Midnight on the Sands. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ eyes. And he felt nothing. He embraced that. Embraced the void and the security it offered.

      “Ten billion, conservatively.”

      He chose his next words carefully, designed to keep distance. Designed to make her as disgusted with him as she should have been from the start. “That is all I need to know about you.”

      She looked at him for a moment, eyes glittering, a determined set to her jaw, arms crossed beneath full breasts. “I’ll be there. In the dining hall in half an hour.”

      Zahir cursed himself as he buttoned his shirt midstride, making his way through the maze of corridors toward the dining hall. What had happened to routine? And distance?

      He cursed again.

      He rarely ate in the formal dining area. Only if he was forced to entertain visiting dignitaries. Even then, he tried to send his advisor in his place. He wasn’t the best face to put forward for Hajar. Most of his people—at least those in control of the media—would attest to that. He was no diplomat, no master of fine negotiations. He was a strategist, a planner. He had built up his nation’s economy from behind the doors of his father’s office. But when it came to physical meetings …

      He was not the man to handle things in person.

      He only had to think of Katharine’s face when he’d slammed his bloody palm down on the table to drive that point home. He had frightened her. And he cared. He had no idea why he cared. Or why the image of her sitting at the table alone in that knee-length, red silk dress she’d been wearing made him feel … anything.

      And yet it did. And he could not afford it. He knew it, knew the cost of a weak moment. A weak moment, a lax moment, could mean the difference between life and death. It had for his family. And now … a weak moment could mean the loss of his control.

      Still he had come.

      He walked through the arched doorway into the ornate dining area. The table was low with cushions lining it on all sides. Katharine was there, at the head of the table, naturally, her pale legs curled beneath her, her expression neutral. Her plate was empty, despite the fact that there was an abundance of food laid out on the table.

      He knelt at the other end. “Sorry I’m late.”

      “No, you’re not. You’re late on purpose.”

      “No. I’m here on accident,” he said.

      She laughed, an annoyed laugh, if there was such a thing. “What does that mean?”

      “That I wasn’t going to come.”

      “I see.” She stood up and took her plate with her, walking slowly down the side of the table until she was right in front of him, the view of her legs from his position on the cushions an intoxicating and unexpected sight. She was close enough that he could reach out and touch her. Feel if those long legs were as soft as he imagined.

      He had a brief flash, an image in his mind and he braced himself for the inevitable. But it wasn’t a picture of chaos and violence. It was him, curling his fingers around her calf, pressing a kiss to her thigh, running the tip of his tongue up along her skin until …

      He clenched his teeth together, fighting to keep himself, his body, on its tight, self-imposed leash.

      She sat next to him, her arm brushing his, and his fantasy was disturbed.

      “I’m not sitting across the room from you.”

      “Why not? Most people would.” He picked a tray up from the table and put some figs, meat and cheese on Katharine’s plate before serving himself.

      “I’m not most people.”

      “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

      She always met his eyes. Always looked straight at him. No one did that. Not even staff who had been here before the attack. Though there were few of those left. It had been too hard for them to stay. Too frightening. Always wondering if the same people responsible for killing his family would come for Zahir. If they would be caught in the cross fire.

      Amarah hadn’t been able to look at him. She had tried. She’d worn his ring, was meant to be his wife, had professed to love him. And she had tried to take on the responsibility of caring for him.

      He’d been half out of his mind then. Not wholly in the past or present. Not certain of what had happened. Sometimes sickeningly certain of what had happened, everything playing in his mind with horrifying clarity. From beginning to end, like a film he couldn’t stop.

      Even now, he only kept it all down with years of practice. Of keeping total, full control over his mind at all times.

      Amarah hadn’t been able to endure it. Had not been able to handle the changes that had happened in him. If the woman he loved, the woman who loved him, couldn’t stay … couldn’t face him … it was no surprise when no one else could, either. He was glad, in a way, that no one had ever tried. There was no point bringing them into his personal hell.

      “This is my favorite,” she said, reaching past him and picking up a platter. “Obviously it’s not like my mother made it for me, but our chef did. Wild rice with pecans. Not a state dinner type of thing but … sort of comfort food for me.”

      “I’ll try it.” He lifted his plate and she served him a portion.

      He wasn’t certain he’d ever eaten this way before. It was strangely intimate, serving her, having her serve him. His family had been formal. Distant in many ways. And yet their absence was profound.

      “I don’t suppose your mother did the cooking, either?”

      The thought of his mother, always so beautiful and serene in her long, jeweled robes, her black hair pinned up in an ornate style, made his chest feel tight. “No. She was good at delegating, though.”

      Katharine laughed, happier this time, a sound that worked to loosen the knot inside him. “Oh, me, too. Notice I didn’t claim to cook any of this.” She paused then tilted her head to the side, a shimmering, red-gold wave cascading over her shoulder. “Maybe I will cook someday.”

      “Once you reach the light at the end of your tunnel?”

      “Yes. Maybe then. I’m going to move out of the palace. Traditionally, an unmarried princess would continue to live there, under the protection of her family, but I suppose a divorcée might do what she wants.”

      “You suppose?”

      “No one in my family has ever divorced.”

      “No one?”

      She shook her head, her strawberry waves catching the light. “No. I will be unique.”

      “I’m certain you already are.”

      “Perhaps too much, to the despair of my father.”

      “And you aren’t concerned how that will be received?”

      “My mother died when I was ten. My father will be gone soon …” Her voice was thick with sadness. “Only Alexander will be left and he won’t care СКАЧАТЬ