Kitabı oku: «Banished to the Harem», sayfa 2

‘You do not open the door.’

Neither, it would seem, did he, for the robed man who had served them tea was the one who climbed out. Rakhal’s hand was still on her wrist and she waited. For what, she wasn’t quite sure. Another offer of dinner? Or perhaps it was he who was waiting? Maybe he thought she would ask him inside?

She looked at that handsome face, at the mouth that was so sorely tempting, and then at his come-to-bed eyes. She could almost see them reflected there—could envisage them tumbling in her bed. It was a dangerous vision to have, so she pulled her wrist away. ‘Thank you for the lift.’

He watched her almost run to her house, saw her safely inside and then gestured to his driver to move on. They rode in silence.

Abdul knew better than to question why Rakhal had been at a police station, where the bruises were from—it was not an aide’s place to question the Crown Prince. He would bring him a poultice later, and again over the next few days, in the hope that the bruises would be gone by his return to Alzirz.

Right now Rakhal had more than bruises and several hours in a prison cell on his mind. He had never been said no to before; quite simply it had never happened—but he did not grace the markets and had no need to barter. Rakhal knew she was not like the women he usually played with but, oh, the heaven of getting her to unbend. It was a shame he was leaving on Monday. She might be worth pursuing otherwise. Still, maybe the next time he visited London … Except he would be a married man by then, and something told him that Natasha would be even more disapproving.

He wished she had said yes.

Natasha thought the same almost as soon as she stepped inside. Away from him she was far more logical—she had just turned down a dinner invitation from surely the most gorgeous man alive. The loss of her holiday and her car seemed like minor inconveniences compared to what she had just denied herself. She moved to the window and watched his car glide off. Her hand moved to her wrist, where his fingers had been. She replayed their conversations again.

He had been nothing but polite, she told herself. It was her mind that was depraved.

She kicked herself all day as she dealt with the car insurance company, and then tried to sound cheerful when one of her friends rang to tell her they had secured an amazing deal for ten nights in Tenerife. They would be leaving tonight, and was Natasha quite sure that she didn’t want to change her mind and join them?

Natasha almost did, but then she looked down at the figure that had been quoted as the excess on her insurance and regretfully turned down her second amazing offer in one day.

Her brother’s debts were not Natasha’s responsibility, all her friends said, but actually they were. Natasha had not told anyone about the loan she had taken out for him—which was why her friends were unable to understand why she didn’t want to come away on holiday with them, especially after such a hellish year.

To Mark’s credit, since she had taken the loan he had always paid her back on time, and Natasha was starting to feel as if she could breathe, that maybe he was finally working things out. A payment was due tomorrow, and she pulled up her bank account online. Her emerging confidence in her brother vanished as she realised that his payment to her hadn’t gone in, and immediately she rang him.

‘You’ll have it next week.’

Natasha closed her eyes as he reeled off excuses. ‘It’s not good enough, Mark, the payment’s due tomorrow.’ She cursed at the near miss—she might have been en route to Tenerife, not knowing that she had defaulted on a loan payment. ‘I can’t afford to cover it, Mark. I had my car stolen last night.’ She would not cry, she was tougher than that, but for so many reasons today was especially hard. ‘When I agreed to get this loan you promised you would never miss a payment.’

‘I said you’ll have it next week. There’s nothing else I can do. Look,’ he said, ‘how soon till you get the car insurance payout?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You said your car had been stolen,’ Mark said. ‘You’ll get that payment soon. That will cover it.’

‘It might be found,’ Natasha said. ‘And if it isn’t the payout will buy me another car.’ But, even though there was so much to be addressed, she was tired of talking about cars and money on today of all days. ‘Are you going to the cemetery?’

‘Cemetery?’

She heard the bemusement in her brother’s voice and anger burnt inside her as she responded. ‘It’s their one-year anniversary, Mark.’

‘I know.’

Natasha was quite sure he’d forgotten. ‘Well?’ she pushed. ‘Are you going?’

