by Maya Blake
She moved back to her place by the door so that she was blocking his way if he wanted to come towards her. The movement drew his attention to her feet on the wooden floor. Long, elegant, golden-skinned, they were tipped with an astonishingly bright pink polish on her nails. And the movement had brought a waft of some tantalising perfume stirring on the air. Flowers, but with an unexpected undertone of sexy spice.
‘No need for that.’ His voice was rough around the edges as he had to push it from an unexpectedly dry throat. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘And you expect me to believe that, do you?’ she challenged, flinging another furious and flashing glare into his face.
Knowing she had caught his attention, she let her gaze drop downwards in a deliberate move to draw his attention to where his foot still came between the door and its white-painted frame, blocking the way.
‘Does that look like normal behaviour?’ she questioned roughly, nodding towards the carefully imposed barrier. Her tone was almost as raw as his but for very different reasons, he suspected. She was furious, practically spitting her anger at him. And suddenly he had the image in his head of a young, thin stray cat he had seen in a car park only that morning. A sleek black beauty who had started in violent apprehension when he had approached it and, turning, had hissed its defiance in his face.
He was handling this all wrong, Karim acknowledged uncomfortably. Somewhere in the moments between the time he had arrived here and she had answered the door, all his carefully planned tactics had gone right up in smoke and he had taken completely the wrong approach. He hadn’t expected her to be so hostile, so defiant. Raw and unsettled as he was already with thoughts of the situation he had left behind at home, worry about his father’s health, the way he had been forced so unexpectedly into taking this action today, he had let his usual rigid control slip shamefully.
That and the fact that he’d been without a woman for so long, he acknowledged unwillingly. Too long. There had been no one in his bed or even near it since Soraya had stormed out, accusing him of never being there for her. Never being there, full stop. Well, of course he hadn’t. When had he had the time, or the freedom of thought, to be there for anyone other than his father, or the country that he now found himself so brutally and unexpectedly heir to? The problems that had flared up so suddenly had taken every second of his time, forcing him to take on his father’s duties as well as his own. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Not willingly.
And, face it, he had never expected her to be so physically gorgeous. So incredibly sexy. He had seen photographs of her, of course, but not a single one of those pictures had the sensual impact of the molten bronze eyes, golden skin, tousled black hair and the intoxicating scent that seemed to have tangled itself around his nerves, pulling tight. His mouth almost watered, his senses burning to life in the space of a heartbeat.
No.
Hastily, he pulled himself up. He couldn’t allow thoughts like that to sneak into his mind, even for a moment. It didn’t matter a damn if this woman was the sexiest female on earth—and he refused to listen to his senses’ insistence that that might just be the case—she was not for him. She was forbidden to him, dammit. They were on opposite sides of a huge divide and, frankly, it was better it stayed that way. From what he had heard, she was too much trouble to be worth any transient pleasure. And he already had too much on his conscience as it was.
‘My apologies,’ he said stiffly, imposing control on his voice in the hope that the rest of his senses would follow. ‘I am not going to hurt you.’
‘Do you think that if you say it often enough I’ll be forced to believe you?’ she challenged. ‘What’s that phrase about protesting too much?’
He wasn’t sure if she had deliberately flung the question at him to distract him, but it worked. Puzzled, he reacted without thinking, taking his foot from the door and, sensing the lessening of pressure against her hand, she acted instinctively, pushing the door back against him and whirling away from him, dashing back inside the house.
If she could just reach the phone, she could call the police, Clemmie told herself. Or she could hope to get right through the house and out of the back door. She didn’t trust for one minute his declaration that he had no intention of hurting her. He meant trouble, she was sure. Some deeply primitive instinct told her that, gorgeous or not, he was dangerous right through to the bone.
But she hadn’t pushed the door quite soon enough. She knew the moment that he stopped it from closing, the silence instead of the bang of wood on wood. He had stepped into the hallway; was right behind her. Every nerve, every muscle tensed in anticipation of his coming to claim her, to grab at her shoulder or her arms. But, unbelievably, as she dashed into the kitchen she heard him come to a halt.
‘Clementina.’
Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that. Wasn’t the use of her name—her full name. The one that no one here in England used. The one that no one even knew was her real name. And the sound of it stopped her dead, freezing her into stillness in the middle of her tiny kitchen.
‘Clementina—please.’
Please? Now she had to be hearing things. He couldn’t have said that. He wouldn’t have said please—would he?
‘I’m not coming any further,’ he said with careful control. ‘I’m going to stay here and we should talk. Let me explain—my name is Karim Al Khalifa.’
Through the buzzing in her head, Clemmie heard the words so differently. She had been expecting to hear that name, or one so very like it, that she believed he’d said what she’d anticipated.
‘Now I know you’re lying.’
She tossed the words over her shoulder, turning her head just far enough to see that he had actually halted as he had said, just outside the kitchen door.
