The Forced Bride Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит

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СКАЧАТЬ air of barely leashed fury, he was utterly terrifying. No wonder the man backed away. She wanted to run.

      ‘Don’t think of trying it,’ Azim said in a low, dangerous voice, and Johara knew he’d read her thoughts.

      ‘How did you find me?’ she asked in a shaky whisper.

      ‘Easily. Come with me. Now.’ As his strong, lean fingers circled her wrist and pulled her towards him Johara had no choice but to comply. She stumbled as he drew her from the café, throwing one hand out to the doorframe to keep from falling.

      ‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’

      Azim slowed, his fingers loosening around her wrist, even as his expression remained icily furious.

      ‘My car is waiting.’

      ‘I’m not going with you.’ Johara wished she’d sounded more firm.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Azim snapped. ‘You can’t stay here.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because,’ he gritted between clenched teeth, stepping closer to her, ‘I just took you out of a whorehouse.’

      ‘A...’ Her jaw dropped.

      ‘You do know what that is?’ Azim inquired. ‘I presume you’re not that innocent?’

      A fiery blush rose from her throat to the crown of her head. ‘Yes, I know what that is,’ Johara muttered. ‘I’ve read books.’

      ‘Oh, well, then. You’re the voice of experience, I suppose.’ He shook his head, clearly disgusted, and pulled her, gently at least, towards the waiting limousine. This time Johara went without a murmur.

      She clambered into the luxurious interior, the leather sumptuous and soft against her bare legs. Azim climbed in next to her and barked out an address to the driver before slamming the door and leaning back against the seat.

      Realisations were firing through Johara, short-circuiting her synapses. ‘Was it really...?’ she began through trembling lips.

      ‘Yes,’ Azim stated flatly. ‘It was.’

      Her teeth started to chatter as she realised how close she’d come to utter disaster. She could have been raped. She could have been sold into sexual slavery. She could have been... She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. She could hardly bear to think of it.

      ‘Are you cold?’ Azim demanded, and Johara shook her head. She wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

      He eyed her for a moment, his expression utterly fierce, before he reached forward to the limo’s minibar and poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. ‘Here. Drink this. It will help.’

      Her numb fingers curled around the glass. ‘Help...?’

      ‘You’re in shock.’

      She glanced down at the amber liquid, its pungent smell making her grimace. ‘I’ve never drunk hard alcohol before.’

      ‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Azim watched her, his very gaze commanding her to drink, and Johara raised the glass to her lips.

      The whisky burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. Somehow she managed not to sputter, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, thrusting the glass back at Azim.

      ‘No more.’

      A tiny smile curved his mouth, making his scar pucker. ‘Not bad for the first time. You didn’t cough.’

      ‘I wanted to.’

      ‘You have strength of spirit.’ From his tone she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

      She turned to look out of the window, unsettled by the sudden and overwhelming turn of events. Outside the limo the streets of Paris streamed by in an electric blur.

      ‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few tense, silent minutes had ticked by.

      ‘To my flat.’

      ‘How did you find me? Easily, I know, but...’

      ‘Your driver alerted your father, who told me.’

      So her father had betrayed her yet again. She wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. ‘Was he angry?’

      ‘Furious,’ Azim answered shortly. ‘What did you expect?’

      For someone who loved her to think about her happiness. But of course her father had never really loved her. How long, she wondered, was that going to hurt? ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. She felt tired and near tears, trapped and humiliated, as if she were a naughty child being marched to the corner.

      ‘Even I did not think you would be so stupid and selfish as to run away,’ Azim said. Anger thrummed through his voice. ‘Even though you had made it clear what you thought of our forthcoming marriage.’

      ‘As did you,’ Johara returned, half amazed by her own audacity. She never spoke to her father, or anyone, like this. It felt good to speak her mind to someone, even if she’d regret it later.

      ‘So I did.’ Azim was silent for a moment and Johara found herself suddenly conscious of his nearness, the powerful length of his thigh brushing hers on the seat. She could smell his aftershave, the mingled aromas of sandalwood and cedar. Her senses stirred in a way that felt unfamiliar and intriguing. She had a bizarre desire to shift closer, to feel the length of his leg against her own, a prospect that horrified her. This man was her enemy. He was also, unless she managed a miracle, going to be her husband.

      Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’

      ‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?

      ‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’

      ‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.

      ‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.

      ‘Is there where you live?’

      ‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.

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