Читать онлайн книгу «Bedded By The Desert King» автора Susan Stephens

Bedded By The Desert King
Susan Stephens
Zara Kingston has gone to the desert city of Zaddara to confront the man she blames for her troubled past.But when, during a sandstorm, she's protected by a dark stranger, she finds that the desert holds hidden treasures. Zara soon realizes that the man she yearns for is Sheikh Shahin—the thief of her happiness!Shahin knows that Zara is a virgin—forbidden, no matter how strong his desire. But it's forbidden fruit that tastes the sweetest…


Bedded by the Desert King

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE
SHE was tempted to take more shots, but her spine was tingling. And that wasn’t a good sign when the man she had her camera focused on had a sidekick with a gun slung across his shoulder.
Zara guessed her target had to be one of the local tribal leaders touring the border of his land. But, whoever he was, he was magnificent. Capturing striking images was her stock-in-trade, though wildlife of a different kind had brought her to the wadi—rare desert gazelles and the Arabian oryx, graceful creatures that had been hunted to the point of extinction in some parts of the desert. They had been reintroduced into Zaddara in the early eighties and were said to drink here at dawn. The man was an unexpected bonus.
Zara tensed, realising he had started stripping off his clothes. The temptation to zoom in was irresistible. His torso was hard and tanned an even nutmeg and muscles bulged as he flexed his arms. Discarding his tunic, he let his trousers drop and she gasped as he stepped out of them, completely naked. It was a moment before she realised she hadn’t taken a single shot. She made up for it now.
Wildlife photographer to hot-skin snapper? Zara smiled wryly. There was a whole world of opportunity opening up for her here. But she had no inclination to broaden her horizons in that direction even if she could use some of the images she was capturing now in the exhibition she intended to stage when she got back home…An exhibition that was supposed to contain more than wildlife images, Zara reminded herself. She had been hoping to capture something that would help her to forge a closer link with her late parents, not this incredible specimen…
Burrowing deeper into the sand hollow that served as her ‘hide’, Zara worked as fast as she could, hoping her camera lens wouldn’t catch the sun and give her away. She had a living to earn, as well as a past to understand. And the truth about her past lay here somewhere in Zaddara…
Her parents had lost their lives in an oilfield disaster working as geologists for the late Sheikh. Sheikh Abdullah had been a simple man with a simple goal, and that had been to find oil to bring wealth to his impoverished country. Her parents had helped him to do that and had paid for it with their lives. The kingdom of Zaddara was now one of the major oil-producers in the world thanks to them, but the country had a new sheikh, and Sheikh Shahin was said to be far more ruthless than his father. Her late grandparents had always told her Shahin was responsible for the accident that had killed her parents.
Her jaw clenched as she thought about the blood money paid into her bank account each month. As soon as she was old enough, she had formed a trust to hold the money, then used it to fund the schemes she cared about. Recently she’d given a lump sum to a scheme that reintroduced rare species into their natural habitat. She refused to spend a penny of it on herself and had found solace of a sort from using the Zaddaran money to do some good.
Zara felt a shiver run through her a second time. It was a warning. Something wasn’t right. Where had the bodyguard got to? Lowering the camera, she knew she shouldn’t have allowed herself to become distracted. Capping her lens, she started to shuffle backwards down the slope towards her Jeep.

Shahin’s jaw clenched with anger when he heard Aban’s warning shout. He was poised on the edge of the wadi ready to dive in. He had waited almost a month for this promise of cool relief. He couldn’t believe someone would dare to disturb his privacy now. He was in the middle of the desert. How far must he go to find solitude?
He had chosen the area for his retreat carefully. This place was at least fifty miles from the nearest habitation; only the Bedouin trails of his ancestors, hidden to those unfamiliar with the changing patterns of the desert, passed this way. There shouldn’t have been a chance of him coming into contact with another human being. And now this…
Narrowing his eyes, Shahin shaded them against the first low-slanting rays of the sun. Staring up into the dunes, he could see two dark shapes silhouetted against the threatening red sky where there should only have been one. The area might be remote, but the fact that he hadn’t checked their surroundings personally was a careless mistake. He could afford no more errors.
Casting another glance into the dunes, Shahin relaxed, seeing his bodyguard Aban had everything under control. The intruder had been apprehended and it would dent the old man’s pride if he were to interfere now. Aban was a good man and he would make sure he retired with honour. The elderly guard had travelled willingly into the wilderness with him to share the privations of a prince. A prince who had for a lifetime cared only for himself, and who must now be a king and father to his people. Only Aban knew the long days and nights of fasting were not just to prepare him to rule, but to drain the pus from a longstanding wound, a wound that even now could make him call out in his sleep and pound the sand with his fists in frustration that the past could not be changed. But if he must live with what he had done, he would learn from it. Diving into the freezing water, he powered across the wadi knowing that when he returned to the capital to be formally recognised by his people as the ruling sheikh of Zaddara he would take on all his father’s responsibilities, however challenging. He was ready now.

Vaulting out of the water after his swim, Shahin grabbed the clean ankle-length thawb along with the flowing robe left for him by Aban. Adding a howlis to protect his head, neck and face from the harsh climate, he deftly fixed the long scarf-like head-covering in place.
A sharp breeze made him turn and in that moment he saw that Aban’s captive was a young woman…Aban was holding her by the arm as they came down the dune together and she seemed none too pleased. Turning his face to the horizon, he shut her out. In his mind’s eye all he could see now was the ruby-red glow enveloping the desert and the mountains in the far distance standing out in sharp black relief against a crimson sky. This was his land, a cruel land, and he loved it. He would allow nothing and no one to divert him from his chosen path.
The sound of the woman’s voice intruded on his contemplation. Her voice was raised in anger and he resented the intrusion. Who was she? What did she want? Belting his robe, he turned to stare as the two figures approached. She was like a young colt walking awkwardly on the sand. Why was she alone in the desert? What type of person took such a risk? Was this journey into one of the most remote regions of the world worth so much to her?
His expression darkened when he saw how poorly she was equipped. Her outfit had no doubt been purchased from some fancy adventure-holiday equipment shop…But where was her survival gear? Where was her water canister? Where was her knife, her rope, her radio alarm…? Where were her flares? Didn’t she know the first thing about the desert? Didn’t she realise that a sandstorm could cut her off from her vehicle in seconds? Did she think she could snap her way out of trouble with that expensive-looking camera she was hanging on to so desperately?
