This was even worse! ‘I wasn’t apologising!’ she spluttered. ‘I just can’t believe this is happening. You storm in here, asking me personal questions, and then you order me to get changed—as if I’m a five-year-old who has spilt paint on her overalls!’
Oh, that she was five years old again—she would not be in a position to defy him! What a stupid little fool she was being, he thought furiously. Did she not realise her bare legs and tiny skirt were making him want to…to…? Appalled at the progress of his thoughts, he swallowed.
‘Do not play games with me, Sorrel,’ he said unevenly. ‘Don’t you realise the power a woman has over a man when she puts her body on display? Is that what you want? For me to have difficulty concentrating on what I have come to say to you since you are dressed—or rather undressed…’ deliberately, he tempered his words ‘…in such a provocative manner.’
Sorrel blinked. Was Malik actually admitting that he had noticed her? Yet could she blame him for his censure? He was judging her by Kharastani standards, which were far stricter than any she had found here, and to be honest the dress was a little short—she had thought so earlier, only Jane had persuaded her otherwise and Sorrel had let her.
For the first time since he had walked in she bowed her head very slightly, in respect of his title and his status. ‘Very well,’ she said quietly. ‘I will go and put on something more…suitable—if you would like to make yourself at home, Malik?’ It was only as she left the room that she realised what a ridiculous thing it had been to say. As if this was anything like his home—the palace.
Once she had gone Malik relaxed—freed from the unexpected physical temptation which the sight of her had dramatically provoked. He shook his dark head, briefly perplexed—a state that did not sit readily or easily with him—but just as quickly the sensation vanished. It must have been caused by tiredness—by the unremitting weight of duties which had fallen upon him. And yet…
Unseen by the eyes which usually followed him, Malik allowed his tongue to flick over his lips, moistening their dryness, and then wished he had not—for the action made his body ache. Fiercely he tried to wipe out the image of Sorrel standing there in front of him, all legs and breasts and flowing silken hair—but it wasn’t easy.
In his mind she had always been a child, and then a vivacious teenager. She had somehow made a seamless and unseen transition into womanhood, almost without his noticing. The robes she usually wore had helped disguise her very attributes, of course—and wasn’t that one of their functions? Not to put unnecessary temptation in the way of men?
He could not be seen with a woman who looked that way, he realised, and for a moment he questioned the advisability of the proposal he was about to make to her. Yes, she had acceded to his request that she put on something more suitable—but what if that was a one-off? What if Sorrel had already embraced her new freedoms with a passion—what if she had changed and moved beyond the behaviour expected of those who associated with the Sheikh of Kharastan?
Malik sighed. It was yet another example of how much was different since he had found out about the accident of birth which had suddenly transformed him from high-ranking royal aide to ruler of a vast and affluent desert nation—with all the joys and burdens which went hand-in-hand with such a responsibility.
His late father, Zahir, had enjoyed a long, dynastic marriage, but his wife had been unable to bear him children. Many in Zahir’s position would have taken another wife—instead he had taken lovers, each of whom had borne him a child. His youngest son, Xavier, was half-French. Giovanni was half-Italian. Only Malik, the oldest, was of pure and true Kharastani blood—his mother a noblewoman who had died in childbirth.
Malik had been a lonely, motherless child who had become the Sheikh’s right-hand aide. Yet he had been denied a father—for the momentous discovery of his lineage had come too late for him to enjoy a relationship with the man who had sired him.
Yet as he glanced around the apartment he acknowledged that his solitude had helped to forge his character—to make him the man he was today. In reality, there could have been no better training for the role of king—for to rule was to exist in isolation from other men.
And women.
He walked through into the kitchen, and for a moment he studied the debris there as an archaeologist might study the ruins of some unknown civilisation he had stumbled upon. What lay before Malik now was a scene completely outside his experience.
Food lay congealed in silver containers—some of it spattered on the surfaces—and half-empty bottles stood in warm puddles of beer. In his country food—even when it was simple—was always served with a certain amount of ceremony and respect. Fine wines would accompany meals, if requested, but Kharastani subjects tended to prefer the juice of a pomegranate mixed with crushed limes and mulberries and a spoonful of honey—the beloved concoction which was known as labbas.
His eyes flicked to where a spoonful of rice lay coagulating on the side. And now Malik’s lips curved with distaste—never in Kharastan would there be such an undignified mess daring to masquerade as entertainment.
Was this what Sorrel had wished for when she’d demanded to leave Kharastan? This the destiny she followed—the dream she chased? This casual and rather depressing sight of excess combined with little elegance or formality?
Abruptly he turned away and walked back into the large sitting room—though he did not put any of the lamps on. The windows were open to the world, and his bodyguards would have a fit if he did—and besides, it was strangely soothing to look at the room in the moonlight. At least here he could see a certain amount of beauty—mainly provided by the living backdrop of the sea directly opposite. Moonlight danced on the little waves, making them silver and slick. And the sea was the sea…. as fundamentally beautiful here in Brighton as it was by the shores of his beloved Balsora where as a child he had learnt to swim—as slippery and as agile as an eel.
