The Sheikh's Princess Bride. Annie West
Читать онлайн книгу.
by a sense that something wasn’t quite right all afternoon, since he returned to the hotel, but to his annoyance couldn’t pinpoint any tangible reason. Just a disturbing sense that he’d missed something important.
It wasn’t a sensation he liked. Tariq liked to be in control of his world.
The crowd shifted and through a gap he saw a sliver of deep scarlet. His gaze snagged. Another shift and the scarlet became a long dress, a beacon drawing his eyes to the sultry swell of feminine hips and a deliciously rounded bottom. The woman’s skin, displayed by the low scoop of material at her back, was a soft gold, like the desert at first light. A drift of gleaming dark hair was caught up in an artfully casual arrangement that had probably taken hours to achieve. It was worth it, for it revealed the slender perfection of her elegant neck.
Tariq’s body tightened, every tendon and muscle stiffening in a response that was profound, instinctive and utterly unexpected.
Light played on the sheen of her dress, lovingly detailing each curve.
He swallowed, realising suddenly that his mouth was dry. His blood flowed hot and fast, his heartbeat tripping to a new, urgent rhythm.
It was a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. Tariq frowned.
The woman turned and he took in the fitted dress that covered her from neck to toe. It enticed a man’s imagination to wander over the slim frame and bounteous curves beneath the fabric.
He’d taken half a pace towards her when his eyes lifted to her face and he slammed to a stop, an invisible brick wall smashing into him, tearing the air from his lungs.
Samira.
Tariq heaved in a breath so deep it made his ribs ache.
Samira.
He breathed out, almost tasting the memories on his tongue.
But this wasn’t Samira as he’d last seen her. This was a different woman: confident, sexy and experienced. A woman who was making her mark on the world.
For a moment he paused, drawn despite himself. Then his brain kicked into gear as he remembered all the reasons she wasn’t for him, despite the tight ache gripping his lower body. He turned to the pretty blonde at his right who was half-wearing a gold sequinned dress. She looked up with wide, hopeful eyes that brimmed with excitement when he smiled down at her.
Minutes later she was leaning into him, her pale hand clutching his sleeve possessively, her eyes issuing an invitation as old as time.
Tariq made himself smile again, wondering if she realised or cared that his attention was elsewhere.
* * *
Samira watched him from the back of the crowd. Tariq was the obvious choice of speaker for the children’s charity. He was a natural leader, holding the audience in the palm of his hand. Confident, articulate and witty, he effortlessly drew all eyes. Around her men nodded and women salivated and Samira had to repress indignation as they ate him up hungrily.
He was all she remembered: thoughtful, capable and caring, using his speech to reinforce the plight of the children they were here to help, yet keeping the tone just right to loosen the wallets of wealthy patrons.
She remembered a lanky youth who’d always been gentle with her, his friend’s little sister. This Tariq was charismatic, with an aura of assured authority that he’d no doubt acquired from ruling his sheikhdom. She couldn’t drag her eyes from his tall frame and the way it filled out his tuxedo with solid muscle and bone.
Samira gulped, disorientated at the sudden blast of longing that swamped her.
She blinked and looked up at his bold, handsome face, the glint of humour in his eyes, and remembered the way he’d been with his boys: gentle, loving and patient.
In that moment recognition hit. Recognition of what she wanted.
What she needed.
The family she longed for. Children to nurture and love. A partner she could respect and trust to share her life.
Eyes fixed on Tariq, she realised there was a way she could become part of a family. It was the perfect solution to her untenable situation. A solution not just for her, but potentially a win-win for all concerned. If she had the courage to pursue it.
The idea was so sudden, so outrageous, she swayed on her delicate heels, her heart thumping high in her throat, her stomach twisting hard and sharp.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Celeste grabbed her elbow as if afraid she’d topple over. ‘You weren’t yourself this afternoon either.’
‘I’m...’ Samira gulped, swallowing shock at the revelation confronting her. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Just a little tired.’
Celeste nodded and turned back to Tariq. ‘He’s a little overwhelming, isn’t he? Especially in formal dress. I swear, if he wasn’t a king someone would snap him up as a model.’
Samira pressed her hand against her churning stomach, only half-listening.
She stared at the powerful figure on the podium and the voice of self-doubt, the voice that had ruled the first twenty-five years of her life, told her she was crazy. Crazy to think about wanting what she could never have. After all, she and Tariq hadn’t been friends for years. There was no guarantee he’d even listen to her.
But another part of her applauded. The part that had grown stronger in the last four years, nurtured by her family and her determination to drag herself out of the mire of despair and make something of her life. The voice of the survivor she’d become.
She knew what she wanted.
Why not go for it?
Yet instinctively she shied away from such an action. That wasn’t her style. It never had been. The only time she’d defied convention and upbringing and had reached for what she desired, it had turned to dust and ashes, ruin and grief. She still bore the scars.
Yet what had she to lose by trying? Nothing that mattered when weighed against the possibility of winning what she so desperately craved.
* * *
In the mirrored lift, Samira straightened her neat, cinnamon jacket and smoothed her clammy palms down the matching fitted skirt. Her cream blouse was businesslike rather than feminine but this, she reminded herself, was a business meeting.
The most important business meeting of her life.
If only she felt half as confident as at her meetings with clients.
The door hissed open and she stepped out. A few metres took her to the door of the presidential suite and a dark-suited security man.
‘Your Highness.’ He bowed smoothly and opened the door, admitting her into the suite’s luxurious foyer.
Inside, another staff member greeted her.
‘If you’d care to take a seat, Your Highness?’ He led the way to a beautifully appointed sitting room furnished in shades of soft taupe and aubergine. Large windows offered an unrivalled view of Paris. ‘Can I offer you something to eat or drink?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’ Samira couldn’t swallow anything. Her insides felt like they’d been invaded by circling, swooping vultures.
The man excused himself and Samira darted a look at her watch. She was dead on time. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she’d stepped out of her suite downstairs.
Slowly she breathed out, trying to calm her rioting nerves, but nothing could douse the realisation her whole future rested on this interview.
If she failed... No, she refused to imagine failure. She had to be positive and persuasive. This might be unconventional but Samira would make him see how sensible her idea was.
She swallowed hard, squashing the doubts that kept surfacing, and walked towards the windows. Automatically she stretched