Royals: Claimed By The Prince. Penny Jordan
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at the blue fabric and the hand that held it as if it were a striking snake, she surged to her feet—too fast. The room began to swirl as she struggled to focus on the silk square, bright against the clinical white of the walls and tiled floor...blue, white, blue, white...
‘Breathe.’ Her legs folded as he pressed her down onto the bed and pushed her head towards her knees.
The habit of a lifetime kicked in and she took refuge behind an air of cool disdain.
‘I don’t need a change of clothing. I’m fine with this.’ She clutched the fabric of the baggy shift that reached mid-calf with both hands and aimed her gaze at the middle of his chest.
Two large hands came to rest on her shoulders, stopping the rhythmic swaying motion she had been unaware of, but not the spasms of fear that were rippling through her body.
Kamel was controlling his anger and resentment: he didn’t want to be here; he didn’t want to be doing this, and he didn’t want to feel any empathy for the person who was totally responsible for the situation, a spoilt English brat who had a well-documented history of bolting at the final hurdle.
Had she felt any sort of remorse for the wave of emotional destruction she’d left in her wake? Had her own emotions ever been involved? he wondered.
Still, she hadn’t got off scot-free. Some enterprising journalist had linked the car smash of her first victim with the aborted wedding.
Driven over the Edge, the headline had screamed, and the media had crucified Heartless Hannah. Perhaps if she had shown even a scrap of emotion they might have softened when it turned out that the guy had been over the drink-drive limit when he drove his car off a bridge, but she had looked down her aristocratic little nose and ignored the flashing cameras.
In London at the time, he had followed the story partly because he knew her father and partly because, like the man who had written off his car, Kamel knew what it felt like to lose the love you planned to spend your life with. Not that Amira had dumped him—if he hadn’t released her she would have married him rather than cause him pain. She had been everything this woman was not.
And yet it was hard not to look into that grubby flower-like face, perfect in every detail, and feel a flicker of something that came perilously close to pity. He sternly squashed it.
She deserved everything that was going to happen to her. If there was any victim in this it was him. Luckily he had no romantic illusions about marriage, or at least his. It was never going to be a love match—he’d loved and lost and disbelieved the popular idea that this was better than not to have loved at all. Still, it was a mistake he would not make in the future. Only an imbecile would want to lay himself open to that sort of pain again. A marriage of practicality suited him.
Though Kamel had imagined his bride would be someone whom he could respect.
Why couldn’t the brainless little bimbo have found meaning in her life by buying some shoes? Even facing financial collapse, Kamel was sure Daddy dear would have bought her the whole shop. Instead she decided to become an angel of mercy. While he could see the selfish delusion that had led her to do this, he couldn’t understand why any legitimate medical charity would have taken her on, even on a voluntary basis.
‘I asked you to put this on, not take anything off.’ Kamel let out a hissing sound of irritation as she sat there looking up at him like some sort of sacrificial virgin...though there was nothing even vaguely virginal about Miss Hannah Latimer, and that quality was about the only one he didn’t have a problem with in his future bride!
Digging deep into reserves she didn’t know she had, Hannah got to her feet.
‘If you touch me I will report you and when I get out of here—’ Don’t you mean if, Hannah? ‘—I’m going to be sick.’
‘No, you are not,’ Kamel said. ‘If you want to get out of here do as I say so put the damned thing on.’
Breathing hard, staring at him with wide eyes, she backed away, holding her hands out in a warning gesture. ‘If you touch me in an inappropriate way...’ You’ll what, Hannah? Scream? And then who will come running?
‘I promise you, angel, that sex is the last thing on my mind and if it was...’ His heavy-lidded eyes moved in a contemptuous sweep from her feet to her face before he added, ‘I’m not asking you to strip.’ He enunciated each scathing word slowly, the words very clear despite the fact he had not raised his voice above a low menacing purr since he’d come in. ‘I’m asking you to cover up.’
Hannah barely heard him. The nightmare images she had so far kept at bay were crowding in.
Kamel had had a varied life, but having a woman look at him as though he were all her nightmares come true was a first. Conquering a natural impulse to shake her rather than comfort her, he struggled to inject some soothing quality into his voice as he leaned in closer. ‘Your father says to tell you that...’ He stopped and closed his eyes. What was the name of the damned dog? His eyes opened again as it came to him. ‘Olive had five puppies.’
It had been a last thought: I need a detail, something that a stranger wouldn’t know. Something that will tell her I’m one of the good guys.
Hannah froze, her wild eyes returning to his face at the specific reference to the rescue dog she had adopted.
‘Yes, I’m the cavalry—’ he watched as she took a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes ‘—so just do as you’re told and cover up.’ His glance moved to the honey-blonde tresses that were tangled and limp. ‘And be grateful you’re having a bad-hair day.’
Hannah didn’t register his words past cavalry; her thoughts were whirling. ‘My father sent you?’
She gave a watery smile. Her father had come through! She exhaled and sent up a silent thank you to her absent parent.
She took the fabric and looked at it. What did he expect her to do with it? ‘Who are you?’
Possibilities buzzed like a restless bee through her head. An actor? Some sort of mercenary ? A corrupt official? Someone willing to do anything for money or the adrenalin buzz?
‘Your ticket out of here.’
Hannah tilted her head in acknowledgement. The important thing was he had successfully blagged or bribed his way in here and represented a shot at freedom.
Her jaw firmed. Suddenly she felt the optimism she had not allowed herself to feel during her incarceration. It had been an hour to hour—hard to believe there had only been forty-eight, but then, in a room illuminated twenty-four-seven by the harsh fluorescent light, it was hard to judge time.
‘Is Dad...?’
He responded to the quiver of hope in her voice with a stern, ‘Forget your father and focus. Do not allow yourself to become distracted.’
The tone enabled her to retain her grip on her unravelling control. He had the shoulders but he clearly had no intention of offering them up for tears, which was fine by her. If a girl didn’t learn after two failed engagements that the only person she could rely on was herself, she deserved everything she got!
‘Yes...of course.’
Her fingers shook as she took the shimmering blue fabric. It fell in a tangled skein on the floor, the fabric unravelling... Just like me, she thought.
She took a deep breath and released it, slowly able to lift her chin and meet his gaze with something approaching composure as she asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’
Kamel felt an unwilling stab of admiration.
‘I want you to keep your mouth closed, your head covered, and follow my lead.’
He bent forward and took the fold of fabric from her fingers. The fabric billowed out of his hands and she was suddenly swathed in the stuff, covering her head and most of the ugly shift.
He stood back to see the effect, then nodded and threw the remaining fabric over her