‘You arrived early this morning. It’s been a big day.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, looking sideways with a small sigh. ‘But I’m not tired.’
Neither said anything. He could only look at her, the face held in profile, so beautiful, so achingly beautiful, but so full of the Qadir features that even as he yearned to reach for her he stayed where he was, his body taut, old hatreds deep inside his soul refusing to be quelled.
‘In truth, I’m restless,’ she said after a moment. ‘I feel as though I’ve spent all day saying and doing what’s expected of me and what I’d really like is just a few minutes of being my actual self.’
The confession surprised him.
‘I don’t suppose you have a maze I could go and get lost in for a bit?’
It was said light-heartedly, as a joke, but he couldn’t fail to feel jolted by the reminder of that damned maze.
‘No.’ Too gruff again. He shook his head. This was no good. How could she be so effortlessly charming despite their long, bitter past? ‘We have something even better.’
She put a hand on her hip, drawing his attention downwards, to her waist and the curves that had driven him crazy long before he’d known who she was. ‘I doubt that.’
His laugh was deep and throaty. ‘Want to bet?’
‘Sure. Show me.’
What was he doing? He should tell her to go to bed; in the morning, she’d have another busy day. But a thousand fireworks seemed to be bursting beneath his skin. He wanted to be alone with her, even when he knew every reason he should fight that desire.
‘May I go and change first?’
His lips tugged downwards. ‘Your Highness, you’re here as my guest. You do not need to ask my permission for anything.’
He’d surprised her. She bit down on her lip and he had to look away, before impulses overtook him and he dropped his head to kiss her. It would have felt so natural and easy.
‘I’ll wait here.’
She nodded once then turned, walking up the wide, sweeping staircase. He couldn’t help but watch her departure.
Fifteen minutes later, Johara was ready. Having played the part of dutiful princess all day, she had found it a sheer, blissful relief to slip out of the couture dress she’d worn to the state dinner and pull on a pair of simple black trousers and an emerald-green blouse, teamed with simple black leather ballet flats. It was the kind of outfit she would wear in New York—dressy enough to escape criticism but comfortable and relatable. Her hair had been styled into an elegant braid that wrapped around her head like a crown to secure the actual crown she’d worn—enormous diamonds forming a crescent above her head. She deftly removed the two dozen pins that had been used to secure it, laying the tiara on the dressing table, then letting her hair fall around her shoulders in loose voluminous waves.
With more time, she might have washed her face clean of the make-up she wore, but impatience was guiding her, making her work fast. As she walked back down the staircase, she only had eyes for Amir. He was standing exactly where she’d left him, dressed in the formal robes he’d worn to dinner, his swarthy complexion and the jet black of his hair forming a striking contrast to the snowy white robes.
All night he’d been businesslike, treating her as though they had no history beyond that of their countries, but now, there was more. He was incapable of shielding his response to her—the way his eyes travelled her body with a slow, possessive heat, starting with her face, which he studied with an intensity that took her breath away, then shifting lower, moving over the curves of her breasts, the indent of her waist, the generous swell of her hips, all the way down to her feet as she walked, one step at a time, holding the handrail for fear she might stumble. And as his eyes moved, heat travelled the same path, setting fire to her bloodstream so by the time she reached him she felt as though she were smouldering.
‘Well?’ Her voice shook a little; she didn’t care. ‘What do you have to rival the maze?’
His eyes lifted to her lips and she didn’t breathe—she couldn’t—for several long seconds. Her lungs burned.
He was going to kiss her. His eyes were so intent on her lips, his body so close—when had that even happened?—his expression so loaded with sensuality that memories weaved through her, reminding her of what they’d shared.
She waited, her face upturned, her lips parted, her blood firing so hard and fast that she could barely think, let alone hear. She knew she should step backwards, move away from him—this was all too complicated—but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Just as the hand of fate seemed to guide them in the maze, a far greater force was at work now.
She expelled a shuddering breath simply because her lungs needed to work, and with the exhalation her body swayed forward a little, not intentionally and not by much, but it brought her to him, her breasts brushing to his chest lightly, so that her nipples hummed at the all too brief contact.
‘Johara.’ He said her name with intent, with surrender, and with pain. It was all too hard. Where she could push the difficulties aside, at least temporarily, he appeared unable to. He swallowed so his Adam’s apple moved visibly, then stepped backwards, his face a mask of discipline, his smile a gash in his handsome face.
Disappointment made her want to howl No! into the corridor. She did nothing.
‘Your Highness.’ He addressed her formally, gesturing with the upturned palm of his hand that she should precede him down the corridor. Her legs felt wobbly and moist heat pooled between her thighs, leaving her in little doubt of just how desperately she wanted him.
She moved in the direction he’d indicated, and when he fell into step beside her he walked closely, close enough that their arms brushed with each stride, so heat and tension began to arrow through her, spreading butterflies of desire and hope in her gut. But why hope? What did she want? He was—or had been until recently—the enemy.
Not my enemy.