Desert Princes Bundle

by Sharon Kendrick

‘Behind what?’

  ‘The fact that we’re going to be virtually living on top of one another!’

  His dark, sensual face now assumed an expression of faint perplexity. ‘You think that the possibility of my being the Sheikh’s illegitimate son means that I have been able to wield control, perhaps even from France? What did you imagine, Laura—that I somehow managed to acquire a direct line to Zahir and demand that he put us in close proximity?’

  ‘So you didn’t have anything to do with it? Was that a yes or a no?’

  Ah, oui—she was clever; he would give her that. Or maybe it was her lawyer’s training, seeing straight through his elaborately bluffed response and realising that he hadn’t actually answered her question.

  ‘Is it such a bad arrangement?’ he questioned, gesturing around the cool, shaded room, with its stone floors and priceless silk rugs in faded jewel colours. There was a glorious bureau, inlaid with many different gleaming woods, and on it stood a vase of sweetly scented roses. ‘It is a beautiful room—in fact, it is so large that it could easily be divided into three rooms. And what is there to complain about when we have been given separate bedrooms?’

  ‘Except that there aren’t any keys in the locks, are there?’ she pointed out. And he still hadn’t answered her question.

  ‘Really? I hadn’t got around to checking that.’ He raised his dark brows and gave an arrogant laugh. ‘Do you think that a locked door would keep me out if I really wanted to get into your bedroom?’

  Laura’s heart missed a beat. ‘You don’t mean you’d break the door down?’ she questioned in a faint voice.

  ‘Why? Is that one of your abiding fantasies?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What I meant,’ he murmured, noting the automatic way her pupils had dilated and feeling an answering stir of desire, ‘was that if I wished it, then you would turn the key and let me in.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ She stared at him. ‘Do you live in the kind of world where women just fall in with your every whim?’

  Their eyes met. ‘Pretty much.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘You treat women like sexual objects,’ she complained.

  ‘Which they are.’

  ‘I can’t believe you said that!’

  ‘Because it is true,’ he mused, enjoying the verbal sparring for its rarity value as much as for a distraction. ‘Your objection is in the wording—and all the associations which have grown up around it. When a man looks at a beautiful woman he thinks of sex—but it works both ways. Women think the same way about men—if only they would have the courage to admit it.’ He slanted her a shamelessly provocative look from beneath his thick black lashes. ‘You were thinking about just that on the plane today.’

  For once Laura was momentarily speechless. The trouble was that she couldn’t fault his logic, his cleverness with words. He would have made a good lawyer himself, she thought reluctantly. ‘Well, maybe I’ll ask Malik to change my room.’

  ‘You could try,’ he said softly. ‘But perhaps it might be a waste of your time—and time is so precious, is it not?’

  Their eyes met, and in that moment Laura understood. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘So I was right—you were behind it. It’s a fait accompli.’

  ‘How perfect your French accent it,’ he murmured. He let his gaze drift over her. And how perfect she looked, he thought—that creamy silk providing a gloriously neutral backdrop against which to appreciate her natural beauty.

  Her dark red hair had been drawn back from the perfect oval of her face and woven into an intricate kind of plait, which began at the top of her head. Yet its almost severe style contrasted with the luscious hint of curves beneath the soft silk, and he welcomed the familiar leap of sexual hunger which silenced all the clamouring questions in his mind.

  How many men had known that exquisite body? he wondered jealously, remembering Malik’s casual questioning in the car. Then have her, mocked a voice in his head. Have her and then you can forget all about her.

  ‘Do you never wear your hair down?’ he questioned softly.

  It wasn’t what Laura had been expecting. She had seen the hungry way his eyes had been devouring her, and she had anticipated some sensual little taunt, steeling herself against the seduction of his words. But his sensual question made her feel just that. Her fingertips touched the carefully crafted style, skating over the slippery silken surface of the thick dark red locks.

  ‘Sometimes I do,’ she said.

