Back in the Brazilian's Bed

by Susan Stephens

  Or was that just his own state of mind?

  At his left hand side, the sound came again, soft and light, bringing his head round so fast it made his thoughts spin. Who?

  ‘Highness.’

  The voice was low, quiet, but with an edge of apprehension marking it as he glared into the darkness. It was also obviously female, something that should have made his tension ease, relaxing his shoulders. But there was something about the sound of her voice that tugged at memories he had thought long buried, dragging them to the surface of his mind when he had no wish to revisit them. Memories that had taught him that no one, man or woman, was truly to be trusted.

  ‘Who’s there? Show yourself.’

  A rustle of fabric sweeping the stone flags, the whisper of soft shoes on the hard ground and she stepped forward, into the moonlight. Small and slender, pale face, dark hair, an embroidered wrap swathing her body and up and over her head, covering her almost completely.

  For a second it seemed that his heart juddered in his chest, his breath catching, so that the attempt at words escaped him almost without thought.

  ‘Sharmila?’

  He didn’t believe in ghosts—and yet something spoke to him...

  ‘Your pardon, Sheikh.’

  Her hands, steepled together, came out to touch her forehead as she lowered her head in a salute of respect and submission. The gesture made him catch two things. First there was the wave of perfume, sandalwood and flowers, rich and sensual. It swirled around him like scented mist, putting his senses on alert, but this time in a new and very different way. He inhaled deeply, felt the aroma work its way through him like some rich wine so that he had to blink hard to clear his vision. That was when he noticed the second thing—that the left hand she had lifted to her forehead had a—not a deformity—a tiny twist to the little finger that made it sit not quite straight against her hand.

  From somewhere deep a memory stirred in his mind, surfaced and was then gone again. Had he seen her before—and if so when?

  But the woman—a young woman—was speaking again, her words bringing his attention back to the present.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Highness. I didn’t know that anyone else was out here. I thought no one would notice me.’

  Aziza’s voice trembled in her own ears. She should have known that she could be caught out here, like this, away from the celebrations in the main hall. She also knew that Sheikh Nabil was a hard, demanding man, totally focused on security within his palace. Who could blame him after what had happened? But the noise and the heat of the anniversary party had all been rather too much for her. That and watching her older sister Jamalia flirt outrageously—or as outrageously as she dared in front of their parents—with every eligible young man who was present.

  She had had to get away from the party, away from playing second fiddle to Jamalia. Away from her father’s constant scrutiny of his second daughter, the one who might as well be a servant because of the way he expected her to keep in the background. She was supposed to stay there and act as chaperone. Of course Jamalia didn’t want her there; and to tell the truth Aziza had wanted to be anywhere but with her sister. She hadn’t even wanted to come to this party in the first place. But her father had insisted. Everyone who was anyone would be at the celebration, and their absence would most definitely be noticed if they weren’t.

  ‘Not mine,’ Aziza had muttered under her breath but her mother’s glare in her direction had made her think more than twice about saying the words aloud. So she had swallowed down her protest, had dressed herself in the deep pink silk gown that had been provided and had followed in her parents’ footsteps into the golden palace for the evening.

  Jamalia of course had thought that her reluctance was only because her sister didn’t want to act as chaperone. That and the fact that Aziza was always ill at ease with the young men who flocked to her side. But there was more to it than that.

  And now the real reason why she had been so unwilling to come tonight was standing right before her, tall and powerful, the scent of his skin swirling round her, his dark head blotting out the light of the moon so that she was totally in his shadow.

  It was a place she was used to, she acknowledged privately. She had always been in Nabil’s shadow, always trailing after him from the moment when, as a lordly twelve-year-old on a visit to her parents’ home, he had flung himself from the saddle of a horse that had seemed skyscraper high to her diminutive five-year-old status and tossed the reins in the direction of a groom.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The question, hard and sharp, was exactly the same one that Nabil had demanded of her all those years before so that for the moment she didn’t recognise the fact that it had come from Nabil and not from her memories. It was only when she saw his mouth clamp tight together in the darkness of the rich beard he now sported that she realised he had asked her now and not then.

  ‘Just a maid.’

  She looked the part well enough, she reflected. The pink gown wasn’t new, of course, but one handed down from Jamalia. ‘It will do for Zia,’ her father had said. Because Aziza wasn’t the one being paraded in front of the Sheikh in the hope of an advantageous marriage, as her sister was.

  ‘I—I am with Jamalia, sire.’

