by Maisey Yates
“I didn’t ask about your father. I asked about you.”
She blinked a couple of times, as though she’d been hit over the head. “Oh. I guess...people are usually very interested in what he does.”
“And you spend a lot of time organizing his events and so on.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, let’s assume for a moment that I don’t give a rat’s ass about oil or money. Because I don’t. And let’s also assume that I feel the same about power and status.”
“Okay,” she said, trying to suppress a smile now, the corners of her lips tugging upward slightly. She was amused and a little shocked. And he found that he liked it. Liked that he’d made her feel something almost positive.
“Now, habibti, tell me about you.”
Because he found he wanted to know. Suddenly he was hungry for information, for every detail about her. About this woman who was so contained under pressure, who appeared soft and vulnerable, but who possessed a core that was a pillar of stone, holding her up unfailingly no matter how the sands shifted beneath her.
“Um...I went to a girl’s school in Connecticut. It was very strict, but I enjoyed it. All of our focus was on education, not on boys. I came home in the summer and around holidays—”
“To help with your father’s events, I would imagine.”
She bristled a bit at that. “Yes.”
“And where was your mother?”
She looked up, out the window. “She left. When I was thirteen.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. I mean...she was in Manhattan for a while. And then she was in Spain. But I don’t really know where she is now. And I don’t really care.”
“You are angry at her.”
She bit her lip, as though she was trying to hold back more words. Words she didn’t think she should speak, for some reason or another. “Yeah. Of course I am. She just left.”
“And without her...he had you.”
“Yes. When did you get insightful?”
“I have had too much time alone with my thoughts in the past decade or so. Too much thinking isn’t always good. But it does produce some insight, whether you want it or not.”
“I see. And did you have any great epiphanies about yourself?” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and his eyes were drawn down to them. Just perfect, enough to fill his palm. He could imagine it easily, her plump, soft flesh in his hands, her nipples hard against his skin.
“Just the one,” he said, his voice rough.
“And it was?”
“That I was weak.” His current train of thought mocked the implication that his weakness was in the past. “And that it could not be allowed to continue.”
“Is that really it?”
“That I would be better dead than as I was,” he said. “Because then I could do no more damage at least. But if I lived, I could perhaps fix what I had broken. So I lived.”
“I can’t say I ever thought I would be better off dead, but I know what it feels like to need to fix the broken things.”
“Ah, habibti, I know you do. But at least you weren’t behind the destruction.”
She blinked and shook her head. “Does it matter in the end, Zafar, who caused it? Or how big of a thing it was? Broken is broken. Someone gets the blame. Someone has to try and hold life together after.”
“So, that is what you are,” he said. “The glue.”
“I guess so. I hope so.”
“And now?”
“I’ll help you hold this together, too. Whatever you need.”
“Why are you so willing to help now? You sound almost happy to be a part of my civilization.”
“I am. It’s my...project now, and I can tell you this with total honesty—if I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it, and I’ll do it right.”
“Being right is important to you.”
“The most important.”
Ana was a little embarrassed by her honesty, but really, why not? He’d told her everything. Had confessed to a youthful indiscretion that had caused the deaths of his parents, for heaven’s sake. Why not tell him this. She’d never told anyone, not in so many words. How she had to be good. How she had to make the right choice. How everything felt like it was resting on her all the time. How she had to make herself needed so that the last remaining people in her life didn’t decide she was too much trouble.
Didn’t walk away because of her mistakes.
“See, I don’t think being right or good is the most important thing,” he said. Zafar looked down at the paper in his lap, taking a pen in hand and holding it poised above the signature line. He signed it, then moved it to the floor, holding his pen above the bottom line of the sheet that had been below it.
“You don’t?”
“No. The important thing is how it all ends. It doesn’t matter how you got there.”
“This from the man who rescued women from ending up in his uncle’s harem?”
“This from a man who bought a kidnapped woman from a band of thieves in the middle of the desert and is holding her captive in his palace until he is certain his country is stabilized,” he said, looking up at her, his dark eyes intent on hers.
Her cheeks heated. Her heart pounded hard. Anger. She was angry. That was all, because she really didn’t like remembering that she was at such a big disadvantage here. She wasn’t used to it. She was used to being in charge. To making things happen.
She didn’t like acknowledging that Zafar held the power here. That he held the keys to her very pretty prison cell. And that he walked into it whenever he liked.
“You need to shave,” she said. Because she was going to start making some rules. Because she was going to take control of her project. And if she was going to stay here, she didn’t need to make it easy or fun for him.
“I need to shave?”
“Yes. You look like you just crawled out from under a sand dune, which you did.” He didn’t really. He looked dangerous. Wicked and sexy and a whole lot of things she didn’t want to admit. “You need some polish, which is what you want me to give you, right? A polish?”