  ‘In bed?’

  Don’t let him get to you. Don’t give him any inkling that you keep remembering the sweetness of his kiss… She saw the hectic glimmer in his black eyes and realised that he was remembering it, too. And that the greatest victory would be not to get herself moved from the temptations of an interjoining room—but to resist temptation altogether.

  ‘Of course I let my hair down in bed,’ she said briskly. ‘But you won’t ever get to see it, Xavier.’

  He gave her a hard, swift smile. ‘Don’t you know that a red-blooded man can never resist a challenge?’ he murmured, flicking a quick glance at his watch. ‘And—while you look utterly delectable as you are—you might wish to change before dinner.’

  He walked into his bedroom and shut the door with an exaggerated sense of care, leaving Laura staring after him with a growing sense of frustration which was more than sexual. As if he had just got the better of her and she wasn’t quite sure why.

  Outside, the stars hung bright and brilliant in the indigo velvet of the sky—as big as if a child had painted them on with large brushstrokes. And drifting into the room was warm, soft air—heavily scented with the fragrance of roses and jasmine and sandalwood.

  She walked slowly into her own bedroom and closed the door. She should have been bouncing around with satisfaction, feeling good about herself, and yet she was all churned up. Was that because Xavier was managing to unsettle her? Or because she was terrified of the way he was making her feel, and even more terrified of the way she suspected he could make her feel?

  Laura sighed. Just make the most of this opportunity, she told herself. Banish the Frenchman from your mind and enjoy the experience of staying as a guest in a real-life palace. Not many Western women get this kind of chance. She thought of how her mother would marvel if she could see her little girl now—her sweet mother, who seemed to attract chaos and never had a penny in her purse without wanting to spend it.

  Within the hour, Laura felt like a different person. The palace might have dated back to the fourteenth century, but the bathrooms were most definitely rooted in the twenty-first—with powerful showerheads as big as dinner plates and a stand-alone bath you could practically swim in.

  She applied the minimum of make-up and slithered into a fitted dress in deepest jade silk, which skimmed her ankles and brought out the deep green of her eyes. Then she pulled her hair back into a chignon to give her finished image a rather defiant look.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the interconnecting door to find Xavier standing looking out at a huge crescent moon. He turned round when he heard her, and for one immeasurable moment they both stood staring at each other, like two people who had stumbled over each other by mistake.

  Xavier stilled, feeling the sudden deep pounding of his heart. She had no flesh on show, save for her face, and yet he had never seen anyone look more sexy in his life. How did she do that touch/don’t-touch thing so beautifully? he wondered. He had been aching when he had gone to take his shower and had been tempted to pleasure himself…and now he wished he had.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  Stupidly, she felt her lips tremble. ‘Xavier, please don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t say those things.’ Don’t look at me that way!

  ‘All men say those things.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Not like you do.

  ‘You want me to lie, is that it? Because I will not. And you are. Very beautiful.’

  Laura felt a glow suffusing he
r skin as his words whispered over her—because when he looked at her in that lazily appreciative way he made her feel beautiful. But it wasn’t right to conduct a flirtation with him—under any circumstances, and especially under ones such as these.

  Even though Xavier seemed unconvinced that the Sheikh was his father, Laura was pretty sure he was. And very soon he was going to meet him. Already their worlds were miles apart—he was a wealthy playboy and Laura was a small-town lawyer from another country—but add a royal connection into the equation and he would be completely out of her reach. So keep resisting him, she told herself fiercely. Keep yourself safe from his Gallic charm and his dark, sexy looks.

  In the distance, a sonorous bell was rung, its chime sweet and low and long, just as someone tapped on the door and an unknown male servant in plain white robes bowed and indicated that they should follow him.

  Instinctively, Laura glanced up at Xavier.

  ‘Are you…nervous?’ she ventured.

