She didn’t...couldn’t want to kiss him, surely?
He released her so suddenly she wondered if she’d spoken the thought aloud. Spoken it only to have it promptly, ruthlessly rejected.
She stepped back, silently urging her legs not to let her down, even as another wave of heat swept over her face.
She needed to leave. Now.
As if the same thought had struck him, Zaid Al-Ameen turned abruptly and walked away, his imposing figure carrying him to his desk. Released from the trap of his puzzling, spellbinding presence, she sucked in a much-needed breath then snatched up her purse. She straightened to the sound of him issuing a rasped instruction into his intercom. Seconds later, the door reopened.
His private secretary barely glanced her way, his attention focused solely on the Sultan and the rapid words of lyrical Arabic falling from his lips. Esme was so distracted by the exotic, melodic sound that she didn’t realise they’d stopped speaking and were staring at her until the silence echoed loudly in the room.
For the third time in a disgracefully short period her face heated up again. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she addressed Fawzi, unwilling to catch another mocking glance from Sultan Al-Ameen.
The private secretary looked a little perturbed at being addressed directly in the presence of his master. He stood straighter. ‘His Highness said you are free to go. I am to escort you to your chauffeur.’
Knowing it would be impolite to leave without acknowledging him, Esme reluctantly redirected her gaze to the Sultan. ‘I... I’m...’
One sardonic brow elevated, the look he sent her haughty enough to freeze water. ‘You pick a curious time to become tongue-tied, considering your desire to leave has been granted. The next time we meet will be in the courtroom when you testify on behalf of your father. Let us hope you’re not as inarticulate under cross-examination. I would hate to see all the effort you made to come to the aid of your father wasted. Goodbye, Miss Scott.’
The dismissal was as final as the drive back to the hotel was quick. Even after she was safely back in her hotel room, Esme still couldn’t force her heartbeat to slow. She’d been summoned, judged and found severely wanting.
And yet the righteous anger she’d felt in Zaid Al-Ameen’s presence was no longer present. Instead, awareness from his touch clung to her skin, her mind supplying an alarmingly detailed play-by-play of the moment he’d stopped her from falling. With each meticulous recounting her body grew hot and tight, her breathing altering into shameful little pants that drew a grimace of disgust at herself. To distract her out-of-control hormones, Esme turned on the TV and channel-surfed, only to come face to face with herself in a replay of her interview. Forcing herself to watch, she experienced a twinge of remorse as her words echoed harsh and condemning in the room.
The stone of unease in her belly hadn’t abated hours later when she was in bed, attempting to toss and turn herself into sleep. Sleep came reluctantly, along with jagged, disturbing dreams featuring a breathtakingly hypnotic figure with brandy-coloured eyes.
The intensity of the dream was so sharp, so vivid she jerked awake.
Only to find it was no dream. There was someone in her room.
Esme’s breath strangled in her lungs as she battled paralysing fear and scrambled upright. The dark, robed figure outlined ominously against her lighter curtains tensed for a watchful second then launched after her the moment she scurried off the bed. Her feet tangled in the sheets, ripping a cry from her throat. She sensed rather than saw the figure rounding the bed towards her as she pushed at the sheets and crawled away on her hands and knees. A few steps from the bathroom she attempted to stand.
A strong, unyielding arm banded her waist, plastering her from shoulder to thigh against a hard, masculine body. He lifted her off the floor with shocking ease, her feet kicking uselessly as he evaded her efforts to free herself. Acute terror finally freeing her vocal cords, Esme screamed.
The large hand that clamped over her mouth immediately muffled the sound.
Terrified by the ease with which the intruder had caught and restrained her, Esme fought harder. She wrapped her fingers around the thick wrist and was attempting to pry him off when she felt his warm breath against her cheek.
‘Calm yourself, Miss Scott. It is I, Zaid Al-Ameen. If you wish to remain safe, you need to come with me. Right now.’
ESME SLACKENED IN shock for a handful of seconds before outrage kicked in. At her renewed struggle, he held her tighter. ‘Be calm,’ he commanded again.
She shook her head, her heart tripping over all the possible reasons for his presence here in her room, holding her prisoner. She came up with nothing remotely reassuring. ‘You have my word that I mean you no harm, Esmeralda. But I need your reassurance that you won’t scream before I release you,’ he said, his lips brushing against her ear.
Despite her racing heart, she felt herself go still. She told herself it wasn’t the effect of the deep but lyrical lilt to her first name as it fell from his lips, or the low, even way he spoke that finally soothed her, but the need to be set free from the deeply disturbing sensation of the body welded to hers.
No longer fighting, she was keenly aware of the firm strength of his body against hers. The splay of the fingers of his restraining arm branding her hips. Her bare legs dangling against his longer ones. Her back absorbing his unhurried breathing as her bottom snuggled between the widened stance of his hips. And the highly masculine, very proud organ cradled between them.
Heat surging up her body, Esme jerked her head in quick assent. He waited a beat then released her. She launched herself away from him, slapped her hand on the light switch in the bathroom before whirling to face him.
The sight of the Sultan of Ja’ahr, dressed from head to toe in black traditional clothes, every inch the dark desert warrior lord he was, threatened to rob her of the breath she’d just regained. The hand she lifted to push back her heavy hair shook as she glared at him. ‘You may be the ruler of this kingdom, but you have no right to invade my privacy,’ she condemned, a touch too shakily. ‘Not to mention the fact that you scared the living—’
One imperious hand slashed through the air. ‘I understand that you wish to express your outrage. But I highly recommend you do so once we’re away from the hotel.’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
Not bothering to dignify her with a response, he strode to the small wardrobe on the other side of the room. Esme watched, stunned, as he began to rummage through her clothes.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? If you think I’m going anywhere with you after barging into my room in the middle of the night, think again.’
He turned from the wardrobe, his eyes narrowed in displeased slits. ‘I caution you against using that tone of voice with me or my men will arrest you, with or without my permission.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Your men?’
He jerked a head towards the door. Esme followed his action and for the first time she noticed the men who stood guard, their broad backs to the door but rigidly alert. Protecting their King.
Barring her way.
‘Why are they here? Why are you here?’
He stepped forward and she saw that he held her black cotton dress in his hand. ‘I don’t have time to debate the matter with you. Put this on. We need to leave now, unless you plan on walking out of the hotel dressed in that wispy scrap of nothing?’ he rasped. Although his expression remained stoically impersonal, his voice was a touch more raw than before.
Esme stared down at the peach night slip she wore. The silky, lace-edged material was short, barely coming to mid-thigh. The bodice