In the end, she settled for putting on her sturdy cotton bra and panties and one of her maxi summer dresses under the robe. Made for summer in Cambridge, not spring in Narabia, the dress was a great deal heavier than the lightweight material of the robe, and it made the robe itself a bit snug, but the added layer helped to slow her rampaging pulse. After wrestling with the hooks to fasten the front of the robe over her breasts, she tied back her damp hair with an elastic band, draped the exquisitely embroidered scarf over her head and tied the ends at the back of her neck.
Strapping herself in for the landing, she devoured the dramatic sight of the rocky terrain as the plane skimmed over a mountainous region to touch down at a deserted airfield. But as the plane taxied and then came to a stop in front of a large, sleekly modern glass-and-steel hangar, her stomach didn’t quite land with it.
When Abdallah arrived ten minutes later, she’d repaired her make-up twice—and debated about fifty times whether to simply step out of the cabin. Perhaps they had forgotten she was on the plane?
‘His Divine Majesty awaits your presence,’ Abdallah announced, picking up her rucksack.
Play it cool, and remember to keep breathing.
She smoothed sweaty palms down the robe, feeling the bulk of fabric where her dress tightened the fit.
As she stepped out of the cabin her gaze locked on a group of men dressed in robes standing beside the plane’s open door. Or one man in particular, who stood head and shoulders above the rest.
As if he had sensed
her presence, Zane Khan turned to face her, and her breath locked in her lungs again.
Breathe, Cat, breathe.
She struggled to regulate her lung function before she passed out. She’d never seen anything so magnificent—or so masculine—as the Sheikh of Narabia in his traditional ceremonial garb.
Her gaze stole up his frame, taking in every aspect of the striking outfit.
Knee-high leather boots shone in the blazing desert sunlight stealing in through the cabin’s door, and moulded to impressive calf muscles. Black cotton trousers hung loose around his long legs to give him ease of movement but did nothing to disguise the powerful muscles in his thighs. A silk sash that matched the extraordinary blue of his eyes provided a startling splash of colour around his lean waist. The long flowing cloak he wore trailed to his knees but any semblance of modesty was belied by the black tunic that hung open at his neck in a deep V, revealing tantalising wisps of chest hair. But it was his dramatic headdress—draped to shade his head and shoulders and the back of his neck and held on with a jewelled gold band around his forehead—and the sabres glinting on his hips and attached by across-the-shoulder leather straps that had Cat’s breath gushing out.
No wonder they call him the Divine Majesty.
He didn’t only look magnificent, he looked indomitable—a man entirely at one with his heritage and his own masculinity. Those pure blue eyes seemed to bore into her through the silk of her own robe—right through the fabric of her dress and the sturdy cotton of her underwear to her palpitating heart. She thanked God she had decided to wear the extra layers, because even with them on she felt naked—every inch of her skin tingling with awareness.
‘Dr Smith,’ he said in that rough, commanding baritone. He held out a hand and hooked a finger, directing her to come to him. ‘I see you found the clothing,’ he said.
All her senses screamed in unison—although she wasn’t sure what they were screaming for her to do, fall into his arms, or run like hell in the opposite direction, because both options seemed viable.
You’re a cat, not a mouse. Move.
Breathing deeply, she stepped forward and laid trembling fingers in his wide palm. He folded her arm into the crook of his elbow and she found herself drawn forward and tucked against his side.
‘Let’s get to the car before the plane becomes an oven,’ he said, the conversational tone doing nothing to calm her rampant heartbeat.
She bobbed her head, feeling like a compliant puppet.
They descended the plane steps together. The desert heat was immense, even so early in the morning, the sun creating mirages on the tarmac and a heat haze on the horizon. But she burned hottest where their bodies touched, the gossamer silk of her robe and the thick cotton of her dress feeling heavier than armour and yet offering her no protection whatsoever from the subtle shift of muscle and sinew where his forearm tensed against her side.
Sweat pooled in her collarbone and trickled down her temple, her heart beating so fast and so loudly she wondered if he could hear it, because it sounded like a machine gun to her.
They walked through a phalanx of servants and bodyguards, all of whom dropped to one knee as Zane passed, the look of awe on their faces something she was very much afraid had been reflected on her face when she’d first walked out of her cabin.
She tried to school her features. Just because Zane Khan was treated like a living god in Narabia, he was still only a man.
As if in acknowledgement of this fact, Zane stopped to speak to several of his subjects as he passed, introducing her to two men in particular as the heads of his ruling council. Four SUVs were parked in a line at the end of the welcoming committee, their paintwork gleaming in the sunshine and looking strangely incongruous given the ancient power being honoured by all present. A guard rushed forward to whisk open the back door of the car in the middle, which looked as if it was half limousine, half all-terrain vehicle. The flags, bearing the insignia of the ruling house of Nawari, marked it out as the Sheikh’s vehicle. Stepping to one side and finally letting go of her, Zane swept his arm forward, directing her into the interior.
She bent to climb inside, but was only halfway into the car when she came to an abrupt halt. Her knees slammed onto the seat tangled in the robe, her palms slapping on the cool leather, her bottom jutting up in the air as she struggled to free herself. She flapped her feet furiously, as embarrassment scorched her insides, but all she managed to do was lose her sandals. She was stuck fast, hideously mindful of Zane standing behind her, being presented with her upraised bottom.
A husky chuckle made her humiliation complete before strong fingers snagged her ankle, sending sensation skimming up her leg and weakening her already straining knees.
‘Hold still,’ said the deep voice, now rough with amusement. ‘The hem is caught.’
Seconds later, the forward momentum had her landing on the seat with a loud ‘oomph’ in a sprawl of silk, cotton, bare legs and bruised pride.