Defying her Desert Duty

‘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?