by Kim Lawrence
‘Would you like some refreshment?’
She shook her head, and took a deep breath before launching into her practised impassioned plea. He didn’t interrupt, even when—despite her intention to make her argument with dispassionate cool and not come across as a hysterical female—her voice became suspended by tears and she had to wipe her wet face on the hem of her shirt.
‘And so,’ she finished, having presented what she hoped was a compelling argument, ‘my brother was foolish—really stupid,’ she conceded. ‘But he didn’t do anything criminal. You could say he’s the victim here.’
‘You could. But I would not.’ If the man she spoke of had been a youth, a teenager, he might have felt more sympathy, but it was incomprehensible to Rafiq that a man of thirty could be as naive as the man she described.
Gabby bit her lip. ‘He made a mistake. But he doesn’t deserve to go to jail for twenty-five years. If it helps, I can promise to make his life a living hell if you let him come home.’
Gabby could see no softening in his attitude as he wondered aloud, ‘Does your brother appreciate what a powerful advocate he has in you, I wonder?’
Frustration robbed her retort of diplomacy. ‘I’m not here to ask for favours. I’m here to demand justice. And if that doesn’t work—’
He raised a brow. ‘Demand?’
‘All right,’ she conceded, back-pedalling. ‘I’ll grovel and tell you you’re marvelous—even though you don’t seem to have heard a word I’ve said.’ Had anything she’d said made any impact on him? ‘Oh, and I have these,’ she added, lifting her bottom from the divan and extracting the papers she had stuffed in her back pocket. ‘Character references. I’m not saying that Paul is a saint, because he isn’t, and quite honestly he doesn’t have the sense he was born with. But there isn’t an ounce of vice or malice in him,’ she promised sincerely. She smoothed the papers before extending her hand.
There was a pause before Prince Rafiq took them from her, but he made no attempt to look at them. His eyes remained directed with an intensity she found unnerving on her face.
‘Aren’t you going to look at them?’
‘I’m sure they show your brother in a favourable light. You would hardly bring me anything that did not do so.’
Frustration bubbled up in Gabby. ‘If you weren’t going to take me seriously why did you let me waste my time talking?’
‘Because I wanted to see how much your brother’s freedom means to you.’
‘Like a lab rat, you mean?’ she suggested, her tone of polite enquiry at stark variance with the militant sparkle in her eyes. ‘You were dangling candy?’
His eyes slid over her body and he gave a shrug. ‘I can think of more flattering analogies,’ he observed drily.
‘Don’t tell me—dog? Donkey…?’ He, she thought, her eyes sweeping his face from under the protective sweep of her eyelashes, would be something lean, sleek and unpredictable…A panther, perhaps—although there was something wolfish about him now, as he bared his teeth in a smile that left his remarkable eyes cold.
Ignoring her cranky interjection, he conceded, ‘I wanted to gauge what you might do to gain him a pardon.’ His dark eyes narrowed as he scanned her face. His voice was soft as he asked, ‘What would you do, Miss Barton?’
Gabby shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, do?’
‘I mean what price do you put on your brother’s freedom?’
She felt the first flicker of real hope, but remained cautious as she asked, ‘Are you saying you could get Paul released?’
‘I could.’
‘But will you?’
The pause stretched, and Gabby held her breath.
‘That is…negotiable.’
Shaking with relief, she surged to her feet. If he had been anyone else she would have kissed him. Her eyes brushed his mouth, and the image that flashed in her head sent her stomach into a rollercoaster dip.
She tried to pretend the heat rush was an air-conditioning fault rather than hormones, and trained her gaze on a relatively non-fantasy-provoking area of his anatomy. Although there was nothing aesthetically unpleasing about middle of his chest.
‘I’ll do anything!’ she pronounced.
CHAPTER FIVE
HER unquestioning response caused Rafiq to experience an inconvenient spasm of guilt.
‘This is something you should think about,’ he cautioned.
