A Diamond for the Sheikh's Mistress

by Abby Green

  But then he’d extended his arm, and she’d walked forward as the doors had opened and they’d stepped through.

  And now Kat was standing beside Zafir on a small podium as he spoke to the hushed crowd and told them of the myriad opportunities available for business and recreation in his country. Kat found herself forgetting that she was under a spotlight while Zafir’s deep and hypnotic voice painted a seductive picture of a land steeped in history and with boundless opportunities.

  His love for his people and his country was evident in the passion in his voice, and she couldn’t stop a dart of surprise and pride because she’d had no idea that Zafir was so determined to be a force for change in his country. The vision he outlined was modern and progressive, and was now being met with resounding applause.

  She’d underestimated him, and that unsettled her as he stepped off the podium and held out a hand to help her down. She wasn’t thinking, and she landed on her left leg a little awkwardly, wincing as the movement jarred her prosthesis. Any kind of steps, up or down, were more of a challenge than before.

  Immediately he was sharp. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine—I just turned my ankle for a moment,’ she embellished quickly.

  Zafir frowned. ‘Maybe we should have someone check it.’

  Instant panic flooded her veins, turning her blood cold. ‘No, I’m fine. Really.’

  She spent the rest of the evening with a bright smile plastered on her face, even as her discomfort increased. She needed to take her prosthesis off to adjust it, but Zafir wouldn’t leave her side and she was loath to attract his attention.

  Finally, when she was wondering if the evening would ever end, the crowd thinned out and Zafir said, ‘I’ll take you to your suite and you can give the necklace back to the security guards for the night.’

  Relief made her almost dizzy as he accompanied her out of the room and up in the elevator, with the ever-present Noor. Kat could be thankful for at least that much. As long as she wore the diamond, she wouldn’t be alone with Zafir.

  Once in Kat’s suite, Noor stood at a respectful distance as Zafir took off the necklace and placed it into the box before handing it over.

  Noor bowed her head. ‘Good night, Sire... Miss Winters.’

  She left the room and they were alone. Before Kat could say a word, though, Zafir put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so she had her back to him. Then his hands were on her hair, plucking out the pins that had been holding the tight bun in place. As she felt it loosen and start to unravel, the discomfort of her limb was forgotten momentarily at the sheer bliss of this... Zafir’s hands moving through her hair, massaging her skull.

  His voice was low, husky. ‘I’ve imagined doing this all evening.’

  His body was close behind her and she could feel his heat and the whipcord strength of him. So close. So seductive. Treacherously, something gave way inside her, as if it was too strong for her to keep holding it back. Almost without realising what she was doing, she turned and looked up.

  Zafir went still. Kat was looking up at him, eyes wide and molten, cheeks flushed. Every instinct within him called for him to claim her—finally. But something stopped him...a memory, brutally vivid and brutally exposing.

  Kat sensed the chill even before she saw the heat in Zafir’s eyes disappear. He dropped his hands and stepped back. She blinked, feeling vulnerable and hating herself for that small moment when he must have seen her desire laid bare.

  When Zafir spoke he sounded harsh. ‘Go to bed, Kat. I have some meetings here in the morning. Rahul will accompany you to the airport after lunch.’

  And then he turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with an incongruously soft click.

  Kat felt a little dazed, not sure what had just happened. She looked around and sank down onto the nearest chair. She could feel the discomfort in her leg again, and pulled up her dress in order to start taking off her prosthetic limb. But then she stopped, realising she needed to get her crutches first.

  Feeling seriously on edge and irritable, she went into the bedroom, cursing Zafir for scrambling her brain so much that she forgot the fundamental basics.

  But what irritated her the most, as she retrieved her crutches and started to undress so she could take off her prosthesis, was the fact that if he hadn’t pulled back just now she’d most likely be on the nearest horizontal surface, giving up all her secrets to Zafir in the most humiliating way possible.

  And that wasn’t even the worst thing—because the worst thing was the insidious need to know, why had he stopped?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LONDON UNDER MOONLIGHT twinkled benignly outside Zafir’s suite window, with all of the famous landmarks lit up: the London Eye, the Shard, the dome and spires of St Paul’s cathedral. But he couldn’t care less about any of them. Or the fact that so far his diplomatic tour was a resounding success.

  His head was filled with only one thing. Recrimination for letting a mere memory stop him from seeking the relief his body ached for. That was the past—this was the present. And yet the two were colliding far too vividly for his liking.

  But when Kat had looked at him just now the sense of déjà vu had been strong enough to propel him out of her orbit. Déjà vu of the moment he’d proposed to her...

  As much as Zafir would have liked to believe his proposal had been a well thought out and strategic move, it hadn’t been. It had been spontaneous—not a behaviour that usually dictated his actions. They’d been travelling in his private jet, from London back to New York, and as he’d watched Kat across the aisle, staring dreamily out of the window, with his blood still humming after an overload of recent carnal satisfaction, she’d turned her head to look at him and he’d been overcome with a desperate and inexplicable need to ensure she never left his sight. And so he’d proposed, surprising her as much as himself.

