Defying her Desert Duty (5 page)

Involuntarily his fingers twitched, as if needing to feel its softness.

The preternatural feeling of recognition grew to something like déjà vu: as if Zahir had been with her before, had watched her joyous smile and felt that deep-down explosion of blistering heat. He could envisage her pulling her hair free of its pins so it swung in a seductive silk curtain, inviting his touch.

‘No, I’ve never flown in a helicopter before. Isn’t it terrific? I love the feeling when we swoop low then rise up high again.’

On cue the pilot angled the chopper down to circle a bluff crowned by a half-ruined tower then lifted them back up.

A throaty gurgle escaped her lips. ‘Like that. Thanks, Marc.’

The pilot nodded silently and Zahir knew a moment’s searing discomfort. As if the easy friendliness between the two had the power to annoy him.

The notion was absurd.

‘I can’t wait to try it again. I’ve decided I like air travel after all.’ She turned away to watch as they passed over a field of sunflowers, head bent as if utterly absorbed.

‘You didn’t enjoy it before?’

‘My only other flight was on the jet from Bakhara to Paris, so I couldn’t be sure.’

Zahir sat back in his seat, processing that. ‘You’d never been on a flight before then?’ He’d imagined her spending holidays at foreign resorts then shopping till she dropped in the expensive boutiques of various capital cities.

She shook her head and he watched, transfixed by the wistful smile that shaped her face as she half-turned. ‘I’d never been out of Bakhara before.’

No wonder Hussein had seen benefit in her studying abroad. No wonder he thought exposure to other places and people would do her good.

Bakhara was no longer the feudal state it had been till recently. The wife of the country’s ruler would need polish, poise and some exposure to the wider world.

A pity her exposure hadn’t been more carefully supervised.

Zahir frowned. Had she been wild for the hedonistic pleasures Paris offered or had she been seduced by them? He remembered the husky voice inviting her to bed the other morning, and the blatant lust in that pseudo-intellectual’s face at the club. There’d be no shortage of people eager to introduce Soraya to life’s seamier pleasures.

Heat trickled through his belly. What had Hussein been thinking, letting her loose in Paris without a chaperone? Without someone to guide and protect her, had she been easy prey?

Yet, even as he thought it, Zahir
knew
he was wrong. Soraya Karim was no easy victim. Beneath the feminine sway of hips and that delicious pout of a mouth was a will of iron. Look at how she’d managed to get her own way over delaying her return to Bakhara. Whatever she’d done, she’d done with her eyes wide-open.

The heat in his gut twisted in a sickening swirl.

He vowed he at least wouldn’t succumb to her blandishments.

Ahead Soraya glimpsed spires amidst a dark swathe of green. As they approached, her breath hitched at the sheer fairy-tale beauty of the chateau below them. Pale grey, almost white in the bright sunlight, it boasted an abundance of towers capped with conical slate roofs. The windows were large and mullioned, reflecting the sun glinting off the moat that surrounded it. An arched bridge led across to vast lawns and ornamental gardens. The whole was enclosed by a forest that isolated it from everything else. Like an enchanted world.

She sighed. It was so beautiful, so different from anything she’d seen either in Paris or at home. No wonder Lisle had told her she couldn’t miss the Loire Valley! She’d said it would appeal to the dreamer in her.

Just the place for Prince Charming to appear and spirit her away on his milk-white stallion.

Her smile twisted. She wasn’t in the market for a rescuing
prince. She’d never yearned for romance, not after weathering the destructive aftermath of her parents’ disastrous love match.

Besides, one prince was enough in any girl’s life.

More than enough.

She wrapped her arms around herself as a chill invaded her bones.

Try as she might, nothing could take her mind off the fact that in a few short weeks she’d be at the Emir’s court, preparing for her wedding—to give herself to a stranger.

Dread carved a hollow in her chest, leaving a yawning hole where she’d once nurtured fledgling dreams. Not earth-shattering dreams, just the chance to make her own choices. To build a career she loved and live as she chose.

Right now they seemed as likely as flying to the moon.

It was only as the thud of the helicopter’s rotors died that she realised they’d landed. Bewildered, she looked out to see they were between the forest and the river. In front of them rose the exquisite chateau she’d admired from the air.

