The Forced Bride Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит
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felt tired and near tears, trapped and humiliated, as if she were a naughty child being marched to the corner.
‘Even I did not think you would be so stupid and selfish as to run away,’ Azim said. Anger thrummed through his voice. ‘Even though you had made it clear what you thought of our forthcoming marriage.’
‘As did you,’ Johara returned, half amazed by her own audacity. She never spoke to her father, or anyone, like this. It felt good to speak her mind to someone, even if she’d regret it later.
‘So I did.’ Azim was silent for a moment and Johara found herself suddenly conscious of his nearness, the powerful length of his thigh brushing hers on the seat. She could smell his aftershave, the mingled aromas of sandalwood and cedar. Her senses stirred in a way that felt unfamiliar and intriguing. She had a bizarre desire to shift closer, to feel the length of his leg against her own, a prospect that horrified her. This man was her enemy. He was also, unless she managed a miracle, going to be her husband.
Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’
‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?
‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’
‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.
‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.
‘Is there where you live?’
‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.
The slide of his strong hand against hers was an unexpected jolt, as if she’d touched a live wire. Shocked by the sensation, she let out a gasp, and then registered Azim’s cool smile of satisfaction with wary confusion.
The smile disappeared as soon as she’d noted it, their gazes locking in a taut battle of wills before Azim dropped her hand and turned towards the building. On legs as shaky as the rest of her, Johara followed.
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