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He was so instantly recognisable—apart from the black beard that shaded his angular jaw—she would have known who he was immediately. But there was something deeply personal that held her back from giving him her name. What if he didn’t remember her? If he stared at her blankly, unable to recall any Aziza from so long ago? Her father would have laughed at the thought that he might recall her, and it was foolish to let herself be hurt by the possibility—the probability—that he would not remember her as she did him. But something small and hidden deep inside her shrank from even taking the risk.
‘If you will forgive me...’
She had turned towards the doors into the main palace when he stirred again and his voice came from behind her.
‘Don’t go!’
Nabil had no idea what made him say it. Why the hell should he want anyone to stay with him when at last he had found the solitude and silence of the balcony that should have been balm to his barren soul? But, now that this slip of a woman was so obviously intent on hurrying away and leaving him there, he knew a sudden new rush of emptiness piled on emptiness that had always been there, and the words had escaped him without thought.
‘Highness?’
She hadn’t been expecting them either. It was obvious from the way that she started as if she’d been hit, froze, then whirled back to face him. In the moonlight her eyes were wide and dark.
‘Don’t go. Stay a while.’
He pitched it as a command, not a request, and saw the change in her expression as he did so. For a second her clouded gaze slid to the open door, where the light from the ballroom spilled out on to the balcony, the hum of voices and clink of glasses drifting out to them on the night air. But then she obviously decided on the wisdom of obeying him and she dipped once more into a deferential curtsey.
‘And stop doing that,’ Nabil growled. It wasn’t subservience or submissiveness he wanted now. What he wanted was...
What?
Damnation, if he couldn’t answer that himself then what could he ask from her?
‘Sir’ was all she said, but there was a new light in her eyes and an unexpected tilt to the pretty chin as she looked up at him. Not defiance, quite, but there was something very different there. Something that tugged on a sliver of memory that flickered for a moment in his thoughts and then went out again.
She kept her distance now, deliberately leaving several paces between them. But it was not enough to prevent the swirl of her perfume reaching out to him. The richness of sandalwood and jasmine tantalised his nostrils, stirring his senses in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. The kick of his heart and sudden heating of his blood was a shock to his system, making his pulse pound in unexpected response. It was so long since he had felt this way that the rush of sexual hunger made his senses spin. For years the most beautiful, sensual women had tried to create this effect in him and failed, and now some small, insignificant female had set his libido smouldering in a way he had almost forgotten could happen.
‘Should I fetch you a drink?’
She had seen the way his tongue had slipped out, moistening unexpectedly dry lips, and had misread the gesture. It jolted him to think that she had been watching him so closely.
‘No—I’m fine.’
What was she? A maid? ‘I’m with Jamalia,’ she had said, and she must mean the eldest daughter of the El Afarim family.
He knew a scowl had darkened his face but he made no effort to hold it back. The thought of Farouk El Afarim and his family, the reasons why they were parading the beautiful Jamalia before him, brought with it a scratch of discomfort that scraped over his nerves. He had wanted to forget for tonight—needed no reminders of the unrest that was threatening again, the importance of ensuring El Afarim’s loyalty with a valuable treaty to stop him defecting to the rebels’ side.
‘Just stay—and talk.’
‘About what?’
‘Anything. For example...’ He waved a hand to draw her eyes away from the balcony on which they stood, towards the lights of the city and beyond, to the horizon where the mountains lifted towards the sky. ‘What do you see out there?’
‘What do I see?’ Another questioning glance but she still turned from him, taking several steps towards the parapet, leaning against it as she gazed out at the scene spread below them. ‘Why do you ask?’
Another question he couldn’t answer. He had to admit that he wanted to see that view—and all it represented—through her eyes. If it was the price of everything that was to come, then he wanted to know he was not the only one who valued it. That it was worth the decision he had made.
‘Humour me.’
The truth was that he wanted to keep her with him a while longer. To talk with someone who was not connected with the demands and debates, the treaties and the dissensions that had filled his life these past months. Someone who didn’t need to be treated diplomatically all the time, or who made him watch his tongue so carefully that it felt almost bitten through with the times he’d had to hold back impatient words.
To spend more time with someone who stirred his senses in a way that no one had in the time that he could remember. It was like coming alive again and he wanted more of it.