Soraya tried to dredge up her enthusiasm for the fanciful architecture, the elegant embellishments, the beautiful symmetry. But the cold, hard fact of her looming future marred her appreciation.

She fumbled for her seatbelt, annoyed with herself. She should be making the most of every moment, of each new place and experience. Yet here she was doing what she’d vowed not to do—dwelling on what she couldn’t change.

‘Let me.’ Zahir’s warm fingers tangled with hers and she stiffened.

There had to be a scientific explanation for the pulse of energy that sparked under her skin whenever he touched her. Once it had been surprising—twice, too much of a coincidence. Now she found it … disturbing.

‘Thank you.’ She scrambled out of the door before he could come around and help. Her knees felt ridiculously weak but she put that down to the after-effects of her first chopper flight.
She went forward to thank Marc. He’d been friendly and so patient with her questions.

She’d barely thanked him when Zahir loomed beside her.

‘This way.’ He didn’t touch her again but with him so close she found herself cutting short her goodbyes and preceding him to the chateau.

‘I think you’ll like this,’ he said as they crunched up the white gravel path. ‘There’s swimming, tennis, archery, riding—all the usual—and the restaurant has a couple of Michelin stars, of course.’

Of course.

‘The day spa is renowned and you have a reservation there in—’ he glanced at his watch ‘—forty minutes.’

Soraya shifted her stare from the opulent chateau to the man striding at her side.

‘We’re staying
here
?’ She’d thought they’d stopped to get a better look since she’d wanted to visit the region.

‘You don’t approve?’ He slashed a sideways glance at her then away, never slowing his pace. The set of his shoulders and the clench of his solid jaw spoke of impatience. Or was it anger?

From the very first, disapproval had emanated from him in waves. She was tired of it.

Soraya shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that.’ She just wasn’t accustomed to such grandeur; it made her uncomfortable. But, she reminded herself, she’d have to get used to it soon. The Emir of Bakhara was one of the wealthiest men in the world. ‘I’m sure it will be … lovely.’

Zahir must have picked up her cautious tone for he stopped, blocking her path. ‘If you have a problem, tell me.’ His eyes iced over, chilling her anew. ‘I’d rather know now than have you running to the Emir and bothering him with your complaints when he’s busy.’

Soraya’s head jerked back as if he’d slapped her.

The Emir hadn’t minded her calling. In fact, he’d sounded pleased she’d rung and surprisingly delighted with her plan for a slow route home.

Nor had she any need to explain herself to Zahir El Hashem. Whatever it was that twisted him in knots wasn’t her concern.

She met his glacial stare with what she hoped was casual disdain. ‘As you pointed out a few days ago, the Emir is my future husband. I will call him if I wish.’

No need to say she had no intention of making further calls. She refused to let the man looming like a thundercloud think he could bully her. She stepped forward, intending to brush by him, but he didn’t budge, just stood before her, blocking her way—unless she chose to scramble through the rose bushes edging the path. He seemed all solid muscle and bone—broad enough to blot out the chateau with those shoulders and towering over her even though she wore her heels.

‘One thing you should know.’ His voice was soft, a low, lethal growl that sent primitive fear scudding down her spine. ‘You betray him and you answer to me.’

Soraya’s head shot up, her eyes clashing with his.

Gone was the coolness, the icy detachment. He was all heat and fury. She felt it sizzle around her like a force-field, drawing her in, trapping her. The air between them zapped and crackled with the emotion radiating from him.

For the first time Soraya saw
him—
not the polished, unreadable veneer of a man who hid his true thoughts behind impenetrable barriers.

She’d wondered what lay behind that façade. Now she had a glimpse and was stunned by what she discovered.

For all his appearance of detachment, and despite his reputation as a diplomatic trouble shooter, Zahir El Hashem was a man of passion and volcanic temper. He
cared
about the Emir, and not just as the man who paid his salary.

Prickles of heat broke out across her flesh as she met his glare and refused to back away.

‘Your sentiment does you proud,’ she said when finally she found her voice. ‘But your judgement is seriously flawed if you think I intend to betray him.’

That was just it. She wasn’t the sort to blithely walk away from a promise, even a promise given so young.

