Defiant in the Desert

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘I played the stock market,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on—Suleiman. It can’t be as simple as that. Loads of people play the stock market, but they don’t all end up with oil refineries.’

  He leaned back against the silken pile of cushions, an ill-thought-out move, since it put his eye-line on a level with her breasts. Instead, he fixed his gaze on her violet eyes.

  ‘Even as a boy, I was always good with numbers,’ he said. ‘And later on, I found it almost creative to watch the movement of the markets and predict what was going to happen next. It was, if you like, a hobby—a consuming as well as a very profitable one. Over the years I managed to accrue a considerable amount of wealth, which I invested. I bought shares along the way which flourished. Some property here and there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Some in Samahan and some in the Caribbean. But I was looking for something more challenging. On the hunch of a geologist I met on a plane to San Francisco, I began drilling in an area of my homeland which, up until that moment, everyone had thought was barren land. It provided one of the richest oil wells in Middle Eastern history.’ He shrugged. ‘I was lucky.’

  Sara blinked at him, as if there was a fundamental part of the story missing. ‘So you had all this money in the bank, yet you continued to work for the Sultan?’

  ‘Why not? There is nothing to match the buzz of being in politics and I’d always enjoyed my role as his envoy.’

  ‘So you did,’ she agreed slowly. ‘Until one day, something made you leave and start up on your own.’

  ‘If you hadn’t been a princess, you could have been a detective,’ he said sardonically.

  ‘So what was it, Suleiman? Why the big lifestyle change?’

  ‘Isn’t it right and natural that a man should have ambition?’ he questioned, taking a sip of his own tea. ‘That he should wish to be his own master?’

  ‘What was it, Suleiman?’ she repeated quietly.

  Suleiman felt his body tense. Should he tell her? Would the truth weaken him in her eyes, or would it make her realise why this damned attraction which still sizzled between them could never be acted upon?

  ‘It was you,’ he said. ‘You were the catalyst.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. And why the innocent look of surprise? Haven’t you yet learned that every action has a consequence, Sara? Think about it. The night you offered yourself to me—’

  ‘It was a kiss, for heavens sake!’ she croaked.

  ‘It was more than a kiss and we both know it,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘Or are you saying that, if I had pushed you against the shadowed palace wall for yet more intimacy, you would have stopped me?’

  ‘Suleiman!’

  ‘Are you saying that?’ he repeated, but he found her blush deeply satisfying—for it spoke of an innocence he had begun to question. And wouldn’t it be better to air all his bitterness and frustration so that he could let it out and move on, as he needed to move on? As they both did.

  ‘No,’ she said, the word a flat, small admission. ‘How can I deny it?’

  ‘I felt shame,’ he continued. ‘Not so much for what I had done, but for what I wanted to do. I had betrayed the Sultan in the worst way imaginable and I could no longer count myself as his most loyal aide.’

  She was looking at him in disbelief. ‘So one kiss made you resign?’

  He nearly told her the rest, but he stopped himself in time. If he admitted that he couldn’t bear to think of her in another man’s arms and that he found it intolerable to contemplate her being married to the Sultan and being forced to look on from the sidelines. If he explained that the thought of another man thrusting deep inside her body made him feel sick—then wouldn’t that reveal more than it was safe to reveal? Wouldn’t it make temptation creep out from behind the shadows?

  ‘It would have been impossible for me to work alongside your new husband with you as his wife,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’

  And she did see. Or rather, she saw some of it. Sara stared at the black-haired man sitting before her, because now the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to form a more coherent shape. Suleiman had wanted her. Really wanted her. And now she was beginning to suspect that he still did. Behind the rigid pose he presented and the wall of disapproval, there still burned something. He had all but admitted it just now.

  Didn’t that explain the way his body tensed whenever she grew close? Why his dark eyes had grown stormy and opaque when he’d studied her short skirt that day in the office. It was not indifference towards her as she had first thought.

  It was Suleiman trying to hide the fact that he still wanted her.

  She licked her dry lips and saw his eyes follow the movement of her tongue, as if he was being compelled to do something against his will. Was he remembering—as she was—when his own tongue had entered her mouth and made her moan with pleasure?

  Her head was spinning; her thoughts were confused but as they began to clear she saw a possible solution to her dilemma. What if she used Suleiman’s desire for her to her own advantage? What if she tempted him beyond endurance and seduced him, what then? If they finished off what they had started all those years ago, wasn’t that a way out for her? He was a single-minded man, yes, and a determined one, but there was no way he could present her to Murat if he had been intimate with her himself.

  Could she do it? Could she? She was certainly no seductress, but how difficult could it be to beguile the only man she had ever really wanted?

  She rose to her feet. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ she asked.

  ‘Through there,’ he said—pointing towards the door at the far end of the cabin.

  She reached up towards the rack to retrieve the bag she’d brought with her and Suleiman moved forward to help, but she shook her head with a sudden fierce show of independence. She might want him, but she didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. Wasn’t that the whole point of her carefree life in London? That she didn’t have to be tied down and trapped. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.’