He could not be fairer—there was no question of deception or taking advantage of her obvious fatigue. She could choose to walk away. He would not stop her.
Gabby frowned as he rose to his feet and stood there, towering over her. She hastily followed his example—but with a lot less towering and none of the co-ordinated animal grace that epitomised all his movements.
‘I don’t have to think about it. I would do anyth—’Her confident assurance was cut short by the single finger pressed to her lips. Gabby’s blue eyes flew wide. The contact didn’t just silence her tongue, it shut down every link between her brain and her limbs. She was literally paralysed…with lust?
Gabby immediately dismissed this laughable theory. She was clearly suffering the physical symptoms of stress and exhaustion—he wasn’t even her type.
Why exactly, asked the voice in her head, do you feel the need to tell yourself that again? It’s not as if you’re fooling anyone, it pointed out, least of all him.
Gabby’s wide blue gaze lifted to the Prince’s lean face. Previously she had been so mesmerised by him that she had failed to notice how deep the lines bracketing his mouth were, how tightly the smooth golden flesh was drawn across the sharp planes and angles of his face, how there was a grey tinge to his complexion.
She felt a flash of concern that vanished the moment their glances connected. This man was the very last person in the universe who needed her sympathy.
‘Do not commit yourself until you know what the price is…’ His finger left the cushiony softness of her pink lips and trailed lightly across her cheek before falling away.
The menace in his cryptic advice sent a shiver of fear trickling down Gabby’s sweat-dampened back. She asked apprehensively, ‘What do you mean, price?’
‘Miss Barton, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Speaking of which—I will arrange refreshments.’
‘No!’ Gabby grabbed his arm and Rafiq turned his head.
Aware of the rapid progress of the deep flush that was working its way up her neck, Gabby dropped her hand. She resented the way that with the quirk of one flyaway black brow he could make an innocent tactile gesture seem something a lot more complicated.
‘I don’t want food, I want…’ I want my legs to start working, so that I can run somewhere I don’t have to deal with someone with weird pewter-shot eyes making it hard to concentrate.
Gabby was instantly ashamed of her selfish reaction. This was about Paul. This man could save him—and what was she doing? Turning accepting his hospitality into a battle of wills. It wasn’t going to kill her to be civil to the man, was it?
‘Nevertheless you will have lunch.’
She bit her lip. Civil was fine in theory, but did he have to present everything as a damned ultimatum?
‘The decision I will ask you to make should not be made when you are suffering from exhaustion.’
‘I am not exhausted.’ Even as she spoke Gabby was conscious of the uncontrollable tremor in her limbs and the cotton wool sensation in her head.
‘No?’ He raised a brow and studied her face objectively. ‘When did you last sleep? Eat?’
It wasn’t until he introduced the subject that Gabby realised that it was a long time since she had done either. Once her adrenaline levels dropped she recognised she was not going to be able to negotiate her way out of a paper bag! Food was probably a good idea—and caffeine was an even better one.
‘Or, for that matter, bathe?’
Gabby sucked in an offended breath. ‘Are you saying I smell?’
The memory of the floral
-scented female smell that had teased his nostrils when she had been in his arms came back to Rafiq, and without warning desire slammed through his body. An image formed in his mind of her, soft and warm, lying beneath him, her arms wrapped around him and her long blonde hair spread out on a pillow…
The image was so strong that he was sucked into a wild sensual vortex as the room and reality receded.
Gabby knew she was not drop-dead gorgeous, but she was vain enough to resent his pointed reminder that she looked like a wreck—especially when the comment had been made by the most spectacularly gorgeous man on the planet.
‘And you’re one to talk,’ she snapped, studying the drawn lines of his patrician face with a speculative frown. ‘When did you last have a decent night’s sleep?’ And how unfair, she reflected, her gaze lingering on the sensual upper curve of his mouth, that being sleep-deprived didn’t stop him looking incredible.
