Saved by the Sheikh!

by Tessa Radley

  The dress was perfect.

  It was her.

  For one wild moment uncertainty engulfed her. Could she let Rafiq see her like this? The whole world? She hesitated. Then her spine firmed.

  She wasn’t ashamed of who she was.

  Before she could have any further misgivings, she pushed the cubicle door open, and stepped proudly out, her head held high.

  At the sight of her, Rafiq’s first reaction was a blast of pure, primal possessive desire. Tiffany was his. All his. No man was going to wrest her from him. Ordinary or otherwise. His second thought was that the color could’ve been created especially for her. It was hard to see where skin ended and dress began—she’d struck lucky with her impulsive choice.

  Instead of looking gaudy, the shade gave her skin a honey tone and turned her hair the burnished shade of bronze.

  “What do you think?” Her eyes challenged his.

  He gulped.

  He didn’t dare tell her what he was thinking.

  That way lay…

  Insanity.

  Trying for cool, he said, “It suits you.” But he ruined the effect by glancing down at the curves that the dress hugged. Rafiq started to sweat.

  “Better than the black?” At the note in her voice his gaze jerked up.

  She was taunting him.

  No woman dared to taunt him.

  Ever.

  Even if she was his wife.

  His eyes narrowed to slits. This time he took his time looking her over. When he finally reached her face, her lips were parted. He knew she’d be breathing in little gasps. Against his will, his body started to harden.

  “Definitely better than the black.” His voice came out in a hoarse croak. Without looking away he said to Madame, “We will take this dress.”

  Then he smiled slowly at Tiffany. No point wasting more time arguing over clothes, not when he was in such a hurry to get home and strip his wife of every item she was wearing.

  So he said softly, “Now, which outfit did you have in mind for the press conference?”

  Twelve

  The front door of Rafiq’s home clicked shut behind them.

  “Come here, wife.”

  At Rafiq’s growl, Tiffany glanced over her shoulder…and clashed with his hot gaze. He’d barely spoken in the Mercedes-Benz on the way home. And now he expected her to fall into his arms?

  “Wait a moment—”

  Before she could finish, he closed in on her. Despite her intention of resisting him, desire sparked into an inferno as his lips claimed hers. His hands gripped her shoulders. She swayed back until she came up against the coolness of the plastered wall. Rafiq’s body was hard and solid against her curves, and his hands softened to caress the crest of her shoulders, then moved in tantalizing circles under the weight of her hair.

  He kissed her until she could barely think.

  To her astonishment Tiffany felt unaccountably safe crushed against him. When he raised his head, it sank in that they were indulging in a passionate embrace, in broad daylight, in the lobby of his home with guards on the other side of the door and his staff in the house.

  The impropriety of it made her flush. Pulling back from him, from the intensity of his touch, she yanked the neckline of her dress back into place. “Rafiq, what are you thinking? Your staff could walk in on us at any moment.”

  “I called and dismissed the house staff. And I secured the locks on the front door and set the security system when we came in.” Smug satisfaction glowed good-humoredly in his eyes. “No one is going to interrupt us.”

  “You planned this!” she accused.

  “No, it was a spontaneous reaction to the show you put on at Madame Fleur’s store.”

  That damned dress was still causing trouble!

  Before she could put the blame where it rightly belonged, he placed the tip of his index finger against her lips. “Enough talking, I want to kiss you.”

  Unable to resist a wicked temptation, Tiffany slid her tongue across the pad of his fingertip. He tasted of male and the tang of salt. She licked again. Slowly. Deliberately.

  This time he took her mouth with a harsh groan.

  The hunger rose more swiftly this time. His lips played with hers until Tiffany gave him a gentle nip. “Kiss me properly.”

  She hooked her hands behind his nape and pulled his mouth down square on hers. Her hunger silenced the wisecracks, she noted with satisfaction.

  The next second the world spun around her. The floor tilted and the dark blue of the walls filled her vision. Tiffany clutched at the front of his shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you somewhere where we can pursue this further.” His lips hovered near her ear, the soft whisper of his breath sending delicious tremors though her. “Have you ever made love in a pool?”

  “You know I haven’t.” Excitement quaked through her. “Have you?”

  “Never.”

  “Then we’ll have to teach each other how it’s done.”

  They made it to the edge of the pool.

  Rafiq deposited her on a lounging chair before straightening and wrenching off his tie. His shirt and trousers followed, landing in a heap on the mosaic tiles. In seconds he stood naked before her.

  Breathing quickly, Tiffany eyed her husband with open admiration.

  Muscled shoulders sloped to a lean waist, and his stomach was flat and taut. Her fingers itched to stroke the sleek skin.

  He dropped down on his knees beside her, and he touched the length of her leg where the filmy maxi dress had fallen away with reverence. “Your skin is so soft,” he whispered, “I can never have enough of you.”

  One day he would—it was how he was made, she knew. But that day wasn’t here yet.

  For now, he was all hers.

  And she wasn’t going to let him forget it.

  He kissed the inside of her thighs, his fingers slipping under the lacy edge of her panties. Tiffany’s breath caught as he slid the scraps of lace down her legs. She shifted restlessly. He was touching her again, making her sigh with delight, his fingers slick against her, arousing her to fever pitch.

