But the only thing Abigail McClean noticed, the first time she met Kiral Mazroui, was his eyes.
Enormous and almond-shaped, set evenly in his symmetrical face, they were the most compelling shade of grey she’d ever seen. There were flecks of gold in them, only set against the stormy slate the gold looked like silver. They glowed, as did he.
Transfixed, her gaze lingered on the eyes that seemed so powerful and knowledgeable before at last glancing higher, to the full head of thick black hair, and then lower, to the generous mouth that was set in a bemused smile. His cheeks were slashed with dark colour, as though he’d been running, but his chest — wide, muscled — didn’t move fast.
It took Abigail only seconds to recollect herself, but she felt like, in that moment, her whole life had taken a slip out of her control. Something was happening inside of her. Connections were being forged that were beyond her power to address.
She blinked slowly, to clear the odd sensation and forced a smile to her face. “Hi,” she said, belatedly recalling her role to meet and greet guests of the exclusive restaurant. “What name?” She prompted, glad to have her reservations book as an excuse to look away from the angles and planes of this man’s face.
“Name?”
God, his accent was a dream. Husky and deep, with spice and sultry sensuality in even that one single word.
Her startled gaze flew back to his, and her stomach lurched. “Your booking? What name is it under?”
He looked, momentarily, offended. Then, bemusement was back. “Ki,” he intoned deeply, rhyming the word to Sky.
She scanned the page even though she knew it was a wild goose-chase. Reservations at the restaurant were held with two full names, usually a title as well. Ki, on its own, would be insufficient.
He reached across and wrapped his fingers around hers. The shock was instant. A bolt of electricity surged through her body. Her insides began to quiver.
“You will not see me there.” His eyes were locked to hers. She was mesmerised. Behind her, the restaurant hummed and buzzed. Jazz music was coming from the stage, where three of the most sought-after musicians in the whole of New York were crooning their way through a set.
“Oh.” She didn’t pull her hand away and she silently prayed he wouldn’t either.
“I don’t have a booking. Will that be a problem?” His English was impeccable but his accent was pronounced. She guessed that he was holidaying in America, rather than living in the States.
The restaurant was over-full. A mishap with the online booking system meant they were booked beyond capacity. Tables had been arranged to accommodate the additional numbers, but even then, it was bedlam.
“I…” She lifted her fingers and toyed with the top button of the silky white blouse she wore. His eyes captured the gesture and lingered there involuntarily. Her skin was only lightly tanned; hardly surprising given that it was snowing on the streets. But in summer, Kiral imagined she would turn a deep golden brown.
His mood had been bleak all day. Since signing his betrothal papers that morning, he had felt increasingly sour. But now a fresh breeze of speculation and interest was wrapping around him. This woman was at its epicenter.
“If you’re happy to sit at the bar,” she said with an endearingly nervous flicker of her lips, “I can serve you there.”
His eyebrow lifted at the offer. As Sheikh of one of the most powerful countries in the world, the thought of sitting amongst New Yorkers boozing their way through lunch would indeed be a novelty. It was something he might have considered beneath him, were he not seeking refuge from the group of men waiting for him outside.
They might have existed purely to serve him, but even they had not been able to save him from the necessity of enslaving himself forever to a political marriage. It made sense, true, but every fibre of his being bucked against it. He was Kiral Mazroui, the rightful descendant of an ancient line of Kings. How dare anyone tie his power and the prosperity of his Kingdom to marriage?
It was a disgusting joke that had become his life.
“Sir?”
Her lips were a perfect pink, and he suspected the colour was natural rather than cosmetically enhanced. They were full too, stretched across her even, white teeth. She had a dimple in her chin, and a sweetness to her smile that made his mood improve even further.
“Fine,” he said with a curt nod, consulting his watch. He needed time to process the shit storm he’d be heading back to when he returned to Delani. Word would already be spreading through diplomatic channels that the negotiations had been finalised.
The marriage would take place.
Abigail breathed out a sigh of relief. She hadn’t realised until that moment that she’d been holding her breath waiting and hoping he wouldn’t say no. If he walked out the door again, Abigail suspected she might have wondered about him for the rest of her life.
It was a stupid fancy, but Abigail didn’t care. Her smile sparkled with her pleasure. “This way, please,” she indicated the general direction of the heavily wooded bar at the heart of the prestigious restaurant.
She chose a space down the end, and he was glad to see that there were empty seats on either side. He had no interest in small talk. No interest in invasive attention. Certainly no interest in being recognised.
“Here’s our lunch menu, sir. May I get you a drink while you decide what you’d like?”
He didn’t so much as glance at the menu. “I’ll have a dozen oysters, Russian style with a green salad.”
“Oh.” His decisiveness was a huge turn-on. Abigail hadn’t known, until then, that she found power to be an aphrodisiac. But his self-assuredness was a drug that she was already becoming addicted to. “Of course.” She swallowed; her mouth was dry.
“And a Macallan, straight.”
Her throat knotted visibly as she swallowed again. She nodded. She knew she was staring at him like a crazy woman, but that was hardly her fault. He was like a magnet for her attention. How tall would he have been? Six feet easy. Maybe even six and a half. His shoulders were broad; his waist neatly tapered. Though he looked strong and masculine, there was barely an inch spare on him.
