Postcards From Paris: Bound by His Desert Diamond / Amorous Liaisons / The Secret to Marrying Marchesi

Zahir gave an infuriating shrug. ‘So perhaps you should see your freedom for what it is—a chance to prove yourself trustworthy—rather than complain about being neglected.’

Well, that was her put firmly in her place. Cheeks burning, she turned away, wishing she had never mentioned having wretched dinner with this wretched man.

‘However, if it would please you, I can find time for us to dine together tonight. Shall we say in one hour’s time?’

Anna swung round to face him again, the words don’t bother tingling on her lips. But there was something about the narrowed gaze of those hooded eyes that made her stop.

It was surprise, she realised. Zahir was surprised that she wanted to any spend time with him. She was surprised too, come to that. It was like he had some sort of power over her, drawing her to the edge of the cliff when all her instincts were telling her to keep away. That blatant, raw masculinity made her keep coming back for more punishment. Anna had never thought of herself as a masochist. Now she was beginning to wonder.

Nervously licking her lips with the tip of her tongue, she saw his eyes flash in response, tightening the tendrils inside her. ‘Very well.’ Pushing back her shoulders, she tossed her hair over them. ‘I will see you later.’

CHAPTER FIVE (#ucb4e9976-f9e7-524b-8e95-29af4088a413)

ZAHIR STARED AT the young woman at the far end of the table—the European princess who was soon to be his bride. Something he was still desperately struggling to come to terms with. He had no idea who she was, not really. Earlier, when she’d talked about the press attention she’d received over the years, his blood had run cold in his veins. But fear about her morals had swiftly changed to the urge to protect her, his whole person affronted that she should ever have been subjected to such assaults. Because deep down some instinct told him that Princess Annalina was vulnerable and certainly not a woman who would give away her favours easily. Which was odd, when you thought about the way they had met.

She was certainly regal. From the fine bones of her face to the dainty set of her shoulders and the elegant, refined posture. Her hands, he noticed, were particularly delicate, long, slender fingers and pink nails devoid of nail varnish. They looked as if they had never done a day’s work in their life. They probably hadn’t.

He looked down at his own hands. A warrior’s hands. No longer calloused from combat—he hadn’t gripped a dagger or curled his finger around the trigger of a gun for over two years now—they were nevertheless stained with the blood of war and always would be. They had been around the throat of too many of his enemies ever to be washed clean—had been used to pull lifeless bodies out caves that had become subterranean battlegrounds, or recover corpses shrivelling in the scorching heat of the desert with the vultures circling overhead.

His hands had closed the eyelids of far too many young men.

And now... Could such hands ever expect to run over the fair skin of the woman before him? Would that be right? Permissible? They wanted to, that was for certain. They itched, burned even, with longing to feel the softness of her pale flesh beneath their fingertips, to be able to trace the contours of her slender body, to travel over the hollow of her waist, the swell of her breasts. They longed to explore every part of her body.

Feeling his eyes on her, Annalina looked up and smiled at him from her end of the table.

‘This is delicious.’ She indicated the half-eaten plate of food before her with the fork in her hand. ‘Lovely and spicy. What’s the meat, do you suppose?’

Zahir glanced down at his plate, already scraped clean, as if seeing it for the first time. Food was just fuel to him, something to be grateful for but to be consumed as fast as possible, before it was covered in flies or snatched away by a hungry hound. It was certainly not a subject he ever discussed, nor wanted to.

‘Goat, I believe.’ He levelled dark eyes at her.

‘Oh.’ That perfect pink mouth puckered in surprise then pursed shut, her fork left to rest on her plate.

He stifled a smile. Obviously goat was not something she was accustomed to eating. No doubt Annalina was more used to seeing them grazing prettily in wildflower meadows than having them stewed and presented before her in a bowl of couscous. She knew nothing of the ways of this country, he realised, and the smile was immediately replaced with the more familiar scowl.

Had he been wrong to insist that she marry him, to bring her to this foreign land and expect her to be able to fit in, play the role of his wife? It was a huge undertaking to ask of anyone, let alone someone as fragile-looking as her. And yet he already knew that there was more to Annalina than her flawless beauty might suggest. She was strong-willed and she was brave. It had taken real guts to refuse to marry his brother, to stand on that bridge and do whatever she thought it took to get her out of that marriage. To kiss a total stranger. A kiss that still burned on his lips.

It had all backfired, of course. She had leapt straight from the frying pan into the fire, finding herself shackled to him instead. He was nothing like his brother, it was true. But, in terms of a husband, had Annalina made the right choice? Would she have been better sticking with the relative calm of Rashid, his particular demons regulated by carefully prescribed medication?

Or Zahir, whose demons still swirled inside him, drove him on, made him the man he was. Power, control and the overwhelming desire to do the best for his country was the only therapy he could tolerate.

He didn’t know, but either way it was too late now. The choice had been made. They were both going to have to live with it.

‘I hope I haven’t spoiled your appetite?’ The food, he noticed, had now been abandoned, Annalina’s slender hand gripping the stem of her glass as she took a sip of wine, then another.

‘No, it’s not that.’ She gave an unconvincing smile. ‘It’s actually quite filling.’

‘Then, if you have finished, perhaps you would like to be served coffee somewhere more comfortable.’

‘Um, yes, that sounds a good idea.’ She touched a napkin to her lips. ‘Where were you thinking of?’

‘I will take mine in my quarters, but there are any number of seating areas in the palace that are suitable for relaxation. The courtyards are very pleasant too, though they will be chilly at this time of night.’

