The Sheikh's Determined Lover

by Leslie North

  Cool water washed over her. She came up, shook her head and let out a breath. "Okay, this was a good idea."

  He swam over to her. "Relax. Float on the water and let it carry away the anger. It does no good to you or anyone."

  She let him lift her so she lay on the pool's surface, her toes and head sticking out, everything else being lulled by the soft lapping of the water against her skin. Arif's hands stroked down her back. He leaned close and whispered, "Relax."

  Closing her eyes, she let herself drift.

  The next instant, Arif's mouth brushed over hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He cradled her in his arms, the kiss so sweet her heart ached with it. Swinging her legs down, she wrapped them around his hips, her skin heating. He pulled her closer. She tugged on his swimsuit, anger changing into emotions that tumbled through her in a confusing mess. She wanted not to think. She wanted sensations only he could give her. She wanted to tear off that strip of fabric that was keeping him from her and lose herself.

  He pulled on the straps of her swimsuit, and she tugged on his. It was a struggle to get bare skin and not break that kiss, but she was damn well going to do it. And then she had his cock pushing against her, and she wrapped her legs around him again. He turned her so her back pressed against the pool's tiles. She grabbed his erection and stroked him twice and then broke away from those bruising lips of his.

  "I don't want easy. Make me stop thinking, Arif."

  He gave a growl for an answer and pushed into her. She was wet, but the pool water lapped away her natural moisture. He pushed again. She shifted. She wanted him inside. She didn't care how that happened, but it had to happen soon. Gripping her hips, he pushed again, his cock huge and hot. She gave a small cry, and he plunged into her, pinning her to the wall of the pool, his teeth fastened to her neck. She dug her nails into his back, urged him to do that again.

  Pulling most of the way out, he stared at her a moment and then thrust into her. Hips bucking, she growled and lowered her hands to his ass for a better grip. He thrust into her harder and harder. All she could feel was him pounding into her, sweeping her away again. She wiggled. He grabbed her hips and held her so he could thrust even deeper. She gave another cry and threw back her head. Light exploded behind her eyes. She felt his seed pumping into her in hot gushes. In the back of her head, she knew they'd forgotten any kind of protection.

  She didn't care. She'd deal with that later.

  For now, it was enough just to come apart in his arms. She'd put everything back together later. In the cool water, she clung to him. She let the tears fall then—she could always claim it was the chlorine stinging her eyes. And a small crack ran through her, for she knew her life and her future weren't here in Zahkim. When her sabbatical ended, she was due back home to her job, her dad, and the real world.

  For right now, however, clinging to Arif's solid form was just what she needed.

  Chapter Eleven

  His Christine needed cheering.

  Ever since she had seen that article—and he wanted to yell at Tess for sending it without reading more than the first two lines—she had moped around the archive. She ate little of the lunches he provided. She stared at the books he brought to her without light in her eyes. She went through the rote of her work, but he could see worry and doubt nagging.

  Arif actually wanted to hunt down the author of that article—Tess had only been the unthinking messenger—and throttle the man with his bare hands. He settled instead for arranging dinner in the gardens; there would be no tray in Christine's room this evening. He had no idea what her favorite foods might be, so he would present options—poached salmon in a delicate lemon sauce, roast chicken, steak if she preferred. Pasta or mashed potatoes or a richly spiced rice. Everything American that the cooks could conjure—pizza, beef ribs, even tiny hamburgers. This would be about foods she might love.

  Christine followed him from the archives to the peacock throne room, which was now used for informal gatherings. He'd arranged the meal to take place opposite the peacock throne, but even that marvel, with its rainbow of embedded gemstones, could not spark more than a glance and two questions from her. She picked at her food and made idle talk about what might be done to better catalog the archives.

  After the meal had been cleared, Arif pushed back his chair. Christine started to rise, but Arif put his hand over hers. "Ah, but we are not done. There is dessert…and this." He clapped his hands. The staff threw open the French windows that opened onto the garden, and music began to play. Tess's latest hit, a love song, filled the room.

