was the burden of suspicion she wasn’t fit to be his mentor’s bride.

He thrust a hand through his hair. How could he disabuse Hussein?

How could he not?

He’d do anything to save Hussein pain. The older man was more than a father to him. Friend, mentor, hero, he’d shown Zahir care, regard and even love when no one else had. He’d brought him up more like a son than a charity case. A not-quite-orphan shouldn’t have warranted the Emir’s personal attention.

Zahir owed him everything: his place in the world, his education, his self-respect, even his life.

He was caught between shattering Hussein’s illusions about his bride and letting her dupe him.

His belly churned. ‘Hussein, I—’

‘I know you’re disappointed, Zahir. You’re eager to take up the post of provincial governor.’

A sliver of guilt carved its way through Zahir’s gut. ‘You know me too well.’

Hussein’s chuckle was like the man himself, warm and compelling. ‘How could I not? You’re the son I never had.’

Something rose in Zahir’s chest, a welling sensation that tightened his lungs and choked his vocal chords. Despite their closeness, the regard between him and Hussein was rarely spoken. Bakhari males left emotion to their womenfolk, focusing instead on masculine concerns such as pride, duty and honour.

‘You make it sound like your time has past. You’re in your late fifties, not your dotage. You’ve got plenty of time to father a son. A whole family.’

And, with a young, sexy bride, nothing was more likely.

Out of nowhere Zahir glimpsed an image of Hussein holding Soraya close, pulling her to him and letting his hands slip over the curve of her hip, the soft fabric of her dress enhancing the femininity of her shapely figure.

He swallowed hard as a jagged spike of pain skewered him. His breath shallowed and he turned to stride down the length of the suite, fighting sudden nausea.

He was tired of being cooped up. He longed for the clean air of the desert, the wide sky studded with diamond-bright stars.
The total absence of Soraya Karim.

‘Well, time will tell,’ was all Hussein said. ‘But as for the governorship …’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Zahir splayed a hand against one wall and stared out at the glittering spectacle of the Eiffel Tower sparkling with a million electric lights. He’d trade it in a second for the light of the moon over the desert, highlighting dunes and silhouetting proud, ancient citadels.

‘Of course it matters. You’ll be the best governor the place has had.’

Silence engulfed them. No doubt Hussein, like himself, was remembering the long period when Bakhara’s largest province had been ruled by a ruthless, decadent and utterly unscrupulous tribal leader. A man who’d tried many years before to increase his prestige by backing a coup to unseat Hussein.

Zahir’s father.

His biological father, never his
real
father.

It sickened Zahir that he shared the blood of a traitor, a man who’d clung to his position only because of Hussein’s forgiveness and the fact that removing him would have caused more unrest at a dangerous, volatile time.

‘Your faith in me means everything.’ Zahir bowed his head. It was the closest he’d ever come to expressing aloud his devotion to the man who’d rescued him, ragged, neglected and virtually feral at the age of four from his father’s palace.

Rather than speak it, Zahir had spent a lifetime demonstrating his loyalty, his regard, his love.

‘As does yours, Zahir.’ Hussein’s tone held a husky warmth that spoke far more than words. ‘As for the governorship—it will be there waiting for you. I think my bride isn’t the only one who’ll benefit from a break. You’ve pushed yourself hard lately. Take your time and relax. Who knows?’ He chortled. ‘You might even enjoy the novelty of a vacation.’

Zahir opened his mouth to say he didn’t need a vacation. He thrived on responsibility, challenge, pressure. The prospect of managing the vast province held an allure he couldn’t put in words. To have total responsibility, rather than be another’s
aide: it had captured his interest from the moment Hussein had broached it.

‘It’s not simply the time away.’ Zahir paused, wondering how to continue. He wasn’t used to being at a loss for words.

‘Go on.’

He drew a difficult breath and wished his concerns were about something as simple as the next bilateral trade agreement or progress on a major public-works programme.

‘Your fiancée. She’s not what I expected.’

Silence. Zahir knew Hussein valued his opinion on so many difficult issues. He’d even trusted him with his life. But this was different.

‘I see.’

Zahir shook his head. Hussein
didn’t
see. That was the problem. He’d left Soraya to her own devices in Paris, believing she was worthy of his trust.

‘I’m not sure she’s … quite the woman you expect.’

‘Taken you by surprise, has she?’ Hussein’s chuckle was rich.

Zahir’s hand clenched in a taut fist. ‘You could say that.’ No, he mustn’t hide the truth any longer. ‘I’m afraid she may not be the right woman for you.’

Hell! He’d give anything not to have to break this news. Hussein deserved better, so much better than a party girl who shared her sexual favours freely.

‘Your concern does you credit, Zahir. But I know more of Soraya than you think. I know she’s exactly the woman I need.’ When he spoke again his words silenced Zahir’s protests. ‘We will talk on your return. In the meantime, know that I believe in her as I believe in you, Zahir. I trust you both.’

‘What are you doing here?’ The words shot out of Soraya’s mouth before she could stop them. She wasn’t used to opening her door to find six-foot-something of male leaning indolently against the doorjamb.

Her heart leapt up against her throat and she felt light-headed at the impact of him.

He was so close she recognised the clean, spicy scent of his skin. It reminded her of the strange sensations she’d experienced when he’d held her in his arms and she’d felt …

‘Good morning, Soraya. It’s good to see you looking well.’ He straightened but only so he could loom imposingly.

‘How did you get into the building?’ She sounded absurdly breathless given the fact she’d expected to meet him downstairs in ten minutes. But, she was learning that meeting this man head-on was marginally easier if one was prepared.

His gaze raked her face. Heat combusted and spread under her skin.

