by Maisey Yates
She shook her head mutely, before realizing that he couldn’t see her. “No. I just got up.”
“Late nights prowling the street do tend to make one tired.”
She gritted her teeth to bite back all the angry words that were swirling in her head, all the justification and excuses. None of it would matter to him. As far as he was concerned she was simply a package for him to deliver. “So I’m discovering.”
He closed the fridge abruptly and straightened, training his dark, impenetrable gaze on her. “Never endanger yourself like that again, Isabella. You do not understand how dangerous the world is. How can you?”
“I live surrounded by bodyguards. I understand that life is dangerous.”
“Do you? Because you did not seem like a woman who understood that last night.”
“I didn’t really imagine that the neighborhood around your upscale penthouse would pose a danger.”
“Danger can be anywhere. Even in the most luxurious surroundings. Especially there.”
The dark note in his voice told her he spoke from an experience she couldn’t begin to understand. His scars ran deep. Those on the surface were only a glimpse of what was beneath. But it didn’t repel her. It only made her curious about the man who was the Sheikh’s most trusted employee. The man who seemed to have no fear for himself, yet feared for her safety.
He took her apple from its spot on the table and placed it back in the fruit bowl. “Let’s go to a café. You can see more of the city.”
Wariness along with a small surge of hope flared to life inside her. “I thought you didn’t babysit.”
“I don’t. Consider this your guided tour of life.”
“What changed your mind?” she asked, apprehension combining with excitement now, and her stomach tightening with anticipation.
“It has nothing to do with me. It’s what Hassan wants. If it were up to me you would be on a plane to Umarah right now and would no longer be my problem. But your future husband has seen fit to allow you to have your life experiences. Within reason, of course.”
She imagined it was what prisoners might feel like when they found out that their execution date had been pushed back. It was a reprieve, but the execution still loomed. And she would be living her remaining days with her jailer as her constant companion. But she wouldn’t let herself think of what would happen after her time in Paris. This was about her. She deserved it. Deserved to have some time devoted to things that interested her. Some time devoted to discovering what things interested her.
“Thank you,” she choked out, the lump in her throat keeping her from speaking more. She closed the distance between them, wrapped her arms around his neck.
Adham stood rigid, his arms pinned tightly to his sides. He was unwilling to do so much as breathe, for fear his control would slip even more and he would give in to the ache of arousal that was pounding heavily through his body.
He could not remember the last time a woman, or anyone for that matter, had hugged him. Clung to him, kissed him, rubbed her body against him in invitation—sure. But just a hug—a show of warmth, of affection, an innocent gesture … He didn’t know if he had ever experienced that. He had been so long without his family, so long without frequent, human contact, that he could not remember any more what it had been like. Since the death of his parents it had only been Hassan and himself, and neither of them were given to overt displays of affection.
“I do not want your gratitude,” he said, pulling away from her hold, ignoring the tightness in his body. Ignoring what it meant. “This was not my doing.”
Her eyes widened, and hurt evident in their blue depths—as though she was a child responding to being scolded. Such a contradiction. She was a woman, not a child, but she seemed to switch roles with ease. A woman when it suited her to be enticing. A sweet innocent when she wanted sympathy. It was a façade, an act, and though it was effective it would not work on him.
She bit her lip and looked down, the crease between her dark, perfectly shaped brows deepening, as if to show contrition. “I’m sorry. But this is the only chance I’ll have to … to figure out who I am. I don’t know if someone like you could understand.”
“Someone like me?” he asked, mildly amused that she’d clearly taken him to be nothing more than a bodyguard.
“Someone who’s had freedom his whole life. Someone who’s had the ability to make his own decisions. I haven’t had that chance. It’s … it’s more than that. I don’t know if I can fully explain it. I just know that I need to be able to have some experiences of my own.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, unmoved by her speech. “And what is at the top of this list of yours?”
She raised her eyes again, a glimmer of excitement there now. “I want to do things I haven’t done before. Go to the movies. A club, maybe?”
“Not a club,” he said flatly.
If she went to a club every heterosexual male in the area would be all over her. Given her sheltered upbringing, she likely had no clue what kind of effect a body like hers had on men. She’d played at flirting with him, but playing was all it had been. In that sort of environment she would be like a lamb that had wandered into a wolf pack.
“Okay, not a club,” she said, not looking at all dented by his refusal. “But definitely the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Élysées, a restaurant. And definitely shopping.”
“Get dressed. I’ll take you to breakfast.”
Isabella took a long sip of her espresso and followed it up with a bite of pastry. She closed her eyes and moaned.
The burn that hit him hot and hard in his stomach, along with the slow flood of blood that went south of his belt, made him tense.
He hadn’t noticed before what a sensual person Isabella was. Watching her eat a pastry and drink coffee, listening to the sounds she made—small kitten moans in the back of her throat—watching the way she closed her eyes as if she was in ecstasy, seeing her lick each remaining crumb from her full lips, was erotic torture.
