The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction

by Dani Collins

  The sensations went on and on, slowly fading and leaving her in a floaty place where she felt closer to him than she’d ever felt to another human being. A distant part of her was aware that he was still fondling her, soothing her down from the clouds in the most intimate way, but it felt natural and delicious and she wanted to stay right here luxuriating in—

  “Miss Davenport? Are you in there?”

  Tariq.

  They jerked apart and her hands automatically scrambled her swimsuit back into place. What had she just done?

  Zafir nudged her to rise and she flashed him a look, cut by the grim scowl he wore. He mouthed Answer.

  “I’m, um, yes, I’m here, Tariq.” She grabbed her sarong off the ground and wrapped it around herself, trying not to hang herself on the wires as she glanced back to ensure Zafir wasn’t visible. “What did you need?”

  “Did my father come see you?”

  “Um...” Her brain blanked, unable to conjure a lie even to a child when it was critically necessary.

  “To invite you to eat with us tonight?” Tariq prompted.

  “Oh! Was your, um, hunt successful?”

  “Just three birds, but it’s enough. Are you coming swimming? Walk with me. I’ll tell you about it.”

  “I’ve been swimming already. I need to rest now.” Take cover. Regroup. She couldn’t believe what she had just let happen.

  “You should cool off in the water,” he suggested. “You look hot.”

  She blushed harder as she thought of the reason she looked overheated.

  “Good advice,” she choked. “I’ll think about it and join you in a minute.” There. Finally a credible lie.

  As Tariq ran off, Fern stood there in bewilderment. Her blood still sang and her skin felt like it was made of velvet. Forget swimming. She was so lethargic, she could barely stay on her feet, but she was gripped by mortification so intense she was terrified to move.

  Glancing around the camp, she saw no one who might have seen what she’d been doing, where she’d been, or with whom. Was he still there?

  Ducking into her tent, she went to the back wall and whispered, “Are you still there?”

  Nothing. When she looked out the screen that formed a small window in the back wall, she saw no one. It was both a relief and a disappointment. Going back outside, she went behind the tent and kicked sand across the impression they’d left with their rolling, then scrubbed her bare foot over the man-sized sandal prints that disappeared into the forest of grass and palm trees behind her tent.

  Two days ago, she’d snuck his towel into the latrine and left it on a hook. For someone who didn’t know how to be deceptive, she was becoming very duplicitous.

  The full impact of what she’d just done with Zafir began to hit her. Before this it had been a kiss and a conversation. Now...

  She wouldn’t let herself savor how it had felt. He’d had his hands on her in places she felt guilty touching herself!

  She was entering the territory her mother had always warned her about. Behavior that was dangerous and had no future. She could hide the evidence, but she couldn’t deny that clothing had been moot and inhibition nonexistent. He’d held her in the palm of his hand, literally. He’d driven her to a point of supreme vulnerability and helplessness and she hadn’t fought him because nothing in her had wanted to.

  Her mother had names for women who acted this way. Fern burned with humiliation at the thought of Zafir labeling her the same way. Where was her self-respect?

  How would she ever face him again?

  * * *

  Zafir was suffering like a man staked on an anthill in the desert. His skin prickled, his core was on fire, he couldn’t fight his way free of the situation he was in and regret sat like dust in the back of his throat because all of this was his own fault. He should have left Fern alone.

  His control had been holding up well, even though he was aware of her every move in the camp. Even though her voice sometimes carried to him and he felt so drawn he shook with the effort to ignore her. When she’d looked to him as his son had invited her to spend the day in the desert with them, hunting the falcons, he had willed her to refuse.

  She had, and his inner being had screamed like a hawk, angry that she had denied herself to him.

  It made no sense. He barely knew her and was making every effort to remain estranged, but he’d thought of her the entire time they were hunting. He had easily imagined her inquisitive, engaging manner and pictured her freckled face turned to the sky in anticipation. He’d wanted her to see his desert and this ancient practice and be a part of his world in this elemental way.

  Why?

  Aside from his wife, he’d never attached himself to any woman and even that had been...

  He ducked thoughts of his marriage as he always did, instead comparing Fern to some of his much more pleasant, lengthier affairs. Pretty, sensuous women who purred under his touch. But he’d never felt more than mild inconvenience when those relationships ended. If a new female in his sphere caught his eye, but turned out to be married or otherwise unavailable, he easily transferred his interest elsewhere.

  So why couldn’t he dismiss Fern? Was it because no other choices were open to him, as she’d accused him?

  His marriage had lasted nearly five years and he’d gone without sex that long. A fortnight without a woman ought to be well within his endurance level.

  But Fern’s hold on him was unprecedented. When they’d returned to the oasis and looked down on the camp, Tariq had said Miss Davenport looked a skeleton on the sand. Ra’id had chuckled and Zafir had had to bite back a sharp remark, managing to remind his son in a measured tone that he should be more respectful.

  Yes, she had been pale and leggy, but like a piece of carved ivory. Her hair had been a rope of red-gold, hanging in a plait against her back. All he’d thought about the rest of the descent was wrapping it around his fist and holding her for his kiss.

