Postcards From Paris. Sarah Mayberry

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      ‘I don’t care a damn whether people like me or not.’

      ‘Well, maybe it’s time you started to care.’

      There—that had told him. Even so she averted her gaze, having no wish to witness the thunder she knew she would see there. Sitting up straighter, she arranged her hair over her shoulders. The palace gates had opened now and as the crowd parted to let their car through she turned to look out of the window and smiled brightly at everyone, giving a regal wave, the way she had been taught to do as a child. The crowd cheered in response, waving back and calling her name. Small children were held aloft to get a glimpse of her. Cameras flashed. Everybody loved it.

      Well, not exactly everybody. A quick glance at her fiancé revealed a scowl that would make a tiger turn tail and run. But Anna refused to be cowed. She had done nothing wrong. Zahir Zahani was the one who needed to lighten up, respect his people by acknowledging their presence. Maybe even look as if he was a tiny bit proud of her. Though there was precious little chance of that.

      Once inside, Zahir started to stride away, presumably intending to abandon her once again. But Anna had had enough of this. Taking several quick steps to catch up with him, she reached out, the touch of her hand on his arm stopping him in his tracks.

      ‘I was just wondering...’ She hesitated, pulling away her hand. ‘Whether we would be having dinner together tonight.’

      Zahir scowled, as if the possibility had hitherto never entered his mind. ‘Dinner?’

      ‘Yes.’ She was tempted to point out that it was the meal at the end of the day that civilised people tended to share together. Self-preservation made her hold her tongue.

      ‘That’s not something I had planned.’

      Picking up a length of hair, Anna curled it around her finger, suddenly hesitant. ‘When you invite someone to your home, it’s generally expected that you make some effort to entertain them. That is the role of a host. It’s not much fun being left to rattle around here on my own.’

      Deep brown eyes caught hers. ‘I can see there are a couple of things I need to remind you of, Princess Annalina.’ His sensuous mouth flattened into a grim line. ‘Firstly, whilst it is true that you are a guest at the palace, I am most certainly not responsible for entertaining you. And, secondly, you should think yourself grateful that you have the freedom to rattle around on your own. The alternative would be to secure you in one room, have you watched over day and night. Something I did consider.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Anna stared at him in horror.

      Zahir gave an infuriating shrug. ‘So perhaps you should see your freedom for what it is—a chance to prove yourself trustworthy—rather than complain about being neglected.’

      Well, that was her put firmly in her place. Cheeks burning, she turned away, wishing she had never mentioned having wretched dinner with this wretched man.

      ‘However, if it would please you, I can find time for us to dine together tonight. Shall we say in one hour’s time?’

      Anna swung round to face him again, the words don’t bother tingling on her lips. But there was something about the narrowed gaze of those hooded eyes that made her stop.

      It was surprise, she realised. Zahir was surprised that she wanted to any spend time with him. She was surprised too, come to that. It was like he had some sort of power over her, drawing her to the edge of the cliff when all her instincts were telling her to keep away. That blatant, raw masculinity made her keep coming back for more punishment. Anna had never thought of herself as a masochist. Now she was beginning to wonder.

      Nervously licking her lips with the tip of her tongue, she saw his eyes flash in response, tightening the tendrils inside her. ‘Very well.’ Pushing back her shoulders, she tossed her hair over them. ‘I will see you later.’

       CHAPTER FIVE

      ZAHIR STARED AT the young woman at the far end of the table—the European princess who was soon to be his bride. Something he was still desperately struggling to come to terms with. He had no idea who she was, not really. Earlier, when she’d talked about the press attention she’d received over the years, his blood had run cold in his veins. But fear about her morals had swiftly changed to the urge to protect her, his whole person affronted that she should ever have been subjected to such assaults. Because deep down some instinct told him that Princess Annalina was vulnerable and certainly not a woman who would give away her favours easily. Which was odd, when you thought about the way they had met.

      She was certainly regal. From the fine bones of her face to the dainty set of her shoulders and the elegant, refined posture. Her hands, he noticed, were particularly delicate, long, slender fingers and pink nails devoid of nail varnish. They looked as if they had never done a day’s work in their life. They probably hadn’t.

      He looked down at his own hands. A warrior’s hands. No longer calloused from combat—he hadn’t gripped a dagger or curled his finger around the trigger of a gun for over two years now—they were nevertheless stained with the blood of war and always would be. They had been around the throat of too many of his enemies ever to be washed clean—had been used to pull lifeless bodies out caves that had become subterranean battlegrounds, or recover corpses shrivelling in the scorching heat of the desert with the vultures circling overhead.

      His hands had closed the eyelids of far too many young men.

      And now... Could such hands ever expect to run over the fair skin of the woman before him? Would that be right? Permissible? They wanted to, that was for certain. They itched, burned even, with longing to feel the softness of her pale flesh beneath their fingertips, to be able to trace the contours of her slender body, to travel over the hollow of her waist, the swell of her breasts. They longed to explore every part of her body.

      Feeling his eyes on her, Annalina looked up and smiled at him from her end of the table.

      ‘This is delicious.’ She indicated the half-eaten plate of food before her with the fork in her hand. ‘Lovely and spicy. What’s the meat, do you suppose?’

      Zahir glanced down at his plate, already scraped clean, as if seeing it for the first time. Food was just fuel to him, something to be grateful for but to be consumed as fast as possible, before it was covered in flies or snatched away by a hungry hound. It was certainly not a subject he ever discussed, nor wanted to.

      ‘Goat, I believe.’ He levelled dark eyes at her.

      ‘Oh.’ That perfect pink mouth puckered in surprise then pursed shut, her fork left to rest on her plate.

      He stifled a smile. Obviously goat was not something she was accustomed to eating. No doubt Annalina was more used to seeing them grazing prettily in wildflower meadows than having them stewed and presented before her in a bowl of couscous. She knew nothing of the ways of this country, he realised, and the smile was immediately replaced with the more familiar scowl.

      Had he been wrong to insist that she marry him, to bring her to this foreign land and expect her to be able to fit in, play the role of his wife? It was a huge undertaking to ask of anyone, let alone someone as fragile-looking as her. And yet he already knew that there was more to Annalina than her flawless beauty might suggest. She was strong-willed and she was brave. It had taken real СКАЧАТЬ