  Instinct made her spread her skirts, sweeping into a low and careful curtsey. She hoped that the obeisance she showed him might ease the tension she could feel coming in waves from the tall, powerful man before her. Her mother had worried that she would stumble into some awkward situation if she went off on her own, and right now it seemed that Naddiya had been right. But the truth was that this situation was not of the politicking and plotting that her parents were obsessed with and much more on a personal level.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Zia, sire.’

  Some instinct made her give the nickname everyone in her family used. At least that way he might not associate her directly with her parents and their political manoeuvrings. It was impossible to avoid the sting of wry reflection at the thought of just why her given name had been shortened to this form.

  ‘Aziza, hmm?’ her father had said. ‘A name that means “the beautiful one” for someone so small and plain? I think not. Let’s face it, our second daughter could never be the beautiful one when compared with her sister.’ He had shortened her name to Zia and it had stuck.

  ‘I needed some air. I ask your pardon...’

  An impatient, dismissive wave of his hand flicked away her explanation, making her break off in confusion. Had he forgiven her for being here—hiding, as he would see it, in the darkness? She’d taken a real risk, knowing how tight the security still was in the place. So she would only have herself to blame if this all turned nasty.

  Perhaps she should have given him her own name, but her heart kicked inside at just the thought. All those years ago, from the moment that the twelve-year-old Nabil had turned to notice her—her, not her two years older sister Jamalia—she had lost her heart in the blink of an eye. For days after that, she had followed him round like a little puppy, always at his heels, hoping for another glance her way. She was so unused to being singled out for any attention that his tolerance for her, the stunning effect of his smile, even then had knocked her off balance. She had fallen head over heels into a youthful adoration that was all the more potent for having been so innocent and juvenile. She had given him her childish heart and all that had happened since had meant that he still had a hold on her emotions that no one else had ever quite managed to displace him from.

  He was so instantly recognisable—apart from the black beard that shaded his angular jaw—she would have known who he was immediately. But there was something deeply personal that held her back from giving him her name. What if he didn’t remember her? If he stared at her blankly, unable to recall any Aziza from so long ago? Her father would have laughed at the though
t that he might recall her, and it was foolish to let herself be hurt by the possibility—the probability—that he would not remember her as she did him. But something small and hidden deep inside her shrank from even taking the risk.

  ‘If you will forgive me...’

  She had turned towards the doors into the main palace when he stirred again and his voice came from behind her.

  ‘Don’t go!’

  Nabil had no idea what made him say it. Why the hell should he want anyone to stay with him when at last he had found the solitude and silence of the balcony that should have been balm to his barren soul? But, now that this slip of a woman was so obviously intent on hurrying away and leaving him there, he knew a sudden new rush of emptiness piled on emptiness that had always been there, and the words had escaped him without thought.

  ‘Highness?’

  She hadn’t been expecting them either. It was obvious from the way that she started as if she’d been hit, froze, then whirled back to face him. In the moonlight her eyes were wide and dark.

  ‘Don’t go. Stay a while.’

  He pitched it as a command, not a request, and saw the change in her expression as he did so. For a second her clouded gaze slid to the open door, where the light from the ballroom spilled out on to the balcony, the hum of voices and clink of glasses drifting out to them on the night air. But then she obviously decided on the wisdom of obeying him and she dipped once more into a deferential curtsey.

  ‘And stop doing that,’ Nabil growled. It wasn’t subservience or submissiveness he wanted now. What he wanted was...

  What?

  Damnation, if he couldn’t answer that himself then what could he ask from her?

  ‘Sir’ was all she said, but there was a new light in her eyes and an unexpected tilt to the pretty chin as she looked up at him. Not defiance, quite, but there was something very different there. Something that tugged on a sliver of memory that flickered for a moment in his thoughts and then went out again.

  She kept her distance now, deliberately leaving several paces between them. But it was not enough to prevent the swirl of her perfume reaching out to him. The richness of sandalwood and jasmine tantalised his nostrils, stirring his senses in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. The kick of his heart and sudden heating of his blood was a shock to his system, making his pulse pound in unexpected response. It was so long since he had felt this way that the rush of sexual hunger made his senses spin. For years the most beautiful, sensual women had tried to create this effect in him and failed, and now some small, insignificant female had set his libido smouldering in a way he had almost forgotten could happen.

  ‘Should I fetch you a drink?’

  She had seen the way his tongue had slipped out, moistening unexpectedly dry lips, and had misread the gesture. It jolted him to think that she had been watching him so closely.

  ‘No—I’m fine.’

