Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015. Кэрол Мортимер
figure in amber. She was stunning, a beacon glowing in the early evening light. Her dress shimmered, the long skirt moulding her neat hips and giving a tantalising hint of gorgeous long legs.
Immediately desire throbbed, as if his body had been trained to respond to the mere sight of her. He registered vague disquiet. This fascination should be ebbing. Instead it had escalated.
He wanted to be with her, stripping off that dress that flowed over her slender curves like apricot syrup. This on the night when he should be rejoicing in his achievements and the accolades of his people!
She made him want to forget his duty. He wanted to lose himself in her. Or at least be with her, seeing her delight in the spectacle and listening to her refreshingly honest assessment of everything, from the pageantry to the behind-the-scenes lobbying by guests. He sensed danger in the way she distracted him, making him lose focus. It was his duty, his responsibility, to keep control and protect those, like Samira, who relied on him.
Asim made himself turn. It was a test of willpower that he stay away.
His grandmother and her cronies would take Jacqueline under their wing. He’d remain here, doing his duty till it was time for the fireworks.
As the light faded and he finally made his way back to the enclosure a ruffled press secretary raced over to report a breach of security. Amongst the invited media, a cameraman and reporter from a major magazine were on the premises. A magazine that had pursued Samira relentlessly. Its staff had been banned from all royal premises. Yet they were in the royal enclosure, large as life.
Asim marched up the hill, barking questions to his stumbling retainers.
How had they entered? He couldn’t believe his efficient security team had slipped up so badly.
But there was a conundrum. For it appeared the pair had press passes that had been checked and double checked and proven genuine.
Only years of self-discipline prevented Asim taking the steps three at a time. The Sultan of Jazeer never publicly showed haste or fury. He topped the rise and his heart pumped an aggressive rhythm.
It was worse than he’d thought.
A sweeping look took in the cluster of photographers held back by security staff. Their lenses were trained on the platform overlooking the plain below. On it posed women dressed in flamboyant rainbow colours. Among them he saw Jacqueline in full-length amber looking luscious as toffee and, in a gown of deepest violet, Samira.
Asim halted, pulse hammering, barely able to believe his eyes. Samira hadn’t planned to attend. When he’d tried to persuade her weeks ago she’d claimed she needed time before facing crowds again. What was she doing here?
A barrage of sound hit and the sky exploded in fireworks.
Asim was stalking forward, his jaw clamped, when a hand touched his arm. About to shake it off, he looked down into his grandmother’s concerned face.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of them.’ He started forward but her hand tightened.
‘No. That’s exactly what you won’t do.’
‘Sorry?’ He couldn’t believe his ears. The old lady had supported his strategy to protect Samira.
‘They’re here now. If you cause a scene it will fuel the flames. Look—they’re not talking to Samira, just taking photographs.’
Asim followed her gesture, confirming that, while Samira was in full view of the press, his staff kept them from questioning her. The women came together in a neatly choreographed move and posed for the cameras, a burst of multi-coloured light adding to the spectacle.
‘It’s deliberate,’ he murmured, taking in the scene properly for the first time. The beautiful women, the glamorous dresses, the backdrop of ancient fortifications and stunning pyrotechnics. The scene would enthral millions of avid viewers.
‘Of course,’ his grandmother responded. ‘Don’t inflame the situation.’
Grimly Asim nodded, forcing himself to stand and watch those vultures snap photo after photo.
Yet he felt betrayed. Someone in his palace had arranged this press intrusion and put Samira at risk. A few weeks ago she’d barely had the energy to stir herself and here she was, posing like some catwalk model for the paparazzi.
When he got his hands on the person who planned this, they’d wish they’d never been born.
* * *
Jacqui wondered if the smile she’d pasted on looked convincing or was a grimace of stress. These days she didn’t like crowds and being on show, a reluctant model for Samira’s gorgeous creation, shredded her nerves. But Samira had insisted, latching onto this opportunity with a feverish determination that convinced Jacqui she had to do her bit to make it a success.
Even though it meant keeping it secret from Asim.
No doubt he’d get on his high horse when he discovered what they’d done, but when he saw how well it worked he’d accept it was a masterstroke.
Of course he would.
But no one had mentioned fireworks.
Each crack of sound plunged her back into that day of chaos, blood and death.
The acrid scent of gunpowder turned her stomach. The whole display was torture, testing her resolve to the limit, cracking it till she feared any minute she’d fling herself to the ground, curling in a foetal position as the world shattered around her.
Another explosion splintered the air and she flinched. The hairs on her nape and arms prickled and she fought to keep the contents of her stomach down as terror iced her blood.
‘That one was close.’
Mouth dry, she nodded at the reporter, trying to feel grateful for the mundane observation.
‘And it seems to have been the finale of the show. Now we can talk.’
‘Of course.’ She’d been unable to think or speak during the barrage. Now she frantically drew on her reserves of strength, hoping years of experience in front of the camera would come to her aid.
She wasn’t used to being interviewed. She’d shunned even her network’s request for an interview after the bombing. But surely she could do this for Samira. Jacqui gripped her hands tight together.
Tentatively she began, confidence building as she followed the script she and Samira had developed. The interviewer tried to probe about Samira’s private life but it was easy enough to turn the conversation back to what they’d agreed: Samira’s dresses and her design style; the celebration; the magnificent citadel as a backdrop for what promised to be a blossoming design career. He even asked about her presence here and Jacqui relaxed a little more, describing her research and the generosity of the royal family.
‘So tell me, Jacqui. What’s happening between the princess and her ex? Our readers are desperate for more. You’re an insider now.’ The reporter leaned close, his smile gloating as he returned to his favourite subject. ‘Just a hint will do and we can develop the story further.’
Jacqui forced her features into a smile, though she gritted her teeth. She’d known he wouldn’t want to accept her ‘no comment’, but he’d have to.
‘I—’
‘You have all you need for your story.’ A deep voice sliced through the night air, making her jump. ‘The interview is over.’ Long fingers gripped her elbow, turning her inexorably to face the tall man looming out of the night. Dark eyes flashed.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ The reporter half-bowed but managed to thrust a microphone forward.
Asim ignored it, ignored him, towing Jacqui away past security staff and VIPs. They didn’t hurry but moved purposefully, though Asim paused occasionally to exchange pleasantries with guests.
Only Jacqui, with his hand anchoring her like a manacle of iron,