Besides, she felt like she’d gone three rounds in a boxing ring already. And this had only just started! How would she cope?
A shudder rippled down her spine.
A moment later weighted warmth encompassed her. She faltered to a stop. Around her shoulders swung a man’s heavy leather jacket, lined with soft fabric that held the heat of his body and the clean fragrance of male skin.
Soraya’s nostrils flared as her senses dipped and whirled, dizzy with the invasion of her space and the onslaught of unfamiliar reactions.
‘You were cold.’ His words were clipped. In the gloom his face was unreadable, but his stance proclaimed his distance, mental as well as physical.
He stood tall, the dark fabric of his T-shirt skimming a torso taut with leashed energy. His hands curled and the muscles in his arms bunched, revealing the blatant power his jacket had concealed. Resolutely she stopped her eyes skimming lower to those long denim-clad legs.
He looked potent. Dangerous.
‘Thank you.’ Soraya forced her gaze away, down the street that had begun to stir with carriers hefting boxes. A street market was beginning to take shape.
Relief welled. Surrounded by other people, surely the unfamiliar sensations she felt alone with him would dissipate? She’d been like a cat on burning sand for hours, all because of him.
She dragged his jacket in around her shoulders, telling herself the shock of news from Bakhara unnerved her. Her sense of unreality had nothing to do with the man so stonily silent beside her.
Zahir shortened his pace to match hers. She had long legs but those heels weren’t made for cobblestones. They slowed her walk to a provocative hip-tilting sway far slower than his usual stride.
Resolutely he kept his eyes fixed ahead, not on her undulating walk.
Heat seared his throat and tightened his belly. How could he have been so stupid? So thoughtless? The look on her face when she’d thought he brought bad news about her father had punched a fist of guilt right through his belly.
Damn him for a blundering fool!
All because he’d judged her and found her wanting. Because she wasn’t eager to hear the news from Hussein. Because she didn’t care what tidings he brought if they interfered with her night out.
Because she wasn’t the woman he’d presumed her to be, a woman worthy of Hussein.
Not when she spent the night snuggling up to another man, dancing with him, bewitching him with those enormous, lustrous eyes. Letting him paw her as if he owned her.
Zahir cupped the back of his neck, massaging it to ease the tension there.
Resolutely he shoved aside the whisper of suspicion that he’d have welcomed the chance to keep her in his own arms, feel her lush body pressed close.
This wasn’t about him.
It was about her.
And the man to whom he owed everything.
‘Thank you.’ Soraya hugged the jacket close as he stood aside, holding open the door to a brightly lit café.
Entering, she felt she’d strayed back in time a century. Wooden booths lined the walls, topped with mirrors etched in lush art nouveau designs. There were brass fittings of an earlier age, burnished and welcoming, and posters from a time when women wore corsets and men sported boaters or top hats.
But the whoosh of the gleaming coffee machine was modern, as was the sultry smile the petite, female barista bestowed on Zahir.
Something tweaked tight in Soraya’s stomach. A thread of annoyance.
No wonder he was so sure of himself. He must take feminine adulation as his due.
Not this female.
Her heels clacked across the black-and-white tiled floor, giving the pretence of a confidence she didn’t feel. Her legs shook and each step was an effort.
Sliding into a cushioned seat she focused on the café rather than the man who sat down opposite her.
If she’d had to guess she’d have said he’d favour a place that was sleek, dark and anonymous. Somewhere edgy, like him. Not a café that was traditional and comforting with its beautiful fittings and aura of quiet bustle.
A waitress had followed them to their table, her eyes on Zahir as they ordered.
He was worth looking at, Soraya grudgingly admitted, averting her gaze from his hard, sculpted jaw with its intriguing hint of morning shadow.
‘You’ve come all the way from Bakhara,’ she said flatly when they were alone. ‘Why?’
She needed to hear it spelled out, even though there was only one reason he could be here.
‘I come with a message from the Emir.’
Soraya nodded, swallowing a lump in her dry throat. Tension drilled down her spine. ‘And?’
‘The Emir sends greetings and enquires after your wellbeing.’
She speared him with a look. An enquiry after her health? That could have been done through her father, who updated the Emir on her progress. Suddenly she was impatient to hear the worst. The delay notched her tension higher.
‘I’m well.’ She kept her tone even, despite the fact she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. ‘And the Emir? I hope he is in good health.’
‘The Emir is in excellent health.’ It was the expected response in the polite give-and-take of formal courtesy.
The sort of courtesy that had been so completely lacking in her dealings with this man.
Soraya’s heart pulsed quicker as she recalled those overpowering emotions—the fury and indignation, the compulsion to know more, the feel of his gaze on her. The blast of untrammelled awareness when he’d held her.
She blinked and looked away.
Silence thickened, broken only by the eager waitress returning with their coffees: espresso for him, café crème for her. Automatically her hands wrapped round the oversized cup and she tilted her head, inhaling the steamy scent of hot cream and fragrant coffee.
‘The Emir also sent me with news.’
Soraya nodded and lifted the cup to her lips, needing its heat. Even draped in his jacket she was cold. Cold with a chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the creeping frost that crackled through her senses. The chill of foreboding.
‘He asks that you accompany me to Bakhara. It’s time for your wedding.’
Her slim fingers cupped the bowl of milky coffee so tightly Zahir saw them whiten. She didn’t look up, but kept her eyes fixed on her drink. Following her gaze, he saw the creamy liquid ripple dangerously as her hands shook.
Instinct bade him reach out before she spilled the hot coffee and burned her hands.
Sense made him keep his hands to himself.
Bad enough that he knew the feel of her in his arms. Worse that he’d wanted …
No! He thrust the insidious thought aside.
Tiredness was to blame. The freedom of travelling the open road on his bike was what he’d needed after weeks locked in diplomatic negotiation on Hussein’s behalf. But it had been a long journey.
As for the hum of awareness deep in his belly—it was a while since he’d shared his bed. That was all.
‘I see.’ Still she didn’t look up. Nor did she drink. Instead she slowly lowered the coffee to the table, her hands still clamped round it as if for warmth.
Zahir frowned.
‘Are you all