Annie West - Defying her Desert Duty

‘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.