He arched one dark brow. “That is a bit more suggestive than you might have meant.”
Her face warmed. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at. What could she possibly polish that would... Her cheeks lit on fire. “I didn’t mean it that way. Stop being such a man. Must you make everything...sexual?”
“It is something men have a tendency to do.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.”
“Why does it bother you? Because you fear I might make an advance on you?”
She shook her head. “No. I know you wouldn’t.” It would undermine all of his other actions. And he had a young woman right here in the palace who clearly had a crush on him. Outside of that...she imagined there were a lot of women willing to submit to the desires of the sheikh.
Oh...wow. That sentence made her feel warm all over.
“Ah,” he said, his voice deep, knowing. “You fear it because you enjoy it. Either because you find it entertaining, and know you shouldn’t, or because you are...fascinated by the way it makes you feel, and you really know that should not be allowed.”
“Not fascinated, as you put it. Not even amused.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And so what if you don’t? What if I was? Would it make a difference?”
She held her breath during the ensuing silence, unwilling, unable to do anything to shatter the tension that was filling the space between them.
“None at all,” he said, his voice hard.
“I didn’t think so. Not to me, either. We’re both bound by the same thing, Zafar. The need to do right. The need to fix. Now...how
about the shaving?”
He rubbed his hand over his chin, the whiskers whispering beneath his touch. “I shall order a razor.”
“You’re going to do it here?”
“Yes. I had thought I might seeing as you are a large part of my civilization.”
“All right. Order the supplies.”
* * *
Ana leaned against the sink in the bathroom as Zafar looked down at the bowl of hot lather, the brush and the straight razor that had been provided by one of his serving girls.
A tremor ran through her body when she thought of the blade touching his skin. His hands, so large and masculine, didn’t look geared toward fine work like drawing a blade over his skin without causing serious damage.
“Hold this,” he said, handing her the end of a leather strap. She complied and he gripped the other end, bracing the back of the blade on the surface and dragging it down the length of the belt. Then he turned it and did the same, drawing it back up. He repeated the motion, again and again, her stomach tightening with each motion.
Then he handed the razor to her. “I think it’s best if you oversee the project.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I am yours to civilize, and this was your idea. Complete your project.”
She felt like he was challenging her. Probably because he was. And she wasn’t about to back down. Not now.
“Pretty gutsy of you. Handing me a blade and asking me to put it against your skin.”
“You say that as though I think you could ever take advantage of me physically.”
“I have a weapon.”
He wrapped his hand around her arm, pressing his thumb to the pulse in her wrist. She knew he felt it quicken, knew he could feel just how delicate her bones were beneath his hand. He was very strong, and in that moment, she was very conscious of the fact that, if he had a mind to, he could break her using only that one hand.
She might be holding a weapon, but he was one.
“Indeed you do,” he said, smiling, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Frightening.” It was obvious he didn’t mean it.
He released her and stepped back, gripping the bottom of his shirt and tugging it over his head, pulling the breath from her lungs right along with it. He cast the linen tunic to the floor and braced himself on the sink, his hands gripping the edge tightly. She couldn’t help but look at him, at the movement of his abs with each breath he took, at the dark hair that did nothing to conceal his muscles but screamed at her, aggressively, insistently, that he was a man.
Much more man than she was used to.
She swallowed hard. “Right. Great.”
“I suggest you gather your courage. The last thing I need is an unsteady blade.”
“I don’t use a straight razor but I shave my legs every day.” She crossed her arms, deciding today, in this moment, she would lay diplomacy aside and go for bold. She’d been bold once. A child who ran instead of walked. Who laughed loud and often. Who spoke her mind. Until all of that brashness, all of that activity, had driven her mother away.
Until she feared it would drive her father away, too. Or the friends she’d made in school. Or Tariq.
But none of them were here now. She and Zafar were stuck with each other. She was going for broke. “I shave my bikini line. That’s delicate work. I think I can handle this.”
Something dark flared in his eyes, something hot and intense that she’d never, ever seen directed at her before. Not by anyone. Not by Tariq.
And she craved it. She had craved it for a long, long time, and she hadn’t known it until this moment. Until the excitement and heat of it washed over her skin, sinking down through her, into her veins, pooling in her stomach.
Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples sensitive. She was suddenly aware that she could feel her nipples. So aware of parts of herself that she’d never been aware of before. He was magic. Except that sounded too light or impossible. He was something else altogether. Something dark and rich and indulgent, creating a desire in her that she’d never felt before.
“That is all very interesting,” he said finally, his tone explicit, even though his words were benign.
“Yes. Well.” And after she’d just scolded him for innuendo, here she was talking about her bikini line and pondering her nipples. “Is this hot?” she asked, pointing to the small marble bowl that was full of white foam.