Her past had moulded her into a woman who understood the value of honour. And the destructive force of betrayal. Besides, she couldn’t disappoint her father, who saw this as her bright, wonderful future. Nor could she betray the Emir, the man who’d given her back what she’d almost lost. She owed him so much.

No matter which way she looked at it, she was shackled to her destiny.

‘Now,’ she continued, her voice husky with weariness, ‘please step out of my way. I want to go to my room.’

I
T WASN’T
guilt Zahir felt.

He’d been right to warn her. Let her know he was watching her. That he had Hussein’s back covered.

Zahir had willingly put himself between Hussein and danger in the past. It was what he’d trained to do. What he was proud to do. Dealing with an unfaithful woman was nothing compared to facing down a would-be assassin.

Yet something niggled at him. Something was
wrong
.

Gut instinct warned he’d missed something. That he didn’t have the full picture—till he reminded himself he wasn’t the sort to be swayed by a show of bravado and a flicker of pain in eyes like bruised pansies.

Yet he found himself pushing open the door to the hotel’s plush day spa. It reeked of perfume, hothouse orchids and flushed female flesh.

‘Can
I
help you,
monsieur
?’
A
pretty redhead looked up from the reception desk.

‘Yes, I’m looking for Mademoiselle Karim.’

‘Karim?’ The woman frowned and turned to her computer. ‘Ah,
I
thought
I
recognised the name. That booking was cancelled this morning.’

‘Cancelled?’ He’d made no such cancellation.

The redhead nodded. ‘That’s right. Mademoiselle rang from her room. She’d changed her mind and …’ She looked up to find the plate-glass door to the spa swinging closed.

Twenty minutes later Zahir was on the road. At least he knew he wasn’t chasing a runaway; her luggage was in her suite. Even her beloved laptop.

Only Soraya was missing.

He cursed himself and accelerated too soon out of a sweeping bend in the road.

How had he let her slip away? Why hadn’t he confirmed she was set for a day’s pampering rather than assuming it, before settling down with his own laptop?

Because he’d been too eager to put distance between them.

Whether pensive or defiant or giving him the cold shoulder, Soraya Karim tugged at something hot and hungry deep inside him.

Something he had no business feeling for the woman who, rightly or wrongly, was to marry Hussein.

That was the hell of it.

Why her?

He had his choice of women now he was
someone
. His mouth twisted in a smile of derision, remembering his youth, when lack of status had lost him the woman he’d fallen for so desperately. He’d thought his heart broken.

Of course he’d survived. As for his heart—he harboured no fantasies now about love. He never let women close to him emotionally. They barely caused a ripple in his life.

Until Soraya Karim.

Tension crawled through him. He’d had to force himself to give her space. Had he provided her with an opportunity to take off and meet a lover?

His only clues were the details of the car the concierge had organised for her and the map he’d provided—a map on which he’d marked the places Soraya had queried: a couple of chateaux, an old house and what turned out to be a nuclear power-plant. That last had to be a mistake. He mentally crossed it off his list and accelerated down a straight stretch of road, his mouth set.

It was late when he tracked her down.

A familiar, husky voice caught Zahir’s ear. He slammed to a halt at the base of the stone stairs in the old house-cum-museum. Swinging his head round, he saw her.

She was safe.

Relief hit him so hard his knees weakened for a moment. An instant later fury descended, swirling through him like a desert storm.

Hussein trusted him to keep her safe yet he’d let her slip away. For the first time ever Zahir had let emotion interfere with his judgement, with his duty.

Inevitably she was talking with a man, her head bent close.

Zahir pushed away from the stairs, outrage pounding through him that he’d let himself worry about her. Then his mind processed what he saw and he stopped again, frowning.

This was no assignation. The man had stooped shoulders and greying hair. Beside him was a trim woman in her late sixties, smiling benignly as Soraya and her male companion discussed … mechanical gears?

Zahir moved to one side and saw what fixed their attention—a display of machinery. His frown deepened as he flashed a glance around the cellar of the old house.

All around were models of half-familiar machines. A whirligig that looked like the precursor to a helicopter. A model of a tilting bridge. A contraption for hauling water uphill by turning a huge screw.

