Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’
‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?
‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’
‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.
‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.
‘Is there where you live?’
‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.
The slide of his strong hand against hers was an unexpected jolt, as if she’d touched a live wire. Shocked by the sensation, she let out a gasp, and then registered Azim’s cool smile of satisfaction with wary confusion.
The smile disappeared as soon as she’d noted it, their gazes locking in a taut battle of wills before Azim dropped her hand and turned towards the building. On legs as shaky as the rest of her, Johara followed.
A THOUSAND THOUGHTS and feelings whirled through Azim as he stalked through the foyer of the apartment building, ignoring the concierge’s murmured pleasantries. Foremost was fury, that Johara had shamed him in such a way by publicly absconding days before their marriage. After that came disgust, that he’d led her to do such a thing. As angry as he was about her runaway attempt, he knew he’d handled their first meeting badly. He just didn’t know if he had it in him to make amends.
Beyond those two negative emotions was a deep-seated relief that he’d saved Johara from, at best, a very unpleasant evening, and at worst, a lifetime of enforced prostitution—and then finally primal, masculine satisfaction, for in the moment when their hands had touched he’d felt her reaction, like a spark travelling up his arm, igniting in his belly. She desired him.
Perhaps she didn’t want to, perhaps she didn’t even realise it, but he knew. He’d seen it in the flare of her pupils, heard it in her surprised gasp and felt it in the shudder that had gone through her, just as he’d felt his own body’s response. Their marriage, then, would at least have sexual chemistry—and that was no small thing.
They didn’t speak in the tiny, enclosed space of the antique lift that juddered up towards the penthouse. Johara pressed herself against the grate, her grey eyes startlingly wide and looking almost silver in the dim light. He’d seen her only in the shapeless robes, and now he noted the slender and enticing curves highlighted by the sundress she wore. The thin, gauzy material clung to her small, pert breasts and tiny waist, flaring out about her long, slender legs. No wonder that disgusting pimp had wanted her for his whorehouse. She was gorgeous, innocence and sensuality in one jaw-dropping package, and she didn’t even realise how alluring she was.
‘Does your father know you wear clothes like these?’ he demanded and Johara pressed back even farther away from him.
‘My father lets me wear what I like.’
Wasn’t around to notice or care, Azim filled in silently. He’d taken Arif’s measure at their first meeting; the older man had been more than eager to have his daughter exchange grooms weeks before the wedding. While it suited Azim’s purposes admirably, it did not endear him to the man. He was the worst combination of weakness and lust for power, just as Caivano had been. It had led to his tormentor’s downfall, and it would eventually lead to Arif’s. He would not have such a man in his cabinet.
The lift jolted to a stop and the doors opened. Azim ushered Johara out to his flat, a soaring, open space that took up the entire top floor of the building.
Johara stepped out, craning her neck to take in the vaulted ceiling and huge windows. The doors of the lift closed behind Azim and he stood watching her, noticing the way her dress clung to her hips, the fabric whispering about her shapely legs as she moved. A dark, curling tendril of hair lay against the nape of her neck and he had the absurd urge to lift it and see the delicate skin beneath.
She turned to face him, her trembling lips pressed together, her chin raised in challenge. Even though her rebellion tried him sorely, he could not help but admire her courage. He hadn’t thought she’d possessed the audacity to make a run for it. He was, perversely and annoyingly, pleased that she’d been that daring, even if he was still furious that she’d tried.
‘So?’ Johara asked, her voice managing to be both strident and shaky at the same time. ‘What now?’
Azim folded his arms. ‘You will marry me.’
‘Of course.’ She let out a high, trembling laugh. ‘Of course, I have no say in the matter.’
Irritation, and something deeper and rawer, rippled through him. ‘If I am not mistaken, you have known about your arranged marriage for nearly your whole life. Why are you resisting now?’
‘Because.’ Johara looked away and said nothing more.
Azim regarded her coolly. ‘Because of me, you mean.’
She shot him one wild glance before turning away again, giving him a view of her profile, the high forehead, the smooth curve of her cheek, the heavy mass of hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. ‘You have made your intentions clear,’ she said. ‘You have no interest in getting to know me.’
‘Did Malik?’ He hadn’t wanted to mention his brother, hated even thinking about Johara married to him, sharing his bed. Quickly Azim banished the image. ‘Well?’ he demanded when Johara did not answer. ‘Did he?’
Johara glared at him, the lift of her chin now seeming stubborn rather than courageous, and entirely aggravating. ‘Not particularly,’ she said after a moment, the words drawn from her reluctantly and yet ringing with stark honesty.
‘Well, then.’ Azim didn’t know what point he’d been trying to prove. That his bride-to-be objected to wedding him more than his brother? That she was repelled by him, by the scar on his face? What would she think if she saw the scars on the rest of his body? Not, of course, that she ever would.
‘If I’m honest,’ Johara said after a moment, her voice quiet, ‘I wasn’t looking forward to marrying Malik, either. What woman wants to marry a stranger for the sake of a crown?’
‘I imagine there are many.’
‘I am not one of them.’
‘But you agreed.’ He cocked his head. ‘Your father insisted on that.’
‘He would.’ A new bitterness spiked her words and she looked away again. ‘I agreed because I’ve known nothing else. Because...’ She shook her head, clearly not wanting to say more.
‘If you were so reluctant, why did you not say something to my brother?’
‘I just didn’t want to think of it. I...I pretended it wasn’t going to happen and I told myself I could carry on with my life as normal afterwards. It was easier to do that, since I hardly ever saw him. We only met a couple of times, for no more than a few minutes. And I had my life in France.’