  Trying to get a grip on his libido before he saw her, he’d hung back with Tariq to watch him dress the birds they’d caught. After a few moments, his son had said, “I can do it” with that hint of exasperated annoyance children had when a parent hovered. Rather than take offense, Zafir had accepted that he was being a coward. He had gone to relay Tariq’s invitation to dinner, then found himself following Fern across the camp.

  He should have called out sooner and spoken to her in the open, but the male animal in him had fixated on the twin cheeks that were not voluptuous, but were lovely, firm lobes that moved under the tissue-thin veil of her sarong. Her ambling walk had been lazy. The way she had craned her neck had spoken of her enjoyment in her surroundings.

  That sensuous streak was his undoing. His thoughts had turned to how she would react to other physical pleasures. When he’d finally caught up to her in the relative privacy at the side of her tent, he’d already been so primed that her near nudity had devastated what little self-discipline he’d had left. He hadn’t even spoken to her. It was a wonder he’d taken the time to press her out of sight before he’d fallen on her.

  If only she had recoiled from his touch, but the responsiveness in her was not only a frustrating thrust of responsibility totally onto him, but also pure seduction. When she’d opened her mouth and kissed him back, he’d lost it. His one and only glimmer of sanity had been a recollection that they could be discovered at any second.

  And now that he knew how reactive she was, how she melted under his touch and abandoned herself to his lovemaking, he could think of nothing but touching her again. Arousing her to that same level of wildness and thrusting into her. Making her cry her elation into his ear.

  So impossible.

  Especially as she sat across from him, her lashes lowered, her tongue sweeping her lips between bites of stew. The children bandied for her attention. Even Amineh was d
etermined to engage her.

  He did everything he could to avoid even looking at her.

  But he noticed Fern had buttoned herself into cotton armor and was acting like she was sitting on a pin. Her hair was hidden under a scarf. Its edges fluttered around her face and she kept touching her collar and tugging her skirt to cover her shin, trying to hold her own against the breeze that had come up as the sun had gone down.

  His friend Ra’id could caress his wife’s cheek, but he, Zafir, could not reach across and tuck an errant strand of hair under his lover’s scarf. The injustice—and the intensity of oppression he felt at being denied—confounded him.

  “You’ve been in such owly moods this trip,” his sister said with a nudge of her elbow into his side. “What’s bothering you?”

  Ra’id covered Amineh’s hand and murmured, “Men in our position can’t always talk about the concerns we shoulder.”

  Amineh’s gaze flicked to Fern, and Fern was sharp enough to get the message that she had just been labeled an outsider. Her mouth tightened in a tiny flinch, but she quickly hid it behind a smile for Tariq.

  “I must thank you again, young man. This has been such a treat. Both the delicious meal and dining with your family. I find such a lively table a bit overwhelming to be honest. It was always just my mother and I growing up. She often worked late so eating alone feels very normal to me.”

  I won’t be insulted if you don’t invite me again, her chipper remark seemed to say. In fact, I’d prefer it.

  It tugged an unexpected pang from Zafir’s heart. Ra’id wasn’t a snob, but he was a realist. Fern’s position in his household was well defined and it behooved all of them to remember it.

  Fern started to draw back and excuse herself, but Tariq asked in his direct way, “Where was your father? Did he die?”

  “No, um...” Fern widened her eyes like she’d stepped into unexpected traffic. “I mean...” She swallowed.

  “Parents don’t always live together,” Amineh ventured, sending an empathetic look to Fern who was looking at Ra’id with deep shame, like she expected him to banish her to the edges of the earth for daring to be illegitimate in front of his daughters. Obviously she was forgetting that the girls’ mother and uncle were bastards.

  “Like grandmother stayed in England, rather than live here?” Bashira asked.

  “Exactly,” Amineh said, setting a hand on her daughter’s head while she flashed a long-suffering look toward Zafir.

  Being the product of an unwed union wasn’t something they talked about often, and neither of them had found the best way to dig deep into the topic with their children, but it was a scar they both carried. It shouldn’t matter in this day and age, but he still faced bigotry every day from certain factions in his country, for being illegitimate and half blood, making it impossible for him to forget he was not wholly a product of his own country.

  And there was Fern looking like she shared the same agony at being born on the wrong side of the blanket.

  You’re in good company, he wanted to blurt, but she was rallying, mustering a smile. “Thank you again. I wish I could offer to make you some traditional English food, Tariq, but I think you’ve probably tried all of it with your grandmother.”

  “She won’t let the chef make fish and chips. That’s my favorite. Sometimes Baba and I sneak out for it.”

  “State secrets revealed after all,” Fern murmured, then bit her lips together. Her face darkened in the glow of the candles as she rose jerkily from her cushion and bowed to take her leave.

  “No, don’t go,” Jumanah urged.

  “Listen, I hear the music starting.” Fern touched her ear and pointed in the direction of the cooking area. “That means it will be your bedtime soon. But if your parents allow it, you may come to my tent and we’ll see if we can identify some of the constellations from the guide on my tablet before it loses the last of its charge.”

