The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride. Sabrina Philips
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she recognised the words she had once spoken, even as a small, foolish part of her leaped that he remembered. Until she realised that in ignoring the sign he’d just proved that he still didn’t give a damn about anyone’s wishes but his own.
She stiffened. ‘And yet you were always so strict on matters of propriety, I seem to recall.’
‘Just as I recall you saying that you could never bear a life in the public eye. And yet now you are recognised the world over. It is funny, is it not, how things change?’ Kaliq feigned a puzzled look. ‘Or perhaps I was mistaken?’
He was never mistaken, and she knew it. He leaned back with amusement and awaited her response. Much as sitting here, hearing her try to defend herself made him want to crush the arms of the chair beneath his hands, he was enjoying himself.
He still got to her. He could see it in the flush of colour that had begun somewhere above the rounds of her breasts. It had risen between the ‘V’ created by her hastily slung on jacket and up that long, slender neck of hers, which reminded him of a bird at an oasis. And it had stained her cheeks almost from the moment she had walked in and found him here. When she had been trying to escape.
She would not escape. That much was certain. No matter how much she protested her innocence or faked a blush. He would show no restraint. For the boundary he had once forbidden himself to cross had now undoubtedly been torn. Yet, though he knew her virtue was lost, just looking at her sent flames of desire licking through his body. Even more surprisingly, he was overpowered by a greater need. To do this slowly. It was understandable, he supposed. He should have had her then. Though he had waited long enough, where would be the sense in not savouring the moment? Like an eagle who had spent a long night parched in the desert, why swoop in on the first sight of the perfect kill without care and precision? Better to hold back and wait for the slow, defined culmination of all that had gone before.
‘Just tell me why you’re here, Kaliq.’ Tamara hugged her soft brown jacket around her and buttoned it up to the neck as if the gesture might encourage him to leave. If he registered the less than subtle hint, the unwavering set of his jaw told her its impact had been about as effective as a pellet gun shot into bullet-proof glass.
Surely he hadn’t come all this way to simply throw her words back at her? Yes, she had told him she could never have dealt with the fame his royal status attracted, but she would have said anything that held an element of truth rather than let him know just how deeply he had hurt her. As she recalled it, he had barely listened anyway. She knew that whatever reason she had given didn’t matter, only that his expression had turned to pure hatred the minute she had shaken her head. So why would it matter now?
‘Patience is a virtue, Tamara. Surely even you are still capable of that one?’
Tamara felt her blood boil in anger. ‘Better to lose virtues than to gain defects, Your Highness.’ She dropped into a mocking bow. ‘You used to at least pretend to respect all people in equal measure. Now I see that only goes for people who obey your every whim.’
Kaliq’s eyes glittered up at her. ‘Then it is lucky you have a chance to make good on your transgression.’
Tamara felt every muscle in her body tense. Surely he hadn’t come to ask her…surely he didn’t think—did he?
He paused with all the superiority of a man who was used to people hanging on his every word. ‘I have come to hire you.’
‘Hire me?’ He made her sound like a power tool he needed for some tricky palace DIY.
‘Do not sound so surprised, Tamara. This is what you do, is it not? Appear however and wherever you are paid to do so.’
His words made her ashamed of the first thing she had felt proud of in years.
He continued, oblivious. ‘Which answers your question as to why I am here.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I want you to model for me.’
‘Model what?’
‘The A’zam Sapphires.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE A’zam Sapphires?
Tamara stared in disbelief at his inscrutable expression, telling herself to keep breathing in and out.
To anyone else it might sound as if she had just been offered the biggest scoop of her whirlwind career—the honour of being asked to model the royal jewels of Qwasir, the most ancient and precious sapphires on earth—but Tamara knew that honour had nothing to do with it. This was about revenge. Because they weren’t just valuable heirlooms, or stones so remarkably blue they had their own shade of Dulux paint named after them— they were the gems traditionally worn when the crown prince took a bride. The jewels she might have worn. For real.
Yes, he knew all about offering what looked like perfection on a plate, but there was no way she was going to agree to play his glorified mannequin. Tamara opened her mouth to tell him as much, but the instant she did the door burst open behind her.
‘Your Highness, Prince A’zam, my sincere apologies—I had no idea you had arrived!’ Henry entered in a whirlwind of half-bowed haste. ‘My assistant has only just informed me—oh, you simply can’t get the staff—I would have sent a car immediately if I had known, forgive me. Please, allow me to get you a drink—’
Tamara shut her mouth again, disquiet rippling through her. Henry had been expecting him? Was he somehow in on this whole preposterous scheme?
Kaliq raised his hand and motioned for Henry to stand up straight. Tamara wished he hadn’t bothered. If he had gone much longer without taking a breath he might have exploded in a frenzy of over-exaggerated gesticulation, and so much the better if he had taken Kaliq with him.
‘No matter,’ Kaliq ground out, his eyes blazing as they trailed Henry’s unannounced path through the door and into her dressing room. ‘As you can see, Miss Weston afforded me the same pleasurable intimacy it seems she grants everyone.’
He turned to her, a damning expression playing across his outrageously sensual mouth. ‘You really must take down that “private” sign and replace it with something more appropriate. Unrestricted access, perhaps?’
Henry grinned, showing two rows of yellowing teeth. ‘Oh, yes, Tamara’s a blessing to work with, not another ice-queen like most models these days, if you know what I mean.’ Henry winked at Kaliq as if they were in some sort of private men’s club and nodded to Tamara as if he had paid her a priceless compliment.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Kaliq replied, his words deliberate, sending an ominous chill from the nape of Tamara’s neck down to her tailbone. ‘In fact, I believe Tamara was just about to express her enthusiasm for the news that her next assignment will be working for me.’ He looked at her expectantly, but Henry cut in.
‘And who can blame her? The Jezebel girl modelling royal jewels—how’s that for publicity?’ He grinned smarmily all over his face and for the second time that day, and more vehemently than before, Tamara was overcome with the urge to slap him. So Kaliq had gone through Henry to get to her. This wasn’t—oh, God, this was the shoot in the Middle East that Emma had mentioned in passing and that she had been looking forward to?
‘Actually—’ her voice came out louder than she intended and suddenly both men’s eyes were upon her, one greedily, the other indifferently, as if this was a done deal ‘—what I was about to say is that—honoured though I am that you thought of me, Your Highness, I have no wish to accept your offer.’
If the scene had been drawn in a comic book, by the time Tamara’s sarcastic words had hit the air, steam would have been billowing from Henry’s ever-reddening ears. Oblivious to the atmosphere in the room that spoke of a past of which he knew nothing, he turned on Tamara as if she were a petulant child throwing a tantrum for no reason other than to irritate him.
‘You