  She threw her head back and squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on the sensations that he aroused. The pleasure twisted higher…tighter.

  “More,” she moaned, her fingers reaching for him.

  Her hand found his hardness, closed around him, felt him jerk.

  Then he was on the lounger beside her, pulling her up against him, spoon-fashion, curled behind her. He drew her closer, hesitated, then surged inside her.

  She gasped.

  He started to move, slowly at first, then quicker. His mouth closed on her neck, nipping gently, causing her to shudder at the sensitive sensation. For a moment she hung suspended in space, a place between, where she was neither herself nor his, but something between. Then she shuddered and whirled into a world of pure pleasure.

  When she’d finally come back to earth, she turned to face him, and hooked her arms around his neck. Staring deeply into his eyes, she whispered, “Oh, please say we can do that again?”

  Yet the next morning nothing of the playful lover of the previous night remained.

  Rafiq was all business.

  Tiffany wore the apricot-colored suit she’d picked out that did amazing things for her skin. She knew she looked her best.

  Rafiq had barely glanced at her. All he was intent on was lecturing her. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was nervous.

  “Nothing will be said about how we met,” he reminded her as the cavalcade that they were part of turned into the road in front of the palace, the king’s main residence in Katar. “Do not get drawn into the work you were doing. As far as the public is concerned we met through a mutual university friend.”

  When the doors of the limousine opened, she was ready for the popping clicks of the camera. Putting on her most gracious smile, she allowed Rafiq to help her out.

  The press conference started innocuously enough—w
ith Rafiq in total command.

  The announcement of their marriage was made, causing a buzz of excitement. Rafiq indulged the journalists, fielding questions, posing with Tiffany for shots, until one journalist called to Rafiq to kiss her.

  Her heart thudding, Tiffany turned, raising her face to his. One arm came around her shoulders, the other around her waist and then he paused, staring down at her.

  A long moment passed, then all the clicks of cameras and flashing of lights faded. It was a taut moment, full of unspoken tension.

  Tiffany waited, face uplifted for the kiss that never came.

  Finally, amidst her confusion, he let her go, with a hoarse mutter in Arabic that she did not understand.

  Then he took her by the hand and dragged her out of the auditorium, the gaggle of royal aides scurrying in their wake.

  Tiffany hurried alongside Rafiq as he strode outside, his fingers tightly holding hers. One glance at his face revealed this was not a good time to ask what she desperately wanted to know.

  What had gone wrong?

  That mysterious moment this morning had wired Rafiq. Every time he looked at Tiffany, brushed her hand, a current of electricity blasted him.

  Lust, he told himself as he strode the bank’s hallways.

  Triggered by that damned dress yesterday…and the cataclysmic passion that had followed.

  He’d never intended to kiss Tiffany in front of the media this morning—his conservative father would never tolerate such a display. Yet by Allah he’d been tempted…

  He’d almost done it.

  It shocked him, how near he’d come to the edge.

  Where was his control? His common sense?

  His hunger, regardless of the cameras, had stunned him. Never before had his private emotions threatened to spill over into a public place.

  Still brooding, he turned at the tap on his shoulder. He greeted his eldest brother.

  “You are not with your wife,” said Khalid.

  “I left her in Aunt Lily’s hands—gave her a chance to meet other women here tonight.”

  “Father wants to run a background check on her. He says we know nothing about her—he’s worried you rushed into this marriage too impulsively.”

  “And Shafir didn’t?”

  “Ah, but that was different. Father was making sure Megan was being kept under surveillance, remember?”

  Rafiq couldn’t stop the jab of irritation. “It’s a little late for that. I know everything I need to know about my wife. We announced our marriage to the world this morning. What does Father hope to achieve?”

  Khalid gave him a wry grin. “Your happiness, probably. I will tell him to forget the idea. He should be thankful that you are married—it’s what he wanted after all.”

  “You will be next,” warned Rafiq, his good humor restored.

  Aunt Lily had introduced Tiffany to a circle of women as Rafiq’s new wife, and Tiffany was aware of their curiosity. She’d warded off the more nosy questions with good grace, and cautiously answered the innocuous ones.

  “Your dress…is it from Madame Fleur’s?” asked one woman, openly admiring it.

  Tiffany smiled demurely. Though a silk wrap was draped around her shoulders, she knew even without it the dress would be perfectly respectable. It was the cut and color that made it look so revealing, not the flesh it exposed. “Yes, it is.”

  “Not Rafiq’s usual taste,” said a beautiful woman who had joined the huddle. She was clad in a floor-length black sheath similar to the dress Rafiq had wanted Tiffany to wear tonight. “My name is Shenilla.”

  Tiffany smiled again. “Nice to meet you, Shenilla.” Aware that everyone had fallen silent, she said, “Your dress is lovely.”

  Shenilla smoothed her hands over her hips, the movement oddly sinuous. “Rafiq chose it for me while we were still…together.”

  This time the lack of enthusiasm in the slanting eyes was overt.