The only thing that matched the arousal racing through his system was the growing disgust that had settled in his gut. She was his brother’s woman. She was forbidden. He should not want her, should not touch her, should not look at her as a man looked at a woman. And yet he found himself looking. Wanting. But he would never touch her. Not again. That time in the alley, when his lips had met hers, it had been necessary. It was a moment that would never be repeated.
He would not betray his brother in such a manner. The loyalty that existed between them was not something that could be thrown aside for a mere woman. The bond between himself and his brother had always been strong, but after the death of their parents that link between them had been strengthened. Hassan had devoted his life to ruling Umarah, guiding their people, forging diplomatic alliances and handling the delicate matters of state. Adham’s life was devoted to protecting Hassan, to guarding their people. They were a right and a left hand. Hassan had been the public ruler from the time their parents had died, but they functioned as a team, working with their strengths for the betterment of their people.
There would be no compromising that.
“This place is amazing. Like a fantasy.”
She inhaled deeply, and his eyes were drawn to the shape of her rounded breasts pushing against her top.
Clearly her fantasies were different from his. But then, that was to be expected. Another reminder of why she was not the sort of woman who should arouse his libido. Even if his brother weren’t a factor. She was an innocent. A virgin. He had never touched a virgin and never would as he didn’t ever intend to take a wife.
“Paris can hardly be beaten for atmosphere, although I’m partial to the desert. I like the heat, the open space, the solitude.”
Her smooth forehead creased. “I’ve never been to the desert. I can’t really imagine it being beautiful. Whenever I envision the desert I see cactuses and bleached bones.”
“It’s not an easy beauty to see. Not like the architecture
here in Paris, and not like the green mountains in Turan. It’s fierce and barren—just the sand and the sky. It asks a lot of a man, but if the man can rise to the challenge, if he can learn to exist in such a place, he can’t help but love it.”
Her blue eyes glittered, the sudden humor there unexpected. “And you’ve risen to the challenge and defeated the desert?”
Her mischievous smile pulled a reluctant laugh from him. “I haven’t beaten it. It’s impossible to tame the desert. There are fierce sandstorms, unforgiving temperatures, and poisonous reptiles. The best you can hope is that she’ll allow you a peaceful existence.”
She offered him a sweet half-smile that just barely curved the edges of her full lips. “And the desert is a woman?”
“Of course she is. Only a woman could be such a fierce mistress.”
“I can’t imagine the kind of freedom the desert must offer,” she said, after a long moment of silence.
“It’s a freedom that demands responsibility. You have to respect where you are at all times. You have to keep the rules and mind the boundaries.”
“And uphold duty and honor?”
“What is there in life without those things, Isabella? If men discard such notions, what keeps the world moving?”
Isabella hated how right he was. Hated that what he said made so much sense. She understood the importance of her alliance with Hassan, High Sheikh of Umarah. It was good for the economy, good for building a strong bond between nations in case of any sort of crisis. And if it weren’t her life, if she were only a casual observer like Adham, who wasn’t the one being forced to marry a stranger, she would have felt as he did.
But it was her life. Not some vague idea of honor and duty. She was the sacrificial lamb for the masses. Easy for him to speak that way when in the end he got to ride off into the sunset and be with whom he wished, doing whatever he wished.
“I have accepted the path I have to take, Adham,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. “I only wanted to take a small detour.”
“And where would you like your detour to take you now, Princess?” His voice was hard. Condescending. A sharp contrast to the small moment of near camaraderie they’d just shared.
Well, fine. She didn’t much care for him either.
“I thought we could walk. See the sights.”
He nodded in what she assumed was acquiescence. He had a way of making her feel as though he disapproved with nothing more than the slightest movement. Even though he’d agreed, the tension in his body told her he’d rather do anything else. Not the most accommodating man, her keeper.
He turned and began to walk up the boulevard, not getting too far ahead of her, but not exactly waiting for her either. She knew that no matter what it seemed like his focus was still on her. She knew it because her skin felt too tight and her stomach was queasy with knots.
She quickened her pace, taking two steps to his one, her much shorter legs making her work harder to gain the distance he was managing. She looked around at the tourists pouring from buses that lined the sidewalks. They were in groups. Pairs. Holding hands. Why did it suddenly seem as though it would be natural to be linked to Adham in that way? To hold his hand while they strolled through Paris together?
She fell into step beside him and her hand brushed his. Her heart leapt to her throat at the contact. He didn’t even look at her. Didn’t give her any indication that he had noticed her touch, let alone been affected by it.
Except she noticed him curling his hand tightly into a fist, the tendons shifting, the scars on his skin lightening as he squeezed tightly before relaxing it again. She rubbed the back of her own hand idly, her skin still hot from his touch. Maybe his skin was hot from the brush of her hand too?
She looked at him again, at his hard, immobile face, so perfect it seemed to be etched in stone. The marks on his skin were evidence of time and living rather than a detraction to his masculine beauty. An addition to the form the artist had wrought, showing the character of the man, of all he had endured.
