her passions; it was pinking now around her ears. He wanted her to turn again and face him—Rakhal wanted another glimpse of her green eyes.
‘I did not know.’ He watched her ears redden as he carried on the conversation. ‘Of course that is no excuse.’
It was the reason he had assured the policemen he would not be taking things any further—because she was right: technically he had been stealing, and that did not sit well with Rakhal. He could surely live and die a hundred times trying to work out the rules of this land—there were wedding rings, but some chose not to wear them; there were titles, but some chose not to use them; there were, of course, women who chose to lie. And, in fairness to him, it was particularly confusing for Rakhal—for his heartbreaking looks assured that many a ring or a diamond were slipped into a purse when he entered a room. But instead of working out the rules, this morning he chose to work out this woman.
Direct was his approach.
‘What were you at the police station for?’
She was tempted just to ignore him, but that would only serve to show him the impact he’d had on her, so she attempted to answer as if he were just another person at a bus stop, making idle conversation. ‘My car was stolen.’
‘That must be inconvenient,’ Rakhal responded, watching her shoulders stiffen.
‘Just a bit.’ Natasha bristled, because it was far more than inconvenient, but then if he was royal, if he was as well-off as his appearance indicated, perhaps having his car stolen would be a mere inconvenience. But maybe she was being a bit rude. He had done nothing wrong, after all. It was her private response to him that was inappropriate. ‘I was supposed to be going on holiday …’
‘A driving holiday?’
She laughed. Perish the thought! ‘No.’ She turned just a little towards him. It seemed rude to keep talking over her shoulder. ‘Overseas.’
Those gorgeous eyes narrowed into a frown as he attempted to perceive the problem. ‘Did you need your car to get you to the airport?’
It was easier just to nod and say yes, to turn away from him again and will the bus to hurry up.
They stood in silence as grumpy morning commuters forced him a little closer to her. She caught the scent of him again, and then, after a stretch of interminable silence, when it felt as if he were counting every hair on the back of her head, he resumed their conversation and very unexpectedly made her laugh.
‘Couldn’t you get a taxi?’
Now she turned and fully faced him. Now she accepted the conversation. Rakhal enjoyed the victory as much as he had enjoyed the small battle, for rarely was a woman unwilling, and never was there one he could not get to unbend.
‘It’s a little bit more complicated than that.’
It was so much more complicated than simply getting a taxi to the airport. Truth be told, she couldn’t really afford a holiday anyway; she had lent her brother Mark so much money to help with his gambling debts. She had been hoping to take a break for her sanity more than anything else, because her brother’s problems weren’t going away any time soon. Still, this dashing stranger didn’t need to know all about that—except he did not allow her to leave it there.
‘In what way?’
He dragged out a conversation, Natasha recognised. He persisted when others would not. ‘It just is.’ Still he frowned.
Still he clearly expected her to tell.
Tell a man she had never met? Tell a man she knew nothing about other than that he ignored social norms?
And he was ignoring them again now—as the lengthening bus queue jostled to fit beneath the shelter he placed a hand on her elbow, instead of keeping a respectable shred of distance as the crowd surged behind him, forming a shield around her. And if it appeared manly, it felt impolite.
As impolite as her own thoughts as his fingers wrapped around the sleeve of her coat. For there was a fleeting thought that if the queue were to surge again he might kiss her—a thought too dangerous to follow as her body pressed into him. She moved her arm, turned away from him, and was it regret or relief when she saw her bus?
Natasha put her arm out to hail it and so too did he. Except she quickly realised it wasn’t the bus he was summoning—it was a black limousine, with all its windows darkened. The car indicated and started to slow down.
‘Can I offer you a lift home?’
‘No!’ Her voice was panicked, though not from his offer. If the car stopped now then the bus wouldn’t. ‘It can’t park there …’
He didn’t understand her urgency, or was incapable of opening a car door himself, because he stood waiting till a man in robes climbed out and opened it for him. ‘I insist,’ he said.
‘Just go,’ Natasha begged, but it was already too late. The bus sailed happily past the stop blocked by his vehicle and Natasha heard the moans and protests from the angry queue behind her—not that it perturbed him in the least. ‘You made me miss my bus!’
‘Then I must give you a lift.’
And, yes, she knew she should not accept lifts from strangers—knew that this man had the strangest effect on her. She knew of many things in that instant—like the angry commuters she’d be left with, and the cold and the wet. Yes, there were reasons both to accept and to decline, and Natasha could justify either one.
She could never justify the real reason she stepped into the car, though—a need to prolong this chance meeting, a desire for her time with this exotic stranger not to end.
It was terribly warm inside, and there was Arabic music playing. The seat was sumptuous as she sank into it, and she felt as if she had entered another world—especially when a robed man handed her a small cup that had no handle. She could almost hear her mother warning her that she would be a fool to accept.
‘It is tea,’ she was informed by His Highness.
Yes, her mother might once have warned her, but she was twenty-four now, and after a slight hesitation she accepted the drink. It was sweet and fragrant, and it was much nicer to sit in luxurious comfort than to shiver at the bus stop. She certainly didn’t relax, though—how could she with him sitting opposite her? With those black eyes waiting for her to look at him?
‘Where do you live?’
She gave him her address—she had no choice but to do so; she had accepted a ride home after all.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘A few hours in a cell and I forget my manners.’ His English, though good, was the only part of him that was less than perfect, and yet it made him more so somehow. ‘I have not properly introduced myself. I am Sheikh Rakhal, Crown Prince of Alzirz.’
‘Natasha Winters.’ There was not much she could add to that, but his haughty, beautiful face did yield a small smile when she said, ‘Of London.’
Their conversation was somewhat awkward. He asked her where she had been intending to go on holiday, and seemed somewhat bemused by the concept of a travel agent or booking a holiday online. In turn he told her that he was in London for business,
