“I know something that will help in the meantime.” He was taking a chance with this, but anything to ease her apparent pain was high on his priority list.
“You do?”
“Yes. Turn over.”
She plucked the cloth off her eyes and squinted to focus on him. “What?”
Resisting the urge to grin, which might make her think he meant to do something inappropriate, he repeated his request while toeing out of his boots. “Flip over onto your stomach, and leave room for me.”
. . .
Turn over. Sessily wasn't sure she heard him right. Through blurry vision, she watched him start to come out of his boots and repeat his instructions. Onto her belly, and leave room for him.
Had he lost his mind? Had she lost hers? He made a strikingly handsome portrait hovering above her, with his shoulder length hair, rough whiskers and broad shoulders. And he was probably involved in human trafficking, she reminded herself. No matter how he affected her blood pressure, she needed to exert caution for her own safety and welfare.
Although she hadn't been lying about the headache—she did have one—it was of a more mild variety, an excuse to retreat to her room and think. To figure a way out of her circumstance. Unable to find a way to turn him down without appearing paranoid or overly prudish, she rolled onto her stomach, dropping the damp cloth onto the nightstand. Pulling a few pillows under her cheek, she braced herself for what came next.
The edge of the bed dipped, and then she felt him straddle the back of her thighs. It was so shocking that she twitched in surprise. He was a big man, with an undeniable presence. Before she could protest, his hands landed on her back, right between her shoulder blades. Even with a shirt between his palms and her skin, the heat bled through, imprinting the shape of his hands. He used his thumbs to begin gentle but firm circular motions, the pressure just enough but not too much. She hadn't realized just how tense and stressed her muscles were until he got to work on the knots.
“How does that feel?” he asked, voice a raspy murmur.
Like heaven, she wanted to say, but didn't dare. “I think it's helping.”
“You think?”
“Well, you only just started.”
“You're supposed to say it's the best thing you've ever felt.” After a moment, he added, “You're pretty knotted up. It might take a while to get the muscles relaxed.”
Why did it have to feel so good? Why did he have to smell of spicy cologne and leather oil? And why oh why did her mind want to veer off into wild fantasies of them in this position under different circumstances? She wanted to agree that it was the best thing she'd ever felt but wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
As if his gigantic ego needed more accolades.
“A few things have felt better,” she said, just to keep him in check.
“Did it involve hands and tongues and di--”
Her head flew up off the pillows. “Excuse me?”
He laughed.
The vibration shivered up the back of her legs, over her hips and into her spine. Sessily shuddered at both the sensation and the effect of his sensual laugh. He was dangerous, she decided. Too dangerous. She shouldn't have allowed him anywhere near her, especially when she was on a bed in a room with no other people.
“Well?” he asked.
“I think you could make improvements to your stables,” she said out of the blue, desperate to change the subject. Resting her head on the pillow again, she couldn't resist a private smile when he grunted offense.
“What? My stables are impeccable.”
“Not flawless,” she lied. They were just about perfect. And she wasn't an expert by far, but still. Everything had been neat and orderly and well built.
“What improvements do you suggest?” he said, a note of challenge in the question.
She scrambled to come up with something. It was difficult with the way his hands traveled in slow circles down her back. “I thought the stalls could have been bigger. And it should be U-shaped, not L-shaped. It's a better design.”
“The stalls are plenty big and the design works just fine. You're reaching, because you know they're the nicest stables you've ever seen.”
“Do you have your own zip code for that ego?”
He rumbled amusement. “What ego? I'm just stating the truth.”
“You're—ooh.” She paused whatever she'd been about to say. He'd hit on a spot at the base of her back, the friction of his callouses on her flesh too intoxicating to ignore.
He put more pressure behind the motions, as if he knew just how he was affecting her. She felt tiny and fragile in his hands, which only exacerbated the heat spiraling out from his touch.
“I think this is good. My headache is almost gone.” Sessily wasn't thinking about her head at all, but the burning ache beginning to swell low in her belly.
“I haven't even done your shoulders yet.”
She wanted to shout at him to get up, to move his hands, before she did something humiliating like writhe and groan.
“That's all right. You've worked hard enough. Thank you.” She shifted on the mattress, further indicating to him that it was time to get up.
For the briefest moment, he hesitated. She was afraid to twist her shoulders around and look up. It was bad enough to feel him looming all along her back; to see the rogue above her still straddling her legs might be too much.
But then he was moving, shifting from the bed to the floor with effortless ease. He bent to pull his boots on while she swiveled her legs around and sat up. They made eye contact and it hit with a jolt of electricity she wasn't expecting.
Pushing mussed strands of hair from her face, she smiled a small smile and slid to the edge of the bed.
“Take your time. I'm going to do a little work before dinner, and then, if you're feeling better, we'll see about that ride.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Thanks again.”
He paused at the door, stared for a full ten seconds, then let himself out.
With her feet on the floor, she pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks. The man had a maddening effect on her senses. The scent of his cologne lingered in the room and her back tingled from his ministrations. That telltale ache in her belly was only just now starting to dissipate.
