Postcards From Paris: Bound by His Desert Diamond / Amorous Liaisons / The Secret to Marrying Marchesi. Sarah Mayberry
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rocketing. By the time she’d got to the bit about them not being able to consummate their relationship, he had been ready to tear the man limb from limb, happy to chuck the remains of his mutilated body to the vultures without a backward glance. And this aggression for a man he had never met—nor ever would, if he wanted to avoid a life sentence for homicide. He could still feel the hatred seething inside him now: that such a man had dared to try and violate this beautiful creature, then discard her like a piece of trash. It had taken all of his self-control not to let Annalina see his revulsion.
Now Zahir spread his hand possessively under her jaw, his eyes still holding hers, neither of them able to break contact.
‘There’s one sure way to find out.’ He heard his words through the roar of blood in his ears, the throb of it pulsing in his veins. Not that he was in any doubt. He knew he could take this beautiful princess and erase the memory of that spineless creep of a creature, take her to his bed and show her what a real man could do. Just the thought of it made his hands tremble and he pressed the pads of his thumbs against her skin to steady them, rhythmically stroking up and down. He watched her eyelashes flutter against his touch and the roar inside him grew louder.
He might not be able to read Anna’s mind, but he could read her body, and that was all the encouragement he needed. The angle of her head, the slight arching of her back that pushed her breasts towards him, the soft rasp of her breath, all told him that she was his for the taking. That she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. Well, so be it. But this time the kiss would be on his terms.
He lowered his head until their mouths were only a fraction apart. Now, a voice inside his head commanded. And Zahir obeyed. Planting his lips firmly on Annalina’s upturned pout, he felt its warm softness pucker beneath him and the resulting kick of lust in his gut momentarily halted him right there. He inhaled deeply through his nose. This was not going to be a gentle, persuasive kiss. This was going to be hot and heavy and hardcore. This was about possession, domination, a man’s need for a woman. His need for her right now.
He angled his head to be able to plunder more deeply, the soft groan as her lips parted to allow him access only fuelling the fire that was raging through him. His tongue delved into the sensual cavern of her mouth, seeking her own with a brutal feverishness that saw it twist around its target, touching, tasting, taking total control, until Anna reciprocated, the lick of her tongue against his taking him to new fervid heights. Releasing her chin, Zahir moved his fingers to the back of her head, pushing them forcefully up through her hair, feeling the combs and grips that held the tresses in their swept-up style dislodge satisfyingly beneath his touch until the thick locks of blonde hair fell free, tumbling down through his fingers and over her shoulders.
Grabbing a handful of this glorious, silken wonder, Zahir used it to anchor her in place, to hold her exactly where he wanted her, so that he could increase the pressure on her mouth still further, increase the intensity of the kiss, heighten the pleasure that was riotously coursing through him. And, when Anna snaked her hands behind his neck, pressing herself against him, her breasts so soft, so feminine against the muscled wall of his chest, it was all he could do to stop himself from taking her right there and then. No questions asked, no thoughts, no deliberation, no cross-examination. Nothing but a blind desire to possess her in the most carnal way possible. To make her his.
Which would be totally wrong. Releasing her lips, Zahir pulled back, the breath heaving in his chest, the tightening in his groin almost unbearably painful. A kiss was one thing, but to take her virginity—for surely that was what they were talking about here?—was quite another. This wasn’t the time or the place. And to do it merely to prove himself more of a man than Henrik would be morally reprehensible. Somehow, from somewhere, he was going to have to find some control.
The look of dazed desire in Annalina’s eyes was almost enough to make him claim her again, blow his new-found resolve to smithereens. But within a split second her expression had changed and now he saw a wariness, a fear almost, and that was enough to bring him forcibly to his senses. Realising that he was still clutching a handful of her hair, he let it drop and pushed himself away until he found himself on his feet, staring down at her from a position of towering authority that he felt far more comfortable with.
‘I apologise.’ His voice sounded raw, unfamiliar, as alien to him as the wild sensations that were coursing through the rest of his body. Sensations that he realised would be all too evident if Annalina raised her eyes to his groin. He shifted his position, adjusting the fit of his trousers.
But Annalina wasn’t looking at him. She was busy with her hair, combing her fingers through the blonde tresses, arranging it so that it fell over her shoulders. Then she leant forward to retrieve the clips that had fallen to the floor.
‘What is there to be sorry for?’ Now her eyes met his, cold, controlled, defiant. ‘We are engaged, after all.’ She held the largest clip in her hand, a hinged, tortoiseshell affair which now squeaked as she opened and closed its teeth, as if it was ready to take a bite out of him. ‘You are perfectly at liberty to kiss me. To do whatever you like with me, in fact. At least, that’s been the impression you have given me so far.’
There was rebellion in her voice now, matched by the arched posture, the arrogant, feline grace. But her lips, Zahir noticed, were still swollen from the force of their kiss, the delicate skin of her jaw flushed pink where his stubbled chin had scraped against her. And for some reason this gave him a twisted sense of achievement—as if he had marked his territory, claimed her. Especially as, now, everything about Annalina was trying to deny it.
‘Perhaps you would do well to remember that this is all your doing, Annalina. You have brought about this situation and you only have yourself to blame. I am merely trying to find a workable solution.’
A solution that should not involve ripping the clothes off her the moment they were alone.
‘I know, I know.’ Rising to her feet, Annalina planted herself squarely in front of him, sticking out her bottom lip like a sulky teenager. Barefoot, she seemed ridiculously tiny, delicate, her temper making her brittle, as if she would snap in two were he to reach forward and grasp her with his warrior’s hands.
‘And, whilst we’re on the subject of workable solutions, perhaps you would like to tell me how long I am expected to stay in Nabatean. I have duties in my own country, you know, matters that require my attention.’
‘I’m sure.’ Zahir gritted his jaw against the desire to close the small gap between them and punish her impertinence with another bruising kiss. ‘In that case, no doubt you will be relieved to know that you’ll be returning to Dorrada the day after tomorrow.’
‘Oh, right.’ Annalina shifted her weight lightly from one foot to the other, placing her hand provocatively on her hip. ‘Well, that’s good.’
‘I have a number of meetings scheduled for tomorrow but have cleared my diary for the following couple of days.’
He watched, not without some satisfaction, as her frown of incomprehension turned to a scowl of realisation. Her toes, he noticed, were curling against the bare boards.
‘You mean...?’
‘Yes, Annalina. I will be accompanying you. I very much look forward to visiting your country.’
OPENING THE SHUTTERS, Anna shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun. Not the sun glinting off the towering glass edifices of Medira this time, or shimmering above the distant desert, but bouncing off the freshly fallen snow that blanketed the ground, weighing down the fir trees and covering the roofs of the town of Valduz that nestled in the valley in the distance.
She was back at Valduz Castle, the only home she had ever known. Perched on a craggy outcrop at the foothills of the Pyrenees mountain range, the castle was like something out of a fairy tale, or a Dracula movie, depending on your point of view. Built in the fourteenth century, it was all stone walls, turrets and battlements, fully prepared for any marauding invaders. It was not, however, prepared