One Desert Night. Kate Walker

Aziza—I am!’ she protested when she must have caught his sceptical frown. ‘I’m both Aziza—and Zia. Yes, I’m that “maid” you met that night—really I am—but I was just trying to cover myself. I knew I shouldn’t have been out there on my own—wandering about your palace without your approval. It’s the truth!’

      She looked innocent. Looked totally believable. And every masculine element in him wanted to believe her and get this over with. He had been anticipating a wedding night and he should be enjoying it now. The heated pulse in his body, the hardness between his legs, told him he would be enjoying it—if he could only let go of the black memories and suspicions that held his mind prisoner.

      Sharmila had looked innocent too. He’d been caught that way before and he had no intention of letting it happen again.

      ‘And why should I believe you?’

      ‘Because I’m telling the truth. Because...’

      Meeting the cynical question in his eyes, she let her voice fade away, dropped her gaze sharply, biting her lip as she did so. The impulse to lean forward, cover her mouth with his and lick away the sharp punishment she was inflicting on her soft skin was almost overwhelming. His own mouth actually watered for the taste of hers just as he’d shared it on the balcony. How had his world become turned inside out in so short a time?

      ‘Because you have nothing to fear from me.’

      Aziza’s voice caught as she realised just what she was saying. What he had been saying with all this suspicion, the sudden cold distance. That terrible moment with the knife. In the back of her memory she saw again that moment when he had heard the door bang and had tensed sharply, almost imperceptibly, but she had caught it. How could she forget—how could anyone forget—that he had once been the victim of an assassination attempt?

      ‘Nabil...’

      He had let her use his name before, hadn’t insisted on the reverence due to him as the King, so she risked it again.

      She shifted in his arms, still face to face with him. So close. She could even catch his breath in her nostrils and the crisp brush of his beard on her forehead.

      ‘You can trust me—I promise. And, as to who I am, well, I am Aziza. Your chosen bride. My father’s daughter.’

      He was silent, still, watchful and alert. Those black eyes were polished jet, reflecting her own face back at her and giving nothing away.

      ‘But I’m also Zia—the “maid” you met that night.’

      Was his reaction one of acceptance or rejection? She only knew that the hands that held her had tightened and his head had gone back slightly.

      ‘I was there with my family—with my father and Jamalia. I was supposed to be there to act as my sister’s chaperone. But she didn’t want me; I was cramping her style, and the party just wasn’t my sort of thing. My head was pounding. I needed air.’

      Gently she placed her hand on his arm, realising that it looked impossibly small against the swell of his muscles under the white robe. The slightly twisted little finger looked even more vulnerable like this. She watched his eyes drop to stare at it.

      ‘It was very stuffy in there.’

      Was that response any sort of a concession, or simply an acknowledgement of fact? At least he had spoken. That stony silence had stretched her nerves to snapping point.

      ‘Your hand...’

      It was low, rough. He shifted position slightly, lifted his own hand and traced the twisted line of the delicate bones, making her shiver in response.

      ‘How did it happen?’

      He’d been there when she’d been injured. But why would he remember?

      ‘It was so long ago. Fifteen years, at least. When you were visiting us.’

      ‘Fifteen years?’ Nabil frowned as he took his thoughts back. ‘You fell from your pony.’

      He recalled the fuss when her small chestnut steed had reared in a panic at the sight of a snake and Aziza had tumbled from the saddle. They had been a long way out into the desert on that ride. It must have been a slow, painful journey back.

      ‘Your sister was trying to keep my focus on her.’

      Jamalia had been playing for his attention so much that day. Even back then, with his father still alive, before he’d actually become the Sheikh, it had been obvious that Farouk had hoped that his elder daughter would catch his eye. It had been the blatant attempts of Farouk to interest him in Jamalia that had put him off, Nabil recalled. As a result, he’d been an open target for a later, much more subtle approach. He hadn’t seen Sharmila coming.

      The flood of memories that thought brought made him scowl darkly and he watched the way his change of expression made her recoil against his arms.

      ‘You were very brave.’ That was what he remembered most. Her silence. Any other child would have cried; Aziza had clamped her mouth shut over whatever she’d been feeling.

      ‘That’s not what my father thought. He thought I was foolish—if I’d been a better rider then I’d never have fallen off. That’s why he had me taken home—fast.’

      He supposed, when he thought of it, that he remembered that too. At the time it had seemed that her father had focused on sending his younger daughter home to have her injury tended. Instead, he had been determined to make sure that nothing intruded on the time Jamalia spent with the Sheikh’s son. But he remembered the poor, pinched little face of the injured child, and how she had put up with her injury without complaint. He’d been impressed at her courage and control. And he’d known a flash of anger at the way that her father had dismissed her distress, wanting to spend more time on the ride—more time bringing Jamalia to his attention.

      ‘He forbade me to ride again after that, for fear that I would do more harm to myself and become damaged goods—even less valuable as a bride.’

      It was no wonder he’d never liked or trusted Farouk El Afarim, Nabil thought grimly. But he hadn’t realised that his memories went back that far.

      Aziza had broken her finger and he had seen that same damage on Zia’s hand the night they’d met. So this was Zia—but she also had to be Aziza too.

      ‘It didn’t mend too well.’

      Once more his touch smoothed over the damaged bones, making Aziza shiver. You were very brave. So had he accepted her story, believing in what she told him? Certainly he recalled the young Aziza, and the day of her fall. But it hadn’t done anything to reduce his tension. The long body against hers, the powerful arms that held her, were still taut with control.

      ‘So that night—on the balcony. Why tell me you were the maid?’

      When he thought of how much he’d wanted her. How close he’d come to seducing her. The drum of his pulse that seemed to have quietened now started up again, pounding at his temples, at the feel and scent of her, warning him not to trust too easily. Not to forget.

      With an inward snarl he drove it away. All he wanted to do was to forget. But now here was this woman bringing back so many memories he thought he had buried. Hell, that first night he’d even thought she was Sharmila.

      ‘Why call yourself Zia?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why not give me your real name?’

      ‘And have my father know that I had been wandering about the palace unchaperoned? That I’d left Jamalia to her own devices?’

      She gave a tiny shiver at the thought. And, recalling how her father had so obviously put her sister first, Nabil thought he could understand why.

      ‘I gave that name because I knew I shouldn’t be there.’

      ‘So why “Zia”?’

      The question changed something in her demeanour, made her expression close up, her eyes become