Uncovering Her Nine Month Secret(69)

Still. Watchful. Ferocious.

Her neck prickled with a deep foreboding. With anxiety. With the sense of immensity, as if what she was about to do was already sealed in stone, as ancient and unmoving and inevitable as the venerable city around her, as the old streets beneath her.

As the man before her. The sultan of all he surveyed.

Who couldn’t be weak, she knew somehow, if he tried.

Cleo turned off the rental car’s ignition with a decisive click and then opened her door, ignoring the girl in the passenger seat as she got out and stood there.

The sultan moved then. He nodded at someone behind her and men in military uniforms appeared as if from thin air, surrounding the rental car, all wearing machine guns that dwarfed their bodies.

Cleo didn’t understand a single word of the rapid-fire Arabic, all shouted back and forth in so many harsh and loud male voices, and yet somehow she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the sultan as he continued to stand there staring back at her.

One of his men appeared beside her and held out his hand, making Cleo flinch. She glanced at him, then back at the sultan, aware then of how fragile she was. She felt it in ways she never had before. Fragile and exposed and frighteningly vulnerable.

And it was still better than how Brian had made her feel, two weeks before their wedding, when she’d come home early from work and found him on the living room floor of his condo with that woman.

The sultan said something, and she realized it wasn’t the first time.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she said, and she hardly sounded like herself.

He paused, and she wished she had something more than this shadowy impression of his face. That the sun would hide behind the buildings at last so she could look at him without her eyes watering. So she could convince herself that he was neither as cruel nor as inhuman as he appeared while backlit like a god.

So she could tell herself that the twisting heat that knotted her belly, low and hot, was based on something more than the intuition she’d learned better than to trust.

But his voice, when it came, was as calm as it was deep, despite the tension she could hear beneath it, and for no reason at all, it eased her. Even as it set her on fire.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

A faint nod. “Give my man your keys.”

An implacable order delivered in perfect English, with a crisp British accent to boot. Cleo knew she should ask questions. Demand to know what was happening to her, what he planned to do next. Instead, she simply obeyed.

She opened her hand and the man beside her took the keys from her palm, and the whole time she was lost in the will of the powerful man whose face was still in shadows before her.

Why couldn’t she seem to breathe? Why did it feel as if the earth were buckling beneath her feet when she could see—because no one else was reacting to it, no one else was moving, the car was solid and unmoving beside her—that it was only happening inside of her?

Everything seemed to stretch out, slow and taut, but then the car engine turned over beside her, the men and the car and the angry girl disappeared after a brief consultation, and Cleo was standing alone in an alleyway in a foreign country with a man so great and powerful he held a title she’d half believed only existed in books.

He moved then, and she wished he hadn’t. He was like liquid, a threat wrapped in poetry, athletic and menacing at once. The knot inside her pulled taut, red and hot. Cleo stood still as he walked in a slow circle around her. He held something in his hands and she realized it was the wallet she’d left sitting in one of the cup holders in the car. One of his men must have—

“Eyes on me,” he ordered her, his voice a silken command.

And when she jerked her attention back up from her wallet to his face, she could see it, finally. Could see him.

Beautiful, something whispered inside her, though he wasn’t.

He was much too fierce. He reminded her of those remote villages she’d found in her travels, clinging to the sides of rugged mountains long days from anywhere, proud and breathtaking and unimaginably tough. He had thick dark hair and a poet’s face made shockingly masculine by a warrior’s cool, light gaze and the sort of tough jaw Cleo associated with soldiers and martial artists—and thugs. A blade of a nose. Faint lines around his eyes suggested he must have smiled at some point in his life, but she couldn’t imagine it. He seemed carved entirely from stone.

He looked so masculine and so inarguably fierce it was almost as if he and soft, round-faced, nice-looking Brian were of a different species. She told herself that was why her heart beat so fast. Because he was the not Brian.

And because he really was beautiful.