  He cursed himself now and turned from the view not liking the reminder that his proposal had been far less strategic than he liked to admit. He strode into the bedroom, shedding clothes as he went until he was naked. When he reached the bathroom he stepped into the shower and turned it on. To cold.

  He cursed volubly as the freezing water hit his skin, but it did little to douse the fever in his blood or the unwelcome memories in his head. He should have just followed his instincts and taken her. She wouldn’t have stopped him this time—he felt it deep in his gut. And lower, where he still ached in spite of the cold water.

  If anything, Kat had only proved that her defiance and reluctance were an act, and that she was biding her time before giving in. It was a little power play...she was messing with his head.

  Next time he wouldn’t let anything stop him, and when this tour was over and he’d slaked his lust he would walk away from Kat, and he would not feel the slightest ounce of regret because she’d be relegated to the past for good.

  * * *

  ‘Dinner, Kat. It’s a social construct designed for people to sit down together and make conversation. Break bread together.’

  Kat looked at Zafir suspiciously where he stood on the other side of her Parisian hotel suite’s door. The Paris event wasn’t due to take place until the following evening, and Kat had been savouring the thought of some breathing space while Zafir had meetings at the Jandor consulate nearby. She’d been looking forward to an early evening in bed, with a view of the Eiffel tower outside her window, watching old movies and eating ice-cream—her comfort staples. But now her peace was shattered.

  ‘I know what dinner is.’ She tried to keep her tone even. ‘But what do you want to talk about? We have nothing to discuss.’

  Zafir leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, supremely relaxed. Supremely dangerous. ‘We’re friends at least—aren’t we, Kat?’

  She scowled. ‘You’re my employer and I’m your employee.’

  ‘We have history,’ he countered.

  ‘Ancient history,’ she blasted back, panic rising as she realised that the past felt far too cl
ose for comfort. This Zafir was the one she remembered and feared. Relentless, seductive. Impossible to resist.

  ‘We’re ex-lovers,’ he said silkily. ‘I’d say we have plenty to talk about.’

  And just like that a slideshow of explicit images bombarded Kat’s memory banks, rendering her speechless.

  As if sensing her momentary weakness, Zafir straightened from the door and said, ‘I’ll come back for you in an hour, Kat. Be ready.’

  He was leaving before she could wrap her tongue around another word, but then he stopped abruptly and came back. ‘Actually, I was going to go for a run, if you’d like to join me?’

  A sharp pain lanced Kat right in the gut. She and Zafir used to jog together all the time. She’d taken great delight in keeping up with his punishing regular five-mile regime.

  She felt hollow inside as she shook her head firmly. ‘No, thank you.’

  Zafir shrugged minutely and backed away again, oblivious to the turmoil caused by his easy invitation. ‘As you wish—see you in an hour.’

  She finally shut the door on his retreating back, and leant against it, an awful poignancy making her chest swell with emotion. Before it could turn into anything more she issued an unladylike curse and pushed herself away from the door.

  The prospect of an evening with Zafir loomed large. The hollow feeling dissipated, to be replaced with a predictable array of physical reactions at the thought of sitting down with him one on one. Her skin grew hot, her pulse tripled and butterflies swarmed into her belly against her best efforts to quell his effect on her.

  He was chipping away at the walls she’d erected around herself and he wasn’t even aware of it. Yesterday evening she’d come so close to succumbing, and only because of his self-control she’d been saved from outright humiliation.

  Damn him and his games. Damn him and his easy invitation to do something she’d never easily do again.

  But he doesn’t know about your leg, reminded a chiding voice.

  And he never would, she vowed now. Because if he did it would mean he’d breached her last defences.

  She walked over to the closet and opened the doors, purposely picking out the most casual clothes she possessed.

  But when Zafir appeared at her door again, in exactly an hour’s time, he looked smart and gorgeous in a dark suit, with his shirt open at the neck, and she felt like a rebellious teenager. His explicit look told her what he thought of the soft leather trousers, flat ankle boots and the loose, unstructured grey top. She’d left her hair down, wore minimal make-up, and reached for her light wraparound jacket and bag before coming into the hall and closing the door behind her.

  Zafir appeared amused, which made her feel even more exposed and silly. ‘Don’t worry, Kat. I won’t get the wrong idea, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

  He stood back to let her precede him into the elevator, and as it descended he leant against one mirrored wall with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘You used to love wearing short skirts and high heels,’ he observed. ‘Is this some new feminist stance or is it just to ward me off?’

  Kat’s insides turned to ice. She had loved wearing the highest of heels and the shortest of dresses and skirts. And only ever for this man, because the carnal hunger and appreciation in his gaze had used to make her feel sexy and desired.

  Relief warred confusingly with disappointment to hear that Zafir would obviously prefer to see her dressing as she’d used to.

  Feeling exposed, she rounded on him, saying heatedly, ‘No, it’s not a feminist stance, actually. Women should be able to wear whatever they want—and not to entice a man. For themselves.’

  He wasn’t perturbed by her outburst. As the elevator doors opened he said easily, ‘I was merely making an observation, not stating a preference, and I agree with you one hundred per cent. For what it’s worth, Kat, you could wear a sack from head to toe and it wouldn’t diminish how much I want you.’

