by Laura Wright
“I Have Made A Promise To You,” Sakir Whispered.
“I know,” Rita said breathlessly. “I’m not afraid of this happening.”
On a growl, Sakir rolled, was poised atop her in seconds. “It is the need for you that I fear. There is such desperation running through my blood.”
“What are you desperate for?” she asked him.
“I have wanted you since the day we met. I want you now.”
Rita couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her illusive fantasy was admitting that he wanted her.
Was it the magic of the desert that had spurred this on?
She pressed her hips up. “Take me, then.”
“And tomorrow?” he asked, his gaze steady but passion filled.
“I won’t question tomorrow. We’ll leave whatever happens between us right here.”
Sakir didn’t move for a moment, then he lowered his face to hers. “It is impossible.”
She wasn’t sure what he was referring to. She didn’t know, didn’t care. “Impossible, probably. But inescapable, I think.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another fabulous month at Silhouette Desire, where we offer you the best in passionate, powerful and provocative love stories. You’ll want to delve right in to our latest DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS title with Anne Marie Winston’s highly dramatic The Enemy’s Daughter—you’ll never guess who the latest Danforth bachelor has gotten involved with! And the steam continues to rise when Annette Broadrick returns to the Desire line with a brand-new series, THE CRENSHAWS OF TEXAS. These four handsome brothers will leave you breathless, right from the first title, Branded.
Read a Silhouette Desire novel from his point of view in our new promotion MANTALK. Eileen Wilks continues this series with her highly innovative and intensely emotional story Meeting at Midnight. Kristi Gold continues her series THE ROYAL WAGER with another confirmed bachelor about to meet his match in Unmasking the Maverick Prince. How comfortable can A Bed of Sand be? Well, honey, if you’re lying on it with the hero of Laura Wright’s latest novel…who cares! And the always enjoyable Roxanne St. Claire, whom Publishers Weekly calls “an author who’s on the fast track to making her name a household one,” is scorching up the pages with The Fire Still Burns.
Happy reading,
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
A Bed of Sand
LAURA WRIGHT
Books by Laura Wright
Silhouette Desire
Cinderella & the Playboy #1451
Hearts Are Wild #1469
Baby & the Beast #1482
Charming the Prince #1492
Sleeping with Beauty #1510
Ruling Passions #1536
Locked Up with a Lawman #1553
Redwolf’s Woman #1582
A Bed of Sand #1607
LAURA WRIGHT
has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811, Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at [email protected].
To all my fellow romance readers
who love a tall, dark and sexy sheikh…
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Prologue
There is a place in the northern desert of Joona where a man can race his stallion straight into the coming sunset. A place where amber veins run through pale sand like a thousand snakes beneath your feet, and white rocks rise straight up into a seamless blue sky. A place where the air is scented with heat and spicy wild brush, and the gods—the watchers of this land—stand erect in their sacred pools and welcome all those who risk so much in coming here.
This place is Emand.
An ancient land, rich with oil, beautiful valleys and vast cultures. But a land great with sorrow and bitter hearts.
This land bore three sons before claiming their father. Though broken in spirit, the eldest son understood his position and remained in his homeland to rule. The younger son, destined to follow his great father, surrendered to the gods at just fifteen years of age. And the second son, Sheikh Sakir Ibn Yousef Al-Nayhal, left his home in search of his soul. But what he found instead were the strange deserts of Texas and the emptiness of a man who belonged nowhere and to no one.
One
“What a waste,” Rita Thompson muttered, taking one last look at herself in the full-length mirror.
It was all there. Everything to be admired in a late-summer bride. Killer white dress—strapless, of course—white satin sandals to give her a little height, tulle veil to cover her anxious expression and a classy French manicure on both fingers and toes.
Fabulous.
And she hadn’t forgotten those simple traditions of a bride-to-be either. She’d assigned her eyes as the sacred “something blue” and her sister’s pearl earrings as the “something borrowed.” But when it came to the “something new,” she’d decided to pass.
Hey, she’d foot the bill for this entire ceremony and the “I’m-really-sorry-about-deceiving-all-of you” reception afterward. She wasn’t about to pay for anything else. Especially for herself.
She grimaced at her wedding-white reflection. “Maybe someday, kid. If you’re lucky.”
“If who’s lucky?”
Rita turned, saw her dad in the doorway of the Paradise Lake Lodge, looking very dapper in his dove-gray suit and matching boots. “Me. I’m lucky. Got a great family and I’m not too shy to say it.”
“Rita, darlin’,” he said, walking toward her, “you’ve never been too shy for anything.”
A deep pang of guilt invaded Rita’s heart as her father stood before her, his eyes so kind and loving. She’d never lied to him before. Sure, she’d omitted certain things as a rowdy teenager, but this situation was entirely different.
