In The Arms Of The Sheikh. Sophie Weston
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here.’
‘Ah, here it is.’ He came back into the bathroom with her little first aid pouch.
She could still feel the remnants of that blush. It was all her own fault too! What sort of professional woman thought slippers with whiskers were absolutely indispensable gear for an international business trip?
What would he think of her? What did it matter what he thought?
But she hadn’t admitted she owned a pair to anyone, not her mother, not even Izzy. Much less that she took them with her whenever she travelled. And now this mocking, unpredictable, sexy man was the only person in the world who knew her shameful secret. Well, that particular shameful secret. She winced.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered.
He looked at the wall frieze with appreciation. ‘My—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Er—the original owner was a reprobate, but he wasn’t into grave-robbing.’
Natasha followed his gaze. The houris were slim as reeds and twisting themselves into graceful, muscle-killing knots. She eyed them sourly.
‘Just young women wearing lots of eye make-up and not much else,’ she supplied.
But they were beautiful, utterly confident in their languid hedonism. They were definitely not the sort of women to sit pounding at a computer at five o’clock in the morning in order to impress a client.
Natasha stroked a gentle finger down one lithe shape. She was suddenly rueful. ‘Ever feel outclassed?’
Kazim’s tone became positively comforting. ‘They are not supposed to represent real women, you know.’
She jumped and came back to the moment.
‘Thanks for the reassurance,’ she said dryly.
‘Unnecessary, I’m sure.’
God, you’re smooth.
She didn’t say it aloud. A polite visitor didn’t make personal remarks to a butler—even a borrowed butler with a dodgy attitude and an expensive taste in toiletries.
She almost snatched the first aid pouch from him and quickly found a plaster. She ripped off the protective packaging and briskly inspected her heel.
Kazim watched in evident disapproval. ‘Surely you’re going to disinfect the wound before you put a plaster on?’
Natasha breathed hard. ‘Look, it was a rose thorn, right? Not a poison dart.’
‘Even so, it would be wise to wash it, at least. Your feet are very dirty.’
Once, when she was about eight, her mother had come to pick her up from school. It had been summer and her mother had been wearing a pretty voile dress smelling of apple blossom. Feverish with delight at the unexpected treat, Natasha had rushed off the athletics field and flung herself into her arms. Of course, she’d been sweaty and covered with sand from the long-jump pit. It hadn’t been surprising that her mother had recoiled.
But it stayed, that tiny, involuntary, uncontrollable moment of revulsion. It stayed—and burned.
Natasha often wondered what would her mother have said if she had seen her only daughter in tee shirt and trousers that were no more than rags, unwashed for days, plodding through the jungle at the behest of an arrogant bullyboy. Because her life had depended on it. Recoil wouldn’t have covered it. Oh, yes, slippers with whiskers on were only part of the things Natasha didn’t tell her nearest and dearest.
And now here was Kazim, who had seen those furry feet, and wore the most expensive cologne in the world. Okay, his reaction was not quite full-blown recoil. But he did not like her dirty feet, that much was obvious. He was not trying too hard to hide his distaste.
‘Thank you for pointing that out,’ said Natasha wryly.
‘I’ll ring for someone—’ He did another of those abrupt skids into silence.
But Natasha barely noticed. ‘No need, thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘There are antiseptic wipes in the first aid kit. I can take it from here.’
He looked down at her foot. ‘The wound is very awkwardly placed.’
Temper, uncontrollably sudden, bubbled up, startling her. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need anyone. I’ve put on my own sticking plasters all my life.’
‘But—’
‘And I’ll shower. I’ll scrub myself from head to toe, I promise. If you will just—go—away.’ Her voice rose to a small scream.
Their eyes met like swords.
He did not go away. He did not move.
And then he astounded her. Utterly.
‘When I first saw you,’ he was reflective, ‘I thought you looked like a robot.’
And in that gleaming, sparkling, voluptuous room, he touched one finger to the pulse that jumped at the base of her throat.
‘You don’t look like a robot now.’
Natasha heard herself give a gasp like a bursting balloon.
Kazim smiled and bent towards her. Slowly. Slowly. His eyes were guarded, but she sensed smouldering heat there. And there was a question in their depths, a question he demanded she answer…
Natasha leaned back and back until she thought her spine would snap. But she did not push him away. And she did not utter a word of protest.
For a moment they were utterly still; staring at each other; not speaking.
Kazim seemed to search her face. He looked serious; no longer teasing, questioning even. No hint now of the man whose lip had curled at her dirty feet. None of that spine-chilling arrogance. He looked as if he were setting out with her on an unknown path and wanted to know he could trust her…
Natasha caught her breath, shocked. She was moved by his expression, and that shocked her too.
Then, even as she watched his eyes flickered and he straightened. He was smiling again, but his eyes were masked. The smouldering fire was doused as if it had never been. The question, it seemed, had got its answer.
He gave her a pleasant smile. ‘Surprising.’
He waited. But Natasha was all out of smart remarks. All out of anything except a vast astonishment.
‘Don’t you agree?’ he prompted gently.
But all she could do was shake her head dumbly.
He looked oddly satisfied. And, before she could find her voice or think of a sensible thing to say, he had bowed his head and left.
Natasha found she had been holding her breath. She dragged in a long, grateful gust of air and bent over the marble unit, swallowing again and again.
Eventually her breathing came back under her control. What the hell happened? she thought, bewildered.
She took a long look at herself in the glimmering Venetian mirror. Her stylish hair was wind blown and had collected more than a few twigs. But they would brush out. Then the natural wheat-blonde hair would fall back into its usual elegant cap. That was why she paid a fortune to her hairstylist. It framed her face, emphasising the quirky cheekbones and diminishing the too-wide mouth, the too-decided nose, the lopsided, world-weary grey eyes.
‘You have an interesting face, dear,’ her mother used to say to her. ‘Full of character.’ And ‘Prettiness is overrated,’ said her pretty mother complacently.
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