had been shocked and appalled by the things he had said. Brad was not a prude, and he had no way of knowing whether or not she was still a virgin, and she half believed his outraged indignation. The fact that she had never been with a man made his words that much more terrifying, and while her senses rejected his angry denigration, her frightened logic could not.
In consequence, when Rachid arrived the following morning she refused to see him, and spent the day with Brad, attending a business meeting in the morning and lecture in the afternoon. She had told herself it was the sensible thing to do, and even though that night had been the first of the many when she cried herself to sleep over Rachid, she was convinced it was the only thing to do.
Unfortunately, the following day brought her into contact with the Abareinian delegation once more. Attending a reception at one of the other embassies, Rachid was the first man she saw on their arrival, and in spite of her determination, her eyes were drawn again and again to his dark-suited figure. Not that Rachid appeared to notice. He seemed quite content to remain with his own party, listening to what his colleagues had to say in that distinctive way he had of inclining his dark head in their direction, a faint smile of acknowledgement tugging at the corners of his mobile mouth.
Naturally Brad had been well pleased that his advice had appeared to work, and if he noticed that Abby’s lips were a little tighter when they left the Embassy, and her smile a little forced, he feigned ignorance. With supreme indifference to the fact that she had already been there with Rachid, he took her to the Louvre, and they spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the museums that house the most important artistic collection in the world, before returning to their hotel to take dinner in the restaurant.
By the time she left Brad in the foyer of the hotel, Abby’s head was aching and there was a curiously hollow feeling inside her, despite the excellence of the food she had just consumed. She put it down to fatigue and nervous exhaustion, but as she rode up in the lift she knew it was due in no small part to Rachid’s defection. It was to be expected, of course, after the way she had behaved, but she was amazed at the turmoil it had left inside her.
Her room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the Place de la Concorde, but this evening she had no interest in her surroundings. She felt raw and vulnerable, and it was not a pleasant experience. To alleviate her discomfort, she decided to take a bath, and minutes later, relaxing in the soapy scented water, she felt she had made the right decision. The water was warm and soothing, and swirled about her like a protective cocoon.
The knock that was repeated at the outer door dispelled the brief illusion of immunity. Guessing it was Brad with some instructions for the morning, she called to him to wait, and quickly patted herself dry before donning the ankle-length towelling robe which she normally used as a dressing gown. With her hair spilling from an improvised knot on top of her head, and the robe wrapped securely about her, she opened the door, and then expelled her breath on a gasp when she found Rachid on the threshold.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, and she was convinced that no single item of her state of déshabille had escaped his notice. The dark eyes were all-encompassing, and she clutched the lapels of the towelling robe as if it was essential to hide every inch of burning flesh from him.
‘It’s late,’ she said foolishly, realising a more vehement refusal should have been forthcoming, but his unexpected appearance when she was feeling most susceptible had temporarily robbed her of calm reasoning.
‘I have to talk to you,’ he insisted, supporting himself with one hand against the door frame, the lapels of his jacket falling open to reveal the shadowy outline of his chest beneath the sheer silk of his shirt. ‘Abby, I beg of you, let me come in. At least for a moment. I would prefer not to be seen hanging about your bedroom door at this time of night, if possible.’
His words hardened her resolve. ‘Then go,’ she said tightly. ‘No one asked you to come here.’
‘Abby!’
The night-dark irises pleaded with her, and combined with the magnetic appeal of the man himself, they were a potent seducement. Moving her head silently from side to side, not trusting herself to speak, she tried to close the door, but his foot was in the way and with a little sound of protest she fell back from him, seeking the farthest corner of the room. He must not know how he affected her, she thought desperately, but how could she disguise it?
Rachid came into the room slowly, closing the door behind him and leaning his broad shoulders back against the panels. Then, tipping his head on one side, he looked at her with half reproachful impatience.
‘Why are you frightened of me?’ he asked, dark brows drawing together above the faintly arrogant curve of his nose. ‘What did I do to make you afraid of me? And why did you refuse to see me yesterday? Do we not enjoy ourselves together? I was under the impression that you liked my company. Was I wrong?’
Abby didn’t know how to answer him. To tell him that she had not enjoyed their time together would be an outright lie, yet to admit the contrary would be to invite who knew what familiarities.
‘I—did find your company—informative,’ she ventured at last, choosing her words carefully. ‘You obviously know Paris very well, and your knowledge of Versailles—’
‘I did not mean that, and you know it,’ he exclaimed, pushing himself away from the door and moving towards her with a firm pantherlike tread. ‘We were beginning to know one another, that is the important thing, and I want to know why you chose to sever our relationship with the sensitivity of a camel driver!’
He came round the end of her bed, imprisoning her in a corner of the room with no escape except across the bed itself. Abby considered climbing across the counter-pane, but such behaviour seemed undignified, and besides, if he attacked her she could always scream. Brad’s room was next door, and by now he must surely have finished the drink he had intended to have in the bar before coming upstairs.
‘I think you ought to go, Prince Rachid,’ she insisted tremulously, endeavouring not to look as anxious as she felt. ‘It—it was good of you to give me your time, but—’
‘It was not good at all,’ he interrupted roughly, now only inches away from her. ‘I wanted to spend my time with you, Abby. I can think of nothing I have enjoyed more, and—’ he reached out a hand to touch her cheek, ‘—I do not believe you did not enjoy it, too.’
Abby’s instinctive flinching away from him brought a faint flush of anger to his cheeks. ‘Haji, what is wrong with you?’ he demanded, gazing down at her without comprehension. ‘What kind of man do you think I am that you tremble like a gazelle just because I lay my hand on you?’
‘Please go,’ she got out chokingly, panic rising unbidden inside her. ‘Please, I want you to leave. At—at once. And I never want to see you again.’
‘No? Is this so? And what has happened to change your mind?’
He was so close now that she could see the flecks of lightness in those dark eyes, approve the texture of his skin, that was firm and tanned, and only slightly shadowed by the shaven growth of his beard. She could see the strong column of his throat rising from the collar of his shirt, and smell the clean odour of his body, mingling with that of his clothes and his shaving lotion. His hair clung smoothly to the shape of his head, free of any of the greasy dressings some men needed to keep their hair in order, and beneath the flaring pendulum of his tie his quickened breathing strained the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes dropped lower, only to dart up again swiftly, in case he imagined she was as curious about him as he appeared to be about her.
‘Prince
