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Defying her Desert Duty
Annie West
Chained by silk and jewelsAcross the bustling nightclub, bodyguard Zahir El Hashem watches his latest charge swaying temptingly on the dance floor, his pulse quickening. Returning the Princess to her bridegroom might not be such a simple operation after all… Soraya Karim has always known one day she must resume her royal obligations – just not so soon!Clinging to the last shreds of her freedom, Soraya insists they take the long way back to Bakhara – and their attraction reaches a dangerous fever pitch… Once they reach the gates of the palace such a liaison will be utterly forbidden. From then duty must reign…‘Annie West never disappoints! So evocative and full of drama and tension throughout. A classic romance.’ – Abby, Author, Dublin



‘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.’

About the Author
ANNIE WEST spent her childhood with her nose between the covers of a book—a habit she retains. After years preparing government reports and official correspondence she decided to write something she really enjoys. And there’s nothing she loves more than a great romance. Despite her office-bound past she has managed a few interesting moments—including a marriage offer with the promise of a herd of camels to sweeten the contract. She is happily married to her ever-patient husband (who has never owned a dromedary). They live with their two children amongst the tall eucalypts at beautiful Lake Macquarie, on Australia’s east coast. You can e-mail Annie at www.annie-west.com, or write to her at PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.
Recent titles by the same author:
UNDONE BY HIS TOUCH
GIRL IN THE BEDOUIN TENT
PRINCE OF SCANDAL
PASSION, PURITY AND THE PRINCE
Defying her
Desert Duty

Annie West





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With profound thanks to
Vanessa, Sharon, Karen and Kandy
for all your support.

CHAPTER ONE
HE WAS watching her.
Still.
Soraya’s nape prickled. A ripple of hot sensation skated down her arms. She fought the need to look up, knowing what she’d see.
The man in the shadows.
Big. Dark. Broad-shouldered in his leather jacket, the hard lines of his face a study in masculine strength. His upper face was in shadow yet every time she looked across the dimly lit bar there was no doubt his gaze was fixed on her. She felt the intensity of that look in her sizzling blood. And in the curious breathless catch in her throat.
His interest unsettled Soraya. She leaned closer to her group: Raoul and Jean Paul debating politics while Michelle and Marie talked fashion. Raoul roped a negligent arm around her shoulders. Instantly she stiffened, then forced herself to relax, reminding herself it was just a friendly gesture.
Soraya loved Paris’s casual lifestyle, but still hadn’t overcome her reserve. You could take the girl out of Bakhara but Bakhara still lingered in the girl. Her lips twisted. She’d no need of the chaperone her father had wanted to send.
Movement caught her eye and despite her intentions she turned.
He hadn’t moved; he still leaned back just beyond the flickering light of the candle on his table. But now he looked up at a leggy blonde in a red satin mini-dress. The woman leaned in, her low-cut neckline a blatant invitation.
Soraya snapped her head back to her friends, ignoring the way Raoul tightened his hold.
Zahir sank back in his chair and cradled his drink, its cool condensation a respite from the heat. A heat that owed nothing to the close atmosphere of the nightclub and everything to the woman on the other side of the room.
What the devil had he walked into?
Simple, Hussein had said. Straightforward.
Zahir shook his head. Every sense screamed ‘alert’. Every instinct warned of trouble.
Still he remained. He had no choice. Now he’d found her, he couldn’t leave.
He tipped his head back so the ice slid into his mouth. He crunched it hard, as if the shock of cold might restore his equanimity.
It would take more than ice to counteract his tension.
In other circumstances he might have taken up the invitation of the voluptuous Swedish girl in the short dress. He enjoyed life’s pleasures—in his down time.
Never at the expense of his duty.
Tonight was duty, responsibility, obligation.
Yet it was something more too. Something … unfamiliar, evoked by sloe-dark eyes and a full Cupid’s bow mouth. By the woman hanging on the words of a scrawny intellectual pontificating as if he had any idea how to run a country!
Zahir snorted and put down his glass.
Whatever it was he felt, he didn’t like it. It was a complication he didn’t need. Zahir had spent a lifetime learning how to cut through complications.
