Defying her Desert Duty

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.’