  Usually he would have deflected her observation with a cold indignation that she should dare suggest that Xavier de Maistre should be nervous of anything! But tonight he did not. Maybe it was the scent of sandalwood on the air, or the crescent moon in the sky, but tonight he did not feel like the Xavier of old.

  ‘Not at all,’ he murmured, as they passed tall marble pillars and intricate fretwork lamps which hung down from a jewelled ceiling. ‘I feel a little as if I am surrendering to the inevitable—but to something which is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand.’

  ‘None of this matters,’ he said slowly, as if he was making sense of it to himself as well as to her. ‘If—which I question—the Sheikh does happen to be my father, then it is merely an accident of birth. Nature’s random lottery. It is not part of my life. It never has been and it never will be, nor can be.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  But her question went unanswered, for by now they were approaching a vast set of ornately carved double doors which were thrown open upon first sight of them.

  Inside, he could see torches of fire set out at intervals around a vast room with an ornate table at its centre, on which glittered precious crystal and silver with tall, ivory candles amid fruit and flowers. ‘Mon dieu,’ he murmured. ‘Look at this.’

  Xavier glanced down at Laura but she was not looking at the lavishly set banqueting hall. Instead her face was turned to up his in question, the green eyes clear but curious—as soothing as a smooth green lake—and he found himself wanting to dive in and lose himself.

  ‘Did your mother ever talk about your father?’ she asked suddenly.

  Had the enchantment of an Eastern night worked some of its magic on him? Was that why he didn’t shoot her down in flames for her impertinance? ‘You have no right to ask me something like that, Laura.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ she retorted softly. ‘Considering we’re sharing living space, I’d say that gives me a few rights.’

  She was tenacious, he would say that for her—and brave too, to pursue a subject which he found uncomfortable. And if she had the courage to ask him, then surely he had the courage to answer? Yet it was strange to give voice to thoughts he had always repressed—partly because there had never been anyone in whom to confide before. But Laura knew most of the story—so why not answer her?

  ‘My mother said next to nothing about my father,’ Xavier answered, his black eyes as hard and impenetrable as jet. ‘His identity was the secret she carried closest to her heart. All I knew was that he was rich and powerful and potentially acquisitive. But he had no part in our lives, not even in anecdotes…’ He clicked his fingers, like a sorcerer demonstrating someone disappearing in a puff of smoke. ‘It was as though he was dead to her—as though he never existed.’

  As though he never existed.

  It was a damning and terrible testimony passed down from mother to child, and neither of them spoke for a moment—as if his stark words had robbed them both of the power of speech.

  ‘Maybe you’ll hate him,’ said Laura suddenly. And then what? Had Malik—or Xavier—or even the Sheikh himself—thought about the possible consequences of that happening?

  The scent of jasmine wafted through the air as they walked towards the entrance to the hall. ‘Maybe I will,’ agreed Xavier in an odd kind of voice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘YOU will perhaps eat a little more dessert?’ asked Malik softly.

  Laura shook her head as an ornate golden dish, gleaming black and scarlet with grapes and pomegranates, was presented to her by one of the many silent servers at the meal.

  She sat back in her chair. This was the only official Kharastan function she had attended, yet the evening was proving far less of an ordeal than she might have imagined, given that she was seated next to the flinty-faced Malik, with Xavier on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘Thank you, but, no—I couldn’t eat another thing.’

  ‘You enjoyed it? I think perhaps it was a little plain for your sophisticated Western palate.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ asked Laura. ‘A night out where I live usually involves a trip to the cinema followed by a curry. But this was different—and I loved everything about it. The dancers were incredible. Obviously I couldn’t understand a word of the poetry, but it had such a wonderful rhythm that it didn’t seem to matter—and the music which accompanied it was beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Malik, looking pleased. ‘All good poetry transcends language. And the flute you so admired—the sound it produces sounds exactly like the wind blowing across the desert, does it not? Ah, I see you frowning! Have you ever been in the desert, Miss Cottingham?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Laura, her eyes drifting across and down the table, to where Xavier was sitting talking to a beautiful Kharastani woman garbed in lavishly embroidered robes, with filigree earrings of sapphire and gold hanging from her ears. Did he find the woman attractive? she found herself wondering jealously.

