Her Desert Prince

by Rebecca Winters

  “Those are going to feel good. You were right. It’s already getting chilly.” While they were watering the horses she said, “Are we going to make a fire?”

  “No. It would spoil the effect.”

  “What effect?”

  “Moonlight. The essential ingredient to bring the garden to life. Didn’t Mustafa tell you?”

  “No,” came her subdued response.

  But someone else had.

  “In the beginning, our tribe worshipped the moon god because they were a pastoral people who kept watch over their flocks at night. This garden you’re going to see represents the moon god’s abode. It’s a sacred place and ancient as time itself. The nearby oasis is the moon god’s gift to the tribe to make sure there’s an abundance of water to keep it green year-round. The palace was built there for that reason.”

  “What a fascinating story. Thank you for enlightening me.”

  For a long time she’d been playing her game with the expertise of a master, but once she saw the garden, he would bring it to an end. In a lithe movement he pulled a little pouch out of his saddlebag and handed it to her. “Here. Have some qandi.”

  “What is that?”

  “Candy. You Americans borrowed the word.”

  He felt her smile as she dipped her hand inside and withdraw some sugar-coated almonds. “Um. These are delicious.” She took a few and gave him back the bag. He tossed several in his mouth before putting it inside the opening of the tent.

  Rashad glanced up at the eastern sky. While they’d been busy, the moon had been making her ascent. It was time. “Walk with me up to the curl of the dune.” He reached for her hand. As their fingers entwined, he felt that same quickening in his blood, but it was much stronger than on the day of the sandstorm.

  With each step of their short trek, he realized he’d been tempting fate all along. It was far too late to turn back now. He didn’t want to. In fact no power could make him. That was the terrifying part.

  Lauren’s grandmother had told her that the sheikh had taken her to the Garden of the Moon, but she’d only talked to her about Malik and what had happened with him, not about the garden itself.

  When they reached the edge and Lauren looked down, she could never have conceived of the sight that met her eyes. The man at her side squeezed her hand tighter, conveying emotion she thought she understood, but still waters ran deep inside him.

  A drastic change had occurred in the landscape. The dune served as an escarpment. Below she saw fantastic formations laid out so perfectly, she let out a cry of astonishment. They looked like huge, fat topiary trees, the kind you see in the parterre gardens of the Orangerie at Versailles in France. Only they were made of sand sculpted by strange wind currents favoring this particular area of the dunes.

  She was so staggered, it took her a long time to take it all in. Finally she exhaled a breath. “This is the most extraordinary, beautiful, out-of-this-world sight I’ll ever see in my lifetime. No wonder your tribe has always held this spot sacred. So do I,” she whispered.

  It explained the half moon on the medallion King Malik had given her grandmother. Everything made sense. Her hand went automatically to her throat to feel it, forgetting it was no longer there. The same wind that had torn it off her had carved this monument. There were forces here she didn’t understand. Hairs lifted on her arms that had nothing to do with the chill of the night.

  “Cold?” he inquired in a quiet voice, never letting go of her hand.

  She was running hot and cold at the same time. “Yes.”

  “It’s late. You go back to the tent. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Her pulse quickened as she started back. Already the wind, dancing about, had erased the footprints they’d made coming up. It is written in the wind was a phrase she’d heard many times. Now she understood what it meant.

  The wind had changed her life. She wasn’t the same woman who’d flown to El-Joktor on a quest to know more about her grandfather. That woman had been buried in the sand. After her body had been transported to Al-Shafeeq, a new woman had been brought back to life by forces greater than she knew, by a man greater than any other.

  Taking advantage of being alone, she lifted the tent flap and tossed her cloak inside, then went around the back. When she’d refreshed herself, she moved to the front and sat down inside the doorway to pull off her boots. After she’d held them over the sand and tipped them upside down, she emptied her socks and stashed everything in a corner with her cloak.

  The wind blew enough that she lowered the flap to keep out the sand. It was pitch-dark inside, but she loved it. Still in her jeans and cotton top, she picked her side and climbed under one of the puffy quilts. Tucking the nearest pillow beneath her head, she lay there and waited while he did whatever needed doing to make their camp secure.

  Soon she saw a small glow and watched his shadow as he moved about. After a few minutes the flap went up. He’d lit a lantern beneath an overhang with sides that prevented the wind from coming in. He set it on a rug he’d rolled out. Next to it sat a bowl of water and a pile of hand towels. He’d already removed his cloak and boots.

  Her gaze flew to his in surprise. The black fires in his eyes started her body trembling. She lay there entranced. “Are you thirsty?”

  “A little.”

  He handed her the water bag. After she’d drunk from it, he put his mouth to the same place and drank. The gesture wasn’t wasted on her. She watched the way the cords worked in his throat. His male beauty captivated her.

  “Hand me your boots. I’ll put them with mine.” She did his bidding. “Now stretch your hands toward me.”

  She got to her knees and put out her hands. He knelt before her and dipped a towel in the water before washing them. The water was warm and scented with the faint fragrance of rose.