It hit Zahir then that he’d been right: he
didn’t
understand Soraya. He’d missed something vital.

He intended to find out what it was.

‘Ah, we mustn’t keep you any longer. Thank you for your time, my dear. I’ve enjoyed our chat.’ There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes as he looked past her and up.

Soraya’s nape prickled and the hairs on her arms rose as if someone had walked over her grave.

Slowly she turned. Her gaze hit a broad chest in a snowy
shirt then climbed past a strong, sun-burnished throat to a familiar, rock-hard jaw, firm, sculpted lips, lean cheeks and eyes of dazzling emerald.

Heat snaked from her chest to her abdomen, circling there as he held her eyes.

‘Hello, Soraya. You take some tracking down.’

Behind her she was aware of the older couple moving away and knew regret. She’d so enjoyed their discussion. Now her day of freedom was over. Was it imagination or did the sunlight dim, as if obscured by sudden cloud?

‘Then why did you bother? I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ Anger bit deep that she’d not been allowed even a day of freedom. Was this what it would be like in Bakhara? No time to herself? Always watched? Silently she railed against the future she couldn’t change.

‘So I’m discovering.’ Instead of the scowl she anticipated she read only curiosity in his gaze. ‘Shall we?’ He gestured towards the door that led into the garden.

Reluctantly she led the way. There was no point continuing with her plans to see the rest of the estate now he was here. He’d have some reason why she had to return to the chateau-hotel.

Choosing a seat at a shaded courtyard table, Soraya slipped her sunglasses on. She needed all the protection she could get against his piercing scrutiny.

Zahir didn’t say anything, simply ordered iced water and coffee then lounged, one arm slung along the back of his chair as if totally relaxed, watching her.

Soraya’s blood tingled in response to that look.

It was almost a relief when their order came. Surely now he’d break the brooding suspense to berate her for leaving and not telling him her plans?

She stiffened her spine in readiness and lifted her glass of chilled water.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said at last, and her hand jerked so she almost spilled the drink down her dress. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say.

‘Why?’ Sourness tinged her response. ‘I’m just the package you need to courier to Bakhara, remember?’

Slowly he shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. He held her pinioned just with the force of that look. Her limbs felt heavy as if invisibly weighted.

How could he
do
that?

A flutter of apprehension stirred. No other man had the power to make her feel anything like it.

‘You’re far more than that and you know it, Soraya.’

Her brow puckered. There was something in his tone she couldn’t fathom. A keen edge that matched the coil of tension swirling its way down to the pit of her stomach.

‘I thought you were here to whisk me back to the hotel.’ He said nothing. ‘Why
are
you here, then?’ After his threat back at the chateau, she’d put nothing past him.

‘Hussein entrusted me with your safety. You’re my responsibility till you return to Bakhara and—’

‘I’m perfectly capable. I don’t need to be watched over.’ Indignation welled.

‘Be that as it may, I was concerned when I found you gone. You’re in unfamiliar territory, alone, when by your own admission you have limited experience of foreign travel. I needed to make sure you were all right.’

His voice rang with sincerity and abruptly Soraya’s bubble of anger punctured. He was doing his job. It wasn’t his fault it felt like he was her own personal gaoler. As for his disapproval—she saw no evidence of it now.

‘Why did you come
here
?’ He reached for his coffee.

‘You make it sound as if Amboise is an unusual choice. It’s a quaint old town with a chateau, cliff dwellings—’

‘Not the town.
Here.
’ His gesture encompassed both the old house and the sweep of park-like gardens she’d yet to explore. ‘It’s pleasant, but it doesn’t match the opulence of the royal chateaux.’

‘And, of course, I should be interested in opulence, is that
it?’ What did he think, that she’d somehow snaffled the Emir for his wealth?

Was that why Zahir had installed her in that beautiful, luxurious hotel that, to her overwrought nerves, felt ridiculously like a gilded prison?

‘That’s just it.’ He leaned forward. ‘I don’t know what interests you.’ His gaze dropped from her face. ‘Apart from shoes with more sex appeal than substance.’

A flush rose from the vicinity of her ankles where the scarlet straps of her wedge-heeled espadrilles ended in saucy bows. Heat flooded up her thighs, through her body and scorched its way to her cheeks.