As he strode towards them all these questions and more were beating a path to his eyes. But as the young woman raised a protective arm to her face he halted mid-stride. Did she think he was going to hit her? His expression was enough to make anyone think that, Shahin realised, standing stock still for a moment in silence. The breeze whipped up and took hold of his stark black robe, pressing it against his thighs, thighs that were still burning from his morning exercise. He saw her looking and felt his senses stir.
‘Let her go.’ He issued the command in a low voice, but even though he had spoken in the throaty Zaddaran dialect she immediately caught his meaning and her face lit with anger.
‘I should think so too!’ Furiously she shook herself free from Aban’s grasp.
As Aban moved to catch her again he was forced to make a fierce gesture to warn his faithful old servant to let her be. Such autocratic gestures didn’t sit easily with him, but if he were to remain anonymous in front of this woman discretion was paramount. ‘She’s not going anywhere,’ he observed, in English this time. ‘Bring her to my tent…’
‘What?’ she exclaimed.
Her incredulity drew a faint smile to his lips as he walked away.
‘Come back here!’ she cried. ‘Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?’
He had to stop, turn around and pacify Aban, before the old man made good the threat he made after this second outburst. It was fortunate for the young woman that she didn’t understand the language! Grit, fire, courage, Shahin thought, noting the way she was glaring back at him. His curiosity deepened, but then Aban started to grumble again and, to defuse the situation, he was forced to point out that she was only armed with a camera.
Still muttering, the old man shook his head.
‘Come with me.’ He addressed her directly, gesturing towards his pavilion. The Bedouin blood running through his veins made hospitality mandatory however unpalatable that might be, and he had vowed to espouse all his father’s values, not just cherry-pick them at will.
This time she made no protest. He was impressed by her self-possession as she walked alongside him, though he could tell Aban was incensed by her easy manner. The old man thought no one should walk next to his king.
The old ways dictated that any guest must be welcomed to his tent for three days and three nights, which wasn’t such a bad option in this instance. The young woman had obviously come to the desert seeking adventure—who was he to disappoint her?
As they drew close he could see that she wanted to take some shots of the Bedouin tent. He had to stop her before she went to work. ‘No photographs,’ he said firmly.
‘What?’ She didn’t believe him at first, but quickly realised he was serious and left the camera to swing on the cord around her neck.
For the first time he had a chance to observe her properly and he could see that, beneath the layer of dirt and grime, she was quite beautiful. Her long hair, caught up in a casual ponytail, was the colour of creamy caramel. There was a hint of gold as well that the dust rising up from the sand couldn’t hide…
Dust that had started to lift all around them, Shahin noted with concern. Staring out towards the horizon, he frowned. The red dawn sky had been an early warning of a storm blowing up. ‘Move the Jeep to higher ground and stay with it,’ he ordered Aban. ‘The tents are secure, and I’ll check them again before the weather worsens.’
Aban’s smaller tent was pitched twenty yards or so from his own, but it was also beneath the same sheltering rocks. There was a third tent in the back of the off-road vehicle that Aban could use until it was safe for him to return.
Turning his attention back to the woman, he saw her swallow with apprehension. She had caught the urgency in his words and he felt he should say something to reassure her. ‘The weather is deteriorating, but you’ll be safe here with me. Don’t argue,’ he warned, when she started to protest. ‘You have no alternative but to stay. Aban tells me we have about an hour before the storm hits—and that’s if we’re lucky.’
‘But it only took me two hours to get here from the city—’
Behind the defiance he saw her fear. ‘That was before there were dangerous weather conditions to consider. You can’t outrun the wind,’ he pointed out.
He had no time to waste on persuasion and started off for the temporary structure that had been his home during his retreat, eager to check all the supports and ensure that they would withstand the force of the wind. To his surprise, she ran ahead of him and cut him off.
‘If your man’s leaving now, I want to leave too. We could travel in convoy—’ Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she held his gaze. ‘And why don’t you come with us? Why stay here if it’s so dangerous?’
Because there were too many memories inside his tent, too many things that had belonged to his parents for him to risk losing them…The tent had been his father Abdullah’s before he had claimed his kingdom. There wasn’t time to dismantle it now, and so he would stay with it. But that wasn’t her business. ‘That just isn’t possible,’ he said coldly. ‘And it’s too risky for Aban to waste time trying to recover your Jeep. If Aban is to remain safe he must leave right away.’ Veering away from her, he walked on.
She chased after him. ‘But why can’t I go with him?’
‘Because Aban won’t wait…’ And because Aban’s traditional values could only be stretched so far. He would be horrified were he to be asked to take charge of the young woman overnight. Aban wouldn’t leave his vantage point until he was sure the storm had passed, and who knew how long that would take? He would not risk both their lives in order to appease this young woman’s somewhat overdue sense of propriety. If she imagined that the desert was some big beach she was about to be cruelly disillusioned. The desert was a sleeping monster which, when awakened, had the power to destroy everything in its path. The only reason his Bedouin ancestors had chosen this site was because the surrounding rocks and fresh water offered them some protection. For now it was better not to alarm her. He didn’t know how she would react if he told her the full extent of their plight. She might panic. She had no idea of the forces involved, or that everything around them was about to undergo the most radical change. He stopped and turned to gaze at the dune. ‘Is your vehicle parked up behind that dune?’
‘Yes, it is…’
She sounded hopeful and he guessed she thought he had changed his mind about letting her go.
‘It’s just over the hill, at the base of the dune.’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice now.
‘On low ground?’
‘Of course, didn’t I just say so?’ Her irritation was mounting. ‘I left it where it would be sheltered by the dune.’
‘Sheltered by the dune?’ A ghost of a smile touched his lips. She didn’t have a clue. The storm that was about to hit them would have no respect for hills made out of sand. ‘Leave it,’ he instructed Aban, seeing the old man’s glance swerve towards the dune. ‘There’s no time for you to climb up there and recover her vehicle. You must get yourself to safety and save our own Jeep.’

Zara wished she could understand the harsh, guttural language. She was way out of her depth. She wanted so badly to leave, but the leader of the two men was planted firmly in her way. Her options were limited. Both of these men walked easily on the sand, whereas the desert boots she had purchased in London gave her no stability at all on a surface she had discovered was as treacherous as ice. They would catch her before she made it to the base of the dune. And if she managed to escape, where would she go? If what this man had said about the storm proved to be right she would have to find shelter. As she gazed around, Zara could only try and visualise the thousands of miles of unseen land that rolled back behind the two men, hostile land with which she was unfamiliar. She had no alternative but to do as he said.