  The models began their parade.

  The first gowns offered up traditional Zahkim wedding colors—black, green, red gowns with wide skirts and sparkles strewn across them like stardust. Christine shot him a suspicious glance, but he only smiled and nodded. Ice cream came out in tiny dishes, along with other puddings. The first models twirled and departed. Colors gave way to stark white in satin, silk, and fluttery fabrics. Arif actually liked one or two, and one in particular, with a low back and slim silhouette, would make his Christine look the princess she would become as his wife.

  The fashion show ended. Christine pushed at her melting ice cream with her spoon. "Well, that was impressive, and pretty, but why did all the dresses look like wedding gowns?"

  Arif swallowed a nervous laugh. This was not going as he had expected. He had wanted to see Christine's eyes warm, as they had when he had taken her to the harem pool. He had thought the colors and the fabrics would at least spark some interest from her.

  "They are all from Zahkim designers. Tarek is trying to grow our country's economy, and his wedding to Tess set off great interest not just in weddings, but fashion."

  Christine nodded and lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Ah, the joys of being someone who has to dress for magazine shoots. Over the years, Tess has emailed me photos of some of the ridiculous things she's had to wear. She'd look great in some of these. But then, she looks great in anything."

  Arif frowned. "There's not a single gown you liked?"

  Standing, she gave him a small smile and shook her head. "Not my style. All those puffy skirts…they're for girls who want fairy tale weddings and Prince Charmings. But thanks for dinner. The food was great." She touched a finger to the back of his hand but pulled away as if she’d just touched a live wire. Voice hurried now, she said, "I should reorganize my notes from today. I missed a reference." Turning, she left him, her steps fast, as if she feared staying a moment longer.

  He stared after her, drumming his fingers on the table. He caught himself and stood. Glancing around at the table, the beauty of the room, the scents of the garden wafting in, he thought he'd wasted an evening. Nothing could impress this woman. Nothing could please her. Striding for the door, he shouted an order for his car to be brought around. Maybe the problem was simply that he was courting the wrong woman. But how could that be when his heart beat faster every time she came near?

  Arif stared at the glass of stout in front of him. The lights of Al Resab glittered below Nasim’s penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows. His cousin kept a supply of British ale and stout in remembrance of good times back in Oxford. But Arif couldn't stop thinking about Christine. The stout tasted far too bitter on his tongue.

  "What am I do to? She accepts my kisses, but my ring stays stubbornly on her right hand. She prefers books to designer dresses. She has this obsession with proving her father's theories right, and she has no idea what her own heart desires. And I cannot get her to see any of that!" He fisted one hand and punched the leather arm of his chair.

  Nasim threw himself into the sleek, black leather chair opposite. Nasim went for modern furnishings—chrome and leather furniture and abstract art in primary colors on the soft-gray walls. He sipped the foam off his ale and said, "Might not be your job, mate."

  Of the three of them, Nasim was the one who held tightest to his days back in England. He preferred jeans to robes and kept his black hair short. Thick, flat e
yebrows gave him a brooding look that did not match his personality. He loved nothing better than a good time, meaning lots of women and few commitments.

  Frowning, Arif fixed a hard stare on his cousin. "Fine for you to say. When have you ever been in love?"

  With a laugh, Nasim leaned forward. "Love's a fool's game. And if it's a marriage you want, you should be looking at it like it's a business deal. Does it make sense? Do each of you get something you want out of it? And is this a deal worth the fight?"

  "Fight? You think I'm giving up too easily?"

  "You're being a bloody idiot, is what I think. But if you're mad for the girl, stop whining about how she's so difficult. You'd be bored with some sweet-tempered, easy-going thing clinging to you. Look at all the girls in Al Resab who've thrown themselves at you at every public function you've ever attended, and you've never even noticed them. You're a bloody sheikh of Zahkim. You think our forefathers took no for an answer? Of course not. They fought for what was theirs and ended up ruling the bloody country. If she's what you want, stop doubting yourself and wear her down until you get that yes you want. It's just like any other deal that's waiting to be done."

