In Too Deep

by Brenda Jackson; Olivia Gates

  His eyes crinkled with pleasure at her attempt to engage him. “The ability to ride like a desert raider, to hit the ball like a medieval knight and to work the game like a champion chess player all while someone is trying to beat your knees off.”

  “Yikes!” He threw his head back at her alarm, letting out a guffaw of sheer amusement. She leaned deeper into his body, delighting in having his large, solid form pressing against her again. “Have you ever been injured?”

  “Injuries are part of such an intense contact sport where the competition has always been dubbed ‘bruising.’”

  Her heart pounded. “But that’s it, right? The worst of it is bruises?”

  His eyes stilled on hers. With doubt? Disbelief?

  Next second she saw nothing in them but indulgence. She must have imagined what she’d thought she’d seen. “The more experienced a player is, the fewer injuries he’ll have. Sometimes everyone gets away with nothing, sometimes with a few bruises, but there’s always the possibility of a more lasting souvenir. Injuries throughout polo history ranged from lacerations to fractures to brain injury to death. The worst injuries happen if a saddle breaks, or ponies collide at top speed, or someone gets thrown off.”

  “Oh, God.” Her stomach squeezed into her throat as she imagined him sustaining an injury—or worse.

  Her heart contracted violently with the need to beg him to never play again. But she couldn’t voice her plea. She didn’t feel like his wife for real yet. Not that she believed spouses could interfere in each other’s passions anyway. And then she was certain he was careful, in control of his game.

  But what if…?

  She couldn’t bear it. She had to articulate her dread, to make sense of it all. “But if there are such risks, why play?”

  He shrugged. “Life is filled with risks. People who are totally safe are already dead.”

  “But you’re super careful, right? No saddles of yours can break, and you always watch out for rabid antagonists?”

  Again his eyes took on that enigmatic cast. “If you’re asking if I’m a risk taker, I’m anything but. I’m a planner. A strategist. I set a goal, put everything in motion and invariably see my plans through to fruition.” Suddenly an edge of harshness flashed in his gaze as he added, “But then, so do you.”

  Three

  Sabrina stared at Adham, a frisson of unease slithering in her gut. The way he’d said that…

  She had a feeling he meant something beyond polo playing.

  Which only figured. He was a businessman, who played the real estate and horse-breeding worlds like a virtuoso.

  But what did he mean, so did she? Did he mean that she’d let nothing stop her from acquiring the degrees she needed to take her place beside her father in their family business? Yes, that must be it. And the hardness she’d imagined accompanied his words must have been a trick of her still-agitated mind. Now settled on this front, her mind swung back to her main concern. “So you’ve never been injured?”

  “I didn’t say that. You remember that scar on my thigh?”

  She’d never forget. She’d been horrified to see it. She’d touched it in trepidation, the pain he must have felt on sustaining it echoing inside her.

  “That was my most severe injury. My pony fell on top of my leg. My femur fractured and ripped through my thigh.”

  She felt darkness encroaching on her as she imagined his flesh being torn, his blood pouring out. Her fingers dug into his arm, as if she could pull him away from hurt and injury, give him her own vitality to heal any pain he’d ever suffered.

  He pressed her tighter against him, accepting her concern, paying her back in sheer mind-numbing sensuality. “But you made me glad I have this scar.”

  She felt blood rushing to her head, pooling in her loins as she remembered how she’d traced it. He’d sprawled back, letting her explore it, stroking her in turn. She couldn’t help it, had opened her mouth over it, sucked at its ridges as if she could smooth them out.

  And she’d gotten her first look at what he was like aroused. She’d been too shy so far to do more than open herself to him, take him inside her body, not daring to look at the huge hardness that had invaded her, had her sobbing in an excruciating mixture of pain and pleasure. Her head had spun at the sight of him. Then she’d been compelled to explore his daunting beauty. She’d quaked with his feral rumbles at her ministrations. Then he’d taken her over, given her the hard ride she’d been disintegrating for.

  She was suffering from the same need now. But first she had to suffer more deprivation, be his bride to the polo community, make him proud. They’d arrived at the VIP tent.

  At their entry there was an uproar of welcomes and congratulations, with more camera flashes from sanctioned celebrity reporters, and many of the guests.

  She’d thought she was ready but she found herself wishing that floors really opened and swallowed people. And she’d thought she’d known social attention as Thomas Grant’s daughter. She’d known nothing. Now she was Sheikh Adham Aal Ferjani’s bride, she had a feeling this was just the tip of the iceberg.

  The next thirty minutes was a maelstrom of introductions to hordes of beautiful and high profile people. She tried her best to be as gracious as Adham in accepting the tribute everyone was paying her as the bride of their most valued guest and invaluable sponsor. She had a feeling she was doing a miserable job.

  Most of the women around gobbled him up with their eyes. Many ignored her, making blatant offers of availability. It was only because Adham looked at them as he would bales of hay that Sabrina’s chagrin was held at bay. And then she realized she’d better get used to it. After all, what woman could be around Adham and not lose all control?

  It was only when Adham took her to meet his core group of friends and associates that her mood improved.

