The Sheikh's Prize(4)

       
           



       

Was she in any true danger, she asked herself irritably, or was she at   even greater risk of being swept along by an over-confident belief that   somehow she was still in control of events? As soon as they arrived at   their destination she would make it very clear that she wished to  return  to the airport immediately and if anyone dared to lay a single  finger  on her she would slash that person with the glass. Now was not  the time  to wish she had taken self-defence classes.

The vehicle moved off and performed a U-turn to pass directly in front   of the limo and drive down a stony track that ran straight out into the   desert. That change in direction took Saffy very much by surprise and   she looked out of the windows in dismay at the giant looming sand dunes   coming closer to tower all around them as the rough track streaked   doggedly ahead. It was very bumpy and very hot because there seemed to   be no air-conditioning in the car. Perspiration beading her brow, Saffy   gripped the safety rail above her head and gritted her teeth, thinking   that possibly she should have made a run for it while they were still  on  the highway. As the track inevitably vanished beneath the sand the   powerful vehicle roared endlessly over the shallow mounds that had taken   its place, forging a zigzagging path between the dunes. Finally, when   every bone in her body felt as if it were rattling inside her skin, the   vehicle began to climb up the steep side of a dune, the engine whining   at the strain. At the top she peered out of the window and focused on   the sole sign of civilisation within view: a stone fortress with tall   walls and turrets that looked remarkably like an ancient crusader   castle.

Oh, dear, she thought with a sinking heart, for it didn't look as though   it would offer the comforts of a five-star hotel and where else could   they possibly be heading? And who in their right mind would invite her   to such a remote place? Aside of a herd of goats there was nothing   moving in the castle's vicinity.

The car thundered down the slope towards the building and big black   gates spread slowly open as they approached. Through the gates she   glimpsed surprisingly lush greenery, a welcome sight to eyes strained by   sand overload. The vehicle lurched to a halt and she breathed in slow   and deep when she saw staff clustered round an arched entrance. Maybe  it  was a hotel; certainly it looked at least the equal of the one she  had  stayed at in the city. As Saffy stepped out heads bowed low and  nobody  looked directly at her and nobody spoke. Saffy was in no mood to  speak  anyway and she followed in the steps of the older man who  shifted his  hand to gain her attention. Her shoes clicked on a polished  marble floor  and the blessed coolness of air-conditioning chilled her  hot damp skin  but nothing could have prepared her for the awe-inspiring  sight that met  her eyes. The amazingly spectacular hall stretched into  seeming  infinity in front of her. Fashioned of gleaming white marble  and studded  with gilded pillars and ornate mirrors, it was as  unexpected in its  sheer opulence inside those ancient walls as snow in  the desert. She  blinked in bewilderment, gazing up to scan the heavily  decorated ceiling  far above, which rejoiced in a gloriously well  executed mural of a  sunny blue sky dotted with exotic flying birds. A  few feet ahead her  guide hovered to wait for her to move on again.

Her mouth tightening, Saffy walked on to descend a shallow flight of   stone stairs and walk through tall gilded doors into a vast sunlit room,   which, although draped in luxury fabrics, was traditionally furnished   in Eastern style with low divans and beautiful rugs carefully arranged   around a central fire pit where coffee could be made and served in the   same way as it might have been in a tent. It was a statement that her   prospective host respected the old ways from the far-off years when the   Marabani had been nomadic tribesmen. She pushed the piece of glass into   her bag.

'Qu'est-ce que vous desirez, madame?'

Startled, Saffy turned her head to see a youthful maid eager to do her   bidding, and well did she recall that sinking sensation at the familiar   sound of the French language, which was more commonly spoken in Maraban   than English. For a girl who had dismally failed her GCSE French exam,   communicating in French had been a major challenge five years earlier.

'Apportez des refraîchissements...bring refreshments,' another voice   interposed in fluent accented French as smooth as honey warmed by the   sun. 'And in future use English to speak to Miss Marshall,' he advised.

Tiny hairs prickling eerily at the base of her skull, her eyes huge and   her slim body trembling, Saffy stared in disbelief at the man in the   doorway. In the corner of her eye the maid bent her head, muttered   something that sounded terribly servile and backed swiftly out of the   room through another exit.                       
       
           



       

'Zahir...?' Saffy framed in shaken disbelief.





CHAPTER TWO



'WHO ELSE?' ZAHIR enquired silkily as she backed away small step by small step.

Saffy's heart was in her mouth and she was desperately short of breath   because her every instinct for self-preservation was pumping full-blown   panic through her tall, slender length. Zahir? Zahir, the King of   Maraban. He was responsible for bringing her to the   castle/fortress/palace, whatever it was? He was the host who wanted her   to enjoy his hospitality for the weekend? What kind of sense did that   make for a male who had divorced her five years ago and never once since   alluded to their former relationship in public?

Yet he stood there, effortlessly self-assured in a black cotton shirt   and jeans, a casual outfit that however emanated designer chic, for both   garments fitted his very tall, well-built frame to perfection. He was   one of the very few men Saffy had to look up to even in heels because  he  was several inches over six feet. Unhappily the sheer impact of his   unexpected appearance shattered her renowned composure. For so long she   had told herself that memory must have lied, that if she were to meet   him again she would not be so impressed as she had been at the tender   age of eighteen. And yet there he stood, defying her every ego-boosting   excuse. Luxuriant hair with the blue-black shine of polished jet   accentuated his absolutely gorgeous face, drawing her attention to the   slash of his high exotic cheekbones, the proud arch of his nose, the   stubborn jut of his strong jawline and the beautifully defined, wide,   sensual fullness of his mouth. He had the lean powerfully athletic   physique of a Greek god. And the fiercely stunning dark eyes of a jungle   predator. He wasn't safe; she saw that now. Zahir was not a man who   played safe or who gave his woman the freedom to do her own thing, not   when he had come to earth convinced of the fact that he always knew   best. She had been way too innocent at eighteen and yet already damaged,   she conceded painfully, much more damaged than either of them could   ever have guessed. In spite of the surge of disturbing memories,   butterflies still leapt and fluttered in her tummy at the stirring sight   of him: dear heaven, she acknowledged in even greater shock, he could   still rock her world.

In defiance of that disturbing conviction, Saffy flung her head high,   shining layers of wheaten blonde hair sliding like heavy silk back from   her face and tumbling off her shoulders. 'You're responsible for   bringing me here?' she demanded shakily, her voice embarrassingly   breathy and insubstantial from the level of incredulity still gripping   her. 'Why on earth would you do that?'

Eyes of heavenly blue clung to Zahir's lean dark face. His astute dark   eyes narrowed, hardened, kindled to burning gold as he allowed himself a   slow steady appraisal of her lithe figure. Tall and slim she might be,   but unlike many models Sapphire had womanly curves and the fine cotton   T-shirt she wore could not hide the high pouting curve of her  brea**sts  or their beaded tips, any more than her white linen trousers  concealed  the long supple line of her thighs, the delicious peachy  swell of highly  feminine hips below her tiny waist or the dainty  elegance of her narrow  ankles. The pulse at his groin kicked up hell in  response and he  clenched his teeth together, willing down that threat  to his  self-possession. If he was honest he had expected to be a little   disappointed with her when he saw her again face to face, but if he  was  equally honest she was even more staggeringly lovely now than she  had  been as a teenager. Shorn of a slight hint of adolescent  chubbiness, her  flawless bone structure had fined down.