‘You have enemies, Malik?’ she questioned in a small voice, and the spear of pain she felt was pain for him.
How naïve she was! ‘A ruler always has enemies.’ He laughed, but it was an odd, humourless sort of laugh. ‘Especially one who has had such an unusual transition into the job as I have. Now, do not look so worried, little one—or I shall not be able to concentrate on my job. Go and make yourself calm, and then we shall face Faliq. We have a plane fuelled and ready, and a deputation of dignitaries waiting in Madrid.’
She smiled at him and turned away, her heart lifting as she walked towards the bathroom. He hasn’t called me ‘little one’ in years. But she banished the rogue thought, reminding herself that he had made it clear from the start that this was a practical and not an emotional relationship.
So start acting that way, she told herself, as she splashed cold water onto her heated cheeks and brushed her mussed hair.
Next stop Spain, she thought, peering one last time at her reflection in the mirror.
And then she walked out to meet the waiting Sheikh.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WILL you be wanting me for anything else, Highness?’
In the warmth of the Spanish evening, Malik signed the last of the official papers with a flourish and then handed them to Fariq. The brooding aide had been producing document after document ever since they had returned from dinner—but even the most tedious directives could not detract from Malik’s his growing sense of excitement.
‘No. Thank you, Fariq—that will be all. I shall take a drink on the terrace and then I shall sleep.’ He yawned rather exaggeratedly, as if to impress on his aide a tiredness he was far from feeling. Not that he would usually bother with subterfuge where a lover was concerned, but this lover was different—and propriety demanded that he be discreet about her.
‘As Your Highness requires.’ Fariq’s face showed no reaction as he bowed deeply and left the lavish suite. ‘I bid you a comfortable night, Most Serene One.’
Malik had been given the entire top floor of the luxury Madrid hotel, and his own private quarters consisted of a vast two-bedroomed suite connected by a shared drawing room. There was a separate study, from which he could work, two separate dressing rooms and two bathrooms. The place had been chosen especially to appeal to his tastes. There were Moorish-style towers on this particular building, and cool marble floors. Sandalwood hung on the air, and huge embroidered cushions lay scattered on the floor of the salon.
Silk robes shimmered as he stretched his arms above his head and walked outside onto the rooftop terrace—a fairytale haven lined with orange trees which scented the soft night air. Fat candles guttered in the faint breeze and bright stars hung in the sky like celestial lanterns, while far below came the glitter of a city still awake—but Madrid had always been a city that never slept.
Glancing at his watch, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, he walked back into the apartment just in time to hear a light tap on the door.
‘Come,’ he murmured, and in walked Sorrel—exactly as he had commanded that she should do when he had bent his head to speak to her at the end of dinner. In the soft light her face was a beautiful blur, but he could see its troubled expression.
A frown appeared between his black brows. ‘What is it?’
She tried a smile, but it fell short of the real thing, and beneath her breast her heart was pounding. ‘I feel sort of guilty, sneaking around like this—it seems so wrong, somehow.’
Malik’s frown deepened. ‘What does?’
‘All the secrecy.’
‘You knew it would have to be secret.’
His voice sounded reproving, and Sorrel swallowed down some of her reservations. ‘I know. It’s just…well…’
‘Well, what, Sorrel?’ he asked coldly.
Wasn’t it pointless to tell him that ever since the sumptuous dinner hosted by the Kharastani Ambassador had ended she had been pacing up and down in her room in an agony of nerves—wondering how she was going to go through with it? Wondering if she had taken leave of her senses to ever agree to such a scheme.
I’m scared, she wanted to say—except that she suspected it would place too heavy a burden of responsibility on Malik’s shoulders. It had been her decision to become Malik’s lover. If she acted like a child, then he would treat her like one—and wasn’t the whole point that she wanted him to treat her like a woman?
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she admitted huskily. ‘Or what to wear.’