What did he do to stay in such great shape?
And was he as beautiful to look at all over?
Her cheeks blossomed with colour and she took a small step backwards. “Excuse me, sir. I’ll go and …” she pointed towards the kitchen, her words fading as he settled himself comfortably onto the barstool. His legs were spread a little and her attention was drawn then to, perhaps, the most obvious display of his virility.
“Yes?” He prompted with lazy amusement. Looking back, in years to come, Kiral would always pinpoint that as the exact moment when he realized they would be together. “You’ll go and, what?”
Her expression showed guilt as she jerked her head back upright. She all but grimaced as she took another step away from him. “I’ll go and put your order in.”
“What is your name?” His quiet question was a command. She had no idea that he was a leader by birth and position, but on some level she could tell that he was used to being obeyed. It never entered her head to refuse to answer.
“Abigail,” she whispered. She was drowning. At nineteen, Abigail had never known anything like this instant and overwhelming attraction. She’d had a couple of boyfriends in her freshman year, but they’d been juvenile love affairs. Childish, fumbling romances that had withered before they’d got serious.
“Abigail,” he repeated, sending shards of awareness along her spine at the way he rolled the syllables in his mouth and kissed them into the air. Their eyes locked together and a force of energy rolled from one to the other. It set Abigail’s pulse firing.
“Ki,” she said, for lack of anything else to offer.
His smile made her body sag. It was perfect.
“That’s right.”
The very air that surrounded them sparked with sensual promise. “Excuse me.” She was suffocating. Drowning. She was morphing i
nto someone – something – else. If she didn’t escape, she’d never be the same again.
Her cheeks flushed pink as she spun on her heel to deposit his order in the kitchen and try to put him out of her head.
It was with relief that she slipped back to the desk at the front of the restaurant and buried her head in the reservation book. She was pretending to be busy. Though the restaurant was packed, most of the patrons had already arrived. Her job was largely done. But she continued to make herself look engaged. She continued to flick through the diary, and compare the bookings with those in the computer. She told herself she was being diligent after the online reservation system had crashed.
But it was so much more than that. She only had to recognise how many times her interest drifted, of its own accord, towards the bar. His back was to her, but once their eyes met in the mirrored reflection of the wall and she startled and dipped her head so fast that she almost pulled a muscle in her neck.
He was impossibly gorgeous, even in a city like New York, and a restaurant like this, where handsome businessmen and celebrities were a pretty standard inclusion in her day. In a city of beauty and wealth, he stood out like a diamond in a coal mine.
Abigail focused so hard on looking busy, that she barely noticed as the restaurant cleared of its patrons.
“Abs.” She blinked, her skin still tingling in the strangest way. Her manager Caroline was smiling at her.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
“You’re away with the fairies. Did the computer guys get back to you? What the hell happened with the booking system?”
“Still waiting to hear,” Abi looked heavenward in a universal sign of frustration. “I think it was a problem with the third party software, rather than our website.”
Caroline scowled. “And we pay a fortune to use them to allegedly streamline our processes. Ridiculous.” At forty-one, Caroline Golding was a New York institution. She’d worked in the best restaurants and bars for two decades, and in that time she’d dated some of the hottest New Yorkers. She was beautiful and expensive looking. She was also bright and brassy, and far too obsessed with herself to get seriously involved with anyone else.
“Yeah, well, it worked out okay in the end. The kitchen coped. Everyone just about squeezed in.”
Caroline made a sound of disapproval. Her blonde hair was almost white. It glistened in the soft glowing light of the restaurant. “Who’s the hunk at the bar?”
“Hunk?” Abigail swallowed and let her eyes drift towards the man.
Ki.
He had finished eating some time earlier. His plate was gone, but his scotch was in front of him. Or perhaps it was another? He’d been there a long time. More than long enough to have gone through two, or even three, drinks.
“That gorgeous specimen of masculinity over there. I wouldn’t mind giving him a little more attention,” Caroline said with a straightening of her shoulders. There was a determined glint in her eye and Abigail knew that she was going to go to him. To flirt with him. And Abigail had very little doubt that Caroline would succeed, for Caroline Golding was as irresistible as she was confident.
With a sinking sense of morbid fascination, Abigail watched Caroline sashay across the polished concrete floor. She stopped right beside the man, so close Abigail could just imagine Ki would be smelling Caroline’s floral perfume and availability. He’d also be copping an eyeful of the lace bra she was wearing beneath the semi-transparent dress.
Subtlety was not, and never had been, Caroline’s strong suit.
“Good afternoon sir,” Caroline purred. Abigail strained to hear, but the music was too loud, and their voices too hushed. “I trust you’ve enjoyed your meal?”
His look was one of impatience. His nod sent a message of disapproval.
Caroline disregarded both. “We have more comfortable tables available now, if you’d like to choose somewhere else to sit?”
