Her eyes went wide and she must have indeed been in some amount of shock, because she didn’t resist or make any protest, just stared up at him, her gaze full of apprehension and, yes, definitely fear.
The chair had arms and so he put his hands on them, caging her in partly to make sure he had her attention and partly so she couldn’t stand up, because once he delivered the next part of his news, she’d definitely need to be sitting down.
Her fine-grained skin was far too pale beneath her sunburn, delicate almost. She was not made for the desert heat, nor was her physical fragility suited to life in his fortress. This English rose would not survive the harsh existence here. Luckily for her, however, he had the equivalent of a greenhouse.
‘Miss Dean,’ he said clearly and not without a certain amount of gentleness. ‘You will have to remain here at the very least until the baby is born. After that, we’ll have to negotiate. You said earlier that all children should be wanted and I agree, they should. And I want this child. But if I’m going to claim it then there are a few things you need to understand. My name is a dangerous thing. It is both a risk and a protection. Nevertheless, I want my child to have it and I want the child’s mother to have it too.’
Ivy stared blankly at him. ‘Your name?’
Nazir could see he was going to have to be a lot clearer.
‘I’m going to marry you,’ he said. ‘And I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.’
* * *
Ivy couldn’t understand at first what he was saying. She couldn’t understand what was happening, full stop.
First she’d been ordered back into that awful library and the door had been shut behind her then locked. Then she’d had no choice but to sit there for an hour and a half with absolutely nothing to do. She’d paced around initially, fears and apprehensions chasing around in circles in her head, knowing she was winding herself up and yet not being able to stop it.
She hated not being in control of things, hated having important decisions that involved her being decided by other people. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
Luckily, just before she went totally mad with frustration, the guards had come for her, marching her down a number of long, narrow, echoing hallways, until they’d reached a pair of big double doors with yet another guard standing outside them.
The Sheikh’s office, apparently.
She’d been shown into a large, but spare room, the same stone floor as everywhere else, and bare stone walls. A huge desk sat at one end of the room, the wall behind it covered in a number of beautifully displayed swords, some in scabbards, some out. There were shelves along the walls, lined with books and boxes and other office paraphernalia, while a large meeting table sat off to one side near a window. This window too looked out onto the strange and beautiful greenery of the courtyard and the moment she’d entered the room she’d wanted to go straight to it and stare out at it.
At least until the man behind the desk had risen to his feet and pinned her where she stood with that icy, sharp gaze of his.
She couldn’t go home, he’d told her. She had to stay here. She was in danger and so was the baby.
That had been enough of a shock, but then she’d found herself propelled into the chair she’d tried to refuse, with him standing in front of her, his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning his massive, muscular body over her, making her feel so very small and fragile and somehow disturbingly feminine.
Then he’d said she had to marry him, which couldn’t be true. She didn’t know him. He was a stranger and no one married strangers, unless you were on some crazy reality TV show, right?
The definitively masculine lines of his face were hard and set and as expressionless as they had been before, the colour of his eyes startling against his bronze skin and thick, black lashes.
She couldn’t stop staring. It really was the most extraordinary shade, with a crystalline quality that hinted at frosts and snows and glaciers. Such cold in the middle of the desert heat. And he was hot; she could feel it radiating from him. It was a warmth that made her want to put her hands out to it like a comforting fire.
Except this fire wasn’t comforting and a part of her could sense that. This fire had the potential to blaze and set her alight too if she wasn’t careful.
With an effort, Ivy tried to bring her shocked mind back to what was happening. Him. Marriage...
‘No,’ she forced out. ‘That’s insane. I can’t... I can’t marry you. What are you talking about?’
He didn’t move. He seemed immovable as a mountain, obdurate as granite, and she had the sense that she could push and push and push at him, but he wouldn’t budge. There was no give in him at all.
‘You may not refuse.’ She felt that harsh voice in her bones, the rumble deep as the shifting of tectonic plates. ‘As I said, I insist.’
A burst of shock went through her and she had to struggle hard to mask it. ‘But what if I’m married already? What if I have a partner?’
‘Are you married? Do you have a partner?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then that isn’t relevant.’
‘Why?’ she demanded, exhaustion and shock making panic collect in her throat. ‘Why do I have to marry you?’
‘It will give you some legal protection, especially here, where my name is known.’ Something sharp glittered in his eyes. ‘Also, the mother of my child should be my wife.’
‘But that’s...medieval. People don’t have to be married these days.’
‘I don’t care what people do these days,’ he said dismissively. ‘My child shall have both parents and those parents should be married to each other.’
‘We don’t love each other. You’re a stranger.’
He frowned. ‘What has love got to do with it?’
‘Only people who love each other get married.’ She knew she sounded ridiculous yet was unable to stop. The panic was spreading out inside her and she couldn’t seem to force it down and contain it, which wasn’t like her at all.