For a moment he seriously considered making a move on her. She was up for it; there was no doubt about that. He could see it in her face, hear it in her voice, in that little breathless hiccup that shaded each word. If he did try to take things further, she would not resist.
He let those seconds linger, tasted them on his tongue, in his blood. He savoured the feelings that had been almost dead to him for so long, welcoming them, relishing them. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he let them go, throwing them aside as no longer for him. If there was one thing that the past ten years had taught him, it was that that sort of empty relationship, the connection that blinded him for a few hours, driving away the darkness for a night, in the end had nothing that was a real result. The darkness was still there when he woke and it always felt so much the worse in the cold light of day after having been hidden behind the intoxication of wild and mindless sex in a heated bed for the night.
He should let her go. He should turn and walk away but his senses held him captive. And when she spoke again just the sound of her voice was like a signal, beckoning him closer.
‘What I see...’
Aziza was both glad and reluctant to turn her eyes away from the man before her and focus them on the scene below. It wasn’t easy. In the moment that she had turned away he must have moved closer so that she heard the soft whisper of his robes drifting over the stone. She could almost feel the heat of his body touching her, and the scent of musk and clean skin that swirled around her like perfumed smoke made her senses swim. It dried her lips, tightened her throat so that she snatched in a raw breath to ease the feeling.
‘You must know what there is there now—even if you can’t actually see it. You must look out at it every day and see the sea to the right—Alazar over towards the mountain—and here...’
Her voice cracked, breath shortening as the arm she used to gesture with caught on the fine material of his robe, bringing home to her just how close he was now.
‘And here...?’
Was that stiffness in his tone created by anything like the way her own tongue felt as she struggled to speak? Was it possible that he had actually come closer because he too recognised the darkly sensual tug of attraction that she had known from the moment she had looked up into his face, focusing on the dark depths of his eyes, the rich sensuality of his beautifully shaped mouth in the black shadow of his beard? This was nothing of the childish, immature hero-worship of the five-year-old who had first met Nabil and given her heart to him. It wasn’t even anything like the ardent crush that hero-worship had developed into as she had discovered the passionate feelings of adolescence.
No, this was the response of a grown woman to a mature and powerful man. A man who roused all that was feminine in her. But a man she must keep her distance from, keeping in mind just why she and her family were here. It was Jamalia he was supposed to notice, not her.
‘You know what I see here, sire. Out there is Hazibah—the capital—your capital. And there...’
Her voice faltered for a moment then picked up strength as she acknowledged that she could at least speak the truth on this. Here she had nothing to hide.
‘There are hundreds of people out there—thousands. Husbands and wives, families and children, all of whom are enjoying the evening—the peace—because of you.’
‘Because of me—do you truly think it?’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_49f37ae0-6a91-5ca3-a364-689d55507d5a)
THE SOUND HE made was one of obvious scepticism, low and rough in his throat, and it brought her whirling round to face him once again.
‘It’s true! How can you even doubt it?’
Dear heaven how had he come to be so close? She had barely noticed him move and yet all her senses had been on such high alert that she should have caught even the tiniest movement. But now she was staring him right in the face, eyes burning into eyes, their breaths almost seeming to mingle in the cool of the evening air.
‘After all that happened—all you endured...’
She wasn’t getting through to him. She might as well be throwing her words at a stone wall for all the impact they made. But she had lived through those times and she knew of the fear that had gripped the country when a rebel group had turned against the young Crown Prince and tried to stage an uprising.
‘All that I endured?’ How could he lace a single syllable with such black cynicism? ‘What do you know of it?’
‘Doesn’t everyone know?’
Even at just thirteen, she had been starkly aware of those shocking television images. The crack of gunfire, the way that everyone had frozen just for a moment. Then security men had rushed forward, some towards the steps of the library where Nabil and his young Queen had been standing, others in the opposite direction in search of the would-be assassin. How could anyone ever forget the image of Nabil sinking to the ground, ignoring the blood streaming from the wound on his left cheek, as he cradled his mortally wounded Queen in protective arms?
Wasn’t it this that had kept alive the flame of the torch she had carried for him from the first moment they had met? Even through the long years when he had been so distant, just a remote, untouchable figure glimpsed at one public event or another.
