Defying her Desert Duty (8 page)

‘Why would I do that?’

He told himself this was just a hypothetical discussion. ‘If you fell for someone else.’ Yet he held his breath as he waited for her answer, his pulse drumming in his ears.

‘Imagine the fallout.’ Her head drooped towards his chest so that he looked down on her vulnerable nape. He gathered her in to him. Just to comfort her, he assured himself. Yet his arms moulded to her as if they belonged.

She sighed. ‘The scandal would be enormous, especially after my mother.’

‘Your mother?’

‘She disgraced herself and the family and my dad bore the brunt of disapproval for not vilifying her. Poor Dad, I couldn’t do that to him. His business would be ruined and he’d be an outcast.’

And so would she, Zahir reminded himself. A man who truly cared for her wouldn’t do that to her.

‘Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s against the law to break a contract with the nation’s ruler.’ Her laugh was hollow. ‘Besides.’ She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘What man would dare steal the Emir’s bride? He’d be punished, surely?’

Soraya’s upturned face was beautiful, her eyes almost beseeching, and Zahir knew a crazy urge to kiss her till the world faded and all that was left was them.

‘He’d lose all claim to honour or loyalty to the crown,’ Zahir said slowly, feeling the full weight of such a prospect. He’d made honour and loyalty his life. ‘He’d never be able to hold his head up again. He’d be stripped of official titles and positions and the council of elders would banish him from Bakhara.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Hussein could never call him friend again.’

‘As I thought.’ Her hands dropped and she stepped abruptly out of his hold. ‘No man would even consider it.’

I
T WASN’T
working
.

Zahir hefted in a determined breath and thrust off from the end of the pool, forcing his burning lungs and overworked body into another lap.

No matter how hard he pushed himself, he couldn’t strip her from his mind. Soraya was there constantly.

He was at the end of his tether. Sleep grew elusive. His attempts to focus on the future and the governorship which would be his greatest challenge to date faded into the background. Soraya took centre stage.

He’d thought to change her mind about taking a slow route back to Bakhara since their time together was fraught with perilous undercurrents.

She’d said she wanted to see the countryside and he’d given it to her. They stayed in a friend’s manor house in the Perigord, surrounded by walnut groves, tiny villages and winding narrow roads. No boutiques. No nightclubs.

Soraya loved it.

So much for his plans to convince her to cut short their stay and head for the bright lights! She found everything fascinating; from the stone-building styles to the local accent and the people they met. Even the limestone caves with their prehistoric paintings captured her interest.

Her delight in it all, her vivid joy in each moment, made
every experience fresh and new to him too. He was rediscovering simple pleasures.

Yet there was nothing simple or innocent about his feelings for her.

Zahir hauled himself from the water. It was still early and he was taking the chopper to Paris. Ostensibly it was a meeting that called him. In reality, it was as an excuse to absent himself from Soraya.

He enjoyed being with her too much. He found himself opening up to her. He’d even told her about his childhood, something he never shared. More than that, he felt emotions stirring that he had no business feeling. For years he’d locked emotions behind a wall of steel. Now it seemed there were fissures in the barricade he’d built around himself. He was a different man from the one who’d met her in Paris. He
felt
more, experienced more, cared more.

Zahir was halfway to the house when he saw the garage door open. He frowned. The old estate manager wouldn’t be up at dawn working, but with the owners in Paris, who else could it be?

One step into the building and he knew.

The breath sucked from his lungs as he saw her on her back beneath an old four-wheel drive; neat sneakers, white socks and the most mouth-watering legs he’d ever seen.

With those light summer dresses she wore he’d had ample opportunity to recognise Soraya had world-class legs. But her clothes were always modest. Now for the first time his gaze trawled up past her knees to smooth, slim thighs that made him think of cool sheets and a hot woman, of passion and endless hours of erotic pleasure.

Humming off-key, Soraya wasn’t sure at first, but she thought she heard swearing, low-voiced and urgent. She paused and wiped her brow with a grimy hand.

A stream of whispered words vied with the early-morning birdsong.

Her skin prickled as she realised she wasn’t alone. An instant later she scooted out from beneath the vehicle.

Long legs were braced wide before her. Bare, sinewy feet. Powerfully muscled thighs in sodden board shorts. A towel clutched in one large, white-knuckled hand.

Soraya’s throat dried as she yanked her gaze higher, skimming over a washboard abdomen, wide pectoral muscles and straight shoulders. Higher, till she got lost in green eyes turned dark and smoky in the early-morning light.

Her heart jumped and she sat up quickly.

