as the car turned into her street and slowed down.
Somehow she knew things would not be left there.
‘Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?’ Rakhal asked. He did not await a response—after all the answer was inevitable. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve already got plans.’ She flushed a little. She was clearly lying. She had no plans. She was supposed to be jetting off for two weeks and had told him as much. And she was tempted, but they had met in a police station and he was wearing a black eye from an aggrieved husband. It didn’t take much to work out that he would want more than dinner.
And so too would she.
She was stunned at her reaction to him; never had a man affected her so. It was as if a pulse beat in the air between them—a tangible pulse that somehow connected them. There was a raw sexual energy to him, a restless prowess, and she dared not lower her guard for this man was far more of a man than she was used to, more male than she had ever encountered before. She reached for the door.
‘Wait,’ Rakhal said, reaching out his hand and capturing her wrist.
There was a flutter of panic that rose from her stomach to her throat at the thought that he might not let her out—or was that just the effect of contact, for his fingers were warm on her skin?
‘You do not open the door.’
Neither, it would seem, did he, for the robed man who had served them tea was the one who climbed out. Rakhal’s hand was still on her wrist and she waited. For what, she wasn’t quite sure. Another offer of dinner? Or perhaps it was he who was waiting? Maybe he thought she would ask him inside?
She looked at that handsome face, at the mouth that was so sorely tempting, and then at his come-to-bed eyes. She could almost see them reflected there—could envisage them tumbling in her bed. It was a dangerous vision to have, so she pulled her wrist away. ‘Thank you for the lift.’
He watched her almost run to her house, saw her safely inside and then gestured to his driver to move on. They rode in silence.
Abdul knew better than to question why Rakhal had been at a police station, where the bruises were from—it was not an aide’s place to question the Crown Prince. He would bring him a poultice later, and again over the next few days, in the hope that the bruises would be gone by his return to Alzirz.
Right now Rakhal had more than bruises and several hours in a prison cell on his mind. He had never been said no to before; quite simply it had never happened—but he did not grace the markets and had no need to barter. Rakhal knew she was not like the women he usually played with but, oh, the heaven of getting her to unbend. It was a shame he was leaving on Monday. She might be worth pursuing otherwise. Still, maybe the next time he visited London … Except he would be a married man by then, and something told him that Natasha would be even more disapproving.
He wished she had said yes.
Natasha thought the same almost as soon as she stepped inside. Away from him she was far more logical—she had just turned down a dinner invitation from surely the most gorgeous man alive. The loss of her holiday and her car seemed like minor inconveniences compared to what she had just denied herself. She moved to the window and watched his car glide off. Her hand moved to her wrist, where his fingers had been. She replayed their conversations again.
He had been nothing but polite, she told herself. It was her mind that was depraved.
She kicked herself all day as she dealt with the car insurance company, and then tried to sound cheerful when one of her friends rang to tell her they had secured an amazing deal for ten nights in Tenerife. They would be leaving tonight, and was Natasha quite sure that she didn’t want to change her mind and join them?
Natasha almost did, but then she looked down at the figure that had been quoted as the excess on her insurance and regretfully turned down her second amazing offer in one day.
Her brother’s debts were not Natasha’s responsibility, all her friends said, but actually they were. Natasha had not told anyone about the loan she had taken out for him—which was why her friends were unable to understand why she didn’t want to come away on holiday with them, especially after such a hellish year.
To Mark’s credit, since she had taken the loan he had always paid her back on time, and Natasha was starting to feel as if she could breathe, that maybe he was finally working things out. A payment was due tomorrow, and she pulled up her bank account online. Her emerging confidence in her brother vanished as she realised that his payment to her hadn’t gone in, and immediately she rang him.
‘You’ll have it next week.’
Natasha closed her eyes as he reeled off excuses. ‘It’s not good enough, Mark, the payment’s due tomorrow.’ She cursed at the near miss—she might have been en route to Tenerife, not knowing that she had defaulted on a loan payment. ‘I can’t afford to cover it, Mark. I had my car stolen last night.’ She would not cry, she was tougher than that, but for so many reasons today was especially hard. ‘When I agreed to get this loan you promised you would never miss a payment.’
‘I said you’ll have it next week. There’s nothing else I can do. Look,’ he said, ‘how soon till you get the car insurance payout?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said your car had been stolen,’ Mark said. ‘You’ll get that payment soon. That will cover it.’
‘It might be found,’ Natasha said. ‘And if it isn’t the payout will buy me another car.’ But, even though there was so much to be addressed, she was tired of talking about cars and money on today of all days. ‘Are you going to the cemetery?’
‘Cemetery?’
She heard the bemusement in her brother’s voice and anger burnt inside her as she responded. ‘It’s their one-year anniversary, Mark.’
‘I know.’
Natasha was quite sure he’d forgotten. ‘Well?’ she pushed. ‘Are you going?’
As he reeled off yet more excuses Natasha simply hung up the phone and headed to her bedroom. But instead of getting on with tidying up, for a moment or two she sat on her bed, wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. This time last year her life had been pretty close to perfect—she’d just qualified as a teacher and had been doing a job she loved; she had been dating a guy she was starting to if not love then really care for; she’d been saving towards moving out of her parents’ house. She had also been looking forward to being a bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding.
Now, in the space of a year, all she had known, all she had loved, had been taken. Even her job. As an infant school teacher she had been on a temporary placement and about to be offered a permanent position when the car crash had happened. Knowing she simply couldn’t be the teacher she wanted to be while deeply grieving, she had declined the job offer, and the last year had been filled with temporary placements as she waded through her parents’ estate.
Their will had been very specific—the family home was to be sold and the profits divided equally between their two children.
How she had hated that—how much harder it had made things having to deal with estate agents and home inspections. And going through all the