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
“It does to me,” she said. “Open pores would be nice. I don’t really want to scrape your skin off.”
He shrugged. “You can’t hurt me, habibti.”
“Because you’re immortal?” she asked, picking up a black-handled brush with soft bristles.
“Because I have felt all the types of pain there are. There is no novelty there, nothing new. It all just slides off now.”
“You’re way too tall. I need you to sit.”
And he did, on the tiny, feminine vanity stool that was there for her benefit. It was his own fault for insisting they use her bathroom.
It was made for a woman. This entire chamber was clearly made for a woman. Though, oddly, being in the middle of all this softness only made Zafar sexier. Yes, he was sexy, she would just admit it.
Because here he seemed rougher. Even more of a man, if that were possible.
And it appealed to her. To this new, wild piece of her that was moving into prominence.
She took a white cloth that was in a bowl of warm water and pressed it over his neck, his face, letting it sit for a moment while she took the brush and dipped it in the shaving cream, swirling in the thick foam.
“Tilt your head back.” And he did. A little thrill raced through her at the sight of Zafar obeying her command.
She removed the towel, brushing it over his skin before setting it back on the edge of the sink. Then she bent in front of him, picking up the brush and applying the cream to his skin with circular motions. She could feel the roughness of the hair catching beneath the brush, could hear nothing but the sound of their breathing and the lather being worked over his face.
Her own breathing was getting heavier. Raspier. It was certainly a lot harder to accomplish the closer she got to him.
“Okay,” she said. “Hold still because I don’t want to be responsible for the assassination of a world leader.”
He obeyed again, his dark eyes trained on her as she started to work the razor over his skin. She had a knot in her throat, in her stomach. Because it was tense work. Because she was so close to him.
She took her other hand and gripped his chin, holding him firmly and angling his head to the right so that she could get a better look at his face, so that she could skim the razor over the square line of his jaw with ease.
She dictated his movements, and he obeyed. It was an interesting thing, holding a blade against her captor’s skin. And yet, that wasn’t her dominant thought. It was about how near he was. How good he smelled. Like spices today. Like soap and, now, shaving cream.
“Hold really still,” she said, when she got to the line between his nose and upper lip.
He put his hand on her lower back, just before the metal touched his skin. “Be careful,” she said. “Don’t surprise me.”
“I’m bracing myself,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.
She should tell him to remove his hand. But she didn’t. It was warm and heavy on her body, and it reminded her of that first night in the tent. When she’d let go of all her tension and slept, rather than standing vigil. Rather than fearing for her life. When, for the first time in...maybe ever, she’d released every worry and simply drifted into deep, heavy sleep, his protective hold on her, making her feel safe.
But this wasn’t a protective hold. And it didn’t feel safe. Not in the least.
But she didn’t stop him.<
br />
She touched the steel to his flesh and breathed out as she moved, leaving his skin smooth. Taking away years with each stroke. It was like uncovering something he left buried, pieces of him revealed before her.
She couldn’t fully focus on it, or enjoy it, because his touch was sending waves of sensation through her that were impossible to ignore and that took up far more of her brain power than she cared to admit.
When she ran the blade over his neck, his Adam’s apple, a shiver of that same disquiet she’d felt when he’d first pulled out the razor went through her.
“This seems very dangerous,” she whispered, her face so close to him that her lips nearly brushed his neck.
“Perhaps a bit,” he said, his hand sliding to her hip, his fingers digging into her, and she wondered if they were meaning the same sort of danger.
Then she had to wonder which kind of danger she’d really been referring to.
“Quite a show of trust,” she said. “For a man who, I imagine, doesn’t trust very many people.”
She looked up at his eyes and was surprised to see confusion there. “It is true,” he said.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“I have no real choice,” he said. “You have the power to upend my rule. To start a war between two nations. And at the moment—” he angled his head, tilting it back so that the edge of the blade pressed harder into his skin, so very near his throat “—you have the power to end me if you choose.” For a brief, heart-stopping moment she almost thought he was requesting it. As though he wanted her to do it.
Instead, she just continued her work, trying to steady the tremble in her hand, more determined than when she’d started that she wouldn’t so much as graze his skin. Wouldn’t spill a drop of blood.
“There,” she said, her voice a whisper. She wasn’t capable of more. “Finished.”
She stepped back, away from him, moving away from his touch. Then she took the towel and wiped off the excess shaving cream, leaving him sitting before her, an entirely different man.
She could see him now. See that he was a man in his early thirties, handsome beyond reason. She’d known he was arresting, that he had a mouth made for sins she could scarcely imagine, but she’d had no idea he was this...beautiful.