This was better. A few first-night nerves were permissible—as long as she had not changed her mind. Because Malik most certainly had not. His black gaze scanned over her with economic efficiency as he remembered the lavish evening they had just spent.
During dinner she had served him well—an excellent example of how perfectly a Western woman had adapted to life in such a radically different country as Kharastan.
She had looked magnificent, too—more magnificent than he could have ever dreamed, transformed into a ravishing beauty. There had been a split-second of disbelieving silence when she had walked into the crowded reception room just behind him, as part of his entourage. The Embassy had, of course, received word that Sorrel would be among his party—but he suspected that her youth and her pale blonde loveliness had taken the assembled hordes by surprise.
Her long, fitted dress, in scarlet embroidered with silver, had caused a stir, and he had seen the envious eyes of the other women calculating the cost of the exquisite emerald clips she wore in her hair and the long emerald drop earrings which glittered in green waterfalls by the side of her face. Malik had even caught a visiting British politician trying to sweet-talk her during the pre-dinner drinks.
‘I did not realise that Kharastani women wore scarlet,’ Malik had heard him say.
And Sorrel’s cool reply. ‘Perhaps you aren’t aware that I’m as English as you are—and scarlet does not have the same connotations in Kharastan as it does in the West. For us, red denotes courage and fertility—not loose morals.’
Malik had watched with amusement while the man’s mouth had opened and shut like a fish, and Sorrel had moved away with grace and charm to get ready to meet the Castilian Duque and his wife, who had just entered the grand reception room of the Embassy.
Yes, Sorrel had been a worthy addition to the Sheikh’s party, thought Malik with satisfaction. Even Fariq must have seen that—and, although his aide clearly disapproved of the situation—Malik knew that he would not dare to express his reservations to him.
‘You did well this evening,’ said Malik softly.
‘Did I?’ She had felt a bit like a performing seal—brought in to cleverly balance a ball on the tip of its nose without dropping it. Sorrel had been raised by diplomatic parents and had attended similar parties since she could remember. She wasn’t worried about what to say, or drink, or even do—because it came to her as easily as breathing.
What had been different this time were the circumstances in which she’d found herself. She had been aware of the ripple of interest when she’d walked in, and of the jealous glances sent slanting over by the other women in the room. Malik was known in the Press as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors—and Sorrel suspected that a lot of those women had dressed up wondering if they might be lucky enough to be able to snare the ruggedly handsome Sheikh.
‘You know you did,’ said Malik, but with a renewed sense of impatience. Was she going to need reassurance every step along the way—when he was busy himself with paperwork from back home which still needed the royal seal, as well as all the trade negotiations he and his team were making during this whistle-stop trip? She must learn quickly that as mistress to the Sheikh she was there to make his life easier—not to complicate it with her own issues. ‘Now, stop frowning and come over here.’
Her momentary feeling of shyness was overcome by the smile on his dark face and by the thought of how long she had yearned for him. Sorrel went to him with all the greedy eagerness of someone
whose aching hunger was just about to be fed. He hadn’t touched her since they’d left Brighton, and she had had to endure the formality of arriving in Madrid and wondering whether she had imagined the whole bizarre pact they’d made. ‘Oh, Malik,’ she whispered, and flung her arms around his neck.
The breathy way she said his name set off little warning bells in the recesses of his mind, and Malik caught her by the elbows to steady her, but also to restrain her. His exuberance was sweet, but it was not appropriate. ‘Take it easy,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Her head jerked back at the soft reprimand, and unthinkingly she bit her lip—but that did not please him either.
‘Don’t,’ he chided. ‘Your lips should only ever be bitten by a man—when sex becomes wild and angry and exciting, as sometimes it does. But they are far too soft and sweet and inviting for that. Especially not tonight. So this is better…’ And he grazed his mouth over hers, gently and caressingly—the merest brush of flesh to flesh, which made Sorrel shiver as violently as a leaf about to be torn from the tree by a storm. Malik smiled against her. ‘Ah, yes—this is much better. Now, relax. Hold on to me, but gently this time.’
