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His head cocked to the side, his eyes curious. ‘She also tells me that you speak fluent Spanish. Why didn’t you tell me that you speak another language?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
Annoyance briefly pulled his brow together. ‘I’m asking you now. How is it that you live on the East coast of America but have come to speak Spanish? It’s not as if the language is prevalent there.’
‘My mother was a Russian immigrant. She could speak five languages and spoke them often at home. I picked up my love of languages from her.’
‘Does that mean you speak Russian too?’
Regan nodded. ‘And French and German. Though my German is really basic. I wouldn’t want to put it to the test.’
His eyes gleamed as he looked at her. ‘A woman of hidden talents.’
Regan glanced at a pair of butterflies as they flitted over a row of flowers hedging the expansive lawn area, the admiration in Jaeger’s eyes making her chest tight. The strain of hiding her physical reaction to him over the last few days was wearing her down.
‘We will be gone most of the day. I suggest you wear something light and loose. The interior of my country gets very hot.’
Regan watched him stride away from her, immediately feeling a sense of deflation. She supposed it was to be expected since she felt as if she’d been on a roller-coaster ride since she’d arrived in Santara. It was as if she was living someone else’s life. It didn’t help that her feelings for the King were all over the place. One minute she didn’t want to see him ever again, and the next she wanted to plaster herself all over him.
Back in her room she scanned the elaborate wardrobe Jag had provided for her, choosing camel-coloured trousers and a long-sleeved white linen shirt. Remembering the spider from the other night, and knowing they would be outdoors, she ignored the more delicate open-toed sandals and shook out a pair of her own white running shoes. Tying her hair into a low ponytail, she waited for Jag to return. When he did he looked ruggedly masculine in low-riding jeans, boots and a lightweight shirt similar to hers.
‘Do you mind if I bring my camera?’
‘Of course not. As long as you don’t post any photos of me on social media.’
‘No fear of that.’ Regan grimaced self-consciously. ‘I’ve learned the consequences of that particular lesson.’
His gaze turned thoughtful as he stopped beside her. ‘Has it been so bad, habiba? Being here with me?’
Regan blinked. He could ask that after ignoring her for the last two days?
Fortunately she was saved from having to find an answer to his question when one of his bodyguards informed him that their helicopter was ready for boarding.
Never having taken a helicopter ride before, Regan was thrilled. Once they had left Aran her eyes were riveted to the vast expanse of sand dunes that stretched in peaks and valleys in an endless sea of gold and brown. In the distance she could see rocky mountain ranges with hints of green, and tiny villages dotted here and there. Jag sat opposite her and she felt his curious eyes on her. She listened as the two other occupants chatted about the sights but didn’t join in, enjoying the sound of Jag’s voice coming through the headset now and then as he pointed out some of the more interesting aspects of the countryside. At one point she nearly jumped out of her skin when he tapped her on the knee and said her name at the same time. Her eyes flew to his, her heart pounding even at that small contact, to find him pointing out of the window on her other side. ‘Camel train,’ he said and Regan couldn’t contain a smile as she spotted the line of over twenty camels meandering across the top of a distant dune. He grinned back at her and for a moment the connection between them was so strong it was as if they were the only two people in the world. Then Isadora, the First Lady, fired off some questions in rapid-fire Spanish and Jag answered.
As they neared their destination Regan was amazed to see miles and miles of brilliant green fields. Jag explained how the ground was watered by both underground springs and the water that ran off the mountains. An engineering team had devised a revolutionary method for storing the water so that it didn’t evaporate in the harsh sun that was a year-round issue for the desert nation.
Landing, they had lunch and took a tour of the various garden centres before the President asked if they could also stop at Jag’s nearby thoroughbred stables. Climbing into a cavalcade of SUVs, they were once more whisked through an ever-changing landscape towards the stables.
Not being a horsewoman, Isadora was taken into the main house to rest from the harsh rays of the sun, while Regan headed to the stables, declining an invitation to join the men in the fertility clinic. She wandered from box to box, petting the muzzles of the horses she met and taking photos.
‘Oh, you’re a beauty,’ she crooned as she came upon a giant white stallion, snapping off another photo. She grinned as the horse angled his head. ‘And a real poser.’ She laughed. The stallion snorted at her from the rear of the box, his black eyes studying her intently.
‘You must be at least sixteen hands high,’ she praised him. ‘Come on. Come say hello.’ The stallion stamped his foot a couple of times and then dropped his head, moving towards her and nuzzling her palm, inhaling her smell. ‘I wish I had a carrot to give you,’ she murmured, leaning in and breathing his horsey scent deep into her lungs.
‘Actually he prefers sugar.’
At the sound of Jag’s voice the horse whinnied and lifted his head. Man and horse eyed each other like long-time friends.
‘I see you’ve become mesmerised by Miss James’s soft touch,’ he said, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling out a sugar cube. Instantly the horse nuzzled his palm, devouring the treat.
‘He likes that,’ Regan said, laughing when the stallion bumped her shoulder, urging her hand back up to his nose. ‘You’re a demanding thing,’ she murmured, happily acquiescing and caressing beneath his mane where the hair grew as silky as duck down.
‘Like his owner,’ Jag said, his eyes following the movement of her fingers as she combed them through the horse’s mane.
She wanted to ask him why he was suddenly paying her attention again, but the gleam in his bright blue eyes made the words die in her throat. Instead she asked, ‘What’s his name?’
‘Bariq. It means lightning.’
