Never Refuse a Sheikh

by Jackie Ashenden

  Idiot woman. Did she want to get herself killed?

  With one hard movement, he jerked her roughly against him, then reached forward to the wildly swinging door, managing to grab onto it and pull it shut. Then he slammed the locks home.

  The driver – whom Altair paid very well to stay silent – kept driving, his attention firmly on the road ahead.

  She stilled against him, her rapid breathing filling the car.

  Holy God she was soft. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman—two months at least since he’d visited his regular lover—and her scent, with its distinct feminine note, a delicate sweetness, like flowers, was intoxicating.

  He tried to calm his breathing, slow his heartbeat, because mere physical desire was easily governed. Yet all he could think about was the warmth of her supple body against his and that maddening perfume of hers clouding his senses.

  It transfixed him.

  She relaxed in his hold and turned, looking up at him. And again he felt the impact of her gaze, bright turquoise blue. As if she could see right through him. Past the sheikh, right down to the man he’d thought dead and buried years ago.

  All his self-defense mechanisms screamed a warning but, before he could move, he became aware of something else. The sharp tip of metal pricking into his abdomen.

  “Let me go, dog,” she said softly. “And I’ll let you keep your liver.”

  She had a knife. And she was cutting him with it.

  Altair didn’t move, staring at the fierce expression on her face, genuinely shocked for the first time in years.

  Plenty of people had tried to kill him, but no one had ever gotten this close before. He could probably move fast enough to stop her but not without risking serious injury.

  That’s not what you should be worried about, sheikh. It’s the other way around that should concern you.

  Damn, Sayed hadn’t been kidding. She was a warrior, this woman. He could feel the strength in her muscles, could sense the steadiness of the hand that held the knife against him. God, this was the second time today she’d threatened him with a sharp blade.

  Unwanted respect threaded through his irritation at her behavior. How long since a woman had challenged him so directly? So honestly? And with such ferocity? He didn’t know why but he felt it like an electric shock delivered straight to his heart.

  That is why you cannot have her.

  The truth, indisputable. No, of course he couldn’t, as he’d already told himself. Because he knew what happened when he followed his own desires so indiscriminately. He knew the consequences of seemingly small decisions.

  Be restrained in all things. Be measured in your actions. Be certain of your decisions. Emotions cloud the mind and lead to bad choices.

  The words of his father’s teachings rang in his head. A warning.

  Altair released her, the faint, sweet scent of her body lingering in his senses. Safira didn’t move and her grip on the knife didn’t falter, the light in her eyes still fierce. The sun coming through the windows had caught in a lock of hair that had come loose from underneath her keffiyeh and now hung down over her shoulder. It was the deep, dark gold of a lion’s pelt.

  She wasn’t just beautiful. She was stunning.

  The heat inside him deepened, sank its claws into him. In bed she would be passionate and wild, he was certain of it. She wouldn’t hold back. She’d give him everything and he would take it, making her scream his name as he—

  Self-control is everything, Altair. A successful man is never ruled by his desires.

  Altair grabbed the knife and twisted it out of her hand, slamming it hard into the back of the seat with enough force that she couldn’t pull it out. Then he gripped her by the forearms and pinned her against the seat too, holding her there as she bared her teeth at him, straining against his hold.

  “Stop.” He put all the force of his considerable will into the word. Both to her and to himself. “The penalty for attempted assassination of a monarch is death. Do you want to die, princess?”

  Safira took a ragged breath, hectic color in her cheeks; the cotton of her robes pulling tight across small, high breasts. Defiance and rage glittered in her eyes.

  He stared back, letting her see he would brook no argument. That she could not win this fight. She would do as he commanded.

  His patience was at an end.

  A tense, fraught moment passed as their gazes locked and held.

  But this time he ignored the desire that coiled tight inside him. Kept himself cold, unyielding.

  For a moment it looked as if she were searching his face for something. Something that clearly wasn’t there because uncertainty flickered over her features. Then she looked away, her cheeks flushed. “Very well,” she said thickly. “Fine. You win.”

  He made his fingers loosen, releasing her and sitting back. “Give me the rest of your weapons.”

  She rubbed her arms where he’d gripped them. “I don’t have any other weapons.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Her chin jutted.

  But he knew an untruth when he heard one. “Give them to me,” he ordered. “Or I’ll search you myself.” He couldn’t let her keep them, not when she was so ready to use them against him.

  She muttered a filthy curse and within a minute a number of different blades ranging from a small needle to a long, thin knife, lay on the seat between them.

  “Impressive,” he said. “Did Sayed know you carried all of those?”

  “Of course he did,” she spat. “He was the one who gave them to me.”

  He looked at her, aware of an unwanted curiosity. “Why? What was he training you for? You are a princess, not a soldier.”

  “He wanted me to be able to defend myself in case I was attacked.” She looked mutinous. “He didn’t want me being helpless.”

