Postcards From Paris. Sarah Mayberry
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would like to be served coffee somewhere more comfortable.’
‘Um, yes, that sounds a good idea.’ She touched a napkin to her lips. ‘Where were you thinking of?’
‘I will take mine in my quarters, but there are any number of seating areas in the palace that are suitable for relaxation. The courtyards are very pleasant too, though they will be chilly at this time of night.’
‘I’m sure.’ She fiddled with a tendril of hair that had escaped the swept-up style. ‘Actually, I think I will join you.’ There was determination in her voice, but vulnerability too, as if she might easily crack or splinter if challenged. ‘I would like to see your quarters.’
Zahir stilled, something akin to panic creeping over him. He hadn’t intended to invite her to his rooms. Far from it. By suggesting that they took their coffee elsewhere, he had been trying to escape from her. Which begged the question, why? Why would he, a man who would take on a band of armed insurgents with the bravery of a thousand warriors combined, be frightened by the thought of sharing a cup of coffee with this young woman? It was ridiculous.
Because he didn’t know how to behave around her, that was why. This relationship had been thrust upon him so suddenly that he hadn’t had time to figure out how to make it work, how to control it. And being around Annalina only seemed to make the task more difficult. Rather than clarifying the situation, she seemed to mess with his judgement. He found himself torn two ways—one side warning that he must be on his guard, and watch over this wayward princess like a hawk to make sure she didn’t try to abscond, while the other side was instructing him to take her to his bed and make her his, officially.
The latter was a tempting prospect for sure. And the way she was looking at him now, eyes shining brightly as she held his gaze, her hands steepled under her chin, fingertips grazing her lips, it would take all his self-control not to give in to it. But control it he would, because control was something he prided himself on. More than that, something he ruled his life by, using it both to drive himself on and deny himself pleasure. Because pleasure was nothing but an indulgence, a form of weakness, a slippery slope that led down to the bowels of hell. That he had discovered to his cost with the most tragic of results: the murder of his parents.
On the eve of his country’s independence he had been in a rowdy bar, watching, if not actually participating, as his brave comrades had celebrated their tremendous victory with flowing alcohol and loose women. He had been relaxed, enjoying himself, accepting the accolades, full of pride for what he had achieved. And all the time, a few hundred miles away, his parents were being murdered, a knife being drawn across their throats. A tragedy that he would never, ever begin to forgive himself for.
But that didn’t stop the weight of lust in his groin grow heavier by the second, spreading its traitorous warmth through his body as he stared back at Annalina’s open, inviting face. He had no idea why she was looking at him in that way. The workings of a woman’s mind were a complete mystery to him, and not something he had ever thought he would care to concern himself with. But now he found he longed to know what was going on behind those eyes that were glazed perhaps a little too brightly—found that he would pay good money to find out what was going through that clever, complicated mind of hers.
‘I doubt you will find anything remotely interesting about my quarters.’
‘You will be in them. That’s interesting enough for me.’
There she went again, throwing him a curveball, messing with his head. Was she flirting with him? Was that what this was? Zahir had experienced flirting before. His position of power, not to mention his dark good looks, meant he had had his fair share of female attention over the years. Most, but not all, of which he had totally ignored. He was a red-blooded male, after all. Occasionally he would allow himself to slake his thirst. But that was all it had ever been. No emotion, no attachment and certainly no second-guessing what the object of his attentions might be thinking. The way he found himself puzzling now.
‘Very well. If you insist.’ Summoning one of the hovering waiting staff with a wave of his hand, he gave his orders then, walking round to the back of Annalina’s chair, he waited as she rose to her feet. ‘If you would like to follow me.’
Setting off at a rapid pace, he found he had to moderate his step in order for Annalina to keep up. She trotted along beside him, her heels clicking on the marble floors, looking around her as if trying to memorise the route back in case she should need to escape. Zahir found himself regretting his decision to allow her into his rooms more and more with every forceful footstep. No woman, other than the palace staff, had ever been in his chambers. There had been no need for it. There was no need for it now. Why had he ever agreed to let this woman invade his personal space?
By the time they had negotiated the labyrinth of corridors and he was inserting the key into the lock of his door, Zahir’s mood had blackened still further.
‘You lock your door?’ Waiting beside him, Annalina looked up in surprise.
‘Of course. Security is of paramount importance.’
‘Even in your own palace? There are guards everywhere. Do you not trust them to protect your property?’
‘Trust no one and you will not be disappointed.’ Zahir pushed hard on the heavy door with the palm of his hand.
‘Oh, Zahir, that’s such a depressing ideology!’ Annalina attempted a throwaway laugh but it fell, uncaught, to the ground.
‘Depressing it may be.’ He stood back to let her enter. ‘But I know it to be true.’
Taking in a deep breath, Anna stepped over the threshold. This was not going well. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask to accompany Zahir to his quarters. It had certainly done nothing to improve his mood. The resolve she had had at the start of the evening, to sit down and talk, try to get to know him a bit, discuss their future, had been severely tested during the course of the torturous meal. Every topic of conversation she had tried to initiate had either been met with cool disregard or monosyllabic answers.
All except one. When she had mentioned his parents, tried to tell him how sorry she was to hear of their tragic death, the look on Zahir’s face had been terrifying to behold, startling her with its volcanic ferocity. It was clear that subject was most definitely off-limits.
But, where their future was concerned, she had to persevere. She needed to find out what was expected of her, what her role would be. And, more importantly, she needed to tell Zahir about herself, her shameful secret. Before it was too late. Which was why at the end of the meal she had fought against every instinct to turn tail and run to the safety of her bed and had persuaded him to bring her here. And why she found herself being welcomed into his spartan quarters with the all the enthusiasm that would have been given to a jester at a funeral.
For spartan it certainly was. In stark contrast to the rest of the palace, the room she was ushered into was small and dimly lit, with bare floorboards and a low ceiling. There was very little furniture, just a low wooden table and a makeshift seating area covered with tribal rugs.
‘As I said.’ Briefly following her gaze, Zahir moved to put the key in the lock on this side. He didn’t turn it, Anna noticed with relief. ‘There is nothing to see here.’
‘Something doesn’t have to be all glitz and glamour for it to be interesting, you know.’ She purposefully took several steps into the room and, placing her hands on her hips, looked around her, displaying what she hoped was a suitably interested expression. ‘How many rooms do you have here?’
‘Three. This room, an office and a bedroom. Plus a bathroom, of course. I find that to be perfectly adequate.’
‘Is this the bedroom?’ Nervous energy saw her stride over to an open door in the corner of the room and peer in. In the near darkness she could just about make out the shape of a small bed, low to the ground, rugs scattered on the bare boards of the floor.
So this was where he slept. Anna pictured him, gloriously naked beneath the simple covers of this bed. He was so vital, so very much alive, that it was hard to imagine him