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Surely that curved knife was for show? Sultan Asim was renowned for diplomacy and leadership, not violence. Nevertheless she crept a little further away.
‘You intend to write about the women of the palace? And my grandmother agreed?’ His voice was a bass rumble that made her skin ripple.
Jacqui planted her feet, refusing to back up again. ‘She not only agreed, she was enthusiastic.’
What was his problem? He hadn’t looked this menacing even when they’d spoken of Imran. This was about something else.
‘I find that difficult to believe.’ He shook his head, folding his arms across his wide chest. The light of battle disappeared from his eyes, replaced by condescension as he looked down that sexy, arrogant nose of his.
‘I assure you, Your Highness, I’m not in the habit of lying.’ Anger took her across the room till she stood only an arm’s length away. He might be lord of all he surveyed but that didn’t give him the right to call her a liar.
She breathed deep then regretted it as she inhaled the hot, enticing scent of his skin. It infuriated her that she noticed it. She fixed her gaze on his face and ignored the predatory glint she saw there. This time, instead of frightening her, it spurred her on.
‘When I told your grandmother I wanted to write about the traditions of the harem, she was enthusiastic. That way of life has disappeared and I want to document it.’
‘You want to write about women from the past?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Jacqui frowned. ‘The women of the palace and their lives here. Or perhaps you think women’s stories aren’t important?’ The challenge slid out before she could stop it. She was on a roll, too keyed up to pull back, though she knew she should.
Maybe because living dangerously was far more appealing than the dark nothingness she’d inhabited these past months.
Tonight, for the first time in ages, she felt blood pump in her veins. She felt alive.
‘History is about more than wars and politics and who runs the country. What happens on a domestic level is important too.’
‘Yet you made your name chasing stories about wars and politics and who run countries across the globe.’
Jacqui blinked, rocked by the fact he knew about her career. And by the reminder of all she’d lost.
‘I’m interested in a lot of things. My background in news journalism doesn’t mean I can’t branch into something different.’
At least she hoped it didn’t. Nerves made her stomach clench and her palms dampen.
She didn’t know yet if she had what it took to make this dream a reality. But it was the only dream left to her. She’d cling to it with both hands. She owed it to her friend and to herself.
The Sultan surveyed her silently, as if she were a curiosity. Because no one ever stood up to him? She was pretty sure royal protocol didn’t allow for contradicting the sovereign.
Jacqui drew a shaky breath and prayed she hadn’t blown her one chance. She couldn’t fail before she’d even started.
‘Your grandmother is one of the few people who remember such a life here. She’s a valuable resource and it would be criminal not to record what she remembers. This is part of Jazeer’s culture and history.’
‘You’re very passionate about this.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being passionate about what you do.’
Unless it leads you and your friends into danger.
Unless it destroys lives.
Memory was a sucker-punch to the belly. Her shoulders hunched, the pain almost doubling her over. Here she was, arguing trifles when Imran would never again feel the sun on his face or see his family. Because she had led him into danger. Maybe it was only just that she’d lost her career, her old life, as a result. Maybe she deserved to.
A firm hand closed around her upper arm, holding her steady.
‘Slow breaths.’
Jacqui closed her eyes and nodded, focusing on breathing out through the pain.
The heat of his big frame radiated against her, counteracting the chill deep in her bones. The reassurance of his grip seeped strength into limbs that had turned limp.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better if you sit.’
Jacqui opened her eyes as he led her to the bed. She almost sighed out loud with relief as she sank onto it. Immediately he withdrew his hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘You shouldn’t exert yourself. You were distressed earlier and that took a toll.’
Dully, she nodded. ‘I’m...’ She shook her head.
What could she say? I’m a mess right now might be the truth but she had just enough pride left not to blurt that out. Though after the last half-hour baring herself to this man physically and emotionally she didn’t have much dignity left.
‘What’s so funny?’
Jacqui lifted her face to find him a mere step away, a frown marking that broad, handsome brow.
She bit down a half-hysterical laugh.
‘Just myself.’
If she didn’t laugh she’d curl up in a ball and sob. She’d probably blown her chance to work on this wonderful project. It had shone like a beacon, dragging her out of the inertia of despair and fear.
‘Can you dress yourself?’
Jacqui blinked. Was he offering to do it for her? Her over-tired brain boggled.
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Be dressed and ready to move in ten minutes.’ Having given the order, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room, only pausing to be sure the door snicked shut behind him.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_6f49cc19-b5d7-54a6-8595-226c09fe7331)
ASIM PACED THE COURTYARD, resolutely dragging his mind from imagining Jacqueline Fletcher discarding her less than adequate covering.
She was an enigma. Passionate and argumentative, not knowing when to give up. Fiery yet vulnerable. That made him want to ignore the danger she represented.
His desire to protect her was equalled by a burning desire of another kind and that was unnerving.
Yet he wanted to blame her for being alive when Imran wasn’t.
He spun on his heel.
What was his grandmother thinking, inviting a journalist here? Having a professional snoop under the same roof—no matter how large a roof—invited trouble. Any further invasion of his sister Samira’s privacy could tip her into a complete breakdown. The doctors hadn’t said it outright but it was what they feared.
His stomach knotted. Samira had endured so much because he’d failed to protect her. The knowledge ate at him like acid.
Reluctantly he’d supported her plan to study overseas, only to learn she’d embarked on a passionate affair with a Hollywood actor who was the epitome of shallow self-absorption. But Samira had had stars in her eyes, had talked of marriage and hadn’t seen him for what he was.