  Arif gave a snort. "Oh, someday you'll learn—it's like nothing else. But you may be right about one thing."

  Christine watched her coffee going cold. Had she been a little harsh with Arif about the wedding gowns? She sipped the coffee and let out a breath. The truth was, they'd been beyond beautiful, and she couldn't see herself in a single one of them. She glanced at the ring on her finger, the blue glinting in the sunlight like a trapped piece of desert sky. She'd taken her coffee out into the garden. The beauty around her—colorful flowers, the fountain gurgling, greenery everywhere shading her from the heat building in the day—wasn't helping. She'd asked for three months here, but she suspected three years wouldn't be enough time to find what she wanted.

  She wasn't looking for her dad's version of Troy, she was looking for a unicorn. She hadn't found the proof that would lead to confirmation that the Lion People existed because there was no evidence—no mention in any document, not even a hint.

  And those wedding gowns meant Arif still thought he wanted to marry her. She let out another sigh. She had it bad for him. Every time he touched her, she went up in flames. She lost her head, and that wasn't good. Because this infatuation of his was going to burn out. She'd seen that before in her other two boyfriends. It all went hot and heavy, and then bam—they started complaining how she spent too much time with her head in a book, or they started talking about better jobs in other locations. Before she knew it, they were out the door. Arif would be the same, and she didn't want them ending up in a messy divorce.

  Better for Arif to get bored with playing her assistant now, and they'd both move on.

  Or that was the plan.

  Starting to wander again with her coffee in hand, she turned down one of the garden paths and caught sight of Arif frowning at a bush with dark green leaves and white flowers.

  He stood in khaki pants and a white shirt next to an older woman who wore loose, pink silk trousers and a matching tunic. Her long, black hair hung down her back in a thick braid. Slim and tall, she looked quite young at a glance, but the gray at her temples and the lines around her eyes and neck gave away her age. The gold flashing from rows of thin bracelets on her wrist also gave away her status as a royal.

  Arif waved an impatient hand at the plant in front of him. "Gardenias are too pale. My wedding should have vibrant colors."

  Rolling her eyes, Christine started to turn away, but Arif caught sight of her and called out. She strolled over, hoping she could say hi and bye.

  Arif gestured to the older woman at his side. "Christine, this is my Aunt Bian. Aunt, this is Dr. Christine Harper, who has been researching for her father in the palace archives."

  A dark, assessing stare fixed on Christine. The air almost crackled with the older woman's disapproval. Lifting her chin, Christine met the older woman's challenging stare with one of her own. She was used to this kind of thing from other professors—she was, after all, the loony Dr. Kris Harper's daughter.

  At last the woman said, "Amrekiah." She spat out the word.

  Christine stiffened. "American, yes." She smiled and added in Arabic, “It’s nice to meet you.” Even if it wasn't, she would mind her manners. The disapproval radiating off the older woman had Christine slipping her hand into Arif's in defiance. She lifted her eyebrows, daring the woman to say something. She was not going to let this aunt cow her with Arabic and a few sour glances.

  One black eyebrow arched, and Bian turned to Arif. "You should have her astrological chart done before you think more on a wedding."

  Christine bit down on a laugh. Chart? Seriously?

  Eyes narrowing, Bian looked at Christine again. "Have you given thought to how your children will be raised?"

  Opening her mouth, Christine started to tell Bian she could mind her own business, but Arif stepped in, saying, "I would hope any child of mine would be brought up with love."

  It was a good answer, and Christine smiled up at him. But her stomach tightened at the thought of a little boy with Arif's eyes and a little girl just as strong and daring as him.

  Bian stiffened. That was obviously not the answer she wanted. She kept her stare on Christine. "You are wise to be slow to enter into a marriage. It is difficult for an outsider to become part of the royal family."

  "Aunt!" The word came out sharp.

