Annie West - Defying her Desert Duty

‘I’m pretty sure it’s against the law to break a contract with the nation’s ruler.’ Her laugh was hollow. ‘Besides …’ she lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye ‘… what man would dare steal the Emir’s bride? He’d be punished, surely?’

Soraya’s upturned face was beautiful, her eyes almost beseeching, and Zahir knew a crazy urge to kiss her till the world faded and all that was left was them.

‘He’d lose all claim to honour or loyalty to the crown.’ Zahir said slowly, feeling the full weight of such a prospect. He’d made honour and loyalty his life. ‘He’d never be able to hold his head up again. He’d be stripped of official titles and positions and the council of elders would banish him from Bakhara.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Hussein could never call him friend again.’

‘As I thought.’ Her hands dropped and she stepped abruptly out of his hold. ‘No man would even consider it.’

ANNIE WESTspent her childhood with her nose between the covers of a book—a habit she retains. After years preparing government reports and official correspondence she decided to write something she really enjoys. And there’s nothing she loves more than a great romance. Despite her office-bound past she has managed a few interesting moments—including a marriage offer with the promise of a herd of camels to sweeten the contract. She is happily married to her ever-patient husband (who has never owned a dromedary). They live with their two children amongst the tall eucalypts at beautiful Lake Macquarie, on Australia’s east coast. You can e-mail Annie at www.annie-west.com, or write to her at PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

Recent titles by the same author:

UNDONE BY HIS TOUCH

GIRL IN THE BEDOUIN TENT

PRINCE OF SCANDAL

PASSION, PURITY AND THE PRINCE

Defying her

Desert Duty

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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HE WAS watching her.

Still.

Soraya’s nape prickled. A ripple of hot sensation skated down her arms. She fought the need to look up, knowing what she’d see.

The man in the shadows.

Big. Dark. Broad-shouldered in his leather jacket, the hard lines of his face a study in masculine strength. His upper face was in shadow yet every time she looked across the dimly lit bar there was no doubt his gaze was fixed on her. She felt the intensity of that look in her sizzling blood. And in the curious breathless catch in her throat.

His interest unsettled Soraya. She leaned closer to her group: Raoul and Jean Paul debating politics while Michelle and Marie talked fashion. Raoul roped a negligent arm around her shoulders. Instantly she stiffened, then forced herself to relax, reminding herself it was just a friendly gesture.

Soraya loved Paris’s casual lifestyle, but still hadn’t overcome her reserve. You could take the girl out of Bakhara but Bakhara still lingered in the girl. Her lips twisted. She’d no need of the chaperone her father had wanted to send.

Movement caught her eye and despite her intentions she turned.

He hadn’t moved; he still leaned back just beyond the flickering light of the candle on his table. But now he looked up at a leggy blonde in a red satin mini-dress. The woman leaned in, her low-cut neckline a blatant invitation.

Soraya snapped her head back to her friends, ignoring the way Raoul tightened his hold.

Zahir sank back in his chair and cradled his drink, its cool condensation a respite from the heat. A heat that owed nothing to the close atmosphere of the nightclub and everything to the woman on the other side of the room.

What the devil had he walked into?

Simple, Hussein had said. Straightforward.

Zahir shook his head. Every sense screamed ‘alert’. Every instinct warned of trouble.

Still he remained. He had no choice. Now he’d found her, he couldn’t leave.

He tipped his head back so the ice slid into his mouth. He crunched it hard, as if the shock of cold might restore his equanimity.

It would take more than ice to counteract his tension.

In other circumstances he might have taken up the invitation of the voluptuous Swedish girl in the short dress. He enjoyed life’s pleasures—in his down time.

Never at the expense of his duty.

Tonight was duty, responsibility, obligation.

Yet it was something more too. Something … unfamiliar, evoked by sloe-dark eyes and a full Cupid’s bow mouth. By the woman hanging on the words of a scrawny intellectual pontificating as if he had any idea how to run a country!

Zahir snorted and put down his glass.

Whatever it was he felt, he didn’t like it. It was a complication he didn’t need. Zahir had spent a lifetime learning how to cut through complications.

Over the years he’d learned to curb his impatience. Now he mostly used a statesman’s skills: negotiation and discretion. But he’d trained as a warrior from birth. He was still technically head of the Emir’s bodyguard, a position that gave opportunities for the satisfaction of hard, physical combat. The clash of one man against another.

He surveyed the poseur who was boasting of his intellect and pulling the woman in the dark dress close. The Frenchman’s hand hovered near her bare arm. Zahir’s fist tightened.

He’d like to get his hands on that buffoon and give him a short, sharp lesson in the real meaning of power.

The intensity of his bloodlust brought him up short.

Premonition skittered like icy fingers down his spine.

This mission was a mistake. He felt it in his bones.

Soraya moved back as far as Raoul’s encircling arms allowed.

It was ridiculously late and she’d rather be home in bed. Except her flatmate Lisle had finally made peace with her boyfriend and Soraya knew they needed privacy, even if it meant staying out till dawn. Lisle had been a good friend and friendship was something precious to her.

But she’d made a mistake, finally agreeing to dance with Raoul. She frowned and shifted his straying hand.

Usually Soraya didn’t make such mistakes. Keeping her distance from men came naturally. She’d acted out of character, spooked by the need to escape the stranger’s unnerving stare. It had made her feel … heated. Aware.

Yet even now she felt his gaze like a brand on her back, her bare arms, her cheeks.

What did he want ? She wasn’t eye-catching. Her dress was modest—positively maidenly, Lisle would say.

Soraya wanted to march across the room and demand he stop it. But this was Paris. Men stared at women all the time. It was a national pastime.

Raoul’s marauding hand cut her line of thought and she stiffened. Enough was enough. ‘Stop it! Move your hand or—’