Sheikh's Dark Seduction. Оливия Гейтс

mouth hardened as he stepped inside the room. It was clean but it was also very cramped, and he thought how bare it looked. Why, even the servants at his palace in Qurhah had better accommodation than this. On a small dressing table, he could see that over-sized hairbrush she always used to rake through her thick hair, along with a framed photograph of her and her sister. As always, there was an open book on a locker beside the narrow bed and, on the wall, an ugly notice warning inhabitants what to do in case of fire.

      Finishing his brief reconnoitre, he returned his gaze to her face but he could do absolutely nothing about the sudden protective clenching of his heart. She looked as if a light breeze might be enough to make her float away.

      He walked over to the small window and looked out onto a yard filled with bins, before turning back—his black eyes narrowed in question. ‘Why did you run out on me in Italy like that?’

      ‘You know the answer to that question—so please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t. I went because I needed to get away and I didn’t want to have to ask your permission. I’m a free agent now and I look after myself.’

      ‘You didn’t think I’d be worried?’

      ‘Funnily enough, your reaction wasn’t the biggest thing on my mind. For once, it wasn’t about you, Murat. It was about me.’ The effort of saying so much had tired her out and she sat down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows. ‘What are you doing here?’

      Once again, he swept his gaze over the small room, countering her question with one of his own. ‘Why have you come back to Wales?’

      ‘Because of...family reasons.’ Rather defensively, she stared at him. ‘I like it. It’s a decent enough hotel and quite adequate for my needs. How did you find me?’

      ‘A person can always be found.’

      ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

      ‘The answer isn’t important. I have means at my disposal—you know that. What matters is why you’re here.’ His black eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of family reasons?’

      She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Yes, it does.’

      She had forgotten about his stubborn nature and autocratic determination to get his own way. She’d forgotten that, a few minutes in his company, she would be longing for him to hold her in his arms again. She pushed a strand of hair away from her hot cheek and met the question which was lancing from his eyes.

      And why was she resisting telling him? Wouldn’t the truth kill off any residual dreams of romance for good—and send him running from here at the speed of light? Was that what she was secretly afraid of?

      Catrin felt a sudden rush of nerves constricting her throat as the inevitable moment of revelation approached. If only she were somebody different, it might not have mattered. If she’d been one of those high-born aristocratic women with bishops and artists in her lineage, then an eccentric relative would have been perfectly acceptable.

      But she wasn’t.

      She was just ordinary Catrin Thomas, who always dreaded this moment more than any other. She hated the shame and the pity which always hardened people’s eyes when they found out. And she would have given anything not to see it in Murat’s.

      ‘My sister asked me to come back to Wales to help with my mother, who is...sick.’

      A frowning look of consternation crossed over his face. ‘Then why on earth didn’t you just say so?’

      She didn’t answer for a moment.

      ‘Cat?’

      ‘Because it’s not the kind of illness you want to shout from the rooftops,’ she said. ‘My mother is...’

      ‘Your mother is what?’ Murat prompted and now his voice sounded almost gentle and, in an awful way, that made it worse. She didn’t want him being gentle, or understanding or any of those things he wasn’t supposed to be. She wanted him to be hard and stern and autocratic, because surely that would help prepare her for the revulsion which he’d be unable to disguise when eventually she told him.

      ‘She’s an alcoholic.’

      Her bald words sounded brittle and sour, and it took a moment or two before she could bear to look into his eyes. And when she did they were hard. Hard as unpolished chips of jet. Just as she’d known they would be all along.

      ‘Explain,’ he said curtly.

      Her clenched fingers wouldn’t seem to stop shaking. ‘It doesn’t require much in the way of explanation. My mother is a drunk. She...she drinks in a way that other people don’t. She doesn’t know when to stop, or, rather, she can’t stop. She’s one of those people for whom one sip is too many, and a million not enough. She can’t...’ She shrugged, trying to do the acceptance thing again. But sometimes acceptance was difficult when it made you face what was breaking your heart. She drew in a deep breath and it was only with an effort borne out of years of practice which stopped her voice from breaking down completely. ‘She can’t help herself. She loves to drink, but one day it will k-kill her. She’s been on yet another binge. It started weeks ago—that’s why I came back from Italy so suddenly. And living closer means that I can help out when there’s another catastrophe—which seems to be most of the time.’

      He didn’t speak at first and when he did his words were so quiet that she had to strain her ears to hear them.

      ‘I see.’

      ‘You’re shocked,’ she said numbly.

      ‘Of course I’m shocked—but mainly because it’s such a startling thing to discover at this stage of knowing you. I’m wondering why you never told me any of this before,’ he said. His black gaze bored into her. ‘Why not, Cat?’

      Wearily, she lifted her palm to her hot brow in a failed attempt to cool it down. ‘Because we didn’t have that kind of relationship, did we? Our pillow talk never really got personal. Your life in Qurhah was completely separate and mine in Wales was the same. You never asked me questions about my past and I guess I liked it that way.’

      But she knew that wasn’t the whole truth and something inside tugged at her conscience. Made her want him to see things as she had seen them. ‘Plus we mustn’t forget that you’re a sultan,’ she continued hoarsely. ‘And I was afraid.’

      Her words tailed off and he looked at her.

      ‘What were you afraid of?’

      Once she wouldn’t have dreamed of telling him this. When she was trying to be that perfect woman who never wanted to bring any stress into his life. When she was trying to be what she thought he wanted her to be. But now she was free. She might be relatively poor and worried sick about the future, but at least she was free to speak her mind.

      ‘I was afraid you would dump me if you found out.’

      He gave a short laugh. ‘You really think I’m that shallow?’

      ‘I think maybe sultans are forced to be shallow.’ She gave another hacking cough. ‘Otherwise why choose a bride just because she happened to be a royal virgin? A sultan certainly couldn’t ever marry a woman whose mother might turn up drunk, w-with bottles of liquor clinking in a brown paper bag.’

      Murat didn’t answer. Not at first. He was too busy absorbing the significance of what she had told him. But currently her words were of far less concern than the wild light which was filling her eyes with a strange green fire—so that her skin looked as if it was bathed in an unearthly glow.

      Walking over to the bed, he leaned over to put the back of his hand on her forehead, frowning as her teeth began to chatter. ‘What have you been doing to yourself, Cat? You’re sick.’

      She coughed again and this time her whole frame was wracked with paroxysms. ‘It’s just a cold.’

      ‘It