Defiant in the Desert

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘Oh, Gabe!’ She clapped her palms to her flaming cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry. I only realised when I came out of the meeting and Alice pointed it out.’

  ‘Forget it. I only mention it because the client did—so perhaps best not to repeat it. Anyway.’ He smiled. ‘What’s his name? This man.’

  She could hear her voice softening as she said it. ‘It’s Suleiman Abd al-Aziz—’

  Gabe’s eyes narrowed ‘The oil baron?’

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  He smiled. ‘Unlike princesses, global magnates tend not to stay anonymous for very long.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. The thing is, I was thinking...’ She twisted her fingers together in her lap and wondered what was making her feel so nervous. Actually, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly what was making her nervous. On some instinctive level, she was terrified of Suleiman meeting her powerful and very sexy boss. ‘I wanted Suleiman to get a bit of an idea about what my job’s about. I told him about the massive campaign we did for that new art gallery in Whitechapel—and I thought that I might bring him along to the opening tonight. If that’s all right.’

  ‘Excellent. You do that.’ Gabe looked at her expectantly. ‘And now, if we’re through with all the personal details—can you get me the drawings for the Hudson account?’

  Noting the slight reprimand, Sara opened up the folder she’d carried in with her and worked hard on the account for the rest of the afternoon. She sent Alice out for coffee and tried ringing Suleiman to tell him about the gallery opening, but he wasn’t answering his phone.

  It was gone six by the time she arrived back home to find the apartment filled with the smell of cinnamon and oranges. She wondered if Suleiman had ordered something in and whether he’d just forgotten that she had the opening tonight.

  Because mealtimes had proved another stumbling block, mainly because Suleiman was used to having servants cater to his every whim. He liked food to arrive when he wanted it—usually after sex. He was not interested in the mechanics of getting it, not of shopping for it nor having Sara rustle him up a meal. So far they had compromised by eating out every night, but sometimes she just wanted to kick off her shoes and scoff toast on the sofa.

  She followed the direction of the aroma out to the kitchen, and blinked in surprise to see Suleiman leaning over the hob, adding something to a pot. It was such an incongruous sight—and so rare to see him in jeans—that for a moment she just stood there, feasting her eyes on his powerful frame and thick dark hair. The denim clung to his narrow hips, it hugged the muscular shaft of his long legs and she had to swallow down her instant feeling of lust.

  ‘Wow. This is a sight for sore eyes,’ she said softly. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Wondering why it’s so difficult to buy fresh apricots in central London.’ He turned round, his black eyes glittering as he curved her a smile. ‘Actually, I’m trying to impress my liberated princess by producing a meal, after she’s spent a hard day at the office.’

  Putting her handbag down on the counter, she walked over to him and looped her arms around his neck. ‘I didn’t know you cooked.’

  ‘That’s because I rarely do these days. But as you know, I once served in the Qurhahian army,’ he said, bending to brush his mouth over hers. ‘Where even men who had been spoilt by living in palaces were taught the basics of food prep.’

  She laughed, lifting her lips for a proper kiss and within seconds she was lost in it. And so was he. Suddenly food was forgotten. Everything was forgotten, except the need to have him as close to her as possible. Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his bare chest—not caring that several buttons went bouncing all over the stone tiles of the kitchen floor.

  She tugged impatiently at his belt and he gave a low laugh as he pushed her up against the door. Rucking up her dress, he ripped her panties apart and her muffled protest was stifled with a hungry kiss. She could hear the rasp of his zip and the buoyant weight of his erection as it sprang free. She reached down to touch him, her fingertips skating over his silken hardness before he removed her hand. Cushioning the weight of her bottom with his hands, he positioned himself where she was hot and wet for him and thrust deep inside her.

  Her legs wrapped tightly around his hips, Sara clung to him as they rocked in rhythm, but it was over very quickly. Her head wilted like a cut flower as she leaned it against his shoulder and her voice was sleepy in his ear.

  ‘Nice,’ she murmured.

  ‘Is that the best you can do? I was hoping for something a little more lyrical than “nice”.’

  ‘Would stupendous work better?’

  ‘Stupendous is a good word,’ he said.

  ‘Listen.’ She kissed his neck. ‘Do you want to go to the opening of that gallery in Whitechapel? The one I told you about? It’s tonight.’

  He lifted up a handful of hair and brushed his lips against her neck. ‘No, I don’t—and neither do you. Let’s just stay home. I’m making dinner and afterwards I’m sure we can find ways to amuse ourselves.’

  Sara could feel the warmth of her orgasm beginning to ebb away. ‘Suleiman, I have to go.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You don’t have to go anywhere. You’ve been working all day as it is.’

  ‘I know I have. But this is my job. Remember?’ She thought of her mother and the way she’d let all her options slide away from her. She thought of the way that men could manoeuvre women into a corner, if you let them. And she wasn’t going to let Suleiman do that to her. She bent down to pick up the tattered lace which had once been her panties. ‘I’ve been a major part of the whole campaign from the get-go and I want to see the launch. It’s expected of me and it would look very odd if I wasn’t there. But I asked Gabe whether I could bring you along—and he said yes.’

