Demanding His Desert Queen. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
Pointedly she raised her eyebrows and glanced about the luxuriously furnished sitting room, as if expecting to see a conference table or a bevy of secretaries.
The voice inside told her not to rile him. She was supposed to persuade, even cajole him. But Safiyah refused to let him think he could brush her off.
‘To what do I owe this…pleasure?’
There it was again, that emphasis that made it clear she was uninvited in his private space. Wounded pride made her want to lash out, but she reined in the impulse. She owed it to Tarek to stay calm.
‘I need to talk with you.’
‘About?’
Even now he didn’t move closer. As if he preferred her to be at a disadvantage, unable to see him clearly while she stood in the full light from the windows.
She’d thought better of him.
‘May I sit?’ Did she imagine that tall body stiffened? She took her time moving to a cluster of chairs around a fireplace, then paused, waiting for an invitation.
‘Please.’
Safiyah sank gracefully onto a seat and was glad of it, because when he moved into the light something inside her slipped undone.
Karim was the same, and yet more. The years had given his features a stark edge that accentuated his potent good looks. Once he’d been handsome. Now there was a gravity, an added depth that turned his slanted cheekbones, high-bridged nose and surprisingly sensual mouth into a face that arrested the breath in her lungs.
That black-as-night hair was shorter than before, close-cropped to his skull. That, too, reinforced the startling power of those masculine features. Then there were his eyes, dark moss-green, so intense she feared he saw beneath her façade of calm.
His clothes, dark trousers and a jacket, clearly made to measure, reinforced his aura of command. The snowy shirt emphasised the gold tone of his skin and she had to force herself not to stare at the space where the open top couple of buttons revealed a sliver of flesh.
Her breath snagged and a trickle of something she hadn’t felt in years unfurled inside. Heat seared her cheeks. She didn’t want to feel it. Would give anything not to feel it.
For a frantic moment Safiyah thought of surging to her feet and leaving. Anything rather than face the discomfiting stir of response deep in her feminine core.
This couldn’t be happening! For so long she’d told herself her reaction to him all those years ago had been the product of girlish fantasy.
‘My condolences on your recent loss.’
Karim’s words leached the fiery blush from her face and doused the insidious sizzle of awareness. Shame enveloped her, leaving her hollow and surprisingly weak.
How could she respond like that to the mere sight of Karim when she’d buried her husband just weeks ago?
Abbas might not have been perfect. He might have been cold and demanding. But she owed his memory respect. He’d been her husband.
Safiyah looked at her clenched hands, white-knuckled in her lap. Slowly she unknotted them, spreading stiff fingers and composing them in a practised attitude of ease.
She lifted her head to find Karim sitting opposite her, long legs stretched out in a relaxed attitude. Yet his eyes told another story. Their gaze was sharp as a bird of prey’s.
‘Thank you.’
She said no more. None of the platitudes she’d hidden behind for the past few weeks would protect her from the guilt she harboured within. A guilt she feared Karim, with his unnerving perceptiveness, might somehow guess. Guilt because after the first shock of discovering she was a widow, and learning that Abbas hadn’t suffered, she’d felt relief.
Not because she’d wanted her husband dead. Instead it was the relief of a wild animal held in captivity and suddenly given a glimpse of freedom. No matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t yet managed to quell that undercurrent of excitement at the idea of taking control of her own life—hers and Tarek’s. Of being simply…happy.
But it was too early to dream of freedom. Time enough to do that when she knew Tarek was safe.
‘I’m waiting to hear the reason for your visit.’
Safiyah had imagined herself capable of handling most things life threw at her. She was stunned to discover Karim’s brusque tone had the power to hurt.
She blinked, reminding herself that to hurt she would have to care about him, and she’d stopped caring long ago. She’d meant nothing to him. All the time he’d pretended to be interested in her he’d had other plans. Plans she hadn’t understood and which hadn’t included her. At best she’d been a smokescreen, at worst an amusement.
Safiyah lifted her chin and looked him full in the face, determined to get this over as soon as possible.
‘I want you to take the Assaran crown.’
‘YOU WANT ME to become your Sheikh?’
Karim’s brow knitted. Before today he’d have said not much had the power to surprise him.
How wrong he’d been.
He’d assumed only self-interest would have budged Safiyah from the Assaran royal palace at such a time. He’d imagined she’d come here to dissuade him from accepting the sheikhdom.
Surely having him as her King would be the last thing she’d want? Shouldn’t she be looking for ways to preserve the crown for her son?
‘Yes. That’s exactly what I want.’
Karim stared at the poised, beautiful woman before him. The whole day had been surreal, but seeing Safiyah again was the most extraordinary part of it.
The moment she’d walked into the room Karim’s blood had thickened, his pulse growing ponderous. As if his body, even his brain, worked in slow motion.
He wasn’t surprised that the shy young woman he’d known had disappeared. He’d long since realised her doe-eyed glances and quiet ardour had been ploys to snare his interest. The real Safiyah had been more calculating and pragmatic than he’d given her credit for.
Yet the change in her was remarkable. The way she’d sashayed into the room as if she owned it. The way she’d all but demanded he play by the rules and offer her a seat, as if they were polite strangers, or perhaps old friends about to enjoy a cosy chat.
But then life as an honoured and adored queen would give any woman confidence.
To Karim’s chagrin, it wasn’t merely her manner that got under his skin. Had her hourglass figure been that stunning when he’d known her? In the old days she’d worn muted colours and loosely fitting clothes, presumably to assure him that she was the ‘nice’ girl his father had assured him she was. The complete antithesis to the sultry sirens his brother had so scandalously bedded.
Safiyah’s dress today might cover her from neck to shin, but the gleam of the fabric encasing those generous curves and tiny waist made it utterly provocative. Even the soft, sibilant shush of sound it made when she crossed her legs was suggestive.
Then there was her face. Arresting rather than beautiful. Pure skin, far paler than his. Eyes that looked too big as she stared back at him, as if hanging on his every word. Dark, sleek hair with the tiniest, intriguing hint of auburn. Lips that he’d once—
‘Why do you want me to take the throne? Why not fight for your son’s right to it?’
‘Tarek is too young. Even if the Council could be persuaded to appoint a regent for him, I can’t imagine many men would willingly take the role of ruler and then meekly hand it over