Defying her Desert Duty

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.