you adrift.’ There it was again, that trace of angry protectiveness. Like when he’d accused her of having a distorted body image. Secretly she adored arousing his protective instincts. Even for a capable, modern woman there was something thrilling about a take-charge man wanting to make things right for you.
‘I wasn’t adrift. I made my own way. I dreamed of becoming a journalist and learning independence early helped.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘Besides, given the number of men in current affairs reporting, knowing how the male mind works is a distinct advantage. All those years coping with testosterone-filled teens was great grounding.’
Asim gave a bark of laughter. ‘That would explain why you’ve never been intimidated by me.’
Jacqui kept her mouth shut rather than correct him. There’d been times, especially in the beginning, when she’d felt completely out of her depth and more than a little daunted. That was before she’d realised that behind his tough exterior and ruthless decision-making lurked a man of compassion and surprising tenderness.
‘We’re well matched, Jacqueline. Both of us are pragmatists. Neither of us is foolish enough to fall for the fantasy of romantic love.’
She looked into those gleaming eyes, saw his satisfied smile and felt some of her bright, glowing pleasure grow dull and brittle.
ASIM WALKED WITH his entourage through the throng, exchanging greetings. They’d assembled in the plain where festivities were traditionally held. Once, tribes had travelled days by horse or camel to get here. Tonight, on the tenth anniversary of his accession to the throne, most had driven and some had flown around the globe.
There was laughter and feasting after a day of entertainment: displays of horsemanship, archery and shooting as well as athletics, dancing and horse racing.
Satisfaction buzzed. Jazeer had prospered and developed in ways that made him proud. He wasn’t solely responsible, but his government had achieved much, far more than under his father’s unstable rule.
He neared the gateway to the royal enclosure, on high ground abutting the citadel. The crimson and gold Jazeeri royal banner flared and snapped in the breeze.
Movement beneath it caught his eye and he paused, his breath locking.
How did she do it?
He should be immune to Jacqueline Fletcher or at least accustomed to her presence. She spent every night in his bed and they shared more hours awake than he had shared with any previous lover. Yet still she made his heart hammer.
His gaze roved over the slim figure in amber. She was stunning, a beacon glowing in the early evening light. Her dress shimmered, the long skirt moulding her neat hips and giving a tantalising hint of gorgeous long legs.
Immediately desire throbbed, as if his body had been trained to respond to the mere sight of her. He registered vague disquiet. This fascination should be ebbing. Instead it had escalated.
He wanted to be with her, stripping off that dress that flowed over her slender curves like apricot syrup. This on the night when he should be rejoicing in his achievements and the accolades of his people!
She made him want to forget his duty. He wanted to lose himself in her. Or at least be with her, seeing her delight in the spectacle and listening to her refreshingly honest assessment of everything, from the pageantry to the behind-the-scenes lobbying by guests. He sensed danger in the way she distracted him, making him lose focus. It was his duty, his responsibility, to keep control and protect those, like Samira, who relied on him.
Asim made himself turn. It was a test of willpower that he stay away.
His grandmother and her cronies would take Jacqueline under their wing. He’d remain here, doing his duty till it was time for the fireworks.
As the light faded and he finally made his way back to the enclosure a ruffled press secretary raced over to report a breach of security. Amongst the invited media, a cameraman and reporter from a major magazine were on the premises. A magazine that had pursued Samira relentlessly. Its staff had been banned from all royal premises. Yet they were in the royal enclosure, large as life.
Asim marched up the hill, barking questions to his stumbling retainers.
How had they entered? He couldn’t believe his efficient security team had slipped up so badly.
But there was a conundrum. For it appeared the pair had press passes that had been checked and double checked and proven genuine.
Only years of self-discipline prevented Asim taking the steps three at a time. The Sultan of Jazeer never publicly showed haste or fury. He topped the rise and his heart pumped an aggressive rhythm.
It was worse than he’d thought.
A sweeping look took in the cluster of photographers held back by security staff. Their lenses were trained on the platform overlooking the plain below. On it posed women dressed in flamboyant rainbow colours. Among them he saw Jacqueline in full-length amber looking luscious as toffee and, in a gown of deepest violet, Samira.
Asim halted, pulse hammering, barely able to believe his eyes. Samira hadn’t planned to attend. When he’d tried to persuade her weeks ago she’d claimed she needed time before facing crowds again. What was she doing here?
A barrage of sound hit and the sky exploded in fireworks.
Asim was stalking forward, his jaw clamped, when a hand touched his arm. About to shake it off, he looked down into his grandmother’s concerned face.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of them.’ He started forward but her hand tightened.
‘No. That’s exactly what you won’t do.’
‘Sorry?’ He couldn’t believe his ears. The old lady had supported his strategy to protect Samira.
‘They’re here now. If you cause a scene it will fuel the flames. Look—they’re not talking to Samira, just taking photographs.’
Asim followed her gesture, confirming that, while Samira was in full view of the press, his staff kept them from questioning her. The women came together in a neatly choreographed move and posed for the cameras, a burst of multi-coloured light adding to the spectacle.
‘It’s deliberate,’ he murmured, taking in the scene properly for the first time. The beautiful women, the glamorous dresses, the backdrop of ancient fortifications and stunning pyrotechnics. The scene would enthral millions of avid viewers.
‘Of course,’ his grandmother responded. ‘Don’t inflame the situation.’
Grimly Asim nodded, forcing himself to stand and watch those vultures snap photo after photo.
Yet he felt betrayed. Someone in his palace had arranged this press intrusion and put Samira at risk. A few weeks ago she’d barely had the energy to stir herself and here she was, posing like some catwalk model for the paparazzi.
When he got his hands on the person who planned this, they’d wish they’d never been born.
*