  That made a certain amount of sense from what he knew of the tribes. Still, it wasn’t the only thing a princess should have been taught. “He would have been better employed teaching you some respect.” Altair began to gather up the blades. “Then again, we have etiquette specialists who can help with that.”

  “Please,” she said suddenly, passionately. “I do not want to be your princess and I certainly do not want to be your sheikha. Why can’t you let me go? I can leave the tribe, disappear. I’ll go where no one will ever find me.”

  If he’d been a different sort of man, a man who hadn’t been hardened by years of war, by guilt and by anguish, he might have felt sorry for her. He might even have agreed. But he was not that man and never would be.

  “As I told you, it is too dangerous for you even with the protection of the tribe. Leaving them on your own would be madness. The palace is the only place safe for you now.”

  There was something suspiciously bright in her eyes. “But I do not want to go back to the palace.”

  “That cannot be helped.” He ignored the strange tightening in his chest. The knives had to be dealt with first and since there was nowhere to put them, and it was better to get rid of the threat entirely, he opened the window and threw them out into the desert. Perhaps some lucky tribesman would find them.

  She didn’t say anything or protest this time, but the suspicious brightness in her eyes had disappeared. Now the look in them promised retribution.

  He stared back, unflinching. It was time for the truth. “Whether you want to return to the palace or not does not change the fact that you must go. Al-Harah is braced for another civil war and only you can stop it.”

  Her jaw was tight, her gaze as hot as the sun’s. She opened her mouth. Closed it.

  “So tell me, princess,” he continued, quiet and deadly. “Are you prepared to be the one responsible for the complete destruction of your country?”

  * * *

  Safira’s heart was beating hard, like the wings of an eagle inside the cage of her ribs, her brain tumbling over itself trying to make sense of everything, to latch onto what was most important.

  She didn
’t want to be carried back to the palace like a trophy—that was certain.

  She was very angry he’d thrown her knives out the window.

  She really didn’t want to marry him.

  She most certainly did not want to be responsible for the destruction of her country.

  Yes, all those things were important.

  But what was occupying most of her consciousness, the thing she was trying most desperately to ignore, was the fact that he’d touched her. And now the heat from his hands lingered on her skin, making her feel like everything was too tight, like she couldn’t breathe.

  She’d never been that close to a man before. She’d never been that close to anyone since she’d been taken from the palace. The tribe had all kept their distance as Sayed had demanded, her position isolating her.

  How long had it been since anyone had touched her, let alone a man?

  She couldn’t remember.

  His hand had been like an iron band around her arm, dragging her up against the leashed power of his body as he’d lunged for the car door to close it. And she’d been aware of only one thought: how could a man who seemed so cold be as hot as the desert sun at midday? He’d only gripped her arms and yet she felt that touch echo all the way through her, down through skin and blood, right down to her bones.

  The intensity of the sensation scared her. Left her vulnerable. Taking out her knife had been purely a reflexive defense mechanism. Until he’d taken that away and left her with nothing.

  She shouldn’t have panicked. That was the lesson. She shouldn’t have let his talk of marriage and the way he stared at her with those impenetrable amber eyes, his stillness and absolute focus on her like that of a great cat, scare her.

  But she had. He’d told her he was going to marry her and she’d panicked like a fool.

  She couldn’t even think why she had. Because of course that’s why he’d come for her. Hadn’t she instantly thought of the bride games the tribe played the moment he’d swept into Sayed’s tent?

  You wanted it to happen to you. And so it has. Why are you protesting?

  Well, that was an easy one to answer. Because in the bride games, the women gave their consent to the ‘kidnap’ first. Unlike this sheikh, who hadn’t asked her and when she’d protested, hadn’t listened. He hadn’t wanted her, not really. He’d only wanted a ‘princess’.

  “Well?” he said in that quiet, deadly voice.

  She couldn’t remember what question he’d asked. “Destruction of my country?” she forced out, her voice sounding strange and thick. “What are you talking about?”

  He sat back, mercifully putting a little bit more space between them. But his disturbing amber gaze was unwavering. “Not only have our neighbors in Al-Sakhra been searching for you, but also certain rebel factions causing me and my government trouble. Al-Nazari wants you as his sheikha, which naturally will not happen. But it is the rebels I am worried about. They want you because they are trying to put a Kashgari back on the throne.”

  Safira took a deep, silent breath, trying to pull herself together. She hadn’t known any of this. The tribe had been moving more than usual it was true, even going as far as Dahar since Sheikh Isma’il and his sheikha Lily were very welcoming to the Bedouins. But she’d been too afraid of his answer to question Sayed about the reasons for it.

  It was because of you. And deep down, you knew.

  A cold feeling settled in her bones. Sayed had never let her forget who she was. That she was a princess, that she was royal. That, though she lived with the tribe, she wasn’t part of it and never would be. She felt that distance every day, felt the responsibility of it every time the tribe moved, knowing it was because of her. Because they were hiding her, keeping her safe.

