Well, of course she had—she wasn’t planning on staying! ‘Very lightly,’ she agreed, with a tight smile.
‘Very well. I will take my leave of you now, mistress,’ said Abdullah, and he bowed his head.
‘Thank you, Abdullah.’
Jenna stepped inside the room, praying for the serenity to see her plan through without giving herself away. But in spite of her misgivings her mouth dried instinctively as she saw Rashid silhouetted against the window. A high-born female chaperon was sitting demurely on one of the brocade window seats close by.
Had she ever thought that her refusal to marry him was going to be easy? A piece of cake? Had she simply forgotten his magnificence, and the effect it always had on her? she wondered distractedly. Or simply trained herself not to dwell on it, because then she could disregard the fact that he still had the power to fill her with a hopeless yearning?
Even now.
Dressed in traditional flowing robes of cloth-of-gold, his muscular body seemed more vital than that of any other man she had ever laid eyes on, and her traitorous heart reminded her of how much she had once adored him. And trusted him.
He heard her enter, but he did not turn. Not immediately. She had kept him waiting for two days since his telephone call summoning her here, and now he would make her wait before she could feast her eyes on the stern face of the man to whom she would soon be joined! He felt the first stirrings of desire, but he did not allow his mind or his body to linger on such thoughts. First he must dispense his disapproval!
Jenna knew what was expected of her. Reminding herself that to anger him would not
help her case, she spoke one word in the demure voice she had practised in her head over and over again during the flight from New York.
‘Sheikh.’ It was both an acknowledgment and a deference, and there was a split-second pause before she saw him half incline his proud head. And then, very deliberately, he turned around to face her, and the dryness in her mouth increased, as did the acceleration of her heart.
How could she have forgotten his physical presence? For he was magnificent! Utterly, utterly magnificent! The carved face so cruelly perfect, the coal-black eyes gleaming with a fierce and icy intelligence. And something else, too.
Not anger, no. Anger would be too mild a word to describe the emotion which was sizzling its way across the room at her.
Fury.
Stark, undisguised fury.
She should have been expecting it, had told herself to expect it, but even Jenna was unprepared for her shivering response to the vision of the formidable Rashid slanting her a look of total condemnation.
‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ he hissed at her, like an angry serpent who had been disturbed. He spoke in French, presumably so that the chaperon would not understand, but the soft, sensual-sounding words only reminded Jenna of his mistress, and it was as though someone had driven a stake through her heart with all the force they could muster.
She lifted her eyes to his, feigning ignorance of his question. ‘Sheikh?’ she questioned, with a very credible line in demure confusion.
Again, Rashid felt the blood heating his veins, but this time not with desire—no, certainly not that! For the woman who stood before him bore such little resemblance to the Jenna he remembered that he scarcely recognised her.
She wore tight blue jeans and a silky amber top which matched her huge eyes and emphasised the luscious swell of her breasts. High-heeled snakeskin ankle-boots made even more of the length of her long, slim legs, where the denim clung to them so provocatively. So very Westernised, he thought, in disgust, as he let his cold and disapproving gaze travel to her head, where a wide-brimmed and flower-decked straw hat was managing to conceal all the silken splendour of her hair.
But it was the make-up which caused the little pulse to beat so forbiddingly at his temple. Quador women—and particularly high-born Quador women—did not mar their complexions with the false glitter of cosmetics!
He scowled.
There was a subtle golden glow which shimmered over the heavy lids of her deep-set eyes, and the long lashes were ebony-dark and spiked like the legs of a spider. Her full lips gleamed provocatively, highlighted with some rose-pale tint, and whilst the man in him could not deny that she looked very beautiful indeed, he also knew something else.
That she looked like a tramp!
More mistress than wife!
‘How dare you come before me so attired?’ he demanded imperiously.
‘You don’t like my clothes?’ she questioned innocently.
He would like to tear them from her back! Fighting down the urge to storm across the room and do just that—for he could not ignore the watchful eye of the chaperon—he steadied himself with a deep breath.
‘You look like a tramp!’ he offered, giving voice to his thoughts.
‘Hardly,’ answered Jenna drily. ‘A tramp would ill be able to afford the cost of this outfit!’