It was some time later that her drifting, dreamy gaze finally connected with his. He arched a questioning brow. Embarrassed colour flew to her pale cheeks.
She compressed her lips and tossed him a cold response. ‘Considering what he’s been through, he’s remarkably well.’ She sniffed and thought, No thanks to you!
‘You have explained the situation?’
‘You mean did I tell him I bought his freedom by relinquishing mine? Strangely enough, no, I didn’t. This may seem like some sort of business deal to you, but to most people it would look like blackmail—and, actually, that’s how it feels.’
And you’re telling him this why? Rafiq is not interested in how you feel.
Instead of answering her outburst with some cutting riposte or sinister warning he didn’t say anything at all. But she could feel his eyes, even though she had turned her head and was staring blindly out of the window. Finally she could bear it no longer. She turned her head.
Rafiq was scowling at her.
She lifted her hands like someone protesting their innocence. ‘What? It’s the truth. Can you say you haven’t blackmailed me?’
‘What have you done to yourself?’
The seemingly unconnected criticism made her blink. ‘Done to myself? I haven’t done anything.’
He lifted a hand and inscribed a motion above his own head. ‘Your hair … your face.’
‘That wasn’t me—that was your hit squad. You don’t like it?’ She just managed to stop herself touching her hair.
‘I do not like it.’
‘How very rude of you to mention it.’ And how totally ridiculous that I actually care.
‘Why did you let them do this to you?’
The utter unfairness took her breath away. ‘Like me, they were following orders—yours!’
Her orders had been delivered on a silver tray. Along with details of her brother’s flight and where she could meet him, the handwritten note had also informed her that she would be dining that evening with the two Princes. The postscript had explained that a selection of suitable outfits would be delivered to her room later.
They had been—along with a hairdresser, a stylist and a make-up artist. They had admired her skin until Gabby had let slip that her skincare regime was a bit hit and miss, and depended greatly on what skincare products were on special offer. The women had then discovered a lot more room for improvement.
Rafiq looked outraged. ‘I did not tell them to do this!’
‘This?’ This time she couldn’t stop herself touching her hair. ‘What’s wrong with it? I’ve been styled, made over …’ And apparently I still don’t make the grade—great!
‘You could be any woman in the street.’
Only the ones who could afford couture, she thought. ‘No—any woman in the street could catch a plane and go back home.’
‘Your style is individual.’ His frowning scrutiny returned to her hair, which shone like glass and fell river-straight down her back.
‘That’s what I thought you wanted to get rid of.’
Rafiq did not respond. His expression, as he continued to stare at her hair, was distracted. Then without warning he reached out and swept a strand of shiny hair from her cheek.
‘That’s what I thought too.’ But he had changed his mind.
Gabby stared at the blood-red stone on his finger and shivered as his fingertips brushed her cheek.
‘Yesterday your hair looked as if you hadn’t combed it. When you were sleeping, you …’ He speared his fingers deeper into it, and remembered doing the same when he had kissed her. The memory made it hard to retain his detachment. It made him hard, full-stop.
Gabby hardly recognised the hoarse, husky voice as her own as she retorted, ‘I don’t always look that bad. Yesterday I had been sleeping in the desert.’
‘And worrying about me.’ His hand dropped and his hooded stare darkened as his long fingers curled around her throat.
Gabby felt the light touch like a burning brand on her skin. ‘I was worried about everyone. How are …?’
The relief she felt when his hand fell away was so intense she had to bite back a bubble of hysterical laughter.
‘Two are still on the critical list.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She was utterly bewildered, and had no way of articulating her helpless physical response to this man. She had never experienced anything like the sensations that were thrumming through her body. So much for taking control of her hormones!
She ran her tongue along her upper lip to blot the beads of moisture that had broken out there, fighting the desire to crawl out of her skin.
‘Well, I suppose it’s too late to do anything about your hair now.’
‘You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself. You could always chuck me out of the car to try and get the look you apparently liked so much,’ she said, reaching for the door handle.
With a curse he leaned across her and clamped his hand over hers.
Gabby shrank back in her seat, her senses spinning and her pulses leaping as his arm pressed her into the seat.
‘I was joking,’ she said. But not now. Now jumping seemed a pretty safe alternative to having him this close. She was overwhelmingly conscious at a cellular level of his hard male body, the heat, the scent, the raw, powerful masculinity of him.
His hand still covering hers, he turned his head. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek and see the network of fine lines around his eyes. His dark hooded eyes were fierce and hypnotic.
And then it came. The forbidden thought she had walled away—he’s dying.
A keening cry ached for escape from her tight throat. She shouldn’t feel this terrible sense of loss—for God’s sake, she didn’t even like him, he was her enemy—but the empathic connection she felt with him was so strong she could feel the weight of his emotional isolation, and her foolish heart ached for him.
How do I feel so close to this man?
Their eyes connected and clung, and for a moment time seemed to slow, then freeze. It was Rafiq who leaned back in his seat, and the spell broke.
Gabby expelled a shaky sigh and sat on her hands, to hide the fact they were shaking. ‘Talk about overreaction. You have no sense of humour.’ She gave a light laugh and turned her head to look out of the window. Please let this journey be over!
The highway from the airport was wide, long and straight, cutting directly through miles of flat ochre-coloured desert, dotted with strange and weirdly shaped rock formations that rose up into the sky, casting even weirder shadows against the desert floor. There was a lot of traffic. She commented on the fact, because it seemed like a fairly safe and impersonal subject.
‘It is a holiday here and it is tradition for people—families—to go to the sea. They are now returning to the city.’
‘I know someone who took a diving holiday here a few a years ago.’
‘Yes, there is good diving. The coast is littered with wrecks that are rich in sea life. I learnt to dive there myself.’
‘And