She was normally good in a crisis, she always knew what to do. She was calm and matter-of-fact, and never let her emotions get the better of her. So why she felt as if she were going to pieces now, she had no idea.
Pregnancy hormones, no doubt. Pregnancy hormones and this arrogant bastard of a sheikh.
‘I don’t know what fairy-tale world you’ve been living in, Miss Dean, but it isn’t this one.’ His frown deepened, as if he’d seen something he didn’t much like in her expression. ‘It isn’t a proper marriage I’m insisting on, you do understand that, don’t you? Publicly it might look like it, but privately it will only be a legal formality.’
A tension that she hadn’t been conscious of released, though she wasn’t sure if that left her feeling better or worse.
Better, definitely better. Because why on earth would she be unhappy that it wouldn’t be a real marriage? It wasn’t as if she wanted to sleep with him or anything.
Ignoring the odd flutter that particular thought set off, Ivy said, ‘I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. Especially considering you’re telling me I’m in danger and I now have to stay here until the baby is born.’
‘Your feelings on the matter are not important.’ He let go of the arms of the chair and straightened, towering over her like the fortress itself. ‘The safety and well-being of my child is the only thing of any relevance.’
‘He’s my child too,’ Ivy said without thinking.
One of the Sheikh’s black brows shot up. ‘I thought he was your friend’s baby?’
An uprush of sudden heat swamped her, followed by a surge of anger at this man who’d somehow taken control of the situation, making her feel helpless, powerless. As she had all those years ago, the poor little orphan that nobody had wanted to adopt, no matter how good she was. No matter how h
ard she smiled. So many interviews with lovely potential parents and yet not one of them had ever chosen her. Not one of them had wanted her. And there’d been nothing she could do about it. Absolutely nothing.
Ivy pushed herself to her feet, not realising until far too late that she was standing very close to him, only inches away. And that he was so very tall and so very broad. He dwarfed her. He smelled like the desert, hot and dry, with a tantalising spice that made her heartbeat accelerate and her breath catch.
He was dizzying.
She was trapped by the icy clarity of his gaze and by a strange weakness, as if a tide were receding and she were being carried with it, adrift, and it were drawing her slowly and inexorably out to sea.
Blackness edged her vision and she didn’t even realise she was falling until the Sheikh moved, and she felt one hard, muscular arm come around her, catching her and drawing her close against the granite solidity and heat of his body.
She let out a breath, her hands automatically coming up to press against his chest in order to balance herself, yet more shock echoing through her. He felt as if he were made of iron and steel, and yet, as she’d already sensed, there was nothing cold about him. The hard metal shape of him was sheathed in velvety bronze skin and warm linen, and a very deep part of her wanted to simply close her eyes and rest against him as she would a sun-warmed rock.
His relentless gaze bored into her, his arm hard against her back, trapping her against him, and she couldn’t move. She just couldn’t move. She’d exhausted all her energy coming out here, confronting him, then being marched into the fortress and having the door locked behind her. And then this bombshell, not being able to leave, the insistence on her marrying him. Claiming the child...
She was so very tired and deep down she was very afraid. Connie was gone, and she desperately wanted to do her best for her friend, for the child she carried, but she wasn’t sure she could. And she’d never imagined she would have to do this all on her own...
Anger and grief and fear tangled inside her, knotting together so tightly she couldn’t pull them apart. And, much to her horror, the tears came back again, her eyes prickling, her vision swimming.
Oh, God, to nearly faint in front of him...and now she was on the verge of bursting into tears... It was too much.
Ivy closed her eyes and she heard him mutter something that sounded like a curse before she felt herself being swept up into his arms.
She should have fought, should have protested, should have done something to stop him, but she didn’t. The last four weeks since Connie had died had just been too hard and she’d come to the end of her strength.
She was dimly aware of being carried out of the office and through dark, echoing stone corridors, the sounds of voices following her, mainly the Sheikh’s deep tones as he issued orders.
Perhaps she was being taken back to that library again, which wasn’t a pleasant thought, but Ivy couldn’t bring herself to care. The man who carried her was very warm and very strong, and it seemed almost natural to relax against his hard chest.
She hadn’t been carried like this since she was a child. In fact, come to think of it, had she ever been carried like this? Certainly it had been a very long time since she’d had anyone’s arms around her, since she’d even been touched. She couldn’t remember the last time...
Maybe she’d lie like this for a little while. It wouldn’t matter. Just for a couple of moments.
She put her cheek against the linen of his robe, inhaling his dry scent, mixed with that intriguing, masculine spice. She could hear the beat of his heart, steady and strong and sure. It was comforting.
The sounds of doors closing echoed and then the air around her changed, became less arid and more cooling. Brightness pressed against her lids and she would have thought she was outside except there was no suffocating heat. It was quieter too, and calm, and somewhere she could hear a fountain playing.
Then she felt herself being placed on something soft and for a brief second her fingers clutched at him, as if a part of her didn’t want him to put her down, but she made herself let go. This brief moment of weakness was coming to an end and now she needed to deal with reality.