  Uh-oh. The woman in the newspaper photo. The daughter of the wealthy benefactor. And obviously one of Rafiq’s former loves. “Oh.”

  Two of the group hurriedly excused themselves. Tiffany said something meaningless to the woman on the other side of Shenilla—then discovered it was Dr. Farouk, the doctor she and Rafiq had visited about DNA testing. A quick glance showed no sign of Rafiq.

  Thrown to the lions—or in this case the lioness.

  The image brought no amusement.

  A waiter appeared and murmured something in the doctor’s ear.

  Dr. Farouk gave Tiffany an apologetic look. “Excuse me, duty calls—one of the older women is feeling breathless. I must check on her.”

  Left alone with Shenilla, Tiffany considered her next move.

  She had to admit to a certain curiosity. This must surely be one of the women whom Rafiq had loved—then fallen out of love with. The woman was incredibly beautiful, with a regal elegance that made it obvious why Rafiq had picked her. Of course her father’s wealth would’ve made her a good match, too. Tiffany was instantly conscious of the differences between them. This woman’s hair was restrained in a smooth knot, her slanting eyes heavily outlined with kohl.

  “Rafiq grows tired of all his women.”

  Tiffany started to object to being referred to as one of Rafiq’s women, to point out she was his wife, but the sheen of moisture coating Shenilla’s eyes stopped her.

  “I was so certain I would be the one he married. Two years of my life I gave him, hoping every day that he would ask me to be his wife. Instead, not long before he went off to negotiate that hotel deal in Hong Kong, he invited me and my parents out to dinner and told us that our relationship was over.” Shenilla swiped her fingertips under her bottom lashes. “I’m sorry, I must be embarrassing you.”

  Sympathy swept Tiffany, along with another sharp, piercing unidentified emotion. Rafiq had told her that it was the pressure from his family, from the woman and her family, that drove him to break off his relationships. Shenilla had just confirmed it.

  “Not at all.” She touched the other woman’s arm. “You will find someone.”

  Shenilla sniffed, then nodded. “You are kind. I hope you will not suffer the same hurt, too.”

  Tiffany wanted to reassure her, tell her she’d been immunized against love a long time ago…but a painful tightness in the vicinity of her heart stopped her. Rafiq was nothing like her father.

  “The only comfort I can offer you is that Rafiq is reputed to be faithful while the relationship lasts. A code with him. But there is always the knowledge that one day it will end.” Shenilla gave a watery smile. “Although it must be different for you, as he loved you enough to marry you.”

  Before Tiffany could blurt out that he didn’t love her, a hand settled on her waist.

  “I see you have met Shenilla.” There was a dangerous note in her husband’s liquid voice.

  Tiffany slid him a sideways glance, and caught the edge in his examination of his former lover.

  “We’re admiring each other’s dresses.” Then she remembered Rafiq had picked out the other woman’s dress, and added hurriedly, “And comparing style notes. Shenilla was saying that black is one of her favorite colors.”

  Shenilla shot her a grateful look.

  Rafiq pulled her closer to his side. Tiffany suppressed the fierce urge to move away. Couldn’t he see the pain he was causing Shenilla? Was he so insensitive? No, he wasn’t obtuse. He was doing it deliberately, warning the other woman that he would stand no threat to Tiffany.

  She didn’t know whether to hug him or scold him for his protectiveness. For the sake of Shenilla’s pride, she decided to pretend she hadn’t noticed, and continued chatting about the latest fall fashions, while Rafiq vibrated with tension beside her.

  A mix of emotions rattled her. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to kiss him. What on earth was wrong with her?

  He tilted his head sideways, and gave her a smile. Her heart rolled over.

  Oh, no. Please. Anything but that.

  Fall
ing for Rafiq was the dumbest thing she could do. Already he’d been pressured by circumstance—and by a need to legitimize their child—to marry her. She’d unwittingly caught him in exactly the kind of trap that he’d avoided so assiduously all his life.

  How could he feel anything but resentment toward her?

  Thirteen

  The intrusive ring of her cell phone woke Tiffany several mornings later.

  Rolling over, she groped with one hand for the bedside table, and the ringing stopped.

  With a groan she sat up. The first thing she realized was that the morning roller-coaster ride that her stomach had been on for weeks seemed to be over. The second was that the sound of running water meant Rafiq was in the shower in the adjoining bathroom. He hadn’t yet gone to work. Checking the missed call, Tiffany recognized her mother’s cell phone number. She hit Redial.

  What could be wrong?

  “Darling, where are you staying?” Her mother’s voice sounded surprisingly clear.

  Tiffany tried to collect her thoughts. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re here. In Dhahara.”

  “We?”

  “Your father and I.”

  Tiffany stomach bottomed out, and she squeezed her eyes shut in horror.

  “Where?”

  “At the airport. We’re about to catch a cab to come and see you.”

  No!

  She heard the glass door click as Rafiq opened it. Any moment he’d be back in the bedroom. He knew she missed her mother; he’d said she needed to reconcile with her father. Had he arranged this?

  “Mom—”

  “There were photos of you all over the front page of the national newspaper that we were given in the airplane. But we couldn’t understand a word of the story.”

  Darn it.

  “Why is Dad with you?”