At the Sheikh's Bidding(18)
‘Take your hands off me.' She spun around, intending to hammer her fist against the door and gain Zahir's attention, but somehow amidst the confusion she caught the guard squarely on the nose, and he let out a startled howl that echoed along the corridor.
‘What is going on … ?' The doors were suddenly flung open and Zahir appeared, his brows drawn into a thunderous frown as he surveyed Erin surrounded by three angry guards, one of whom was trying to stem the blood pouring from his nose.
‘I'm so sorry-I didn't mean it-it was an accident,' Erin gasped, her gaze swinging frantically from the injured guard to Zahir, who was towering over her, the look of stunned disbelief in his eyes turning to one of savage fury. She peered past him into what appeared to be a boardroom, and paled at the sight of six men wearing traditional Arab robes, who had got to their feet and were now staring at her, patently dumbstruck that she'd had the audacity to barge in on the Prince. ‘I need to talk to you,' she mumbled, her spurt of defiance trickling away and leaving her wishing she could sink into the floor.
‘That much is obvious,' Zahir said coldly. ‘I was in the middle of discussing important matters of state, but don't let that worry you. I'm sure that whatever you want to say is far more urgent than the drought which is causing such hardship to the people of Qubbah,' he added sarcastically.
‘I'll come back later,' Erin whispered, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Zahir looked as though he could cheerfully strangle her, and innate honesty forced her to admit that she couldn't blame him.
Zahir's hand shot out and gripped her arm, preventing her hurried retreat. ‘Oh, no,' he growled, ‘after the disruption you've caused, you're not going anywhere.'
He turned his head and spoke briefly in Arabic to the men grouped around the boardroom table, then barked instructions to the still bleeding guard, presumably ordering him to seek medical attention, before he frogmarched Erin across the corridor and through another set of doors into what she guessed was his private office.
Her heart sank still further when Zahir's personal assistant, Omran, leapt to his feet, a look of avid interest on his face when he glanced at her and then at his master's thunderous expression.
‘Your Highness, I had not expected your meeting with the committee to finish so soon.'
‘The meeting isn't finished-merely postponed,' Zahir informed him through gritted teeth. He did not look at Omran but continued to glare furiously at Erin. ‘We were interrupted by unforeseen circumstances,' he added harshly.
His assistant looked as though he was about to explode with curiosity, but protocol prevented him from asking further questions and he murmured, ‘Do you wish me to escort Erin back to her quarters, Your Highness?'
‘No, I wish you to make my apologies to the committee and arrange a date for another meeting. I will deal with Erin,' Zahir said, in a tone that sent a trickle of ice down Erin's spine.
She had never seen him so angry, and she knew that the most sensible thing to do would be to apologise for disturbing him. But why should she be the one to apologise? He had brought her here under false pretences, and she had every right to demand that he put her and Kazim on the next flight back to England.
Her new spurt of defiance wavered slightly when Omran reluctantly sidled out of the office and closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with a grim-faced Zahir, who suddenly released his hold on her so that she stumbled and fell onto a silk-covered chaise longue. He prowled around his desk like a caged tiger before coming to a halt directly in front of her.
‘I can't believe you attacked a palace guard, you crazy wildcat. What the hell was all that about?' he demanded coldly, his jaw tightening ominously when Erin lifted her chin and met his gaze with a boldness she did not feel.
‘I came to tell you that I'm going home,' she snapped, ‘and to demand that you hand over Kazim's passport, because I'm taking him with me.'
Black eyebrows winged upwards, and he stared down his nose at her with such disdainful hauteur that her fingers itched to slap him. He was an arrogant pig-but unfortunately he looked like a golden-skinned demi-god in black tailored trousers and a white silk shirt which was so fine that she could clearly make out the ridges of his powerful abdominal muscles beneath it.
She felt a peculiar squirmy feeling low in her stomach, and her breasts suddenly felt full and heavy as she remembered what had happened after she had angered him when they had first arrived at the palace. He had kissed her as a means of punishing her, and his mouth had been hard and dominant as he'd sought to subjugate her. But somehow passion had slowly taken the place of his fury, and he had traced his hands and lips over her body as if he could not resist the temptation of her delicately perfumed skin. He had aroused her to a fever pitch of desire, and the memory of how he had caressed her with his hands and mouth was a permanent fixture in her brain.
Frantically she dragged her mind from her wanton thoughts. Her face felt hot, and his narrow-eyed glance warned her that he was well aware of the effect he had on her.
‘We've been through this before,' he drawled in a bored tone. ‘And I have told you that you are free to leave at any time you wish. But Kazim will remain here in Qubbah. It is his rightful place, homeland of his forefathers and his heritage,' he added coolly, in a tone that warned he did not expect her to argue further.
‘And he is heir to the throne-a little fact that you forgot to mention at Ingledean, when you persuaded me to bring him here,' she said icily. ‘I suppose you were too busy making up all that rubbish about your father being on his deathbed-so ill that he could not possibly fly to England to visit his grandson. You lied to me.' She rounded on him bitterly. ‘You led me to believe that the King might only have a short time left and that he was desperate to see Kazim before he died. But your father is no nearer to death than I am,' she snapped. ‘For a man of eighty he looks as fit as a flea.'
Burning up with anger because Zahir had manipulated her into doing his bidding, she missed the warning glint in his eyes. ‘You tricked me into bringing Kazim here, but you are not keeping him. It was his father's wish that he should spend his childhood at Ingledean with me. I know what Faisal wanted,' she flung at him, pushing her tumbling flame-coloured curls over her shoulder with an impatient flick of her hand.
Zahir's body clenched in rejection of her last statement and he felt the same, humiliating jealousy that always gripped him whenever he though of Erin with his brother. I know what Faisal wanted. She had been referring to Faisal's wishes for Kazim's upbringing after his death, but the words swirled in his head, taunting him. Had she learned what Faisal wanted in bed and enjoyed pleasing him? Or had she cleverly pandered to his desires as part of her plan to persuade him to marry her, knowing that her willingness between the sheets would one day earn her ownership of Ingledean House?
He wanted her gone, he thought darkly-out of the palace, out of Qubbah, and out of his head. He hated the hold she had on his hormones-hated the fact that, despite wanting her more desperately than he had ever wanted a woman in his life, he could not make love to his dead brother's wife. It was bad enough that he had kissed her when she had angered him yesterday. If he had not been interrupted by Omran's phone call had he was ashamed to admit that he would not have been able to pull back. He would have taken her with all the finesse of a callow boy, he acknowledged grimly. For reasons that were beyond him Erin had a devastating effect on his self-control, and he despised himself for his weakness.