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The atmosphere in the car changed, a dark frown marring Karim’s brow, the smile dying on his lips. ‘Okay, wait there.’
He glanced at her as she struggled to do up her bra. ‘Do you need help?’
‘No, I’m… I’m grand,’ she said as the damn thing finally snapped into place, the mortification starting to outweigh the endorphins.
He nodded, then, grasping her neck, he tugged her towards him for a kiss.
‘Stay here,’ he said. Then opened the door. He slammed it shut again after stepping out of the car and she acknowledged the pulse of regret that, whatever had just happened between them…nothing had really changed. She still wasn’t an important part of his life. Certainly not important enough to know what had put that dark frown on his face.
But as she buttoned the front of her dress, her nipples still raw from his ministrations, she could overhear the conversation outside.
‘What is it, Muhammed?’ Karim commanded. ‘I told you I don’t receive my father’s calls and I don’t want to be bothered with his messages or demands.’
‘I’m sorry, Your Highness,’ the butler replied. ‘But this was a message from the head of Zafar’s Ruling Council. The news will be released tomorrow morning to the world’s press, but Mr Abdallah wished to inform you immediately, your father died twenty minutes ago, and you are now the new King of Zafar.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘KARIM, HOW ARE YOU?’
Karim looked up from his desk to see Orla silhouetted in the doorway of his study.
Heat surged, inevitably, making him tense, but the sight of her also lifted the weight that had been sitting on his chest since yesterday, ever since he had walked away from her—and into a nightmare.
‘Good,’ he lied.
He dropped the papers he had been reading—the contents of which had begun to blur in front of his eyes about half an hour ago—and thrust his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t slept in close to thirty-six h
ours. Probably not the best time to have her in his office.
Orla was a problem, just like every other damn thing in his life right now, and he still hadn’t decided what to do about her. By rights he didn’t need her any more—or their fake engagement—his father was dead. And he was going to have to take his place on the throne, for the next few months at least—which meant he was being forced to return to Zafar tomorrow.
He had sworn he would never return to the desert kingdom, had never intended to succeed his father. But the old bastard had had the last laugh, his untimely and unexpected death at only sixty making it impossible for Karim to escape the responsibility.
A delegation had arrived that morning from Zafar, explaining that a constitutional crisis would engulf the country if he did not take his place on the throne. His father had ruled Zafar for years with an iron fist—as a result the institutions of state, including the Ruling Council, were no longer fit for purpose. Karim planned to bring democratic rule back to the kingdom, as soon as possible, but until that was done—and it could take months, given the state of the country’s infrastructure and institutions—he would have to be a monarch in a lot more than name.
As she stood on the threshold of his study, the spark of attraction—and something more, that strange yearning that seemed to go beyond the physical—spread through his system.
Leaving his life behind in the UK, turning the management of his businesses over to his board while he concentrated on freeing Zafar from his father’s brutal legacy, was going to be tough enough. But more than that, it wasn’t going to be easy to explain Orla’s sudden disappearance to the council members he’d spoken to that morning, who had suggested the engagement was something that would move the country forward.
Of course, he knew it wouldn’t, because it was not going to lead to marriage, but ending it so abruptly and sending Orla back to Kildare might well be premature.
‘What time is it?’ he asked, his voice husky to his own ears as he got up from the desk and moved towards her. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to come and check you were okay. And give you my condolences.’
‘What for?’ he asked, his mind groggy as he took in the simple jeans and T-shirt she wore. When had her tomboy attire become so damn appealing? The memory from yesterday, the echo of staggered sobs, the feel of her flesh, slick, swollen, ready for him as the orgasm he controlled ripped through her body, assailed him all over again. When had everything about her begun to intoxicate him?
Had it always been so? He wondered, his tired mind not quite able to figure out a coherent answer. His hand lifted out of his pocket, the urge to touch her again unstoppable, but then she turned into the light.
‘For your father, Karim,’ she said, the deep well of compassion in her eyes making him stiffen and drop his hand. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
The brutal feeling of exposure at the softly spoken words washed through him like acid. He wanted her, not her pity.
He shrugged, the movement stiff. ‘Don’t be, I’m not.’
If she was appalled by the bitter remark, she didn’t show it, her gaze still containing that tender glow—almost as if she could see into his soul and knew he was lying.
He shouldn’t want her compassion, shouldn’t care about the sympathy she offered. He had not loved his father; he certainly wouldn’t miss the man, and he had survived very well without anyone’s care or compassion since he was a child of ten. So why on earth should he respond to that look now? Or be comforted in some weird way by the simple fact of her presence in his home? He hadn’t spoken to her since hearing of his father’s death, although he’d thought about her often while being inundated with the responsibilities involved in sorting out his business affairs to make tomorrow’s trip.
