Desert Jewels & Rising Stars

by Sharon Kendrick

  Her smooth forehead creased. “I’ve never been to the desert. I can’t really imagine it being beautiful. Whenever I envision the desert I see cactuses and bleached bones.”

  “It’s not an easy beauty to see. Not like the architecture here in Paris, and not like the green mountains in Turan. It’s fierce and barren—just the sand and the sky. It asks a lot of a man, but if the man can rise to the challenge, if he can learn to exist in such a place, he can’t help but love it.”

  Her blue eyes glittered, the sudden humor there unexpected. “And you’ve risen to the challenge and defeated the desert?”

  Her mischievous smile pulled a reluctant laugh from him. “I haven’t beaten it. It’s impossible to tame the desert. There are fierce sandstorms, unforgiving temperatures, and poisonous reptiles. The best you can hope is that she’ll allow you a peaceful existence.”

  She offered him a sweet half-smile that just barely curved the edges of her full lips. “And the desert is a woman?”

  “Of course she is. Only a woman could be such a fierce mistress.”

  “I can’t imagine the kind of freedom the desert must offer,” she said, after a long moment of silence.

  “It’s a freedom that demands responsibility. You have to respect where you are at all times. You have to keep the rules and mind the boundaries.”

  “And uphold duty and honor?”

  “What is there in life without those things, Isabella? If men discard such notions, what keeps the world moving?”

  Isabella hated how right he was. Hated that what he said made so much sense. She understood the importance of her alliance with Hassan, High Sheikh of Umarah. It was good for the economy, good for building a strong bond between nations in case of any sort of crisis. And if it weren’t her life, if she were only a casual observer like Adham, who wasn’t the one being forced to marry a stranger, she would have felt as he did.

  But it was her life. Not some vague idea of honor and duty. She was the sacrificial lamb for the masses. Easy for him to speak that way when in the end he got to ride off into the sunset and be with whom he wished, doing whatever he wished.

  “I have accepted the path I have to take, Adham,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. “I only wanted to take a small detour.”

  “And where would you like your detour to take you now, Princess?” His voice was hard. Condescending. A sharp contrast to the small moment of near camaraderie they’d just shared.

  Well, fine. She didn’t much care for him either.

  “I thought we could walk. See the sights.”

  He nodded in what she assumed was acquiescence. He had a way of making her feel as though he disapproved with nothing more than the slightest movement. Even though he’d agreed, the tension in his body told her he’d rather do anything else. Not the most accommodating man, her keeper.

  He turned and began to walk up the boulevard, not getting too far ahead of her, but not exactly waiting for her either. She knew that no matter what it seemed like his focus was still on her. She knew it because her skin felt too tight and her stomach was queasy with knots.

  She quickened her pace, taking two steps to his one, her much shorter legs making her work harder to gain the distance he was managing. She looked around at the tourists pouring from buses that lined the sidewalks. They were in groups. Pairs. Holding hands. Why did it suddenly seem as though it would be natural to be linked to Adham in that way? To hold his hand while they strolled through Paris together?

  She fell into step beside him and her hand brushed his. Her heart leapt to her throat at the contact. He didn’t even look at her. Didn’t give her any indication that he had noticed her touch, let alone been affected by it.

  Except she noticed him curling his hand tightly into a fist, the tendons shifting, the scars on his skin lightening as he squeezed tightly before relaxing it again. She rubbed the back of her own hand idly, her skin still hot from his touch. Maybe his skin was hot from the brush of her hand too?

  She looked at him again, at his hard, immobile face, so perfect it seemed to be etched in stone. The marks on his skin were evidence of time and living rather than a detraction to his masculine beauty. An addition to the form the artist had wrought, showing the character of the man, of all he had endured.

  No. It was impossible that she’d manage to have any effect on a man like him. He was quite incredibly out of her league, in more ways than she could count. She didn’t know how old he was, but she was certain he was quite a bit older than her own twenty-one. Add his experience and living to that, and it seemed they were from different worlds.

  That realization made an uncomfortable weight settle in her stomach. He probably didn’t take her any more seriously than if she were a child whining for an ice cream cone.

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter what Adham thought of her. He didn’t have to live her life. She did. She looked over the tops of the tour buses, past the neatly shorn trees that were carefully crafted into tall hedges, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, visible above all of it.

  They reached the end of the row of foliage and the full tower came into view. People were everywhere, snapping photographs of the intricate scaffolding and of each other. She wondered how she and her stoic companion must look to them.

  She noticed very quickly that women were all but giving themselves whiplash with extreme head-turns when Adham walked by. Pride warred with another more uncomfortable emotion. Pride because he was the best looking man even in this densely populated spot, and he was with her. But the other feeling, the one that made her stomach ache, was not welcome.

  “Would you take my picture?” she asked, fishing for the small digital camera she’d tucked into her purse before leaving her brother’s home and holding it out to him. She wanted memories. Reminders of the time when she’d been free to make her own choices.

  He raised his dark eyebrow at her, clearly less than pleased to be playing tourist.

