Banished to the Harem. Carol Marinelli
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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, and that though he came here often soon he would be returning to his home.
‘And now I return you to yours,’ he said, 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