Her challenging expression morphed into one of bemusement as he continued to stare at her. There was a sheen of moisture on his broad brow, and the expression in his dilated eyes was oddly blank.
‘Are you all right…?’
Rafiq blinked, the effort causing beads of moisture to break out along his upper lip as he dragged himself clear of the sensual scene playing out in his head. A man who normally prided himself on his control, he was shocked to be caught displaying the restraint of a teenage schoolboy with raging hormones.
A muscle in his lean cheek clenched. ‘I’m fine.’
‘If you say so.’ Gabby did not bother to hide her scepticism. ‘But if you ask me, if anyone looks like they need a good feed it’s you.’
It was not the observation that startled Rafiq but the person it came from. His weight loss had gone totally unnoticed by those close to him.
It seemed ironic that a total stranger had noticed what they had missed and he—he had ignored. If he hadn’t…
He shook his head fractionally. There was no point going there. Such perception, however, would be useful for the role he had in mind for Gabby Barton.
‘It doesn’t matter who you are, you can only get away with burning the candle at both ends for so long,’ she pointed out, oblivious to the fact that people did not rebuke the Crown Prince of Zantara.
‘My life is one long party,’ Rafiq drawled sardonically.
A party that probably involved a lot of women—the sleek, sexy sort. Well, they weren’t going to be ugly, were they?
Gabby’s lips formed a moue of distaste. ‘You can swing from the chandeliers for all I care,’ she said, with a shrug that was intended to establish her total uninterest in his social life. ‘What do I know? All that inbreeding has probably bred out your need for sleep.’
That would have been convenient, Rafiq reflected, giving a hard laugh. The night sweats and insomnia and his resulting constant fatigue had been some of the collection of insidious symptoms that had made him eventually seek medical advice.
Having never suffered a day’s illness in his entire life, it had not crossed his mind that the doctors would discover any sinister cause.
‘Have I said something funny?’
He shook his head. ‘Not funny, just insightful.’
‘You mean you don’t need sleep?’
Only too aware of how badly he needed to sleep, Rafiq ignored the question. ‘Our gene pool is really not so stagnant as you appear to think. Over the years there have been many infusions of fresh blood.’
And had those infusions been willing additions to the gene pool? Gabby speculated. Or had his relations—the ones he had inherited that mouth and eyes from—ridden around the desert abducting nubile maidens who caught their fancy?
It was not exactly a big stretch to see Rafiq Al Kamil in the role of desert Sheikh, astride some high-bred stallion, his flowing desert robes flying as he scooped up another victim before riding off into the sunset with his prize and installing her in some silken tent.
Gabby had only the faintest mental image of the tent, but a very vivid representation in her head of the sleek-bodied, bold-eyed seducer of innocents as he tore off his robes.
Her waking fantasy was interrupted by his bored drawl. ‘I am merely offering you hospitality. I would like you to be rested and lucid when we discuss this matter further. Do not be rash, Miss Barton, because I will hold you to any promises you make.’
Gabby didn’t know if the sinister note in his warning was a creation of her fertile imagination, but after he had swept away to God knew where, without offering her even a crumb of explanation, she sat reflecting on his departing comment.
For the first time she asked herself what the price he put on her brother’s freedom was. What did she have that a prince who had everything wanted?
She was sitting pondering this when her lolling head hit her chest, and she jerked upright with a cry. The last thing she wanted to do was fall asleep. She needed to keep her wits about her. Shaking her head to clear her muzzy thoughts, she got up and scrubbed her eyes with her fists. She began to pace the room.
Of all the places she could have ended up when she ran she had found herself here—was it fate?
What could she have that the Prince wanted?
Catching sight of her reflection as she passed a full-length mirror in a heavily carved ornate frame, she let out a groan of startled dismay.
