Deep brown eyes caught hers. ‘I can see there are a couple of things I need to remind you of, Princess Annalina.’ His sensuous mouth flattened into a grim line. ‘Firstly, whilst it is true that you are a guest at the palace, I am most certainly not responsible for entertaining you. And, secondly, you should think yourself grateful that you have the freedom to rattle around on your own. The alternative would be to secure you in one room, have you watched over day and night. Something I did consider.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Anna stared at him in horror.
Zahir gave an infuriating shrug. ‘So perhaps you should see your freedom for what it is—a chance to prove yourself trustworthy—rather than complain about being neglected.’
Well, that was her put firmly in her place. Cheeks burning, she turned away, wishing she had never mentioned having wretched dinner with this wretched man.
‘However, if it would please you, I can find time for us to dine together tonight. Shall we say in one hour’s time?’
Anna swung round to face him again, the words don’t bother tingling on her lips. But there was something about the narrowed gaze of those hooded eyes that made her stop.
It was surprise, she realised. Zahir was surprised that she wanted to any spend time with him. She was surprised too, come to that. It was like he had some sort of power over her, drawing her to the edge of the cliff when all her instincts were telling her to keep away. That blatant, raw masculinity made her keep coming back for more punishment. Anna had never thought of herself as a masochist. Now she was beginning to wonder.
Nervously licking her lips with the tip of her tongue, she saw his eyes flash in response, tightening the tendrils inside her. ‘Very well.’ Pushing back her shoulders, she tossed her hair over them. ‘I will see you later.’
ZAHIR STARED AT the young woman at the far end of the table—the European princess who was soon to be his bride. Something he was still desperately struggling to come to terms with. He had no idea who she was, not really. Earlier, when she’d talked about the press attention she’d received over the years, his blood had run cold in his veins. But fear about her morals had swiftly changed to the urge to protect her, his whole person affronted that she should ever have been subjected to such assaults. Because deep down some instinct told him that Princess Annalina was vulnerable and certainly not a woman who would give away her favours easily. Which was odd, when you thought about the way they had met.
She was certainly regal. From the fine bones of her face to the dainty set of her shoulders and the elegant, refined posture. Her hands, he noticed, were particularly delicate, long, slender fingers and pink nails devoid of nail varnish. They looked as if they had never done a day’s work in their life. They probably hadn’t.
He looked down at his own hands. A warrior’s hands. No longer calloused from combat—he hadn’t gripped a dagger or curled his finger around the trigger of a gun for over two years now—they were nevertheless stained with the blood of war and always would be. They had been around the throat of too many of his enemies ever to be washed clean—had been used to pull lifeless bodies out caves that had become subterranean battlegrounds, or recover corpses shrivelling in the scorching heat of the desert with the vultures circling overhead.
His hands had closed the eyelids of far too many young men.
And now... Could such hands ever expect to run over the fair skin of the woman before him? Would that be right? Permissible? They wanted to, that was for certain. They itched, burned even, with longing to feel the softness of her pale flesh beneath their fingertips, to be able to trace the contours of her slender body, to travel over the hollow of her waist, the swell of her breasts. They longed to explore every part of her body.
Feeling his eyes on her, Annalina looked up and smiled at him from her end of the table.
‘This is delicious.’ She indicated the half-eaten plate of food before her with the fork in her hand. ‘Lovely and spicy. What’s the meat, do you suppose?’
Zahir glanced down at his plate, already scraped clean, as if seeing it for the first time. Food was just fuel to him, something to be grateful for but to be consumed as fast as possible, before it was covered in flies or snatched away by a hungry hound. It was certainly not a subject he ever discussed, nor wanted to.
‘Goat, I believe.’ He levelled dark eyes at her.
‘Oh.’ That perfect pink mouth puckered in surprise then pursed shut, her fork left to rest on her plate.
He stifled a smile. Obviously goat was not something she was accustomed to eating. No doubt Annalina was more used to seeing them grazing prettily in wildflower meadows than having them stewed and presented before her in a bowl of couscous. She knew nothing of the ways of this country, he realised, and the smile was immediately replaced with the more familiar scowl.
Had he been wrong to insist that she marry him, to bring her to this foreign land and expect her to be able to fit in, play the role of his wife? It was a huge undertaking to ask of anyone, let alone someone as fragile-looking as her. And yet he already knew that there was more to Annalina than her flawless beauty might suggest. She was strong-willed and she was brave. It had taken real guts to refuse to marry his brother, to stand on that bridge and do whatever she thought it took to get her out of that marriage. To kiss a total stranger. A kiss that still burned on his lips.
It had all backfired, of course. She had leapt straight from the frying pan into the fire, finding herself shackled to him instead. He was nothing like his brother, it was true. But, in terms of a husband, had Annalina made the right choice? Would she have been better sticking with the relative calm of Rashid, his particular demons regulated by carefully prescribed medication?
Or Zahir, whose demons still swirled inside him, drove him on, made him the man he was. Power, control and the overwhelming desire to do the best for his country was the only therapy he could tolerate.
He didn’t know, but either way it was too late now. The choice had been made. They were both going to have to live with it.
‘I hope I haven’t spoiled your appetite?’ The food, he noticed, had now been abandoned, Annalina’s slender hand gripping the stem of her glass as she took a sip of wine, then another.
‘No, it’s not that.’ She gave an unconvincing smile. ‘It’s actually quite filling.’
‘Then, if you have finished, perhaps you would like to be served coffee somewhere more comfortable.’
‘Um, yes, that sounds a good idea.’ She touched a napkin to her lips. ‘Where were you thinking of?’
‘I will take mine in my quarters, but there are any number of seating areas in the palace that are suitable for relaxation. The courtyards are very pleasant too, though they will be chilly at this time of night.’
‘I’m sure.’ She fiddled with a tendril of hair that had escaped the swept-up style. ‘Actually, I think I will join you.’ There was determination in her voice, but vulnerability too, as if she might easily crack or splinter if challenged. ‘I would like to see your quarters.’
Zahir stilled, something akin to panic creeping over him. He hadn’t intended to invite her to his rooms. Far from it. By suggesting that they took their coffee elsewhere, he had been trying to escape from her. Which begged the question, why? Why would he, a man who would take on a band of armed insurgents with the bravery of a thousand warriors combined, be frightened by the thought of sharing a cup of coffee with this young woman? It was ridiculous.
Because he didn’t know how to behave around her, that was why. This relationship had been thrust upon him so suddenly that he hadn’t had time to figure out how to