She’d directly deceived him.
A cold knot formed in her stomach. Hopefully he’d understand why she’d gone to all the trouble of faking her engagement and marriage, and forgive her.
“You look very handsome, Dad.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” Ben Thompson grinned and poked out his elbow in her direction. “Ready to be escorted down the aisle, beautiful lady?”
Though a little forced, she returned his smile and slipped her arm through his. “As I’ll ever be.”
Her father squeezed her to him, then a sudden seriousness crept into his tone. “You’re sure about this, right?”
She swallowed hard. “Of course.”
He shrugged, said, “Alrighty,” then led her down the Lodge steps and out into the glorious sunshine and easy lake breeze.
“You know,” he continued, obviously undeterred by her assurances of pr
emarital happiness. “I tried to have a little talk with your intended, but he hadn’t arrived as yet. Cutting it pretty close, isn’t he?”
“He’s a very busy man.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t like it.” He led her toward the lakeside where fifty or so guests sat in white chairs facing a lacy canopy. “Not the best way to start off with a new family.”
“Don’t worry. He’s wonderful, Dad—and he’ll be here.” Interesting, she mused. She sounded completely convincing. Just the way a woman ready to take the plunge with the man of her dreams would sound.
Well, the dreams part was actually pretty accurate. She’d had a serious crush on her boss, Sheikh Sakir Al-Nayhal, for close to three years now. He was intelligent, intense and over-the-top sexy.
Her type in a nutshell.
But alas, the man didn’t even know she was alive—below the neck, at any rate.
Rita was the best at what she did, an assistant to die for, and Sakir treated her as such, with the utmost respect. But he never looked at her as anything more than a highly competent business associate. At least, he’d never shown any signs of interest. No requests to stay late for work—unless, of course, it really was for work. No lengthy glances at her legs or a knowing smile when she’d worn something just a little bit revealing to work, hoping he’d notice.
Of course, that lack of interest—though thoroughly depressing for her as a woman—was exactly why she’d chosen him as her mock fiancé. Well, that and the fact that he rarely came to Paradise and was just this minute having a business lunch with Harvey Arnold in Boston—a lunch she’d set up two months ago.
“I still can’t believe we haven’t met him.” Her father sighed as they reached the little staging area several yards from the altar. “It’s not right.”
“Save your breath, Dad.” Ava, Rita’s older sister, sidled up to them, looking like a goddess in her pale pink satin bridesmaid dress. “Rita knows what she’s doing.”
“Listen to my matron of honor, Dad.”
“Maid of honor,” Ava corrected her with a smile. “For three more weeks, anyway.”
Rita glanced past her sister to a gorgeous Cheyenne man sitting near the altar. His grandmother, Muna, was on his right and his newly found daughter sat perched like a happy little bird on his lap. Rita smiled, felt a deep sense of peace. She’d really done it. This little bit of deceit had been worth everything. Ava was back with the man she loved, their daughter finally had a father and a loving family, and the marriage that should’ve, but never had, happened four years ago was now just weeks away.
Rita gave her father’s arm a squeeze. “Let’s get this party started.”
“Just waiting on the groom, daughter.”
Rita mentally rolled her eyes. “He’ll be coming out with the preacher.”
Or not.
Her father led her to within feet of the white carpet stretched out over the grass, the carpet that led straight to the altar. Several of the guests turned and saw her, then quickly dropped into a low hush. Beside her, the string quartet sat at attention, ready to play.
Rita took a deep breath, released it, and clenched her fists around her sweaty palms. All she wanted to do was get this over with, get jilted and get going, off to New Orleans for beignets and Hurricanes.
“There’s Reverend Chapman,” Ava whispered from beside her.
“Where?” their father asked.
“Right there, Dad. He’s—” Ava stopped short.
“Holy hell,” Ben said, his eyes narrowed.
Nerves punched in Rita’s blood.
“He’s alone,” Ben whispered. “What the devil is going on—”
“Dad, please.” Ava touched her sister’s shoulder, squeezed.
Rita lifted her chin. She was ready to hear the cheerless whispers of her friends and family as they realized her fiancé wasn’t coming. She was ready to blush and force a few tears.
She was ready to flee in shame.
Then suddenly her gaze caught on a decidedly male figure, proud as a prince and dressed in a white caftan striding across the grass toward the lonely Reverend Chapman.
Rita’s heart jolted, and she felt as weak as one of the reeds blowing against the lake’s surface.
This wasn’t possible. Not possible.
But then again, there he was.
Her boss, her fictional fiancé and her bone-melting crush, Sakir Al-Nayhal had arrived.
Uninvited and totally unabashed.