  Another feeling roiled in her stomach, and this one she knew for sure. Anger. “Please. Just take my picture and stop acting like you’re here under sufferance.”

  She caught a small, barely detectable curving of his lips. “I am here under sufferance.” But he took the camera from her outstretched hand.

  She positioned herself in front of the lawn and smiled wide. Suddenly she wished she were taking his picture. His face would be compelling on film. His masculine bone structure, his scarred golden skin. Maybe if she had a photo she could look at his dark eyes long enough to read his secrets.

  He snapped the picture and she jumped, realizing she’d been somewhere else entirely. That wasn’t right. She needed to be living in the moment. She was at the Eiffel Tower, in Paris. No looking ahead, no looking back, and no looking into Adham’s eyes. He was just an unfortunate accessory to her trip, nothing more.

  “Did it turn out okay?” she asked.

  He looked at the small screen, his expression tight. “It’s fine.” He walked to her and thrust the camera back into her hand, his manner abrupt. Nothing new there. Was there any way to penetrate that wall he had up? Was there a woman, one he loved, that those dark eyes softened for?

  The thought made her feel nauseous. She didn’t want to think about the woman who got to see past his defenses. But if she were to try and imagine that woman she pictured her being older, sophisticated—not just in the sense of having an affluent upbringing, but savvy in the ways of the world. Knowledgeable of things Isabella was hardly aware of.

  She would certainly be the opposite of Isabella, since the only thing she seemed to arouse in Adham was extreme annoyance.

  “Ready?” he asked, his voice clipped.

  No, she wasn’t ready. But she doubted it really mattered. “Sure.”

  Her pique was forgotten as they walked through the city, past beautiful stone architecture and historic sites. She lingered in one of the narrow streets, taking photographs of a rustic wooden door painted a rich, saturated blue. She wanted to capture it f
orever, to remember the simple moment of unexpected beauty and color amidst the monochromatic grays.

  “It’s a door, Isabella.” Adham’s bored voice sent a shiver of irritation and tension through her.

  “Yes, it is, Adham. A blue one. Glad your gift of observation is so well-honed. It’s little wonder you’re such an indispensable member of the Umarahn guard.”

  He captured her arm, gently but firmly, and turned her so that she was facing him. “I am not a member of the Umarahn guard. I am the Umarahn guard.”

  He was so close. Like he’d been in the alley. It was so easy to imagine him pulling her to him, capturing her lips again.

  She moved away. “They’re lucky to have you.”

  She walked ahead of him this time, keeping her eyes locked in front of her. She didn’t know why his comment had bothered her so much. Maybe because she’d seen beauty in that simple thing and it had meant something to her to try and capture that. Something that had felt important. And he hadn’t seen it at all. Not that it should matter.

  The alleyway spilled out onto a busier street, lined with shops and cafés, and further down the massive Printemps department store.

  She felt a renewed flaring of excitement. “Can we go shopping?”

  “Shopping? Does that rate as an important, life-altering experience for you?”

  Mild irritation gave way to seething anger. “I don’t know. Maybe it does. I haven’t really been before. At least not without the aid of my mother’s personal shopper, telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. But you wouldn’t understand that. You take for granted your God-given free will because no one’s stolen it from you.”

  “And you think these shallow experiences will teach you something of life? It shows how little you know, Isabella. You see only what’s been denied you, not what you’ve been protected from.” His dark eyes burned into her, making her feel exposed, as though all her inadequacies were revealed to him. “Not all experiences are good.”

  She swallowed hard. “You speak as a man who has never been a prisoner.”

  He took a step toward her and she stepped back, dodging a pedestrian. “I have been a prisoner. A prisoner of war. Where do you think these came from?” He indicated the marks etched into his cheek. “You are nothing more than a foolish child. You know nothing of the world. Be grateful for that.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ISABELLA flicked her eyes up and focused on Adham’s cool expression, reflected in the dressing room mirror. “You don’t like it?”

  He shrugged, his expression one of cool disinterest. “Buy what you like.”

  She fixed her gaze back on her reflection. Yes. She was going to buy what she liked. It didn’t matter what he thought, or what her mother’s personal shopper would say. The only thing that mattered was how she felt about the outfit. The crisp white button-up top hugged her breasts and nipped in at the waist, accentuating her hourglass shape, while the brown satin shorts showed off more of her golden legs than she was accustomed to. But she thought she looked nice. She was reasonably certain she looked nice.

  She looked back at Adham. “Is it unflattering?”

  His coal-dark eyes raked over her, and it made her want to tug on the wide cuff of the shorts so that she could get some more coverage. “It’s very flattering.”

  Isabella was suddenly conscious of the fact that they were alone in the dressing area. Her skin felt sensitized. She could feel the air touching her, closing in on her. She could feel Adham’s heat across the small space.

  “Th-thank you.” Her heart was beating harder now, her palms damp. She needed … she needed distance. She didn’t want to be closed in with Adham anymore, didn’t want to share the air with him. Air that suddenly seemed thicker, harder to breathe. “So … so you like it, then?” She despised the hopeful tone in her voice.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed; his eyes flickering over her curves. “I like it.”

