‘I think you’d better give him to me.’
Ashraf swung round and Tori was hit by another pulse of—okay, she’d admit it—arousal. He was a truly magnificent man, and the sight of her little son secure against that broad bare chest sent emotion curvetting through her.
Tori blamed overactive hormones. And weariness. But then she read Ashraf’s expression and thoughts of herself faded. In those strong features and glittering eyes was a reflection of her own feelings when she surveyed Oliver. Wonder, love and protectiveness.
Ashraf might be new to fatherhood, but that didn’t mean his feelings for Oliver were less real. Or that he had a smaller claim to parenthood.
The knowledge rushed at her like a biting wind, piercing the mental armour with which she’d shielded her fears. She’d told herself Oliver washers. That because she barely knew Ashraf, that he came from a faraway place and a time in her life best forgotten, his claim on the baby was less.
How untrue that was. This man, who ruled a country and probably slept in a gilded bed with silk sheets, surrounded by every luxury, had bunked down on the hard floor beside his son. That hadn’t been done to make a point.
‘Tori! Are you okay?’ Ashraf stepped close in a couple of long strides, one warm hand closing around her elbow. ‘You look unsteady on your feet.’
She shook her head, pushing her hair back from her face, and stood straighter. ‘I’m all right.’ As all right as she could be when her life had suffered a sudden seismic shift.
As if from a huge distance she saw her plans for a new life in Perth fracture. Whatever the future held, it wasn’t going to be as straightforward as she’d expected.
Ashraf led her to the rocking chair, his hold supportive and expression serious. When Tori experienced another jolt of awareness she felt like a fraud. Then, when he leaned close to pass Oliver over, the warm, evocative scent of spiced cinnamon and male flesh surrounded her. Her nipples tingled, and it wasn’t just reaction to Oliver’s hungry cry. It was connected to the pulsing throb low in her body.
She shivered and tightened her hold on her baby.
‘You’re cold?’
The words trawled over her bare arms like a velvet ribbon.
No, she was burning up.
How could she react so viscerally to a man she barely knew? She wasn’t by nature promiscuous. Yet with Ashraf...
She’d told herself that what had happened that night in Za’daq had happened because they’d been in mortal danger. That they’d been driven by a primal impulse to procreate and ensure the survival of another generation. What excuse did she have now?
It was as if she was wired to respond instantly and catastrophically to Ashraf.
‘No, not cold. Just tired.’
‘I’ll get you a hot drink. You need to replace fluids.’
Then, before she could stop him, he strode out of the room.
* * *
Ashraf spent as long as he could in the kitchen. Anything to stay away from Tori and regroup.
She’d stood in the doorway, looking dazed and delicate, and he’d been torn between concern and fascination at how the hall light behind her outlined her tantalising shape through her nightdress. Pouting breasts, narrow waist, long, slender legs and gently rounded hips.
He’d wanted to grab her hard against him. Need had clawed, urgent and unstoppable.
Her hair was a messy halo, her cheeks flushed. Her lemon-yellow nightgown had a row of buttons down the front, presumably to make breastfeeding easier. Only a couple of those prim buttons had been fastened, allowing him tantalising glimpses of pearly skin.
Memories of losing himself in Tori’s sweet body bombarded him, of her soft cries of encouragement and the incredible bliss of a coupling that had far transcended the brutal reality of that foul kidnappers’ hut.
He frowned and moved to the kettle, filling it with water. His years of scandalous indulgence might have been designed to infuriate his father, but they hadn’t been a complete sham—even if his sexual exploitshadbeen exaggerated. He was used to sophisticated women well versed in seductive wiles. He was used to silk, satin and lace, or complete nudity. Not dainty cotton with embroidered flowers. Not nursing mothers.
Ashraf shook his head and straightened. Nothing about this trip was going to plan. But he was adaptable. He had no intention of leaving without his son. Or Tori.
* * *
Tori had finished feeding Oliver but Ashraf still hadn’t returned. Had he thought better of spending the night there? The possibility made her feel curiously bereft. But sneaking off without declaring his intentions wasn’t Ashraf’s style.