The Forced Bride Of Alazar

‘Oh, well, then. You’re the voice of experience, I suppose.’ He shook his head, clearly disgusted, and pulled her, gently at least, towards the waiting limousine. This time Johara went without a murmur.

She clambered into the luxurious interior, the leather sumptuous and soft against her bare legs. Azim climbed in next to her and barked out an address to the driver before slamming the door and leaning back against the seat.

Realisations were firing through Johara, short-circuiting her synapses. ‘Was it really...?’ she began through trembling lips.

‘Yes,’ Azim stated flatly. ‘It was.’

Her teeth started to chatter as she realised how close she’d come to utter disaster. She could have been raped. She could have been sold into sexual slavery. She could have been... She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. She could hardly bear to think of it.

‘Are you cold?’ Azim demanded, and Johara shook her head. She wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

He eyed her for a moment, his expression utterly fierce, before he reached forward to the limo’s minibar and poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. ‘Here. Drink this. It will help.’

Her numb fingers curled around the glass. ‘Help...?’

‘You’re in shock.’

She glanced down at the amber liquid, its pungent smell making her grimace. ‘I’ve never drunk hard alcohol before.’

‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Azim watched her, his very gaze commanding her to drink, and Johara raised the glass to her lips.

The whisky burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. Somehow she managed not to sputter, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, thrusting the glass back at Azim.

‘No more.’

A tiny smile curved his mouth, making his scar pucker. ‘Not bad for the first time. You didn’t cough.’

‘I wanted to.’

‘You have strength of spirit.’ From his tone she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

She turned to look out of the window, unsettled by the sudden and overwhelming turn of events. Outside the limo the streets of Paris streamed by in an electric blur.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few tense, silent minutes had ticked by.

‘To my flat.’

‘How did you find me? Easily, I know, but...’

‘Your driver alerted your father, who told me.’

So her father had betrayed her yet again. She wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. ‘Was he angry?’

‘Furious,’ Azim answered shortly. ‘What did you expect?’

For someone who loved her to think about her happiness. But of course her father had never really loved her. How long, she wondered, was that going to hurt? ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. She felt tired and near tears, trapped and humiliated, as if she were a naughty child being marched to the corner.

‘Even I did not think you would be so stupid and selfish as to run away,’ Azim said. Anger thrummed through his voice. ‘Even though you had made it clear what you thought of our forthcoming marriage.’

‘As did you,’ Johara returned, half amazed by her own audacity. She never spoke to her father, or anyone, like this. It felt good to speak her mind to someone, even if she’d regret it later.

‘So I did.’ Azim was silent for a moment and Johara found herself suddenly conscious of his nearness, the powerful length of his thigh brushing hers on the seat. She could smell his aftershave, the mingled aromas of sandalwood and cedar. Her senses stirred in a way that felt unfamiliar and intriguing. She had a bizarre desire to shift closer, to feel the length of his leg against her own, a prospect that horrified her. This man was her enemy. He was also, unless she managed a miracle, going to be her husband.

Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’

‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?

‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’

‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.

‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.

‘Is there where you live?’

‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.

The slide of his strong hand against hers was an unexpected jolt, as if she’d touched a live wire. Shocked by the sensation, she let out a gasp, and then registered Azim’s cool smile of satisfaction with wary confusion.

The smile disappeared as soon as she’d noted it, their gazes locking in a taut battle of wills before Azim dropped her hand and turned towards the building. On legs as shaky as the rest of her, Johara followed.

CHAPTER FOUR (#uf2605fab-884b-5e3b-9981-4b5eec157bea)

A THOUSAND THOUGHTS and feelings whirled through Azim as he stalked through the foyer of the apartment building, ignoring the concierge’s murmured pleasantries. Foremost was fury, that Johara had shamed him in such a way by publicly absconding days before their marriage. After that came disgust, that he’d led her to do such a thing. As angry as he was about her runaway attempt, he knew he’d handled their first meeting badly. He just didn’t know if he had it in him to make amends.

Beyond those two negative emotions was a deep-seated relief that he’d saved Johara from, at best, a very unpleasant evening, and at worst, a lifetime of enforced prostitution—and then finally primal, masculine satisfaction, for in the moment when their hands had touched he’d felt her reaction, like a spark travelling up his arm, igniting in his belly. She desired him.

Perhaps she didn’t want to, perhaps she didn’t even realise it, but he knew. He’d seen it in the flare of her pupils, heard it in her surprised gasp and felt it in the shudder that had gone through her, just as he’d felt his own body’s response. Their marriage, then, would at least have sexual chemistry—and that was no small thing.

They didn’t speak in the tiny, enclosed space of the antique lift that juddered up towards the penthouse. Johara pressed herself against the grate, her grey eyes startlingly wide and looking almost silver in the dim light. He’d seen her only in the shapeless robes, and now he noted the slender and enticing curves highlighted by the sundress she wore. The thin, gauzy material clung to her small, pert breasts and tiny waist, flaring out about her long, slender legs. No wonder that disgusting pimp had wanted her for his whorehouse. She was gorgeous, innocence and sensuality in one jaw-dropping package, and she didn’t even realise how alluring she was.

‘Does your father know you wear clothes like these?’ he demanded and Johara pressed back even farther away from him.

‘My father lets me wear what I like.’

Wasn’t around to notice or care, Azim filled in silently. He’d taken Arif’s measure at their first meeting; the older man had been more than eager to have his daughter exchange grooms weeks before the wedding. While it suited Azim’s purposes admirably, it did not endear him to the man. He was the worst combination of weakness and lust for power, just as Caivano had been. It had led to his tormentor’s downfall, and it would eventually lead to Arif’s. He would not have such a man in his cabinet.

The lift jolted to a stop and the doors opened. Azim ushered Johara out to his flat, a soaring, open space that took up the entire top floor of the building.

Johara stepped out, craning her neck to take in the vaulted ceiling and huge windows. The doors of the lift closed behind Azim and he stood watching her, noticing the way her dress clung to her hips, the fabric whispering about her shapely legs as she moved. A dark, curling tendril of hair lay against the nape of her neck and he had the absurd urge to lift it and see the delicate skin beneath.

She turned to face him, her trembling lips pressed together, her chin raised in challenge. Even though her rebellion tried him sorely, he could not help but admire her courage. He hadn’t thought she’d possessed the audacity to make a run for it. He was, perversely and annoyingly, pleased that she’d been that daring, even if he was still furious that she’d tried.

‘So?’ Johara asked, her voice managing to be both strident and shaky at the same time. ‘What now?’

Azim folded his arms. ‘You will marry me.’

‘Of course.’ She let out a high, trembling laugh. ‘Of course, I have no say in the matter.’