‘Zahir.’ Her voice was breathless and high. She swallowed and tried again, ignoring the feverish pleasure that surged at the sound of his name on her lips. Ever since the Bastille Day celebrations she’d been ultra-aware of him.

Who was she kidding? She’d been aware of him from the start, only in the beginning she’d been able to hide behind dislike.

‘You surprised me.’ Great. Now her conversation had dried up with her brain.

Despite the affinity she felt for Zahir and her pleasure in his company, she grew more on edge daily.

It was as if another woman inhabited her body. A woman with desires and needs utterly foreign to her. A woman whose eyes followed this man’s every move. Whose breasts were swollen and tender with longing for his touch. Who felt hunger curl hard in her belly just at the sound of his deep voice.

Maybe the critics of her childhood were right. Maybe after all she was doomed to follow in her mother’s footsteps—unable to resist the lure of a handsome man. Perhaps her father’s protectiveness had been well-founded, and her own innate caution, her wariness of intimacy, had been more valid than she’d realised.

At twenty-four she’d begun to think herself completely immune to the male sex, for none had ever stirred her blood.

Now she knew better.

Whatever it was she felt for Zahir, it wasn’t immunity. It was
wild and strong, exciting and frightening. Worse, it wasn’t just because of his looks. She enjoyed his dry humour, his intelligence, the fact that he was a decent man who took his responsibilities seriously. He was marvellous with kids and patient with a woman spooked by her looming future.

‘What are you wearing?’ His voice was husky.

She glanced down, then hurriedly folded her legs close, wrapping her arms around them.

‘I didn’t have any shorts so I cut off some jeans. It’s too hot for them here.’

She’d made a mess of the job. Sewing had never been her forte, to the dismay of her female relatives who’d spent so many hours trying to interest her in embroidery and a dozen other housewifely skills. She couldn’t even hack the legs off her old jeans in a straight line!

Zahir’s dark eyebrows crunched together. ‘That doesn’t explain why you’re down in the dirt.’

Ridiculously his words reminded her of the scolds she’d received from aunts about unladylike behaviour. For a moment the old guilt rose: about the fact she was her mother’s daughter. That she was impulsive and strong-willed. That she didn’t fit the mould.

Soraya lifted her chin. ‘I’m tinkering with the car. Hortense had trouble with it and I thought I’d take a look.’

‘Hortense?’ Zahir rubbed his chin ruminatively and Soraya almost thought she heard the whisper of early-morning bristles against his hand. His chin was shadowed, accentuating the proud angle of his jaw.

‘The housekeeper,’ Soraya explained. ‘She can take another vehicle.’ She waved towards the new models filling the rest of the garage. ‘But she’s used to this one.’

‘You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.’

‘But I
enjoy
it.’ Soraya braced herself for a look of dismay or disapproval.

Instead she was rewarded with a grin that kicked her pulse to top speed.

‘Better you than me, Soraya. Horses, people or computers I’ll willingly spend hours with. But the underside of a chassis? You can have it and welcome.’

Warmth curled round Soraya’s heart and squeezed hard. Zahir’s eyes danced and she felt her mouth tilt in an answering smile.

‘Yet you drive like a professional.’ She loved sitting beside Zahir as he drove them through the countryside. He was competent; not afraid of speed, but she’d never felt in safer hands.

‘That’s because I
am
a professional. I was trained by the best. Defensive driving, off-road navigation and dune-driving for starters.’

He slung his towel casually over one shoulder, not bothering to wipe away the stray droplets of water that ran from his hair down his collarbone. Soraya followed their progress over his burnished flesh and found herself clasping her hands together far too tightly.

‘I can strip down a motor and get it back together in record time,’ he continued, oblivious to her stare. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’d do it for fun.’

‘What
do
you do for fun? How do you relax?’

Zahir’s easy smile faded.

‘You must do something to unwind,’ she persevered.

‘I find ways.’ His voice dropped so low it plucked at her nerve ends and made her tremble.

Green fire blazed beneath his now-hooded lids and Soraya felt an answering conflagration start somewhere in her midriff. As his eyes held hers that ball of heat plunged down to her pelvis. The thud of her heartbeat swelled to a roar that clogged her senses.

Women
, she realised. He relaxed with
women
.

The sexual awareness in his stare was so blatant even someone as inexperienced as she couldn’t miss it.

But he wasn’t thinking about other women now.

Zahir was looking at
her
.

That look was a caress, trailing across her skin and drawing every muscle and nerve ending into singing life.

Soraya revelled in it. Gone in an instant was a lifetime’s caution, obliterated by a welling force so elemental it muted any opposition.

