Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015. Кэрол Мортимер
‘Duty?’ Asim bit out. ‘It’s a little late for that now he’s dead.’
His grandmother shook her head. ‘You can’t blame her for what happened. You read the reports. You know she was as much a victim as Imran.’
Reluctantly he nodded. Logic told him the old lady was right. But Jacqueline Fletcher’s presence here still felt wrong.
Not to Lady Rania. ‘How can I turn my back on her when it was the last thing Imran asked of me?’
Asim watched his grandmother battle tears and his gut clenched. In seconds the clever, feisty woman he loved was gone, replaced by a fragile, grieving old lady whose distress tore at him. He felt as if someone was slowly disembowelling him with a rusty spoon. She’d always seemed indomitable but his cousin’s untimely death had aged her as not even the loss of her son and daughter-in-law had.
Imran’s loss had shocked them all. But for his grandmother it was a blow from which Asim feared she’d never recover. Unless she had something else to focus on.
With a sigh, he sank onto the arm of her chair and covered her age-knotted hands. He knew he’d regret this.
‘You really want Jacqueline Fletcher here?’
Her hands stilled. ‘I promised Imran.’
In their family a promise was an unbreakable bond.
Imran and Jacqueline Fletcher. Just how close had they been? The question had taunted him through the long night.
Asim closed his eyes, thrusting aside the futile wish that his grandmother’s peace of mind could be achieved through other means. The only way forward was to take control of the situation, however unpalatable, and mould it into what you wanted.
‘And if she proves unworthy of your trust?’
‘I may be getting on in years, Asim, but I’m not in my dotage.’ The indignation in her tone was a relief. ‘I’m still a good judge of character. And talent.’ She gestured to the papers on the table. ‘Read those and tell me she’s not gifted. She’s got a journalist’s instinct for a story, but it’s tempered with humanity and respect.’
‘Respect?’ It wasn’t a word he associated with the press.
‘Read them and see.’
To please his grandmother, he scooped the papers up. The last thing his crowded schedule permitted was leisure for reading.
‘You’ll let her stay?’
Reluctantly he inclined his head. ‘Since you wish it.’
‘You won’t regret it, Asim.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He would permit no one to hurt either his sister or his emotionally fragile grandmother. If Jacqueline Fletcher crossed that line she’d answer to him.
* * *
Jacqui paced the antechamber. Sitting still wasn’t an option. Her response to a problem was to resolve it quickly. Except the Sultan had been unavailable all day. One didn’t simply interrupt a busy head of state, no matter how infuriating and high-handed his attitude.
‘His Highness will see you now.’
Jacqui spun round to see a young man gesturing her towards an open door.
Her empty stomach clenched. This was it. Lady Rania had assured her this morning that she’d persuade her grandson. But, remembering his severe expression and the glint of honed steel in his eyes, Jackie wondered if anything would shift him when he’d made up his mind.
Once she’d have been sure she could persuade him, but her self-assurance had shattered, leaving her questioning her judgement in coming here.
Yet if Jacqui didn’t have this project, what did she have? Her insides heaved as she fought panic.
‘Thank you.’ She straightened her jacket with clammy hands and entered.
Though she was prepared, the sight of the man standing near the vast desk made her breath catch. He was taller than she remembered and memory hadn’t exaggerated the breadth of those shoulders. Or the keenness of that stare.
Briefly she wondered if she should curtsey but knew she couldn’t carry it off. Besides—heat seared her—after he’d had an eyeful of her nude body last night it was a little late for such niceties.
‘Good afternoon, Your Highness.’ Her gaze took in his finery: a long grey tunic embroidered at the high collar and hem, worn over pale, loose trousers that tucked into boots. No dagger at his side this time, but he wore a neat white turban threaded with silver. He looked imposing, his spare features harsh.
‘Ms Fletcher. Please sit.’
And let him tower over her?
‘Thank you but I prefer to stand.’
‘Fine. What I have to say won’t take long.’
Jacqui’s insides tumbled in a sickening corkscrew. She planted her feet in her low-heeled shoes and braced herself. She should have argued her case last night but she’d been swaying with exhaustion after twenty-four hours of travel and then the trauma of the nightmare.
He paced closer and she had to make a conscious effort not to retreat. His gaze pinioned her like a hunter marking his prey.
Atavistic fear quivered through her as he came close and she read something in his stare that wasn’t simply disapproval or dismissal. Something made her remember the brush of the silk coverlet against her bare skin and the strange jittery sensation deep in her core. She swallowed hard.
‘You’re lucky to have such an advocate, Ms Fletcher.’ He was so close his breath warmed her and his hot spicy scent teased her nose. ‘My grandmother is very taken with you. So I’ve decided you can stay.’
It took Jacqui whole seconds to take it in. She goggled.
‘I can?’ A smile trembled on her lips but they were too stiff to curve properly. Relief was a swoop of sensation through her chest so strong it hurt. She’d been so sure he’d banish her from the palace, perhaps the country.
‘You may.’ There was no lightening in his expression. If anything, it sharpened. He leaned closer, looming so her pulse jumped. ‘But I have conditions.’
Jacqui nodded, feeling the force of his disapproval. ‘Yes?’ Her voice was a scratch of sound.
‘One, absolutely no photos without permission.’
‘Of course. I—’
‘Two, no attempt to report on my family’s personal lives. A social history is one thing, digging for gossip is another. I won’t hesitate to sue if necessary.’
Outrage stirred. ‘That’s not what I’m here for!’
Astonishingly his hand reached out to cup her chin, tilting it up till his face filled her vision. Tension snapped between them and an unfamiliar sensation shot through her as his fingers splayed over her throat, reinforcing her vulnerability to his superior strength.
No man had ever held her like that. Jacqui was torn between wide-eyed anxiety and a sudden, startling jab of excitement. She hated men who threw their weight around, who encroached on women. But as she arched back in his hold part of her thrilled at his masculine power.
She blinked. She must be going mad.
‘My family is precious to me and I won’t have them harmed.’ He paused, his jaw tight. ‘I’ve seen what damage the press can do.’
Slowly she nodded, surprised and a little daunted by this glimpse of the man behind the royal title. The man she was sure would bring retribution on anyone who hurt those for whom he cared. Curiosity stirred.
‘Three.’ He paused, his gaze flicking to her parted lips then to her eyes. To her dismay her mouth tingled from that look.