His tent was the size of a small marquee. As they drew closer Zara could see that the sides were made of some heavy woven fabric, which had been dyed a deep red. There was opulent fringing around a tented roof and the fabric was drawn up to a spike in the centre. Missing only a pennant, it reminded her of a medieval pavilion, reinforcing her opinion that she was stepping back in time, with a man who might be dangerous…A very attractive man who might be dangerous. Her heart was thundering—and for all the wrong reasons. She just had to keep telling herself that this was the photo opportunity of a lifetime…
But, as he raised the heavy curtain concealing the entrance to his tent, goose-bumps lifted on her arms. As she hesitated he tipped his chin, indicating that she should enter. The little she could see of his face beneath the folds of black cloth was hardly reassuring. His gaze was as dark and as unbending as iron.
‘Come in,’ he said impatiently. ‘I have no intention of hurting you, if that’s what you are worried about. In my country the safety of a guest is a sacred charge.’
Did that sacred charge extend to young women reckless enough to venture into the desert unaccompanied? Zara wondered. It must do, but she gathered from the hard look in his eyes that the prospect of her stay seemed nothing more than tiresome to him. He jerked his chin again and she got a sense of a man who was accustomed to having his smallest whim accommodated the instant he made it known. ‘Dinosaur,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘What did you say?’
His voice had softened to the point where she had to strain to hear it and she shivered involuntarily to think that all his senses might be so keen. ‘Nothing…’
His eyes challenged her assertion.
‘Come in, or stay outside,’ he said as if he couldn’t have cared less what she did. ‘Either way, I’m going in, and I’m closing down the entrance while I wait out the storm.’
‘Are you threatening to leave me out here?’
‘Take it any way you want.’
Firmly clenching her jaw, she walked past him into the tent. She saw him staring at her camera and clutched it closer. No way was he taking her camera from her. He might as well have tried to cut off her arm.
She was conscious immediately of the fresh, clean smell inside the tent and the neatness of it all. As she looked around, her eyes found their way back to her host. She noticed he wore a weapon tucked into his belt. She glanced at his face and back again. The long curving dagger looked lethal, but it had a beautifully worked gold hilt and she guessed it was more for ceremonial use than anything sinister. As her heart rate steadied she admired the intricate workmanship and longed to take a photograph of it so she could add it to the record of her trip. Perhaps if she asked politely she might persuade him to let her use her camera for some things in spite of his earlier objections. ‘What do you call that?’ she said, glancing at it again.
‘A khanjar. Tradition demands that I wear it,’ he explained, confirming her first impression. ‘It is meant to represent a Bedouin’s honour and is an indispensable piece of equipment in the desert. You never know when you might need a knife…’ His dark gaze flashed up.
‘Would you object if I take a picture of it?’
‘Of the khanjar, no…’
The expression on his face left her in no doubt that her image must be confined to the dagger. She was careful to show him, as she narrowed her eyes in preparation for taking the shot, that the picture would be in close up and of the dagger and nothing else. She had no idea what else she might find inside the tent and was keen to respect his wishes in the hope of finding more material for her journal of the trip.
She had guts, he’d give her that. The dagger was beautiful and it pleased him to think she’d noticed it. It had been his father’s and he felt Sheikh Abdullah’s presence whenever he wore it. It both comforted him and served as a painful reminder that his work outside Zaddara had kept him away from a man he would have liked to know better. And that now it was too late… ‘That’s enough,’ he said sharply, wheeling away from the probing lens.
His feelings of regret were not something he wished to share with this stranger.
She flinched at his impatience, but lowered the camera. ‘This is what I do,’ she explained with a shrug. ‘It’s all I do. I take pictures…wildlife, indigenous people, unusual rock formations—’ She threw up her hands so the camera swung free on its cord around her neck. ‘I don’t know what you imagine, but I’m no threat to you.’
But was he a threat to her? Zara wondered. In the capital city of Zaddar women were equal to men, but here in the desert different rules applied. She could see that women would be bound by certain restrictions, strength being just one of them. If this man should decide to overpower her…She watched him releasing the bindings that protected the entrance to his tent. Once they were secured inside it, neither one of them would be leaving in a hurry.
It made her angry to think she had got herself into this position. She had researched the trip so thoroughly, reading everything she could lay her hands on, but nothing had prepared her for the vastness of the desert, or the emptiness. Compass, first aid kit, rug and a cold box full of supplies seemed woefully inadequate to her now. But Zaddara was supposed to be completely safe. How was she to know this man would send his armed guard to apprehend her? The thought irked her; his behaviour had been out of all proportion and she decided to challenge him about it. ‘Was it really necessary to send a man with a gun after me?’
‘I didn’t send Aban after you; he took it upon himself to secure the dunes while I was swimming. Would you have me reproach him for doing his job so well?’
‘The gun was unnecessary.’
‘There are poisonous snakes in the desert,’ he countered, ‘if you had bothered to check.’
She had checked. What sort of amateur did he take her for? But she drew the line at carrying a gun. A camera was her weapon of choice, and she used that and the images it produced to challenge the motives of the people who killed the creatures she had made it her life’s work to protect. ‘Nevertheless—’
‘Nevertheless?’
The rejoinder came back sharp as a whip crack. And it was a mistake to hold his gaze. Having never had her blood pressure raised by a man was no preparation for an encounter like this. The Bedouin was unlike any man she had met before. She could usually judge people from their appearance, but this man was an enigma. Tall and powerfully built, he was tanned a deep bronze and his steely eyes were watchful. He had brought her inside his tent only because he had to. She sensed he was a deeply private man who didn’t want her there any more than she wanted to take the risk of being alone with him.
‘It was wrong of you to travel so deep into the desert without a companion—’
‘I didn’t have a companion to bring—’ Zara’s mouth slammed shut. Why had she admitted to being alone? ‘People know I’m here, of course.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed in a way that suggested he didn’t believe her for a moment.
Following him deeper inside, she looked around. As she had first thought, everything was spotlessly clean and orderly and was made comfortable with heaps of intricately embroidered cushions and finely woven rugs. In a variety of rich colours, these were perfectly arranged in piles to relax and recline on. A slender coffee pot made from what looked like beaten silver rested on a simple brazier and the delicious smell made her swallow involuntarily.
‘You are thirsty?’
He had barely any accent at all, she realised now, and the rich baritone strummed something deep inside her. Coffee was a good starting point if she was going to strike up a dialogue with him and get to know more about his land and customs. ‘I’d love a coffee, thank you…’
How many people got the chance to see inside a real Bedouin tent and find out how a man like this lived? Zara wondered as she moved past him to sit on the cushions he indicated. He made her feel tiny and delicate, which she knew was survival of the species at work. However hard she might try to fight it, her female genes craved his masculinity—and she wasn’t fighting nearly hard enough.