  She’d had no idea how long she was expected to hide, whether there would ever come a day when she could leave. A number of times she’d tried to speak with Sayed about it, wanting to discuss her future with him.

  But he’d refused to speak with her about it. “It’s not your decision, Safira,” he’d told her. “It is mine. And you will stay for however long you need to.”

  That a lifetime of being essentially a prisoner stretched in front of her didn’t seem to worry him. That she had her own dreams didn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, he had his duty to discharge and that’s all that was important.

  Some days that knowledge crushed her and it was easier by far not to think about it. To live only in the moment, ignoring both her past and her future.

  Now both have caught up with you and you cannot escape it.

  Altair’s sharp gaze studied her with disturbing intensity. “Did you think you could stay hidden forever? That no one would ever know who you were? I told you, Safira. You would always have been found. Someone at some point would have come and taken you.”

  Of course they would have. And her dreams of escaping the cage of ‘princess’, of making her own choices about her destiny, of making a difference to the world somehow, in some way, were childish ones.

  Why had she ever thought different?

  She didn’t want to meet those merciless amber eyes. Didn’t want him to see the frustration that raged inside her at her own powerlessness. Or her creeping despair at the thought of yet another prison sentence. Because that’s what being his sheikha would be. It was a cage to trap her, just like being a ‘princess’ had kept her trapped in the desert.

  She looked down at her hands, suddenly noticing that there was a length of hard, muscular thigh close to hers. A large, long-fingered hand rested on that thigh, the gold signet of his royal office catching the light. The hand that had touched her …

  “How am I responsible?” She forced her gaze away, trying to shake the strange awareness of him. “Why am I the only one who can stop this?”

  “Because the rebels will not lie quietly until there is a Kashgari on the throne.”

  “You will give in to their demands then?”

  “No.” The word was flat with authority. “But Al-Harah has had enough of war. I want my people to have peace. I want this country to recover. So if the rebels want a Kashgari, I shall give them one. I shall give them you, princess.”

  A helpless shiver of foreboding swept through her at the certainty in his voice.

  Your father died on his throne and so did your mother …

  And now she was being taken back to that very same throne herself. Back to the place where they had died. Where she’d lost everything that terrible, terrible night.

  Ice crept through her veins, freezing her blood. “But I don’t want to be given. I am not a prize or a piece of property to be handed around.”

  The beautiful lines of the sheikh’s face looked to be carved from granite, obdurate, implacable. There was no mercy there, no compassion. A rock she could dash herself against over and over, to only shatter. Only break.

  And yet the heat from his touch still lingered. On her skin, deep in her blood. She didn’t understand how that was possible for a man who seemed wholly made of stone.

  “You are not seven years old now, Safira. You are royalty and royalty is property. You are the property of your people, your country. What you want is not important.”

  And it never had been. Not when she’d been a child and not out in the desert. In fact, the insignificance of her own desires had been drummed into her so often that if she’d been a quieter, more biddable type of person, it might never have occurred to her she had a choice about anything.

  But she wasn’t that type of person. And the bride games had made it clear to her that the women of the tribe got to make choices about their lives, about their destinies.

  Every woman except her.

  It wasn’t right.

  She looked down at her hands. “Perhaps what I want isn’t. But I should still be allowed to make the choice.”

  “Choice is a luxury we do not have.”

  She lifted her head, looked at him. “We?”

  He sat there, still as a statue cast in b
ronze “You think I want this any more than you do? I do not. Yet I will do what I must for the people of Al-Harah.”

  She blinked. It hadn’t occurred to her a bride might not exactly be welcome to him either. “You’re the king though. Can’t you—”

  “The king must put his people before himself. And so must his queen.”

  There was no doubt he believed what he said. The intensity burned off him like the heat from the sun, leaving no room for argument.

  It was clear he wasn’t going to listen to a word she said.

  Safira looked back down to her hands. They were clasped together in a death grip, white-knuckled. Inside, her heart raged at the unfairness of the situation, making tears prickle at the back of her eyes.

  But she refused to let them fall. Refused to let him see her weakness.

  She would not be powerless in front of him, she would not.

  “Very well,” she forced out, as though she was making the decision herself and hadn’t been forced into it. “I will come with you to the palace.”

  “That was never a choice.” His voice was deep and cold. “That was always a necessity.”

  Perhaps it was then she understood. That if she acquiesced to everything he said, he would crush her, obliterate her with the sheer force of his will. Which meant that if she wanted to stand against him, take some power for herself, she had to take action now. Physically she wasn’t strong enough to fight him, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other methods she could use to assert herself.

  He’d already taken her from the desert. Taken her freedom. Taken her rifle and then her knives, stripped her of all her defenses.

  She would not let him take anything more. If he wanted a princess then he would get one. But it would be on her terms, not his.

  She pulled herself together, lifted her gaze to his and stared fiercely back at him. “If the people of this country need me, then I will do what I need to do. But I want something in return.”

  There was ice in his amber eyes. “You are in no position to make demands.”