No. It was impossible that she’d manage to have any effect on a man like him. He was quite incredibly out of her league, in more ways than she could count. She didn’t know how old he was, but she was certain he was quite a bit older than her own twenty-one. Add his experience and living to that, and it seemed they were from different worlds.
That realization made an uncomfortable weight settle in her stomach. He probably didn’t take her any more seriously than if she were a child whining for an ice cream cone.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter what Adham thought of her. He didn’t have to live her life. She did. She looked over the tops of the tour buses, past the neatly shorn trees that were carefully crafted into tall hedges, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, visible above all of it.
They reached the end of the row of foliage and the full tower came into view. People were everywhere, snapping photographs of the intricate scaffolding and of each other. She wondered how she and her stoic companion must look to them.
She noticed very quickly that women were all but giving themselves whiplash with extreme head-turns when Adham walked by. Pride warred with another more uncomfortable emotion. Pride because he was the best looking man even in this densely populated spot, and he was with her. But the other feeling, the one that made her stomach ache, was not welcome.
“Would you take my picture?” she asked, fishing for the small digital camera she’d tucked into her purse before leaving her brother’s home and holding it out to him. She wanted memories. Reminders of the time when she’d been free to make her own choices.
He raised his dark eyebrow at her, clearly less than pleased to be playing tourist.
Another feeling roiled in her stomach, and this one she knew for sure. Anger. “Please. Just take my picture and stop acting like you’re here under sufferance.”
She caught a small, barely detectable curving of his lips. “I am here under sufferance.” But he took the camera from her outstretched hand.
She positioned herself in front of the lawn and smiled wide. Suddenly she wished she were taking his picture. His face would be compelling on film. His masculine bone structure, his scarred golden skin. Maybe if she had a photo she could look at his dark eyes long enough to read his secrets.
He snapped the picture and she jumped, realizing she’d been somewhere else entirely. That wasn’t right. She needed to be living in the moment. She was at the Eiffel Tower, in Paris. No looking ahead, no looking back, and no looking into Adham’s eyes. He was just an unfortunate accessory to her trip, nothing more.
“Did it turn out okay?” she asked.
He looked at the small screen, his expression tight. “It’s fine.” He walked to her and thrust the camera back into her hand, his manner abrupt. Nothing new there. Was there any way to penetrate that wall he had up? Was there a woman, one he loved, that those dark eyes softened for?
The thought made her feel nauseous. She didn’t want to think about the woman who got to see past his defenses. But if she were to try and imagine that woman she pictured her being older, sophisticated—not just in the sense of having an affluent upbringing, but savvy in the ways of the world. Knowledgeable of things Isabella was hardly aware of.
She would certainly be the opposite of Isabella, since the only thing she seemed to arouse in Adham was extreme annoyance.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice clipped.
No, she wasn’t ready. But she doubted it really mattered. “Sure.”
Her pique was forgotten as they walked through the city, past beautiful stone architecture and historic sites. She lingered in one of the narrow streets, taking photographs of a rustic wooden door painted a rich, saturated blue. She wanted to capture it forever, to remember the simple moment of unexpected beauty and color amidst the monochromatic grays.
“It’s a door, Isabella.” Adham’s bored voice sent a shiver of irritation and tension through her.
“Yes, it is, Adham. A blue one. Gl
ad your gift of observation is so well-honed. It’s little wonder you’re such an indispensable member of the Umarahn guard.”
He captured her arm, gently but firmly, and turned her so that she was facing him. “I am not a member of the Umarahn guard. I am the Umarahn guard.”
He was so close. Like he’d been in the alley. It was so easy to imagine him pulling her to him, capturing her lips again.
She moved away. “They’re lucky to have you.”
She walked ahead of him this time, keeping her eyes locked in front of her. She didn’t know why his comment had bothered her so much. Maybe because she’d seen beauty in that simple thing and it had meant something to her to try and capture that. Something that had felt important. And he hadn’t seen it at all. Not that it should matter.
The alleyway spilled out onto a busier street, lined with shops and cafés, and further down the massive Printemps department store.
She felt a renewed flaring of excitement. “Can we go shopping?”
“Shopping? Does that rate as an important, life-altering experience for you?”
Mild irritation gave way to seething anger. “I don’t know. Maybe it does. I haven’t really been before. At least not without the aid of my mother’s personal shopper, telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. But you wouldn’t understand that. You take for granted your God-given free will because no one’s stolen it from you.”
“And you think these shallow experiences will teach you something of life? It shows how little you know, Isabella. You see only what’s been denied you, not what you’ve been protected from.” His dark eyes burned into her, making her feel exposed, as though all her inadequacies were revealed to him. “Not all experiences are good.”
She swallowed hard. “You speak as a man who has never been a prisoner.”
He took a step toward her and she stepped back, dodging a pedestrian. “I have been a prisoner. A prisoner of war. Where do you think these came from?” He indicated the marks etched into his cheek. “You are nothing more than a foolish child. You know nothing of the world. Be grateful for that.”