  There was a pause. ‘How very generous of him,’ he said acidly. ‘And you didn’t think to give me any notice?’

  ‘Actually, I did.’ She tried to ignore the dangerous note in his voice, telling herself that she had sprung this on him at the last minute. And why had that been? Because she’d feared just this kind of reaction if she’d said anything about it sooner? ‘I tried ringing, but you weren’t picking up. Look, you really don’t have to go to this, Suleiman, but I do. So I’m going to take a shower and get ready.’

  Without another word, she walked into the bedroom and stripped off her clothes before hitting the shower. She half expected Suleiman to follow her, but he didn’t.

  She was not going to feel guilty. Furiously, she lathered shampoo into her hair. If he loved her—as he said he loved her—then shouldn’t he be making more of an effort to integrate into her world, and her life?

  He could meet Gabe and he’d see Alice again—as well as some of the other graphic designers she’d spoken about. Wasn’t that what modern coupledom was all about?

  But as she blow-dried her hair in front of the bedroom mirror her fears just wouldn’t seem to leave her. She found herself wondering if they were just playing at being modern. Pretending that everything was fine, when deep down nothing had really been addressed. At heart, wasn’t Suleiman just another old-fashioned desert warrior who was incapable of any real change?

  Knowing that the press would be there, as well as the usual smattering of celebrity guests, she was extra generous with the mascara. She could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom next door and moments later Suleiman walked into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his hips.

  He rubbed at his damp hair with a second towel and she thought how powerful his body looked. The whiteness of the towel contrasted against the deep olive of his skin and droplets of water gleamed there, as if he’d been showered with tiny diamonds.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said, and smiled. ‘You’ve decided to come.’

  ‘Reluctantly,’ he growled as he pulled a white shirt from the wardr
obe.

  She watched him from the mirror as she finished fiddling around with her make-up. He looked heartstoppingly gorgeous in that dark suit which emphasised the blackness of his hair and eyes. She wondered what Alice would say when she saw his name on the guest list. She wondered how he would fit in with all her work colleagues. But her heart was suddenly ridiculously light. He was coming, wasn’t he? How could they fail to love him, as she loved him?

  She had just slithered her dress over her head, when his words whispered through the air and startled her.

  ‘You’re not wearing that?’

  She felt the clench of her heart, but she turned round to face him, a sanguine expression on her face. She smoothed her fingers down over the fine gold mesh and smiled. ‘I am. Do you like it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s a pity. It’s made by one of London’s top designers, so it’s eminently suitable for tonight’s party.’

  ‘It may be, but it is also much too short. You’re practically showing your panties.’

  The tone of his voice made her heart contract, but she was determined not to back down. She’d thought that they were over all this.

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Suleiman—and please don’t come over all heavy on me. The dress is a fashionable length and I’m wearing it. End of story.’

  Their eyes met and she became aware of the silent war being waged between them and she tried to see it from his point of view. In Suleiman’s world, a woman going out in public wearing a dress this short was sending out a very definite message.

  ‘Look, I know it’s the way you’ve been brought up,’ she said. ‘But you’ve really got to lose this idea that women are either saints or scrubbers. I’m wearing gold tights and long boots with it. The boots you bought me in Paris, actually—’

  ‘And I bought those for you to wear in the bedroom.’

  ‘Yes. Well, it may have missed your notice—’ she lifted up her leg to reveal the sole of the boot ‘—but they have real heels made for walking. They weren’t designed just for the bedroom! So are you going to lighten up and enjoy the evening?’ Her gold bangles jangling, she walked over to him, placing one hand on his shoulder as she tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you?’

  There was a moment while their eyes fought another silent, clashing battle before Suleiman gave a low growl which was almost a laugh. ‘No other woman would dare speak to me the way that you do, Sara.’

  ‘That’s why you love me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He slid his hand possessively around her waist. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  MOODILY, SULEIMAN GLANCED around the vast art gallery. The cavernous space and endlessly high ceilings made him think that this might have been a warehouse in a former life, though the place certainly bore no resemblance to its humbler origins.

  On white walls hung vast canvases sporting naïve splashes of colour which a five-year-old child could have achieved—all bearing price tags far beyond the reach of most ordinary mortals. Stick-thin women and geeky-looking men in glasses stood gazing up at them in rapt concentration, while waitresses dressed like extravagant birds offered trays of exotically coloured cocktails.

  He still couldn’t believe he was here. He couldn’t believe that Sara had brought him here to look at these dull paintings and meet dull people, when she could have been in bed with him instead. He had been cooking her a meal. Didn’t she realise that he’d never cooked for a woman before? But instead of switching off her phone and treating him with a little gratitude, she had brought him to this pretentious place. Had given him a plastic glass of very mediocre wine and then had disappeared to greet someone with one of those ridiculous air-kisses he so despised.

  She needed to work, she had told him. Just as it seemed she always needed to work. She never stopped. It was as if she couldn’t bear to get off the treadmill she’d leapt back on with such enthusiasm when they’d returned from Paris.