She’d only found out when he’d been discovered in bed with his co-star by the woman’s wrathful husband. Acrimonious divorce proceedings had ensued, eagerly reported by the press. Scandal grew with stories of multiple infidelities, drug use and even the corruption of minors.
Samira was an innocent party in the morass of stomach-turning revelations about her boyfriend and his co-star. But the press didn’t let up. Once the darling of the paparazzi with her stunning looks, aristocratic heritage and high-profile romance, now she was their prey.
She’d sought refuge here. Only he and his grandmother and a few select staff knew that, as well as being heartbroken, Samira had to recuperate physically too. That story would never make it into the press.
He’d never known fear such as he’d experienced when he’d thought he might lose her. He’d felt so ineffectual. But this, now, was a situation he could control.
Asim grimaced, raking his fingers through his hair. He’d do whatever it took to keep his little sister safe. He wouldn’t fail her again.
Had Jacqueline Fletcher told the truth about writing a book? Or was it a ploy to get a scoop on Samira?
Suspicion ran deep in Asim. How could it not after he’d witnessed the web of lies that had been his parents’ marriage? How could he trust the woman who’d been caught up in Imran’s death?
Yet he couldn’t get a handle on her. He knew she was a respected news reporter. She was Australian, though she’d spent years in Africa, Asia and the Middle East. He knew she’d been with Imran when he died.
Everything else was speculation.
Speculation and an unhealthy dollop of attraction.
Asim shook his head, fed up with his circling thoughts. It was time.
He knocked but didn’t enter. Better to be sure she was decently covered. The door swung inwards.
‘You!’ Those stunning eyes widened and it struck him again how fragile she looked. Was that real or some trick?
Asim stepped inside and she shifted back.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘You surprised me. I expected one of the servants.’
Is that why she was dressed in drab trousers and a navy top that leached the colour from her face? She wore no make-up and had pulled her hair back in a ponytail.
And still arousal beat low in his belly.
He frowned. Just because he’d seen this woman naked didn’t mean he was going to have her in his bed, no matter what his body wanted. He had more sense than to hook up with a journalist. After what had happened to Samira, how could he? Besides, his women were always poised, polished and beautifully dressed, at least to begin with.
Jacqueline Fletcher was...no; not ordinary. Not with those eyes or that mouth. But nor was she sophisticated.
‘It’s after one a.m. Why wake someone when I can lead the way?’ Besides, he intended to keep a personal eye on her.
He scanned the neatly made bed then picked up the single suitcase and laptop bag. She travelled light. His sister had arrived with more than half a dozen cases, probably full of shoes. ‘Is this all?’
‘Yes, but I’ll take the laptop.’ She reached out but at a look from him her arm fell.
Why so eager to take the computer? Because she had something there she didn’t want him to see or simply a journalist’s instinct to protect the tool of her trade? Suspicion stirred anew.
‘I can just about manage them both.’ He nodded to the door. ‘After you.’
She moved with a grace that belied tiredness or nerves. Baggy trousers hid her slender curves but his mind filled the blanks.
Asim turned off the lamp and followed. In the dim corridor it took a moment for his eyes to adjust but he sensed when he reached her. His nostrils twitched as the sweet tang of her perfume reached him. Something fruity and light that made him think of summer.
‘I’ll lead. Just watch your step. The old tiles are uneven.’
Silently she fell into step.
His mouth quirked. Who’d have thought this woman could be so biddable?
On the other hand, there’d been something curiously refreshing about the way she’d continued to argue her case after he’d stated his decision. Maybe Imran had been right and he was too used to getting his own way now he’d been Sultan so long.
His cousin had liked her, he recalled with a pang that crushed his smile.
‘Where are we going?’ Her long legs stretched to match his stride. Automatically he eased his pace.
‘To a guest apartment where you won’t be disturbed.’ More to the point, she wouldn’t have a chance to disturb anyone else.
‘I’m very grateful for you taking the time to see me settled.’ She was like a prim little girl reciting polite words she’d been taught.
If only she knew. Asim took her personally to her new accommodation because he didn’t trust her. As soon as he had her installed he’d call security to ensure she didn’t indulge in any night-time prowling. He refused to compromise Samira’s safety.
‘Is it in a modern part of the palace?’
‘Yes, completed in the last ten years.’ When he’d become ruler his one indulgence had been to build a suite of modern rooms for his own use and that of his private guests. The apartments his parents had used were too full of memories he’d rather forget.
‘That will be...nice.’
Asim shot her a glance. ‘They’re very comfortable.’
‘I’m sure they are.’ She didn’t sound enthused.
‘But? There’s a “but” in there.’
‘Of course not.’ He waited. Finally she added, ‘It’s just that I barely had time to explore the old rooms and they were so beautiful. That wall painting, for instance, with the climbing roses and the birds. It was magnificent.’
Curiosity stirred. ‘You would like to stay in a place like that? Beautiful but cut off from the world?’ It wasn’t what he expected.
Moonlight lit her features as they passed through another courtyard. She looked serious, as if considering. ‘It has a certain appeal. I’d enjoy it...for a while. But I’m a modern woman. Seclusion would lose its charm and I’d end up feeling trapped with nothing to do.’
‘The women who lived there kept busy.’
She turned. ‘Pleasing the Sultan? Being available to meet his every need?’
