pool.
Until they reached the end and the water erupted as someone emerged, using powerful arms to springboard out a mere head before his rival.
‘I win,’ the first said, offering his hand to the second.
Zoltan, she realised, disappointed as her eyes drank in the sight of him dripping wet. How typical that he should win the race. How unfortunate. She would have loved to see him lose. She would love to see something or someone wipe that smug look of superiority off his face and the sheer arrogance that infused every part of his body, every glistening muscle, every hard-packed limb.
Of course he would not have an ounce of fat on him, she thought with added resentment, he would not allow such a thing. She had seen enough. And she almost managed to turn away until he flexed his shoulders as her eyes caught the play of muscles under broad shoulders and tracked down the vee of his torso, to where his hips were encased in black lycra above the start of those long, powerful legs.
She sniffed, refusing to be impressed. So maybe she had been wrong before. Maybe he was not exactly like Mustafa, at least not in this one respect, she thought as she remembered the fat man scratching the bulging of his gut through his robe with long, almost feminine fingernails ending fingers adorned with gaudy rings. She shuddered, knowing how close she had come to that repulsive fate.
Still, it made no difference to her how many muscles Zoltan had, and she did not care that his skin glistened a golden-olive in the light. Not when in essence he was exactly the same as his half-brother. Not when there were still so very many reasons to hate him with every fibre of her being.
And she was sure, with time, she would find more.
‘I gave you a head start,’ his vanquished rival claimed as she watched furtively from the shadows. ‘Let’s make it best out of three.’ Zoltan laughed and slapped his friend on the back, turning his face to the sky to shake the water from his dark hair. She had to blink and look again to make sure it was him.
Zoltan actually laughed? Was this the same man as the monster she had met today in the library? Was this the dark barbarian who had snarled and growled and so smugly informed her that she had no choice? For when he smiled, when he laughed so openly, his face was transformed. Not handsome, exactly. He would never be handsome. His face was too dark, his features too strong, like the strongest, bitterest cup of coffee imaginable. But with laughter lighting his dark features he almost looked human.
Almost—good.
Electricity sizzled down her spine and her mouth turned ashen. Tomorrow—tomorrow—this man would be her husband. This hated man would lie next to her in bed, wearing even less than he was wearing now. And expecting her.
She shivered, feeling a growing apprehension that the unknown would soon become known.
She clutched the flowers in her hands to her face, burying herself in their fragrant scent.
This was not how she had imagined it would be.
‘Princess Aisha?’
CHAPTER FIVE
THE flowers fell from her hand as she turned, the vizier behind her bowing respectfully. ‘One of the maids saw you walking. Is there something in particular you were looking for, Princess?’ He glanced across at the pool, and she followed his gaze to where all four men were now gathered at the near end, laughing together, all four of them bronzed and built, with strong masculine features, all of them impressive in their own way. Once again she wondered whether they might be the same men who had helped pluck her from Mustafa last night. Her gaze returned to the enigma that was Zoltan. There was something about him that set him apart and that caused her pulse to trip. ‘You are a long way from your suite.’
She turned to see him watching her. ‘I was enchanted by the garden,’ she said, her cheeks blazing with embarrassment at being caught peering covertly from the shadows and now openly staring. ‘I did not know where the path would lead me. I was about to head back.’
He nodded. ‘Rani has brought your meal. Perhaps you would permit me to show you back to your suite?’ he said, and she knew it wasn’t a question. She also knew she wasn’t about to refuse.
‘Of course,’ she said, wanting to be as far away from the mystery that was Zoltan—the laughing barbarian with the gleaming skin, the man who would be her husband tomorrow—as she could get.
‘Princess!’
Too late.
She felt his call in a searing sizzle of heat down her spine, guilt-stricken that she had been discovered, a voyeur in the shadows, and not only by the vizier but now by Zoltan himself.
She wondered how much humiliation it was humanly possible to suffer in one day, for right now, the supply seemed endless. And this time she had no-one to blame but her own wretched curiosity.
Would he be angry with her for spying on him? Or would he laugh at her, the way he did, with unsubtle jibes, mocking words and that unmistakable upturn of his lips?
Either way, she hated him all the more for it. And she hated her own stupid lack of judgement for not leaving the moment she had realised he was here. Hated that he made her feel so off-balance and uncertain. Hated that he so badly affected her judgement.
She dragged in the scented air as she turned, praying for strength, steeling herself for the confrontation.
But nothing could have prepared her for the full impact of that near-naked body approaching. Her mouth went dry, her heart rate doubled and kept right on going, and her eyes didn’t know where to look. He was so big, his glistening golden-olive skin beaded with moisture, his chest sprinkled with black hair circling dark nipples before arrowing south, over a taut, hard-packed torso …
She dared not look too far south. Instead she focused on the white towel he had picked up and which he now used to pat his face dry as droplets continued to rain from the slicked-back tendrils of his hair. But the snowy whiteness of the towel only served to highlight the rich glow of his skin, to contrast against the darkness of his features, and would have been of much more help to her right now if he lashed it firmly around his waist.
‘You should have brought your swimsuit if you wanted a swim,’ he said, dismissing the vizier with a brief nod over her shoulder, before taking in the cool shell-top and her bare arms.
She realised he was not angry, as she had feared he might be, but was laughing at her again. Right now she would have preferred the anger.
‘Unless of course,’ he added, his dark eyes raking over her heated face, ‘you prefer swimming au naturel?’
‘No!’ Her prissy-sounding outburst escaped before she could stop it, just as she could no more prevent her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. The thought of being any more exposed to his scrutiny than she already was made her skin tingle and goose bump. But the thought of being naked in the same pool with him triggered an entirely new and more potent kind of reaction. She could already imagine the feel of the water cool against her tight nipples, the pull of the water tugging at her curls as it slipped between her aching, heated thighs.
She squeezed her legs together, wishing to God she’d bothered to find her jacket so that he might not witness any more of her body’s reaction to his presence, crossing her arms over her breasts so that they could not betray her. ‘I was just going for a walk,’ she said, her nails pressing into her arms, harder and deeper, while she wished fervently that he would use that damned towel and cover himself, if only so she was not so tempted to look there. ‘To clear my head.’
‘A good plan,’ he conceded, dashing her hopes when he balled the towel in one fist and flung it to one side. Yet another reason to hate him, she told herself, for any reasonable man would surely cover himself up in front of a lady—a princess. But this was clearly no reasonable man. He was a barbarian who had treated her, and continued to treat