The lanterns hanging from the main frame of the temporary structure cast a soft light over the tent’s interior and there was another lamp in one corner by what looked like a bed. She inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood appreciatively and found the warmth reassuringly cosy after almost freezing to death on the dunes.
When he offered her a dainty coffee cup full of dark, steaming liquid she was careful not to touch his hand. Taking it, she sipped cautiously. The delicious taste reminded her of rich dark chocolate. She drained it to the dregs.
‘More?’ he invited.
As he spoke he was unwinding the coils of protective headgear. Zara watched in fascination as a head of hair, thick, black and glossy was revealed. She had to wonder what it would feel like beneath her hands. Jet-black curls caressed his neck and some of the waves had fallen over his forehead so that the hair caught on his lashes. He was an incredible-looking man and the expression in his eyes was both compelling and dangerous; it took all she’d got to look away.
As he refilled her coffee cup and their eyes met she saw a world of experience reflected in his gaze. She found a face so strong it frightened her arousing? Maybe that was because his lips in contrast to his fierce expression were lush and curved with sensual beauty. He was considerably older than she was, perhaps thirty-five, and it only made him seem all the more desirable. Back home she would have been blushing by now and would have looked away, but here the situation was so unreal she felt no such restrictions and stared back boldly.
She had read that the Zaddaran Bedouins were so close to the earth, so in tune with the planet, that they never travelled aimlessly but returned each year to the same locations, using the stars to guide them as well as stone markers they left behind them on a previous trail. They could tell from the few shrubs in the desert when it had last rained and how much rain had fallen, and could find water, recognising by sight and smell whether it was toxic or brackish or safe to drink. What did this man know about her? Anything was possible. As she sipped the hot, dark liquid in her cup a dangerous fantasy swept over her where his strong arms had claimed her, and his fierce, sensual mouth…
‘More coffee?’
‘Yes, please…’ She started out of the reverie with relief. This wasn’t a story to which she could dictate some fuzzy romantic ending. She was here with an older man from a very different culture who, fortunately for her, was bound by centuries of tradition that demanded he treat her well. That was the only reason she was here drinking coffee with him, and that was why she would have to leave the very first chance she got.
‘Would you care for a bath?’
‘A bath?’ Zara’s mouth fell open as he gestured towards the rear of the tent.
‘Another custom…’ His eyes were shaded. ‘Water is the greatest luxury we have to offer our guests in the desert.’
What he said made sense, but was she running the risk that he was simply adding ever more fantastic ‘traditions’ to his list?
‘Aban heated the water for me before he left. You would be quite private behind that curtain, and I’m sure I could find you a clean robe to wear…’
Zara glanced down. She was extremely grubby. It had been a long drive and then a long wait to capture the images she wanted in the freezing desert dawn. She was still chilled through and uncomfortably gritty in all the wrong places, but that was no reason to behave rashly. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly—’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I…’ She floundered for a moment. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
He made the typical Arabian salutation, touching his forehead and then his chest in what she thought was a slightly mocking gesture.
‘I am a simple Bedouin.’
Which was true, Shahin reflected. All Bedouin were equal according to their custom. Leaders of his people were chosen for their wisdom and judgement, as well as their ability to tread a wary path amidst a society peopled by hard, ambitious men. ‘As bathing is considered a great luxury in the desert,’ he went on, ‘and is one of our most cherished traditions, it would be considered an insult to refuse…’
Maybe that was stretching it a bit, but his bath was going to waste. And maybe he had resented her intrusion to begin with, but she was mature and self-possessed in a way he suspected very few people in her situation would be. And now she was here…
‘Your tradition?’ Zara racked her brain, but she was certain she had read nothing about baths being offered to guests of the Bedouin. She would have been surprised if she had. If water were so precious they would hardly waste it on bathing. But if this man were a tribal leader, perhaps he had his own set of rules. ‘You mean this is a tradition of your tribe?’
‘My tribe…?’ He leaned back so she couldn’t see his expression in the shadows.
‘I understand if it is…’ And then another thought occurred to her. ‘But surely your traditions don’t prevent you from telling me your name?’
She might be young, but she was shrewd, and he would have to handle her with care. ‘My name is unimportant.’ He made a closing gesture with his hands.
‘To me, it is important. I have to call you something.’
He could hardly believe she was still harassing him. ‘You may call me Abbas—’ The name flew from his lips before caution could stop him. Abbas had been his mother’s name for him. ‘It means lion,’ he started to explain.
‘Of the desert?’ she interrupted him lightly. Then, seeing his expression, she dropped her gaze.
But he was under no illusion that she was frightened of him. She wasn’t afraid of him, except in a primitive way like any woman who knew a man wanted her in his bed. She feared his masculinity, but she wanted her share of it. She feared him as a man, not as a leader of men. The realisation made him harden instantly. ‘The water is warm,’ he murmured persuasively.
‘And scented with sandalwood?’
He inclined his head.

CHAPTER TWO
YES, all right, this was crazy, Zara fired back at her inner voice. Sinking deeper beneath the scented water naked while her Bedouin was only a few yards away behind a curtain…She would never, never behave like this under normal circumstances. But she had been so grubby and uncomfortable, and his promise of fresh warm water on a day when nothing was normal had tipped the balance. Trouble was, she could talk it through inwardly all she liked but that didn’t stop her heart racing out of control.
‘Are you all right in there?’
Zara hurtled upright at the sound of the deep male voice. The chance she was taking seemed a whole lot bigger suddenly. ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine…’ Her voice sounded strained. And where were the clothes he’d promised? What was she supposed to do now? How long could she reasonably remain submerged in rapidly cooling bathwater? Was this Abbas’s idea of a joke? Or was he preparing her for—? She gasped as a hand appeared around the curtain.
‘Here are a couple of towels for you…’
‘Thank you…’ She could hear another voice now…Zara tensed, listening. It was an older man! What on earth had she got herself into?
Springing out of the bath, she seized the towels and flung them around her, securing them firmly. Once she was decent, she put her ear to the curtain, which was all that divided her from the two men. They were talking in the husky Zaddaran dialect and she could tell little from their tone of voice.
‘Here…’
She started back as Abbas’s bronzed hand appeared around the curtain holding some sort of flimsy robe.
‘Well, take it…’ he instructed impatiently.
‘What is it?’
‘Something for you to wear?’ he suggested bitingly.
Zara watched in fascination as the hand stretched out a little more, revealing a wrist shaded with dark hair. Having located the wooden stand, he let the robe fall over it.
