Rashid gave a heavy sigh and turned his face towards the window once more. Through the shutters, shafts of sunlight from the bright heat of the midday sun filtered through and illuminated his dark and golden beauty. In his tense, angry silence he was unmoving, as still as some hawk-nosed statue of a predatory conqueror.
Was the time now come? Was he indeed—ready?
He was known and feared for his resolute nature, for his steely intelligence and his decisiveness. It took him no more than a second or two to consider what had been plotted out for him since childhood, and then he nodded his dark head in answer to the silent question he asked himself.
Abdullah was his most trusted advisor, and the rumours must be gathering apace if he had summoned up the courage to alert his ruler to their existence.
And a man about whom uncertainty prevailed surely ran the risk of weakening his indomitable position…
He turned and surveyed the emotionless face of his envoy. ‘So be it,’ he said slowly. ‘Destiny must at last prevail.’ His eyes glittered with a cool acceptance and only the most lingering flash of regret, which was quickly replaced by the heat of sensual expectation. ‘I will send for Jenna,’ he stated softly. ‘And the wedding will take place as soon as it can be arranged.’
Inside the wild and wonderful interior of her New York apartment the telephone began to shrill, and Jenna jumped.
‘Can you answer t
hat for me, Brad?’ she called.
‘Got it!’
Still damp from the shower, Jenna walked into the sitting room, a towel wrapped around her slim, glistening body and another draped in an elaborate turban around her head, just as Brad picked the receiver up.
The moment she saw the look on his face tiny little shivers of apprehension began to prickle at her skin. It was him; she knew it. She wasn’t sure how, but she did.
Him.
Tiny beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, until she reminded herself that life had changed. That promises once made could be broken. The bond which had once existed between them had been silently yet inextricably severed. Surely it was inconceivable that he should demand what she had once most desired and now most feared. ‘Jenna?’ Brad was drawling in his soft American accent. ‘Yeah, sure! She’s right here. Hold on. I’ll get her for you.’ And he pulled a face as he handed her the phone.
Still trembling, Jenna took the receiver from him silently. ‘Hello?’
There was a pause. ‘Jenna?’
It was him. She would have known that voice anywhere, but then maybe that was because no other man in the world spoke like him. Steely-soft and velvet-hard. Sexy, predatory and distinctly unsettling. She swallowed, the modern woman she had become sorely tempted to say, Who’s that? But she thought better of it. To affect not to know him would be to cast a slur on his character as well as denting his ego—and everyone knew that Sheikh Rashid of Quador had an ego the size of the United States itself!
‘Rashid,’ she said cautiously. She heard his terse exclamation in response, and knew that she had somehow angered him. ‘How are you?’ she asked in English.
‘Who answered the phone?’ he shot back—rather unexpectedly in the same language.
She considered telling him that it was none of his business, but again thought better of it. Rashid assumed that everything was his business, and that he had an inalienable right to have absolutely everything he wanted. But then he had been denied nothing from the moment of his birth—so maybe that was not so surprising.
‘He’s a friend of mine,’ she informed him lightly. ‘Brad.’
There was a moment of silence, and when he began to speak again there was not a trace of velvet—the voice was pure steel. And anger. ‘Brad?’ he repeated on an incredulous note. ‘A man? You have a man in your apartment?’
The irony wasn’t lost on her: one rule for Rashid and another entirely different one for her. But much better to take the heat out of the situation with humour—for hadn’t she once been able to make him laugh, a lifetime ago, before all her foolish girlhood dreams had been crushed underfoot, vanquished by the knowledge of just what kind of man he was? And what he did.
‘I think so!’ she joked rather nervously. ‘Unless he’s a master of disguise!’
In his stately study in the Quador palace, Rashid felt the slow burn of anger sizzle into rampant life. ‘And how long has this Brad—’ he spat the word out as if it was poison ‘—been your friend?’
Jenna clenched her fist around the receiver, so that her knuckles grew pale, but the instinctive movement brought with it a return of her resolve. Enough was enough! She was no longer his subject—not really. Hadn’t her years in America and her new life here freed her from his influence?
But Rashid had the cunning of a fox—simple rebellion would not work with him. She did not yet know what he wanted, and until she did it was better to play the game. To slip into the role he would expect of her.
‘Oh, ages,’ she said vaguely, and then injected a note of docile interest into her voice. ‘Did you just ring up for a chat, Rashid? Or was there something in particular you wanted?’
The ‘something in particular’ he wanted right now would have been to burst into her apartment and tear this Brad from limb to limb, demanding to know just who he was and what he had been doing… But Rashid drew himself back from expressing an emotion as wasted as jealousy, and instead allowed himself an arrogant smile. The one thing he could count on was that Jenna was as pure as the snows which topped the Quador mountains. Jenna…
His.