  Before she could respond to that, he took her arm in a loose but proprietorial hold to guide her across the exclusive Paris hotel lobby and out through the doors to his chauffeur-driven car.

  She barely noticed the ubiquitous security vehicle waiting to tail their every move. Zafir had blindsided her a little. She’d always pegged him as being unremittingly traditional and conservative because he was so effortlessly alpha, but maybe that wasn’t fair.

  When they were settled in the back of his car she asked, ‘Where are we going?’

  He looked at her, his face cast into shadow, making it stern and even more compelling. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  Kat’s insides clenched. She had a feeling she knew exactly where, and if she was right she wanted to jump out of the car right now. Zafir had introduced her to a restaurant here on their first trip to Paris, shortly after they’d started seeing each other, and the experience was seared into her memory.

  It was one of the city’s oldest establishments, famous for its decadent furnishings and for its private dining rooms, which had been used in previous centuries for clandestine assignations of a very carnal nature. Zafir had, of course, booked one of those rooms, and Kat’s memories of the evening had nothing to do with the food they’d eaten and everything to do with the wicked pleasures he’d subjected her to in the intimate and luxuriously furnished space...

  She refused to let Zafir guess how agitated she was by these memories and looked out of the window, taking in the glittering lights and beautiful buildings. She’d always loved Paris as it had been the first place she’d visited outside of America in her early modelling days. Its beauty and history had astounded her, and nowhere else had ever had the same effect on her.

  Her conscience twinged... Except for Jahor, the awe-inspiring capital city of Zafir’s country, Jandor. It sprawled across a series of hills, overlooking the sparkling sea, and the skyline was made up of minarets and flat roofs, with children flying multicoloured kites as the sun went down. Overlooking it all was the golden-hued grand palace.

  ‘We’re here.’

  Kat came out of the past and frantically checked where they were, a sigh of relief moving through her when she realised they weren’t at the restaurant she’d been thinking of. Instead, as Zafir came around and helped her out of the car, she saw that they were in a small street on Île de la Cité—one of Paris’s many small islands in the Seine.

  Intrigued in spite of herself, she let Zafir lead her over to a small restaurant tucked between two tall buildings. From the outside it looked inviting, with golden light spilling out onto the street. And it was not like anywhere Zafir had ever brought her before.

  In fact when he spoke he sounded almost...uncertain. ‘This is one of Paris’s best kept secrets.’

  Kat looked at him and said drily, ‘Were you expecting me to throw a tantrum because it’s not a restaurant three hundred storeys up with a view of the Eiffel Tower?’

  Zafir was unreadable, ‘I’m not sure what to expect any more.’

  Before she could respond, he was leading her into the restaurant. She was surprised to see that he got a warm welcome from the proprietor, who greeted Zafir like a long-lost son and her like an old friend.

  Within seconds their coats had been taken and they were seated in a discreet corner, tucked away but able to see everything. The table was small, but exquisitely set with a white tablecloth and silver cutlery. Soft music played in the background and every other table was full, everyone engrossed in each other. It was achingly and effortlessly romantic.

  Feeling vulnerable and defensive, Kat said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of place.’

  Zafir shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap before reaching for a bread roll. ‘I worked here in the kitchen as an apprentice chef while I was at the Sorbonne for a semester.’

  Kat’s jaw dropped. Zafir looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Good to know I’m still capable of surprising you.’

  Feeling even more vulnerable now, Kat said testily, ‘You accused me
of lying, but you weren’t exactly forthcoming with information yourself.’

  Zafir’s smile faded and air between them crackled. ‘It wasn’t talking about myself I was most interested in where you were concerned.’

  A waiter appeared then, and took their order, and he was quickly followed by a sommelier who took their wine order. When the wine had been poured and they were alone again, Kat felt ridiculously self-conscious and aware of Zafir, his long legs bracketing hers beneath the table.

  He sat back, the delicate stem of his wine glass between long fingers. ‘Why did you do it, Kat?’

  She looked at him, feeling panicked. ‘What?’

  His face was stark. ‘The pictures. Why did you let a man see you like that when you were so young? Why weren’t you in school?’

  Kat’s hand tightened on her glass. She hated that she still didn’t feel ready to tell Zafir everything. She wondered if she ever would. ‘Now you want to know? It won’t change anything.’

  Their starter arrived—deliciously creamy mushroom soup with truffle oil. To Kat’s relief, Zafir seemed happy to let the question go while they ate, and he told her some stories of working there under a famously mercurial chef.

  She said, ‘I had no idea you were interested in cooking. And why take a job when you didn’t have to?’

  ‘I may be privileged—’

  Kat snorted indelicately at that understatement.

  Zafir continued. ‘But I soon got bored when I wasn’t studying. I was walking past this place one day and saw a sign in the window advertising for kitchen help, so I applied. No one here knew who I was. To them I was just Zafir Noury, a foreign student. It was only when my bodyguards made themselves a little too noticeable that questions were asked. But they let me stay working here and protected my identity. When Marcel, the owner, got into financial difficulty some years ago I was able to help him out, so now I have a stake in the business too.’