gaze. Uptight from the moment he turned up at her door, she’d grown coolly distant when he’d informed her they wouldn’t travel by car as she’d planned.
She seemed to think he’d countermanded the idea out of a need to take control!
He huffed silently to himself. He had no need to prove his authority.
What he had was a burning need
not
to be cooped up alone with Soraya for the time it would take to drive to their destination.
Zahir couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her that made him edgy—it was more than his qualms about her unsuitability as Hussein’s bride.
Yet as they headed south-west from Paris he hadn’t been able to drag his attention from her. He’d read her initial nerves, watched as she gradually relaxed and began to talk with the pilot. Initially dour, the pilot now chatted easily, flattered no doubt by her questions on everything from pilot training to wind speed and the local topography.
She was a woman who could charm a man with ease.
‘You’re enjoying the trip?’ Zahir found himself asking. He suppressed the suspicion that he’d spoken only to break the camaraderie building between the other two.
‘Absolutely.’ There was a breathy quality to her voice that told him she was smiling even though she faced away, peering at the view. ‘I love seeing everything laid out like this. It’s fantastic.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘Thank you for organising it.’ She swung round and the pleasure on her face arrested him. It lit her from within, making her eyes glow and her face come alive.
Something inside Zahir shuddered into being: a recognition, a sense almost of rightness, he couldn’t explain.
He’d seen her angry, defiant, exhausted. He’d seen her furious and frigidly cool but, he realised, he’d never seen her happy.
Maybe it would have been better to travel by car after all.
Safer.
‘You’ve never been in a helicopter before?’ It was easier to talk than dwell on the impact of that knockout grin.
She shook her head and a tendril of dark hair slipped free of the knot at the back of her head and coiled down past her breast.
Involuntarily his fingers twitched, as if needing to feel its softness.
The preternatural feeling of recognition grew to something like déjà vu: as if Zahir had been with her before, had watched her joyous smile and felt that deep-down explosion of blistering heat. He could envisage her pulling her hair free of its pins so it swung in a seductive silk curtain, inviting his touch.
‘No, I’ve never flown in a helicopter before. Isn’t it terrific? I love the feeling when we swoop low then rise up high again.’
On cue the pilot angled the chopper down to circle a bluff crowned by a half-ruined tower then lifted them back up.
A throaty gurgle escaped her lips. ‘Like that. Thanks, Marc.’
The pilot nodded silently and Zahir knew a moment’s searing discomfort. As if the easy friendliness between the two had the power to annoy him.
The notion was absurd.
‘I can’t wait to try it again. I’ve decided I like air travel after all.’ She turned away to watch as they passed over a field of sunflowers, head bent as if utterly absorbed.
‘You didn’t enjoy it before?’
‘My only other flight was on the jet from Bakhara to Paris, so I couldn’t be sure.’
Zahir sat back in his seat, processing that. ‘You’d never been on a flight before then?’ He’d imagined her spending holidays at foreign resorts then shopping till she dropped in the expensive boutiques of various capital cities.
She shook her head and he watched, transfixed by the wistful smile that shaped her face as she half-turned. ‘I’d never been out of Bakhara before.’
No wonder Hussein had seen benefit in her studying abroad. No wonder he thought exposure to other places and people would do her good.
Bakhara was no longer the feudal state it had been till recently. The wife of the country’s ruler would need polish, poise and some exposure to the
She seemed to think he’d countermanded the idea out of a need to take control!
He huffed silently to himself. He had no need to prove his authority.
What he had was a burning need
not
to be cooped up alone with Soraya for the time it would take to drive to their destination.
Zahir couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her that made him edgy—it was more than his qualms about her unsuitability as Hussein’s bride.
Yet as they headed south-west from Paris he hadn’t been able to drag his attention from her. He’d read her initial nerves, watched as she gradually relaxed and began to talk with the pilot. Initially dour, the pilot now chatted easily, flattered no doubt by her questions on everything from pilot training to wind speed and the local topography.
She was a woman who could charm a man with ease.
‘You’re enjoying the trip?’ Zahir found himself asking. He suppressed the suspicion that he’d spoken only to break the camaraderie building between the other two.
‘Absolutely.’ There was a breathy quality to her voice that told him she was smiling even though she faced away, peering at the view. ‘I love seeing everything laid out like this. It’s fantastic.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘Thank you for organising it.’ She swung round and the pleasure on her face arrested him. It lit her from within, making her eyes glow and her face come alive.
Something inside Zahir shuddered into being: a recognition, a sense almost of rightness, he couldn’t explain.
He’d seen her angry, defiant, exhausted. He’d seen her furious and frigidly cool but, he realised, he’d never seen her happy.
Maybe it would have been better to travel by car after all.
Safer.
‘You’ve never been in a helicopter before?’ It was easier to talk than dwell on the impact of that knockout grin.
She shook her head and a tendril of dark hair slipped free of the knot at the back of her head and coiled down past her breast.
Involuntarily his fingers twitched, as if needing to feel its softness.
The preternatural feeling of recognition grew to something like déjà vu: as if Zahir had been with her before, had watched her joyous smile and felt that deep-down explosion of blistering heat. He could envisage her pulling her hair free of its pins so it swung in a seductive silk curtain, inviting his touch.
‘No, I’ve never flown in a helicopter before. Isn’t it terrific? I love the feeling when we swoop low then rise up high again.’
On cue the pilot angled the chopper down to circle a bluff crowned by a half-ruined tower then lifted them back up.
A throaty gurgle escaped her lips. ‘Like that. Thanks, Marc.’
The pilot nodded silently and Zahir knew a moment’s searing discomfort. As if the easy friendliness between the two had the power to annoy him.
The notion was absurd.
‘I can’t wait to try it again. I’ve decided I like air travel after all.’ She turned away to watch as they passed over a field of sunflowers, head bent as if utterly absorbed.
‘You didn’t enjoy it before?’
‘My only other flight was on the jet from Bakhara to Paris, so I couldn’t be sure.’
Zahir sat back in his seat, processing that. ‘You’d never been on a flight before then?’ He’d imagined her spending holidays at foreign resorts then shopping till she dropped in the expensive boutiques of various capital cities.
She shook her head and he watched, transfixed by the wistful smile that shaped her face as she half-turned. ‘I’d never been out of Bakhara before.’
No wonder Hussein had seen benefit in her studying abroad. No wonder he thought exposure to other places and people would do her good.
Bakhara was no longer the feudal state it had been till recently. The wife of the country’s ruler would need polish, poise and some exposure to the
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