by Penny Jordan
'What is it?' Xander demanded as she stepped back from him and started to remove her enfolding black robes.
'I've decided that I'm not hungry,' she told him woodenly.
The look he was giving her smashed through her fragile self-control and before she could stop herself she was demanding emotionally, 'Do you really think I am going to let you parade me along with that sheet to satisfy other people's prurient curiosity?'
She could hear the threat of tears in her own voice and tried to fight them away, gulping in air as she did so. She would not, could not cry in front of him. How could she have thought him compassionate?
'You must not judge us as though we were Europeans. We are not. There is nothing prurient in this traditional act. Far from it. And it is designed to protect your sex, not to humiliate it.'
'How do you work that one out?' Katrina challenged him bitterly.
'Easily,' Xander told her coolly. 'For instance, the nomad tribes lived dangerous lives. Men fought and were often killed. If a man died, his family could refuse to accept his wife's child unless they had proof that she'd been a virgin when they'd married. Proof of a bride's virginity protects her honour, and the honour of her family. A Tuareg girl in your position would accompany her husband proudly to this showing of the proof of her virgin state.'
'Maybe, but I am not a Tuareg woman,' Katrina told him fiercely.
'You are not a virgin either,' Xander said coldly.
'Yes, I—' Katrina began heatedly.
She was silenced as Xander cut across her with a sharply curt, 'I am hungry even if you are not.' He started to rewind the covering Tuareg cloth around his head and lower face. He looked austere and compelling and her stupid heart was turning over as though it actually enjoyed the aura of subtle magnificence and danger he gave off. Pausing only to gather up the sheet, he cast her a brief hard look and headed for the exit.
She could not follow him. She just could not, Katrina admitted as she watched him leave.
CHAPTER SEVEN
« ^ »
Half an hour later Katrina's stomach was growling hungrily, but she ignored the noise it was making.
'I've brought you some coffee and some food.'
Katrina whirled round and stared as Xander stepped back into the tent carrying a pot of coffee and a small dish piled high with fruit and small cakes. He had brought her some food? Confusion darkened her eyes. She had mentally labelled him as cruel and sadistic, but right now he was behaving with a thoughtfulness and concern that was proving her wrong. And not for the first time! These glimpses of another side of him both tormented and delighted her. It was as though somewhere deep inside her a small spring of happiness had welled up and was bubbling over.
'Luckily for you El Khalid's mother has decided that your refusal to show yourself this morning is a sign of your modesty.'
But he did not think she was modest! Her joyful happiness was extinguished by angry pain.
Xander was placing the coffee pot and the dish down on a low table and, despite the intensity of her feelings, Katrina realised how hungry she was.
'I have to go out—remember you are not to leave this tent unless you are properly robed and veiled.'
Katrina waited until he had gone before pouncing on the food. The coffee smelled heavenly and tasted even better, the fruit sharp and juicy on her taste buds, whilst the small, sweet almond pastries melted on her tongue.
As he busied himself checking on his horse Xander's mind was in reality far from totally focusing on the patient animal that was nuzzling his shoulder so affectionately.
Why had he allowed the thought of Katrina with another man to affect him so intensely? Why had he allowed himself to be so aroused by the sight of her that he had had to leave the tent in order to put a safe distance between them? Surely he was not fool enough to be affected by a centuries-old marriage ritual, was he? It had after all been nothing more than a necessity, the only way he'd had of protecting Katrina from Sulimen, and he had already made up his mind to ask his half-brother to have the marriage set aside.
Xander rubbed gently behind the mare's ears. She was pure Arab bloodstock and bred from one of his half-brother's prized stallions. Her wise dark eyes reflected her breeding and her purity.
Why had he allowed himself to be so affected by the dark smudges beneath Katrina's eyes this morning? Why had he wanted to go to her and kiss the soft tremble from her mouth? Such thoughts, such feelings were virtually akin to insanity. There was no place for them in his life.
Having checked on the mare, he walked as casually as he could in the direction of the oasis, sauntering easily as though merely passing the time. Whilst El Khalid might have cautioned his most trustworthy men to keep a watch on the rest of them, Nazir most undoubtedly would have left his own loyal spies behind to ensure his own safety.
Xander was tempted to telephone his half-brother. His mobile was in his pocket, but he was concerned that Nazir might be intercepting the Ruler's telephone calls, even though officially he was supposed to be out of the country.
Xander frowned as a small sound caught his attention. Shading his eyes, he stared towards the horizon, watching the small dot that was a low-flying helicopter grow larger.
Nazir! It had to be! And what better means of reentering Zuran and then leaving the city quickly once he had achieved his goal and murdered the Ruler? Had Nazir told El Khalid what he intended to do? Somehow Xander doubted it. Not that the rebel leader would shrink from the violence of murder. No, he would not do that but he would certainly demand a great deal of money to be involved in it!
And besides Nazir was far too wily to give anyone the kind of information that could ever be used against him. No. The Ruler's death would publicly be attributed to the rebels, Xander acknowledged.