Over the years he’d learned to curb his impatience. Now he mostly used a statesman’s skills: negotiation and discretion. But he’d trained as a warrior from birth. He was still technically head of the Emir’s bodyguard, a position that gave opportunities for the satisfaction of hard, physical combat. The clash of one man against another.
He surveyed the poseur who was boasting of his intellect and pulling the woman in the dark dress close. The Frenchman’s hand hovered near her bare arm. Zahir’s fist tightened.
He’d like to get his hands on that buffoon and give him a short, sharp lesson in the real meaning of power.
The intensity of his bloodlust brought him up short.
Premonition skittered like icy fingers down his spine.
This mission was a mistake. He felt it in his bones.
Soraya moved back as far as Raoul’s encircling arms allowed.
It was ridiculously late and she’d rather be home in bed. Except her flatmate Lisle had finally made peace with her boyfriend and Soraya knew they needed privacy, even if it meant staying out till dawn. Lisle had been a good friend and friendship was something precious to her.
But she’d made a mistake, finally agreeing to dance with Raoul. She frowned and shifted his straying hand.
Usually Soraya didn’t make such mistakes. Keeping her distance from men came naturally. She’d acted out of character, spooked by the need to escape the stranger’s unnerving stare. It had made her feel … heated. Aware.
Yet even now she felt his gaze like a brand on her back, her bare arms, her cheeks.
What did he want? She wasn’t eye-catching. Her dress was modest—positively maidenly, Lisle would say.
Soraya wanted to march across the room and demand he stop it. But this was Paris. Men stared at women all the time. It was a national pastime.
Raoul’s marauding hand cut her line of thought and she stiffened. Enough was enough. ‘Stop it! Move your hand or—’
‘The lady is ready for a change, I believe.’ The voice, a deep burr, curled around her like a caress, but there was no mistaking its steely undertone.
Raoul stumbled to a halt then stepped back abruptly as a large hand removed his arm from Soraya’s waist. His eyes flared as he drew himself up. Yet, tall as he was, the stranger topped him easily.
Raoul spluttered as he was shouldered aside. Soraya felt the tensile strength in the intruder’s big body as he clasped her in a waltz hold and swung her away.
Torn between relief at being rid of Raoul’s octopus hands and stomach-dipping shock at the newcomer’s actions, protest froze in Soraya’s throat.
It was him, the man who’d watched her all evening.
Suddenly he was so near, his breath feathered her forehead, the heat of his body warmed hers and his big hands grasped her so easily it was obvious he was used to being close to a woman.
Soraya shivered as an unfamiliar sensation swirled deep. Not trepidation. Not indignation. But something that tied her thoughts in knots and prompted her to fall in step unthinkingly as he moved to the slow tune.
‘Now just you wait—’ Over the stranger’s shoulder she saw Raoul’s face, red with indignation, his fist raised. Soraya’s eyes widened. Could he be violent?
‘Raoul! No! That’s enough.’
‘Excuse me a moment.’ The stranger released her, swung round to confront Raoul and said something under his breath that made the graduate student pale and falter back a pace.
Then, before she had time to question, he turned back, gathered her to him and swung her across the dance floor.
It was an impressive example of a male staking his territory. But Soraya didn’t appreciate being swept away without so much as a by-your-leave.
Even if he had rescued her from Raoul’s pawing.
‘There’s no need for this.’ She’d rather just get off the dance floor. But he gave no indication he’d heard.
It chagrined her that her feet automatically followed his lead. She’d never followed any man, except her beloved father!
She could wrench herself from his arms and off the dance floor, but she shied from making more of a scene unless absolutely necessary.
Besides, she was curious.
‘What makes you think I want to dance with you?’ She jutted her chin defiantly to counteract the strange, breathy quality of her voice.
The movement was a mistake. With her face tilted, her gaze collided with sizzling dark-emerald fire. Shock jolted her and only quick reflexes kept her from stumbling.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, almost lazy. Yet there was nothing lazy about his rapier-sharp scrutiny. She sucked in a breath as it roved her face.
