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‘You can’t even call me Jazz now?’
‘You’re a princess,’ he reminded her coldly.
But there was more to it than that. Jazz was the woman he wanted to take to bed, while Princess Jasmina was the innocent sister of his closest friend, and therefore untouchable. Princess Jasmina had nothing to worry about where Tyr Skavanga was concerned. Another tense silence hung between them. And just like the old days, neither one of them was prepared to back down first.
‘Well, I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb,’ Jazz said finally. ‘You’re here, and, as you say, we’re in this situation, so I might as well offer you a drink.’
He slanted a wry smile at her. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
‘Juice?’
‘Thank you.’
While Jazz was arranging things, he took the chance to stare around at all the rich hangings and the jewel-coloured rugs. The Wadi people had really pushed out the boat to show their love for Jazz by offering her the best of everything they had. The smell of precious incense rose from brass burners, while a honeyed light shone from intricately pierced brass lanterns, which were almost certainly centuries old. And there were enough sumptuous throws and hand-sewn silk cushions to make up ten beds.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she commented, seeing his interest and perhaps relieved for another chance to move onto safer ground. ‘Though you forgot to secure the storm sheet when you came in.’
Surprised, he glanced around.
‘You were too busy lecturing me,’ Jazz observed dryly as he corrected his mistake.
As he returned and tugged off his jacket, he noticed Jazz staring at him. It occurred to him that in Jazz’s ultra-protected world even the flash of a naked biceps would be disturbing. She was staring now at the tattoo that wound around his arm, which was a brutal reminder of his proud Viking heritage and another warning of the many differences between them.
What on earth had persuaded her to allow Tyr Skavanga inside the pavilion? When he’d touched her lightly on the arm with his hand at the meeting, it had felt as if the voltage of the entire national grid had shot through her body. And now she was in lock-down with him? She couldn’t allow him to risk his life outside. That was the only reason this was happening, Jazz told herself firmly. But Tyr filled the tent. His aura of power and command surrounded her. He was so brazenly male and so frighteningly virile.
No one could be this close to Tyr and feel nothing, Jazz reasoned sensibly. The ferocity of the storm had unsettled her, but that wasn’t an excuse for her imagination to run riot. They were stuck here. They hadn’t chosen to be here.
But to be alone with Tyr, when she was never alone with any man apart from her brother? She didn’t know where to look, how to act, where to sit.
Look anywhere except at this man mountain, Jazz concluded. Don’t stare at Tyr’s hard muscled body covered in scars, and wonder how he came by them. Just accept Tyr for who he is, and what he was when you were both younger and could call him a good friend. Don’t stare into Tyr’s shadowed eyes and ache to know his past. Don’t even begin to think of how it felt when he touched you. Concentrate on practical matters instead, like locking down the pavilion together in preparation for the storm, and everything else will sort itself out. She hoped.
It was a relief to have something practical to concentrate on, Jazz reflected as she started to move anything breakable out of danger as the wind battered the sides of the pavilion. She was an observer, and a fantasist who had dreamed about Tyr constantly since she was a teen.