As he reeled off yet more excuses Natasha simply hung up the phone and headed to her bedroom. But instead of getting on with tidying up, for a moment or two she sat on her bed, wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. This time last year her life had been pretty close to perfect—she’d just qualified as a teacher and had been doing a job she loved; she had been dating a guy she was starting to if not love then really care for; she’d been saving towards moving out of her parents’ house. She had also been looking forward to being a bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding.

Now, in the space of a year, all she had known, all she had loved, had been taken. Even her job. As an infant school teacher she had been on a temporary placement and about to be offered a permanent position when the car crash had happened. Knowing she simply couldn’t be the teacher she wanted to be while deeply grieving, she had declined the job offer, and the last year had been filled with temporary placements as she waded through her parents’ estate.

Their will had been very specific—the family home was to be sold and the profits divided equally between their two children.

How she had hated that—how much harder it had made things having to deal with estate agents and home inspections. And going through all the contents had been agony. It was a job she felt should have been done in stages; she had wanted to linger more in the process of letting go. But Mark had wanted his share and had pushed things along. Her boyfriend, Jason, had been no help either. He’d been uncomfortable with her grief and uncomfortable providing comfort—it had been a relief for Natasha to end things.

And now, one year on, she sat in the small home she had bought that still felt unfamiliar, living a life that didn’t feel like her own.

Tears wouldn’t change anything; sitting on her bed crying wasn’t going to help. She headed downstairs and, one cup of coffee later, unable to face a bus, she called for a taxi, asking him to stop and wait as she went into a florist and bought some flowers.

She hated coming here.

Wasn’t it supposed to bring her peace?

It didn’t.

She looked at the headstone and all Natasha felt was anger that her parents had been taken far too soon.

‘Maybe it’s too soon for peace?’ Natasha said aloud to them, except her heart craved it.

No, there was no peace to be had at the cemetery, so she took a bus home and had a long bath to warm up.

Anticipating packing for her holiday, Natasha had pulled out all her clothes, and late that afternoon she tackled the mountain strewn over her bedroom. But Rakhal and their brief encounter was still there at the back of her mind, and he was so much nicer to think about than her problems closer to home that she allowed herself a tiny dream …

What if she had said yes to him?

What, Natasha wondered, did you wear for dinner with the Crown Prince Sheikh of Alzirz?

Nothing that was in Natasha’s wardrobe, that was for sure. Except as she hung up her clothes there it was—still wrapped in its cover. She had never really known what to do with it. It was to have been her bridesmaid’s dress for Mark and Louise’s wedding, but Louise had called the wedding off a week before the date, which had left Mark devastated. It was then he had started gambling—or rather that was what he had told Natasha when he’d come to her for help. Now she wondered if it had been the reason for Louise calling things off.

She had been so angry with Louise for destroying her brother. The car accident resulting in the death of their parents had been devastating, but the upcoming wedding, though hard to look forward to at first, had been the one shining light—Mark and Louise had been together for years, and her calling it off had had the most terrible effect on Mark.

Yet now Natasha was starting to wonder if Mark had been the one who had destroyed himself—if his gambling problems were in fact not so recent.

She hadn’t spoken with Louise since the break-up. Louise had always been lovely, and for the first time Natasha allowed herself to miss her almost-sister-in-law. She resisted the urge to call her, because Louise didn’t need to be worried with Mark’s problems now.

Instead, Natasha slid open the zip and pulled the dress from its cover. As she gazed at it she wished again that things had turned out differently.

It was gold and very simple, with a slightly fluted hem that was cut on the bias, and thin spaghetti straps that fell into a cowl neck. It would be wrong to pull it on with wet hair and an unmade-up face, for if ever there was a dress that deserved the full effect it was this one.

So Natasha dried hair and then smoothed it with straighteners. Louise had wanted her to wear her hair up. It was the only thing they had disagreed on, but of course it was to have been Louise’s day, and so she would have won. Natasha took her thick red hair and twisted it, securing it on the top of the head with a clasp, then put on make-up as best she could. She took out her mother’s earrings and necklace, holding the cool pearls in her hand for a moment. Natasha rarely wore jewellery for the same reason she didn’t wear perfume: it irritated her skin. But today she made an exception and put the jewels on. It should still be her mother wearing them. How Natasha wished that she could rewind a year, because things had been so much simpler then.

