The warm glow she’d had early began to evaporate, leaving a cold, empty feeling in its place.
She’d wanted more, she realized. Wanted that warmth in his blue eyes she’d seen the night before. Wanted the heat. Wanted to be ‘Lily’, not ‘Ms. Harkness.’
But now was not the time to examine why she wanted those things.
Leaving the coffee and the questions for later, Lily went out to see what the tribesmen of Dahar had decided for her company.
* * *
The speed of the decision had taken Isma’il by surprise. The chiefs normally liked to take their time with a decision of this magnitude, especially because they liked to argue about it. But it seemed as if they’d had a strong enough consensus to make a decision far earlier than expected.
And they’d decided in favor of Harkness.
At the meeting table, he glanced in Lily’s direction as the eldest chief—as was fitting—made the announcement. A flush had crept into her face, her cheeks pink. She smiled, her dark eyes full of triumph. Reminding him of how she’d been the night before, standing by his bed, blonde hair loose down her back, a wild, reckless look in her eyes. Daring him. Challenging him. Beautiful and so seductive.
He looked away. No, he could not think about her in that way now. He’d allowed himself that one night with her. It was over and done with and he couldn’t go back.
That morning when he’d stepped into the tent to tell her the chiefs had made their decision, he’d hoped to find her cool and poised, once more the CEO in her armor. But she hadn’t been. She’d dressed in the clothes he’d got for her, but the look in her eyes as they’d met his had been full of warmth. And the smile she’d given him had been the one he’d seen by the fountain at the palace that night he’d caught her speaking to her father. The smile he’d wanted her to give just to him. A rare, beautiful smile.
It had been so hard not to smile in return, but he’d managed to stop himself. Putting back the distance between them had to be done. He had no other choice.
Rising from the meeting table, Isma’il made a small speech commending the chiefs on their decision. He had the right to veto it of course, but he made sure they knew he would not exercise that right. He also made a point of making clear his opinion of Harkness, how he thought they were a worthy choice for the rights to Dahar’s oil and he had no doubt with Lily at the helm, Dahar would soon see the benefits and so would the desert people.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, though he was conscious of her presence. The way the tendrils of blonde hair had escaped her ponytail and lay against the back of her neck, highlighting its vulnerability. The soft hollow of her throat laid bare by the shirt she wore.
The curve of her mouth as she smiled her cool smile.
It would pass, this need for her. Desire always did in the end. In the meantime, he would simply do what he’d done beforehand, keep the need under strict control. Ignore it. Pretend it wasn’t there. Easy. Simple.
As the meeting broke up, Isma’il spoke with a couple of the chiefs, noting that Lily appeared to be waiting for him. She probably wanted to talk about the night before, and he was tempted to busy himself with the tribesmen until he felt able to deal with her.
But, of course, that would be the coward’s way out and he’d never been a coward.
“Was there something you wanted, Ms. Harkness?” he said as he finished his conversation with the chiefs.
Lily came to join him under the awning of the tent. “So, I’m back to being Ms. Harkness again?”
“We are dealing with business now. What happened last night is not something we should speak of here.”
She let out a soft breath, a frustrated look crossing her face. “Fine.” She lifted her hand, wiped it across her brow. “But we need to talk.”
“About the contract?”
“The contract.” Her dark gaze met his. “And other things.”
“Those other things have no bearing on the oil decision.”
“No, but it does mean that Harkness will have a presence in Dahar for some years to come. And . . . ” she hesitated, her voice softening. “And so will I.” The look in her eyes and the hesitation as she spoke said volumes.
Isma’il glanced away, not wanting to see what was so obviously hope. “What are you saying?”
“I thought . . . ” Another pause. “After last night . . . ” She stopped again.
The breath in his lungs became tight, painful. Distance was so difficult when she laid herself open to him. When she gave him the gift of her vulnerability.
“Do not do this, Habibti,” he said softly, giving in to the need to say the endearment. “Not now. We need to discuss this at another time.”
She flushed, as if she’d only now become conscious of the fact that they were in public. “All right. Just don’t distance me, Isma’il.” Her voice dropped. “And don’t call me Ms. Harkness. I like . . . I like being Lily to you.”
Another admission. He didn’t know why this should matter so much to him. Why it made the things he would have to say to her later, in private, so very much harder.
“We must be cautious in public. Public displays of affection are not done here, and especially not in a business setting.”
Her flush deepened. “I understand.” For a moment pale lashes veiled her gaze, then abruptly they lifted, revealing something fierce in her dark eyes. “But I’m not ashamed of what we did, Isma’il. And I don’t regret it. Not a second of it.”
The pressure in his chest tightened still further. “I do not either.”
She didn’t look away from him, staring into him, studying him as if he was a book written in a language she didn’t understand, but desperately wanted to read.
“You’re going to tell me we can’t do that again, aren’t you?” The words were soft, stark. “That we can’t be lovers again.”
He didn’t want to tell her here, now, with people around them. He wanted to do it privately and explain his reasons. Not the whole truth, but as close as he could get.
But of course she saw through him. She saw through everything.