His features were compelling. Strong, with an earthy stamp of male sexuality that melded with sharp cheekbones, a determined jaw and a long blade of a nose to create a breathtaking whole. His skin was dark gold, eyes rayed with the tiny lines that spoke of hours spent outdoors. She couldn’t believe they were smile lines. Not on this man who surveyed her so grimly.
Soraya blinked and tore her gaze away, disturbed to find her pulse skittering faster.
‘You weren’t enjoying your dance with him?’ He shrugged and she knew in that moment that, despite his perfect French, he wasn’t local. There was none of the Gallic insouciance in that movement. Instead she read the fluid yet deliberate action of a man who had more on his mind than a little light flirtation.
He moved with a lithe grace yet every action, from the way he held her hand to the light clasp of his other palm at her waist, was carefully controlled.
For all his agility he was a big man, all hard-packed muscle, iron-hard sinew and bone. Formidable.
Suddenly she felt … trapped, at risk. Ridiculous, since she was in full public view with her friends close by.
Desperately she sucked in a deep breath and sought out her companions. They watched, rapt, elbows on the table and mouths moving as if they’d never seen anything more fascinating than Soraya dancing, and with a stranger. As her eyes met Raoul’s, he flushed and moved closer to Marie.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘So you don’t disagree. He was annoying you.’ His voice was low yet she had an inkling he worked to keep his tone easy.
‘I don’t need a protector!’ Soraya prided herself on her independence.
‘Then why didn’t you stop him grabbing at you?’ There was no mistaking the thread of anger in that deep voice, or the quiver of repressed power that rippled through him in a rolling tide.
It was her turn to shrug.
What was there to say? That despite the freedom of studying abroad she wasn’t used to dealing with groping hands? She usually kept a discreet distance from male colleagues. Soraya had perfected the art of blending into a crowd and avoiding individual male attention. Tonight was the first time she’d ever danced with a man.
No way was she confessing that! It was the norm for a well-brought-up girl in Bakhara. Here it would make her seem like a freak.
As would the fact she preferred it that way. She had no interest in a love affair.
‘Nothing to say?’
‘What I do is none of your business.’
At her words his lips firmed, deep lines bracketing a mobile mouth that revealed tension despite his air of command. One sleek black eyebrow climbed towards close-cropped dark hair.
That superior look would goad any woman’s patience.
The music finished and they slowed to a stop.
‘Thank you for the dance.’ Formal politeness barely masked her annoyance. How dared he suggest she should be thankful to him?
She turned and took a step away, only to find his hold tightening at her waist. Long fingers and a broad palm seared through the soft fabric of her dress, warming her in a way that suddenly seemed too intimate.
The music resumed and with a swift movement he tugged her close so she stumbled against a hard wall of hot muscle.
‘What the—?’
‘What if I choose to make it my business?’ His breath was warm on her face. Those straight eyebrows arrowed down in a scowl that accentuated the intensity of his blazing green stare.
It was as if he memorised everything, from her too-short nose and plain brown eyes to the wisps of hair escaping her once-neat chignon.
The intensity of that look dazed her. ‘Sorry?’
‘You heard me, princess. Don’t play games.’
‘Play games?’ She shook her head, her jaw clenching in indignation. She planted her hands against his upper arms, trying to prise herself free, and felt only unyielding steel. ‘I’ve done nothing! It’s you playing games. Sitting there all night, just watching me.’
Her eyes met his again and her chest tightened at the simmering heat she saw there. Her skin tingled all over.
‘You wanted me to do more than watch?’ His words were a whispered thread of frayed velvet. ‘Is that why you cosied up to your friend over there—to trigger a response?’
‘No!’ Soraya rocked back on her heels, but his arm at her waist, like a rope of steel, lashed her to him.
For an instant she read something in his gaze, something half-hidden that both disturbed and fascinated.
Then she came to her senses. With a swift, well-executed movement she ground her stiletto heel onto his instep with all her weight.
A moment later she was free. His hand fell away and with it the warmth at her waist she’d almost grown used to.
She strode from the dance floor, head up and shoulders back. A woman in control.
But at the back of her mind lingered the image of his face when she’d fought to break free. There’d been no flicker of pain in his eyes, no hint of a wince on his face, despite what must have been piercing agony.
What sort of man trained himself not to react to pain?