Suddenly that tension, the unspoken awareness they’d tried to pretend didn’t exist, was back full force. Soraya had tried to convince herself she’d imagined it. Now she saw it in Zahir’s intense look. Its impact dragged the air from her lungs.

Did she look at him the same way?

The air between them shimmered as if with heat haze. Honeyed warmth pooled low between her legs and a strange lethargy stole through her.

If Zahir were to close the space between them and reach out his hand she’d welcome his touch.

She
willed
him to do it.

His eyes dropped to her mouth and her lips throbbed as if in response to the brush of his mouth against hers.

What would his kiss be like? Urgent and fiery or slow and sensuous?

Soraya’s eyelids drooped as if weighted. Her lips opened, ripe for his. Her hands slipped from where they’d looped around her legs. Her chest rose as a fractured breath became a sigh of expectation.

Zahir stepped close, so close she felt a drop of pool water land on her ankle. She looked up, stretching her neck to hold his gaze.

Did she imagine a tremor pass through his solid frame?

‘I …’ He speared a hand through his hair. ‘I have a meeting in Paris,’ he said finally, his voice harsh. ‘I won’t be back for dinner. Don’t wait up for me.’

A moment later he was gone.

A day alone had done nothing to douse the flare of sexual excitement smouldering within her.

Soraya was honest enough not to pretend it was anything
else that made her skin seem too tight for her body and her pulse points ache with longing.

It was an awful irony that now, mere weeks from going to the man she had to marry, she was finally experiencing sexual desire. A desire she’d believed herself immune to.

That didn’t mean she had to give in to it. She’d busied herself, thinking if she kept herself occupied every minute of every day until her return to Bakhara she’d conquer this yearning.

It hadn’t worked so far—despite tuning the four-wheel drive till it purred, putting in hours on the laptop finishing her report, catching up on emails, driving to a local market and stocking up on so much mouth-watering fresh produce poor Hortense had been cooking all afternoon.

Now, as the day drew to a close and Zahir hadn’t returned, Soraya knew she couldn’t settle with a book or film.

What better time to face what she’d been putting off ever since they’d arrived?

She took a deep breath and walked down the first step into the outdoor pool. The water was like warm silk on her feet and ankles, yet goose bumps broke out on Soraya’s flesh.

Another step and she tried to concentrate on how the underwater lights made the depths look appealing, the blue and gold key-pattern mosaic that ran the sides of the pool.

Her pulse revved as she moved deeper. But her hand was firm on the sun-warmed flagstone at the pool edge. She had nothing to fear, she reminded herself.

Only the fear she’d never been able to conquer.

Her brain filled with the image of that toddler, ghastly pale as Zahir hauled him from the stream. Her stomach twisted and terror was sharp metal on her tongue.

Had she looked like that the day she’d almost drowned?

This time she was determined to conquer her phobia.

Finally she reached a point where she couldn’t proceed without submerging. Her heart hammered but she made herself turn and grip the edge with both trembling hands.

Her legs stretched out, weightless behind her. Soraya was
torn between a thrill of exhilaration that she’d ventured so far beyond her comfort zone, and crawling horror at what might happen next.

Experimentally she kicked her legs. It was easier than she’d expected. But how to coordinate arms and legs? Better to concentrate on floating.

It took a while but finally she let go with one arm. If she could just relax enough she was sure she could float. Everyone said it was so easy. Daringly, she let her body stretch out, till she gripped the edge by her fingertips. See? It wasn’t so hard. Tomorrow she’d go to the shallow end and try it without holding on. She’d …

‘Soraya?’ Out of the dusk a figure loomed.

She opened her mouth to reply and swallowed water. Shock swamped her. She scrabbled for the edge, one arm flailing even as she went under.

Panic welled, fed by the taste of treated water in her mouth and nostrils. Shock gave way to fear and she thrashed for the surface.

Till strong arms hauled her up, holding her tight.

She clawed at wide shoulders, desperate for the feel of solid bone and flesh beneath her fingers. Precious oxygen filled her lungs and she gulped it down in great, gasping breaths.

‘It’s okay, Soraya. You’re all right. You’re safe. I’ve got you.’ Zahir’s voice, like dark treacle, seeped past the panic, finally slowing her frantic heartbeat.

Eyes smarting, she wrapped her arms tight round his neck, burying her face against Zahir’s slick skin. He felt warm and solid and so very, very safe.

‘But who’s got you?’ she gasped. ‘The water’s too deep to stand.’ Her lips moved against his skin and she tasted male spice and salt, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her head away.

‘I’ve got us both. Don’t worry.’

She registered his big hands splayed warm around her ribs. His legs moved against hers, slowly kicking as he kept them afloat.