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Caitlin remembered blinking at her in astonishment. Whoever would have put the normally staid nanny down as a romantic?
But Morag had recently retired to her own suite of rooms which adjoined Cameron’s—citing jet lag as her excuse to miss dinner and have an early night and leaving Caitlin alone with Kadir in a way which felt almost premeditated. As if he were planning to target her when she was on her own and at her most vulnerable.
Was he?
Because if that was the case she must not let him.
They needed to talk, yes. They needed to discuss ‘the situation’, as he had described it so infuriatingly on the plane. What they didn’t need—or rather what she didn’t need—was to wander around the dreamy-looking palace grounds, all washed in moonlight, which had painted the statues a glowing silver. Because wasn’t the faux romance of her surroundings making her have thoughts which were very troubling? Thoughts which involved Kadir taking her into his arms and kissing her again—except that this time she wasn’t certain she’d be able to stop it from going any further. She let out a heavy sigh. Her body felt so responsive when he was close—as if it had been programmed to react that way around him, and all the reasoning in the world didn’t seem to make the slightest difference. And wasn’t her physical vulnerability a warning sign that she needed to be on her guard against her own feelings, for fear of where they might take her?
Which was why she shook her head in answer to his suggestion—no matter how much the potent perfume of the frangipani cried out to her to inhale it long and deeply. Because she needed to be strong. She must never forget that she was on his territory, and he was a king. An all-powerful king with hot and cold running servants and what seemed like no contact with the outside world. And she was going to have something to say about that.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, as she heard a nearby clock beginning to toll the first of eight chimes. ‘I’d rather just go straight into dinner. For this discussion about our future which we’re supposed to be having.’
He inclined his robed head, his black eyes glittering and unreadable. ‘As you wish. Please. Follow me.’
Kadir kept his eyes straight ahead as Caitlin accompanied him, though it was difficult not to be diverted by her athletic grace, which made the filmy material of her robe cling rather distractingly to her bottom as she walked. Stepping back, he ushered her into one of the less intimidating dining rooms, where a table had been set with crystal and gold and festooned with crimson roses. He watched as she glanced around the room, as if committing it all to memory, and once again he found himself mesmerised by the red-gold gleam of her hair, which was highlighted by the fractured gleam from the chandeliers.
He felt his pulse quicken. In truth, he could hardly believe she was here—or that his audacious plot had proved quite so effective. Such dramatic and high-blown behaviour wasn’t his usual modus operandi—and he was aware that by behaving in such a way, he was helping perpetuate the common myth of desert kings being nothing but primitive men who simply stormed in and took what they wanted. Yet Kadir had seen his actions as his only option and in a crazy kind of way it had felt right. For hadn’t he secretly enjoyed playing the powerful macho sheikh and showing the pale Scottish redhead exactly who was boss? And hadn’t she brought such a drastic measure on herself? If she hadn’t been so intransigent in her dealings with him, they could have worked out a far more conventional way for her to arrive in his homeland, with young Cameron in tow.
But in reality he couldn’t really envisage any other solution than this. Even if she had been amenable to future visits, would he have readily waved goodbye to his son—even temporarily—and left him behind? How did he know he could trust her—and that she wouldn’t try to keep his son away from him again, as she had already done for four long years?
Once again he felt a flicker of regret as he thought about how much of Cameron’s young life he had missed. But coupled with that regret was a complex cocktail of feelings which did not sit comfortably with him, for he could not deny his own part in what had happened. Just as he could not deny that his desire for Caitlin was as intense as ever. It still pulsed through his body each time he saw her, despite the fact that she made no effort to adorn herself.
And she never had done, he reminded himself grimly. If she had, he might have been on his guard when he’d stumbled across her on that wild Scottish moor.
Memories came back to taunt him. The first time she had touched his naked body, he had felt as if he might dissolve. And when he had joined with her... He swallowed. When he had spread wide her glistening folds to thrust deep inside her warm and liquid heat, he hadn’t known where he ended and she began. Many
times he had wondered if that was the effect she had on all men.
Yet he didn’t want to feel like this. As if he could explode with frustration every time she came close—a visceral need to be inside her again.
So what was the secret of her enduring appeal? he wondered. Was it the flame of her hair, which contrasted so vividly with that pale, freckled skin? Or eyes which were the colour of a Xulhabi spring sky—the most delicate blue you could imagine? Clear, soft eyes, fringed with pale lashes. When he’d met her, she had been ignorant of his status—something which had made her unusually candid in his company—and that had been rare enough for him to be charmed by her.
Was it that simple charm combined with a powerful sexual awakening which had stamped her memory so indelibly on his mind all these years? Which had haunted him during the long years of battle so that his promise to himself had been, If I survive this, then I must see her again.
It had proved a powerful enticement—powerful enough for him to ignore the wound which had gushed from his thigh and the fact that he had been forced to go without water for almost two days. He had nearly died during that last battle—that long and bloody battle, during which he had lost his one true friend and ally.
Rasim had been like a brother to him. Yet despite his strength and seeming indestructibility, he had lain broken and mortal as he’d breathed his last in the Sheikh’s arms. Kadir remembered staring down at the waxen death mask of his friend in shock, and the reality of that awful image had almost taken him under. But a vision of Caitlin had sustained him as he’d hovered on the edge of consciousness—her pale face and bright hair never allowing him to slip into timeless oblivion. No wonder he hadn’t been able to shift her from his mind afterwards, for he had associated her with his own personal resurrection.
He made no further comment until they were seated on opposite sides of the table and he observed her glancing somewhat askance at the gleaming array of solid golden knives. ‘Just work from the outside in,’ he advised, with a sudden flicker of benevolence.
‘I know that,’ she replied, with force. ‘I may live in the north of Scotland, but I have actually visited a restaurant before!’
He gave a sudden laugh and saw a startled servant turn and look at him, before quickly composing himself and busying himself with the drinks. And now Kadir found himself wondering how long it was since he had laughed out loud.
‘Forgive me for my presumption,’ he murmured.
‘It’s something I’m fast coming to associate with you.’
‘It comes with the job—and the territory. People neither wish nor expect their leader to prevaricate. It makes them feel safer if he is prepared to go out on a limb to make the right decision,’ he acknowledged drily.
‘And do you?’ she challenged. ‘Always make the right decision?’
‘Not always,’ he said, in a surprisingly candid admission. ‘But on balance, yes.’
‘How unsurprising that your ego is so healthy, Kadir.’
Unapologetically, he shrugged and waited until the servant had filled their goblets and various dishes of local delicacies had been placed in front of them, then dismissed the hovering staff.