He sighed, lost in the non-threatening landscape of the past—where all the rough corners of authenticity could be rubbed away with a little help from the imagination—until a soft and familiar voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Malik?’
He turned then, and the breath caught in his throat—like dust.
For Sorrel was standing before him—looking at once like Sorrel, and yet not like her at all. Gone were the over-short dress and the high-heeled shoes which had made her look so outrageously available. Now her shapely body was covered—not with the familiar robes of Kharastan, but with Western clothes which served the purpose almost as well.
A ruffled skirt fell to the ground, worn with some kind of T-shirt—but unlike her traditional garb this top hugged her lush young breasts, emphasising their thrusting curve in a way which was making him hard.
He bit back his despair at the effect her appearance was having on him—aware that this was his problem, not Sorrel’s, and accepting that perhaps it was time he turned his mind to the delights of the flesh. Not with her, naturally, but with someone beautiful and willing and eager to be his lover—someone who would make no demands on him in any way. Because he had allowed pleasure to become a distant memory. He had done nothing but work, he recognised now, ever since the solemn glory of his coronation day. No wonder there had been a chink in his armour—allowing inappropriate thoughts of Sorrel to surface.
Since his accession he had not dared to relax—not for a single moment—afraid that he would be found wanting by a people still reeling from their beloved Sheikh’s death and the colourful reality of his private life! And neither had he wanted to fail—to let his people down in any way—so he had put everything into taking over the formidable reins of his kingship.
It was not the kind of role you could ever really be prepared for—no matter how well you knew how the ‘job’ functioned. Because it was far more than just a job—it was a complete and all-consuming way of life, and it was one which required the very definite stamp of his personality to make it uniquely his. No wonder the
re had been no time to think of women….
‘Is this better?’ asked Sorrel softly.
Much better, he wanted to purr, and then, with the iron-hard resolve which had made his enemies and admirers alike dub him Malik the Steely, he let his dark lashes flutter down to partially conceal the hectic glitter in his eyes.
‘Is there a room which isn’t overlooked?’ he demanded. ‘Somewhere more private?’
Sorrel’s heart began to race—because wasn’t this a desire she had nurtured since as long as she could remember? Of the forgiving shadows of the night, with only the romantic glowing disc of a huge moon outside, and Malik there, with her. Only him, and only her…
Yet she was scared. Terrified, even—and her stomach was contracting with the aching conviction that this was what she wanted.
‘Malik?’ she breathed uncertainly. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure!’ Malik frowned. ‘You suggest that we conduct this talk in a room which brazenly omits to have drapes at its vast windows? Allowing time for some sniper to take a pot-shot at me?’
Thank heavens for the dim light which hid her blush of shame from him. How could she have got it so very wrong?
‘Oh, Malik,’ she whispered, and her heart turned over as she thought of the selfish nature of her thoughts when compared to the mortal danger at which he hinted. Was that how shallow and selfish she had become? ‘Is that…likely, then?’
He gave an impatient shake of his dark head. ‘It is not a probability,’ he said shortly. ‘But it is always a possibility.’ And besides, a slightly scaremongering tactic might help click her onto another kind of wavelength—one which could entertain all kinds of scenarios which simply would not have happened if they had been on home territory, back in Kharastan. Because she needed to think differently if she was to be part of his plan.
A plan about which he had still mentioned nothing!
‘Please,’ she said quickly. ‘I know where we can go.’
Having demanded somewhere more private, he could now hardly back out of it—but he prayed that it was not a bedroom. To his relief and perplexity, it was not.
‘The bathroom?’ he questioned in disbelief, as she snapped on a switch which illuminated a circle of lightbulbs set in theatrical style around a mirror.
‘I know it isn’t…. conventional.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Malik faintly, but for the first time in weeks a brief smile curved his lips.
‘But look—it’s windowless. Unobserved.’ And she needed to repair the damage of earlier, to put their relationship back in its proper box. To try to convince herself that it felt as easy and as relaxed with him as it used to.
‘Yes. So it is.’ Malik looked around, taking in the clutter of the room, aware with a sudden poignant pang that this feminine intimacy—which would be the habitat of most men, once they married—would never be his. He let his keen gaze commit the whole scene to memory—all the bottles lining the windowsill, along with candles and a curved glass jar of something coloured green which he assumed was destined for her bath.
Her bath.
Malik swallowed as once again he was haunted by that insistent pulse—beating relentlessly at his temple and now throbbing deep within his groin, too. Why the hell had she brought him in here?
Because she was following his orders!
And it was time he assumed the upper hand.
‘I cannot talk in here,’ he snapped—his sweeping hand movement managing to convey his disdain and incredulity that he had ever allowed himself to be lured into such an unsuitable setting in the first place. ‘Have you eaten?’
Food had been the very last thing on her mind, and in truth she hadn’t had a thing—mainly because he had burst in with all his guards before she’d managed to get a forkful of curry into her mouth. Sorrel shook her head, and Malik slid a phone from his pocket, punched out a number and issued a curt directive to the person who answered immediately.