  There was Sebastian and his fiancée, Julia Fitzgerald, with Sebastian’s partner, Richard Wells, and his fiancée Catherine Lawson, Adham’s horse trainer. They were accompanied by Nicolas Valera, a renowned Argentinean polo player and model who played on Adham’s team, the Black Wolves.

  After a stretch of small talk, Julia said, “Tell us about your vineyards and winery, Sabrina. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even know that Long Island had vineyards.”

  “Many people don’t know. My father was among the first to realize that the microclimate here was similar to that found in Bordeaux. He released his first wines in 1975. During the last three decades, the Long Island wine industry has expanded—today there are dozens of vineyards planted on thousands of acres. The vines yield high quality grapes similar to those used by the French and Californian winemakers. Grant Vineyards produces world-class merlot, cabernet franc, cabernet sauvignon and chardonnay.”

  “Wow!” Catherine exclaimed. “You sure know your business. Did you start working with your father when you were young?”

  A vise clamped Sabrina’s heart as she remembered her frustration at her father’s misguided overprotection. “Actually, he didn’t want me to, but I insisted on learning everything about the vineyards and winery. I have master’s degrees in business and administration, and brewing and winemaking. I was determined to help him run the business, and take over for him when he decided to retire. But he didn’t get the chance to….”

  Her words faltered as her eyes filled with tears. Julia and Catherine reached out to her, empathy etching their faces. Sabrina felt solace pouring from them but it was Adham’s tightening hold that eased the anguish.

  Responding to Adham’s subtle prompt, Nicolas changed the topic, engaging Adham in a verbal game as exhilarating and bruising as any of their polo matches, which had the ladies dissolving in laughter. Seeing the intention behind Adham’s maneuver, Sabrina felt herself stumbling deeper in love with him.

  But though she enjoyed his friends’ company, after an hour, the need to get away rose. She needed to be with him, alone, to settle her mind about their situation.

  She was trying to figure out how to let hi
m know that without sounding like a clingy, demanding wife, when he again seemed to sense her need. He suavely thanked his friends on her behalf for their fabulous welcome, and slipped her away.

  He took her to the far end of the tent, and she blurted out the first thing that came to her, unable to say what she truly wanted to say. “So, you told me what makes a good polo player. What makes a great one?”

  He looked at her for a second, then said, “Apart from having thoroughly trained ponies, and an ability to read them, it’s focus.”

  “If that’s what it takes, I bet you’re the greatest.”

  He smiled down at her, clearly amused by her adulation, and—pleased, too? Even touched? “I don’t know about the greatest. But I am one of the few who’ve been ranked at a ten-goal handicap.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Polo players are rated yearly by their peers on a scale of two to ten goals. The term ‘goal’ doesn’t refer to how many goals the player will score in a match, but indicates the player’s value to the team. Player handicaps range from novice—or negative two—to ten, which is perfect. A rating of above two goals indicates a professional player.”

  “And you’re, of course, perfect. But I already knew that.”

  He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. His gaze blazed down on her for a long moment as he seemed to vibrate with something vast and uncontainable, sweeping her in a swath of lust that singed her down to her bones. Then he kissed her. She pressed against him, her head falling back, sending her heavy curls cascading over his arm as it clutched her waist.

  When he relinquished her lips in agonizing slowness, he left her panting for more. The ferocious appreciation in his eyes made her feel intoxicated, brazen.

  “So that’s your handicap,” she whispered, her voice husky with arousal. “What’s your preferred…position?”

  At her barely veiled innuendo, his pupils engulfed the gold of his eyes like a black hole would the sun. “Any and every position. As long as it fulfills the purpose of the…game.” She shuddered with the need eating through her, to have him pleasure her in all those positions. She’d been going crazy reliving the memories of the times they’d been together. “But my preferred position is number three.”

  For a moment she thought he meant the third time he’d taken her, that next morning, when he’d had her riding him as he’d suckled her nipples and fondled her triggers. He went on, a devilish smile on his masterpiece lips. “It’s similar to a quarterback in football, usually reserved for the highest handicapped and most experienced player. It entails attacking the opposing offense and turning the ball up field, requiring long-distance hitting accuracy and superb mallet and ball control.”

  “And we all know what kind of control you have.” She actually meant his ability to stay away from her, but he clearly thought she meant his control during lovemaking. His gaze smoldered until she felt he was burning her up from the inside out. Unable to deal with the unease and embarrassment of explaining her true meaning, she reverted to her earlier worry. “So, after your injury, didn’t you hesitate before getting back on a horse, embroiled in another bruising polo match?”

  “Not for a second. There’s nothing more exhilarating than going at a speed of thirty-five miles an hour on a horse you feel as one with. It’s such a pleasure and privilege to form a bond and share the synergy of the play with a horse. And then there is the breeze rushing against your face as time stands still while you swing the mallet knowing the exact second you’ll hit the ball, feeling the satisfaction of catapulting it exactly where you want it, setting up the play that will end up in a score.”

  She sighed. “You make me wish I played polo.”

  “If you so wish it, then so shall it be.”