‘I’m sure.’ She fiddled with a tendril of hair that had escaped the swept-up style. ‘Actually, I think I will join you.’ There was determination in her voice, but vulnerability too, as if she might easily crack or splinter if challenged. ‘I would like to see your quarters.’

Zahir stilled, something akin to panic creeping over him. He hadn’t intended to invite her to his rooms. Far from it. By suggesting that they took their coffee elsewhere, he had been trying to escape from her. Which begged the question, why? Why would he, a man who would take on a band of armed insurgents with the bravery of a thousand warriors combined, be frightened by the thought of sharing a cup of coffee with this young woman? It was ridiculous.

Because he didn’t know how to behave around her, that was why. This relationship had been thrust upon him so suddenly that he hadn’t had time to figure out how to make it work, how to control it. And being around Annalina only seemed to make the task more difficult. Rather than clarifying the situation, she seemed to mess with his judgement. He found himself torn two ways—one side warning that he must be on his guard, and watch over this wayward princess like a hawk to make sure she didn’t try to abscond, while the other side was instructing him to take her to his bed and make her his, officially.

The latter was a tempting prospect for sure. And the way she was looking at him now, eyes shining brightly as she held his gaze, her hands steepled under her chin, fingertips grazing her lips, it would take all his self-control not to give in to it. But control it he would, because control was something he prided himself on. More than that, something he ruled his life by, using it both to drive himself on and deny himself pleasure. Because pleasure was nothing but an indulgence, a form of weakness, a slippery slope that led down to the bowels of hell. That he had discovered to his cost with the most tragic of results: the murder of his parents.

On the eve of his country’s independence he had been in a rowdy bar, watching, if not actually participating, as his brave comrades had celebrated their tremendous victory with flowing alcohol and loose women. He had been relaxed, enjoying himself, accepting the accolades, full of pride for what he had achieved. And all the time, a few hundred miles away, his parents were being murdered, a knife being drawn across their throats. A tragedy that he would never, ever begin to forgive himself for.

But that didn’t stop the weight of lust in his groin grow heavier by the second, spreading its traitorous warmth through his body as he stared back at Annalina’s open, inviting face. He had no idea why she was looking at him in that way. The workings of a woman’s mind were a complete mystery to him, and not something he had ever thought he would care to concern himself with. But now he found he longed to know what was going on behind those eyes that were glazed perhaps a little too brightly—found that he would pay good money to find out what was going through that clever, complicated mind of hers.

‘I doubt you will find anything remotely interesting about my quarters.’

‘You will be in them. That’s interesting enough for me.’

There she went again, throwing him a curveball, messing with his head. Was she flirting with him? Was that what this was? Zahir had experienced flirting before. His position of power, not to mention his dark good looks, meant he had had his fair share of female attention over the years. Most, but not all, of which he had totally ignored. He was a red-blooded male, after all. Occasionally he would allow himself to slake his thirst. But that was all it had ever been. No emotion, no attachment and certainly no second-guessing what the object of his attentions might be thinking. The way he found himself puzzling now.

‘Very well. If you insist.’ Summoning one of the hovering waiting staff with a wave of his hand, he gave his orders then, walking round to the back of Annalina’s chair, he waited as she rose to her feet. ‘If you would like to follow me.’

Setting off at a rapid pace, he found he had to moderate his step in order for Annalina to keep up. She trotted along beside him, her heels clicking on the marble floors, looking around her as if trying to memorise the route back in case she should need to escape. Zahir found himself regretting his decision to allow her into his rooms more and more with every forceful footstep. No woman, other than the palace staff, had ever been in his chambers. There had been no need for it. There was no need for it now. Why had he ever agreed to let this woman invade his personal space?

By the time they had negotiated the labyrinth of corridors and he was inserting the key into the lock of his door, Zahir’s mood had blackened still further.

‘You lock your door?’ Waiting beside him, Annalina looked up in surprise.

‘Of course. Security is of paramount importance.’

‘Even in your own palace? There are guards everywhere. Do you not trust them to protect your property?’

‘Trust no one and you will not be disappointed.’ Zahir pushed hard on the heavy door with the palm of his hand.

‘Oh, Zahir, that’s such a depressing ideology!’ Annalina attempted a throwaway laugh but it fell, uncaught, to the ground.

‘Depressing it may be.’ He stood back to let her enter. ‘But I know it to be true.’

Taking in a deep breath, Anna stepped over the threshold. This was not going well. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask to accompany Zahir to his quarters. It had certainly done nothing to improve his mood. The resolve she had had at the start of the evening, to sit down and talk, try to get to know him a bit, discuss their future, had been severely tested during the course of the torturous meal. Every topic of conversation she had tried to initiate had either been met with cool disregard or monosyllabic answers.

All except one. When she had mentioned his parents, tried to tell him how sorry she was to hear of their tragic death, the look on Zahir’s face had been terrifying to behold, startling her with its volcanic ferocity. It was clear that subject was most definitely off-limits.

But, where their future was concerned, she had to persevere. She needed to find out what was expected of her, what her role would be. And, more importantly, she needed to tell Zahir about herself, her shameful secret. Before it was too late. Which was why at the end of the meal she had fought against every instinct to turn tail and run to the safety of her bed and had persuaded him to bring her here. And why she found herself being welcomed into his spartan quarters with the all the enthusiasm that would have been given to a jester at a funeral.

For spartan it certainly was. In stark contrast to the rest of the palace, the room she was ushered into was small and dimly lit, with bare floorboards and a low ceiling. There was very little furniture, just a low wooden table and a makeshift seating area covered with tribal rugs.

‘As I said.’ Briefly following her gaze, Zahir moved to put the key in the lock on this side. He didn’t turn it, Anna noticed with relief. ‘There is nothing to see here.’