She darted a curious glance at the man who would decide her future. He wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he’d shut his eyes, which gave her time to take in more of his appearance, to see beyond that grave masculine beauty to the weariness bracketing his eyes and mouth. The slight droop of his head. The slump of that long frame in the cushioned chair.
The man was exhausted.
* * *
Sayid opened his eyes to see the girl dart into his bathroom. What the devil was she up to?
He was about to follow when she emerged, carrying a bowl of water. She sank to the floor before him in a show of fluid grace that made him wonder if she really was a dancer, as that scanty costume suggested.
Savagely he ignored the scorching trail of desire searing through his belly. He reminded himself he’d learned to master his impulsive, carnal nature.
Yet, to his chagrin the addition of his shirt did nothing to hide her allure. With fatigue testing both his patience and his willpower, it had seemed safest to cover her up so he couldn’t see that too-inviting expanse of honey skin, the alluring dips, swells and hollows of her breasts, waist and hips.
Sayid hadn’t reckoned on her being just as sexy, if not more, wearing his shirt. Because it was his shirt? It conjured a sense of intimacy, as if she were a lover who’d already shared her body with him. The thought snagged in his brain, stirring heat in his groin.
The extra covering hinted at her shape, the fine fabric clinging here and there, teasing with what lay beneath.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice emerged brusque, making her jump, yet she didn’t back away.
‘Helping with your boots, sir.’ She’d put the bowl to one side and reached forward as if to touch him, then halted, clearly waiting for permission.
‘Look at me.’ He was tired of the tradition that deterred people from daring to look their ruler in the face. Besides, it made it more difficult for him to read their thoughts.
Violet eyes met his. A burst of dark colour so deep it seemed Sayid could fall into it. Beautiful eyes, wide and slanted at the corners, giving her the look of a woman with secrets, or whose face was made for smiling.
There was no smile now. She still wore that tense expression, as if her flesh had shrunk around her bones, making her look wary, even scared, except the firm angle of her chin belied fear.
‘How old are you?’ The question wasn’t the one he’d planned.
‘Seventeen, sir.’ She swallowed, then licked her bottom lip as if nervous.
A mere teenager. A judder of regret vibrated through him. Seventeen and scared despite her determination not to show it. While he was twenty-five and, right now, felt old beyond his years.
Sayid couldn’t accept the invitation to let her serve him in any way he wished. Having a woman who’d been ordered to serve him was utterly unpalatable.
Or it should be.
Yet despite exhaustion part of him was disappointed. For Lina, with her pouting lips, her intriguing air of composure despite her nerves, and her outrageously luscious body, made the blood roar in his veins and heat stir. After all, he was descended from generations of marauding warriors, used to taking whatever they wanted, including women.
‘May I help you with your boots, sir?’
‘Very well.’ If it helped her to feel useful, he wouldn’t object. It would be tough getting her to speak if she were frozen into silence.
So he leaned back against the padded chair and stretched out one leg towards her, watching as she scooted closer, cradling the boot in her hands then drawing it off as carefully as if it were something precious and fragile.
Both boots, both socks were removed and set aside. Then she moved the bowl, lifted his legs one at a time and placed them in warm water.
Instantly Sayid felt some of the tension locking his muscles release.
‘Thank you, Lina.’ Her startled gaze told him she wasn’t accustomed to thanks. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’
Again that flare of confusion in her stunning eyes. Whatever her story, she wasn’t used to being asked about herself. She hesitated then moistened her lips with her tongue in a way that sent tension flicking through him like a whip.
‘My name is Lina Rahman. My father was Headman of Narjif.’
Sayid nodded. He knew the distant town and he’d met her father last year as he toured the provinces. A serious man and a traditionalist, set in his ways. But that didn’t explain why he’d send his daughter as a gift to Sayid’s uncle, a man notorious in his younger days for his womanising, and more lately, for his irascible temper.
‘You have siblings?’
A dimple appeared in her cheek as if she bit it. ‘Sadly no. My parents weren’t blessed with sons, only me.’ Clearly she repeated something she’d heard many times. Yet Sayid was pleased to see she met his gaze, not so shy now.
‘He sent you to my uncle? To the old Emir?’
‘No!’ She shook her head and another long strand of dark hair slid over her shoulder to fall in a sinuous curve over her breast. ‘My father is dead. It was his brother who sent me. He and his wife.’
Sayid frowned. ‘And your mother?’
‘She died years ago. If she’d been alive she would not have sent me away.’ Her voice grew stronger with an echo of what might have been indignation. Lina took a small towel from her shoulder and laid it neatly across her knees. Then she lifted his foot and placed it on the towel, her movements sure and deft.
Sayid watched as she patted his foot dry then propped it, heel down on her thigh. With a firm, rhythmic movement she rubbed her thumbs over his sole, finding and working pressure points. Sayid felt warmth rise and spread, not only through his foot but his whole body. His tired eyes flickered and his aching muscles eased as pleasure rushed through him.
‘You’ve done this before.’
‘For my father.’ Her features softened a fraction.
‘Not your uncle?’
Instantly she stiffened, her mouth turning down at the corners and her forehead crinkling. ‘No. It would not be appropriate. My aunt specifically forbade me to touch any of my male relatives.’
‘There is more than your uncle?’
Her thumbs pressed so hard that the massage bordered on pain rather than pleasure. ‘My uncle and aunt have three sons.’
‘And you wanted to touch them?’ For some reason Sayid disliked the idea.
‘Ha! I’d rather touch a flea-ridden, spitting camel with diarrhoea than one of them.’
Sayid bit down a smile, weariness abating as curiosity rose. His demure little gift wasn’t nearly as demure as she seemed.
‘I see. They wanted to touch you.’
Lina nodded, her nostrils flaring in distaste. Her breasts rose high against his shirt as she breathed hard.
‘They accused me of leading them on! Of tempting and teasing, when I never even looked at them. I avoided them as much as I could. But that wasn’t enough. They said I wore perfume deliberately to entice them. That they could smell it when I left my room and it was an invitation for them to follow me.’
In her indignation Lina had forgotten to be cowed or careful. Fire flashed in her fine eyes and her cheeks blushed a soft rose.
Though he deplored their behaviour, Sayid understood too easily why her cousins found her such a temptation. Nervous and cowed she