  She disappeared into the bathroom, emerging a short while later with her blonde hair brushed and woven into a neat chignon. She had changed from her jeans and sweater and replaced them with clothes more suited to the desert climate of Qurhah.

  Her slim-fitting linen trousers and long-sleeved silk shirt now covered most of her flesh, but, despite the concealing outfit, she felt curiously exposed as she walked back towards him. Her legs were unsteady and her stomach was tying itself up in knots as she sat down. For a moment she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Suleiman’s eyes, terrified that he might discover the subversive nature of her thoughts.

  ‘So what happens when we arrive?’ she questioned. ‘Will an armed guard be taking over from you? Will I be handcuffed, perhaps?’

  ‘We are landing at one of the military airbases,’ he said. ‘That way, your arrival won’t be marred by the curiosity of onlookers at Qurhah’s international airport.’

  ‘In case I make a break for freedom, you mean?’

  ‘I thought we’d discounted this rather hysterical approach of yours?’ he said. ‘And since the threat of desert storms has been brewing for days, it is considered unsafe for us to use a helicopter to get you to the Sultan’s summer residence. So it might interest you to know that we will be travelling there by traditional means.’

  At this, Sara’s head jerked up in surprise. ‘You don’t mean an old-fashioned camel caravan?’

  Suleiman smiled. ‘Indeed I do. A little-used means of desert travel nowadays, but many of the nomadic people still claim it is the most efficient.’

  ‘And who’s to say they aren’t right? Gosh, I haven’t been on one since I was a child.’ Sara looked at him, her violet eyes shining with excitement. ‘And of course, this means that there will be hor
ses, too.’

  Suleiman felt his throat tighten. Was it wrong that he found the look on her face utterly captivating? That her smile would have warmed a tent on the coldest desert night. ‘I had forgotten how much you enjoyed riding,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t—because it’s thanks to you that I ride so well.’

  ‘You were an exemplary pupil,’ he said gruffly.

  She inclined her head, as if she was acknowledging the sudden cessation in hostilities between them. ‘Thank you. But your lessons were what gave me my confidence and my ability.’

  ‘Do you still ride?’

  She shook her head. ‘There aren’t too many stables in the middle of London.’ She looked at him. ‘But I miss it.’

  Something about the vulnerable pout of her lips made him ask the indulgent question, despite his own silent protestations that their conversation was becoming much too intimate. ‘And what do you miss about it?’

  She wriggled her shoulders. ‘It’s the time when I feel most free, I guess.’

  Their eyes met and Suleiman saw a sudden shadow cross her face. It was almost as if she’d just remembered something—something which made her face take on a new and determined expression.

  He watched as she smoothed down the silk of her blouse, her fingers whispering over the delicate material which covered her ribcage. Why did she insist on doing that, he wondered furiously—when all it was doing was making him focus on her body? And he must stop thinking of her body. And her violet eyes. He must think of her only as the woman who would soon be married to the Sultan—the man for whom he would lay down his life.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, his sudden lust tempered by relief as the powerful jet began its descent.

  Their arrival at the airbase had been kept deliberately low-key, since all celebrations had been put on hold until the wedding. Suleiman watched the natural grace with which Sara walked down the aircraft steps and then moved along the small line of officials who were assembled to meet her. She had lowered her lashes to a demure level, in order to conceal the brilliant gleam of her eyes, and her lips were curved into a serene and highly appropriate little smile. She could easily become an exemplary Sultana, he thought, despising himself for the dull ache of disappointment which followed this thought.

  Afterwards, he watched her look around her, as if she was reacquainting herself with the vastness and beauty of the desert. He saw the admiration in her eyes as she gazed up at the mighty herd of camels standing at the edge of the airstrip, where the land was always waiting to encroach. And wasn’t she only reflecting his own feelings about this particular form of transport?

  A camel caravan could consist of a hundred and fifty animals, but since this endeavour was mainly ceremonial there were no more than eighteen beasts. Some were topped with lavishly fringed tents while others carried necessary provisions for the journey. Men on horseback moved up and down the line, riding some of the finest Akhal-Teke horses in the world, their distinctive coats gleaming metallic in the bright sun.

  ‘It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it?’ he observed.

  ‘It’s more than that. I think it’s one of the most beautiful sights in the world,’ she said softly.

  He turned to her and suddenly he didn’t care if he was breaking protocol in the eyes of the onlookers. Wasn’t this his opportunity to make amends for having let his lust override his duty to the Sultan, on the night of her brother’s coronation? Couldn’t he say the right thing to her now? The thing she needed to hear, rather than the impure thoughts which were still making him hard whenever he was near her.

  ‘That is genuine passion I hear in your voice, Sara,’ he said. ‘Can’t you piece together the many things you love about the desert? Then you could flick through them as you would a precious photo album—and be grateful for the many beauties of the life which will be yours when you marry.’