But if she started crying she might never stop, so Natasha looked in the mirror instead. The dress was stunning and Louise had been right—with her hair up it was even more so. The necklace and earrings were the perfect final touch and, again as Louise had assured her, she didn’t look like a traditional bridesmaid. More … Natasha looked again and gave a smile. Had she said yes to Rakhal, this was what she would have worn, for now she was fit for a prince.

Still he played on her mind—but then why wouldn’t he? He had been the one saving grace in a pretty miserable day. And then she heard a knock at her door.

Perhaps it was Mark bringing over the money? Or an aunt dropping round to mark the one-year anniversary of her parents’ passing?

While normally she would have run down the stairs to answer, given how she was dressed Natasha held back and went to the window. She peeked through a gap in the curtain. Peering down into the street, she saw a limousine—but even before that she knew it was him.

Had known at some level that she had been dressing for him.

That this morning their attraction, or whatever it was that had occurred, hadn’t all been in her imagination, that he had felt it too.

And now Rakhal was at her door.

CHAPTER TWO

RAKHAL had spent the day trying to forget Natasha. He had completed the most pressing of his appointments and then peered through the impressive list of female contacts in his phone.

This evening none of them had appealed.

He could, if he’d chosen to, have returned to the exclusive London club he often frequented, where he was assured of a warm welcome from any number of young socialites who would be only too happy to spend a night in a prince’s bed.

He’d chosen not to.

Instead he had headed down to the hotel bar, taken a seat in a plump leather chair. In a moment a long glass of water had been placed in front of him, for here in London, it was his drink of choice. Less than two minutes later, another option had appeared. Blonde, beautiful, her smile inviting.

With but a gesture of his hand he could have invited her to join him or have a drink sent over to her.

It was that easy for Rakhal.

Always.

Both here and at home.

He’d thought of the harem that served his every need—the harem that would still serve him even after his marriage—and suddenly he’d been weary with easy. He was bored with no thrill to the chase.

He’d gestured to the bartender, who had walked over ready to take his order, to serve the blonde a glass of champagne, but Rakhal had delivered other instructions.

Now the car he had summoned waited as he knocked again at her door. Rakhal did not have time to play games, and neither did he have time to take his time. And yet here he was. All day she had intrigued him. All day his first taste of rejection had gnawed. Perhaps she was already in a relationship? he had pondered. But something told him she was not. There was a shyness to her, an awkwardness he found endearing. Rarely was effort required from him with women—perhaps that was the novelty that had brought him here.

He decided that the novelty would quickly wane, but that thought faded as soon as she opened the door.

It was as though she’d been waiting for him—had somehow anticipated his surprise arrival.

Appealing before, she was exquisite now. Her hair was dry, its true colours revealed: the colours of a winter sky in Alzirz as the sun dipped lower over the desert, reds and oranges and a blaze of fire. His only qualm was that he wanted to see it worn down—would see it worn down, Rakhal decided, before the night’s end.

‘What are you doing here?’ Natasha had had her panic upstairs and was as calm as she could manage now—as casual as she could hope to be when dealing with the sudden arrival of Rakhal.

‘I said that I would pick you up at seven.’

‘And I told you I had plans …’ Natasha started. Yet she did want time with this intoxicating man and her refusal was halted. For all day she had regretted saying no to him, all day she had wished she had said yes, and now she had her chance. ‘Actually, my plans have changed …’ She hoped her make-up hid her blush as she lied. ‘My friend isn’t feeling well.’

‘Well, now that your plans have changed …’ He knew she was lying, and he would not ask her to join him again. He had asked her once, had even come to her door. Now he stood silently awaiting her decision, for it was up to Natasha now—he did not beg.

The decision was an easy one. He was even more beautiful than she remembered him from this morning. He was wearing an immaculate charcoal-grey suit and his hair, messy that morning, was now swept back. The bruise on his eye had turned a deep purple, and Natasha felt her nails dig into her palms as she resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, to run her fingers over the slight swelling at his left cheekbone. It was bizarre the effect he had on her. Never had a man made her more aware of her femininity.