We have five new women. She reminded herself of the text, of her doubts and worries, and tried to put the Sheikh from her mind.
Drawing on her discarded shoes, she went into the bathroom, splashed a little water on her face, and waited a few more minutes before leaving the suite. She needed to walk, to think, to figure out a new plan.
Armed with the information Bashir wanted, all she had to do now was call him and wait for him to extract her from Ahsan's household. Ahsan had no designs on the throne, had no interest in taking over. That was what Bashir wanted to know and she'd succeeded in getting the information sooner than she expected. She should get out of here before Ahsan discovered her subterfuge or before Bashir decided to get rid of Ahsan anyway. There were many reasons for Bashir's possible duplicity. He felt Ahsan was a threat; he'd only been using Ahsan to get the trafficking rings up and running and now, wanted him out of the way; greed.
Or, Ahsan was innocent and not involved, and Bashir wanted the threat gone.
That didn't explain Ahsan's text.
Puzzled, she descended to the lower floor and headed down one of the broad hallways that led to an indoor pool. She'd glimpsed many rooms on their earlier tour that she hadn't inspected as thoroughly as she would have liked. It gave her time to consider her next course of action.
An endless array of doors led off the corridor, some to sitting rooms, parlors, game rooms and any number of retreats for guests. She came to one on the left well before reaching the indoor pool where the quiet voices of women drew her attention. Stepping toward the open doorway, she paused just outside, out of sight, and listened.
The women from the harem. That's who it had to be. Their queries between themselves—what might happ
en now, where would they go, could they escape—pinned them as those sent to dance for Ahsan at the gala.
This might be her chance to get more information. These women might be able to shed some light on the questions and mystery surrounding Ahsan's text message. Without thinking about it further, she stepped through the doorway, bringing the whispers to a halt. Each woman glanced her way and went silent.
Two seemed to be of Ahsan's heritage, with swarthy skin and dark eyes. The redhead looked defiant but wary. Then there were the blonde twins, who stood close enough for their shoulders to touch. A woman with African and perhaps Indian features eyed her with open contempt. The last, a slightly mousy woman with brown hair hovered half behind the redhead.
The spa, with mud baths build into the ground, cool tile floors, potted plants and stations for facials, massages and pedicures appeared unused so far by the women. None seemed to take advantage of the rack of oils, lotions, steamers or hot rocks. Likely, they were more concerned about escape.
“Hello, ladies. Do you all understand me?” she asked. Her accent wasn't so acute that people had trouble understanding her English.
The women didn't reply. They didn't look at each other, either, as if they'd all made a prior pact with each other not to speak.
“I heard you mention escape. All I want to know is if the Sheikh Ahsan had anything to do with your capture, or was it his brother, Bashir?” Sessily worried she might tip her hand, that one of the women might use any information she gave them against her. To buy freedom, or other favors.
Still no answer.
Sessily set her hand on the back of a chair and met each woman's eyes. She took care to keep her voice down. “What's happened to you since you've been here?”
Considering the women were still in the harem-type clothing, Sessily suspected they had resisted any offers of other clothing or creature comforts.
“At least tell me this: were you caught, or did you come willingly to this circle?”
The redhead snorted, and with a thick Irish accent said, “Do you really think we'd be here of our own volition, lady?”
“I don't know. Maybe some women would. I can't know everyone's situation,” Sessily said, desperate to keep the dialogue going. She glanced at the doorway, relieved to see it empty. She wasn't sure what she would say to Ahsan if he discovered her here. Back to the redhead, she asked, “Was it a group of men that rounded you up? Did they hold you all somewhere together?”
The women of Ahsan's heritage sent warning glances to the redhead, which the redhead ignored.
“I can't speak for the others, but they flat out kidnapped me off the street. Granted, I wasn't in a nice part of town, and it was very late, but that does not give anyone the right to do what they've done,” the redhead said, clearly indignant.
Sessily didn't judge. She suspected Bashir's group preyed on the less fortunate, the homeless, those without much family.
“No, it doesn't. I agree. You must all promise me you won't try to escape here. There is no where to go beyond this palace but the desert. If you go, and you don't know your way, you might perish in the heat.” Sessily still didn't have her answer about Ahsan, and tried again now that the redhead seemed amiable to speak.
“Who ordered your kidnappings and did Ahsan have anything to do with it?”
“I don't know who ordered it, lady, I just know we ended up in an old house, locked into rooms until someone came to tell us what we had to do. We were promised that things would 'go easier' if we complied. I got the sense the men we dealt with were underlings, if that makes sense,” the redhead said.
That was no help. Sessily nibbled the inside of her lip, frustrated she couldn't get the answers she sought. What did she expect, though? To just walk in here and have all her problems solved?
“Yes, I understand all too well. Listen, I can't linger long.” Any second, Ahsan might hunt her down or one of his staff might stumble upon them. “It's possible I can get you out of here. But you have to trust me, and you have to wait for my word. Do you understand?”
“How do we know you're not baiting us? How do we know you won't run and tell someone if we agree to work with you?” the woman with the pretty dark skin asked.
