she had been wrong. Now they seemed to do nothing but rub each other up the wrong way and she would tell him so. She would tell him that she had made a mistake and that she would be staying in England after all. But not tonight. She wanted tonight to end as soon as possible. She would inform him in the cold, clear light of day that it was probably better if she looked elsewhere for a job. ‘Of course I can,’ she answered flatly.
Their little convoy of cars drew to a halt and they travelled up in the lift together—an awkward little group which consisted of a stony-faced Zahid, a Frankie who was trying very hard not to let her lips wobble and two bodyguards who were built like bulldogs.
And when they reached their floor and Frankie had extracted her key-card, her fumbling fingers somehow prevented her from getting the door open and Zahid plucked it from her with a click of irritation.
For a moment their fingers brushed together and her eyes widened in startled recognition of the sudden warm thrill of that brief, physical contact. Irresistibly, their gazes locked and she saw the sudden darkening of his eyes. For one crazy second she observed the soft parting of his lips and the breath froze in her throat. Was Zahid attracted to her—as she was to him? Was he leaning forward as if he was about to kiss her?
But then the moment passed and he turned away. Her heart was beating frantically as he swiped the key-card and this time the light went on.
‘Ah, I’m getting the green light again,’ he said sardonically, unable to resist the sensual taunt—but she made no response to it. And he found himself wondering what he would have done if she had taunted him right back …
Frankie set her face into a frozen little smile. Was he laughing at her? Making fun of her? Her heart gave a painful lurch but she kept her face completely expressionless. ‘Goodnight, Zahid,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you very much for dinner.’
Her dignified statement filled him with a sudden feeling of guilt and Zahid wasn’t quite sure what had provoked it. Perplexed, he watched as she closed the door behind her and he was left standing outside Francesca’s bedroom with a distinctly rare feeling of frustration.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZAHID slept restlessly for much of the night. He was troubled by the stubbornness of his brother and the life he seemed to be leading. But he was troubled by something else, too—and that something was desire.
He opened his eyes. Nothing new there. Desire was as much a part of his life as eating. He had the healthy appetite of a man in his glorious prime and enjoyed sex as much as he enjoyed hunting, or riding—or seeing his beloved falcon soar up into the azure splendour of the Khayarzah skies.
But he had never made the connection between sex and emotion before—mainly because the latter did not figure greatly in his life. Early on, he had recognised that it was useful for a king to be emotionally detached. Maybe it was useful for all men to be so.
Emotion was messy—and so was depending on only one person—everyone knew that. Wasn’t he grateful that his position as King meant that he would never be required to walk such a potentially explosive path?
Pushing back the sweat-damp sheets, he got out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom, where he stood beneath a cold shower. The icy jets of water lashed down onto his tense and overheated body to briefly offer some relief. But not for very long.
His erotic dreams of last night had disturbed him—and they disturbed him still—because this time they were not easily fixed. For once, the dreams had not been of some beauty he’d met at some function, whom he could summon at will and have writhing beneath him before the day was out. Someone with whom he could enjoy a sweet, no strings affair—before kissing them goodbye with a significant piece of jewellery to remember him by.
Because the face which had haunted him all night long had been that of Francesca.
Francesca O’Hara.
He groaned as he lathered soap over his hips, feeling the heavy throb of desire at his groin and praying that the ice-water would quickly dispel these useless fantasies. Because they were fantasy. She was completely forbidden to him—and he had to force himself to remember why.
He had known her all her life.
Her father had trusted him.
Most important of all, there was no future for her with him—because she was English and he was Khayarzahian. The destinies ordained for each of them were radically different—and she meant too much to him to ever want to hurt her. Because although Francesca O’Hara was an experienced woman of the world with one fiancé already behind her, he respected her too much to offer her nothing but a quick fling.
The thought of Simon robbing Francesca of her precious innocence was enough to kill Zahid’s desire stonedead and abruptly he turned off the shower, towelled himself dry and dressed.
His breakfast laid up on the table beside him, he’d just hit the ‘send’ button on an email when there was a rap at the door—quickly followed by a soft English voice.
‘Zahid?’
‘Come in.’
He looked up as the door opened slowly and Francesca stood there, her expression more than a little anxious, wearing some sort of muted grey dress which seemed to have leached all the colour from her face.
‘Zahid—’
‘You’d better come in and shut the door behind you,’ he commanded softly.
She did as he asked, drawing in a deep breath. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Talk away. But at least let’s do it in some degree of comfort.’ He gestured towards the table which was laid with breakfast, in an alcoved window overlooking the city. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘No. I’m not … very hungry.’
‘Francesca.’ He gave a slightly impatient sigh as he rose to his feet and walked over to her, taking her firmly by the elbow and steering her towards the table. But he felt the unmistakable tension in her body when he touched her and the answering clamour of his own senses in response. ‘On a current showing, you aren’t impressing me with your daily diet. All this skipping meals simply will not do. Coffee?’
She wanted to tell him that she was leaving but now he was propelling her into a chair and pouring her a cup of inky-dark coffee and somehow had persuaded her to take a warm croissant from the linen cradle of the bread basket.
Under his fierce gaze, she tore a buttery strip from the pastry and held it in her fingers. ‘Zahid, about last night—’
‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about last night.’
‘You have?’’
‘Mmm.’ He sipped at his coffee and looked at her over the rim of the cup. ‘But I’ll hear what you have to say first.’
She thought that was a little unfair, but she was hardly in a position to say so. And it was hard to put anything into words when he was sitting right opposite her like that—managing to appear both relaxed and yet supremely powerful. With his fine silk shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his black hair still glittering from the shower, Frankie could have sat looking at him all day.
