She stiffened and he slammed to a halt, his hand dropping. This close she should be able to read his expression but in the dim light his features looked like they’d been carved from harsh stone, betraying nothing. His eyes blazed, but with what she couldn’t discern.
At least he didn’t touch her again.
She didn’t want his hand on her. She didn’t like the curious heat that stirred when he did.
She dragged in a deep breath, then another, trying to calm her racing pulse. With him so close, watching like an eagle sighting its prey, it was impossible. She had nowhere to retreat to. And even if she did she knew he’d follow.
He had the grim, resolute aura of a man who finished what he started.
Her heart give a little jagged thump and she forced herself to stand tall. Even in her new shoes she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. He was big—broad across the shoulder and tall. Yet his physical size was only part of the impact. There was something in his eyes …
Soraya jerked her gaze away.
‘You’ve come from Bakhara?’ Her voice was husky.
‘I have.’
She opened her mouth to ask if he’d come direct from him, but the words disintegrated in her dry mouth. It was stupid, but for as long as she didn’t say the words she could almost pretend it wasn’t true.
Yet even in denial Soraya couldn’t pretend this was a mistake. The man before her wasn’t the sort to make mistakes. That poised, lethal stillness spoke a language all its own. There’d be no errors with this man. She shivered, cold to the bones.
‘And you are?’ Soraya forced herself to speak.
One slashing black eyebrow rose, as if he recognised her question for the delay tactic it was.
‘My name is Zahir Adnan El Hashem.’ He sketched an elegant bow that confirmed his story more definitively than any words. It proclaimed him totally at home with the formal etiquette of the royal court.
In jeans, boots and black leather, the movement should have looked out of place, but somehow the casual western clothes only reinforced his hard strength and unyielding posture. And made her think of formidable desert fighters.
Soraya swallowed hard, her flesh chilling.
She’d heard of Zahir El Hashem. Who in Bakhara hadn’t? He was the Emir’s right-hand man. A force to be reckoned with: a renowned warrior and, according to her father, a man fast developing a reputation in the region as a canny but well-regarded diplomat.
Her fingers threaded into a taut knot.
She’d thought he’d be older, given his reputation. But what made her tense was the fact that the Emir had sent him, his most trusted royal advisor. A man rumoured to be as close to the Emir as family. A man known not for kindness but for his uncompromising strength. A man who’d have no compunction about hauling home an unwilling bride.
Her heart sank.
It was true, then. Absolutely, irrefutably true.
Her future had caught up with her.
The future she’d hoped might never eventuate.
‘And you are Soraya Karim.’
It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who she was.
And hated her for it, she realised with a flash of disturbing insight as something flickered in the sea-green depths of those remarkable eyes.
No, not hatred. Something else.
Finally she found her voice, no matter that it was raspy with shock. ‘Why seek me out here? It’s hardly a suitable time to meet.’
His other eyebrow rose and heat flooded her cheeks. He knew she was prevaricating. Did he realise she’d do almost anything not to hear the news he brought?
‘What I have to say is important.’
‘I have no doubt.’ She dragged her hand from the supporting wall and made a show of flicking shut her phone and putting it away. ‘But surely we could discuss it tomorrow at a civilised time?’ She was putting off the inevitable and probably sounding like a spoiled brat in the bargain. But she couldn’t help it. Her blood chilled at the thought of what he’d come all this way to tell her.
‘It’s already tomorrow.’
And he wasn’t going anywhere. His stance said it all.
‘You have no interest in my message?’ He paused, his eyes boring into her as if looking for something he couldn’t find. ‘You’re not concerned with the possibility that I bring bad news?’ His face remained unreadable but there was no mistaking the sharp edge to his voice.
The phone clattered to the floor from Soraya’s nerveless fingers.
‘My father?’ Her hand shot to her mouth, pressing against trembling lips.
‘No!’ Colour deepened the razor-sharp line of his cheekbones. He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. Your father is well. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’
‘If not my father, then—?’
An abrupt gesture stopped her words. ‘My apologies, Ms Karim. I should not have mentioned the possibility. It was thoughtless of me. Let me assure you, everyone close to you is well.’
Close to her. That included the man who’d sent him.
Suddenly, looking into the stormy depths of Zahir El Hashem’s eyes, Soraya realised why he’d pushed her. How unnatural of any woman not to be concerned that sudden news might bring bad tidings about the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.
Guilt hit her. How unnatural was she? Surely she cared about him? He deserved no less. Yet these last months she’d almost fooled herself into believing that future might never come to pass.
No wonder his emissary looked at her so searchingly. Had her response, or lack of it, given her away?
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she murmured, ducking her head to cover the confusion she felt. At her feet lay her phone. She bent to retrieve it only to find her hand meeting his as he scooped the phone up.
His hand was hard, callused, broad of palm and long-fingered. The hand of a man who, despite his familiarity with the royal court, did far more with his days than consider protocol.
The touch of his flesh, warm and so different from her own, made her retreat instinctively, her breath sucking in on a gasp. Or was it the memory of that same hand holding her tight against him on the dance floor? Fire snaked through her veins, making her aware of him as male.
‘Your phone.’
‘Thank you.’ She kept her eyes averted, not wanting to face his searching stare again.
‘Again, I apologise for my clumsiness. For letting you fear—’
‘It’s all right. No harm done.’ Soraya shook her head, wishing it was the case, when all she could think of was that her reaction betrayed her as thoughtless, ungrateful, not deserving the good fortune she’d so enjoyed.
Worse, it was proof positive the doubts she’d begun to harbour had matured into far more than vague dissatisfaction and pie-in-the-sky wishing.
‘Come,’ he said, his voice brusque. ‘We can’t discuss this here.’
Reluctantly Soraya raised her head, taking in the deserted foyer, the muffled music from the club and the mingled scents of cigarette smoke, perfume and sweat.
He was right. She needed to hear the details.
She nodded, exhaustion engulfing her. It was the exhaustion a cornered animal must feel, facing its predator at the end of a long hunt from which there was no escape.
She