Chapter 2

Janna

This man, this Sheikh, is suggesting I go home with him? Aren’t sheikhs super mega rich or something? And haven’t they a reputation for kidnapping any woman they want? Or have I just been reading too many romance novels? While he’s been studying me, in the same detached way as anyone in the medical profession would, I’ve been examining him too. And shit, is he handsome. He’s got an aquiline nose, slightly pointed chin covered in designer stubble, dark hair well styled, but long, just touching his shoulders. And his eyes, well, all at once I understand the saying, a girl could easily drown in them.

Now I come to think of it, his suit does smack of money. As he stands, I’m able to see it fits as though it was made for him—it can’t be off the rack—and outlines a figure I suspect is well muscled. His shoulders are broad, his jacket tailored to show a trim waist. A stark contrast to the other man beside him who carries a middle-aged spread and who’s giving off a vibe I’m not certain I like. Now if it was him offering to give me a bed for the night, I’d turn him down without a second thought.

But Jasim? Sheikh Jasim? He’s got trust and integrity written all over him, or is that wishful thinking? Was that blow to my head harder than I thought? Could it be screwing up my sense of self-preservation? I don’t know him from Adam, but I’m tired and sore, and I just want a bed. Can I take a chance and accept his kind offer? Can I be certain there’s no ulterior motive? While it’s not something I’d normally even contemplate, I know at least one of my friends will probably be ending up in a stranger’s bed tonight. Where’s the difference?

I’ve precious little alternative. I can’t go home, being in no state to face the inevitable interrogation tonight. Maybe by morning I’ll have concocted some credible story about how I’ve ended up with a head injury. I can’t imagine telling them what actually happened. Christ, they’d have a field day with that. My first taste of freedom, and just look at how it ended. They’d never let me forget it.

Telling Jasim there was no one to look after me wasn’t the first untruth I’ve told tonight. Even before I’d left the house I’d used manipulation to get my own way, and gotten hurt as a result. God, I’ll have provided them with enough ammunition to keep me grounded me for another six years. The longer I can delay letting them know, the better it will be. And maybe, with luck, the lump on my forehead will have gone down by morning, and they’ll never have to know.

That I find the intriguing sheikh attractive is probably what influences me most, and the words come out of my mouth before I’ve seriously considered all the implications. If I wasn’t so shaky after being attacked and groped, if my head wasn’t hurting so much or fatigue threatening to overwhelm me, maybe I’d have thought twice before saying to a perfect stranger, “Sheikh, that’s a generous offer. If you really think it’s necessary and you’ve a spare bed, I’d like to take you up on it.”

“Jasim,” he corrects, before pulling out a business card. “I know you don’t want to bother your family or friends for a bed, but please, give them a call or text and let them know where you’ll be staying. My motivation is simply to make sure you’ve not got any lasting complications from your injury, but you don’t know me at all. Bates here will vouch for me, of course.”

Bates seems bewildered by the direction the night has now headed, and offers up another suggestion, “Perhaps one of the girls here could take you home with them?”

And impose on a complete stranger? I open my mouth to tell them I don’t want to do that, then close it, realising that’s exactly what I’m proposing to do. My hand touches the bump on my head as though I could tell it’s responsible for my lack of inhibition tonight. I’m normally more careful that this. Strike that, correction, I’m never allowed to be anything but.

The thought that my protectors would be horrified I was going home with a strange man decides me. My one chance of freedom, and I’ll take it. And if I end up in his bed, well, I know enough to understand it certainly wouldn’t be rape. He intrigues me; this man with his faintest of accents, his title, and the darker shades of his skin tone. If I walked away from him now, I would never know what I might have missed.

“I’ll text my friend, if I can borrow your phone.” My decision is made. And oh, yeah, Mara would be over the moon to know I’d gone home with a man. Hell, she’ll laugh her head off, it’s so unlike me. And she’s probably in God knows whose bed at the moment herself, and won’t even read my message until morning. But soon enough, if I disappear off the face of the earth. Don’t sheikhs keep women as slaves? Heaven help me, but that idea carries no revulsion, just ignites a tingling between my thighs. Shit, Janna, you’re in trouble here, girl.

I send a quick text to a memorised number while Jasim finishes up the conversation which I’d interrupted with my entrance, a series of ‘I’ll be in touch’ from him and a half-hearted, ‘I’ll think on what you’ve suggested’ from his companion. Then, seeing they’re saying their goodbyes, I get to my feet. A wave of dizziness goes through me, and I sway. A strong arm comes around me, holding me up.