  No one had ever washed her hands for her before. When he reached for another towel, she got a fluttery feeling in her chest. This time he began washing her face. With slow gentle strokes he covered her forehead and cheeks, her nose and mouth. With the tenderest of touches he wiped her neck and throat, even her ears.

  Once he put the towel aside, she took a clean one. Imitating his actions, she washed his hands and forearms, wanting to bring him the same exquisite pleasure. His body was a miracle to her. She relished being able to touch him like this.

  Another dip in the water and she was able to bathe his face to her heart’s content, from his widow’s peak to the crease in his bold chin. He’d shaved before coming. She marveled over his incredible olive skin burnished by the elements. His black eyebrows were beautifully shaped. His nose—every bold, rugged feature—was perfect to her.

  Then there was his mouth. Like the mesmerizing dunes, its shape changed with his mood. Hard, soft, brooding, compelling. Sensuous. She put the towel aside, needing to feel it beneath hers. She ran her thumb across it, aching with need.

  “Oh, Rafi,” her voice shook. “If you don’t kiss me again, I think I’m going to die.”

  “I’ve already died several deaths because of you,” he whispered against her lips. “What a perfect mouth you have. I came close to eating you alive at the cabaret. That’s why I forced us to leave. I didn’t trust myself.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and began with a series of light kisses he pressed to all the places he’d washed, barely grazing her mouth.

  She wasn’t satisfied and protested with a moan. “Don’t tease me. I can’t take it.”

  “Then show me what you want,” he said in a voice of velvet.

  “You know what I want. This.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his mouth with her own, not allowing him any hiding place. A profound hunger had grown inside her. She was after his soul and his mouth was the conduit.

  “Lauren—” he cried her name. His hands roamed her back and waist, drawing her into him as they drank both deeper and deeper. Her passion for him was so intense, her body quivered.

  He lay her back down and followe
d her, giving her the kiss she’d been dying for. He was starving for her, too. She knew he was, but after a few minutes she seemed to be doing most of the work.

  While the cold wind blew against the tent, a fire roared inside her. Her body, her senses yearned for him. Every kiss had grown more intoxicating, yet she felt he was still holding back and couldn’t understand it. Was something wrong?

  “I want you, Rafi, and know you want me. I want you to love me all night,” she cried from the depths of her being. “What’s stopping you? Have I grown less desirable?”

  “No.” He sounded so distant. How could that be when only a little while ago he’d washed her hands and face in a ceremony so erotic, she would never be the same again. “You’re infinitely desirable and you know it.”

  “Then—”

  “Tell me who you are, Lauren Viret,” he broke in.

  “Who am I?” she whispered dazedly. She didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  “The Garden of the Moon is a sacred place of the royal family no one knows about, yet you admit you had knowledge of it before you came here. You claim that it was Mustafa who informed you. But if that’s really true, then he will have to be punished.”

  “What?” Her intoxication had been so complete, she could scarcely comprehend he’d brought an end to their rapture. She sat up to clear her head.

  “Mustafa knows there’s a penalty for divulging that information.”

  “No—” she cried out, putting her hands on his arm. “He wasn’t the person who told me. I swear it! He’s a good man who saved me from the storm.”

  Rashad raised up on one elbow. That mouth she loved had tightened to a thin line. She felt his body go rigid beneath her fingers. “Who then?”

  He was deadly serious, sending her into shock. “Someone else told me about it.”

  “Was it Prince Faisal?”

  At the mention of the name, she drew in a surprised breath.

  “You do know him—” Suddenly Rafi sat up and became the forbidding chief of security.

  “No—” she cried, shaking her head.

  His hands circled her arms. “Don’t lie to me, Lauren.”

  She could hardly swallow. “I’m not, but I did recognize the name just now. Paul, the man who wanted to marry me, told me he’d met a minor prince from the northern Arabian kingdom at the casino in Montreux. He’d said his name was Faisal.”

  “When was this?”

  “A month ago, maybe less. He got an interview with him and some pictures.”

  “Go on.”

  Lauren moistened her lips nervously. “There isn’t much to tell except that he told Paul there were photographic opportunities in the Nafud where he would rule supreme one day. When Paul came back to the apartment, he begged to come with me to the desert, but I’d already told him no. Why did you bring up his name to me?”

  Lines bracketed Rafi’s mouth. “He’s the son of King Umar’s brother, a man out to cause trouble within the Shafeeq family. It’s no secret he intends to become king when King Umar dies.”

  “But King Umar has a son! Princess Farah said he would be king some day.”

  “Yes. But that won’t stop Faisal from staging a coup.” Rafi let go of her arms. “He’s waiting for news of the king’s illness and how close he is to death, but his informers can’t get into the palace. Since you refuse to tell me the name of the person who told you about the Garden of the Moon, I made an assumption that there was a connection between you and Faisal. Only a handful of people know about the Garden of the Moon.”

  “You think I’m a spy?”

  His eyes glittered dangerously. “Given the facts, what am I supposed to think?”

  She couldn’t believe this conversation was taking place. “The person who told me about the garden is dead now.”

  “If you’re not working for Faisal, then what’s the real reason you’ve come to Al-Shafeeq?”

