The Sultan Demands His Heir. Maya Blake

she couldn’t ignore. His eyes had darkened, the light brandy shade now a burnished bronze that fused incisively with hers. This close, she saw the tiny gold flecks that flared within the darker depths, the combination so mesmeric she couldn’t look away, despite the frisson shooting up her arm. Despite the lack of oxygen to her brain from the breath she couldn’t take.

      Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be touching him, this man who was hell-bent on exerting his supreme authority over her. Who was hell-bent on keeping her father in prison.

      Move!

      Her palm started to curl, in anticipation, she told herself, of pushing back from him. But the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers stopped her. Absorbed by the gleam in his eyes, by his scent swirling around her, Esme remained immobile. His nostrils flared slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Almost as if he’d touched them, her lips pulsed with an alien sensation that absurdly felt like excitement. Hunger.

      She didn’t...couldn’t want to kiss him, surely?

      He released her so suddenly she wondered if she’d spoken the thought aloud. Spoken it only to have it promptly, ruthlessly rejected.

      She stepped back, silently urging her legs not to let her down, even as another wave of heat swept over her face.

      She needed to leave. Now.

      As if the same thought had struck him, Zaid Al-Ameen turned abruptly and walked away, his imposing figure carrying him to his desk. Released from the trap of his puzzling, spellbinding presence, she sucked in a much-needed breath then snatched up her purse. She straightened to the sound of him issuing a rasped instruction into his intercom. Seconds later, the door reopened.

      His private secretary barely glanced her way, his attention focused solely on the Sultan and the rapid words of lyrical Arabic falling from his lips. Esme was so distracted by the exotic, melodic sound that she didn’t realise they’d stopped speaking and were staring at her until the silence echoed loudly in the room.

      For the third time in a disgracefully short period her face heated up again. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she addressed Fawzi, unwilling to catch another mocking glance from Sultan Al-Ameen.

      The private secretary looked a little perturbed at being addressed directly in the presence of his master. He stood straighter. ‘His Highness said you are free to go. I am to escort you to your chauffeur.’

      Knowing it would be impolite to leave without acknowledging him, Esme reluctantly redirected her gaze to the Sultan. ‘I... I’m...’

      One sardonic brow elevated, the look he sent her haughty enough to freeze water. ‘You pick a curious time to become tongue-tied, considering your desire to leave has been granted. The next time we meet will be in the courtroom when you testify on behalf of your father. Let us hope you’re not as inarticulate under cross-examination. I would hate to see all the effort you made to come to the aid of your father wasted. Goodbye, Miss Scott.’

      The dismissal was as final as the drive back to the hotel was quick. Even after she was safely back in her hotel room, Esme still couldn’t force her heartbeat to slow. She’d been summoned, judged and found severely wanting.

      And yet the righteous anger she’d felt in Zaid Al-Ameen’s presence was no longer present. Instead, awareness from his touch clung to her skin, her mind supplying an alarmingly detailed play-by-play of the moment he’d stopped her from falling. With each meticulous recounting her body grew hot and tight, her breathing altering into shameful little pants that drew a grimace of disgust at herself. To distract her out-of-control hormones, Esme turned on the TV and channel-surfed, only to come face to face with herself in a replay of her interview. Forcing herself to watch, she experienced a twinge of remorse as her words echoed harsh and condemning in the room.

      The stone of unease in her belly hadn’t abated hours later when she was in bed, attempting to toss and turn herself into sleep. Sleep came reluctantly, along with jagged, disturbing dreams featuring a breathtakingly hypnotic figure with brandy-coloured eyes.

      The intensity of the dream was so sharp, so vivid she jerked awake.

      Only to find it was no dream. There was someone in her room.

      Esme’s breath strangled in her lungs as she battled paralysing fear and scrambled upright. The dark, robed figure outlined ominously against her lighter curtains tensed for a watchful second then launched after her the moment she scurried off the bed. Her feet tangled in the sheets, ripping a cry from her throat. She sensed rather than saw the figure rounding the bed towards her as she pushed at the sheets and crawled away on her hands and knees. A few steps from the bathroom she attempted to stand.

      A strong, unyielding arm banded her waist, plastering her from shoulder to thigh against a hard, masculine body. He lifted her off the floor with shocking ease, her feet kicking uselessly as he evaded her efforts to free herself. Acute terror finally freeing her vocal cords, Esme screamed.

      The large hand that clamped over her mouth immediately muffled the sound.

      Terrified by the ease with which the intruder had caught and restrained her, Esme fought harder. She wrapped her fingers around the thick wrist and was attempting to pry him off when she felt his warm breath against her cheek.

      ‘Calm yourself, Miss Scott. It is I, Zaid Al-Ameen. If you wish to remain safe, you need to come with me. Right now.’