‘And here’s a veil to go with it…’
Having disappeared again behind the curtain, the hand came back and this time she got a good look at the powerful forearm attached to it…A robe and a veil? What did Abbas think this was—his harem?
‘You’ll need some fresh clothes,’ he pointed out, anticipating her concern. ‘Unless you’re going to come out of there wrapped in towels, of course.’
‘Thank you…’ The robe was lovely…pure silk, Zara found on closer inspection. In the softest shade of sky-blue, it was heavily embroidered with the tiniest silver cross-stitch she had ever seen. The matching veil was as light as air, the merest wisp of silk chiffon in the same delicate shade…
‘Get dressed quickly,’ Abbas instructed. ‘I have allowed a man to shelter inside Aban’s tent until the storm has passed. I don’t want you scaring him half to death—’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you…The man’s a silk trader, hence your new robe, but the sight of you wearing it would alarm him. Women in the desert usually have more discretion and never appear in public dressed in such a manner.’
But it was all right for Abbas to see her dressed like this? Even as her hackles rose, Zara felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps it was the only robe the trader had that was suitable and Abbas needn’t have troubled to buy it for her. Glancing at her travel-worn clothes lying crumpled on the floor, she realised how grateful she was to have something clean to wear, especially something new and so undeniably feminine…But her doubts returned the moment she slipped her feet into the dainty jewelled mules Abbas had just pushed under the curtain. She had taken a bath in a man’s tent in the middle of a desert—a powerful hunk of a man she didn’t even know, and now she was wearing a seductive outfit of his choice.
‘Do the mules fit? I took a guess at the size of your feet.’
‘It was a very good guess.’ And if he knew her shoe size, what else had come under his close scrutiny? Zara wondered.
‘Are you ever coming out of there?’
Abbas’s impatience sent a little shiver of awareness rushing through her. Pressing the robe to her body, she was just checking to see if it was transparent when he spoke again.
‘May I?’
Making a last pass with her hands down the front of the robe to make sure she was decent, she straightened up. ‘Of course…’
He flung the curtain back.
‘Our fashions suit you…’
‘It’s very kind of you to say so…’
‘Not kind at all—a simple fact,’ Abbas assured her.
Closing her eyes, Zara inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood and tried not to imagine what could happen in these sumptuous surroundings with her authoritative, seductive host. She thought about the easy command he had over his words, his actions, his body…
What would it be like when they were making love?
Zara banished that thought immediately, conscious that Abbas was still waiting for her. ‘I’ll just sponge these clothes down and then I’ll be right with you,’ she assured him briskly. She might be dressed for seduction, but the practical side of her nature always won through. She was keen for him to be aware of that. Pushing the silk chiffon up her arms, she got to work.
She would have to keep a tight rein on her thoughts, Zara reflected, hanging her clothes carefully over the stand to dry out. All these fantasies about harems and seduction were dangerous. Combing through her hair with her fingers, she adjusted the robe so that it hung properly and tried the veil. With the veil on it felt like dressing up—different, fun, glamorous…‘What shall I do about the water in the bath?’
Did he think she was going to leave that for Aban to deal with too? Zara wondered as she came to join Abbas in the tent. Hunkered down by the brazier, he was putting fresh coffee grounds into the pot. As he stared up in frank admiration their gazes clashed, which brought fresh streams of sensation rushing through her veins. She had to let the veil slip in order to clutch the robe a little closer. Shouldn’t he look away now? Zara wondered, feeling her cheeks flame. To distract from her discomfort she attacked him on another front. ‘I’m surprised you’d allow Aban to carry up water from the wadi just so you could bathe.’
‘I brought every drop of water up from the wadi. Aban is my man, not my slave.’
She couldn’t help but feel a small glow of appreciation at his words. Or maybe the glow had started when she stared at his lips—they were such sensuous lips.
‘You have beautiful hair,’ Abbas observed softly.
Zara was suddenly conscious of the weight of her waist-length hair and its silky lustre. It felt soft to her touch and the brush of it against her cheek had never felt so sensuous. Even the way it fell into natural waves when it had been washed, which had always annoyed her in the past, seemed suddenly an advantage. She had never thought of herself as beautiful before.
Abbas made her feel beautiful, Zara realised, wrinkling her brow in confusion. She was relieved when he turned away at last. It gave her a chance to study him covertly. But now the glow she had felt moments before raged into an inferno. Heavily shaded with dark stubble, his face was the hardest face she had ever seen…and she just knew that his body, concealed beneath the flowing folds of his robe, would be the body of a fighting man, hard and beautiful.
‘I’m going to shave,’ he said, picking up a knife. ‘Why don’t you sit by the brazier and dry your hair while I’m gone?’
‘Gone?’ She didn’t want him gone…not with a storm threatening outside.
‘I won’t be long—’
‘Fine…’ She tilted her chin at a confident angle, but something in her voice made him turn to reassure her.
‘I’ll secure the tent before I leave. You’ll be quite safe.’
A fierce gust of wind made the decision for her. ‘I’m coming with you.’ She grabbed her camera.
‘No, stay here and dry your hair—’
‘I like to dry my hair outside.’
‘Where the air is full of sand? And you don’t want sand in your camera, do you?’
Clean out of reasonable excuses, Zara sank down on the cushions again. It was getting progressively darker inside the tent—another indicator that forces were at work over which she had no control. According to Abbas, she wasn’t safe outside and she didn’t feel safe inside. She was his prisoner as surely as if she were locked inside a cell. And somehow she had to subdue the frisson of excitement that provoked.
‘Stay here—where you’ll be safe,’ he repeated as a parting shot.
Did she want to be safe with Abbas?

Reduced to drumming her fingers on the hide couch, Zara was longing to pick up her camera. But she had given Abbas her word. She would ask his permission before taking any more photographs. It was only fair when he was sheltering her from the storm. She couldn’t betray his trust. Her heart lurched when he walked back inside the tent and she saw his gaze flick to the camera. It was still in its case just as she had left it. The approval in his eyes sent fire racing through her veins, but even a shave couldn’t soften the hard planes of his rugged face. His cheekbones seemed more pronounced than ever, his jaw stronger.
‘What are you worrying about?’ His brow creased.
‘Worried? I’m not worried.’ She met his gaze levelly, but the expression in Abbas’s eyes added a dangerous spark to the scent of hard, clean man.
She watched him seal the entrance with strong, capable hands. A few robust tugs and he appeared to be satisfied that everything was secure. He moved on around the tent, checking the supports and ignoring her. She should be pleased about that, Zara told herself. The wind had picked up and sand was hitting the sides with an ominous hissing sound. When the tent poles groaned beneath the pressure she began to get worried.