Ivy forced her eyes open.
She was in a light, airy room with high ceilings and walls covered in smooth white tiles with a scattering of blue and green here and there. The floors were cool white stone, covered with silken rugs that echoed the blues and greens of the tiles, and a few jewel-bright reds. Deep windows looked out onto a shady colonnade around another, most exquisite little courtyard containing a small fountain and a lot of greenery; she swore she could even hear a bird calling.
There were a few low couches strewn with silk cushions and side tables ready for drinks or snacks or books. Ornate wooden bookcases stood against the walls, the shelves stuffed full, and she could see that many of the titles were in English.
She wasn’t sure what kind of room this was, but it looked like the much more comfortable, luxurious cousin of the bare little library she’d just been taken out of.
Shifting slightly, she realised he’d put her down on one of the couches and that it was incredibly comfortable, and, quite frankly, she didn’t want to move. The room was cool and soothing and quiet, and all she wanted to do was lie on this couch and maybe go to sleep and forget about the past couple of weeks for a while.
But the Sheikh was crouching next to her, his sharp gaze studying her critically, like a doctor examining a patient and wondering what treatment to give next.
It made her feel exposed and vulnerable, and she was very tempted to close her eyes again, to block him out and pretend he didn’t exist. Yet that wasn’t going to help her.
He did exist and he was the father of this child. A child he wanted to claim...and apparently her along with it.
She’d never been a coward and so she couldn’t opt out now, no matter how badly she wanted to.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to faint like that.’ She tried to sit up, only for him to gently push her back down again, his large hands heavy and warm on her shoulders.
‘You need to rest.’ His dark, harsh voice was full of authority. ‘And then you need a shower, some fresh clothes, and more food. You definitely require more water.’
Ivy felt her hackles rising once again, his peremptory tone abrading her raw emotions.
‘And no,’ he went on before she could speak. ‘Don’t argue with me. Not only is it a waste of your energy, but you also know that I’m right.’
He was, damn him.
Ivy let out a breath. ‘I don’t like being told what to do.’
‘What a shock.’ His expression didn’t change and yet she could have sworn his hard mouth relaxed slightly. ‘Actually, neither do I. Yet if someone told me to go and eat, and I knew my body needed food, I’d eat, and not waste time arguing about it.’
The strange surge of emotion that had caught her just before was receding, taking with it her anger and her stubborn refusal to give in. She didn’t have the energy for it and somehow, here in this calm, cool room, the urgency to do so had faded too.
Irritated, she picked at the hem of her dusty, sandy robe. ‘Telling me I’m not allowed to leave and that you’re going to marry me didn’t help.’ She knew she sounded petulant, but right now she didn’t care.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It probably didn’t. But you needed to know my intentions upfront and the sooner I told you, the more time you would have to come to terms with it.’
‘You don’t have to, you know,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there are much easier ways to protect me and the baby than marriage.’
‘Perhaps.’ He rose to his full height in a surprisingly graceful liquid movement then turned, going over to another of the couches and picking up a soft throw in muted blues and greens that had been tossed over the back of it. ‘But that is what I’ve deci
ded.’ He came back to where she lay and tucked the soft fabric around her. ‘We’ll talk about this later. Right now you need some sleep. I don’t want you fainting on me again.’
Ivy gave him an indignant look even as she snuggled beneath the throw. ‘It wasn’t exactly a faint.’
‘Swooned, then,’ he said, without any discernible change of tone.
She narrowed her gaze suspiciously. Was he teasing her? Surely not. He didn’t look like a man who even knew what a tease was. ‘Swoon? Do women swoon these days? I certainly don’t.’
His expression remained enigmatic. ‘You might. Given the right circumstances.’
A delicious lassitude was creeping up on her, as if the warmth and softness of the throw and the soothing sound of the fountain outside were wrapping around her, easing her, relaxing her.
She fought it briefly, determined not to give him the last word. ‘And what circumstances are those?’
One side of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile, something glittering in the depths of his eyes that for once wasn’t cold. ‘Sleep, Miss Dean,’ he said.
And much to her annoyance, she found herself doing just that, his almost-smile following her into her dreams.
CHAPTER FIVE
NAZIR FELT ODDLY energised and he wasn’t sure why. By rights he shouldn’t. The operation he’d just concluded and the broken sleep he’d had before Ivy Dean had turned up on his doorstep should have meant at least a certain level of tiredness.
Yet it wasn’t tired he felt as he sat in his office that afternoon, making yet more arrangements in regard to Ivy. He’d directed one of his aides to find out as much as he could about her and then spent a good hour scrolling through the information the aide had sent him on his laptop.
She was an unremarkable woman at first glance, working as the manager of a children’s home in London. She had no family, it seemed, had grown up in the home she now managed, and was doing a very good job of it if all the financials were correct.
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