Defying her Desert Duty

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.