Slowly, she raised her hands to lie on the broad bank of his shoulders, feeling the hard contours of muscle and bone through the silk of first his robe, and then his skin. It was a careful and considered movement—lacking all the impulsiveness of before.
Was that why he rewarded her by deepening the kiss? Making a little groan as their mouths opened together—so that the perfect synchrony of the kiss seemed to mock at her. As if he was saying, Don’t show any emotion and I will reward you like this.
Okay, then—she thought. I won’t. I will be as cool as you want me to be, Malik—I will bite back my words of adoration.
Yet although the kiss fell short of what her girlish dreams had once hoped for, on another level it exceeded every hazy wish she’d ever had. Because he was her every wish. Dark, powerful Malik was here—holding her and holding his hard body against her, exciting a response in her that came as easily as breathing, and she flicked her tongue inside his mouth with a luxuriant ease, as if she had been born to do that.
Her response took him by surprise—momentarily wresting the control from him so that for that one split-second he felt as if he was the pupil and she the teacher. ‘Sorrel,’ he said unevenly as he dragged his mouth away from hers, staring down at the wide-spaced beauty of her eyes and the parted dark petals of her lips.
‘Do I please you, Malik?’ she questioned softly.
She would please him more if she touched him where he was hard. But he knew that he could not ask her for such an intimacy—at least, not yet. Never before had such a familiarity been forbidden to him by self-restraint, and this, too, he found unbearably exciting.
‘Oh, yes. Yes, you please me,’ he agreed shakily. ‘And you shall please me more. Come with me.’
He took her hand in his as if they were just any man and woman who could go where they pleased. But they were not. This suite—for all its opulence and luxury—was the gilded cage which confined their passions. And Malik confined them, too, Sorrel told herself as they walked in from the terrace towards his bedroom. With his rules about secrecy and appropriate behaviour.
She wanted to tell him that she was terrified—which she was—but she didn’t dare, for fear that he would decide he’d taken leave of his senses and stop this madness before it went any further.
Because it was madness. And yet it was Malik on the only terms she could ever have him—and surely it would be madder still to turn down such a bittersweet opportunity?
‘Now. Let me look at you.’ He turned her to face him, his black eyes almost grave as they studied her. Unexpectedly, he pulled out the emerald clip from the pale high-piled hair and carefully put it down, then removed another, and another—and watched like a voyeur as the abundance of blonde hair spilled in satin profusion down over the embroidered scarlet gown she was wearing. ‘You must always wear your hair down for me, when we are alone like this,’ he said huskily. ‘Will you promise me that?’
She wanted to tell him that she would walk to the ends of the earth for him—but guessed that would be a far worse crime than hurling herself into his arms. ‘I promise,’ she whispered instead.
‘And will you promise to tip your head to one side? Like that. There. Yes. So that I can brush my lips along your neck. Like this.’ He felt the shiver of her skin, the faint tremble of her body as he did. ‘Will you promise that too?’
Sorrel shut her eyes, the lids feeling heavy—as heavy as the powerful beat of her heart. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Your neck is like a swan’s, Sorrel,’ he breathed. ‘Long and graceful. And you bend like the wind.’
She felt like a mannequin in a shop window, standing there with her hands down by her sides, while the soft touch of his mouth against her neck was making her tremble. ‘Malik,’ she breathed, unable to help herself, wondering if a shuddered hint of how much she liked it was overstepping the guidelines to behaviour he seemed to have laid down.
He pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her, and it was as much as Sorrel could do not to cry out in pure delight. It’s only a kiss, she told herself fiercely. But it felt like so much more. A sweet, hot leap of her heart as his mouth covered hers. One minute his kiss was urgent and seeking and then, just when she thought that she might burst into flames, he would soften it—so that it felt like an unbearably evocative exploration.