“Later, Habibti. When we have time to discuss this.”
The flush had died out of her cheeks, leaving her looking oddly pale despite the heat. She blinked and suddenly the flushed, passionate, vulnerable lover he’d left in his bed this morning was gone. The cool, poised CEO back in her place.
“Of course,” Lily said coolly, turning away. “Later then, your Highness.”
Chapter Nine
Lily smiled at the woman who held out a plate of a delicious looking pastries spread with nuts and honey, taking one of them and nodding her thanks. Then, she waited until the woman was gone and put it down on her plate, uneaten.
Another celebration had gotten underway, this time to celebrate the oil contract, the tent full of music and laughter and the loud hum of a hundred people all talking at once.
She should be feeling triumphant, her goal achieved, the oil rights secured for Harkness despite the odds. The board would be pleased, her position consolidated, and no doubt a nice fat bonus would be waiting in her bank account once the contract had been announced.
But all of that didn’t seem to matter. In fact, if anything, it felt rather empty.
Her gaze kept returning to the man who sat down the other end of the banquet table, talking to his people in the soft Arabic she’d started to love hearing. They were laughing at something he’d said and he smiled, a warm, charismatic presence that the whole table seemed to respond to.
A lump rose in her throat, a strange longing she didn’t understand curling tightly in her chest. She looked away, unable to bear the sight of him all of a sudden.
“You are well?” The elder beside her gave her a concerned look, clearly noting the plate of uneaten food in front of her. “You have not eaten.”
She didn’t want to be rude or show disrespect, but the thought of eating anything made her feel vaguely sick for some reason. She gave the old man a tig
ht smile, pressing a hand to her stomach. “No, not well. I’m sorry.”
The elder gave her a sympathetic look. “Ah, yes, a weak stomach. I understand. Many westerners have it.”
A prickling on the back of her neck. She knew Isma’il was looking at her and she wanted to meet his blue gaze, look at him. But she didn’t. Because she already knew what she’d see in his face—regret. Sympathy. Concern. And she didn’t want any of those. Not from him.
What do you want, then?
The heat of the tent, the press of people, and the noise felt too much abruptly.
She made her excuses to the elder, blaming her weak western stomach, then rose and went out into the night, making her way to the quiet and peace of her tent.
No one followed her this time. No tall, broad presence in the night. And she couldn’t tell herself that it didn’t hurt. That she didn’t want it.
In her tent, she undressed slowly, and stepped into the little solar shower that had been provided for her. Such luxury to have water in the middle of the desert. As the cool spray slid over her skin, she shivered and closed her eyes.
Of course, she knew what she wanted. She wanted Isma’il.
Lily let out a ragged breath. Want was such a pitiful word. Such a weak word. What she felt wasn’t just want. It went deeper that. It burned in her blood. Blazed in her heart. And she hadn’t realized how strongly, until she’d seen that look of regret in his eyes. The look of a man who was going to tell her gently but firmly that they could not be lovers again.
That the night they’d shared was all she’d ever have.
Lily shivered, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. How odd to feel cold in the desert. How odd to feel this way about a man she’d only known a matter of days. Because that’s all it had been. Days. How had that happened?
Perhaps, it was to do with the newness of it all. Perhaps all virgins felt that way about their first lovers. Perhaps, given time, it would pass.
Reaching up she shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her. Then, she went back into the main room of the tent, only to be brought up short.
Isma’il stood in the middle of it.
They stared at each other, Lily’s heart thumping hard in her chest, the moment lengthening, the tension stretching tighter and tighter.
His blue eyes glittered in the light, taking her in, making her so very aware that all she wore was a towel.
“What are you doing here?” she asked hoarsely, breaking the unbearable silence.
“You left. Zayed told me you were unwell.”
So he had noticed and he’d followed. She tried not to let that mean anything. “No. I’m fine.” She crossed her arms across her chest, holding her towel a little more firmly. “Just tired.”
“Perhaps we should have that discussion now that we are in private, Lily.”
A strange defensiveness crept through her. The urge to protect herself. Armor herself against him once again. “What’s to discuss? I know you’re going to tell me you don’t want a repeat of last night.”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he turned, pacing over to the small desk where her laptop was set up, toying with the pen that sat beside it. “I do not say it to hurt you.”
She wanted to say she wasn’t hurt. But that would be a lie and she was through with denial. “Why do you say it, then?”
He turned the pen over in his fingers, staring at her. “You are hurt.”
“Of course I’m hurt. Last night meant something to me. I . . . ” She stopped, swallowing back the sudden intense feeling that stuck in her throat. “I suppose I hoped for more.”
“I cannot give you more.”
“Why not?”
He looked away. “It is not you.”
“Oh, right. And then you’ll end with it ‘it’s me.’ Because that’s what people say to each other when they can’t think of a good excuse.” The hurt bled into her voice and she couldn’t seem to stop it. So much for her armor. Perhaps it was wrong to wear her emotions so openly. Perhaps the thing done after sex was to pretend it didn’t matter. But she couldn’t pretend, not anymore. That’s all she’d been doing since the day Dan left her with a torn dress and bloody mouth, and she wasn’t doing it anymore. She was hurt. Why shouldn’t he know that?
