Another question he couldn’t answer. He had to admit that he wanted to see that view—and all it represented—through her eyes. If it was the price of everything that was to come, then he wanted to know he was not the only one who valued it. That it was worth the decision he had made.
‘Humour me.’
The truth was that he wanted to keep her with him a while longer. To talk with someone who was not connected with the demands and debates, the treaties and the dissensions that had filled his life these past months. Someone who didn’t need to be treated diplomatically all the time, or who made him watch his tongue so carefully that it felt almost bitten through with the times he’d had to hold back impatient words.
To spend more time with someone who stirred his senses in a way that no one had in the time that he could remember. It was like coming alive again and he wanted more of it.
For a moment he seriously considered making a move on her. She was up for it; there was no doubt about that. He could see it in her face, hear it in her voice, in that little breathless hiccup that shaded each word. If he did try to take things further, she would not resist.
He let those seconds linger, tasted them on his tongue, in his blood. He savoured the feelings that had been almost dead to him for so long, welcoming them, relishing them. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he let them go, throwing them aside as no longer for him. If there was one thing that the past ten years had taught him, it was that that sort of empty relationship, the connection that blinded him for a few hours, driving away the darkness for a night, in the end had nothing that was a real result. The darkness was still there when he woke and it always felt so much the worse in the cold light of day after having been hidden behind the intoxication of wild and mindless sex in a heated bed for the night.
He should let her go. He should turn and walk away but his senses held him captive. And when she spoke again just the sound of her voice was like a signal, beckoning him closer.
‘What I see...’
Aziza was both glad and reluctant to turn her eyes away from the man before her and focus them on the scene below. It wasn’t easy. In the moment that she had turned away he must have moved closer so that she heard the soft whisper of his robes drifting over the stone. She could almost feel the heat of his body touching her, and the scent of musk and clean skin that swirled around her like perfumed smoke made her senses swim. It dried her lips, tightened her throat so that she snatched in a raw breath to ease the feeling.
‘You must know what there is there now—even if you can’t actually see it. You must look out at it every day and see the sea to the right—Alazar over towards the mountain—and here...’
Her voice cracked, breath shortening as the arm she used to gesture with caught on the fine material of his robe, bringing home to her just how close he was now.
‘And here...?’
Was that stiffness in his tone created by anything like the way her own tongue felt as she struggled to speak? Was it possible that he had actually come closer because he too recognised the darkly sensual tug of attraction that she had known from the moment she had looked up into his face, focusing on the dark depths of his eyes, the rich sensuality of his beautifully shaped mouth in the black shadow of his beard? This was nothing of the childish, immature hero-worship of the five-year-old who had first met Nabil and given her heart to him. It wasn’t even anything like the ardent crush that hero-worship had developed into as she had discovered the passionate feelings of adolescence.
No, this was the response of a grown woman to a mature and powerful man. A man who roused all that was feminine in her. But a man she must keep her distance from, keeping in mind just why she and her family were here. It was Jamalia he was supposed to notice, not her.
‘You know what I see here, sire. Out there is Hazibah—the capital—your capital. And there...’
Her voice faltered for a moment then picked up strength as she acknowledged that she could at least speak the truth on this. Here she had nothing to hide.
‘There are hundreds of people out there—thousands. Husbands and wives, families and children, all of whom are enjoying the evening—the peace—because of you.’
‘Because of me—do you truly think it?’
THE SOUND HE made was one of obvious scepticism, low and rough in his throat, and it brought her whirling round to face him once again.
‘It’s true! How can you even doubt it?’
Dear heaven how had he come to be so close? She had barely noticed him move and yet all her senses had been on such high alert that she should have caught even the tiniest movement. But now she was staring him right in the face, eyes burning into eyes, their breaths almost seeming to mingle in the cool of the evening air.
‘After all that happened—all you endured...’
She wasn’t getting through to him. She might as well be throwing her words at a stone wall for all the impact they made. But she had lived through those times and she knew of the fear that had gripped the country when a rebel group had turned against the young Crown Prince and tried to stage an uprising.
‘All that I endured?’ How could he lace a single syllable with such black cynicism? ‘What do you know of it?’
‘Doesn’t everyone know?’
Even at just thirteen, she had been starkly aware of those shocking television images. The crack of gunfire, the way that everyone had frozen just for a moment. Then security men had rushed forward, some towards the steps of the library where Nabil and his young Queen had been standing, others in the opposite direction in search of the would-be assassin. How could anyone ever forget the image of Nabil sinking to the ground, ignoring the blood streaming from the wound on his left cheek, as he cradled his mortally wounded Queen in protective arms?
Wasn’t it this that had kept alive the flame of the torch she had carried for him from the first moment they had met? Even through the long years when he had been so distant, just a remote, untouchable figure glimpsed at one public event or another.
‘If you had behaved differently there might have been civil war—worse—but the example you gave when your wife died...’
Now what had she said? She had wanted to express her admiration for him, her respect for the way he had handled a difficult, tragic situation, but instead it was as if she had tossed some bitter acid right in his face. His dark head snapped back, burning eyes narrowing sharply as he turned a shockingly cynical glance in her direction. The cold moonlight caught on the white scar on his cheek, a stark reminder of that terrible day.
‘I don’t think about it,’ he stated flatly. ‘I don’t want to remember any of that.’
The words were so cold that they slashed at her like a blade of ice but the frightening thing was that at the same time just the simple action of speaking brought him closer to her. The aggressive jut of his jaw was now just inches away from her face, the brilliant glitter of his eyes like polished jet in the moonlight. His powerful body shut out the light from the windows, from the moon, and there was just him, a dark and dangerous shadow looming over her.
She should feel afraid. Common sense screamed at her that she should move hastily away from here, away from him. But, shockingly, something else spread through her body at his nearness, something that held her where she was, unable to move.
It wasn’t fear, or even apprehension that fizzed through her veins. No, Aziza had to admit that what she felt was a stinging, burning excitement that was purely and totally feminine and focused tightly on the forceful masculinity of the man before her. The scent of his body surrounded her. She could feel the heat of his skin reach out