‘If you had behaved differently there might have been civil war—worse—but the example you gave when your wife died...’
Now what had she said? She had wanted to express her admiration for him, her respect for the way he had handled a difficult, tragic situation, but instead it was as if she had tossed some bitter acid right in his face. His dark head snapped back, burning eyes narrowing sharply as he turned a shockingly cynical glance in her direction. The cold moonlight caught on the white scar on his cheek, a stark reminder of that terrible day.
‘I don’t think about it,’ he stated flatly. ‘I don’t want to remember any of that.’
The words were so cold that they slashed at her like a blade of ice but the frightening thing was that at the same time just the simple action of speaking brought him closer to her. The aggressive jut of his jaw was now just inches away from her face, the brilliant glitter of his eyes like polished jet in the moonlight. His powerful body shut out the light from the windows, from the moon, and there was just him, a dark and dangerous shadow looming over her.
She should feel afraid. Common sense screamed at her that she should move hastily away from here, away from him. But, shockingly, something else spread through her body at his nearness, something that held her where she was, unable to move.
It wasn’t fear, or even apprehension that fizzed through her veins. No, Aziza had to admit that what she felt was a stinging, burning excitement that was purely and totally feminine and focused tightly on the forceful masculinity of the man before her. The scent of his body surrounded her. She could feel the heat of his skin reach out to her, and that powerful jaw was so close that if she was to lift one hand...
‘What the hell...?’
Nabil’s snapped response sliced through the air, making her start in shock and realise what she’d done. Impelled by forces that were more potent than rational thought, she had actually put her feelings into action and had stretched out her hand to stroke lightly over the black hairs of his beard, feeling their crisp softness beneath her fingertips.
‘What are you doing?’
She should listen to the dangerous note in his voice and heed the warning in it. She was sure she had broken some code of behaviour when in the presence of the Sheikh—and that touching him was positively forbidden—but she couldn’t regret it. The feel of his beard against her skin was intoxicating, sending electrical shivers down her nerves. There were grey wings in the glossy black hair, at each side of his head, revealing the way that the passage of time had affected him and there, on the left side of his cheek, was that raised and ridged line of scar tissue, not quite hidden under the luxuriant growth of facial hair. She felt him start and tense as she touched it, and knew a shiver of apprehension, but at the same time those feelings were tangled with a heartfelt sensation of concern and sympathy for the darkness of the memories he had tried to hide behind the words, ‘I don’t want to remember any of that.’
‘I can see why you feel that way.’
The faltering softness of her voice brought his head in closer to catch the words so that now his mouth was just inches above her own. She saw the tightness that had clamped his lips together ease and felt her own mouth soften, lips opening as she tilted her head to one side, feeling the warmth of his breath on her cheek.
‘I understand.’
Did he plan to kiss her? The words had barely had time to register in her thoughts before they were pushed away again, driven out by the violence of his response.
‘You understand?’ Nabil demanded in a dark undertone. ‘Oh, you do, do you? And what, precisely, is it that you understand?’
‘I— You...’
Caught up sharp when she was still drifting on the heated waves of awareness that just touching him had brought to the surface, Aziza found the words had tangled up on her tongue and she couldn’t get them out. How had she found herself in this situation, here on this darkened terrace with the man who was ruler of all of Rhastaan?
But he was more than a sheikh, he was a man, a dark, powerful male. A man who was like a force of nature, hard and strong as the mountains that bordered his country, and she had overstepped some mark with him, trampling in where angels feared to tread and so sparking off some terrible wave of rejection and fury that she didn’t understand.
‘What do you know of me? Of anything?’
Nabil moved forward, reaching out to capture her chin in long, powerful fingers, twisting her head so that she was looking up at him, unable to avoid his burning gaze unless she closed her own eyes. Something she didn’t dare to do.
‘What can you tell me that I don’t know already?’
Nabil was having such trouble controlling the force of his feelings that his voice was just a dark, intent hiss of sound. Her words had hit on things he didn’t want to remember; things he didn’t want to let into his mind. He’d faced them once and it had almost destroyed him. Not again. Not now.