  He watched her cross the room. The shimmer of her golden dress caressed her body as she moved, while the sinful blonde hair streamed over her shoulders in a silken cascade. Men were watching her, as they had been watching from the moment they’d arrived—even the geeky ones, who didn’t particularly look as if they were into women. He wondered if she was aware of that. Was that why she had worn that skimpy little dress—to draw attention to her beauty? Was that what made her walk with such a seductive sway, or was that simply a consequence of wearing those indecently sexy boots?

  Why had he bought her those damned boots?

  She had stopped to talk to someone and her head was tilted upwards as she listened to what he was saying to her—a tall man with cold grey eyes and a chiselled face. They seemed to be having some kind of animated discussion. They acted as if they knew each other well and Suleiman’s eyes narrowed. Who was he? He smiled with polite dismissal at the woman who had attached herself to his side like glue, and walked across the gallery until he had reached them.

  Sara looked up as he approached and he noticed that her cheeks had gone very pink. Had her male companion made her blush? he wondered. He felt the twist of something unfamiliar in his gut. Something dark and nebulous.

  ‘Oh, Suleiman.’ She smiled. ‘There you are.’

  ‘Here I am.’ He looked at the man who stood beside her, with a questioning expression. ‘Hello.’

  He saw the way Sara’s teeth had begun to dig into her bottom lip. Was she nervous, he wondered—and if so, why?

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to my boss,’ she was saying. ‘This is Gabe Steel and he owns the best and biggest advertising agency in London. Gabe—this is Suleiman Abd al-Aziz and I’ve known...’ She began to blush. ‘Well, I’ve known Suleiman ever since I was a little girl.’

  There was a split second as the two men eyed one another before briefly shaking hands and Suleiman found his fingers grasped with a bone-crushing strength which equalled his own. So this was her boss. The tycoon he had heard so much about and the man who had lent her his cottage at Christmas. A man with cold grey eyes and the kind of presence which was attracting almost as much attention from the women in the room as Suleiman himself.

  One thought jarred uncomfortably in his head.

  Why had he lent her his cottage?

  ‘Good to meet you, Suleiman,’ said Gabe. ‘So tell me, was she a good little girl—or was she very naughty?’

  Suleiman froze. He tried telling himself that this was the normal, jokey kind of statement which existed among work colleagues in the west—but his heart was stubbornly refusing to listen to reason. Instead, his years of conditioning, which had resulted in a very rigid way of thinking, now demanded to be heard. Instead of joining in with the banter, he found himself thinking that this man Steel—no matter how exalted his position—was speaking most impertinently about the Princess of Dhi’ban.

  Unless...

  Suleiman’s heart began to hammer painfully against his ribcage. Unless the relationship went deeper than that of mere workmates. He swallowed. Was it possible that Gabe Steel was the other man she had slept with—the man who had taken her virginity? Hadn’t she told him on Christmas Eve that it was Gabe Steel’s cottage and that she was waiting for her lover?

  Had Gabe Steel been her lover?

  For a moment he was so overcome by a sweep of jealousy so powerful that he couldn’t speak, and when he did his words felt like little splinters of metal being expelled from his mouth.

  ‘I don’t think that the princess would wish me to divulge secrets from her past,’ he said repressively.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Gabe looked startled, before flashing him an easy smile. ‘So tell me, what do you think of the paintings?’

  ‘You want my honest opinion?’ Suleiman questioned.

  ‘Suleiman’s not a great connoisseur of art,’ put in Sara hast
ily, before shooting him a furious look. She put her hand on his arm and pressed it—the sharp dig undeniably warning him not to elaborate. ‘Are you, darling?’

  Suleiman felt a cold fury begin to rise within him. She was speaking to him as if he were some tame little lapdog she had brought along with her. But he could see that causing a scene here would serve no purpose, except to delay their departure and ensure her fury. Clearly she danced obediently to this man Steel’s tune—and when they got home he would do her the favour of pointing it out.

  So he merely gave a bland smile as he reached out and drew her against him, a proprietorial thumb moving very deliberately over her ribcage. He felt her shiver beneath his touch and he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he looked at her boss.

  ‘Sara’s right, of course. I have never been able to understand the penchant for spending vast sums of money on modern art. Call me old-fashioned—but I prefer something which doesn’t look as if a cat has regurgitated its supper all over the canvas.’

  ‘Oh, I think we could certainly call you old-fashioned, Suleiman,’ said Sara in a high, bright voice.

  ‘But I can see that your campaign has been successful,’ conceded Suleiman, forcing a smile. ‘Judging by the amount of people here tonight.’

  ‘Yes, we’re very pleased with the turnout,’ said Gabe. ‘Much of which is down to the talent of your girlfriend, of course. It was her artwork which made people sit up and start taking notice.’ He smiled. ‘Sara’s one of the best creatives I have.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. I just hope you have a good replacement ready to step in to fill her shoes,’ said Suleiman.

  He could see the look of surprise on Gabe Steel’s face and the sudden draining of colour from Sara’s.

  ‘Something you’re not telling me?’ questioned Gabe lightly.

  ‘Nothing that I know of,’ she answered as her boss gave a brief nod of his head and walked across the art gallery to talk to a woman on the other side of the room.