  What was she? A maid? ‘I’m with Jamalia,’ she had said, and she must mean the eldest daughter of the El Afarim family.

  He knew a scowl had darkened his face but he made no effort to hold it back. The thought of Farouk El Afarim and his family, the reasons why they were parading the beautiful Jamalia before him, brought with it a scratch of discomfort that scraped over his nerves. He had wanted to forget for tonight—needed no reminders of the unrest that was threatening again, the importance of ensuring El Afarim’s loyalty with a valuable treaty to stop him defecting to the rebels’ side.

  ‘Just stay—and talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything. For example...’ He waved a hand to draw her eyes away from the balcony on which they stood, towards the lights of the city and beyond, to the horizon where the mountains lifted towards the sky. ‘What do you see out there?’

  ‘What do I see?’ Another questioning glance but she still turned from him, taking several steps towards the parapet, leaning against it as she gazed out at the scene spread below them. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Another question he couldn’t answer. He had to admit that he wanted to see that view—and all it represented—through her eyes. If it was the price of everything that was to come, then he wanted to know he was not the only one who valued it. That it was worth the decision he had made.

  ‘Humour me.’

  The truth was that he wanted to keep her with him a while longer. To talk with someone who was not connected with the demands and debates, the treaties and the dissensions that had filled his life these past months. Someone who didn’t need to be treated diplomatically all the time, or who made him watch his tongue so carefully that it felt almost bitten through with the times he’d had to hold back impatient words.

  To spend more time with someone who stirred his senses in a way that no one had in the time that he could remember. It was like coming alive again and he wanted more of it.

  For a moment he seriously considered making a move on her. She was up for it; there was no doubt about that. He could see it in her face, hear it in her voice, in that little breathless hiccup that shaded each word. If he did try to take things further, she would not resist.

  He let those seconds linger, tasted them on his tongue, in his blood. He savoured the feelings that had been almost dead to him for so long, welcoming them, relishing them. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he let them go, throwing them aside as no longer for him. If there was one thing that the past ten years had taught him, it was that that sort of empty relationship, the connection that blinded him for a few hours, driving away the darkness for a night, in the end had nothing that was a real result. The darkness was still there when he woke and it always felt so much the worse in the cold light of day after having been hidden behind the intoxication of wild and mindless sex in a heated bed for the night.

  He should let her go. He should turn and walk away but his senses held him captive. And when she spoke again just the sound of her voice was like a signal, beckoning him closer.

  ‘What I see...’

  Aziza was both glad and reluctant to turn her eyes away from the man before her and focus them on the scene below. It wasn’t easy. In the moment that she had turned away he must have moved closer so that she heard the soft whisper of his robes drifting over the stone. She could almost feel the heat of his body touching her, and the scent of musk and clean skin that swirled around her like perfumed smoke made her senses swim. It dried her lips, tightened her throat so that she snatched in a raw breath to ease the feeling.

  ‘You must know what there is there now—even if you can’t actually see it. You must look out at it every day and see the sea to the right—Alazar over towards the mountain—and here...’

  Her voice cracked, breath shortening as the arm she used to gesture with caught on the fine material of his robe, bringing home to her just how close he was now.

  ‘And here...?’

  Was that stiffness in his tone created by anything like the way her own tongue felt as she struggled to speak? Was it possible that he had actually come closer because he too recognised the darkly sensual tug of attraction that she had known from the moment she had looked up into his face, focusing on the dark depths of his eyes, the rich sensuality of his beautifully shaped mouth in the black shadow of his beard? This was nothing of the childish, immature hero-worship of the five-year-old who had first met Nabil and given her heart to him. It wasn’t even anything like the ardent crush that hero-worship had developed into as she had discovered the passionate feelings of adolescence.

  No, this was the response of a grown woman to a mature and powerful man. A man who roused all that was feminine in her. But a man she must keep her distance from, keeping in mind just why she and her family were here. It was Jamalia he was supposed to notice, not her.

  ‘You know what I see here, sire. Out there is Hazibah—the capital—your capital. And there...’

  Her v
oice faltered for a moment then picked up strength as she acknowledged that she could at least speak the truth on this. Here she had nothing to hide.

  ‘There are hundreds of people out there—thousands. Husbands and wives, families and children, all of whom are enjoying the evening—the peace—because of you.’

  ‘Because of me—do you truly think it?’

  Copyright © 2015 by Kate Walker

  ISBN-13: 9781460386620

  Back in the Brazilian’s Bed

  Copyright © 2015 by Susan Stephens

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