‘Not that kind of tramp!’ he contradicted icily. ‘The kind of tramp to be found hanging around the back streets of Riocard!’
‘Oh, you mean a prostitute?’ she questioned helpfully.
Furiously, he ignored that. ‘Why did you not come to me wearing traditional Quador dress?’
‘Because this is the kind of thing I’m more used to! It’s all the rage in New York!’
‘Why?’ he snarled. ‘Does Brad like you to dress like that?’
Jenna realised that she was straying into dangerous and uncharted waters. And that she was supposed not to be antagonising him! ‘I’ll go and change,’ she offered, but he shook his head.
‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ he said grimly. ‘You have kept me waiting too long. You will leave only when I give you leave to!’ He drew another deep breath. ‘Would you like some refreshment after your journey?’ he forced himself to say.
She felt like asking him if he was offering tea or hemlock, but thought better of it. She shook her head, and the movement drew his eye and caused another small snarl of irritation.
‘Remove your hat!’ he ordered.
This was it. The moment which would confirm her conversion from Suitable Wife to Sassy American! With one easy movement she pulled the straw hat from her head, though her heart was pounding nervously as she stared at him with an expression she prayed was not too defiant.
For a moment Rashid was speechless. If she had suddenly started flying around the State Apartments he could not have been more profoundly shocked.
‘But you have cut your hair!’ he observed in a strangled kind of voice.
For one bizarre and crazy moment Jenna thought that he sounded almost sad, but nerves must have made her imagination work overtime. And when she met the steel of his eyes she knew that she must have been mistaken.
‘Yes. Do you like it?’ she asked lightly, and felt the air-conditioning cool her newly bare neck.
‘Why?’ he demanded hoarsely as he remembered the silken strands of syrup-coloured hair which had streamed down almost to her bottom. A pulse leapt in his groin. He had imagined untying it on their wedding night, had pictured it spread out across his chest, contrasting so beautifully against the dark skin. ‘Why shave your head like that? To look like a man? No longer a woman?’
Something in his criticism made Jenna forget her vow not to anger him any more than was necessary. His look of pure censure offended some very elemental emotion deep inside her, and the look he was lancing her way made her fleetingly wish that she had not opted for such a dramatic cut, that she could win back his approval.
Until she reminded herself of Chantal, and of all the others. Let them crave his approval—she would make herself tolerate his contempt!
Or would she?
Was it feminine pride which made her draw her chin up and pull her shoulders back in haughty query? The movement caused her breasts to push imperceptibly against the silk shirt, and she saw from the sudden tensing of his body that it had not escaped Rashid’s attention.
The chaperon, whose job it was to protect but not to intrude, was listening to the conversation but unable to understand it. She was not looking at them either, her hands busy with some prayer beads.
So she would have missed the look of raw, feral hunger which had darkened Rashid’s eyes to pure ebony. And the dull flush of colour which crept over his arrogantly carved cheekbones.
If a look could be X-rated, then Rashid had just invented it! Refusing to be intimidated—or tempted—by the undisguised sexual hunger which emanated from his body, Jenna stared back at him, even though she was acutely aware of the stinging of her breasts and the heated rush of some honeyed feeling which was making her knees feel very weak indeed.
‘You think I look like a man?’ she challenged softly.
Had something in the air around them changed? For the chaperon lifted her head and frowned, but Rashid paid her no heed. She was his subject, and here only to ensure that neither the man nor the woman touched each other.
‘Go back to your beads!’ he commanded in his native tongue, and the woman obeyed him instantly.
He reverted to French, and gave a small nod of his dark head in the direction of the chaperon. ‘You see? That is the kind of compliance I am used to, Jenna. The kind of compliance I expect,’ he purred, mesmerised by the tight little buds which were pushing against her shirt.
She would be responsive, his Jenna, he thought, with a sudden heady rush of elation and power. Maybe he had always instinctively known that, but now he was certain. He would make her weep with pleasure in his arms. He would captivate and subdue her until she wanted him and only him, and he would tutor h
er desire until it matched his own!
‘Not from me,’ she said instantly. ‘I am not your subordinate! I have lived too long in America not to consider a man and a woman to be equals!’
He stiffened with outrage. ‘How do you dare to speak thus to your Ruler?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘When we are wed you will naturally take on the subordinate role of wife!’