The pen dropped back onto the desk. “It is not an excuse.”
“Isn’t it?” She took a step towards him. “I bared everything to you, Isma’il. My secrets. My shame. My body. My soul. No one else knows those things about me. I don’t trust anyone else to know. But I trusted you.” An intense feeling expanded inside her chest, forcing out her breath. “Don’t you think I deserve better than ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? Don’t you think I deserve a little trust in return?”
The look on his face changed, a raw, savage thing in his eyes. A dark passion in the harsh beauty of his face. “What you deserve is a man who will love you, cherish you, protect you, not a man who forces you down onto the mattress and takes you from behind like an animal.”
“I wanted you to force me,” she said fiercely. “Everything that happened last night I wanted.”
“But I didn’t.” The words hung in the air, sharp as knives.
She took a shuddering breath. “What do you mean you didn’t?”
The look on his face became edged with hunger, the skin pulled too tight over the stark bone structure beneath it. “Do you understand what’s it like to be the son of a man who beat his own wife? Who picked up a riding crop and used it against her? So to be asked to hold you, force you—”
“Isma’il—”
“Let me finish. To be asked to do that was bad enough, but do you know the worst part?”
Cold began to creep through her veins. “No,” she whispered.
“The worst part was enjoying what I did to you. The worst part was wanting to do it to you again.” He stood by the desk, his whole body taut with anger. “You are dangerous, Lily. You push me. You test me. You get under my skin. I cannot control what I feel for you and I have to.” His voice dropped. “I must!”
“Why must you?” She took another step towards him, desperate to know. Desperate to understand. “I don’t want you to control your feelings. I don’t want you to hold back. If you’re afraid of being like your father, Isma’il, you shouldn’t be. You’re not going to pick up a riding crop and beat me with it. God, if I thought you were that type of man, I would never have gone anywhere near you.”
Something changed suddenly in his face. Pure green blazed in his eyes, drowning the blue, a savage anger written all over his features. This was the danger she’d sensed. This was the darkness laid bare.
He came towards her, dark and threatening and dangerous. “But I am that type of man, Lily.” The words were quiet, cold. “That is precisely the kind of man I am.”
She refused to be intimidated. Instead she moved towards him, meeting him head on. “You’re not. Stop seeing things in yourself that aren’t there.”
“Oh, but they are there. Because, you see, I did pick up that riding crop. I picked it up and I used it. On Khalid. I hit him, Lily. I beat him. And when he went down onto the floor, I kept hitting him until he stopped moving.”
* * *
She’d gone white, all the color leached from her face. Her dark eyes wide and black as they stared into his. Was that horror there? Yes, and that was good. She should be horrified. Because what he’d done, what he’d allowed himself to do to his own father was worthy of horror. Far from learning from Khalid’s example, he’d become Khalid.
Her long, elegant throat moved. “What happened?”
“I told you what happened.” He felt cold. Detached. And that too was a good thing.
“The details, Isma’il.”
“You don’t want the details, Lily.”
She moved even closer, the look in her face fierce. “Tell me, damn you!”
He could smell her, the clean scent of her damp skin and hair, and suddenly his proximity to all
her vulnerable, naked warmth felt so wrong. He turned away, walking to the tent’s entrance and stopping. Night air flooded in, the sounds of the celebrations still going on in the big meeting tent drifting across the oasis. He took a breath as his detachment began to fade away, leaving him feeling suffocated, his chest squeezing tight. He did not want to tell her. He did not want the horror exposed to the light.
But he had to. She could not go on thinking of him as someone he was not. It would hurt her. It would hurt him. But she was right, she’d given him so many little pieces of herself and he’d given her nothing in return. Anything less than the truth would demean those gifts, and he could not do that to her.
“I came into the dining room one morning to find Khalid threatening my mother with a riding crop,” he said, keeping his attention directed out into the desert night. “He had managed to get her a couple of times over the face and she was bleeding. I tried to protect her, but he turned on me and starting beating me too. And I . . . ” He stopped, trying to find the same detachment he’d had earlier and failed. Making himself go on anyway, he forced the words out. “I snapped. I hit him in the face. I was as tall as he was by then, so he went down easily.” Isma’il closed his eyes, trying not to see the images that refused to stay buried. “But I did not stop there. I was so . . . angry. So filled with rage. I did not want him to hurt me anymore. I did not want him to hurt anyone anymore. So I . . . ” The words would not come. He made them, ripped them from the part of his soul that he hated so much. “I picked up the riding crop and I hit him with it.” The leather slippery under his fingers. Slippery with his blood. His father’s blood. His mother’s. So much blood. He’d never been able to wash the slick feeling of it away. “And I kept on hitting him with it until he stopped moving.”
Silence behind him. But he could feel her shock like a physical thing.
“Isma’il . . . ” Her voice sounded thick, but he didn’t turn around. Didn’t want to see the expression on her face. See the warmth that had been there for him the night before die away and be replaced by something cold.
Never Seduce a Sheikh (International Bad Boys Book 2) Page 12