The Desert King's Secret Heir. Annie West
Читать онлайн книгу.
in her life. ‘I’m very sorry but I think it best if I leave. No, really, Hamid, I’m okay by myself.’
But Hamid would have none of that. Nothing would satisfy him but to see her home.
‘Idris doesn’t mind, do you, Cousin?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but went on. ‘I’ll at least see you back to the house then return.’
From the corner of her vision Arden registered the sharp lift of the Sheikh’s eyebrows, but she had more to worry about than whether she offended by leaving his party early.
Like how she could kindly but effectively stave off Hamid’s sudden romantic interest without straining their friendship.
Like how Sheikh Idris could be so uncannily like the man who’d torn her world apart.
And, most important of all, why it was that even after four years she felt sick with longing for the man who’d all but destroyed her.
* * *
A night without sleep did nothing for Arden’s equilibrium. The fact it was Sunday, the one day of the week she could sleep in instead of heading in to work at the florist’s shop, should have been a welcome pleasure. Instead she longed for the organised chaos of her workday race to get out the door.
Anything to distract from the worries that had descended last night. And worse, the memories, the longings that had haunted each sleepless hour.
Life had taught her the dangers of sexual desire, and worse, of falling in love. Of believing she was special to someone.
For four years she’d known she’d been a naïve fool. Brutal reality had proven it. Yet that hadn’t stopped the restlessness, the yearning that slammed into her like a runaway truck the moment she’d looked up into the eyes of Sheikh Idris of Zahrat.
Even now, in the thin light of morning, part of her was convinced he was Shakil. A Shakil who’d perhaps suffered a head injury and forgotten her, like a hero in an old movie with convenient amnesia. A Shakil who’d spent years searching desperately for her, ignoring all other women in his quest to find her.
Sure. And her fairy godmother was due any minute, complete with magic wand and a pumpkin carriage.
Shakil could have found her if he’d wanted. She hadn’t lied about her identity.
He’d taken pleasure in seducing a gullible young Englishwoman, starry-eyed and innocent, on her first overseas vacation.
Arden shivered and hunched her shoulders, rubbing her hands up her arms.
She was not giving in to fantasy. She’d done with that years ago. As for the Sheikh looking like Shakil—it was wishful thinking. Wasn’t it Hamid’s almost familiar looks that had drawn her to him that day at the British Museum? That and his kind smile and the earnest, self-effacing way he spoke to her about the elaborately beautiful perfume bottles and jewellery at the special exhibition of Zahrati antiquities.
He’d reminded her of Shakil. A quieter, more reserved Shakil. So was it any wonder his cousin the Sheikh had a similar effect? Maybe crisp dark hair, chiselled features and broad shoulders were common traits among the men of their country.
Right now she’d had enough of Zahrati men to last a lifetime. Even Hamid, who’d suddenly turned from friend and landlord to would-be boyfriend. When had that happened? How had she not seen it coming?
Setting her jaw, Arden grabbed an old pullover and shrugged it on, then cautiously opened the cleaning cupboard, careful not to make too much noise. At least, as the only one awake, she had time to ponder what to do about Hamid and his sudden possessiveness.
Grabbing a cloth and the brass polish, she unlatched the front door and stepped outside, pulling it to behind her. She always thought better when she worked. Rubbing the brass door knocker and letter box would be a start.
But she hadn’t begun when she heard footsteps descend to the pavement from the main house door above her basement flat. A man’s steps. Arden took the lid off the polish and concentrated on swiping some across the door knocker. She should have waited till she was sure Hamid had left. But she’d felt claustrophobic, cooped up inside with her whirling thoughts.
‘Arden.’ The voice, low and soft as smoke, wafted around her, encircling like an embrace.
She blinked and stared at the glossy black paint on the door a few inches from her nose. She was imagining it. She’d been thinking of Shakil all night and—
Footsteps sounded on the steps leading down to the tiny courtyard in front of her basement home.
She stiffened, her shoulders inching high. This wasn’t imagination. This was real.
Arden swung around and the tin of polish clattered to the flagstones.
HUGE EYES FIXED on him. Eyes as bright as the precious aquamarines in his royal treasury. Eyes the clear green-blue of the sea off the coast of Zahrat.
How often through the years had he dreamed of those remarkable eyes? Of hair like spun rose gold, falling in silken waves across creamy shoulders.
For a second Idris could only stare. He’d been prepared for this meeting. He’d cancelled breakfast with Ghizlan and their respective ambassadors to come here. Yet the abrupt surge of hunger as he watched Arden Wills mocked the belief he was in command of this situation.
Where was his self-control? How could he lust after a woman who belonged to someone else?
To his own cousin?
Where was his sense, coming here when he should be with the woman to whom he was about to pledge his life?
Idris didn’t do impulsive any more. Or self-centred. Not for years. Yet he’d been both, seeking out this woman to confirm for himself what Hamid had implied last night—that they lived together.
A ripple of anger snaked through him, growing to gut-wrenching revulsion at the idea of her with his cousin.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was husky, evoking long ago memories of her crying out his name in ecstasy. Of her beguiling, artless passion. Of how she’d made him feel for a short time, like someone other than the carefree, self-absorbed youth he’d been.
How could such ancient memories feel so fresh? So appallingly seductive?
It had only been a holiday romance, short-term fun such as he’d had numerous times. Why did it feel different?
Because it had been different. For the first time ever he’d planned to extend a casual affair. He hadn’t been ready to leave her.
‘Hamid’s away.’ Was that provocative tilt of her jaw deliberate, or as unconscious as the way her fingers threaded together?
Satisfaction stirred. It was beneath him perhaps, but reassuring to discover he wasn’t the only one on edge. Idris was used to being sure of his direction, always in command. Doubt was foreign to him.
‘I didn’t come here to see Hamid.’
Those eyes grew huge in a face that looked even milkier than before. Hamid had talked of her being delicate. Was that code for pregnant? Was that why she looked like a puff of wind would knock her over?
Jealousy, a growling caged beast, circled in his belly. It didn’t matter that he had no right to feel it. Idris had stopped, somewhere around four this morning, trying to tell himself he felt nothing for Arden Wills. He was a pragmatist. The fact was he did feel. He was here to sort out why and then, with clinical precision, to put an end to it.
‘You should sit. You don’t look well.’
‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She crossed her arms, making Idris aware of the swell of plump breasts under her shapeless pullover. Had her breasts always been like that? He remembered them as delectable, but—