  “I’ve already told you,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yes, but how do I know you were telling me the truth?” Lauren moaned. Don’t ask me any more questions. She knew he was only doing his duty for King Umar, but it hurt her so badly she didn’t want to talk anymore. He was torturing her. “Why don’t you answer me?”

  “With your intelligence-gathering team, it would be a simple matter to find out.” She was getting in too deep and wanted to howl because it seemed her night of ecstasy wasn’t going to happen.

  “You lied about Mustafa. Why?”

  Help. “To protect someone.” Me. My grandfather. The royal family.

  “You refuse to tell me who it is?”

  “I can’t tell you,” she cried in anguish. “Have you never made a promise to someone you swore to keep to the death?”

  He examined her upturned face, searching for any sign of weakness. After a tension-filled silence he said, “One.”

  “So have I, Rafi. One promise in the whole of my life. I can’t break it, not even for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it could hurt certain people.” She drew in a fortifying breath before removing her hands to hug her upraised knees. “Believing that I have lied to you all along, why did you bring me here?”

  “To uncover your secret.” His voice sounded like the lash of a whip.

  “I see.” Her heart almost failed her. “Thank you for being honest with me. I thought you wanted to make love to me.”

  “I do.”

  “I wanted it, too,” her voice throbbed, “more than anything you could imagine. But this thing is between us now. I can’t get past it.”

  “You lived with it before I asked for the truth,” he reminded her. That tone of mockery was back.

  “I know this won’t help, but I’m going to say it anyway. The person who told me about the garden didn’t know this place was sacred. Now that you’ve explained, I’ll make you a promise. No one will ever hear about it from me. When I fly away from Al-Shafeeq, the desert wind will sweep all memories from my mind.”

  She moved away from him and pulled the quilt over her. Beyond tears, she clutched the pillow, praying for sleep to come and bring this bittersweet night to a close.

  Outside the tent she heard movement. She could have sworn he said something to the horses, then the light went out. While she lay there holding herself taut, he got in beside her, rustling her covers. He reached over and rolled her into him.

  “After being outside, I need your warmth.” His mouth descended once more. It was a kiss hot with desire.

  Her body quivered before she tore her lips from his and buried her face against his throat. “It’s too late. I’m a liar. You hate me for it.”

  “I would love to hate you,” his voice grated, running his hands through her blond silk curls. He wrapped his arms around her. “Your body gives off heat like a furnace. Lucky is the man who warms himself next to you. I’m looking forward to holding you all night.”

  Being in his arms like this was divine torture. “I’m not going to ask about the women in your life because we’ve already had that discussion.”

  “You have an excellent memory.” She felt his lips kiss her hair and brows. “What will you do when you’re back in Geneva?”

  “I’m not sure.” The idea of going to America and starting a new life sounded absurd now. In fact, the thought of leaving this tent was anathema to her.

  “Have you no relatives to go to?”

  “No. My parents died six months after I was born.” Ask me to stay, Rafi, and I will. “But I have friends and plenty of money from my grandmother.”

  “Tell me how she came by her money.”

  “She was a Melrose from New York. They were in the manufacturing business and they made a fortune before they sold the company, granting my grandmother an income for life. Did I tell you she was a fabulous horsewoman?”

  “She taught you well. You ride like one of my countrymen.”

  “I believe you just paid me a compliment.” She would always cherish it. “In New York,
we rode all the time and traveled everywhere together. She willed me everything including the apartment in Montreux.”

  “Why Switzerland?”

  “Because it’s so beautiful. Have you ever been there?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I’d known you sooner, I would have invited you to the apartment. I can tell you’re a horse lover. My grandmother would have loved talking horses with you.”

  His hands stopped roving over her back. “How do you know about my love of them?”

  “I see the special way you care for them. A little while ago I heard you talking to them outside. There’s a bond some people have with their horses. My mother had that same bond. She and my grandmother were very close. Now they’re all buried next to each other in Montreux.”

  “That’s where your roots are.”

  Some of them.

  “I was born in New York, but we left for Switzerland when I was a child. I suppose that when I go back, I’ll finish working on Richard Bancroft’s journals. One day they’ll be ready for the publisher.”

  “The way you refer to him, I take it Richard wasn’t your grandfather.”

  She swallowed hard. “No.”

  “Then who was your mother’s father?”

  “That was my grandmother’s secret.” Like grandmother, like granddaughter. “Celia came from a time when you didn’t talk about certain things.” Lauren had already told him much more than she should have. “Goodnight, Rafi.”

  When she tried to turn away, he kept her held against him and locked his legs around hers. She was so on fire for him, she was afraid she’d stay awake the rest of the night. But she hadn’t counted on how wonderful it was to lie in his arms where she could feel his heart pounding against hers. He was a bastion of safety. The sense of being protected came as a revelation. She nestled closer to him and knew nothing more until the smell of coffee brought her awake.

  Lauren sat up with a start because Rafi wasn’t still holding her. Outside the tent, the sky was blue. Inside was warm. She didn’t need her covers. No telling how long the sun had been up.

  “Rafi?” She hurriedly reached for her socks and boots and put them on. He’d already been doing housekeeping chores. She wanted to help.