Natasha swallowed, for he made her aware of her sexuality too, in a way no one ever had—certainly not Jason. She was filled with a sudden desperation for the night not to end—and it would, Natasha knew, if she did not go with him now. It would end this instant if she did not simply say yes.

‘I’ll get my bag.’ Natasha hovered a moment, unsure if she should ask him in—embarrassed to do so, but worried it would be rude not to. ‘Do you want to—?’

‘I will wait here,’ Rakhal interrupted. He wanted their night to start, and was not sure if she lived alone. If she did—well, he did not want to ruin any tentative progress with a kiss delivered too soon. It would be hard not to kiss her. He was already growing hard.

He turned out to face the street, to look at the neat hedges and the houses. He tried to fathom her, tried to work her out just a little, surprising himself because for once he had a need to know more about the woman he would be spending the night with.

She found a bag and quickly filled it with her purse and keys, then took a moment more to steady herself than to check her make-up. She found a jacket that didn’t really do justice to the dress. Even though it had stopped raining it was a cold, clear night, and she really couldn’t go out with bare arms, so she slipped it on and walked down the stairs. She could see his outline in the front doorway as he waited for her to be ready.

He waited too while she locked the door, and then they headed to his car. This time it was his driver who came around and opened the door, and there was no man in robes waiting inside when she climbed in. She was nervous at being alone with him.

Yet he was the perfect gentleman. He took the seat opposite rather than next to her, making polite conversation as the car moved through the dark streets. He did nothing and said nothing untoward—in fact he didn’t even comment on how she was dressed. No doubt he was used to going out with women dressed up to the nines. She wondered how he’d have reacted if he knew just how unusual this was for her, if she’d answered the door in jeans and slippers. Would the outcome have been the same? Would he have waited while she changed …? Would the usual outfits in her wardrobe have sufficed for a night like this?

She doubted it.

Yet he had seen her dripping wet this morning, had seen her at her worst, and still there had been want between them. The doubt blurred as she pondered this most stunning man. She could see his hand resting on his thigh, the dark skin, the manicured nails, and then she turned her gaze away when she realised he was watching her too. Her jacket felt like a blanket. The car was too warm. Both these things she blamed for the heat that spread across her body as she admitted her desire. She wanted to press a button, wanted the window to open and the night air to blast her face cool. When they turned a corner and his stretched-out leg rolled just a little nearer to her rigid feet she wanted to lift her feet to his waiting hands, to simply be ravished.

They pulled up outside a luxurious hotel. As the door opened Natasha saw faces turning and was uncomfortable with this rare scrutiny from onlookers. She was grateful when his hand took her arm, and told herself that it was Rakhal they were looking at as they were welcomed and then led through the hotel and into a restaurant.

Again he turned heads.

Natasha knew it had nothing to do with her, for the place was filled with jewelled and made-up women. It was Rakhal who drew the eye, Rakhal who had forks pausing on their way to ruby-red mouths and small murmurs rippling across tables as people attempted to place him. And no wonder, Natasha thought as she took a seat, with his dark looks, his elegance, there was a poise to him that could never truly be taught.

And tonight she was dining with him.

The table was beautifully set with white tablecloths and candles, and the silverware and glasses gleamed, yet it was not the luxurious surroundings that unnerved her, but the company that she kept. It wasn’t his title that intimidated either—well, perhaps a bit, Natasha conceded—but really it was the man himself that had her stomach folding over on itself, had her still unsure as to whether she should have said yes to his offer. Because despite the silk of his manners there was that edge to him. She knew she had taken on more than she could ever handle.

The waiters lavished attention on them, pulling out chairs and spreading napkins over their laps as Rakhal ordered champagne.

Natasha declined. ‘Not for me, thank you. I’d prefer to drink water.’ Oh, she knew the cost of a bottle of champagne would be nothing to him, but somehow she didn’t want to feel beholden, and she was also mindful that her common sense was somewhat lacking around him. Champagne might only exacerbate the fact.

