His accent was thick, difficult to place. Definitely not European. His voice was deep and sexy, like warm chocolate and spices.
“And you are?” He asked, keeping his physical distance but somehow pushing through all the barriers of resistance she was trying to keep in place.
Olivia stayed quiet. Her brain, a little foggy from the beautiful performance and the glass of champagne Jack had plied her with during the intermission. She was struggling to make sense of what was happening. Belatedly, she looked around the room they were in. It was large enough to house a large group of people comfortably. It boasted a burgundy carpet and the same architectural details as the rest of Royal Albert Hall. Her eyes were drawn to the ceiling rose above them, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, the sheer force of the man’s presence pulled her gaze lower.
“Who are you?” She asked on a quiet whisper, as the surreal situation she found herself in finally punctuated her clouded brain.
Tamir ached to pull her into his arms. If they were in his country, she would be bowing before him. Although, he realised with a speculative twist to his lips, this woman was not one likely to bow before anyone. Her spirit seemed to glow from her skin; the strength of determination and suspicion reminding him of himself. For the briefest of moments he contemplated withholding his identity, before sharply realising such deception and trickery was beneath him.
“I am Tamir Al’ani, Sultan of Talidar.”
Olivia didn’t visibly react, but a fierce flock of butterflies began to beat at the sides of her stomach. She had heard of him, of course. It explained why he had such a tangible air of authority, at least. Or did it? Olivia suspected that even in a menial position, this man would exude confidence and power. She closed her eyes briefly and then fixed him with a clear green stare. “Well, Your Highness, I’d better get back to my friend.”
His smile was slow to spread across his lips, and it was darkly, sinfully sexy. It changed his whole face, draping it in a sheath of dangerously seductive appeal. Olivia took a step back, unable to help the involuntary action. Oh, but it was betraying. In that tiny step, she conveyed her awareness of his position, and the fear and awe it invoked.
A knock at the door stopped him from uttering the invitation he’d been about to extend to the beautiful, bewitching blonde. He looked towards the entrance, a small flicker of frustration obvious on his face.
The door was opened inwards by secret service personnel, four of them in total. It amused Tamir, for his own security delegation had made this room as secure as any palace in his wealthy country. The Vice President of the United States entered a moment later, his expression diffident, his thick grey brows like two furry caterpillars above his dark brown eyes.
“Eugene,” Tamir greeted, his smile warm despite his frustration, his hand extended in greeting to his late father’s friend.
“Mir,” the man said deferentially, causing Olivia to do a double take. Standing before her was one of the most powerful men in the world, and yet Tamir overshadowed him in every way. Eugene Simmons’s eyes drifted to Olivia, the curious blankness in his face requiring an introduction.
“Hello, young lady,” he said kindly.
“Mr Vice President.” She might have been British through and through, but she’d done two semesters of her degree at Yale. She knew the ins and outs of the American political system, and she knew that the man before her was a stalwart of Capitol Hill.
“Please, call me Eugene.”
She flushed. It simply wasn’t possible. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Olivia Anderson.” She extended her hand, and was embarrassed to see that it was shaking slightly. The Vice President appeared not to notice, but Tamir did. In fact, he saw that her flesh was covered with goosebumps. Was she cold? Or overcome by nerves?
At least he now had her name.
“Did you enjoy the show, dear?”
“I did, thank you, sir. It was a masterpiece.”
“Indeed. An excellent production. Do you play an instrument?”
“Goodness, no!” She laughed. “I’m not musical at all. But I speak three languages.” She flushed to the roots of her hair. “I don’t know why I just told you that. I babble when I’m nervous.”
The older man nodded, a kind smile on his face. She didn’t dare look at Tamir.
“Are you a Liam Marsh fan?” The Vice President continued, brushing past her overshare.
“Oh, yes,” she responded with an enthusiastic nod. It sent her blonde hair flying about her face, and Tamir had to shove his hands in his pockets to resist the temptation to touch the silky curtain of gold.
“Are you?” Tamir probed curiously, his dark eyes forcing her to meet curious gaze. “Why?”
To her credit, she didn’t shy away from the probing look he was subjecting her to. “There’s something incredible about the juxtaposition of the macabre with the hopeful, don’t you think? They’re these incredibly gothic tales with a deep vein of morality and rightness to them. I always find the way he weaves narrative incredibly fulfilling.”
Tamir’s gut clenched. Olivia Anderson was herself a fascinating juxtaposition. Her body was built for pleasure, and he unashamedly intended to use it thus. But he hadn’t expected her to hold an emotional appeal to him. He hadn’t expected her to shy away from his position of influence and wealth. Nor had he expected her to enter into academic appraisals of the work of Liam Marsh with the Vice President of America.
His eyes scanned her face. He wanted to know everything about her. To understand intimately what made her tick. He wanted to know that he could arouse the same degree of enthusiasm from her as she’d just evinced whilst describing the performance.
“Eugene, thank you for the invitation this evening. I must escort Miss Anderson home, now. Are you still free for lunch tomorrow?”
The older man’s eyes sparked with understanding. His chuckle was benevolent. “Indeed, Mir.” He nodded towards Olivia and then headed to the door. Once the agents had left the room, and they were alone again, Olivia spun around to face Tamir.