Because he thought her shoes sexy.

Her heart gave an odd little flutter.

Why did that observation sound like an admission of some sort? And why did it unsettle her so?

Zahir lifted his espresso but he didn’t look away. Soraya gulped down some icy water, hoping to ease the rush of blood under her skin.

‘Clos Lucé is where Leonardo da Vinci lived the final years of his life.’

‘I thought he was Italian?’

‘He was, but the King of France thought him so special he offered him a home.’ She nodded to the open window above them. ‘He slept in that room.’

‘So you’re a fan of his art?’

She shrugged. ‘I never saw the Mona Lisa in Paris. There were too many other things to do.’

Zahir’s eyebrows rose. ‘Hussein mentioned you were studying art history in Paris.’

‘I was.’ Her chin tilted higher, on the defensive now.

Zahir said nothing but his silence told her he was waiting. For long moments she held his gaze, then she shrugged. What was the point in prevaricating?

‘It wasn’t my idea, it was my father’s. He thought an understanding of art would be useful given my … future. A sort of
wider cultural education.’ What he hadn’t said, of course, was that studying art was more genteel, more suitable for a lady. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

Soraya smiled. Her dad had never quite understood her interest in the unfeminine sciences, but he was her staunchest ally against the traditionalists who’d looked down their noses at her chosen path. They’d seen her lack of interest in the usual female occupations as dangerous—a possible sign she was like her unnatural mother.

Her smile faded.

‘Soraya?’

She looked up to find Zahir’s eyes narrowing. ‘Sorry?’

‘You didn’t enjoy the course?’

‘No, I did. It’s not what I would have chosen myself but it was interesting.’ She paused, relishing the warmth of the filtered sunlight and the gentle bird calls, the sense, illusory as it was, of freedom.

‘I should have made an effort to see his art. He was gifted in so many fields. Did you
see
the models of his inventions?’ That had been such fun, especially when she’d met two amateur inventors eager to discuss them.

‘I saw them.’ His voice told her Leonardo’s breakthroughs were mildly interesting to him, no more.

‘Where do you think the world would be without people like that, finding new ways to solve problems?’

‘What, like that multi-barrelled gun to mow down as many people as possible at a time?’

Soraya found herself smiling ruefully into eyes that had lost their hard edge and crinkled appealingly at the corners. That hint of amusement eased the hard lines of Zahir’s face, making him more relaxed, not the stern figure of the last few days.

She’d thought him in his mid-thirties. Now she reassessed. He was younger than she’d assumed.

‘It takes the gloss off his “man of the arts” image, doesn’t it? But he was working on what people wanted.’

‘You could say that about nuclear weapons.’

‘True. It’s the age-old issue, isn’t it? What people do with what scientists invent.’

‘That’s what interests you? Science?’ His eyes widened a fraction.

‘Careful, Zahir. You’re not in danger of typecasting me because I’m female, are you?’ She’d come up against enough raised eyebrows in Bakhara for her supposedly unconventional interests. Inevitably she felt disappointment stir. ‘Women aren’t all interested in the same things. We’re as varied as men.’

‘So I’m learning.’

Soraya raised her eyebrows. Her guess was he expected women to focus on luxury and be dependent on men to make the decisions. No wonder they had been at loggerheads.

‘If you weren’t so interested in art history, why were you concerned to finish your project before you left?’

She sat back in her chair, surveying him carefully. ‘You are sharp, aren’t you?’

‘I could say the same about you.’ This time she caught it—a tiny flash of appreciation in his eyes. She felt an answering flicker of pleasure. ‘Are you going to tell me what you were doing or is it a secret?’

‘No secret. I just took more than one class.’

He said nothing, simply put down his cup and waited, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing more important to do than listen. Yet that stiff, judgemental attitude was missing. What had changed?

‘Not really a class, actually. A job.’

‘You
worked
?’

She couldn’t help it. A gurgle of laughter escaped at his astonished expression. ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ She held up her hand. ‘No, don’t answer. I can guess—you thought I pretended to study but secretly majored in shopping.’

A twist of his lips told her she was on the right track. Despite her amusement, annoyance stirred.