A Bed of Sand

by Laura Wright

  Frustration Sakir also felt, in mind and in body.

  His wife…

  When they had met in the hall earlier, walked to the car together and took their respective seats inside the limousine, Sakir had made every attempt to keep his gaze from moving over the woman across from him. But at this moment, he felt compelled by some scheming force of nature to take in every inch of her.

  Minus the frown, she looked extraordinarily beautiful. She wore a bright blue dress, simple and tasteful, the silk fabric falling softly over her amazing curves. Her hair was pulled back in a pretty bun at her neck, and her skin glowed with health and the fire of a woman whose needs had yet to be met.

  His wife.

  At that moment, it was a monumental offense that she was not.

  He eased out of her complicated question with a comment of his own. “You are angry with me, I know.”

  She chuckled. “You’re quick.”

  The sarcasm in her voice caused the edges of Sakir’s mouth to flicker with amusement. He liked her defiance. He was so accustomed to being catered to and flattered at every turn that he had always appreciated Rita’s blunt and spirited attitude. Yes, he liked her fire. Now, if he could only stoke the fire within her in the way he wished.

  “You are upset with me for not being at breakfast this morning?” he said. “It could not be helped. I was working and—”

  “You are really arrogant, you know that, Sakir?”

  “Yes, I do, but to what do you refer?”

  She released an irritated sigh. “This isn’t about breakfast. This is about last night—”

  A rush of need moved through him as he recalled their kiss, her body, his arousal, last night. “Ah, I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  “The kiss, yes?”

  “No, Your Highness—the promise.”

  Sakir paused. “I do not understand, Rita.”

  She leaned back against the seat, crossed one long, smooth leg over the other. “We agreed to rules. You set them up, Sakir. Don’t you remember?”

  Of course he remembered. Back in the States when he had honor and a clear head, and no beautiful wife in his bed, he had made those rules.

  His jaw tight, Sakir muttered, “I remember.”

  Tossing her hands up, Rita said, “Then what the hell happened?”

  Sakir just stared at her. For the first time in his life, he was without words. Well, not exactly. He had the words, but they were the wrong ones. These words would get him into trouble. How could he explain his actions? Was it wise to admit the truth? That he wanted her and could not control himself? That for the first time in his life he did not want to be in control around a woman—around her? That this is why he had taken her in his arms last night, kissed her like a starving man and forgotten the rules that he himself had set down as law?

  She was watching him, her fiery blue eyes digging into his mind, his soul.

  He inclined his head. “Again, I apologize for my behavior last night, and for breaking our agreement. It will not happen again.”

  She shook her head. “That’s no explanation, Sakir.”

  Yes, he knew that. But he also knew that he could not tell her that, just as her mouth had called to him last night, it was actually driving him mad this very minute. He could not tell her that his body craved her almost to the point of pain, that he would bound across the limousine floor, strip her bare and make love to her right now in the light of day if she gave him any sign that she was interested.

  Such erotic thoughts had his gut tight and his heart thudding hard and fast against the wall of his chest as the limousine slowed and then stopped.

  “We will talk more of this later,” he said, forcing back the raging need that was attempting to consume him whole. He gestured to the window. “We are here.”

  Nine

  Rita had loved the Food Network ever since she’d gotten cable one year ago back in Paradise. Friday nights would bring her adventures from Rome, with the best of wine, cheese and pasta, or from Madrid, with seafood paella and Asturian cider, or closer to home, from Chicago, Italian beef sandwiches with all the trimmings.

  But her travels only consisted of those through the “boob tube,” as her mother had called it, so she’d never felt a part of the experience—never smelled the smells, tasted the wares.

  Today, she had stepped into a real live Food Network episode.

  Stretched out before her was a glorious marketplace. Under the warm sun and the shade of many vibrant-colored tents, men and women sold fresh vegetables and fruits, breads and succulent meats cooking on spits. They barked at each other, bargained for the best price and then exchanged money and a smile before going on their way.

  And in the middle of it all, in the center of so much activity, heat and killer scents, was a decadent red and gold tent with the flag of Emand whipping animatedly at its roof.

  “Let us walk,” Sakir said from beside her. Then he took her hand and led her from the car into the marketplace.

  As they approached, as the royal guards led them closer to the tent, the people stopped what they were doing and looked over at them. For several moments, neither prince nor people said or did anything. Both seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Rita wasn’t at all sure what that was. She was about to ask Sakir when he suddenly raised his hand high in the air.

  The crowd hushed.

  Then Sakir called out to them. Rita didn’t understand what he was saying, as it was in Arabic, but it seemed to please the people of Emand very much. When Sakir had finished speaking and his hand had returned to his side, the hands of his people rose to the heavens, followed by joyful shouts and hoots and whirls of sound.

  “They welcome us,” Sakir said and then turned to Rita. “They welcome you.”

  Rita glanced up at Sakir. His expression was stately and impassive, but his eyes shone brilliantly. He looked extraordinarily handsome and so princely in his white caftan with gold trim. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking and feeling at that moment as his people cheered him, but she didn’t have the chance as he took her hand once again and led her away from the crowd and into the tent.

