Girl in the Bedouin Tent. Annie West

insult.

      Yet it wasn’t Mustafa’s arrogance that rankled. It was what had been done to this remarkable woman. Terrified, abducted and abused, she still managed to hold her own, challenging him and giving no ground even when it was patently clear she was dependent on his goodwill.

      Was it her vulnerability or her courage that sliced straight through the diffidence he wore like a second skin?

      Long dormant emotions stirred uneasily.

      It was understandable he’d feel pity. Yet when had he truly cared on a personal level about anyone? Cared for anything but work or his own pleasure?

      His lips twisted. He hadn’t.

      Amir was self-sufficient and glad of it. He’d never experienced love, even as a child. Nor had friendship been permitted with the other boys who, with him, had learned the ways of a Tarakhan warrior under his uncle’s stern eye.

      With the ease of long practice Amir turned his mind to more important matters.

      Tonight he’d been the polite guest, playing the game of diplomacy and courtesy to the hilt. He’d allowed Mustafa to bask in the honour of hosting a man far more powerful than he could ever hope to be. Tomorrow his host would find a change in his revered guest.

      Mustafa might live in a chaotic nation where the rule of law barely existed, but he’d soon discover the Sheikh of Tarakhar was no pushover. Earlier Amir had been impatient at the need for slow negotiations when an all-important personal arrangement required his attention at home. Now he looked forward to making Mustafa squirm.

      ‘The driver’s really OK?’

      Amir saw concern on her pale features and felt a stab of admiration. Despite her own situation she was worried for the driver.

      ‘He’ll be fine. He was knocked unconscious, which would be why he didn’t raise the alarm about your kidnap.’

      A tide of impatience rose that he was sitting talking when every nerve screamed for action. Amir was about to surge to his feet when her expression caught his notice.

      She pretended strength and insouciance, yet her posture was a little too perfect. Instead of lounging on the comfortable cushions she sat erect, as if ready for anything, even sudden attack. She’d flinched earlier at his exclamations of outrage. Obviously she still didn’t trust him. How could she?

      Amir subsided onto the banked cushions.

      ‘You’ve been with Mustafa’s men since the abduction?’

      She nodded slowly, and he couldn’t help but read significance into the fact that this time she didn’t elaborate. He’d already learned she wasn’t afraid to express her opinion.

      What had they done to her?

      His stomach clenched at the possibilities.

      Cassie watched him pour juice into a chased goblet that looked as if it dated from the time of the crusades. Who knew? Perhaps it did.

      His hand, the colour of dark honey, looked strong and capable as he held it out to her.

      ‘Thank you.’ She reached to take it from him, careful only to touch the cool metal. She remembered the heat of his skin on hers, the curious sensation when he touched her, and knew better than to risk further contact.

      He was too disturbing, even now when he sat with easy composure, drawing out her story, each movement measured and non-threatening. She couldn’t forget her sense of peril as she’d stared into fathomless dark eyes and that grim slash of a mouth.

      What disturbed her most was the conviction the danger lay not only in his physical strength, his ability to subdue her bodily. It lay in that indefinable aura that tugged at her consciousness. The way her senses, though battered by kidnap and confinement, stirred when he gave that rueful half smile. When he apologised for being distracted, fighting for his life. When his eyes met hers and something unnamed sizzled through the air.

      That didn’t stop her covertly noticing the slight shadow along his jaw that made him look like a sexy bandit, and the way his full lower lip and mobile mouth turned severe features into something far too appealing.

      Cassie blinked, shocked. Her mind was wandering. She clasped her hands tight and leaned closer.

      ‘Now you know I’m here against my will, you’ll be able to get me away from here.’ Even outside his realm surely he’d be able to help her.

      The silence lengthened. Her confident smile grew ragged.

      The hastily stitched fabric of her defences began to unravel. Each second that ticked past shredded her nerves. The thud of her heart, so fast she felt dizzy with it, almost deafened her. He must help!

      He couldn’t ignore what had happened to her. Finally he spoke. ‘Unfortunately it’s not that simple.’

      ‘Not simple?’ Her stunned voice echoed hoarsely. She felt betrayed. She’d counted on his assistance.

      ‘I’m afraid not. You need to be patient.’

      Stiffening her spine, Cassie stared at the man sitting so imperturbably. Shadows from the lamps cast elongated shadows across the strong lines of his face, accentuating the way his hooded eyelids veiled his expression.

      Didn’t he understand her desperation?

      Unless he’d decided it was in his own interests not to help her.

      Had she been gulled into a false sense of security by his calm questions and his mellow tone?

      Breathing slowly, trying not to hyperventilate, Cassie told herself the Sheikh of Tarakhar couldn’t be interested in her. She had none of the sultry allure or seductive experience she imagined his lovers possessed. Despite the stark austerity of his clothes, he looked like a man who’d only settle for the best.

      If it came to sexual skills, Cassie wasn’t in the running.

      But then experience wasn’t always required. She knew that from bitter experience.

      Surreptitiously she slid her hand under cover of her cloak to where he had carelessly abandoned the knife, holding his gaze unblinking all the while.

      ‘Sheathe your claws, kitten. You have no need of a blade now.’

      Kitten! Indignation swamped doubt as her fingers clenched convulsively on the hilt of the fruit knife. ‘No?’ She tilted her chin.

      ‘No. I do not harm women.’ The glint in his gaze spoke of pride and outrage.

      But she’d take no chances. ‘In the circumstances I know you’ll understand if I reserve the right to protect myself.’

      Not by so much as a flicker of his eyelids did he move. Yet his features grew taut, the grooves beside his mouth deepening, the angle of his jaw becoming razor-sharp.

      Amir regarded her with stunned curiosity. His word was not enough? He wasn’t to be trusted?

      Surely she couldn’t believe him to be cut from the same cloth as Mustafa and his cronies?

       It seemed she could.

      She lifted her chin, revealing a slender throat that reminded him of her fragility despite her bone-deep defiance. Luminous skin caught his eye, so at odds with her gaudy make-up.

      Something stirred inside. Respect for this woman who didn’t realise she had no need to keep fighting.

      He thought of the long years he’d spent proving himself again and again, fighting against doubt, scorching disapproval and ever-present prejudice. That determination to keep fighting had got him where he was today. Who was he to insist she give up?

      ‘If it gives you comfort, then by all means keep the knife.’

      He paused and smiled, expecting acknowledgment of his gesture. After all, to bear arms in the presence of royalty had been till recently a capital offence.

      She