Rakhal too, it seemed, was only drinking water, for he cancelled the champagne, ordered iced water and then turned his attention to Natasha. ‘Is there anything you are allergic to?’ he asked. ‘Or anything you particularly do not like to eat?’

‘Oh!’ It was a rather unusual question. ‘I’ll just wait to have a look at the menu, thank you.’

‘I will make the selections,’ Rakhal responded.

Natasha felt her lips tighten. She certainly did not want him choosing her dinner for her, and she told him the same. ‘I’d like to wait and see the menu.’

She was determined to win on this—for this was a man who didn’t usually take no for an answer. Not this morning when she had declined his lift, nor tonight when he had come to her door despite her turning down his invitation to dinner. And now he thought he could choose what she ate. Well, he had chosen the wrong person if that was the case.

Her voice held a warning when she spoke again. ‘I can order for myself, thank you!’

‘I’m sure you can. But I have asked my chef to prepare a banquet, so he needs to know if there are foods to which you are averse.’

‘Your chef?’

‘I stay regularly at this hotel and so I ensure there is a chef from Alzirz. Naturally when I’m away the other guests get to sample his delightful cooking, but tonight he is preparing food exclusively for us …’ He watched the movement in her throat as she swallowed. ‘Of course I can have him come out and discuss your preferences, if you’d prefer …?’

‘No.’ Natasha shook her head, her face flushed, more than a little embarrassed at the fuss she had made. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

And Rakhal watched her blush, visible even in candlelight. ‘Perhaps I could have somebody write down the ingredients so you can check through them …’ He was enjoying this now.

‘Of course not. I’m sure it will be lovely. It is more that I thought you were choosing for me …’

‘I am,’ Rakhal said, and watched her rapid blinking. ‘Tonight you are my guest, and you should not be worrying about making decisions. Say I were to come to your house tomorrow for dinner …’ He watched the red darken on her cheeks as she pictured it. ‘Perhaps you would ask my preferences, but you would not give me a menu.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘You would prepare dishes that you thought might please your guest. Well, I do not cook, but I have asked my chef to do the same … to cook with foods that are fresh and flown in from my country.’

‘You have food flown in?’ How spoilt was this man? she wondered, taking a sip of her drink.

‘And water too …’ Rakhal responded without a qualm. ‘I am served water that is sourced from my home.’

She paused as she raised the glass to her lips. French champagne probably cost less. And then, as he had since the moment they met, he surprised her again.

‘If I am to give wise counsel then I should be nourished by my land …’

A waiter topped up her glass as the first course was brought: a selection of dips and breads and fruits. Rakhal explained his selections.

‘The water is from a spring deep in the desert, and this is what I always start with.’ He picked up a date and a small silver knife. ‘Usually they are served quartered, but I prefer to pit my own.’

He slid the knife through the shiny fruit and exposed the stone. She felt her stomach curl as he inverted the date and popped the stone out. How, Natasha tried to fathom, could slicing a date be seductive?

Dates were something her grandmother served at Christmas.

Dates were prunes.

Dates were not sexy.

He dipped it in some oily goo and she watched his long slender fingers swirl it around. Then he lifted it to her mouth and she accepted, trying to touch only the fruit. But her lips met his fingers and she had to force her mouth not to linger, to take the fruit, not to capture his hand and taste his fingers. It scared her, the effect he had on her, the places he took her mind to. And she knew that he knew it as he pulled his hand away.

As Natasha chewed the rich fruit, she amended her thoughts.

Dates were sexy.

‘It is called haysa al tumreya.’

His voice was low and for her ears only, and she tasted the hot sauce around the sweet date as she listened.

‘The date tree is the most important. It provides shade around the spring …’

As they ate he told her about the oasis in the desert, about the fruits and ripe peaches for nectar and about the aubergines that made the baba ganoush she tried next. It held a smoky flavour that had her closing her eyes in bliss as she tasted it. He told her about the foods that grew beneath the tall date trees, and she ate and she listened and she looked, and he was intriguing rather than spoilt, and at each turn more beautiful still.

Rakhal was right. It was nice to be spoiled, not to have to make any decisions, simply to listen and to talk as they shared the sumptuous food. He told her a little about his land, about his life in Alzirz, and she told him a little about herself too—or rather he asked her about her family.