The question unnerved her.
So did the realisation she was only free because he’d chosen to release her.
Holding her in his arms had been a mistake.
Zahir grimaced and ruthlessly shoved aside any analysis of why it was a mistake.
No need to go there. All that mattered was that she was trouble with a capital T.
He’d known it when he’d arrived at her apartment and found, not the respectable accommodation he’d expected, but a love nest for an almost-naked couple. Clearly they’d tumbled out of bed only because his insistent ringing of the bell had threatened to attract the neighbours.
His assessment had been reinforced when he’d finally tracked her to this seedy club. True, she didn’t flaunt herself half-naked like some women. But that dress, the colour of ripe plums, clung lovingly to curves designed to snare a man’s attention. Its skirt flirted and flounced around shapely legs when she moved. It slithered enticingly under a man’s palm, making him itch to explore further.
Zahir swallowed a curse as his palms tingled.
This wasn’t about what she made him feel.
He wasn’t in the business of feeling anything for her.
Except disgust that she’d played Hussein for a fool. Look at the way she’d snuggled up to that turkey with the ridiculously sculpted excuse for a beard!
He stifled a low growl of anger.
No, she was not what he’d been led to believe. And he didn’t just mean the fact that the old photo he’d been given showed the round, almost chubby face of an innocent. The woman tonight had the cheekbones, sexy curves and full, pouting lips of a born seductress. And those shoes—spangled four-inch stilettos that screamed ‘take me … now!’.
Heat pooled low. Disgust, he assured himself.
The one time she’d impressed was when she’d stood up to him. Few people dared do that.
The look in her eye when she’d used that damned spike heel had, for a moment, arrested him. And the way she’d strode back across the dance floor, with the grace and hauteur of an empress, had made him want to applaud.
At least she had guts. She was no push-over.
The determined click of feminine heels snared his attention and he straightened from the wall.
Instantly the rhythm of those footsteps slowed and a disturbing fire sparked in his blood. He’d felt it each time her eyes collided with his.
Hell! Now he felt it from her mere glance.
A volatile mixture of fury, guilt and some other darker emotion surged to the surface.
This was not the way it should be. Zahir refused to countenance it.
He swung round to face her across the foyer of the nightclub. At this hour even the bouncer had deserted his post. They were alone.
‘You! What are you doing here?’ Her hand crept to her throat, then, as if recognising that for a sign of weakness, she dropped it to her side and lifted her chin. Subtly she widened her stance. What, did she mean to kick him in the groin if he tried to approach her?
It would do her no good, of course. Overpowering her would be a moment’s work.
But that wasn’t an option. Despite her flaws, she would be treated with respect. That was why he’d waited till they had privacy to approach her.
He ignored that ill-advised, inexplicable impulse to approach her on the dance floor.
‘We need to talk.’
But already she was shaking her head. Flyaway strands of dark chocolate tresses swirled around her slender throat.
Zahir forced his focus to her eyes. Dark as ebony, they held his unflinchingly. He gave her full marks for bravado.
‘We have nothing to discuss.’ Her gaze skated across his shoulders, his chest and back up again. ‘If you don’t leave me alone I’ll—’
‘What? Call out for lover-boy to rescue you?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and saw her gaze follow the movement. The low simmer of heat in his veins became a sizzle, igniting a temper he’d almost forgotten he had.
What was it about this woman that got under his skin? It was unheard of.
‘No.’ She took a mobile phone from her purse and flipped it open. ‘I’ll call the police.’
‘Not a wise move, princess.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ She quivered with outrage, her mouth a pout of wrathful indignation.
Too late, Zahir realised why he’d baited her.
Not because she deserved it.
Not because he was naturally crass.
But because he wanted her to look at him, respond to him, as she had on the dance floor. There, despite her defiant words, her body had melted against his just for a moment in an unspoken invitation as old as time.
Hell and damnation!
What was he playing at?
‘Forgive me, Ms Karim.’ Carefully he blanked his expression, speaking in the modulated tones he used when brokering a particularly difficult negotiation.
‘You know my name!’ She stumbled back a half-step, alarm in her eyes.
