The Forced Bride Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит
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in guilty remorse, and accept a cold, loveless marriage with a man she didn’t like or even know?
No. She would rather pound every street in Paris looking for work than submit to a man as cold and cruel as Azim al Bahjat.
‘Salut, chérie,’ a man’s low, purring voice carried over the sounds of the crowd, and Johara turned, startled to realise he was talking to her.
‘Salut,’ she said cautiously. The man’s smile was wide as he lounged in the doorway of the shabbiest café Johara had ever seen, just a few tiny, dirty tables on a floor of cracked tiles.
‘Are you looking for work?’ He made a moue of sympathy. ‘Finding it difficult?’
‘A bit,’ Johara admitted. ‘Why?’ She nodded to the café. ‘Are you hiring?’
The man’s smile widened. ‘As it happens, yes. Do you know how to be nice to customers?’
It seemed a strange question, and Johara shrugged. ‘I think so.’
The man eyed her up and down in a way that made her blush and shift uncomfortably, her bag clutched to her chest. ‘Then you can start tonight. Can you be back here at nine?’
Johara swallowed, hardly daring to believe that she’d actually found a job. She didn’t particularly like the look of the greasy man or the shabby café, but she was hardly in a position to choose. ‘Yes, of course.’
Back at the hotel she ate, showered and changed, trying to ignore the sense of unease she felt about the man and his offer of work. As she headed out into the sultry summer evening butterflies flitted in her stomach and she tried to walk as she saw other women walking, with their heads tilted at a proud angle, their hips swaying, as if they knew who they were and where they were going. Johara felt as if she knew neither and had no idea how to find out.
The café was full of noisy customers when she approached, relieved that she’d managed to get herself to the right place. So many of the narrow, cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter looked the same. The same beady-eyed man who had hired her met her at the doorway.
‘Ah, chérie. I’m so glad you came.’ He drew her by the hand into the hot press of people, one arm snaking around her waist. Alarm bells started clanging in Johara’s head as she tensed, her body arching instinctively away from him. No man had ever touched her so intimately, their hips bumping, her breasts brushing his shoulder.
‘Don’t be shy,’ he said with a laugh, pulling her closer, one hand brushing her breast. ‘Remember I said you had to be nice.’
Johara glanced around at the crowded café, and all the faces looked sweaty and leering. The man’s hand was still on her waist, the side of her body pressed tightly to his. The acrid smell of alcohol and sweat stung her nostrils and made her head swim.
She opened her mouth to say something, to explain this wasn’t quite what she’d thought it would be, but no words came out. And then someone else was speaking.
‘Get your hands off her right now.’ The words were clipped, the tone utterly lethal. The sneering smile on the man’s face slid right off when he caught sight of whoever was standing behind Johara. He held up his hands as he backed away.
‘Pardon, monsieur, I didn’t know she was taken.’
‘Now you know.’
Slowly Johara turned, her heart beating so hard she could feel the blood roaring in her ears. It couldn’t be...but of course it was. Azim stood in the doorway of the café, his eyes blazing black fire, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. With his powerful frame, the scar snaking down his cheek and his air of barely leashed fury, he was utterly terrifying. No wonder the man backed away. She wanted to run.
‘Don’t think of trying it,’ Azim said in a low, dangerous voice, and Johara knew he’d read her thoughts.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked in a shaky whisper.
‘Easily. Come with me. Now.’ As his strong, lean fingers circled her wrist and pulled her towards him Johara had no choice but to comply. She stumbled as he drew her from the café, throwing one hand out to the doorframe to keep from falling.
‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’
Azim slowed, his fingers loosening around her wrist, even as his expression remained icily furious.
‘My car is waiting.’
‘I’m not going with you.’ Johara wished she’d sounded more firm.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Azim snapped. ‘You can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he gritted between clenched teeth, stepping closer to her, ‘I just took you out of a whorehouse.’
‘A...’ Her jaw dropped.
‘You do know what that is?’ Azim inquired. ‘I presume you’re not that innocent?’
A fiery blush rose from her throat to the crown of her head. ‘Yes, I know what that is,’ Johara muttered. ‘I’ve read books.’
‘Oh, well, then. You’re the voice of experience, I suppose.’ He shook his head, clearly disgusted, and pulled her, gently at least, towards the waiting limousine. This time Johara went without a murmur.
She clambered into the luxurious interior, the leather sumptuous and soft against her bare legs. Azim climbed in next to her and barked out an address to the driver before slamming the door and leaning back against the seat.
Realisations were firing through Johara, short-circuiting her synapses. ‘Was it really...?’ she began through trembling lips.
‘Yes,’ Azim stated flatly. ‘It was.’
Her teeth started to chatter as she realised how close she’d come to utter disaster. She could have been raped. She could have been sold into sexual slavery. She could have been... She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. She could hardly bear to think of it.
‘Are you cold?’ Azim demanded, and Johara shook her head. She wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
He eyed her for a moment, his expression utterly fierce, before he reached forward to the limo’s minibar and poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. ‘Here. Drink this. It will help.’
Her numb fingers curled around the glass. ‘Help...?’
‘You’re in shock.’
She glanced down at the amber liquid, its pungent smell making her grimace. ‘I’ve never drunk hard alcohol before.’
‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Azim watched her, his very gaze commanding her to drink, and Johara raised the glass to her lips.
The whisky burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. Somehow she managed not to sputter, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, thrusting the glass back at Azim.
‘No more.’
A tiny smile curved his mouth, making his scar pucker. ‘Not bad for the first time. You didn’t cough.’
‘I wanted to.’
‘You have strength of spirit.’ From his tone she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.
She turned to look out of the window, unsettled by the sudden and overwhelming turn of events. Outside the limo the streets of Paris streamed by in an electric blur.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few tense, silent minutes had ticked by.
‘To my flat.’
‘How did you find me? Easily, I know, but...’
‘Your driver alerted your father, who told me.’
So her father had betrayed her yet again. She wasn’t surprised, but