  He chose just that moment to look up—or had he sensed her staring at him? His lips curved into a mocking half-smile and his eyes flashed with promise as they lazily ran over her face. Laura felt her throat tighten. She folded her fingers in the soft jade silk at her lap, aware that they were trembling and wondering how the hell she was going to cope later. When they were alone.

  Malik’s eyes followed her gaze. ‘The guests here tonight are old and trusted confidantes of the royal household, and Fallalah is married to one of the Sheikh’s many godsons,’ he said obliquely as small teacups were placed before them. ‘Just in case her chatter with the Frenchman should give you any cause for concern.’

  Laura blinked as she dragged her gaze away from Xavier. ‘Concern?’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘Why should there be?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Malik slickly. ‘But I thought perhaps that you and he were…’ He shrugged and let his voice trail off, the pause giving rise to a hundred silent questions.

  It was a clever way of eliciting information, Laura acknowledged—but she was damned if she was going to start discussing her relationship with Xavier. She smiled to herself. And what relationship would that be? A man who made no pretence about wanting sex with her, and a woman who told herself that it would be wrong, no matter how much her body tried to persuade her otherwise. Not much of a relationship!

  ‘You’re speaking in riddles, Malik.’

  ‘Am I? Forgive me.’

  Laura nodded, but said nothing in response.

  ‘So you are discreet,’ Malik observed. ‘And loyal.’

  ‘Wasn’t that why you employed me—for those very qualities?’ Laura folded her napkin and, placing it neatly on the table, looked up at him. ‘Maybe it’s time we talked about that. I know you want me to witness the signing of some documents, and I can do that first thing.’ Her gaze was steady, hopeful. ‘After I’ve done that can I assume that my job is completed, as I will have accomplished everything you asked me to do?’

  The Kharastani noble
man took a white grape from the dish and turned it in his olive fingers reflectively. ‘As I recall, when you were interviewed you were told that more work could be available on completion of this assignment and depending on its outcome.’

  Laura shifted in her seat. What tricks the light could play, she thought. Tonight, in the guttering light from the candles, she thought how much Malik’s jet-black eyes seemed to resemble Xavier’s. Or was her perception simply being warped by the travel and the upheaval and the sheer mind-blowing beauty of the Blue Palace and this heady evening?

  ‘Well, the work is nearly completed,’ Laura said softly.

  ‘No,’ he demurred. ‘It is completed when the Sheikh instructs that it is so.’

  ‘And when will that be? Days? Weeks?’ With the two of them thrown together in the most bizarre and intimate circumstances in the meantime. As Laura looked into Malik’s eyes she realised that he was as ruthless as Xavier. What he wanted, he got—and behind the outward courtesy she had been shown tonight she could read the implacable determination in his eyes. She was here to stay until she was given leave to go, as simple as that.

  At that moment Malik turned his head and looked towards the door, just as a slim young woman entered the room. She wore a light-blue gown and was veiled, but Laura couldn’t help noticing the gleam of pure blonde hair beneath it, and her pale, clear skin. Her overall appearance was positively medieval, and Laura watched as her blue eyes sought out Malik, giving him one brief but definite nod of her head, before quietly slipping out of the same door she’d entered by.

  ‘Who is that?’ Laura asked.

  There was a pause. ‘Her name is Sorrel.’

  ‘She doesn’t look like a Kharistani.’

  ‘No. She is English, and she is my ward.’

  ‘Your ward?’

  ‘You sound surprised, Miss Cottingham.’

  ‘A little. It’s an old-fashioned term which doesn’t get used very much in England these days.’ But it seemed to match the girl’s old-world appearance—redolent of a time when women needed to be placed under the care of a guardian.