  Once there, Rita’s mouth literally dropped open.

  She hadn’t known what to expect from a welcome-to-the-family type meal from Sakir’s people—but certainly not something as lavish and…well, as sensual as what was laid out before her.

  Handmade carpets, that in any auction house would surely sell for an astronomical price, covered the floor, their medallion patterns set in bright blues, red and browns, accented with silk. There were pillows strewn everywhere in every color, silk with delicate hand embroidery. To her right stood a buffet-like table of solid gold, laden with trays of food and drink. And in the center of the tent were two sumptuous gold place settings laid out on the carpet floor, with more food and more pillows to lounge upon.

  Rita shook her head, awe threading her tone. “They must care for you a great deal to do all of this.”

  “This has been done for the royal family for centuries,” Sakir informed her. “It is a show of respect, that is all.”

  “Respect. Ah, yes.” Rita sat down on the soft rug and eased herself back against one of the pillows. “Hard to believe that anyone could care about you this much, Sakir.”

  Sakir sat down beside her. “I am not looking for anyone to care for me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  His dark brows lifted. “Where would you get such an idea?”

  She shrugged. She wasn’t sure herself. Maybe it was that faraway look in his eye when his people had cheered him, or maybe it was this whole mess with Zayad, or maybe it was the way he had looked at her in the limousine when he’d refused to answer her question about last night—with such desire, yet with such conflict. “I suppose I see you differently here. You’re not as guarded in Emand as you are in Texas. Your feelings actually rise to the surface once in awhile—” she smiled “—for us common folk to see.”

 
; “It is good to see my country and my people.” He picked up some flat bread and offered it to her. “As for you being common folk—” his gaze found hers, dark and intense “—make no mistake, you are anything but that, Rita.”

  A shiver of awareness moved through Rita at his words and at his gaze. “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “Have some of this.” He placed a rich yogurt dish on a plate, followed by a few strips of meat, then handed it to her. “The meat is dried pastrami, aged well. It is delicious.”

  He was right, of course. Both dishes were wonderful, and Rita ate alongside him very happily. Fried eggplant, pumpkin salad, spicy cheese with tomatoes and onions and a tender lamb shish kebab. Everything was perfectly prepared and seasoned, and soon Rita felt quite satiated.

  “I’m surprised we’re all alone,” Rita said as she relaxed back against her pillow with a cup of Turkish coffee. “That’s a first.”

  “I asked for us to be alone, but if you wish for service it is a simple—”

  “No, no.” She smiled. “I like this.”

  He flashed her a devilish grin. “You like that I serve you, yes?”

  “Sakir, my humble servant—yes, I could get used to that.”

  His eyes darkened as he leaned toward her and whispered, “What may I do for you, Your Highness?”

  Rita fairly melted right there. This whole scene was too much. Delicious food, sensual atmosphere. Then there was the man before her, who looked too intense and too sexy, and who was acting as though he would do whatever she asked—no matter how wicked and unwise.

  What may I do for you…

  Did she dare say, “Kiss me, touch me…”

  No. Not after what had happened last night.

  When she didn’t answer him, Sakir reached behind himself and took a piece of pastry from a nearby tray. “There is another custom that must be adhered to today, in this tent.”

  Rita’s heart fell into her full stomach. “What’s that?”

  That wicked grin returned. He knew exactly what she had been thinking, imagining…hoping… “It is custom for the husband to feed his wife a piece of baklava at the end of the meal.”

  She could’ve slugged him for tormenting her so, but she fought back with words instead. “Even a royal husband?”

  “Especially a royal husband.”

  “But we aren’t ‘technically’ married. And no one is watching us, so they really wouldn’t know if we didn’t follow the custom.”

  Sakir’s gaze went dark and reckless. “Perhaps I would like to feed you.”

  Rita swallowed, her breath a little high in her throat. In the pit of her stomach, a fire raged and the blaze grew more and more out of control with every moment Sakir looked at her that way. How she would quench such an inferno, she did not know, nor did she know how to stop it from snaking lower and lower still down her body.

  Sakir held the sweet pastry to her lips. “Would you allow me?”

  What else could she do?

  She nodded.

  “Open your mouth for me,” he commanded softly.

  With her breath held and her eyelids drifting closed, she did as he asked, hoping to forget all that was behind her and all that remained to be seen and said between them.

  She waited, and when he finally placed the delicate pastry in her mouth, time slowed, sweet played her senses and heat rushed her womb.

  “Look at me, Rita.”

  Her lids fluttered open. Her heart thundered in her chest as she looked up into his handsome face. He gazed at her mouth and she silently begged him to kiss her, to run his tongue over her bottom lip and then slip deep into her mouth and make her moan with need.

  “How does it taste?” he asked, finding her gaze once again.

  “Wonderful. It’s wonderful, but…”

  “But?”

  “I want…”

  “More?”

  God help her, she nodded again.