Who was she kidding? There was nothing easy about this. She only wished she understood what it was about him that screwed her tension up to such dangerous levels.

He shrugged and she couldn’t help but follow the movement of his broad shoulders beneath the pale, exquisitely laundered shirt. Casual, expensive elegance; that was the theme of the day. Scrupulously shaved jaw and a heavy yet discreet watch she was sure she recognised from one of Lisle’s fashion magazines.

‘One of the tenants let me in when she saw me waiting outside.’ His glimmer of a smile drew the tightness in her belly even harder.

Soraya breathed deep. Of course it had been a woman. Had she taken one look at Zahir’s compelling face and melted deep inside the way Soraya had in the nightclub?

She stiffened her spine.

‘I’d expected to meet you at the car.’

‘And I thought you might appreciate help with your luggage.’ The hint of a smile had vanished and his eyes held that hard glitter she knew masked disapproval.

She forced down the churlish impulse to refuse. The way he took control so smoothly exacerbated her deepest fears about giving up her independence, reminding her that, once married,
she would be bound to honour and, above all, obey. She repressed a quiver of apprehension and looked away.

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ She stepped aside and invited him in.

‘No farewell party?’ He looked past her to the neat sitting room and the small, empty corridor.

‘No.’ She’d said her goodbyes earlier. Parting with Lisle in particular had been difficult. She’d had no intention of doing that under Zahir’s assessing gaze.

Despite their different backgrounds, Soraya and Lisle had forged far more than a casual friendship. For the first time Soraya had glimpsed what it might be like to have a sister. Outgoing where Soraya was reserved, flamboyant rather than contained, funny, warm and impulsive—Lisle had been a revelation to a woman who’d spent her life in cloistered, sedate, correct social circles. Lisle was a whirlwind, ripping into Soraya’s quiet life and setting it on a new path. One that had opened her eyes to all the world could offer a woman with her life ahead of her.

Except that now those possibilities crumbled to nothing. Soraya’s future was set, had been since she was fourteen. It was too late to change it now.

‘Soraya?’

She blinked and looked up to find him closer. For a split second she’d have said she read concern in his hooded eyes. She blinked again and the mirage was gone.

‘Here.’ She gestured to the case behind her in the hallway.

‘That’s all?’ He looked past her as if to locate a secret stash of luggage.

‘That’s all. Your removalists were very efficient. My books and other bits and pieces are already on their way to Bakhara.’ Her voice dropped to a husky note. She really had to pull herself together.

Despite the claustrophobic sense of the future smothering her, she knew the man she’d agreed to marry had reputedly
been a devoted husband to his now-dead first wife. He was decent, generous and honourable.

That was more than many women could say.

It would have to be enough. It wasn’t as if she was eager to seek out love. She knew what a devastating emotion that was.

As for her tentative dreams—instead she’d have to put her energies into the goals that had enticed her when she had been a starry-eyed teen: being a queen who made a real difference to her people. Being a good wife. At least with her qualifications she could be the former.

‘I’ll just get my shoulder bag.’

Thirty seconds later she was in her room, hugging close the oversized bag she’d haggled for in the markets two weeks ago. Only it wasn’t her room any more. Stripped of her possessions, it was an empty shell. Not the place she’d been so happy.

Stupid to be sentimental about it.

There was no point dwelling on what was past. She’d learned that as a child, bereft and confused.

She turned and found Zahir in the doorway, his gaze, as ever, fixed on her. A subterranean tremor quaked through her, threatening to destabilise the control she fought so valiantly to maintain.

Turning quickly, she scooped up her laptop.

‘I’m ready.’

The Loire River snaked below them like a bright pewter ribbon. Studded along its banks and beyond were neat towns, a patchwork of farms and a scattering of chateaux.

But Zahir’s attention wasn’t on the view, even when the chopper swooped low over quaint towns or stately homes.

It was the woman next to him who riveted Zahir’s thoughts and his gaze. Uptight from the moment he turned up at her door, she’d grown coolly distant when he’d informed her they wouldn’t travel by car as she’d planned.

She seemed to think he’d countermanded the idea out of a need to take control!

He huffed silently to himself. He had no need to prove his authority.

What he had was a burning need
not
to be cooped up alone with Soraya for the time it would take to drive to their destination.

Zahir couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her that made him edgy—it was more than his qualms about her unsuitability as Hussein’s bride.

Yet as they headed south-west from Paris he hadn’t been able to drag his attention from her. He’d read her initial nerves, watched as she gradually relaxed and began to talk with the pilot. Initially dour, the pilot now chatted easily, flattered no doubt by her questions on everything from pilot training to wind speed and the local topography.

She was a woman who could charm a man with ease.

‘You’re enjoying the trip?’ Zahir found himself asking. He suppressed the suspicion that he’d spoken only to break the camaraderie building between the other two.

‘Absolutely.’ There was a breathy quality to her voice that told him she was smiling even though she faced away, peering at the view. ‘I love seeing everything laid out like this. It’s fantastic.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘Thank you for organising it.’ She swung round and the pleasure on her face arrested him. It lit her from within, making her eyes glow and her face come alive.

Something inside Zahir shuddered into being: a recognition, a sense almost of rightness, he couldn’t explain.

He’d seen her angry, defiant, exhausted. He’d seen her furious and frigidly cool but, he realised, he’d never seen her happy.

Maybe it would have been better to travel by car after all.
Safer.

‘You’ve never been in a helicopter before?’ It was easier to talk than dwell on the impact of that knockout grin.

She shook her head and a tendril of dark hair slipped free of the knot at the back of her head and coiled down past her breast.