  She noticed that he tightened his hands into fists again, then released them, flexing his long, masculine fingers.

  He was the most infuriating man. He’d all but crushed her before they’d gone into Printemps, making her feel like a silly child, and now, only half an hour later, he was making her more conscious of the fact that she was a woman than she’d ever been before.

  “I’m finished,” she said tightly, disappearing into the dressing room and putting on her own clothes as quickly as possible, before exiting with her carefully chosen outfits.

  She added the packages to the shoes she’d purchased already, which included a pair of very sexy, strappy high-heeled sandals and tall butter-soft brown leather boots. Definitely not things her mother’s personal shopper would have chosen.

  They meandered through the massive department store, and Isabella did her best to simply block out everything but the moment she was living in. She loved being surrounded by the crowd of people, by the low hum of conversation. She was with people rather than above them—a part of things rather than held back, kept separate from everyone.

  Although Adham seemed content to hold himself separate on purpose. From her, from everyone. Though he wore designer jeans and a T-shirt with ease, he seemed out of place in their urban surroundings. He stood out—his height, his breadth, his handsome features, his scars all drawing attention to him. But it was more than just his looks. He seemed too exotic, too wild for something as prosaic as a department store.

  He was so completely unaffected. By the sights, by the crowds, by her. And he was making her feel edgy and restless and … nervous. He was definitely affecting her, no matter how much she was trying to pretend otherwise.

  With a spark of defiance she checked the map of the large store that she was carrying with her and headed to the lingerie floor. That was another part of her wardrobe that needed dragging into the contemporary era. She had lovely underwear, it was true. The highest quality. But the styles gave no concession to a woman’s sexuality—which had always been fine with her, since she hadn’t given much thought to hers. But this was about self-discovery, and she was not changing dictators without discovering what her personal preference in undergarments was. If she wanted ultra-sexy panties she was going to get them.

  And Adham was coming with her. Like it or not. He was doing a decent job of making her uncomfortable. She might as well return the favor.

  Of course her boldness nearly deserted her when they reached the lingerie floor. She looked at Adham out of the corner of her eye and noticed him clenching his fist again. He did that a lot. She was convinced it meant that he was uncomfortable. Good. He deserved some discomfort. His presence was one big giant discomfort in her behind, so a little turnabout seemed like fair play to her.

  “I’d like to look around here for a while,” she said, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

  Adham’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenched tight along with his fist. “If you wish.”

  “You could wait in one of the cafés.” But she knew he wouldn’t.

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to look casual—tried to look as if having a man with her while she looked at intimate items of clothing was both normal and no big deal at all. “All right.”

  She moved to one of the display tables and began to pick out the smallest, filmiest panties she could find, and thongs—something her mother never would have allowed her even to look at. She would think they were the sort of undergarments only suited to women of questionable moral character. A surge of power coursed through Isabella as she selected one thong in each pattern and color available, every one briefer, more revealing than the last.

  It didn’t matter if her mother would have disapproved of them. It was her decision to make. The very fact that there were people in her life who controlled what she wore beneath her clothing was sad beyond belief. But that would change. Even when she went to Umarah she would not allow that to be dictated to her. Not anymore.

  Of course she would want to we
ar them only in her own chambers. She couldn’t possibly imagine wearing them for her future husband. She didn’t even know the man.

  That thought made her want to throw all the revealing items down and run out of the store. But she wouldn’t do that. This was about her. About what she wanted. Not what anyone else wanted or didn’t want.

  She finally sneaked a glance at Adham, who had fallen quite a bit behind her. She noticed his dark eyes were burning with intensity, his hands locked so tightly that the scars were bright white against a backdrop of golden skin.

  She was getting to him. Pleasure uncurled in her belly, winding through her. Pride that she might hold enough appeal for him that she was capable of making him uneasy.

  With a sudden surge of confidence she sauntered to the negligees. The selection was phenomenal—silks, sheers, pale pinks and electric blues. And every style was sexier than anything she’d ever seen, let alone been permitted to own. She didn’t see why she should be confined to floor-length nightgowns. She was twenty-one, for heaven’s sake, and she still had nightwear in the same style she’d worn at the all-girls boarding school she’d attended seven years ago.

  She picked up a gauzy peach babydoll-style nightie that would barely cover the tops of her thighs. The Grecian pleating over the cups wouldn’t be sufficient to cover her breasts—not when the fabric was nearly see-through. The glass beads sewn beneath the bustline looked sinful, somehow. Decadent. She loved it.

  A wicked impulse seized her and she turned to face Adham, holding the negligee up so he could get a good look at it. “How about this? Do you think it would be flattering?”

  Adham’s face remained as coolly impassive as ever, a slight tightening of his jaw the only indication that he’d heard her. He began to walk toward her, the heat in his eyes causing an answering fire to ignite low in her belly.

  He was so close, too close, his masculine scent teasing her, making her heart pound heavily. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt as if it was coated in sandpaper.