‘My parents were killed last year in a motor accident,’ Natasha said. She waited for the flurry of sympathy, but he simply stared and waited for her to go on. ‘I have an older brother. Mark.’

‘And he takes care of you?’

‘I take care of myself,’ Natasha answered. Aware her response might have been a little brittle, she softened it. ‘It’s been a difficult year, but I manage.’

She was relieved when they were disturbed by the waiters bringing another impressive course, and then he told her more about the land from which he came. About the palace that looked out to the ocean and the desert abode to which he escaped.

‘It sounds beautiful.’

‘You would love it,’ Rakhal assured her, and for a moment he glimpsed her there—the jewel in his harem.

They ate more food from his country, and she could taste the sun. When he could not hear something she said he moved his chair around the table until he sat next to her. Dessert was a shared plate, and he fed her fruit from his fingers again. Sometimes Natasha forgot she was in a busy restaurant. Sometimes she forgot her own inexperience under the gaze of this very experienced man. For his voice made her ears ache to hear him, had her inching a little closer to him.

For Rakhal too this night was different. There was candour—he normally would not tell a woman such things about his home, about his life and his thoughts, but with her conversation was pleasing. Now they were speaking of traditions, and he was honest—telling her that one day he would marry, that he would return to Alzirz and select his bride. Though he was not completely honest, for he did not tell her it would be soon.

‘How do you choose?’ She was more than a little curious. ‘Will she be wealthy? From another royal family, perhaps?’

‘We do not need wealth—Alzirz is rare in that its royals choose their partners from the people. My grandmother was Sheikha Queen; my grandfather was a wise man from the desert. She chose him for his knowledge, for at times the country moves too quickly and we need to remember the ways and teachings of old. When I am King …’

‘You will be King!’ Natasha couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. ‘Are you scared?’

He gave her an extremely quizzical look. ‘I am never scared.’

She doubted he was. She had never met a man so assured. ‘So you’re the eldest?’

‘I have no brothers or sisters.’ He saw her slight frown and it was merited—because in his country it was expected that there would be many heirs. It was imperative to the country’s survival, in fact. ‘My mother died giving birth.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Rakhal did not do sentiment. He had been brought up without it and, as his father had explained, he could not miss someone he had never known. But there was a twist somewhere inside him as she expressed her condolences.

‘What was she like?’

‘She died giving birth to me,’ Rakhal said again. ‘How would I know?’

It was certainly rarely discussed. In fact Rakhal could only recall a few brief conversations where his mother had been mentioned even in passing. Needing more, he had once spoken with an old man in the desert—a man who, it was rumoured, had lived for one hundred and twenty yellow moons. But tonight was the first time someone had directly asked him about his mother.

‘You must know something?’

‘She was from the desert too,’ Rakhal said. ‘From an ancient tribe with rare lineage.’ He remembered what the old man had told him. ‘She was apparently a wise and beautiful soul.’

He had revealed too much—or rather more than he was used to. He looked down and saw their hands intertwined. Rakhal was not usually a man who held hands, not in this way, and so he reverted to ways more usual for him to get the night back to where he felt safer. He pressed his thumb into her palm. The beat of pressure and the slide of his fingers around her wrist had the colour rising on her cheeks. He was tired of talking. He wanted to bed her. But when she did not return the pressure, when she rather pointedly removed her hand from his, Rakhal made no attempt to retrieve it.

‘I should take you home.’

He should, for the restaurant was practically empty. And yet she was curiously disappointed and terribly conflicted as he led her through the foyer. He’d been the perfect gentleman—only she wasn’t sure it was a perfect gentleman she wanted. But their night was coming to its conclusion, for she would not be asking him in.

And perhaps Rakhal realised that. Realised that this might be his last chance. For he halted her, turned her to face him.

‘Have you enjoyed this evening?’

‘Very much.’

‘I have enjoyed talking with you.’

She did not understand how rare, how unique this compliment was—could not understand that Rakhal did not do deep conversations with the women he dated. And yet he had enjoyed talking with Natasha.