‘Bring the car round, would you?’ he said, his black eyes fixed to her face. ‘And reserve a table for two for dinner.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SORREL had forgotten what it was like to be a part of royal life—to be whisked along by its smooth and efficient machinery. There were never any blips when you were with a king—or if there were, then you were shielded and protected from them.
Cars turned up when they were supposed to, and no traffic jams ever impeded progress—since roads were cleared just to make the journey trouble-free. Planes took off on time, trains ran to within seconds of their predicted timetables, and tables in restaurants magically became available at a moment’s notice—no matter how exclusive the eatery, nor how crowded.
At the exact moment that Sorrel and Malik stepped out of her apartment block, a limousine with tinted windows slid to a halt. It moved with all the importance and weight of a heavily bullet-proofed vehicle, and of course it demonstrated to Sorrel the downside of a privileged and royal life.
Sorrel hadn’t put up any objections when Malik had ‘suggested’ they eat out—not just because her stomach was empty, but because she knew it would be pointless to argue with him when he was in this kind of mood. And perhaps because she could see his point, that the ruler of Kharastan could not be expected to have an unchaperoned conversation in a single woman’s bathroom!
He still hadn’t given her any clues about what it was he wished to say to her.
‘So what’s this talk you want to have with me?’ she asked, forcing a casual note into her voice that she was far from feeling as she slid onto the car seat next to him.
Malik’s black eyes glittered her a warning. Had she always spoken to him so freely, he wondered, or had he simply forgotten? Certainly there was no other person than Sorrel in his court who would have dared address him in such a blasé manner. And since she had left Kharastan he seemed to have become aware of the starchy formality of his life as never before.
Yet he was momentarily distracted by the faint outline of her leg through the filmy material of her skirt, and the subtle fragrance of the perfume she wore, and he leant back against the soft leather of the seat so that he could avert his gaze without appearing to do so. ‘I do not intend to discuss it here and now,’ he cautioned coolly. ‘You must wait until we get to the restaurant.’
Oh, must she? Once she might have bristled at the rather pompous way he was speaking to her, but Sorrel was still feeling unsettled—as much by the way he had been looking at her back there as by the unexpectedness of his appearance. And now they were closeted together in the back of a limousine and suddenly it felt different. Awkward. As if the old ease which had always existed between them had somehow been obliterated and replaced with something darker—something she didn’t recognise and wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Swallowing down her nerves, she started to make conversation, as she had done innumerable times with visiting diplomats to the palace, but never with Malik. ‘So where are we going?’ she asked, because talking distracted her from the awareness of his male heat and his hair, which gleamed like the wing of the Black Kite which flew so powerfully over the desert sands.
‘Does it matter?’ he queried carelessly.
‘Bet it’s the Etoile de la Mer,’ she hazarded, and then, in answer to his questioning look. ‘It’s the best hotel in Brighton.’
‘You have visited it before, perhaps?’
She hesitated, wondering if she could possibly convey how different her life here was from the privileged existence she’d enjoyed in Kharastan. ‘Hardly. It isn’t really in my price league.’
‘No? I’m sure that there must be a queue of men eager to take you out for an expensive supper, Sorrel,’ he murmured silkily.
His soft words made it abundantly clear what he thought those men might be granted as a reward for such an expensive supper, and Sorrel was conscious of his insulting implication. Yet she was also aware that it would be an unforgivable breach of protocol to risk the driver hearing her snap back a comm
ent at the Sheikh, and so she merely allowed her mouth to curve into an enigmatic smile.
‘Yes,’ she agreed dreamily. ‘A queue that stretches right round the block and back again.’
‘This is true?’ he hissed.
The look she sent him was one of pure challenge, sparking blue from her eyes. ‘Wait until we get to the restaurant,’ she retorted softly, replicating his own words. ‘I do not intend to discuss it here and now.’
There was a short and disbelieving pause as he registered her insolence, and Malik felt his blood on fire with an unfamiliar heat. He felt himself hardening beneath his robes, cursing the sweet-painful throb of desire, and silently cursed that it had been Sorrel who had brought him to such a point and at such an inconvenient time.
If it had been any other woman he would have slipped his hand beneath her skirt. Would have tapped sharply on the driver’s window and alerted him to the fact that he had changed his mind. That he was no longer hungry. Well, not for food. But it was not any other woman. It was…
‘Malik!’
Her soft voice broke into his erotic thoughts and he knew that he must take control before he did something unforgivable—like kiss her.
‘Yes?’ he snapped.
How moody he could be, Sorrel thought. And what a timely reminder that it might hurt a bit—sometimes more than others—but ultimately it was better to be out of his life and living her own on the other side of the world from him.
‘We’re here.’
The limo had drawn up outside a hotel and it was as Sorrel had predicted—for the sign outside read Etoile de la Mer.
‘Bravo, Sorrel!’ he applauded softly.
As the name suggested, the Etoile de la Mer was situated overlooking the sea—the kind of venue which played host to visiting politicians and stars who performed at the local theatres. A minor member of the British royal family had been conducting an extramarital affair for many years within its luxurious walls. It was discreet, luxurious, and very expensive.
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