He speculatively scanned the restaurant, his attention lingering for a moment longer than necessary on Abigail. Her face was averted but her cheeks were pink again. Though he’d spoken hardly a dozen words to her, he felt he knew her intimately. He knew, for instance, that she was listening, and that she was more interested than she wanted to be in how he responded to this blonde’s attempt to hook his attention.
“I’m fine here.” He lanced the woman in front of him with his gaze. “Tell me, madam, what time does your associate finish her shift?”
“My … associate?”
He made a noise of assent. “Abigail.”
Caroline was momentarily offended, but it was a short flash of emotion that she dispensed with instantly. Even if she didn’t greatly admire and like her young friend’s company, she had no interest in entering into a fight for a mere man. He was gorgeous, true, but if he didn’t feel the same spark of interest for Caroline that she felt for him then it was his loss.
“Abigail? Why, she can finish now,” Caroline grinned, craning her head in the direction of the front desk. “Abs?” She only had to raise her voice slightly to attract Abigail’s attention. Caroline dragged a single manicured finger through the air in an unmistakable gesture of invitation.
Abigail’s stomach fell.
What now?
She moved towards him with a fatalistic sense of foreboding. Each step was taking her nearer her destiny. But what exactly was that?
By the time she’d reached them, her insides were quivering almost unbearably. “Can I help you, Caroline?” Her voice shook as she spoke and inwardly she cursed it for betraying her. She couldn’t so much as look in his direction, and so she didn’t see the frank appraisal that was written all over his face.
“Not me,” Caroline said with a small smile. “Him.” She grinned as she sashayed off, stranding Abigail with the man she’d been trying her hardest to tune out all afternoon.
Doing her best to pull her nerves together, she turned her whole body towards his, unaware that in doing so she was basically putting herself within the triangle formed by his strong legs. “Sir?” She prompted guardedly, though her pulse was hammering in her chest and her mouth was dry.
“Abigail,” he returned. He lifted his scotch to his lips and tasted it without shifting his glance from her.
His stare was unnerving but she refused to buckle first. She kept her focus locked to him. As an almost academic matter, she tried to decide exactly what shade of grey his eyes most closely matched. Her father, before leaving Abigail’s mother and Abigail for an overweight dog-breeder, had worked in a hardware store. Abigail had spent weekends at his feet as a child, and the paint charts had been her favourite toys. She’d played with them endlessly. His eyes were a mix of perhaps ten different shades, but if she had a palette before her, she suspected she could recreate them.
“You are finished working.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
“Is it?” She took a small step backwards. He was too close. Too overpowering. The alternative to stepping backwards wasn’t simply standing still – it was leaning closer. Always closer, needing more, wanting more. His chest, moving in time with his deep breathing, was calling to her hands, begging her to touch him. She wouldn’t and couldn’t give in to such temptation.
“I am not in town for long. A few days, perhaps. Spend them with me.”
Her heart turned over in her chest and an expression of confusion rearranged her dainty features. “With you?” She stammered softly. “What do you mean, with you?”
He captured her hand easily and lifted it to his lips. His kiss was gentle but it sent small fires of anticipation bursting beneath her skin. “Yes. With me.” For the smallest of moments he thought of the contracts he’d just signed. Contracts pledging his faith and loyalty to another woman.
But the wedding would take years to organise. His intended bride was still studying. She should complete her degree, and then take her place by his side.
“Where? Where do you want me to go with you?” But even then, she knew
she would go anywhere.
His smile was triumphant.
She was his.
“Let us start with my hotel.”
That was the moment. She didn’t know it, but that was the second she should have walked away. Or at least seen him for what he was.
But Abigal McClean saw only a handsome stranger with a disarming smile and sexy accent. If she’d known he was a powerful Sheikh, would that have caused her to pause? If she’d known that he was engaged? Unavailable? Definitely. But she did not, and so she nodded slowly, and felt all the parts of her soul knit together in one perfect, complete piece.
She would go with him, wherever he wanted.
Just as she was meant to.
CHAPTER SIX
“It’s snowing again,” she murmured, catching the smallest of little stars in her gloved hand. She was so transfixed by the perfection of that moment – him, the sky, the snow – that she didn’t realise they had a tail behind them. Men who lived to serve the Sheikh had fallen into step when they emerged, though they kept a discreet distance.
“Yes,” he padded his thumb across her leather glove. He didn’t wear any himself. His fingers looked capable. As though he might play guitar or piano.
“What do you do?” She blurted out, her eyes flying to his almost apologetically. “It’s your hands,” she explained in a rush. “They made me wonder.”
His laugh was like a caress. “Did they? And what, Abigail, did they cause you to conclude?” He linked their fingers together and lifted them level with her eyes.
“I … maybe a musician,” she mumbled with embarrassment. For it was obviously ridiculous. He was dressed far too conservatively and he’d ordered two of the most expensive items on the menu without blinking. He was no struggling guitarist. “That’s stupid,” she tacked on with a small shake of her head. When she went to pull her hand away he squeezed her fingers more tightly and smiled down at her.
His smile alone had the power to set her doubts aside.
Give into the moment, she thought grimly. For it would not last forever.
The Sheikh's Secret Baby: Nothing stays hidden forever ... Page 7