blink hard to clear his vision. That was when he noticed the second thing—that the left hand she had lifted to her forehead had a—not a deformity—a tiny twist to the little finger that made it sit not quite straight against her hand.
From somewhere deep a memory stirred in his mind, surfaced and was then gone again. Had he seen her before—and if so when?
But the woman—a young woman—was speaking again, her words bringing his attention back to the present.
‘Forgive me, Your Highness. I didn’t know that anyone else was out here. I thought no one would notice me.’
Aziza’s voice trembled in her own ears. She should have known that she could be caught out here, like this, away from the celebrations in the main hall. She also knew that Sheikh Nabil was a hard, demanding man, totally focused on security within his palace. Who could blame him after what had happened? But the noise and the heat of the anniversary party had all been rather too much for her. That and watching her older sister Jamalia flirt outrageously—or as outrageously as she dared in front of their parents—with every eligible young man who was present.
She had had to get away from the party, away from playing second fiddle to Jamalia. Away from her father’s constant scrutiny of his second daughter, the one who might as well be a servant because of the way he expected her to keep in the background. She was supposed to stay there and act as chaperone. Of course Jamalia didn’t want her there; and to tell the truth Aziza had wanted to be anywhere but with her sister. She hadn’t even wanted to come to this party in the first place. But her father had insisted. Everyone who was anyone would be at the celebration, and their absence would most definitely be noticed if they weren’t.
‘Not mine,’ Aziza had muttered under her breath but her mother’s glare in her direction had made her think more than twice about saying the words aloud. So she had swallowed down her protest, had dressed herself in the deep pink silk gown that had been provided and had followed in her parents’ footsteps into the golden palace for the evening.
Jamalia of course had thought that her reluctance was only because her sister didn’t want to act as chaperone. That and the fact that Aziza was always ill at ease with the young men who flocked to her side. But there was more to it than that.
And now the real reason why she had been so unwilling to come tonight was standing right before her, tall and powerful, the scent of his skin swirling round her, his dark head blotting out the light of the moon so that she was totally in his shadow.
It was a place she was used to, she acknowledged privately. She had always been in Nabil’s shadow, always trailing after him from the moment when, as a lordly twelve-year-old on a visit to her parents’ home, he had flung himself from the saddle of a horse that had seemed skyscraper high to her diminutive five-year-old status and tossed the reins in the direction of a groom.
‘Who are you?’
The question, hard and sharp, was exactly the same one that Nabil had demanded of her all those years before so that for the moment she didn’t recognise the fact that it had come from Nabil and not from her memories. It was only when she saw his mouth clamp tight together in the darkness of the rich beard he now sported that she realised he had asked her now and not then.
‘Just a maid.’
She looked the part well enough, she reflected. The pink gown wasn’t new, of course, but one handed down from Jamalia. ‘It will do for Zia,’ her father had said. Because Aziza wasn’t the one being paraded in front of the Sheikh in the hope of an advantageous marriage, as her sister was.
‘I—I am with Jamalia, sire.’
Instinct made her spread her skirts, sweeping into a low and careful curtsey. She hoped that the obeisance she showed him might ease the tension she could feel coming in waves from the tall, powerful man before her. Her mother had worried that she would stumble into some awkward situation if she went off on her own, and right now it seemed that Naddiya had been right. But the truth was that this situation was not of the politicking and plotting that her parents were obsessed with and much more on a personal level.
‘Your name?’
‘Zia, sire.’
Some instinct made her give the nickname everyone in her family used. At least that way he might not associate her directly with her parents and their political manoeuvrings. It was impossible to avoid the sting of wry reflection at the thought of just why her given name had been shortened to this form.
‘Aziza, hmm?’ her father had said. ‘A name that means “the beautiful one” for someone so small and plain? I think not. Let’s face it, our second daughter could never be the beautiful one when compared with her sister.’ He had shortened her name to Zia and it had stuck.
‘I needed some air. I ask your pardon...’
An impatient, dismissive wave of his hand flicked away her explanation, making her break off in confusion. Had he forgiven her for being here—hiding, as he would see it, in the darkness? She’d taken a real risk, knowing how tight the security still was in the place. So she would only have herself to blame if this all turned nasty.
Perhaps she should have given him her own name, but her heart kicked inside at just the thought. All those years ago, from the moment that the twelve-year-old Nabil had turned to notice her—her, not her two years older sister Jamalia—she had lost her heart in the blink of an eye. For days after that, she had followed him round like a little puppy, always at his heels, hoping for another glance her way. She was so unused to being singled out for any attention that his tolerance for her, the stunning effect of his smile, even then had knocked her off balance. She had fallen head over heels into a youthful adoration that was all the more potent for having been so innocent and juvenile. She had given him her childish heart and all that had happened since had meant that he still had a hold on her emotions that no one else had ever quite managed to displace him from.
He was so instantly recognisable—apart from the black beard that shaded his angular jaw—she would have known who he was immediately. But there was something deeply personal that held her back from giving him her name. What if he didn’t remember her? If he stared at her blankly, unable to recall any Aziza from so long ago? Her father would have laughed at the thought that he might recall her, and it was foolish to let herself be hurt by the possibility—the probability—that he would not remember her as she did him. But something small and hidden deep inside her shrank from even taking the risk.
‘If you will forgive me...’
She had turned towards the doors into the main palace when he stirred again and his voice came from behind her.
‘Don’t go!’
Nabil had no idea what made him say it. Why the hell should he want anyone to stay with him when at last he had found the solitude and silence of the balcony that should have been balm to his barren soul? But, now that this slip of a woman was so obviously intent on hurrying away and leaving him there, he knew a sudden new rush of emptiness piled on emptiness that had always been there, and the words had escaped him without thought.
‘Highness?’
She hadn’t been expecting them either. It was obvious from the way that she started as if she’d been hit, froze, then whirled back to face him. In the moonlight her eyes were wide and dark.
‘Don’t go. Stay a while.’
He