  Christine didn't like this woman's bullying. She stepped closer to Arif. She didn't want to cause trouble, but she also didn't want to see this woman trying to push him around by going after her. She smiled up at Arif and batted her eyelashes—something she'd never done in her life.

  "I think perhaps we should discuss flowers for the wedding another day, Arif." Take that, you old cow.

  Bian's head lifted. The golden bangles on one wrist rattled as she lifted her hand and lowered it again. She sent a stink-eyed glance to Christine, gave Arif a sweet nod, and swept off, her shoes slapping against the garden path.

  "Well, that was unpleasant." Christine moved away from Arif, but he didn't let go of her hand. "Does she think you're planning to marry an infidel who will corrupt your moral fiber?"

  Arif gave a low laugh. "Bian married my mother's younger brother. My aunt comes from a traditional family outside the royal bloodline, and she has always been touchy about her status. She is actually…well, protective of me."

  A lump rose in Christine's throat. She thought of Arif as a boy who had lost his parents too young. No wonder his aunt was a little touchy when it came to him. She should have shown a little more patience with the woman.

  "I should…" She let the words fade and waved with the coffee cup in her other hand toward the archives. But she was reluctant to head back to more disappointment.

  Arif lifted her hand, kissed the back of it and tipped his head to one side. "Please don't run off just yet. Ah, I know, how would you like to see the oldest parts of the palace and the treasury?"

  She bit her lower lip. Most things she could ignore, but when that pleading look came into his eyes and his lips took on that small curve that hid the crescent scar near the corner of his mouth, she melted. "I guess the archives will wait an hour or two for me."

  The grin he offered her flipped her heart. Oh, she was in such trouble.

  Pulling her hand out of his with the excuse of needing to find someplace to leave her coffee cup, she walked over to a garden bench. She took a long breath to steady herself. She could do this—keep her calm and be rational.

  Arif led her on a tour of the palace—up stone stairs, down carpeted halls, pointing to portraits of past rulers and sheikhs, walking past guards in military uniforms who saluted him and scowled at her, and finally they walked through a door unlocked by one of those guards and into a windowless room with cream-colored walls and glass cases lined up as if it really was a museum.

  "These are the family jewels," Arif said, his
voice casual, as if everyone must have a stash like this. "Those belonging to the crown reside in the government house in Al Resab in a vault."

  "Oh, so is this the everyday wear?" Christine swallowed hard. She was staring at a fortune.

  Glittering gems dazzled in a rainbow of colors—smooth, oval star sapphires and cut diamonds on crowns, rubies encrusting sword hilts, heavy necklaces and brooches set in gold and silver that gleamed against black velvet in the display cases. She swept the room with a glance, but her breath caught in her chest when she saw the case in the middle of the opposite wall. Her stare fixed on one wide display case offering two books whose aged leather covers gleamed with ancient gold on the bindings and latches. She walked to the display case, mesmerized by the script etched into the covers.

  It couldn't be—but it was.

  Diamonds and sapphires had been embedded into the leather and gold bindings, but the Arabic script on the covers held her spellbound. She turned to Arif.

  "They're here—my father really did need something like the gold of Troy, only it's the gold of Zahkim. These are the two histories that were referenced in the archives. This is what I've been searching for. I've got to take a look inside. I'm willing to bet these have never even been properly translated."

  Chapter Twelve

  Arif glanced from his Christine to the books. He wanted to give her anything, but he also knew these books to be priceless, and not just for the jewels on the covers. They were ancient, had been in the royal family for beyond memory, and it would be his head if anything happened to them. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Christine kept pleading. "You know I know how to handle manuscripts. I swear I'll use gloves, just as I have in the archives. But I've got to see if they have what I need."

  Lips pressed tight, Arif glanced at the door and back to his Christine. She was asking almost more than he could grant. Only the royal family had access to this room. And disappointment lodged in his chest like a knot—these books, not him, were what she needed. Still, he could not bear to let her down. He gave a nod. "I can have a guard bring them to your room every morning. They must come back to the treasury every night."