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She scrambled to right herself, her cheeks now hotter than the Narabian sun despite the cool interior of the air-conditioned car. Deep chuckles reverberated off the leather interior as Zane folded himself into the seat beside her and the door slammed behind them. The car drove off.
‘Neatly done, Dr Smith,’ he said, obviously enjoying himself immensely at her expense.
But then she looked into his face. He seemed so much younger, almost boyish, his usually severe expression softened by laughter, his shoulders vibrating so hard, the sabres were jingling like bells.
A bubble of laughter burst out. She covered her mouth, but as he continued to chuckle, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from joining him. Suddenly they were laughing together, his husky guffaws matched by her higher-pitched giggles. For a few precious moments, the nerves and anxiety in her stomach dissolved and she felt like a child, free and unencumbered by the sizzling sexual tension that had characterised all her interactions with Zane Khan so far.
‘I can’t believe I made such a monumental tit of myself,’ she finally managed as the laughter slowed to a few intermittent chuckles.
‘Neither can I,’ he said, huffing out one more laugh.
He wiped his eyes with the corner of his robe. And a burst of euphoria rose up her torso. She had no idea why, but she had the strangest feeling Zane Khan didn’t laugh nearly often enough. Dignity and pride seemed a small price to pay for managing to demolish the austere facade—even if only for a few moments.
‘Here.’ He leaned towards her and she saw her sandals resting in his large palm. ‘You dropped these.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ They shared a few more errant chuckles as she plucked them out of his hand.
But as she absorbed the warmth of his touch that lingered on the soft leather, the last of her laughter trailed away, and a heavy sense of intimacy descended.
She could feel his gaze as she fumbled with the hem of her robe and her dress before slipping the footwear back on. She rearranged her skirts to cover her legs, unbearably aware of him once more.
‘I think I see what the problem is,’ he murmured.
‘The problem?’ she asked, making the mistake of glancing at him.
All traces of the boyish amusement were gone as his gaze roamed over her clothing.
‘The robes are designed to be worn with as little beneath them as possible.’ Was it her imagination or had his voice dropped several octaves? ‘Adding extra layers makes them more cumbersome and tends to inhibit the cooling effect.’
‘O-oh, I see,’ she stuttered.
The hot brick in her stomach plunged between her thighs and her nipples tightened as they made the rest of the drive through the desert in silence.
Ruining the cooling effect completely.
* * *
What the hell? I have an undiscovered toe fetish.
Zane absorbed the rocky, forbidding landscape as the car crested the rise and headed into the desert valley towards the Sheikh’s palace, far too aware of the woman sitting stiffly in the seat beside him—and the burn on his fingertips where his hand had connected with her ankle. The sight of her unpainted toes and bare feet as she’d slipped on her sandals hadn’t helped contain the surge of lust that had been tormenting him ever since she’d stepped out of her cabin.
His imagination had gone into overdrive as soon as she’d appeared, everything the ankle-length robe with its intricate beading disguised somehow even more erotic than her tomboy jeans and shapeless sweater of the day before.
He shifted in his seat as the palace came into view. He heard her sharp intake of breath. The enormous five-hundred-year-old structure with its domed turrets, lavish mosaic tiling, walled gardens and courtyards and intricately carved arched walkways was a truly magnificent example of Moorish architecture that would awe any new visitor. He had been awestruck himself sixteen years ago when he’d seen it for the first time as a confused teenager, using belligerence to hide his fear—only to discover that misery, not magic, lurked behind the golden walls.
He dispelled the unpleasant memories as the car approached the town of Zahari—which had sprawled around the walls of the palace for over three hundred years—and sailed through the marketplace. Traders and customers stood at a respectful distance, many of them bowing their heads or dropping to their knees as the car passed.
‘Is that customary? For your subjects to kneel before you?’ Catherine Smith’s soft voice yanked him back to the present and tugged at his groin in a way he had been trying to ignore ever since they’d left the plane.
He would have to get his reaction to this woman under control. It could only be a result of the sexual drought he’d suffered in recent years, ever since his father’s illness and death had required him to spend so much t
ime in Narabia.
‘It is not required,’ he said, aware of the sharp tone when she flinched.
It wasn’t her fault she had an unpredictable effect on him and his sex-starved libido. Any more than it was her fault the delicate arch of her instep and those slim, straight toes had him obsessing about sucking and licking each one in turn, then slowly inching the layers of clothing up her slim curves to discover exactly what treasures lay between her toned thighs.
He shook his head, and attempted to focus on the haze that shimmered on the palace’s golden walls as the car drove through the gates and entered the forecourt.