The helicopter, camouflage painted and without any identifying markings, was coming closer. Xander turned his back on it and pretended to be studying the oasis. There was no sense in drawing attention to himself by appearing to be too curious.
He wanted to be there, though, when the helicopter landed, so he started to make his way back to the camp.
As was only to be expected, the arrival of the helicopter was causing a flurry of curiosity and speculation, and Xander attached himself to the group of men standing closest to it.
A man was climbing out of the stationary aircraft and, although he had disguised himself by growing a beard, and wearing traditional robes instead of the Western-style Italian suits he normally favoured, Xander had no trouble whatsoever in recognising his half-cousin simply from the way he moved.
So he had been right! Good as it felt to have his suspicions of Nazir confirmed, Xander's overriding emotion was one of anger against Nazir. He had received nothing but love and generosity from the Ruler, but his greed and lust for power were such that he was ready to murder him in order to step into his shoes. No way was Xander going to allow that to happen! He did feel happier now, though, knowing that he would be able to keep Nazir under closer observation.
El Khalid had come out of his tent to greet the new arrival, bowing low before him as he made him welcome. As casually as he could, Xander moved closer, trying to overhear what the two men were saying to one another.
It was over an hour since Xander had left, and Katrina had grown bored with sitting cooped up in the tent.
Defiantly she got up and walked determinedly towards the exit. There was no reason why she should allow him to tell her what to do. She wasn't really his wife, after all.
The thought of Xander, treating her as an equal, respecting her, loving her, was causing a surge of complex emotions within her that she knew she was not currently strong enough emotionally to handle.
And whilst she might not really be Xander's wife, she was his prisoner, she reminded herself.
How much was he planning to demand for her return? The government department for whom she worked was a small one, with very limited funds. Or was he thinking that she would have family who would be prepar
ed to pay him for her release? One heard of such things, hostages being taken and then ransomed, but she had never envisaged such a fate befalling her!
She wished that she could be brave enough to try to escape, but the camp was heavily guarded. Even if she could evade those guards, she knew what would happen to her if she succeeded in getting away from the oasis. She would die in the desert.
Of course she could try to steal a vehicle, but it would have to be one with a modern satellite navigation system installed in it, she admitted wryly, plus a full tank of petrol.
It made much more sense to remain where she was.
Sense? That was what was motivating her, was it? Was she really sure about that? Was she totally sure that she was not being influenced by those dangerous emotions she knew she felt for Xander, and that she was not secretly longing for…? For what? she challenged herself angrily. Her face had grown hot. She could feel the now familiar and distinctive intimate ache seizing her body.
This was the twenty-first century; women no longer needed to hide the fact that they could experience physical desire as a need in itself and by itself. They no longer had to tell themselves that physical desire could only be born out of love. They had every right if they wished to do so to engage in physical intimacy without any emotional commitment, for the simple reason that it pleased them to do so. To be blunt about it, if they so desired, they could have sex with a man and then walk away from him. Could she do that? Did she really want to?
As she paced the carpeted floor of the tent, her mind on her own deep thoughts and not on what was underfoot, she stubbed her toe on the edge of a wooden box just protruding from beneath the low divan.
Frowning, she bent to rub her toe, and then kneeled down intending to push the box out of the way, but instead she discovered that she was actually tugging it out of its place of semi-concealment, panting a little as she did so because of its weight.
What was inside it? She had no right to look, she told herself, but despite that she still lifted the lid.
Inside the chest were several books. No wonder it had been heavy. Carefully she lifted the top one out, her breath catching on a small gasp as she did so. These weren't just books, they were works of art, books fit for the library of a connoisseur—a very wealthy connoisseur, leather-bound, and tooled, with thick gold lettering on the spine, the pages gold-edged. When it had been new, such a book would have been very expensive. Reverently Katrina opened it. A first edition. A collector's item, and probably extremely rare. It was a book of poetry, including amongst others Robert Browning's poems for Elizabeth Barrett. Inscribed inside it in elegant handwriting were the words:
'For my own beloved Elizabeth.'
Hot, emotional tears misted her eyes. Such simple words, but to her they were of more value than a thousand first editions. This book had been a gift of love; it had been given with love. Very gently she closed it, and put it down before removing another from the box.
This one was French—the belles-lettres of an author whose name she did not recognise, but like its fellow it was dedicated to 'Elizabeth'. And the strong male signature on it was set above the familiar crest of the Ruler of Zuran.
Her heart skipped a beat. That must surely mean that the books had come originally from the royal palace. And that Elizabeth, whoever she was, had been deeply loved by a royal prince.
She picked out another one—this time a book written in Arabic.
She didn't need to be an expert to guess that these books were worth a fortune and irreplaceable, Katrina acknowledged, but of far more value and importance in her eyes was not their material worth but the sentimental value demonstrated by the inscriptions. Those books had been a gift of love, to a woman very deeply loved.
Everything about them said that they had been cherished and treasured, but now they were in Xander's possession, and she was in no doubt as to how they had got there. They had been stolen from their rightful owner, Katrina acknowledged bleakly.
Although she wasn't cold, she shivered. Why was she feeling so shocked? She had already known what Xander was, hadn't she?