‘I don’t know how you know that I was waiting for someone to come here from Sheikh Al Khalifa, but it sure as blazes wasn’t you. I’ve seen a picture of the man who was coming and he’s at least twice your age, has a beard. The photo’s on my computer—it was in the email...’
‘Was,’ he inserted, cold and sharp. ‘The important word there is “was”.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Needing to see him to look into his face, meet his eyes, to try and read just what was going on inside his handsome head, she made herself turn to confront him and immediately wished she hadn’t. The dark glaze of his eyes was like black ice, making her stomach lurch. At the same time she felt the clench of her nerves in another, very different sort of response. A very female, very sensual sort of reaction. One that made her throat ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
One that was the last thing she wanted, or should even acknowledge she was feeling.
‘The man who was coming,’ he repeated with a dark emphasis. ‘But isn’t any more.’
‘And how do you know...’ Clemmie began, only to find that her voice failed her, the rest of the question fading away into an embarrassing squeak. This man knew too much about her situation—but from what sources?
Suddenly, she was nervous in a new way. One that had thoughts of diplomacy, peace treaties, international situations and strong tensions between countries running through her head. Her hands felt damp and she ran them down the sides of her thighs to ease the sensation, her heart clenching painfully as she watched his dark eyes drop to follow the betraying movement.
His eyes lingered in a way that made her shift uncomfortably from one foot to another on the terracotta-tiled floor.
‘I know because I organised it,’ was the emotionless response. ‘My father ordered what was to happen and instructed Adnan to come and fetch you. He also had the photo of the man he’d put in charge of this sent to you so that you knew who was coming. At least those were the original arrangements—but then everything changed.’
‘Changed?’
It felt as if her bloo
d was weakening, the strength seeping out of her so that she almost imagined there would be a damp pool collecting on the floor at her feet. Adnan was the name of the man Sheikh Al Khalifa had said he would send. The man who was to see her safe to Rhastaan. And she needed her safety to be guaranteed.
Not everyone was as pleased about this prospective marriage as her father. Sheikh Ankhara, whose lands bordered Rhastaan, and who had always wanted the throne for his own daughter, had made no secret of the fact that he would sabotage it if he could. It was because of a possible threat from him that Sheikh Al Khalifa—my father, Karim had said—had taken charge, organising a trusted man to escort her to Nabil.
But now Karim was saying that he had changed those arrangements. Did that mean that something had gone wrong?
‘Do you want to sit down?’
Her feelings must have shown in her face. Perhaps the blood had drained from there too.
‘Here.’
He had crossed to the sink, snatching up a glass and filling it with water from the tap.
‘Take this...’
He pushed it into her hand then closed his own hand around hers as her shockingly nerveless fingers refused to grasp it, coming dangerously close to letting it drop and smash on the tiles.
‘Drink it.’ It was a command as he lifted the glass to her lips.
She managed a little sip, struggling to swallow even the small amount of water. He was so shockingly close. If she breathed in she could inhale the scent of his skin, the faint tang of some aromatic aftershave. His hands were warm on hers, sending pulses of reaction over her skin, and if she looked up into his dark eyes she could see herself reflected in their depths, a tiny, pale-faced thing with huge eyes that gave away too much. She didn’t like how the image made her feel diminished in a way that was as powerful as her awareness of the force and strength of the long body so close to hers, creating a pounding turmoil inside her head.
‘Your—did you say your father?’
A sharp, curt nod of that dark head was his only response. He was still holding the glass of water to her lips, not pushing it at her, but making it plain that he believed she needed more. It was a toss-up between easing the painful tightness of her throat or risking making herself sick as she struggled to swallow.
She managed another sip then pushed the glass away. The brief slick of her tongue over her lips did little to ease the way she was feeling. Particularly not when she saw that darkly intent gaze drop to follow the small movement and she actually saw the kick of his pulse at the base of his throat. Was it possible that he was feeling something of the same heated reaction as the one that had seared through her at his touch?
‘And who, precisely, is your father?’
‘You know his name—you talked of him just now.’
‘I talked of Sheikh Al Khalifa, but he can’t...’ Another nod, as sharp and hard as the first, cut her off in mid-sentence and she had to shake her head violently, sending her dark hair flying as she tried to deny what he was saying. ‘No—he can’t... Prove it!’
A faint shrug of those broad shoulders dismissed her challenge but all the same he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a wallet and flipped it open, holding it up in front of her.
‘My name is Karim Al Khalifa,’ he said slowly and carefully, as if explaining to a difficult and not very bright child. ‘Shamil Al Khalifa is my father—he is also the man whose envoy you were expecting. Isn’t he?’ he demanded when she could only stare at the driving licence, the bank cards in blank silence.
‘But if he—’ Clemmie shook her head slowly, unable to take it all in. ‘Why would he send you—his son...?’