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ She had to yell to make herself heard above the noise.
‘I’m sure—’
‘And Aban? Do you think he will have reached safety by now?’
Abbas looked pleased that she had remembered. ‘Yes, I checked on him while I was out.’ Pulling a satellite phone out of his pocket, he tossed it on to the bed.
She could have rung for help. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? ‘Could I borrow your phone?’ Her mobile was still in the Jeep.
‘There’s too much static for a call to get through now.’
She hid her disappointment. ‘How about the trader?’
‘He’s safe too—’
And then, before Abbas could say any more to her, a juddering blast made her exclaim with fright.
‘Don’t worry.’ Abbas ran his hand down the ballooning sides of the pavilion. ‘This dense fabric is made from camel hair. There’s nothing better for keeping out the weather. And these supporting poles may look flimsy, but they flex to accommodate the force of the gale just like the trunk of a palm tree.’ Wrapping his fist around one, he caressed it.
‘How long do you think we’ll be here?’
‘It’s impossible to know, so you might as well relax and get used to your confinement…’
Relax? That was easy for Abbas to say—her bones were turning to liquid fire at the thought of being secured inside the tent with him and her heart was vibrating frantically, though not from fear.
‘Well, I’m going to relax even if you won’t…’
‘What are you doing?’ Zara stared, unbelieving, as Abbas calmly began shrugging off his robe.
‘Getting undressed…’ His voice was casual.
‘Put your clothes back on again. Now,’ Zara ordered hoarsely. Abbas stalked about naked when he was relaxed? Beneath his Zaddaran dignity Abbas possessed an elemental quality that both frightened and excited her. She hadn’t got the measure of him and that frightened her too. And now he was testing her she was sure of it. She could lose her mask, tell him the truth—that she was more innocent than she seemed, that life had made her act a lot older than her age, or she could play it cool.
She was relieved when she didn’t have to make that choice. Having loosened his robe, Abbas stretched out on a bed of hides and closed his eyes. All she could see now was a glimpse of hard, tanned flesh above the topmost folds of his robe, though where it fell away she could see the loose-fitting trousers he wore beneath…trousers slung low enough to do more than hint at the toned athletic body underneath.
Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, Zara was almost ready to believe she could feel the warmth of Abbas’s naked flesh reaching out to her—warm, fragrant, sandalwood-scented flesh that she longed to feel pressed up hard against her own. Shifting awkwardly on the couch, she knew she was slipping into an even deeper state of arousal. The thought of easing that frustration had crossed her mind…Everything was so unreal—like a day out of time…A day when she could allow herself to be seduced by a man for whom she felt an overwhelming attraction…To have Abbas make love to her…One night of passion with the lion of the desert…And who would know? She was sure Abbas would know everything there was to know about pleasing a woman.
Zara’s breathing grew more ragged as she developed her fantasy…A man she didn’t know—an older man, an experienced man, a man whose eyes promised exotic pleasures beyond her understanding, a man whose lips she longed to feel all over her body, even those secret places no other man had seen…
But Abbas was a man of principle. He had already proved that by his care for Aban and the trader. There was no way he would touch her while he was treating her as an honoured guest. The best thing to do was to act calmly and normally, as he was doing, and push the dangerous fantasies from her mind.
Reaching into her bag, she drew out a pencil. ‘Would you mind telling me what each item of clothing you’re wearing is called? I want to be sure I get everything right when I prepare my journal back home.’
Opening one eye, Abbas turned to look at her. An expression of faint amusement flickered across his face, but then he shrugged and, resting his head back on crossed arms, he started to talk.
While her heart hammered away, Zara took refuge in her professional eye. The decoration on his robe was a testament to the skill of the local needle-workers. The gold thread picked up the amber lights in his eyes, something that added to his attraction, and she hadn’t noticed before. The dramatic contrast of that and the black fabric of the main body of the robe was a perfect foil for his black hair and for his dark skin tone as well as for his strong white teeth…She could almost imagine them nipping into her flesh…
‘Do you have a problem?’
Zara realised she had stopped writing and was gazing into space with a dreamy look on her face. ‘No, no, I’m fine.’ She drew herself up. ‘It’s really interesting…’ She smiled to encourage him to keep on talking, while she indulged in her fantasy—her nice, safe fantasy.
‘Perhaps when you return to the city you will buy some eastern clothes to remind you of your time in the desert?’ Abbas suggested.
‘I’m sure I shall…’
‘Though you’re more than welcome to keep the robe you’re wearing now—with my compliments.’
‘This one? I couldn’t possibly.’ Zara’s gaze flew over the intricate workmanship. She guessed the silk robe must have cost a fortune.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘I love it, but—’
‘But?’ Abbas pressed. ‘You don’t accept gifts from strangers?’ he guessed shrewdly. ‘So what if I sell it to you? Would you take it home with you then?’
She didn’t want to go home yet…And, as for selling the robe to her…Zara’s heart lurched as Abbas’s lips curved in a way she hadn’t seen them do before and her heart stormed into overdrive as she considered the price he might have in mind. ‘Do you accept travellers’ cheques?’
‘I’m a little short of banking facilities, as you can see…’ He laughed softly. ‘But you could owe me…’
‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that…’ She stood up as she spoke.
‘Where are you going?’ He sat up.
She had to get away. She had to take a moment to cool down. ‘To look outside—’
Springing up, Abbas stood in her way. ‘No…’
‘No?’ She looked at him, and then down at his hand on her arm.
His dark eyes flared, but he spoke softly as he lifted his hand away. ‘If you move that curtain the sand will come flying in. The entrance cover must remain as it is until I say it can be opened.’
‘So I’m a prisoner here?’ Turning away from him, Zara could feel the tension mounting.
‘You’re here as my guest,’ Abbas reminded her.
She could feel him behind her and her pulse responded eagerly to the remorseless beat of his virility. Abbas had thrown an erotic noose around her, which he then pulled tight. ‘Let me go,’ she warned in a whisper, hardly realising that he wasn’t even touching her.
‘Or you’ll…what?’
She could feel the sweep of his breath across the back of her neck and had to fight not to tremble. She didn’t start breathing again until he stepped away and felt as weak as a puppet when the strings had been let go. And had left her more aroused than ever.