That incident in the alleyway, his cold-hearted avowal to ransom her; discovering that he possessed stolen goods should not be causing her the sick misery that it was. Slowly, her heart aching, she started to replace them in the box, pausing with the last one.
'What do you think you are doing?'
She hadn't heard Xander come in, and she jumped in shock, almost dropping the book as she heard the savage fury in his voice. She wasn't going to give into it, though—nor to him. Scrambling to her feet, she turned to confront him, but he was ignoring her, kneeling instead to examine the contents of the chest, before closing the lid and removing a small key from his belt, which he used to lock it.
'How dare you pry amongst my possessions?' he said savagely.
'Your possessions!' Katrina challenged him bravely. 'Those books do not belong to you. I saw the inscription. You stole them from someone!'
Xander could hardly believe what he was hearing. Katrina had been rifling through his personal possessions—the treasured mementoes he had of his parents—and she had the gall to accuse him of stealing them! In the intensity of his fury, Xander forgot all the reasons Katrina believed she had to question his honesty, and remembered only how protectively he had always cherished the books that had been his father's love gift to his mother before their marriage.
That feeling had meant so much to him as a small child, unable to articulate his feelings properly, only knowing that holding the books somehow made him feel as though he was clinging to a part of the mother he had never known. They had become his talisman and he never went anywhere without them. Were any of El Khalid's rebels to find them he would of course have to pretend he had stolen them, but it was an unwritten law amongst the rebels that they respected one another's privacy and possessions.
A law that was not observed by Katrina, though! And now here she was, the woman who had already caused him more sleepless nights and disturbed thoughts than she had any right to do, daring to claim that he had no right to his mother's possessions.
'The books are mine,' he told her fiercely, obvious anger darkening his eyes.
Katrina was in no mood to believe him, though. She gave him a look of contemptuous disbelief. 'That's impossible. They are worth a fortune—museum pieces, first editions,' she pointed out sharply.
Xander was standing up now, and far too close to her, towering over her, filling the air around her with his hostility. Too late she recognised exactly what effect her words were having on him and how furiously and dangerously angry he was. A small pulse was beating heavily in the hollow of his throat, and fury blazed from his eyes. Apprehensively she tried to move away, and started to step back from him, but her action simply brought her up against the hard edge of the divan.
'Do you actually dare to accuse me of being a liar?' he demanded with soft savagery as he stepped closer to her—so soft that the cold words were little more than the icy chill of breath against her skin.
Katrina was not going to allow herself to give in to him! Why should she?
'You are a liar!' she threw back at him recklessly. 'A liar and a thief!'
The fierily passionate words, the contempt he could hear in her voice and see in her eyes burnt Xander's pride as though it had been acid.
Katrina winced as he took hold of her upper arms, gripping them so tightly that it hurt.
'You will not say such things to me, do you hear me?' he thundered furiously.
'Why not? I am only speaking the truth!' Katrina retaliated, her own fury as great as his.
'Those books were a gift to me from my mother.' Xander couldn't hold back the words any longer. They felt as though they had been torn physically from his heart, and had left behind a place that burned with bitter pain.
Katrina stared at him, unable to credit what she was hearing. Did he really expect her to believe him?
She could almost taste the intensity of their em
otions in the air surrounding them, bitter as aloes and sharp on her tongue.
She could feel the heat coming off Xander's body, and shockingly she could feel too her own immediate and undeniable female response to it—and to him. Panic twisted through her outrage. How could she feel like this? How could she be remotely aroused by a man she could not respect? She must not feel like this. She was having to fight to hold onto reality.
'That isn't possible.' She forced herself to make the denial, praying that he wouldn't see in her eyes how intensely she wished that it were and that he were not just telling her the truth, but also that he were finally admitting her into his confidence and allowing her to learn something about his true background.
But of course he was not! And knowing that was hurting her far, far more than she was able to cope with. She had to fight against the pain of her own emotions to make herself tell him quietly, 'The books bear the signature of the Ruler of Zuran.'
The words seemed to drop into the tense silence as heavily as stones in deep, still water. She couldn't bear to look at him. She couldn't bear to see in his eyes that he knew she could not be deceived. The tension in the room was such that it felt like an invisible pressure all around her, crushing her. She had to struggle to expand her lungs enough to draw in air.
'There's no point in continuing to lie to me, Xander,' she told him huskily. 'I can't believe you. You are a liar and a—'
The despairing resignation in her voice sliced into Xander's pride, and worse, he realised on a sharp, spearing pain of shock, her refusal to believe him was piercing him with searing emotional pain, like nothing he had previously experienced and which he just could not endure.
'Enough!' He groaned out the word as though he were dying, reaching for her, to silence both her and his own pain in the only way he could, with the hard pressure of his mouth on hers.
It was a kiss given in anger and in punishment, a deliberate branding of male domination, but the moment he felt her mouth beneath his something happened inside him that Xander knew he could neither resist nor control. Some alchemy over which he had no power transformed his anger into hunger, her punishment into his own as his senses ached with longing, overturning all the barriers he had so carefully erected against his own vulnerability towards her.