And suddenly she didn’t care about what was or wasn’t suitable behaviour—because the kiss had ignited a passion which she had hidden away from him for years and years. Sorrel lifted up her arms and entwined them like a vine around his neck, hearing his answering moan as she pressed her body closer to his, and seconds later he tore his mouth away from hers.
His eyes were hot and black and his breathing was ragged as he sucked in a slow, unsteady breath—telling himself that he had to take back the control. The deal was that he would teach her all about lovemaking, and the best lessons were all about build-up. About enjoying each new pleasure along the way, rather than dulling the appetite by saturating it. Hadn’t he told her off for being greedy? Swallowing down his alpha instinct to take her there and then, he bent his lips to her ear now. ‘I want to take your dress off,’ he groaned.
‘Then t-take it off,’ she said shakily.
In fact, he wanted to rip the damn thing from her body—but if he didn’t calm things down then he would be lost, and Malik was never lost. He needed to demonstrate self-control—to prove to himself as well as to her just who was in charge.
He reached round to the side of her dress, drawing the zip down slowly so that the air cooled her skin, and even though it was like every fantasy come to life to have Malik’s fingers brushing against the curve of her waist she sensed that something in the mood had changed. Now it seemed so…so matter-of-fact—whereas the frantic kissing had felt more…
More what?
More as if it really meant something to him? Oh, Sorrel—don’t talk yourself into fantasy land, she told herself silently.
‘Let me see you now,’ he said.
He had finished unzipping the dress and was sliding it over her head, as if he undressed women every day of the week, and then he cast it aside and took a step back to look at her—like someone in an art gallery who was studying a painting in depth.
Sorrel’s instinct was to blush and to wrap protective arms around herself, but something in his black eyes stopped her.
‘No. You must not be shy with your lover,’ he urged. ‘For coyness has no place in the bedroom. Or out of it.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Now, take your hands away, Sorrel, and let me see you properly.’
Lifting them away, as if she were a puppet and he were twitching at the strings, she did as he asked and stood before him—like an early painting she had seen on the palace walls in Kumush Ay, of a favoured sexual slave in homage before her beloved Sheikh. Was that what she must
look like? she wondered. A slave eager to do his every wish?
Searching his face, she found his expression unreadable, but she stood there while his black eyes swept over her simple lace-trimmed cotton bra and matching pair of briefs and he gave a hard smile.
‘Go and look in the dressing room,’ he instructed softly.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘You’ll see.’
Coyness has no place in the bedroom, Sorrel reminded herself of his words as she turned and walked towards the dressing room—feeling his black gaze burning into her as if he was branding her with the hot fire from his eyes.
Malik watched her go, enjoying the delicious sight of each buttock thrusting against the cotton of her panties and the sweet, slightly self-conscious way she walked—despite what he had urged her. If ever he had doubted her innocence before, her whole demeanour since they had entered the suite had been one of a woman unused to men.
She didn’t return straight away—and when she did it was with an expression he had never seen on a woman’s face before. Of someone who was just discovering her sexual power for the first time. A sensual awakening. She had passed the first test and done what was expected of her, he thought with satisfaction.
‘I assume that you wanted me to put these on?’ she questioned.
‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed, and swallowed. ‘Yes, indeed.’
Gone were the chaste cotton garments, and in their place the frivolous French underwear he had ordered in the very colour she had defended tonight at dinner. But here the scarlet did not symbolise the courage and fertility of which she had spoken. No, indeed. Here the flimsy little bra and panties were scarlet in their other more traditional sense—a colour which was totally about sex. Her breasts spilled out over the delicate lace and the high-cut briefs made her thighs seem to go on for ever and ever. Malik felt quite dizzy with desire.
It was as though he had never seen a woman dressed—or rather, undressed—in quite such a provocative way. And maybe that was true. His lovers had stripped for him many times, but there had not been this sense of the new, the uncharted.
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