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‘Yes,’ Olivia cut across her, having understood at least one word she’d spoken: jamila. ‘It is very beautiful. But I do not want to wear it.’
Suma scowled. Olivia almost felt apologetic for disappointing her. Was she being reckless, by refusing the nightgown? What if it made the man angry? But why on earth would he want her in it in the first place? A question she could barely bear to ask, much less answer.
With a huff, Suma shook her head and then disappeared. Olivia let out a gusty sigh of relief. She reall
y did not want to parade around a desert camp of strange men in a diaphanous nightgown that looked like something a bride would wear on her wedding night.
She paced the luxurious confines of the tent, wondering if anyone was going to come in to see her and explain what on earth was going on. What did they want from her? If they thought Sultan Hassan would pay a hefty ransom for her return, she suspected they would be disappointed. Hassan was fond enough of her, but she was just an employee.
And if they wanted her for something else...
Swallowing convulsively, she tried not to give in to panic. She wanted to see the man with the gentle eyes again, although something about his fiercely determined manner made her half hope he wouldn’t come in. When he was near her it felt as if he were taking all the air, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. And Olivia knew she needed all her wits about her now. Somehow she had to figure out why she was here...and then she had to figure out how to escape. Both felt impossible.
Then the tent flap opened and there he was, those grey-green eyes glinting in the candlelight. He was dressed as he had been before, in loose trousers and a long shirt of bleached linen that emphasised the powerful, rippling muscles of his chest and thighs.
Olivia tried not to gulp. She folded her arms and lifted her chin, which was just about all the defiance she had in her. Gazing into that penetrating stare felt like looking at the sun. ‘I wish to know why you have taken me here,’ she said in English. Surprise flared across the man’s face like a ripple in water and then was gone.
‘Your English is very good.’
That was because she was half-English. Although as the daughter of a diplomat she’d been raised around the world, her father had been English and that was the language she’d always spoken. ‘I prefer English to Arabic.’
‘Do you?’ His own English was flawless, his tone impossible to decipher. A frown marred his brow for a moment and then smoothed out. ‘Why have you not changed?’ he asked, with a nod at the nightgown discarded on the bed.
‘Why would I want to wear that?’ she flung at him. His mouth quirked, impossibly, into a smile. He was actually amused.
‘Because it is comfortable? And beautiful. You are, as a point of fact, very beautiful.’ He moved past her to a low table flanked by two chairs and the tray with the platter of food on top of it. ‘Come, have something to eat and drink.’ He gestured to the low folding chair across from him. ‘Sit down, be comfortable.’
Olivia could only gape. She was beautiful? No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever even noticed her before. Why him? Why now? What did he want?
He sat down himself, seeming utterly relaxed...and utterly appealing. A tingle went through Olivia just from looking at him. Dark, close-cropped hair, those beautiful eyes the colour of peat, a straight nose and a mobile mouth, the lines and angles of his face both harsh and arresting. As for his body...it was lean and long, every inch of it pure, powerful muscle. Even sprawled in a chair he radiated strength and energy, power and grace. He was like a jungle cat, ready to spring, eyeing her with a sleepy, knowing, hooded gaze. He could devour her if he wanted. The knowledge flashed through her, certain and strangely thrilling.
She felt a tremor of fear, but with it a pulse of something else. Something almost like desire. He had such a languid look in his eyes. No one had ever looked at her like that. She’d spent her life in the shadows, half pretending to be invisible, ignored by her busy, widowed father, and then keeping to the sidelines of school life.
Since becoming the governess to the Amari Princesses four years ago, she’d been even more in the background, which she hadn’t minded. That was where she was used to being, making sure she was quietly useful, keeping out of the way of people who were busier or more important than she was. Blending into the background felt both safe and comfortable, and it was only in this heightened, surreal moment she realised how dull it had always been. How dull her whole life had been, as if she had been waiting all along for something to happen. And now it had.
You’ve been kidnapped, she reminded herself with both fierceness and panic. This is not some romantic adventure. This man has abducted you. You need to escape.
‘I want you to release me.’
The man arched an eyebrow. ‘Where? Into the desert?’
‘Back to the palace.’
His expression shuttered although he remained relaxed. ‘You know that is impossible.’
‘How would I know that?’
He made a gesture towards the entrance of the tent, one Olivia couldn’t decipher. What, exactly, was he referring to? ‘Too much has happened. Now, come.’ He reached for the jug and poured them both goblets of what looked like water, but when he added something from another jug the liquid turned milky-white. Olivia eyed it askance.
‘What is that?’
‘Arak, mixed with water. It changes colour when diluted. Surely you have had it before?’
‘No.’ The only alcohol she had had was the occasional sip of champagne at Christmas or New Year when she was a teenager.
‘Come, taste it. It is quite refreshing.’ He smiled at her, flashing very white, very straight teeth. Olivia stayed where she stood. She could not sit down and have a drink with this man. He’d kidnapped her. ‘Well?’ He held the glass out for her, waiting.
‘For understandable reasons I am reluctant to take any food or drink from you.’
