rejoiced to come home to at the end of a long day.
The realisation should have reassured him that his mission to return her to Bakhara was important. But it brought no pleasure.
Just a twist in his gut that felt horribly like envy.
‘You’ve got an ice-cream addiction, Soraya.’
‘
I
have?’ She looked at the remains of the double-scoop pistachio-and-coffee ice-cream he held and shook her head. ‘I don’t hear you complaining.’
Zahir shrugged and she averted her eyes lest they cling too long to the movement of his broad shoulders. She’d discovered a weakness for Zahir’s wide, straight shoulders and rare, spectacular smile.
She looked instead around the stone-built town. Its square was hung with flags for Bastille Day and lights in the plane trees had just been turned on. In the background a small but enthusiastic band entertained onlookers.
‘I’m just keeping you company.’ Zahir’s deep voice tickled her senses. ‘Being a good companion.’
As he had been ever since Amboise. It was as if his accusation and apology, not to mention the crisis there, had cleared the air between them. No word of reproach or disapproval passed his lips. Nor—and she told herself she was relieved by it—did he refer to the shimmering attraction between them.
She’d begun to wonder if, after all, it was one-sided. Who wouldn’t be star-struck by a man like Zahir? Even if his attention was for her as bride to his mentor.
‘Watch out!’ She saw the football before Zahir yet he managed to whip around and stop its wayward trajectory. He kicked it up, bouncing it easily off his knees and feet as he scanned the playing field beside the river.
A grinning boy waved and Zahir kicked the ball straight to him.
‘You play football?’
‘I used to. When I was young.’
‘Me too.’
‘Why aren’t I surprised?’ A slow grin spread across his face and Soraya wondered if she’d ever be able to see it without her pulse stuttering out of control.
‘What else did you do when you were young?’ They’d beencareful to avoid personal topics. They discussed France and the places they saw, or politics and books.
The one subject they never touched on was Bakhara.
‘I rode. I discovered chess. I learned to fight.’
Soraya laughed. ‘Of course. You sound like a traditional Bakhari male.’
‘I
am
a traditional Bakhari male.’
She shook her head. A traditionalist wouldn’t have let her drive his precious car, or listen attentively to a woman explaining the principles of geothermal power.
‘What did you do when you were young?’
‘Learn to cook, keep house and embroider.’ She sighed, remembering hours of dutiful boredom. ‘And sneaked out to play football.’
‘And dreamed of marrying a handsome prince?’
‘No!’ The word shot out sharply. ‘Never that.’
Zahir watched her intently. ‘Marrying Hussein isn’t the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition? I thought little girls fixated on a glamorous marriage.’
Soraya lifted her ice-cream, hoping the cherry flavour would counteract the sour tang on her tongue. ‘Other little girls maybe. Marriage was never my dream.’
‘But things are different now.’
‘Oh yes, they’re different now.’ Bitterness welled, and with it anger at the limitations placed on her life by her engagement. ‘Can we not talk about it now? I’d rather concentrate on this.’ She waved a hand to encompass the crowd and the holiday atmosphere.
‘Besides—’ she nodded in the direction of the playing field ‘—I think you’re wanted.’
The football sailed through the air to land near Zahir. The same grinning teenager waved for him to join the impromptu game.
Zahir shook his head. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘Of course you can. I’m perfectly fine.’ She reached to pull his jacket off one shoulder then stopped as a sizzle of fire shotthrough her fingertips. Beneath her touch his muscles stiffened. His eyes darkened and her breath snagged as heat pulsed between
The realisation should have reassured him that his mission to return her to Bakhara was important. But it brought no pleasure.
Just a twist in his gut that felt horribly like envy.
‘You’ve got an ice-cream addiction, Soraya.’
‘
I
have?’ She looked at the remains of the double-scoop pistachio-and-coffee ice-cream he held and shook her head. ‘I don’t hear you complaining.’
Zahir shrugged and she averted her eyes lest they cling too long to the movement of his broad shoulders. She’d discovered a weakness for Zahir’s wide, straight shoulders and rare, spectacular smile.
She looked instead around the stone-built town. Its square was hung with flags for Bastille Day and lights in the plane trees had just been turned on. In the background a small but enthusiastic band entertained onlookers.
‘I’m just keeping you company.’ Zahir’s deep voice tickled her senses. ‘Being a good companion.’
As he had been ever since Amboise. It was as if his accusation and apology, not to mention the crisis there, had cleared the air between them. No word of reproach or disapproval passed his lips. Nor—and she told herself she was relieved by it—did he refer to the shimmering attraction between them.
She’d begun to wonder if, after all, it was one-sided. Who wouldn’t be star-struck by a man like Zahir? Even if his attention was for her as bride to his mentor.
‘Watch out!’ She saw the football before Zahir yet he managed to whip around and stop its wayward trajectory. He kicked it up, bouncing it easily off his knees and feet as he scanned the playing field beside the river.
A grinning boy waved and Zahir kicked the ball straight to him.
‘You play football?’
‘I used to. When I was young.’
‘Me too.’
‘Why aren’t I surprised?’ A slow grin spread across his face and Soraya wondered if she’d ever be able to see it without her pulse stuttering out of control.
‘What else did you do when you were young?’ They’d beencareful to avoid personal topics. They discussed France and the places they saw, or politics and books.
The one subject they never touched on was Bakhara.
‘I rode. I discovered chess. I learned to fight.’
Soraya laughed. ‘Of course. You sound like a traditional Bakhari male.’
‘I
am
a traditional Bakhari male.’
She shook her head. A traditionalist wouldn’t have let her drive his precious car, or listen attentively to a woman explaining the principles of geothermal power.
‘What did you do when you were young?’
‘Learn to cook, keep house and embroider.’ She sighed, remembering hours of dutiful boredom. ‘And sneaked out to play football.’
‘And dreamed of marrying a handsome prince?’
‘No!’ The word shot out sharply. ‘Never that.’
Zahir watched her intently. ‘Marrying Hussein isn’t the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition? I thought little girls fixated on a glamorous marriage.’
Soraya lifted her ice-cream, hoping the cherry flavour would counteract the sour tang on her tongue. ‘Other little girls maybe. Marriage was never my dream.’
‘But things are different now.’
‘Oh yes, they’re different now.’ Bitterness welled, and with it anger at the limitations placed on her life by her engagement. ‘Can we not talk about it now? I’d rather concentrate on this.’ She waved a hand to encompass the crowd and the holiday atmosphere.
‘Besides—’ she nodded in the direction of the playing field ‘—I think you’re wanted.’
The football sailed through the air to land near Zahir. The same grinning teenager waved for him to join the impromptu game.
Zahir shook his head. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘Of course you can. I’m perfectly fine.’ She reached to pull his jacket off one shoulder then stopped as a sizzle of fire shotthrough her fingertips. Beneath her touch his muscles stiffened. His eyes darkened and her breath snagged as heat pulsed between
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