“Sorry.” Is it tiredness, or have I really hit my head too hard?

Sharp eyes scrutinise me, then with a last look at Bates, Jasim draws me along with him, “Let’s get you home.”

As he leads me to the door and down the stairway, I lean on him for support, but inwardly admit I’m enjoying the comfort of his muscular arm around me. Instead of taking me out of the main entrance that I’d come in by, he takes me to another door and we descend a set of stairs leading down to a basement carpark and then he directs me across toward an expensive looking car, a four-door saloon. Opening the passenger side, he helps me into a soft leather seat and I’m encased by the luxury. Leaning my head back, I close my tired eyes.

After hearing the driver’s door shut, the car starts to move so silently I hadn’t noticed the engine starting, only realising we’re on our way when I feel the slight vibration as we leave the garage.

“Quiet car,” I comment, already half asleep, lulled by the movement.

“It’s electric,” he replies. My last conscious thought is to idly wonder whether he drives it because he cares about the environment.

It’s probably very stupid and naïve of me, but I’m completely unaware of my surroundings or where he’s taking me as we drive through the quiet of the late night, or more to the point, early morning London streets. I’ll likely look back on my actions tonight with a more critical eye and blame my out of character actions on the fact I’d banged my head. At the moment though, our brief interaction, the way he cared for me so gently and competently, is making me trust him, and I believe he’s got nothing but my best interests at heart.

The smooth movement of the car, and the silence of the man beside me lulls me into a deep sleep, and I don’t wake until we’re pulling up in another underground car park, and he’s opening my door.

“We’re here.”

Opening bleary eyes, it takes me a moment to remember who he is, and what’s happened tonight. And it’s only now, for the first time, I get a sense of unease. Where am I? He could have brought me anywhere. Wherever it is, I’m not going to find out sat in the car. I swing out my legs and strong arms are quickly there to help me to my feet; it’s lucky there’s someone to hold me, still half asleep, I’m feeling a bit weak.

Once again holding me close to his side, he leads me over to where there’s a lift waiting. Inside, he takes out a card and swipes it. The lift begins to rise, the motion making me lean on him even more. I’m so close I can smell the expensive aftershave he uses, and underneath that, a masculine perfume all his own. It must be intoxicating, as it makes me feel lightheaded.

With a slight jolt, the lift arrives at its destination, and when the doors open, I find myself in the foyer of an apartment bigger than any I’ve ever been in before. Without wasting a moment, he presses his hand to my back, and encourages me into a well-appointed sitting room, floor to ceiling windows revealing a view extending for miles. Realising this must be the penthouse suite, I feel overwhelmed by its ostentatiousness, but don’t have long to admire the luxurious furnishings or comfortable looking sofas, before he takes me through and down a hallway, and into a bedroom.

It’s immediately clear that it must be his. The dark leather-bound bed, covered in black satin sheets, screams masculinity. A comfortable wingback chair sits under a window, with a book lying open on the seat. Clothes are already set out, hanging on a vast wardrobe door doubtless in preparation for the morning.

My senses return to me. I fancy this man, felt the attraction almost from the moment I stole my first real look at him, but that doesn’t mean I have any intention of sharing his bed. It had been a nice fantasy, not a real desire.

“Um.” At a loss for words, I point at the bed, knowing my body has gone stiff.

“I’ll sleep on the chair,” he explains, understanding the reason for my hesitation immediately. “I need to stay close, to keep an eye on you.” In a gesture I’ve already noticed must be one of his characteristics, he brushes back his hair, “My housekeeper’s spring cleaning, and the guest rooms are all stripped. I don’t feel like making up another bed tonight.”

The housekeeper? How the other half live! It must be wonderful to not have to clean your own room. I must still be out of it, when the most ridiculous thing comes out of my mouth, “It’s not spring.”

He laughs, the first time I’ve heard his amusement, it’s a deep throated chuckle, and one which sends tingles down my spine, “Spring, autumn. I just let her get on with whatever she wants. When she decides it’s time to do a deep clean, there’s no stopping her.” He turns me to face him. “The bathroom’s through there.” Indicating an open door, he continues. “Make yourself comfortable and get into bed. I’ll leave out one of my shirts for you to wear. Unless you want to keep that on?”

That being my skimpy dress I wore not for comfort, but for a night out with the girls. With its tight bodice, it would be awkward to sleep in. “Thank you. A shirt would be great.”

