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Kirsten’s bewilderment at the other woman’s attitude evaporated from her mind when she let herself look at Shahir properly for the first time. Meeting his brilliant dark golden gaze, she felt her tummy muscles clench, and she could barely breathe for excitement. She studied him, feverishly absorbing every tiny facet of his appearance: the way the sun coming through the window behind him found light in his cropped black hair, the amazing bronze clarity of his eyes, the hint of a smile that stole the gravity and reserve from his darkly handsome features. He was so very tall that she wouldn’t be able to look down on him even if she were to acquire and get to finally wear high heels, she thought abstractedly
‘Yes, I’m very grateful.’ Pamela Anstruther treated Kirsten to a bright smile of approval. ‘Could I have a word with you outside, please? Please excuse us, Your Highness.’
Mystified by the request, Kirsten followed her out into the corridor.
‘I just had to get you out of there.’ The smaller woman dealt Kirsten a scornful appraisal that bore no resemblance to her usual sweetly sympathetic approach. ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? You were seriously embarrassing Prince Shahir and making a fool of yourself. Don’t you know better than to gape at the man like a stupid schoolgirl?’
Aghast at the unexpected attack, Kirsten stared at the other woman, and then swiftly lowered her shaken gaze. Her stomach rolled with the nausea of extreme mortification. She was appalled that she had let herself down to such an extent that her behaviour had attracted attention. How could she have been so foolish?
But almost as quickly a spirit of defiance stirred within Kirsten. While she would humbly accept full responsibility for a mistake, she felt that there was some excuse for her lack of composure in Prince Shahir’s radius. It was very hard not to be madly aware of the one and only man who had ever kissed her. And, also in her defence, hadn’t he stared at her too? For just as long? Was anyone about to slap his wrist and rake him down for the same offence?
‘Of course I noticed that you had a giant crush on the Prince that day he gave you a lift home. That’s hardly surprising. He’s a staggeringly handsome man. But I’m quite sure that you don’t want people to start laughing at you.’
Kirsten lifted her chin. ‘I don’t think I made myself ridiculous.’
The cold china-blue eyes narrowed at that quiet comeback. ‘I suppose you think I’ve been brutal, but someone had to warn you for your own good. Look, why don’t you finish early today and go home?’
Kirsten did nothing of the sort. One or two of her coworkers had been less than impressed by her newly flexible employment conditions, and she deemed it wisest to head down to the staff locker room in the basement, don her overall and finish up her usual shift.
While she worked she began to revise her initial favourable impression of Pamela Anstruther. Perhaps she had been a touch naive about the imperious brunette, she acknowledged ruefully. Whatever—it was obvious that she had really angered Pamela. She could only suppose that there was truth in the rumour that Pamela was interested in Shahir, for she felt there had been no need for Pamela to humiliate her to that extent.
When she was pulling on her jacket to go home she was told that the housekeeper was looking for her.
‘You’re wanted back in the service wing,’ the older woman informed her ruefully. ‘I did say it was your finishing time, but you’re to wait in Reception there.’
Kirsten was dismayed by the news. Was she in trouble about something? Had she so annoyed Lady Pamela that the brunette wished to dispense with her assistance? She had barely sat down in the waiting area when one of Shahir’s office staff appeared and indicated that she was to follow him. She was mystified right up until the moment she was shown into a large, imposing office and saw Shahir poised by the window.
Her fine facial bones tensed beneath her smooth porcelain skin. She felt torn apart: she wanted to see him and she didn’t want to see him. Her heart hammered behind her breastbone and her green eyes feasted on him while her brain battled against any acknowledgement of the sheer charisma of his dark good looks. But every time she saw him she was afraid it would be the last time, and that honed her interest in him to a desperate edge.
For the merest instant Shahir pictured her slender loveliness spread across his bed, her beautiful hair loose in silver streamers he could bury his fingers in, that luscious soft pink mouth ripe and ready for his. Even as he angrily suppressed that unwelcome flight of erotic fancy his body punished him with a raw masculine response. He was the descendant of a long line of fierce warrior ancestors, and self-denial figured nowhere in his genes, he acknowledged grimly. His hunger for her might be in his blood, like a primitive fever, but he was proud of the fact that only regard for her wellbeing had persuaded him that this meeting was necessary.
Shahir rested steady dark bronze eyes on Kirsten. ‘You must be wondering why I wished to see you?’
‘Yes.’ But the familiar frisson of sweet tightness was already curling in Kirsten’s tummy and she was deliciously tense. He had sought her out again, and that pleased her so much she felt that she was floating ten feet off the ground. If she smiled she knew she might not be able to stop. For the first time ever a sense of her power as a woman was flaring through her, and it shook her to recognise that questionable feeling for what it was.
‘I saw Bruno Judd trying to speak to you.’ His husky dark drawl was incisive in tone. ‘I understand that it is not the first time he has approached you, and I was concerned.’
His explanation took Kirsten entirely by surprise. She came down from her fluffy mental cloud of irresistibility with a resounding crash and her face flamed. She could not credit that she had been so vain as to assume that he had had a more personal motive for wishing to see her.
In an effort to conceal her discomfiture, she burst straight into speech. ‘He wants to take some photographs of me. He thinks I might have what it takes to become a fashion model.’
‘Very well. It will be my pleasure to ensure that you aren’t troubled by Mr Judd again,’ Shahir informed her.
Kirsten was already feeling silly and hurt, and mortified to the depths of her soul, and his high-handed statement of intent sent her flying from miserable awkwardness to angry defensiveness. What right had he to assume that she would not be interested in Bruno Judd’s proposition? She might be forced to accept her father’s tyranny at home, but she saw no reason why anyone else should be allowed to take decisions on her behalf, or assume the right to tell her how she ought to behave.
‘But Mr Judd isn’t troubling me,’ Kirsten countered in flat rebuttal. ‘And if he was I could quite easily send him about his business if I wanted to.’
‘But of course you must want to.’ Shahir’s conviction of his own greater wisdom came as naturally to him as breathing. ‘You’re not streetwise enough to survive in the modelling world. The fashion industry is tough and corrupt, and it favours very young teenagers. Judd won’t stand by you if your face fails to make his fortune. He is a talented photographer, but he has few scruples.’
Kirsten flung up her head, green eyes sparkling like polished gemstones. ‘I can look after myself!’
Shahir studied her with da
rk eyes cool as ice. ‘Please don’t raise your voice to me. I do not tolerate impertinence.’
Kirsten lowered her lashes. She was as chagrined as a child who had been told off and sent to stand in the corner, and embarrassment struggled with resentment inside her. Her usually even temper sparked. She felt angry with the world in general. And the knowledge that she could not speak freely and could not even risk raising her voice had the same effect on her as a gag. The silence fairly sizzled with undertones.
‘My only wish is to protect you from exploitation,’ Shahir murmured with icy gravity.