Her hair that had started the day—or was it yesterday? She had lost track—secured at the nape of her neck in a ponytail now streamed down her back and curled in wild disarray around her face. Any trace of make-up was gone, and her face and wrecked clothes were liberally smeared with dirt from where she had landed face down in the dust when she had rolled from the delivery truck.
‘Oh, Lord!’ Easy to see now why the man had suggested she needed a wash!
One hand lifted to her head, she approached the mirror. Well, one thing she could rule out was him asking for sexual favours in return for Paul’s freedom—not that she had ever ruled it in.
Remembering the paralysing stab of lust that had immobilised her when he had touched her, she just prayed he had no inkling of her mortifying reaction. God, to think she had actually imagined for a split second that it had been mutual…
Gabby grimaced at her reflection. Talk about deluded! Unless possibly the Prince had a thing for bag ladies…?
Licking her finger, she tried to rub a smear of dirt off her cheek. Besides, even if he had been smitten with terminal lust at the sight of her—a low chuckle of self-deprecation escaped her throat at the thought—he didn’t strike her as the sort of man who traded for sexual favours.
Why would he, when he had probably been fighting off women with a stick all his adult life? Or maybe not fighting? This possibility made her frown severely at her reflection.
Running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame the wild waves, she did not at first see the young woman who had appeared quietly in the room, and when she did she jumped.
‘Oh—I didn’t see you there.’
‘Sorry, miss.’ The girl bowed her veiled head. She was young and very pretty, and regarded Gabby with ill-concealed curiosity. ‘The Prince has asked me to show you to your rooms.’
I have rooms? Gabby decided not to question it, though the alteration in her status from unwanted intruder to honoured guest was hard to get her head around. In a lot of ways she had felt more comfortable when they were trying to throw her out. That at least had had the feel of normality, whereas what was happening now was deeply surreal.
‘Lead the way,’ Gabby said, wondering what she’d let herself in for.
Gabby tried, but all her attempts at making conversation with her guide drew only a nervous laugh or a startled look from the big fawn eyes, so eventually she lapsed into awed silence.
It was hard not to be awed by the sheer scale and splendour of the palace—a splendour that Gabby had not had the time to appreciate during her earlier flight.
The young girl led Gabby through a maze of wide corridors and splendid ornate cour
tyards to an area of the palace her earlier wanderings had not led her near. Here, the splendour went up to a new level.
They turned a corner, and Gabby drew a startled breath. The wall to her left was fitted with a vast floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. Light streamed through, casting a vibrant shadow that danced on the ceiling and trickled down like liquid gold fingers onto the floor.
The girl looked around in enquiry when Gabby stopped, apparently oblivious to the breathtaking magnificence.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Gabby said, gesturing to the glass panel.
The girl looked puzzled, but flashed Gabby a sweet smile. She gestured to a wide sweeping staircase that led to the floor above, the dozens of thin gold bangles on her wrist jangling musically.
She walked along the corridor so quickly that Gabby, whose legs felt like lead, lagged behind. At the far end she opened a door and gestured for Gabby to enter.
‘Your rooms, miss.’
The sitting room alone had about three times the floor space of the entire tiny flat her parents had converted for her on the top storey of the Edwardian house where she and Paul had grown up.
Their homing pigeon, her parents called her. Gabby had never felt any impulse to travel to far exotic places. Straight out of college a job in the local primary school had come up, and she had been delighted to get it. Some people were adventurous, but she just wasn’t one of them. She didn’t dream about faraway places. Ironic, really, because here she was, in a place more exotic than she’d imagined existed…
She did a full three-hundred-and-sixty twirl and let out a silent whistle. ‘This is incredible.’
Her guide smiled with pleasure and gestured towards the doors that were flung open onto a wide balcony.
‘You would like to see the view? Many admire it. When your Prime Minister stayed his wife took many photographs.’
Gabby smiled at the girl, impressed. Prime Minister! ‘No, thank you,’ she said. She had had enough of views—and this time there would be no strong male arms to pull her back from danger.