Registering her fear, Zahir tasted self-disgust on his tongue. Nothing he’d done tonight had gone as intended. Where was his professionalism, his years of experience handling the most difficult and delicate missions?
‘You have nothing to fear.’ He spread his palms in an open gesture.
But she backed up another step, groping behind her for the door into the bar. ‘I don’t hold conversations with strange men in places like this.’ Her gesture encompassed the empty foyer.
Zahir drew a deep breath. ‘Not even a man who comes direct from your bridegroom?’

CHAPTER TWO
SORAYA froze, muscles cramping in shock as that one word reverberated through her stunned brain.
Bridegroom …
No, no! Not yet. Not now. She wasn’t ready.
Her heart rose in her throat, clogging her airways, lurching out of kilter. Her senses swam. It couldn’t be. She had months yet here in Paris—hadn’t she?
Soraya staggered back till the hand behind her met a solid surface. Fingers splayed, she pressed into the wall, needing its support.
Through hazy vision she registered abrupt movement: the stranger striding across the small space, arm raised as if to reach for her.
She stiffened and he slammed to a halt, his hand dropping. This close she should be able to read his expression but in the dim light his features looked like they’d been carved from harsh stone, betraying nothing. His eyes blazed, but with what she couldn’t discern.
At least he didn’t touch her again.
She didn’t want his hand on her. She didn’t like the curious heat that stirred when he did.
She dragged in a deep breath, then another, trying to calm her racing pulse. With him so close, watching like an eagle sighting its prey, it was impossible. She had nowhere to retreat to. And even if she did she knew he’d follow.
He had the grim, resolute aura of a man who finished what he started.
Her heart give a little jagged thump and she forced herself to stand tall. Even in her new shoes she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. He was big—broad across the shoulder and tall. Yet his physical size was only part of the impact. There was something in his eyes …
Soraya jerked her gaze away.
‘You’ve come from Bakhara?’ Her voice was husky.
‘I have.’
She opened her mouth to ask if he’d come direct from him, but the words disintegrated in her dry mouth. It was stupid, but for as long as she didn’t say the words she could almost pretend it wasn’t true.
Yet even in denial Soraya couldn’t pretend this was a mistake. The man before her wasn’t the sort to make mistakes. That poised, lethal stillness spoke a language all its own. There’d be no errors with this man. She shivered, cold to the bones.
‘And you are?’ Soraya forced herself to speak.
One slashing black eyebrow rose, as if he recognised her question for the delay tactic it was.
‘My name is Zahir Adnan El Hashem.’ He sketched an elegant bow that confirmed his story more definitively than any words. It proclaimed him totally at home with the formal etiquette of the royal court.
In jeans, boots and black leather, the movement should have looked out of place, but somehow the casual western clothes only reinforced his hard strength and unyielding posture. And made her think of formidable desert fighters.
Soraya swallowed hard, her flesh chilling.
She’d heard of Zahir El Hashem. Who in Bakhara hadn’t? He was the Emir’s right-hand man. A force to be reckoned with: a renowned warrior and, according to her father, a man fast developing a reputation in the region as a canny but well-regarded diplomat.
Her fingers threaded into a taut knot.
She’d thought he’d be older, given his reputation. But what made her tense was the fact that the Emir had sent him, his most trusted royal advisor. A man rumoured to be as close to the Emir as family. A man known not for kindness but for his uncompromising strength. A man who’d have no compunction about hauling home an unwilling bride.
Her heart sank.
It was true, then. Absolutely, irrefutably true.
Her future had caught up with her.
The future she’d hoped might never eventuate.
‘And you are Soraya Karim.’
It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who she was.
And hated her for it, she realised with a flash of disturbing insight as something flickered in the sea-green depths of those remarkable eyes.
No, not hatred. Something else.
Finally she found her voice, no matter that it was raspy with shock. ‘Why seek me out here? It’s hardly a suitable time to meet.’
His other eyebrow rose and heat flooded her cheeks. He knew she was prevaricating. Did he realise she’d do almost anything not to hear the news he brought?
‘What I have to say is important.’