Abbas understood everything about tension—tightening and releasing the invisible cord until it was she who was being driven to make the first move. The blood in her veins had turned to molten honey. Caught in the ambit of Abbas’s darkening stare, Zara had to wonder how long she could hold out if it came to it. Abbas was so hard, so elemental, and his robes left so little and yet too much of his powerful frame to the imagination. Rampantly masculine, he was a natural-born hunter…Was she really ready to take him on? And then there was her own lack of experience where sex was concerned to consider…She would almost certainly disappoint him. The elements chose just that moment to intervene. While she was hesitating, the wind gave a terrible roar and, shocked into action, she launched herself into Abbas’s arms.
‘Sorry—’ Gasping with shock, Zara made as if to pull away, but Abbas held on to her. It was a hold so gentle that if she had wanted to she could have broken free at any time…
‘Please,’ he murmured, brushing her hair with his lips. ‘Don’t apologise, Adara…’
‘Adara?’ She raised her eyes to look at him.
Placing one finger over her mouth, Abbas dragged it slowly down over the full swell of her bottom lip as if to remind her how aroused she was…And to tell her that he knew. ‘I will call you Adara…’
It meant virgin in his language, but she couldn’t know that. It pleased his sense of irony to call her by this name. Though she was young she had the assurance of a much older woman. His Adara knew what she wanted, and she knew he could give it to her. There would be no complications; she was on the same wavelength he was, and it amused him to see how she squared up to him even now. Her face was flushed and he had to wonder how much of that passion would be channelled into their lovemaking. Nothing was a foregone conclusion and he liked that about her. She was cool and self-possessed, but she could be defiant too and he had never encountered disobedience before. Her unpredictability fuelled his appetite, and would certainly stave off boredom while they waited out the storm.
She collected herself quickly, as he had expected, and he was ready for her. As she went to move away to take her seat on the couch again he made sure their fingers brushed—as if by accident. Her swift intake of breath told him everything he needed to know. And as the moment froze he held her gaze.

CHAPTER THREE
‘THE storm is easing…’
As Abbas spoke, Zara watched him move towards the entrance as if the sexual temperature between them had never flickered. Maybe it hadn’t for him. Keenly aware of the progress of the storm outside the tent, maybe he was oblivious to the storm he had whipped up inside it. Or was he toying with her? Which one was it?
‘If the weather is improving I want to leave as soon as I can…’
‘Three days and three nights,’ he said, turning to face her.
So he had remembered. ‘Your custom?’ She raised a brow, wanting him to know she wasn’t convinced.
‘Custom demands that, having sought refuge here, you must remain as my guest for three days and three nights…’ His face told her nothing as he sat down again and arranged his robe around his legs.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ She had to drag her gaze away and ignore the heavy throb of anticipation in her lower body.
Raising his head, Abbas levelled a stare on her face. ‘I am bound by the customs of my land…’
‘But I am not.’ It was too shadowy to interpret his expression with any confidence, but Abbas’s silence suggested she was mistaken. She didn’t press him, knowing he would probably reply that at this moment she was a guest in his land.
Zara found it hard to relax. Abbas’s commanding manner had aroused her to the degree where his slightest move made her heart race. He made her long for things that had never mattered to her before, forbidden things. She hardly dared to imagine what it might be like to be held by him, to be cradled in his arms, to be touched delicately, persuasively…As he leaned forward to check the coffee she saw the flare of recognition in his eyes and pulled herself round. ‘As soon as the trader leaves, I’m going with him. Even if my Jeep has been lost, it doesn’t matter. I’ll hitch a lift with him.’
‘On his camel? And I think you’ll find that he has already gone.’
‘But the storm has only just died down…’
‘Come with me, Adara…’
When Abbas released the entrance cover Zara uttered a sharp breath of amazement. The desert was peaceful again, but they might have been carried up and brought down in a totally different place. What had happened to the dune where she had been captured, the dune behind which she had sheltered her off-road vehicle? Now all she could see was a flat plain that stretched away into the distance as far as the foothills of the mountains. The sand around the tent had formed into wavelike ripples. The structure was now isolated in a vast expanse of flat featureless nothingness, like a ship floating on a sea of sand…
Looking further, Zara was relieved to see that at least the palm trees clustering round the wadi had survived. But they were bent at such an acute angle their fronds were brushing the water…She found it much easier to walk in the flat sandals Abbas had provided and was suddenly eager to escape the confines of the tent. Hurrying over to the nearest palm, she touched its trunk gently with her hand. ‘Will it recover?’ She glanced at Abbas, who had come to stand by her shoulder.
‘Yes,’ he reassured her. ‘The trunks of the palm are as flexible as the poles used to support the tent and so they will recover, given time.’
Leaving her, he strode towards the second tent, which had also survived the onslaught of the storm. Picking up her skirts, Zara hurried after him.
There was no sign of the trader or his camel. There was nothing to show that he had been there at all other than a bundle hanging from the fronds of a palm. ‘What is it?’ Shading her eyes, she looked up into the branches.
‘I have already told you that hospitality is instilled at birth in the Bedouin, and so is repayment of the debt.’
Was Abbas sending her a hidden message? Zara wondered, pressing him to continue.
‘That cache will contain whatever the trader can safely spare. It is his way of thanking me. But I am honour bound not to touch anything I don’t need, the point being I must consider the needs of others over myself.’
His words sent a shiver tracking her spine. ‘Perhaps I could copy some prints to send to you when I get home…I have taken some good landscapes…’ As she gestured around, Zara felt her offer wasn’t enough. ‘And I’ll send you a cheque too, of course.’ She couldn’t bear freeloaders and didn’t want Abbas mistaking her for one.
‘A cheque?’
‘Money for the time I’ve spent here as your guest…’
‘I do know what a cheque is. I just wondered why you should feel it necessary to send one to me.’
‘To cover the cost of sheltering me, of course,’ she said, frowning.
‘Are you always so scrupulous?’
‘Yes.’ She held his gaze steadily. ‘I never use people and then just walk away.’
‘But you haven’t left yet,’ he pointed out, ‘and I may need to add something to your account.’
Zara’s eyes widened. She didn’t know whether to believe Abbas or not.

He couldn’t resist provoking her just a little more. Three days and nights…It was an outrageous idea, even if he had based his assertion on ancient lore. Traditions such as that had never been meant to apply to a situation like this. But he could hardly blame his ancestors for not factoring into their thinking one reckless young female who had ventured into the desert without a chaperon.
And the storm hadn’t finished with them yet. This was only a lull. What he should do was dispatch her to the spare tent to wait out the weather and then send her on her way with Aban. But he had been a long time alone in the desert and he was only human. The girl was strong and self-assured, mature beyond her years; she knew the score.