“Because they have my sister, too.” Sessily grimaced; she felt it a priority to confide in the women so they would trust her. Whatever happened, she wanted to get these women out of here. Just as she hoped someone would attempt to help her sister if they could. “Can I trust you?”
The women glanced between them, sharing whispers. Finally, the redhead spoke up. “We only want to gain our freedom. We will work with you—but be warned, lady. If we suspect you're using us for your own gain, we will make sure you pay.”
Sessily knew the women had few bargaining chips, but blackmail was one of them. She'd tipped her hand, at least as far as they knew, and now they could use that information against her.
“Don't worry. What are your names?” she asked.
The two Arabic women were Mirah and Imani, she learned. The redhead was Ellie. Lydia and Lyla were the twins, Vanya the African-Indian, and Saige the brown haired, silent one.
“I'm Sessily. As soon as I figure out the best way to gain your freedom, I'll be back.” She departed the room, striding out of the spa into the hallway as if nothing was amiss. Shouldering the responsibility of the harem women would make everything more dangerous, but she couldn't turn her back on them. With a clear goal in mind, she navigated the hallways for the dining room.
Chapter Six
Ahsan attempted to scrub the scent and memory of Sessily from his mind with three straight shots of whiskey. The woman was a curious mix of poise, candor and somber intensity. Even laid out with a headache, she'd been a sight to see. Long limbed, graceful in repose, vulnerable. Then there was the Sessily that bantered with him, unafraid to say exactly what she wanted. She'd been overjoyed at the kittens and indignant over the intrusion into her background. That little sound she'd made when he was rubbing her back smacked of desire. He'd found it difficult to stay on task, a surprising twist considering his exceptional control.
He had another drink. Four should douse the smoldering passion that lingered in his system. Hissing on the tail end, he upended the glass and left it on the sidebar. Pushing off, he smeared the ends of his mouth with two fingers and was about to depart his office when his phone rang.
Fishing it out of his pocket without looking at the caller identification, he answered with a usual, “Yeah?”
“It's me,” Leander said. “Hey listen, I'm in a bad spot. Do you want this ring dismantled, or should we wait until you get here?”
Whenever any of the Elite members were 'in a bad spot', it was code to let the listener know the caller wasn't in a position where he could talk freely or openly for any length of time. Leander was asking whether to bust the ring now, or wait until Ahsan could get there to help.
If he asked Leander to wait, the ring might disperse or the Elite members might be discovered. It was possible one of the others—Mattias or Chayton—had worked their way inside the ring, which meant any delay might cost their lives. The men could be spying, pretending to be flesh traders, or something entirely different. Giving the go ahead for a bust was always dangerous in itself, typically involving gunfights and hand to hand combat. He hated not being present, but he didn't know where they were currently located, and he couldn't ask given Leander's code.
“Go ahead and break the party up. Let me know the details when you can—and good luck.”
“Will do.”
. . .
“Down the hall, second door on the right.”
Sessily, waylaid by a member of the kitchen staff, headed away from the main dining area. She couldn't fathom why dinner had been put off, or what awaited in the new location. Mind busy with other things, she didn't think too hard about it until she rounded the threshold to step inside. Pausing just inside the open door, she sucked in a surprised breath.
Where the main dining
hall was an enormous space with high ceilings and inlaid carvings, this room was much smaller. A squat round table sat in the middle of the room, draped with crimson satin. It was no taller than a coffee table, designed for guests to sit on colorful pillows tossed about on the floor. Brocade and sheer patterned silk hung on the walls, arching from the corners toward the center chandelier that sparkled over the table. Luxurious seating rimmed the room, from couches to divans to a broad chaise lounge before an unlit fireplace. More pillows added accent to the cushions, some with tassels, some with bead fringe, others lined with gold rope. The overall affect was a throwback to what it might have been like to dine in the Ottoman era, inside a Sultan's tent.
The most striking thing in the whole room was Ahsan. He lounged on the pillows, reclining as casually as any king. He'd changed into a loose silvery-gray button down, the throat buttons typically undone, and black pants with his favored boots. The rugged Sheikh was the most appealing man she'd ever seen. To think he'd been straddling her thighs, hands massaging her back not an hour ago made her light headed.
“What's all this?” she asked, as if she didn't know.
“Dinner, whenever you're ready for it. Have a seat,” he said with a gesture at all the pillows on the floor. “How's your headache?”
Sessily hesitated. Although the door was open, this space seemed almost too intimate. A place where seduction took place. The way Ahsan reclined like a lazy lion was both informal and comfortable, yet seemed something he'd done a thousand times. Perhaps he invited all his guests here to give them a unique dining experience.
“The pillows don't bite,” he said, watching her.
What he should have said, she decided, was I don't bite. Moving forward, she seated herself cross-legged on a fat pillow straight across the table from him. The overhead chandelier sent soft light down over the table and most of the pillows, not too harsh and not too dim.
“Do you?” she asked. The question slipped out, mind to mouth without any thought for caution.
The Royal Elite: Ahsan (Elite, Book 2) Page 7