  ‘But they won’t be mine, will they?’ she demanded. ‘Everything will belong to my husband—including me! Because we both know that, by law, women in Qurhah are not allowed ownership of anything. I’ll just be there, some bored figurehead, sitting robed and trapped. Free only to communicate with my husband and my female servants—apart from at official functions, and even then the guests to whom I will be introduced will be highly vetted. I don’t know how the Sultan’s sister stands it.’

  ‘The Princess Leila is deeply contented in her royal role,’ said Suleiman.

  Sara closed her lips together. That wasn’t what she’d heard. Apparently, at the famous Qurhah Gold Cup races, Leila had been seen looking glum—but it was hardly her place to drop the princess in it.

  ‘I’ll probably have to fight to be able to ride a horse,’ she continued. ‘And only when any stray man has been cleared away from the scene in case he dares look at me. And I’ll probably be forced to ride side-saddle.’

  ‘You do not have to be bored,’ he argued. ‘Boredom is simply a question of attitude. You could use your good fortune and good health to make Qurhah a better place. You could do important work for charity.’

  ‘That goes without saying,’ she said. ‘I’m more than happy to do that. But am I to be consigned to a loveless marriage, simply because my country got itself into debt?’

  Suleiman felt a terrible conflict raging within him. The conflict of believing what was right and knowing what was wrong. The conflict of duty versus desire. He wanted nothing more than to rescue her from her fate. To tell her that she need not marry a man she did not love. And then to drag her off to some dark corner and slide those silken robes from her lush young body. He wanted to rub the nub of his thumb between her legs, to feel the moist flowering of her sex as her body prepared itself for his entry. He wanted to bite at her breasts. To leave the dark indentation of his teeth behind. His mark. So that no other man would be able to touch her...

  With an effort he closed his mind to the torture of his erotic thoughts—for that way lay madness. He could do nothing other than what he had promised to do. He would deliver Sara to the Sultan and he would forget her, just as he had forgotten every woman he had ever lain with.

  ‘This is your destiny,’ he breathed. ‘And you cannot escape it.’

  ‘No?’

  He watched, fascinated and appalled as the rosy tip of her tongue emerged from her lips and began to trace a featherlight path around their cupid’s bow. And suddenly all he could think about was the exquisite gleam of those lips.

  ‘You can’t think of any alternative solution to my dilemma?’ she questioned softly.

  For a moment he thought of entering eagerly into the madness which was nudging at the edges of his mind. Of telling her that the two of them would fly away and he would spend the rest of his life protecting her and making love to her. That they would create a future together with children of their own. And they would build the kind of home that neither of them had ever known.

  He shook his head, as if emerging from an unexpected dream.

  ‘The solution to your dilemma,’ he said coldly, ‘is to shake off your feelings of self-pity—and start counting your blessings instead. Be grateful that you will soon be the wife of His Imperial Majesty. And now, let us join the caravan and begin our journey—for the Sultan grows impatient. You will take the second camel in the train.’

  ‘I will not,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard—and glaring at me like that won’t make any difference, Suleiman,’ she said. ‘I want to ride one of those beautiful horses.’

  ‘You will not be riding anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, but I will,’ she argued stubbornly. ‘Because either you let me have my own mount, or I’ll refuse to get on one of the camels—and I’d like to see any of you trying to get a woman on top of a camel if she doesn’t want to go. Apart from the glaring problem of propriety—I have a very healthy pai
r of lungs and I doubt whether screaming is considered appropriate behaviour for a princess. You know how much the servants gossip.’

  Suleiman could feel a growing frustration as he acknowledged the fierce look on her face. ‘Are you calling my bluff?’ he demanded.

  ‘No. I’m just telling you that I don’t intend to spend the next three days sitting on a camel. I get travel-sick on camels—you know that!’

  ‘You have been allocated the strongest and yet most docile beast in the caravan,’ he defended.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s fluent in seven languages—I’m not getting on him. Please, Suleiman,’ she coaxed. ‘Let me ride. I’ve got my eye on that sweet-looking palomino over there.’

  ‘But you told me you haven’t been on a horse for years,’ he growled.

  ‘I know. And that’s precisely why I need the practice. So either you let me ride there, or I shall refuse to come.’

  He met her obstinate expression, knowing she had him beat. Imagine the dishonour to her reputation if he tried to force her onto the back of a camel. ‘If I agree—if I agree...you will stay close beside me at all times!’ he ordered.

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do. And you will not do anything reckless. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she said.

  Frustratedly, he shook his head—wondering how the Sultan was going to be able to cope with such a headstrong woman.

  But a far more pressing problem was how he was going to get through the next couple of days without succumbing to the temptation of making love to her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SARA GAVE A small sigh of satisfaction as she submitted to the ministrations of the female attendant. Luxuriously, she wriggled her toes and rested her head against the back of the small bath tub. It was strange being waited on like this again after so long. On the plane she had decided she didn’t like being treated like a princess, but that wasn’t quite true. Because nobody could deny that it felt wonderful to have your body washed in cool water, especially when you had been on horseback all day beneath the baking heat of the desert sun.