“Right, you get yourself sorted, and I’ll go into the lounge for a while.”

With that he leaves me alone. I do the necessary, and finding the shirt he’d left out, take it back and change in the bathroom. He’s got a selection of new tooth brushes, and a range of soaps and feminine creams and face wipes, suggesting I’m not the first female visitor he’s had in his flat, and I don’t understand why that thought disappoints me. Staring at my reflexion in the mirror, I gently brush at the strips over my wound. Even pulling down my fringe doesn’t hide them. Shit. I’d hoped to conceal it. Sighing, knowing I’m unlikely to get away without any explanation, I briefly think of the trouble I’ll be in come morning. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. They’re going to flip.

At last I return to the bedroom, and with only a slight hesitation, slide underneath the smooth silk covers. The bed’s comfy, the pillow cradles my head perfectly, and I’m almost asleep before I finish the thought that I’ll not be able to sleep in a strange room.

A hand is shaking me. “Janna, wake up.”

Bloody hell! Is it already morning? I don’t feel I’ve slept very long.

“How you feeling? Is your headache worse or better? Can you look at me, pet?”

The events of the night before come rushing back to me, along with the realisation I’m in a sheikh’s bed. The thought makes me want to giggle, but I suppress my mirth, restricting myself to a simple reply. “My head’s feeling better.”

“No double vision or dizziness?”

Huh! He’s just woken me from a deep sleep, what does he expect? “No, I’m fine.”

Gentle fingers take my wrist. He’s feeling my pulse. Suddenly I want his hand to touch more of me. He could trace my arm, up to my shoulder and down to my…

Moving his hand to my face, he lifts my eyelids and stares into my eyes, pulling away when I blink to avoid the harsh light.

“Go back to sleep now.” At his quiet instruction I gather he’s just doing what he’d said, waking me to check I’m alright. But the command in his voice has me obeying. Turning on my side, I close my eyes as he switches off the light.

And this time the nightmare hits. I’m back in the alleyway, fighting my assailant off. The difference, this time, is I can’t get free. I scream for help, but it’s futile. In the cacophony of the London evening there’ll be no one able to hear me. I punch out with my arms, only to have them held firmly…

“Hush. You’re having a nightmare. It’s to be expected, pet. You’ve been through a lot tonight.” He holds my hands in one of his, the other he smooths across my forehead, in the same way my mother used to when I was a child. He’s sitting next to me, the warmth of his body coming to me through my bedclothes and the shirt that I’m wearing. Brazenly, I snuggle into his side, and now it’s my hand that imprisons his.

“Stay with me?”

“I’m here, pet. I’m sleeping on the chair. I’m not far away.”

I want him to be closer, need the comfort he gives me. “No, please. Hold me.”

I feel him tense with reluctance, “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Please.” I inject unashamed begging into my voice, as I’m scared at the thought of the dream returning. “I don’t want to feel alone.”

At last he relaxes, his release of tension suggesting he’s going to give in. “Shift over a bit then.” I move, and he settles beside me. “Turn over.” Again, I obey, and he pulls me toward his firm and muscular chest. We’re spooning, but I’m under the covers and he’s on top. “Try and go back to sleep. I’ll keep the monsters at bay.”

I close my eyes, but sleep evades me. The truth is, I’ve never slept in a man’s arms before. Rather than relaxing me, his closeness excites me, sending sensations to parts of me that have been dormant before.

“Child, don’t move like that.” His amused voice rumbles in my ear.

Embarrassed, I find I’ve pushed my bum into him, and even through the bedclothes I can feel something hard pushing against me. He’s aroused.

As I still, he continues, “Sorry, pet, but a beautiful girl in my bed will do that to me. To any man. Now go to sleep, child.”

Child? Why does he keep calling me that? Despite his compliment, there’s no way I want him to see me as someone too young, too innocent for him. I protest, “I’m not a child, Jasim.”

“You’re not quite a woman yet, though, are you?”

My body floods with embarrassment as there can only be one meaning. How does he know? Is it stamped on my forehead? I have no rebuttal. I’m got all the right womanly parts, as he must be able to see. Is this where I should flirt with him? Show my attraction? I’ve watched others do it enough before. From observing, I know all the right moves. It’s just that I lack the confidence to pull it off, and would probably make a fool of myself. He’s a sheikh for God’s sake. He could have any woman he wants.

As I try to convince myself of the reasons he wouldn’t want me, I notice his breathing has slowed, the measured rise and fall of his chest against my back telling me he has gone to sleep.