Releasing her lips, Zahir pulled back, the breath heaving in his chest, the tightening in his groin almost unbearably painful. A kiss was one thing, but to take her virginity—for surely that was what they were talking about here?—was quite another. This wasn’t the time or the place. And to do it merely to prove himself more of a man than Henrik would be morally reprehensible. Somehow, from somewhere, he was going to have to find some control.
The look of dazed desire in Annalina’s eyes was almost enough to make him claim her again, blow his new-found resolve to smithereens. But within a split second her expression had changed and now he saw a wariness, a fear almost, and that was enough to bring him forcibly to his senses. Realising that he was still clutching a handful of her hair, he let it drop and pushed himself away until he found himself on his feet, staring down at her from a position of towering authority that he felt far more comfortable with.
‘I apologise.’ His voice sounded raw, unfamiliar, as alien to him as the wild sensations that were coursing through the rest of his body. Sensations that he realised would be all too evident if Annalina raised her eyes to his groin. He shifted his position, adjusting the fit of his trousers.
But Annalina wasn’t looking at him. She was busy with her hair, combing her fingers through the blonde tresses, arranging it so that it fell over her shoulders. Then she leant forward to retrieve the clips that had fallen to the floor.
‘What is there to be sorry for?’ Now her eyes met his, cold, controlled, defiant. ‘We are engaged, after all.’ She held the largest clip in her hand, a hinged, tortoiseshell affair which now squeaked as she opened and closed its teeth, as if it was ready to take a bite out of him. ‘You are perfectly at liberty to kiss me. To do whatever you like with me, in fact. At least, that’s been the impression you have given me so far.’
There was rebellion in her voice now, matched by the arched posture, the arrogant, feline grace. But her lips, Zahir noticed, were still swollen from the force of their kiss, the delicate skin of her jaw flushed pink where his stubbled chin had scraped against her. And for some reason this gave him a twisted sense of achievement—as if he had marked his territory, claimed her. Especially as, now, everything about Annalina was trying to deny it.
‘Perhaps you would do well to remember that this is all your doing, Annalina. You have brought about this situation and you only have yourself to blame. I am merely trying to find a workable solution.’
A solution that should not involve ripping the clothes off her the moment they were alone.
‘I know, I know.’ Rising to her feet, Annalina planted herself squarely in front of him, sticking out her bottom lip like a sulky teenager. Barefoot, she seemed ridiculously tiny, delicate, her temper making her brittle, as if she would snap in two were he to reach forward and grasp her with his warrior’s hands.
‘And, whilst we’re on the subject of workable solutions, perhaps you would like to tell me how long I am expected to stay in Nabatean. I have duties in my own country, you know, matters that require my attention.’
‘I’m sure.’ Zahir gritted his jaw against the desire to close the small gap between them and punish her impertinence with another bruising kiss. ‘In that case, no doubt you will be relieved to know that you’ll be returning to Dorrada the day after tomorrow.’
‘Oh, right.’ Annalina shifted her weight lightly from one foot to the other, placing her hand provocatively on her hip. ‘Well, that’s good.’
‘I have a number of meetings scheduled for tomorrow but have cleared my diary for the following couple of days.’
He watched, not without some satisfaction, as her frown of incomprehension turned to a scowl of realisation. Her toes, he noticed, were curling against the bare boards.
‘You mean...?’
‘Yes, Annalina. I will be accompanying you. I very much look forward to visiting your country.’
OPENING THE SHUTTERS, Anna shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun. Not the sun glinting off the towering glass edifices of Medira this time, or shimmering above the distant desert, but bouncing off the freshly fallen snow that blanketed the ground, weighing down the fir trees and covering the roofs of the town of Valduz that nestled in the valley in the distance.
She was back at Valduz Castle, the only home she had ever known. Perched on a craggy outcrop at the foothills of the Pyrenees mountain range, the castle was like something out of a fairy tale, or a Dracula movie, depending on your point of view. Built in the fourteenth century, it was all stone walls, turrets and battlements, fully prepared for any marauding invaders. It was not, however, prepared for the twenty-first century. Cold, damp and in desperate need of repair, its occupants—including Anna, her father and the bare minimum of staff—only inhabited a very small portion of it, living in a kind of squalid grandeur: priceless antique furniture had been pushed aside to make room for buckets to catch the drips, steel joists propping up ceilings decorated with stunning fifteenth-century frescoes.
But all this was about to change. Turning around, Anna surveyed her childhood bedroom in all its forlorn glory. Once she married Zahir, money would no longer be a problem for this impoverished nation. Valduz Castle would be restored, and limitless funds would be pumped into the Dorradian economy to improve its infrastructure, houses, hospitals and schools. Dorrada’s problems would soon be over. And hers would be just beginning.
But she could feel no sense of achievement for her part in turning around Dorrada’s fortunes. Instead there was just a hollow dread where maybe pride should have sat—a deep sense of unease that she had sold her soul to the devil. Or at least as close to a devil as she had ever come across. And that very devil was right here, under the leaking roofs of this ancient castle.
They had arrived in Dorrada the previous evening, her father greeting Zahir like an honoured guest, clearly having no concerns that his daughter was marrying the wrong brother. The two of them had retired immediately to her father’s study and that had been the last Anna had seen of them. Presumably the financial talks had been the top priority and had gone on long into the night. Anna was obviously of significantly less importance to either of them. Zahir, professional but detached, appeared to be treating this like just another business trip, all traces of the man who had been on the brink of ravishing her banished behind that formidable, impenetrable facade.
Anna closed her eyes against the memory of that kiss—hot, wild, and so forceful it had felt as if he was branding her with his lips, claiming her in the most carnal way. It still did. The memory refused to leave her, still curling her toes, clenching her stomach and heating her very core.
And Zahir had felt it too, no matter how much his subsequent demeanour might be trying to deny it. His arousal had been all too evident—electrifying, empowering. Trapped in his embrace, she had felt alive, confident, sexy. And ready. More than ready, in fact. Desperate for Zahir to take things further, to throw her to the floor and make love to her there and then, any way he wanted. To possess her, make her feel whole, complete, a real woman.
But what had happened? Nothing, that was what. Having taken her to the point of no return, he had stopped, leaving her a quivering, gasping, flushed-faced mess, unable to do anything other than stare up at him as he bit out between gritted teeth that he was sorry. Sorry? Anna didn’t want sorry. It had taken every ounce of effort to come back from that, to hide the crushing disappointment and act as if she didn’t give a damn.
But today was a new day. She was on her own