With her heart fluttering somewhere between her chest and her white satin sandals, Rita watched him walk, stared as he came to stand at the altar, tall, broad and desperately gorgeous, his dark skin eating up the paleness of his caftan.
Then he turned and looked down the aisle, looked straight at Rita, his dark green eyes and firm, sensual mouth humorless.
Rita swallowed hard as her mind raced and the world spun.
Sakir arched an eyebrow, thrust out a hand toward her as if commanding her to come to him.
“Wow,” Ava said beside her. “I hadn’t expected him to be so…”
Panic welling in her throat, Rita cursed under her breath and muttered, “And I hadn’t expected him—period.”
Two
Sakir studied her closely, wondering if she would turn around and run from him and from this place.
But escape was not in this woman’s nature, he believed. Rita Thompson was the only woman he knew who walked straight into conflict and faced it head-on. She relished the opportunity to fight for what she wanted and continually asked to be challenged. These were the primary reasons he had hired her to begin with, and why he had insisted she work with him on all projects.
But he was not looking for conflict from the beautiful woman before him—not today.
He was here on a matter of business.
He needed Rita Thompson to marry him, and although this wedding day had started as a charade, he would go to any lengths to make certain it ended in a legal union.
The quartet to Rita’s right began a soft, simple rendition of The Wedding March. The light sound filled the air around them all, causing the crowd to hush and rise to its feet.
Rita continued to stare at him, confusion and panic flashing in her spectacular blue eyes. Then, just as he wondered if perhaps she might surprise him and turn and leave, she blew out a breath, picked up the skirt of her gown and walked toward him.
Sakir watched her hips sway with the movement, watched her breasts—full and pale under the bright sun—rise and fall.
Why must the woman look so beautiful?
Over the last few years, he had rarely allowed himself the pleasure of watching Rita Thompson. She was his employee. And very valuable to him, in that respect. He would do nothing to risk losing her.
But there were times, at night, in his bed when he thought of this woman in ways and in positions he knew he should not. There were times when he could not help but wonder how her mouth would taste, how her sweet curves would feel beneath him, how she would turn wild in his arms as he raked his hands up her back, up her neck until his fingers threaded deep into her long tawny hair.
Sakir felt need in his groin and a surge of possessiveness in his gut, but thrust both aside. This was how he always felt when he was near her—just as he always forced himself to respond with cool indifference.
Rita was his assistant, the one woman he trusted and relied upon above all others. No matter how strong his desire for her, he knew he must suppress it in order to keep her, for a woman rebuffed—as she would most surely be in time—would certainly leave his employ straightaway.
Sakir stood tall as she approached him with an uneasy expression. The music gracefully fell away and he reached for her hand. But, as he expected, Rita was not to be appeased. She raised a severe brow at him and kept her arms stiffly at her sides.
Her chin set, she turned to Reverend Chapman. “I need to speak to my…fiancé for a minute.”
“Now?” the man asked, his mouth creased into a frown.
Rita nodded, said firmly, “Now.” She then faced Sakir and through gritted teeth, whispered, “Can we talk, please?”
This was the woman he knew. Sakir suppressed a grin. Rita Thompson would not enter into anything without a discussion, and it pleased him to know that even in matters such as these she was a cool thinker.
He nodded. “Of course.” And again, offered her his hand.
But she looked at his hand as if it were a venomous spider and didn’t touch him. She turned to her father, sister and the crowd and said calmly, “If you will excuse us for a moment.”
Clearly, the guests were stunned, and no doubt intrigued, by this strange turn of events, but Sakir saw that Rita was too preoccupied to notice. She was gone from his side in a flash, hurrying down to the water’s edge. She was already pacing back and forth by the time Sakir joined her.
But when he did, she whirled on him and flipped her veil over her head. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His voice remained low, calm. “Should I not be asking you the very same question?”
She avoided this. “You’re supposed to be in Boston.”
“When I had heard I was to marry, I returned home at once.”
Her gaze flickered to the grassy wetness beneath her feet, her teeth tugged at her lower lip.
He shrugged. “I thought it appropriate to attend my own wedding ceremony.”
Again, she whizzed past the central question of the morning. “So, who squealed on me? Sasha? No, I’ll bet it was Greg. He was always a butt-kisser.”
“This does not matter, Rita.”
“It does to me—”
“It is a policy of mine to know what my employees are doing. At all times. Especially when I am involved in what they are doing.”
She narrowed her eyes, stepped closer to him. “Are you spying on me, Sakir?”
The sweet, honey scent of her stroked his senses and he felt the urge to take her in his arms and make love to her mouth. But he would not. “No, I am not spying on you. But it seems I would have good reason in doing so.”