Laughter rumbled in his broad chest.
"I would prefer that you not laugh at me."
He shook his head. "I'm not laughing at you, but you do amuse me, lady."
Lady? Not little girl. Something warm unfurled inside her like the scarf loosening around her slackened grip. "How do I amuse you?" she asked.
So she could figure out how to do it again.
He stepped farther inside, leaving the door open in a respectful gesture of propriety that touched and stirred her all at once.
"Well, Sheba, I expected to find you bawling your eyes out and instead you're spitting fire."
"Spitting fire? That is not an attractive image."
His eyes made a subtle shift from light blue to intense gray, deep gray, draw-a-woman-in-and-make-everything-else-fade gray. "I disagree."
Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, right around that tender spot at the base of her neck where her pulse throbbed faster. Louder in the already small room growing smaller by the heartbeat.
He knelt in front of her on one knee, forearm resting on his other bent knee. "Thing is, I know some of us spit fire because tears are just too damn silly looking. And I'm thinking you don't like looking silly."
"You would be right there."
"It's safe to say neither you nor your sister came across looking anything less than fighting mad."
Shame still burned her face over behaving like such a brat. "We have never gotten along. She resents our mother and I never could stop feeling defensive because Monica hurt her." She held up a hand to forestall the answer she already knew. "I know. I know. Our mother hurt Monica, as well, and it is not my place to solve their issues."
She glanced up through her lashes and found the corners of his blue-gray eyes crinkled with intensity as he listened. Really listened to her when most men would have no use for what her mother would have called "chick issues."
Yasmine searched deeper in those beautiful eyes until she found genuine caring wrapped around a pragmatic soul.
She let herself indulge in the warmth of safety, being free to talk with another person and to share a piece of herself. "I have eleven other sisters here from my father's other wives. It should not matter to me so much that this one sister hates my guts."
"Eleven sisters? No brothers?"
"No brothers," she confirmed. "Apparently my father did not produce that Y chromosome when making a baby."
Drew coughed on a laugh. She liked that, making this rugged man find the laughter he buried too deep.
Yasmine draped her scarf over her knees, the gift from her father draping comfort over her battered nerves, as well. "We were spoiled, all of us. Sons are undoubtedly prized in my culture, but my father never made mention of disappointment in front of us. He called us his treasures. I think, though, that perhaps he adored all of the attention from a houseful of females." She smoothed wrinkles from the silk. "I am sure you think it is a strange practice for a man to have four wives."
"I guess it's more important what you think of the practice."
Oh, she could get to like this man who not only listened but also valued her opinion. "I believe Monica would tell you I am selfish. And she would be right." Yasmine looked up from her scarf. "I could not share a man with anyone else."
For a weak moment she let herself dive into those beautiful eyes of his and even permitted him a peek into herself. Quiet fell between them, stretched with only the low thrum of the bass beat from the music below.
Or was that her heart?
He glanced away, down, connection easing yet not breaking. "You still miss your father." ace lowered closer until he whispered against her ear, "Don't talk. Just listen. Okay?"
She nodded against his wonderful, warm, American hand.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded again.
His hand clenched, twitched, then slid free. "Soon, I'm going to get you out of this hellhole. I promise. I'm here to give you instructions so you can be ready."