‘I have no doubt.’ She dragged her hand from the supporting wall and made a show of flicking shut her phone and putting it away. ‘But surely we could discuss it tomorrow at a civilised time?’ She was putting off the inevitable and probably sounding like a spoiled brat in the bargain. But she couldn’t help it. Her blood chilled at the thought of what he’d come all this way to tell her.
‘It’s already tomorrow.’
And he wasn’t going anywhere. His stance said it all.
‘You have no interest in my message?’ He paused, his eyes boring into her as if looking for something he couldn’t find. ‘You’re not concerned with the possibility that I bring bad news?’ His face remained unreadable but there was no mistaking the sharp edge to his voice.
The phone clattered to the floor from Soraya’s nerveless fingers.
‘My father?’ Her hand shot to her mouth, pressing against trembling lips.
‘No!’ Colour deepened the razor-sharp line of his cheekbones. He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. Your father is well. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’
‘If not my father, then—?’
An abrupt gesture stopped her words. ‘My apologies, Ms Karim. I should not have mentioned the possibility. It was thoughtless of me. Let me assure you, everyone close to you is well.’
Close to her. That included the man who’d sent him.
Suddenly, looking into the stormy depths of Zahir El Hashem’s eyes, Soraya realised why he’d pushed her. How unnatural of any woman not to be concerned that sudden news might bring bad tidings about the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.
Guilt hit her. How unnatural was she? Surely she cared about him? He deserved no less. Yet these last months she’d almost fooled herself into believing that future might never come to pass.
No wonder his emissary looked at her so searchingly. Had her response, or lack of it, given her away?
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she murmured, ducking her head to cover the confusion she felt. At her feet lay her phone. She bent to retrieve it only to find her hand meeting his as he scooped the phone up.
His hand was hard, callused, broad of palm and long-fingered. The hand of a man who, despite his familiarity with the royal court, did far more with his days than consider protocol.
The touch of his flesh, warm and so different from her own, made her retreat instinctively, her breath sucking in on a gasp. Or was it the memory of that same hand holding her tight against him on the dance floor? Fire snaked through her veins, making her aware of him as male.
‘Your phone.’
‘Thank you.’ She kept her eyes averted, not wanting to face his searching stare again.
‘Again, I apologise for my clumsiness. For letting you fear—’
‘It’s all right. No harm done.’ Soraya shook her head, wishing it was the case, when all she could think of was that her reaction betrayed her as thoughtless, ungrateful, not deserving the good fortune she’d so enjoyed.
Worse, it was proof positive the doubts she’d begun to harbour had matured into far more than vague dissatisfaction and pie-in-the-sky wishing.
‘Come,’ he said, his voice brusque. ‘We can’t discuss this here.’
Reluctantly Soraya raised her head, taking in the deserted foyer, the muffled music from the club and the mingled scents of cigarette smoke, perfume and sweat.
He was right. She needed to hear the details.
She nodded, exhaustion engulfing her. It was the exhaustion a cornered animal must feel, facing its predator at the end of a long hunt from which there was no escape.
She felt spent. Vulnerable.
Soraya straightened her shoulders. ‘Of course.’
He ushered her out and she felt the warmth of his hand at her back, close but not touching. Something in the quiver of tension between them told her he wouldn’t touch her again. She was grateful for it.
Fingers of pale grey spread across the dawn sky, vying with the streetlights in the deserted alley. She looked around for a long, dark, official-looking vehicle. The place was deserted but for a big motorbike in the shadows.
Where to? She couldn’t take him home; not with Lisle and her boyfriend there. The place was roomy but the walls were thin.
‘This way.’ He ushered her towards the main road then down another side street with a sureness that told her he knew exactly where he was going.
She supposed she should have asked for proof of identity before following him. But she dismissed the thought as another delaying tactic. There was no doubt in her mind that he was who he said.
Besides, she felt like she’d gone three rounds in a boxing ring already. And this had only just started! How would she cope?
A shudder rippled down her spine.
A moment later weighted warmth encompassed her. She faltered to a stop. Around her shoulders swung a man’s heavy leather jacket, lined with soft fabric that held the heat of his body and the clean fragrance of male skin.
Soraya’s nostrils flared as her senses dipped and whirled, dizzy with the invasion of her space and the onslaught of unfamiliar reactions.