  “Please, Baba?” the girls begged.

  Tariq gave Zafir an excited, expectant look. For a boy who thought she looked like a skeleton and who was on vacation from school, he seemed quite taken with Miss Davenport. Genetics again, Zafir thought, wanting to shake his head at the irony.

  “Of course,” he said with a nod. “I have a travel unit with several charges left. You can use it to keep your tablet going through the rest of our stay.”

  “If it’s not an imposition,” Fern said, flashing him a slightly fraught glance. It was the first and only direct eye contact of the night and burned a trail through him like a comet.

  “I’ll get it,” Tariq said, leaping to his feet.

  Fern’s shoulders softened with relief and she herded the children into the shadows toward her tent.

  “Well, that was the height of awkward,” Ra’id said in Arabic.

  “Oh, don’t start!” Amineh protested, throwing her weight into her husband.

  He caught her close as he chided, “Be honest. Have you ever seen anyone that uncomfortable for two solid hours? It was painful. Wasn’t it, Zafir?”

  “You don’t realize how intimidating you are! Zafir, too. And she’s not a talkative person. That’s why I like her. There’s no gossipy ‘Did you hear this or that?’ She talks about real things.”

  “Such as?” Zafir asked, trying to keep his tone idle as he mentally castigated his son for stealing his one valid excuse to seek her out.

  “The girls and their progress, mostly. But she wants to learn about our culture. We both agree the world would be a better place if women ran it,” she taunted with a grin up at her husband.

  “Goes without saying,” Ra’id agreed, kissing her nose.

  “You’re not bonding over unwed parents, then,” Zafir said, recognizing the nuzzling as his cue to make himself scarce.

  “Okay, that was awkward,” Amineh agreed, sitting up a little. “And no, we don’t. I gather her mother was a bit of a hard case, but she doesn’t go on about it or pry. She’s very earnest.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Ra’id said, reaching to drain his cup of tea. “I have stacks of picture books awaiting my approval before she reads them to our children. How dangerous a political message could be hidden in a story that wishes the moon a good-night? When she started, she asked me how much of her curriculum she should devote to British history and suggested twenty-five percent because the girls are one quarter English.”

  Zafir didn’t want to laugh at her, but he couldn’t help the twitch of his lips as he considered the contradiction of the laced-up schoolmistress and the woman who had broken all the rules with him this afternoon. His ego soared with triumph at how much she had let go with him.

  “Stop,” Amineh insisted to Ra’id. “Or I’ll tell her you want to mark all their written work yourself.”

  They started to snog openly so Zafir pushed to his feet and went to his tent. There he discovered that Tariq had taken his charging unit, but left all the attachments.

  His mind said don’t. His fingers gathered up the velvet bag of adaptors and weighed the package in his palm.

  He managed to resist going to her until Tariq came to say good-night. The boy was riding a streak of independence these days, insisting he could scrub his own teeth and put himself to bed. As he rushed off to do so, Zafir stepped outside.

  Ra’id was carrying his daughters like rolled carpets, one giggling girl under each of his arms, to where their mother waited near the children’s tent.

  Fern stood alone near her own, tablet in hand, face turned to the sky as she moved from beneath the canopy of palms.

  As Zafir debated lame excuses to go to her, like asking if he could help her find a particular constellation, without any word to anyone, Fern made a decisive turn and headed up the path he’d taken her and the children a few days ago.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FERN’S AN
TENNAE PICKED UP his presence before she heard or saw him. All the hairs on her body lifted and a jolt of such electric awareness shot through her, she expected her tablet to short out.

  She kept walking, heartbeat picking up speed under the sense of being pursued, but she wasn’t frightened. Not exactly. He wouldn’t hurt her.

  But when she finally heard his voice asking, “Where the hell are you going?” his stern undertone was daunting enough to make her halt with apprehension.

  She hugged the tablet to her chest like a shield and turned to face him. They were still under the palms at the top of the spring so the filtered light left only a few glinting strips on his face, not enough to read his expression, but she received his message of disapproval loud and clear.

  He didn’t think she was looking for one of the guards, did he? They were so elusive, she wouldn’t know where to find one if she needed one.

  “The plateau,” she replied, managing a conversational tone. “We couldn’t see much of the sky from the camp. I wanted to see if it’s worth asking to bring the children up tomorrow night for a proper stargaze.”

  “You’re not allowed to leave the camp without an escort.”

  That took her aback. “I’m not supposed to take the children out of the camp. No one said I can’t go for a walk by myself.”

  “I’m telling you that you can’t. You could fall or get a bite, especially in the dark.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  She had read all the stories about stupid tourists getting themselves into sticky situations and didn’t fancy becoming one, but his order seemed silly. She huffed, feeling like she was being treated like a child. “Fine. Will you take me?”

  A loaded silence was his response.

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” he growled impatiently.

  What did one say to that? She hugged the tablet so tightly her fingers hurt where the edges dug in.

  When he moved toward her, she pivoted to the side of the trail, making room for him to take the lead.