Irritated but unsurprised by Graham’s lack of consideration, Sarah walked up the steps to the consulate and strolled into the foyer, which was well lit and warm.
She was greeted by a burly man with a shaved head who was dressed in a beautifully cut suit. He checked her invitation and noted her name on a register. When he handed the invitation back, his gaze was piercing. In New Zealand it was unusual to be scrutinized so thoroughly. She was almost certain he wasn’t just a consulate official. With the sheikh in residence it was more likely that the man was one of the sheikh’s bodyguards. Though a Christian nation, Zahir, a Mediterranean island, was caught between the Middle East and Europe. The elderly sheikh had been kidnapped some years ago and so now was rumored to always travel with an armed escort.
She hung her coat on the rack provided. Ignoring an attack of nerves caused by losing the cozy, protective outer layer that had mostly hidden the red dress, she walked through an elegant hallway and into a crowded reception room. It was a cocktail party and promotional evening aimed at selling Zahir, with its colorful history as a Templar outpost, as a tourist destination. Sarah had expected little black dresses and the rich exotic colors of the East to abound, but crisp business suits and black and gray dresses toned down by jackets created a subdued monochrome against which she stood out like an overbright bird of paradise.
Sarah’s stomach sank. When she had read the pamphlet she hadn’t seen the evening as focused on business, but if she didn’t miss her guess, most of the guests were business types, probably tour operators and travel agents and no doubt a smattering of government officials.
Deciding to brazen it out, she moved to a display concerning the mysterious disappearance of the remains of Camille’s dowry. Hidden by a member of the sheikh’s family at the time of the evacuation during the Second World War, the location of the hiding place had been lost when the family member died in a bombing raid.
A short, balding man in a gray suit also stopped by the display, but seemed more mesmerized by the faint shadowy hollow of her cleavage. Annoyed by his rudeness, she sent him the kind of quelling glance that would have had her pupils scrambling to apply themselves to their study. As he scuttled away, she thought longingly about retrieving her coat and covering up the alluring brightness of the dress, but she refused to cut and run because she was attracting male attention. After all, that had been the whole point.
A waiter offered her a glass of wine. A little desperately, she took a glass and sipped slowly as she moved to a display of Templar weaponry. Instantly riveted by a history she found even more fascinating after immersing herself in Camille’s journal, Sarah read the notes about the Templar band under the command of Sheikh Kadin. Setting her glass down on a nearby table, she stepped closer, irresistibly drawn to the largest weapon—a grim, pitted sword that had clearly seen hard use. A small label indicated the sword had belonged to the sheikh. In that moment she remembered a passage of the journal, which had outlined Camille’s first meeting with Kadin.
“An overlarge warrior with a black, soaked mane, dark eyes narrowed against the wind, a workmanlike blade gripped in his battle-scarred hand.”
The fascination that had gripped Sarah as she’d read Camille’s account came back full force. A small sign warned against touching the displays, but the powerful compulsion to immerse herself in sensation, to touch the sword, far outweighed the officious red wording.
Breath held, her fingertips brushed the gleaming grip where the chasing etched into the bronze was worn smooth by use. The chill of the metal struck through her skin. A split second later, the bracket holding the sword came loose and the heavy weapon toppled, hitting the carpeted floor with a thud.
Mortified, Sarah reached for the sword, hoping to prop it against the display before anyone noticed. Before she could grab it, a large tanned hand closed around the bronze grip. With fluid grace, a tall, broad-shouldered man straightened, the blade in his hand, and her heart slammed once, hard, as her dream world and the present fused.
The warrior.
That seemed the only adequate description. The man was tall enough that her gaze was firmly centered on his jaw. Heart pounding, she tilted her head and stared directly into the amber gleam of eyes that, for a split second, she fully expected to be as passionately focused on her as those of the warrior who had haunted her dream.
Her breath caught in the back of her throat as she recognized the man she had run into the previous day. The curious tension that had invested the dream drew every muscle taut as she took in black hair cut crisp and short, the blade-straight nose and the intriguing scar on his cheekbone. The planes and angles of his face were mouthwateringly clean-cut, although any sense of perfection was lost in the grim line of his jaw and the lash of the scar.
His brows drew together as if he recognized her and was trying to remember from exactly where. A split second later his gaze shuttered and she had to wonder if she’d imagined that moment of intense interest.
Or, on a more practical note, if he was married. As a single woman with years of dating experience, it would not be the first time she had been checked out by a man who then suddenly recalled that he was committed elsewhere.
His gaze dropped to her hands. “Are you all right? For a moment, I thought you might have cut yourself.”
The low, rough timbre of his voice, the cosmopolitan accent, was definitely European, but with a slow cadence that indicated he had spent time in the States. The accent, along with the short cut of his hair and the suit, added to the impression that had been forming, the only one that made sense—he was either an aide to the sheikh or a bodyguard. Given his muscular build, and the fact that he had arrived within seconds of her touching the sword, she would go with the security option.
She dredged up a smile and displayed her palms to show she wasn’t injured. “I’m fine, just a little startled the sword wasn’t secured. Especially since it belonged to Sheikh Kadin.”
For another heart-pounding moment his gaze seemed riveted on her mouth. “You’re right, the Wolf of Zahir would not have been so careless. I’ll have a word with the staff who set up the display.”
She dragged her gaze from the line of his jaw. “Oh no, really...it was completely my fault. I shouldn’t have touched the sword.” Shouldn’t have allowed herself to be distracted by her ancestor’s passionate love story when she needed to apply herself to establishing her own.
With an easy movement, he propped the weapon against the display board. As he did so an angled spotlight above gleamed over his damaged cheekbone, and cast a shadow over the inky curve of his lashes. Suddenly the dream warrior, as riveting as he had been, seemed too cosmetically perfect and lacking in personality. From memory, he had also been oddly compliant. In the way of dreams, he had done exactly what she had wanted, in contrast to this man who looked as seasoned and uncompromising as the Templar Knight who had originally wielded the sword.
To her surprise, instead of moving on, he held out his hand and introduced himself as Gabriel, Gabe for short.
Surprised at the informality and that he seemed to want to keep the conversation going, Sarah briefly gripped his hand as she supplied her name. Tingling warmth shot through her at the rough heat of his palm. “I’m a history teacher.”
She caught the flash of surprise in his expression and her mood dropped like a stone. He was tall, gorgeous, hot—as different from Graham as a dark lion from a tabby cat. Incredibly, he also seemed to be interested in her, and she had just ruined the outward impression of sexy sophistication she’d spent hours creating. If she’d had her wits about her she would have relegated her teaching occupation