He followed her back into the pavilion, noticing how she resented the yards of material flapping round her ankles. Having forgotten to pick up her skirts, she looked like an ungainly fawn as she struggled to cope with the flowing robe. Big brown eyes and that shock of golden hair peeping out beneath the veil only added to the illusion. He liked her in the veil; it suited her—softened her.
‘Is another storm coming?’ she asked anxiously, turning to face him as a gust of wind snatched the veil from her head.
‘I think we should go back inside,’ he advised.
‘If there is another storm, how long do you think it will last?’
For a mischievous moment, as he secured the entrance behind them, he was tempted to leave what he was doing and stride outside to sniff the air. But play-acting wasn’t his thing. The truth was, he didn’t have a clue. They hadn’t taught weather forecasting on his course at Harvard Business School.
‘What shall we do to pass the time?’
The innocent question was negated by the look in her eyes and his senses, already sharpened by his days of denial in the desert, raged out of control. He found it ironic that the desert had given her to him. The coincidence of them meeting in thousands of square miles of hostile land was incredible, but she had come to him with the dawn—his virgin, Adara. Fortunately, her manner, her eyes, her body language all assured him she was no such thing. When they were both sated and his mind clear again, he would return to Zaddara and take up his duties. This would be his last self-indulgence before duty claimed him.
And now there was only one thing still plucking at his mind. According to Zaddaran tradition there was no such thing as coincidence; there was only destiny.
She went to check her camera and as he looked at her something inside him softened briefly. ‘You may take a handful of photographs if you wish—but only of objects and your surroundings. As an aide-memoire for your trip,’ he added. He wasn’t prepared for the look on her face of sheer surprised delight and found it gave him pleasure to please her.
‘That’s very good of you. I promise I’ll be quick…’ She reached for the camera. ‘I know I haven’t exactly been the easiest guest. Do you forgive me?’
As she turned her face up to him, he wanted to tell her just how much. The appeal in her eyes made his heart turn over which, as far as he could recall, had never happened before. The offer of the photographs had changed something. It was almost as if an understanding, a bond, had developed between them.
She was scrupulously fair and obviously knew what she was doing. She took a few shots of the tent and some objects and then put the camera away. ‘There, I’ve finished. Thank you…’
His gaze was drawn to her lips, reddened where she had chewed on them while she was concentrating on her work. And now there were questions in her eyes: Did he find her attractive? Did he want her? Did he want her enough to make love to her? The answer to all three was, of course, yes. Her lips were slightly parted and damp where she had moistened them. She wasn’t afraid to hold his gaze. She was beautiful and she was ready, and she was waiting for him to make the first move.
‘Three days and three nights?’ She made it sound like a request. And, as she stared at him, his hunger surged to a new level. He had expected many things of his retreat in the desert, but not this forwardness of a young woman who had appeared out of nowhere like a gift…
‘And then we will part asking nothing of each other,’ he confirmed.
As silence descended between them they both knew it could only have one outcome. And it was a delicious moment that neither one of them wanted to break. It took a ferocious gust of wind to bring her into his arms and, as she rested her head against his chest, he silently praised the storm for wrestling with the tent.

There was barely enough time to inhale Abbas’s delicious scent and feel his warmth seeping through the flimsy fabric of her robe before he swung her into his arms. ‘We’d ask nothing of each other?’ Zara repeated Abbas’s words back to him in a whisper.
‘Only this,’ he murmured, carrying her towards his bed.
She felt so safe that even the sand rattling against the sides of the tent seemed to be in another world. Her body was tuned to his, waiting for his touch, eager to feed on the passion she knew he possessed. He was so restrained, so controlled; to see him lose that was the only thing she wanted now. When he lowered her to the bed she reached up to draw him down to her. Cupping her face in his warm hands, he kissed her deeply. The taste of him was delicious and addictive, the boldness of his tongue the most thrilling thing she had ever known. She wanted more, more of everything, more of Abbas. She wanted every part of him to be touching her and so she clung to him, pressing herself against him until he was forced to hold her away. She made a complaint at once, asking him, ‘Why…?’
Abbas smiled against her mouth. ‘Your clothes,’ he murmured.
Fortunately, she wasn’t wearing many, Zara thought, starting to wriggle her way out of the restrictive robe.
‘Let me…’
‘And yours,’ she ordered, impatient to feel him naked against her.
Abbas had no inhibitions and, as he stripped off his robe, she sucked in an excited breath. He exceeded all her expectations. He was the most beautiful man she could have imagined. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she studied him boldly with the eye of an artist. He was like a living statue carved in bronze, with each muscle and sinew clearly delineated. Stroking him, she revelled in his strength and in the way he quivered beneath her touch. The expression in his eyes when he looked at her with approval was intoxicating. He was so big and so powerful and his muscles rippled as they wrestled together playfully. He allowed her to make all the moves, barely touching her, which in turn was the most arousing thing she had ever known. But he knew how to tease and each caress of his hand, each brush of his fingers, lit a separate fire.
Catching hold of her hand, Abbas drew it to his lips. Zara gasped in surprise when he began to suckle each fingertip in turn. She could feel the sensation all over her skin. Crying out for him to be merciful, she sobbed with relief when at last he let her go, but almost at once she wanted him back again. And, when he would not fall in with her wishes immediately, she balled her hands into fists and pounded them against his chest, calling him angry names until he was forced to capture her wrists in one powerful fist and hold them firmly in place on the pillows above her head.
She drew deeply on the fragrance of his skin and sighed with contentment. And, when at last he released her hands, it was her turn to take control—exploring the hard path of muscle, the inflexibility of bone, her fingers travelling slowly and provocatively until it was Abbas’s turn to sigh. She enjoyed the sensation of rough chest hair springing against her finger-pads and smiled to feel his nipples harden beneath her touch. Placing both her hands flat on his chest, she drew them slowly down over his torso across the impressive banding of muscle to where she could feel the heat of his erection.
Brushing him lightly, she pulled away when he groaned with pleasure. She hadn’t expected him to be so big. The speed and strength of what was happening to her had not prepared her for this reality. And the reality of a man like Abbas was a great deal more than she had expected.
But then he touched her softly, gently, and her courage began to return. If Abbas could tease, then so could she. And she hadn’t finished with him yet…
Crouching up on her knees, she used her long hair to brush back and forth across his body, while Abbas made sounds of appreciation deep in his throat. For the first time she knew the power of her femininity and, growing in confidence, she swept her hair across his ribcage, moving gradually lower.
To see Abbas quivering with anticipation was the most intoxicating thing Zara had ever experienced. She found she couldn’t stop watching his erection swell and pulse, and as it did so she felt her own body responding to the same urgent rhythm.

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