‘You were cold.’ His words were clipped. In the gloom his face was unreadable, but his stance proclaimed his distance, mental as well as physical.
He stood tall, the dark fabric of his T-shirt skimming a torso taut with leashed energy. His hands curled and the muscles in his arms bunched, revealing the blatant power his jacket had concealed. Resolutely she stopped her eyes skimming lower to those long denim-clad legs.
He looked potent. Dangerous.
‘Thank you.’ Soraya forced her gaze away, down the street that had begun to stir with carriers hefting boxes. A street market was beginning to take shape.
Relief welled. Surrounded by other people, surely the unfamiliar sensations she felt alone with him would dissipate? She’d been like a cat on burning sand for hours, all because of him.
She dragged his jacket in around her shoulders, telling herself the shock of news from Bakhara unnerved her. Her sense of unreality had nothing to do with the man so stonily silent beside her.
Zahir shortened his pace to match hers. She had long legs but those heels weren’t made for cobblestones. They slowed her walk to a provocative hip-tilting sway far slower than his usual stride.
Resolutely he kept his eyes fixed ahead, not on her undulating walk.
Heat seared his throat and tightened his belly. How could he have been so stupid? So thoughtless? The look on her face when she’d thought he brought bad news about her father had punched a fist of guilt right through his belly.
Damn him for a blundering fool!
All because he’d judged her and found her wanting. Because she wasn’t eager to hear the news from Hussein. Because she didn’t care what tidings he brought if they interfered with her night out.
Because she wasn’t the woman he’d presumed her to be, a woman worthy of Hussein.
Not when she spent the night snuggling up to another man, dancing with him, bewitching him with those enormous, lustrous eyes. Letting him paw her as if he owned her.
Zahir cupped the back of his neck, massaging it to ease the tension there.
Resolutely he shoved aside the whisper of suspicion that he’d have welcomed the chance to keep her in his own arms, feel her lush body pressed close.
This wasn’t about him.
It was about her.
And the man to whom he owed everything.
‘Thank you.’ Soraya hugged the jacket close as he stood aside, holding open the door to a brightly lit café.
Entering, she felt she’d strayed back in time a century. Wooden booths lined the walls, topped with mirrors etched in lush art nouveau designs. There were brass fittings of an earlier age, burnished and welcoming, and posters from a time when women wore corsets and men sported boaters or top hats.
But the whoosh of the gleaming coffee machine was modern, as was the sultry smile the petite, female barista bestowed on Zahir.
Something tweaked tight in Soraya’s stomach. A thread of annoyance.
No wonder he was so sure of himself. He must take feminine adulation as his due.
Not this female.
Her heels clacked across the black-and-white tiled floor, giving the pretence of a confidence she didn’t feel. Her legs shook and each step was an effort.
Sliding into a cushioned seat she focused on the café rather than the man who sat down opposite her.
If she’d had to guess she’d have said he’d favour a place that was sleek, dark and anonymous. Somewhere edgy, like him. Not a café that was traditional and comforting with its beautiful fittings and aura of quiet bustle.
A waitress had followed them to their table, her eyes on Zahir as they ordered.
He was worth looking at, Soraya grudgingly admitted, averting her gaze from his hard, sculpted jaw with its intriguing hint of morning shadow.
‘You’ve come all the way from Bakhara,’ she said flatly when they were alone. ‘Why?’
She needed to hear it spelled out, even though there was only one reason he could be here.
‘I come with a message from the Emir.’
Soraya nodded, swallowing a lump in her dry throat. Tension drilled down her spine. ‘And?’
‘The Emir sends greetings and enquires after your wellbeing.’
She speared him with a look. An enquiry after her health? That could have been done through her father, who updated the Emir on her progress. Suddenly she was impatient to hear the worst. The delay notched her tension higher.
‘I’m well.’ She kept her tone even, despite the fact she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. ‘And the Emir? I hope he is in good health.’
‘The Emir is in excellent health.’ It was the expected response in the polite give-and-take of formal courtesy.
The sort of courtesy that had been so completely lacking in her dealings with this man.
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.

CHAPTER THREE
SORAYA 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.
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.’

CHAPTER FOUR
‘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.

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