  Pure desire raged in Sakir’s eyes, and Rita felt utterly and gleefully responsible for it. She thought of seizing his face and pulling it toward her, but Sakir was already taking the lead.

  He leaned forward, his mouth a whisper away from hers. But it wasn’t as she’d hoped. He didn’t kiss her. He stayed where he was, so close, not moving, hardly breathing.

  Then he turned his head away and cursed darkly in Arabic.

  Her body on fire, Rita forced herself to be calm—forced herself to realize the truth. Nothing had changed since last night. This fantasy moment in time that she’d just been imagining—the one with no future and no past—wouldn’t give her the kind of pleasure she’d hoped for. Sakir would not allow himself to follow the desire that thundered in his eyes. No. He just sat there, totally in control of his body and his heart, while Rita fought to hold on to the desperate yearning racing through her blood.

  “Maybe we should just toss custom right out the window,” she began tightly, “and feed ourselves the baklava?”

  Sakir nodded, his jaw tight, his lips thin. “Yes, that is one solution.”

  “You have another?”

  Again he cursed and then reached up, touched her face and brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “There is nothing I hate more than leaving you unfulfilled, Rita—” he dropped his hand “—but as you said, we made an agreement. And I must honor it, yes?”

  Rita forced herself to nod, feeling rejected, vulnerable and deeply discouraged. She would not fight him, beg him or cajole him into taking what she was so willing to give.

  With a sharp exhalation, Rita reached past him, took a slice of the baklava and, this time, fed herself.

  “Emand welcomed you and Rita with great enthusiasm today, yes?”

  Sakir shut his book with a little too much force and turned to face his brother, who was walking into the palace library where Sakir had been holed up for the last hour with dubious apathy. “They were most gracious.”

  “They have long awaited your return, Sakir.”

  “Well, I am afraid they will continue to wait, as I have not returned.”

  Zayad sighed heavily and dropped down into the leather armchair opposite Sakir. “Will you always fight me, brother?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Sakir leaned forward in his chair, his tone tight. “It takes passion to fight. I have none for you.”

  “No?” Zayad countered, his black eyes filled with indignation.

  “No.”

  “I suppose your only passion is your work, then.”

  Sakir clipped his brother a nod. “As it will always be.”

  “That is a lonely business.”

  Sakir chuckled bitterly. “You lecture me on time spent at my work? What are you but a lonely man of business yourself?”

  “I make time for a woman, Sakir.”

  “Of course. There are many at the sultan’s disposal, I know.”

  Zayad’s lips thinned. “I treat all women with respect, and with care.” He lifted a brow. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Sakir demanded.

  “What of your wife?” Zayad leaned back in his chair once more, crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What about her?”

  “Is she a ‘passion,’ Sakir?”

  Sakir narrowed his eyes. He did not like his brother’s presence here, nor did he like this line of questioning. “Rita is none of your affair.”

  Zayad snorted. “Nor yours, I am told.”

  Sakir shot to his feet. “I will let you have your library, Your Royal Highness.”

  Zayad also stood and met his brother eye to eye. “What game do you play, Sakir? You come here with this woman, whom you obviously lust after, and admire as well, I think, but I hear from—”

  “Zayad, you would do well to curb your tongue,” Sakir warned.

  Zayad released a bark of bitter laughter. “You command me?”

  “I do.” Through gritted teeth, Sakir added, “But I fear not yo
ur reprimand. What more can you do to me that has not already been done?”

  For a moment, Zayad only stared at his brother, his breath coming tight and clipped. Then he said, “You act as though I banished you from Emand, that I took our parents from us—that I killed Hassan—”

  “You did kill Hassan,” Sakir uttered darkly.

  Zayad turned bloodred. “Our brother’s death was an accident.”

  “An accident he met with because you forced him into the army before he was ready.”

  “It was his wish!” Zayad bellowed.

  “You were the elder brother!” Sakir shouted. “You were to know better.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Both men whirled toward the doorway. Rita stood there, her brow creased. “I could hear you two all the way up the stairs.”

  Sakir looked away, feeling as though he would explode from the fury in his blood.

  “I apologize if we disturbed you, Rita,” Zayad said, his tone princely once again. “We were having a disagreement about the past.”

  “There is no disagreement about the truth,” Sakir said. Then he left his brother where he stood, stalked past Rita and left the room.

  He heard Rita call after him, “Sakir? Wait, stop.” But he kept going, his pace hectic. He was still caught up in that confrontation with his brother—a confrontation that had been a long time coming. Sakir had always thought that saying those words to Zayad would finally release him from the pain of loss.

  But he felt only more burdened.

  His hands balled into fists.

  Rita came running after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” he barked. “Where I can breathe.”

  He didn’t look back, didn’t care if his strides were those of a panther. But Rita kept up somehow. She followed him outside, through the gardens and down a flight of steps. The warmth of the day was starting to fade, but Sakir’s blood ran too hot to notice.

  When he finally reached the stables, he whipped open one of the stalls and led out one of his brother’s large gray stallions.

  “Sakir, talk to me.”

  “Go back to the palace, Rita,” he barked, quickly bridling the stallion.