Because if this Karim was the Sheikh’s son then that meant he must be a prince in his own right, as rich and powerful—possibly more so—as Nabil, who was the reason for this situation in the first place.
‘I was expecting a member of his security team. Someone who would make sure that I travelled safely to Rhastaan and...’
‘And met up with your prospective groom,’ Karim finished for her, making it clear that he really did know all about the situation; that he was well aware of what was going on.
‘Things made it—imperative—that the arrangement we’d put in place could not go ahead as we planned. Plans had to be changed at the last moment.’
‘But why?’
‘Because it was necessary.’
And that was all the explanation she was going to get, Clemmie was forced to acknowledge as Karim pushed himself upright, straightening his long back and flexing his broad shoulders. He strode to the sink, tossed what was left of the water into it and placed the glass on the draining board. The air around Clemmie suddenly felt uncomfortably cold without the warm strength of his body so close to hers.
‘And those plans mean that we don’t have any time to waste.’ He flung the words over his shoulder, not even troubling to turn and face her as he spoke. ‘I hope you’ve packed as instructed, because we have to leave now.’
‘Now?’ That brought her to her feet in a rush. As instructed. Who did he think he was?
‘No way. That’s not happening.’
‘Oh, but I assure you that it is.’
She’d planned on arguing against this. Or, at the very least, she’d hoped to discuss it with the man who was due to arrive at her cottage. Her birthday was still nine days away. Less than a month, but that made all the difference.
‘The contract that was drawn up between my family and the rulers of Rhastaan only comes into effect on December third. The day I turn twenty-three.’
‘That day will come soon enough. We’ll be in Rhastaan by the time you come of age.’
So he did know everything about her. Was it supposed to reassure, to let her know that he really was in control of the situation? Because reassure was the last thing it did. She had known that one day someone would come for her. It had been decided, signed and sealed thirteen years before, when the son of the Sheikh of Rhastaan was five, and she not quite ten. They had been betrothed, contracted to each other, to be married when Nabil reached adulthood. She had had some years of freedom, time to complete a university course, while their parents waited for her prospective husband to become old enough to wed and to hold the throne of his own kingdom. And now that time was up.
But not yet. Please, not yet.
Clemmie had thought that she would be able to argue with the man who had been sent. That she could at least pull rank just a little, insist on having a day or two’s grace before she had to leave. The man she had thought was coming to collect her—an older man, a family man, she had hoped—might be someone she could appeal to. Someone who would give her that breathing space and let her have a chance of fulfilling her promise to Harry.
But this dark, sleek, dangerous panther of a man—would he listen to a word she had to say? Would he give her any sort of chance? She doubted it. Especially when she couldn’t tell him—or anyone—the whole truth. She didn’t dare. It was vital that she kept Harry’s existence a total secret. If anyone ever found out about him then the little boy’s future was at risk.
So how could she persuade him?
‘I need more time. A few days.’
You have to be joking, the look he turned on her said without words. It made her feel like some small, crawling insect just within crushing reach of his feet in their highly polished handmade shoes. A small, crawling female insect. And from the way he looked down his straight slash of a nose, the burn of contempt in the blackness of his eyes, she knew just which of those words he considered to be the greatest possible insult he could toss her way.
She made herself face him, her eyes locking with his, burning with the defiance she felt towards his arrogant decree.
‘And who precisely are you to order me around?’
‘I told you—I am Karim Al Khalifa, Crown
Prince of Markhazad.’
He obviously thought that his cold statement would impress her but he couldn’t be more wrong. She’d spent so much time as she grew up with the royal family who were destined to be her family one day. It had been a sterile, regimented existence, with very few moments of freedom. Her father had been determined that she knew how to behave, how to follow court protocol. She had been trained for her role. When she married they would be more than equals, and soon she would be queen.
‘Crown Prince, hmm? So why are you here, running errands—’
He hadn’t liked that, not one bit. A flame of anger had flared in those polished jet eyes, turning them from ice to fire in the space of a heartbeat. And, contradictorily, that chilled her own blood till she felt it might freeze in her veins.
‘I am here representing my father,’ he snapped, cutting her off before she could complete the sentence. ‘Not running errands. And as my father’s representative I insist that you pack your bags and get ready to leave.’
‘You can insist all you like. I’ve no intention of going anywhere with you so I suggest you just turn around and walk out that door.’
‘And I have no intention of leaving—at least, not without you.’
How could that gorgeous, sensual mouth make a simple statement sound like the most terrible threat since time began? And the husky appeal of his accent only added to the horror of the contradiction.
‘I’ve come for you. And I’m leaving with you. And that is all there is to it.’
Copyright © 2014 by Kate Walker
ISBN-13: 9781460333150
WHAT THE GREEK CAN’T RESIST
Copyright © 2014 by Maya Blake
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