Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

just happens to be a princess, may I remind you?—and scaring her half to death. I’m sure he will be very pleased with you.’

      Piercingly dark eyes held hers, flicking over her like the flames of a newly lit fire, mesmerising with a promise of deadly heat. There was something else there too, an amused arrogance, if Anna wasn’t mistaken. If ‘amused’ could ever be used to describe those forbidding features.

      ‘In fact I may decide to press charges.’ Anger hardened her voice. ‘If you don’t get your hands off me within the next second, I will make sure everyone knows of your behaviour.’ She jerked at her shoulders to try and dislodge his leaden hold.

      ‘I’ll take my hands off you when I am good and ready.’ His voice was as dark and menacing as the river that flowed beneath them. ‘And when I do it will be to personally escort you back to the party. There are a number of very important people there waiting for a big announcement, in case you had forgotten.’

      ‘No, not forgotten.’ Anna swallowed. ‘But, as it happens, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided I won’t be marrying King Rashid after all. In fact, perhaps you would like to go back and inform him of my decision.’

      ‘Ha!’ A cruel laugh escaped his lips. ‘I can assure you, you will be doing no such thing. You will accompany me back to the ballroom and you will act as if nothing has happened. The engagement will be announced as planned. The wedding will go ahead as planned.’

      ‘I think you are forgetting yourself.’ Anna fired back at him. ‘You are in no position to speak to me like that.’

      ‘I’ll speak to you any way I want, Princess. And you will do as I say. You can start by putting that ring back on your finger.’ His hand moved to Anna’s, picking up the ring and sending a jolt of awareness through her. For one crazy moment, she thought he was going to slip it back on her finger himself, like some sort of deranged suitor, but instead he handed it to her and waited as she did as she was told, the sheer force of his presence giving her no choice other than to obey.

      With her ring in place, he took hold of her arm with manacle-like force and Anna found herself being turned away from the railings, presumably to be marched back to the party. This was outrageous. How dared he treat her like this? She wanted to spell out in the clearest possible terms that she did not take orders from bodyguards, or ring-choosers, or whoever this arrogant piece of work thought he was. But presumably he was working on the orders of King Rashid…

      With her mind racing in all directions, she tried to think what on earth she could do—how she could get herself out of this mess. Physically trying to get away from him was clearly not an option. Even if she managed to escape his iron grip—which was highly unlikely, as the forceful fingers wrapped around her cold skin could testify—she would never be able to run fast enough to get away from him. The image of him chasing and finally capturing her flailing body was strangely erotic, given the circumstances.

      She would have to use the only thing she had left in her armoury—her feminine wiles. Drawing herself up to her full height, she let her shoulder blades slide down her back, which had the desired effect of pushing her chest forward, accentuating the fullness of her breasts as they spilled over the tight bodice of her gown. Ah, yes, she had his attention now. She felt her nipples harden beneath his veiled scrutiny, sensing rather than witnessing his eyes delve into the valley of her cleavage. Her breath stalled in her throat, a tingling warmth spreading through her entire body, and she fleetingly found herself wondering who was supposed to be seducing who here.

      ‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of mutual agreement.’ Her voice came out as a sort of husky burr, more as a result of the sudden dryness of her throat than an attempt at sexiness. Still, it seemed to be working. Bodyguard man was still staring fixedly at her and, even if his granite expression hadn’t softened, there was no doubt she was doing something right.

      Raising her arms, Anna went to link them behind his neck. She had no clear thought of what she was doing except that maybe she could persuade him with flattery, or perhaps blackmail him after a kiss—he was certainly getting no more that—so that she could make her escape. It went against her feminist principles but desperate times called for desperate measures.

      But before she had the chance to do anything of the sort this hateful man snatched at her wrists, easily clasping them in one hand and bringing them down to her chest at the same time as swinging his other arm around her waist to pull her snugly against him. Anna gasped, the contact with his body, that part of his body, the particular swell of that part of his body, ricocheting through her with clenching waves. Granite-faced he may be, but that wasn’t the only part of his body she had managed to harden.

      And, judging by the look on his face, her captor had been taken by surprise too. He was glaring at her with a mixture of horror and hunger, the hand clasping her wrists shaking very slightly before he tightened its grip. Controlling the tremble of her own body, Anna stared back. If this was a small victory, though small was hardly the right word, she was going to make the most of it. Tipping back her head, she trained her eyes on his, forcing his to meet them, to see the temptations that they held, temptations that burned so brightly, even if she had no intention of honouring them. She could sense the quickening of his heartbeat beneath his white shirt, hear the faint rasp in his exhaled breath. She had got him.

      ‘Princess Anna!’

      Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, illuminating their bodies, freezing them against the backdrop of darkness.

      ‘What the hell?’ A low growl rumbled from Anna’s captor as he spun around to face the photographer that had crept out of the shadows, the shutter of the camera clicking furiously.

      Blinking against the glare, Anna felt her wrists being released as this warrior man lunged towards the photographer, clearly intent on murder. But when she went to move, to make her escape or save the photographer’s life—she didn’t know which—he was right back by her side again, pulling her forcefully into his arms.

      ‘Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not going anywhere.’

      ‘Come on, Anna. Show us a kiss!’ Bolder now, the photographer took a step closer, the camera flashing all the time.

      Anna had a split second to make a decision. If she wanted to get away from this man, avoid being frogmarched back to her own engagement party and forced to announce her betrothal to a man she could never, ever marry, there was one sure way to do it. Standing on tiptoes, she raised her arms to link them behind her captors head, shoving her fingers through the thick swathe of his hair and pulling against his resistance to bring him closer. If this was what the photographer wanted, this was what he was going to get.

      With one final, terrifically brave or wildly foolish breath—Anna had no idea which—she reached up to plant her lips firmly on his.

       What the hell?

      Shock sucked the air from Zahir Zahani’s lungs, numbing his senses, closing his fists. Plump and firm, her lips had swiftly turned from cold to warm as they sealed his own, the pressure increasing as she raked her hands through his hair to pull him closer. Her breath rasped between them, her delicate scent filling his nostrils, temporarily freezing his brain yet heating every other part of his body. Zahir went rigid, and the arms that were supposed to be restraining her were no more than useless weights as Annalina continued her relentless assault on his mouth. With the blood roaring in his ears, he found his lips parting, his body screaming to show her just where this could lead if she carried on this very dangerous game.

      ‘Fantastic! Cheers for that, Anna.’

      The camera flashes stopped and Annalina finally released him, letting her arms fall by her side. Meanwhile the photographer was already on his scooter, his camera slung over his shoulder.

      ‘I owe you one!’

      Turning the scooter around, he noisily zoomed off into the Paris streets, giving a cheery wave over his shoulder.

      Zahir