  She shook her head wistfully. “I can’t even ride a horse. My father never let me. At first he said I was too young, too slight. Then after my mom died, he became even more overprotective. I had to fight for each inch of independence, and riding horses was one of the things I decided to forgo in order to have other things. He even made me swear I’d never ride while I was away at college. I always felt so…deprived. I contented myself with taking every opportunity to visit with our vineyards’ horses.”

  “I can tell you love horses. Aswad and Layl took to you immediately. I’m sure they’d love to have your company whenever possible.”

  She sighed again. “But now that you’ve outlined the real dangers of riding, I can better understand my father’s worry.”

  Something strange came into Adham’s eyes again. What was this? Was he angry? At whom? Her father, for limiting her? Or at himself for planting in her mind worry over his beloved sport?

  Next second, the ominous cloud disappeared and the world was bright and shining once more. He bent to press the warmth of his magical lips on her pulse. It went haywire. “Don’t worry, ya galbi. Not about me.”

  “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. Please, be careful.”

  He pressed her closer. “I always am. But I now have more reason than ever to be so.”

  She felt her consciousness receding. She was swooning, like a heroine from a Victorian novel. Before she’d met Adham, she’d suspected she might be really frigid, as many men had accused her. If those small-minded, vicious men could see her now.

  A discreet cough came from behind Adham. Jameel.

  Adham half turned to him. Their exchange in Arabic was rapid. She didn’t get one word. Then he turned to her, his lids still heavy with desire but with an apology on his lips. “I’m sorry, ya ameerati. Urgent business has come up. Please stay, mingle some more. Jameel will drive you home when you’re ready.”

  Disappointment spread through her but she smiled at him. “Oh, no. You attend your business and I’ll go home now. I’ll…I’ll wait for you.”

  “As you wish.” He swept her around and walked her out of the tent, nodding to everyone who seemed more curious than before, if possible. She’d sure given them a spectacle worthy of curiosity. The blushing bride who now had plenty to blush about.

  Thirty minutes later, she was back in the Hamptons residence. She had no idea how long his business would take, but she rushed to get ready for his return.

  An hour later, she’d bathed and dressed in what she hoped was an irresistible creation.

  Two hours later, she called him. His phone went straight to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message.

  What was going on? Where was he? What could possibly keep him away after the enchanted day they’d shared?

  She tried to tell herself that she’d married a businessman and a man of state, and that his time wasn’t his to control.

  It didn’t work. While all that was true, a simple call would have allowed her to go to sleep knowing that their marriage was not a mirage that could appear and disappear at his whim. His reverting to the man who didn’t bother to tell her where he was or what he was doing tossed her back into her former state of turmoil.

  The last thing she knew before she succumbed to exhaustion was that Adham hadn’t come home.

  Her nightmares throughout the night said he never would.

  Four

  She woke up alone. As she had all her life.

  The first thing that came to her was a conviction: that she’d wake up alone for the rest of it, too.

  She’d also gone to bed alone. As she had since she’d married Adham.

  She’d thought after that first day in the Hamptons that the inexplicable hands-off phase had passed.

  It hadn’t. The past week had followed the same pattern. He’d be all over her during the day, then would disappear at night, every time with one excuse or another.

  She dragged herself out of bed. She felt as if the silky sheets and downy covers were spread with thorns.

  The room was swathed in cool, dark silence. She knew out there another day blazed with heat and light, bustling with the sounds of Adham’s housekeepers tirelessly keeping this place immaculate. Blackout blinds a
nd soundproof doors and windows shielded her from it all. The room echoed with isolation. Inertia.

  She felt as if she’d been on a roller coaster without a harness, one that catapulted her up, made her feel she was soaring, only to crash her to the ground, leaving her stunned and crushed, only to start all over again.

  If it weren’t for that one night, when he’d proved he was as over-endowed sexually as he was in every other way, she’d have thought his lack of interest in intimacy stemmed from some deficiency. But since his potency was indisputable, she’d feared he’d somehow lost interest in her. Yet over the past week, he’d showed her proof, physical and verbal, of his need to possess her. But he’d left her alone again, every night, and now she feared he might be accepting those women’s offers.

  She couldn’t really believe that, but she’d run out of excuses for his behavior. Not wanting to rush her after her bereavement no longer made sense. Preoccupation didn’t hold water, either.

  What kind of game was he playing?

  Her cell phone rang. She stared at it numbly before she realized it was the special tone she’d assigned to Adham.

  She pounced on it, sending it flying off her nightstand.

  By the time she answered, she was panting. Air crammed in her lungs when his dark voice poured into her ear.

  “Sabah’al khair, ya galbi.”

  Just hearing him say good morning in his mother tongue would have been enough. Hearing him say anything. But when he called her his heart, in that intimate, possessive way…

  Before she could cry out her confusion, he went on, “I hope you’ve had some…rest.”

  The way he paused before he said rest. He thought she was so distraught, she couldn’t rest even when she managed to fall asleep?

  No. There was satisfaction, not concern, in his voice. As if he liked the reason she needed rest. Anyone hearing him would assume he’d been that reason, after he’d tested her stamina in an exhausting session of passion and possession.