Not when this woman was before him, curvaceous, dark-haired and wide-eyed, reminding him so much of Sharmila. The woman who had died in his arms, taking the bullet that had been meant for him in a bungled assassination attempt. He had felt the impact of that attack in the way she had shuddered in his arms before she had crumpled to the ground. It was only much later that he’d realised that the bullet had nicked his own face, gouging a raw wound along his cheekbone on its way to a much more vulnerable, more valuable target.
But by then he had been unable to care about anything that happened to him because the bullet that had ended his young wife’s life had also taken his country’s future. The hole her death had left in his own life was something he flinched away from even now. Sharmila had been pregnant with the heir to his throne when she’d died, and the gap that had left in the heart of the country was one he had yet to fill.
Which was why he was going to have to make a decision some time very soon. As everyone kept reminding him. Even Clemmie had advised him, gently of course, that the country desperately needed an heir. He had no time, should have no inclination, for any dalliance with a woman he had just met by chance.
The twist of Zia’s head, pulling away from his fingers, dragged Nabil back into the present, and he wasn’t any happier to be there. The bitterness of memory lingered, making him tighten his grip, holding her still for a moment.
‘You know nothing,’ he said, dark and dangerous. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘I saw...’
‘You saw what you wanted to see—what everyone wanted to see. And it has nothing to do with you.’
Her swiftly indrawn breath brought his eyes down to where her soft mouth was partly open, exposing sharp white teeth. As he watched he saw her pink tongue slip out and slick hastily over her dry lips, the tiny gesture making his pulse pound in primal response. Some change in the position of her head brought her face closer to his, the feel of her skin soft against his gripping fingertips.
How did she make him want her so much when he had felt only indifference for so long? The soft sheen of moisture that lingered where her tongue had touched her lips made his own mouth hunger for the taste of her.
One night...
Even as his body put the suggestion into his mind, rational thought was pushing it away again. He was not going down this path again, even if her slender body was pure temptation, the need to hold her close making him ache with the battle against carnal hunger that threatened to destroy rational thought.
‘You want me to kiss you, do you?’
He turned his own thoughts against her and felt a grim satisfaction as he saw the faint start of surprise that revealed the truth of the accusation he had flung at her.
‘Is that really what you want? You stupid little fool—you wouldn’t even know who you were kissing. What kind of man you wanted...’
A new wave of sound from inside the palace intruded into the dark, private world they had built for themselves out here on the balcony, reminding him once again of his royal duties. He had lingered too long out here, balanced precariously on the edge of self-indulgence. Duty called. The duty he could never escape. It was time he took some much-needed steps away from temptation.
But every male instinct in him rebelled at the thought of leaving her untouched.
‘I...’
Aziza had no idea how she could answer him. She had wanted his kiss. How could she deny it when it must have been written on her face, stamped into her eyes? But did she still want it?
Fool that she was, the answer was yes.
And, double fool that she was, he must have seen that truth in her eyes. That hand that was clamped about her chin tightened bruisingly. He pulled her face towards his with a strength she could not resist, and the next moment his mouth came down hard on hers, brutal, ruthless, demanding, but in the same moment shockingly sensual too. White heat flew through her veins, leaving her stunned that she actually didn’t go up in flames with the stunning, primitive nature of her unexpectedly wild response. Her legs seemed to melt in the heat, her head spinning in a stunned delirium. With no control over her actions, she opened her lips to his, let him plunder the soft interior of her mouth and met the invasion of his tongue with the dance of her own.
But it was as she gave herself up to his kiss that she felt the sudden change in him, the snatched in breath, the stiffening of his muscular body.
‘No...’
With a speed and ruthless determination that made the gesture one of brutal rejection, he snatched his hand away from her face.
‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘You are dismissed.’
Dismissed?
Who did he think she was? Not Aziza El Afarim, that was for sure. Nabil would never have treated her father’s daughter in this way. But then of course this Nabil was not the boy she had known. In his eyes she was nothing more than the maid she had claimed to be, the one who had given her name as Zia. Not ‘the beautiful one’ but the second El Afarim daughter. The ‘spare’ to Jamalia’s heiress, the problematic one as her father so often reminded her.
So she knew who he was, but this wasn’t the Nabil she knew—had thought she knew. This was a harder man, a darker man. Someone she no longer recognised or even wanted to understand.
