Sayid’s senses screamed a warning. What would have happened if he hadn’t noticed that still, silent figure hiding in the corner? Would they have waited till his back was turned in the shower, or he was fast asleep, to slip a knife between his ribs?
Had he been foolish to write off his dead uncle’s preoccupation with security? The man had been dangerously paranoid and increasingly erratic but he’d been wily.
‘Come here!’
Instantly the figure glided closer.
‘Sire.’ A soft, whispery voice feathered his skin like a lover’s caress. Another bow. This time when the figure straightened, it tugged off the enveloping blanket.
Sayid stared.
His privacy had been invaded by a dancing girl? He shook his head. Did weariness play tricks with his vision?
Women in his country didn’t dress like this. Women in Halarq dressed modestly. Some covered their hair but all covered their bodies.
This one didn’t.
Heat speared his belly and drilled into his groin as he surveyed her. She wore a low-slung skirt that fell in gauzy folds from the curve of her hips. He clearly saw long slim legs through the fabric. She shifted and a glimpse of toned, honey-coloured thigh appeared through a slit in the skirt.
His gaze rose to a bare midriff, deliciously curved into a tiny waist, then up to a cropped, sleeveless top of shiny material that clasped her like a second skin. It was cut low, showing off the upper slopes of enticing breasts that rose and fell with her rapid breathing.
Sayid’s throat closed as if he’d gulped down half the eastern desert. His fingers stretched then curled into fists, bunching at his sides.
Competing impulses warred.
To command she cover herself instantly.
But that wasn’t his first reaction.
To reach out and touch that inviting body.
Yes. That.
To haul her against him and revel in the pleasure a woman’s soft body could afford a man wearied by days, no, weeks of achieving the impossible—first keeping his uncle from invading Jeirut, then, on his uncle’s death, finding a way to ensure a lasting peace between nations that were traditional enemies.
His gaze rose further, taking in a face of extraordinary loveliness. Dark hair, unbound, was pushed behind her shoulders. Her breasts, pert and high, rose shakily with each breath.
Imagination told him her skin would be warm silk, soft and pleasurable.
Sayid, like his uncle before him, was a man of strong desires, with a predilection for pleasure. Yet, unlike his dead uncle, Sayid prided himself on ruling his sensual side. He’d seen what unbridled self-indulgence did to a man. He had no intention of following his uncle down that path. Instead he emulated his father who’d been a warrior prince, bound by an unshakeable code of conduct. A man who channelled strong appetites into a drive to protect and serve his people.
‘Look at me.’ The command was overloud. But Sayid’s control over his body was sorely tried.
Instantly her bowed head tilted up.
Sayid registered another unseen body blow. This time to his solar plexus. For her eyes were unlike any he’d seen. They were the colour of wild violets in the mountains. Darker than blue, softer than purple.
He scowled. Not only was she remarkably pretty, she was young—too young to be alone in his room.
‘Who are you?’
‘Lina, sire.’ Again that low bow, which now, to his horror, made his groin grow tight and hard, for he got an eyeful as she bent forward. It looked as if her breasts might pop free of her top at any moment.
‘Don’t do that!’
She blinked, emotion he couldn’t read flashing across her features. Then it disappeared as she lifted her chin to look somewhere near his shoulder, her hands clasped neatly before her. ‘Do what, sire?’
‘Bowing. Don’t do it again.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But sire! You are the Emir. It wouldn’t be seemly—’
‘Let me be the judge of seemly.’ Sayid raised a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at too-tight muscles.
‘Yes, sire.’ Yet her brow twitched as if in disagreement and he’d swear she bit her lip as if to stop herself saying more.
‘Don’t call me that, either.’ His uncle might have enjoyed constant reminders of his status as ruler of the nation, but Sayid had heard the title too often from too many toadying courtiers trying to ingratiate themselves. It grated.
He’d give a lot to talk with someone who didn’t bow and scrape. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing fatigue shortened his temper.
His mouth kicked up at the memory of his tense negotiations this week with Huseyn of Jeirut, the man known as the Iron Hand. There’d been no bowing and scraping then. The man was the toughest negotiator Sayid had met, as well as a formidable warrior. Yet, despite the weight of responsibility on their shoulders as they worked towards a peace deal for their nations, Sayid had enjoyed the stimulation of dealing with the man.
Halarq, under the rule of Sayid’s uncle, hadn’t been a place where people spoke their mind. The palace was full of advisers trained to agree with their Emir, rather than advise without fear or favour.
Yet another thing Sayid aimed to change.
‘As you wish...sir.’
He opened his mouth then shut it. ‘Sir’ was marginally better than ‘sire’. What did it matter anyway? He was so tired he’d allowed himself to be distracted.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
‘I’m Lina. I’m here to serve you—’ her gaze skittered away to fix on a point beyond him ‘—in any way you wish.’ She swallowed, the movement accentuating her long slender throat and the beauty of her pale gold skin.
For a dazed second Sayid’s brain snared on the idea of nuzzling her fragrant flesh. He caught the scent of roses on her skin and wondered how she’d taste.
The temptation was so alluring, he stepped back to be sure he didn’t act on it. She stiffened at his movement, revealing a tension she fought to hide.
‘Who sent you?’
‘My father’s brother. He sent me as a goodwill gift to the previous Emir.’
A goodwill gift! Sourness filled Sayid’s mouth. That was the sort of nation his uncle had ruled. Where a woman could be treated as a commodity. Old memories stirred, leaving a rancid taste on his tongue.
As the new Emir, he had a lot of work to bring the country into the current century.
‘The previous Emir is dead.’
Sayid had believed the women in his uncle’s harem had been sent away as the old man’s prostate illness worsened and he became impotent.
‘I know, s...sir. He died soon after my arrival and I never met him.’ Her eyes flickered to his, then away. ‘My condolences on your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Sayid felt neither loss nor sorrow at his uncle’s death. The old man had been a poor steward for their country and personally deplorable, a mean, brutal voluptuary. ‘But with his death, you are free to go. You’re not required here.’
Huge violet eyes met his. Was that fear he read there? ‘Oh, no. You misunderstand. That is—’ she swallowed, dropping her gaze to the floor as if afraid she’d said the wrong thing ‘—not misunderstand, of course.’
She