He pulled her close as the music began, so much so that he could feel the hot contact of her skin right through the thin material of his silk shirt. As they moved, the sensual friction between them increased. Heat splintered along his spine as their ankles and knees brushed, her leg stepping over his as he navigated the floor. She matched his rapid foot movements, kicks, and smoothly executed moves. He led, she followed—every step, every turn expertly executed as they maneuvered across the ballroom floor, gasps of amazement following them.
Their hips swayed and rubbed against each other. Touching the sheer cloth of her dress, he bunched the cool material in his fist, longing to rip the fabric from her body. If they were in a more private setting, he would have done just that. Since they weren’t, he flexed his fingers, letting the soft material slide through them.
Bending her over his arm, he ran the edge of his palm from her neck to her navel, noticing the tiny beads of perspiration breaking out on her upper lip.
In classic tango fashion, he turned his back on her and danced away and she followed, wrapping her arms around his waist. They swayed, locked in an embrace, their bodies in complete harmony. He grabbed the tail of her chiffon, wrapped it around her waist, then spun her away from him. The crowd gasped before breaking into thunderous applause. He held his body as taunt as a matador as she moved around him, lifting her leg, her dress baring her thigh as she slid it up almost to the hip. He gasped and she winked at him, causing him to misstep and nearly stumble. This woman was full of surprises. Revelations he hoped to unveil. Where had she learned to dance like this? Who had taught her? Another lover? Jealousy ripped through him at the very thought.
As the dance hit its crescendo, he bent her over his arm before jerking her up hard into his chest.
“You dance very well, habib albi.”
“I do a lot of things well, Your Highness.”
“I’ll give you plenty of chances to further demonstrate these skills of yours.”
Her thick eyelashes fluttered beguilingly. Damn her! She knew exactly how much erotic pressure she exerted over him.
“I await your pleasure, Your Highness.” She danced away from him and then turned, crooking her little finger at him. He shook his head and she pouted, sticking her lower lip out like a child Lacey’s age.
When he got her alone . . . he’d show her no mercy. None. Her screams of ecstasy would be his battle cry.
She danced back into his embrace, his arms tightened around her, refusing to let her go. He finally had her right where he wanted her. “You’re mine,” he whispered against her ear.
“Then claim me,” she challenged, her emerald eyes locking on his.
His knees went weak, and his heart hammered against the wall of his chest.
She wagged a finger in front of his face, and he softened his hold. She smiled before sliding out of his embrace and then down the contours of his body, enflaming every part of him, every inch. Why didn’t this damnable dance end? He wanted to be alone with her. Far away from the eyes of all his guests.
As the music reached its zenith, he jerked her back up, his lips a mere inch from hers as the dance came to a close. For a long moment, he held her there, his beautiful prisoner, his woman. When he finally lowered his lips to hers, he wasn’t even aware he’d moved until the hot contact shocked his body like an electric current. The presence of the crowd faded into the background as he held her in place, drinking in the hot nectar he deserved, he craved.
“Bravo!” The shouting of the crowd broke the mesmerizing spell cocooning them.
As the guests swarmed around them, he felt his uncle’s hand on his shoulder.
“Well done, Your Highness.”
~ ~ ~
A flurry of memories washed over her. A dance studio. Her high school friends all taking lessons for the prom. How many years? Her brows squinted together as she struggled to concentrate. And then, like a pulse rushing from her brain, the answer came to her. Ten. OMG! She was twenty-eight years old. She glanced over at Malik. But her memories were rudely interrupted when shock shot up her spine as she stared at the man with his hand on Malik’s shoulder. He was wearing traditional clothing, and something about the garment sent a dark memory flashing through her brain. A gun was in her hand. She could almost feel the black cold steel against her palm, smell the acrid smell of sulfur and the kick of the weapon as it discharged. She felt faint. Hot. What the hell was happening to her? Shock invaded her brain as the dam on her locked recollections broke —a tournament, a shooting tournament, in California. Now she could see herself taking aim at targets, hitting the bull’s eye again and again, winning the cup. More tournaments, more trophies, sponsors seeking her endorsement. A vivid flash of her holding the trophy above her head as hundreds of people applauded and shouted their congratulations. The Olympics, and her winning a silver medal. She was a crack shot and had handled a gun since she was Lacey’s age. All these remembrances, the honors and tributes, came flooding back. She shuddered inwardly, but the impressions continued.
The ballroom ceased to exist for her. She was shooting again, but not in California and not in a tournament. She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks as she took her time, aiming the handgun carefully before firing a round dead center into the forehead of that headshot of Malik that kept popping into her memory, the photograph propped against the wall across from her. Dear God, why was she shooting at him? How can any of this be possible? The menacing recollections continued, vivid in nature. She continued shooting over and over with the same results. Soon the paper photograph of Malik’s head was completely annihilated. Was she a pawn in the attempts on his life? No! No! No! Not her, not against him. Never! She gasped out loud, drawing Malik’s attention. His eyes centered on her. He knew she was in distress. It was in his eyes.
He recovered well, dropping his lashes to hide the unnerving dismay.
“Jane, may I introduce my uncle, Safwan?”
The man’s gaze rifled over her. Instinctively, she moved closer to Malik, his arm automatically circling her waist and pulling her closer.
“Jane?” Malik questioned, staring at her as if she’d grown another head.
She gave herself a mental shake scattering the memories like rose petals in the wind. Forcing a brilliant smile, she extended her hand to Safwan. He took it in his and brought it to his lips.
“Enchantee, mademoiselle.”
“Sir, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine. I’ve heard so much about you, not only from my beloved nephew, but from the people at the orphanage, too. They sing your praises daily.”
She continued to cling to Malik, her fingers strangling the soft black material of his sleeve. She released her grip a fraction when she felt Malik stiffen.
She knew this man. That raspy voice, the smoky smell of a campfire, everything was familiar and yet disoriented. She shook her head striving to clear the cobwebs. What was the matter with her?
The men switched to Arabic, speaking rapidly. She cocked her head to better hear the conversation hoping to catch a clue as to his identity. They were speaking of a Council of Tribes to be held in a few days deep within the desert. Malik said he would certainly be there as promised, and that he was anticipating addressing the grievances of some of the tribes. His uncle was telling Malik how he’d heard rumors that the men associated with the revolution would also be attending. Malik frowned and leaned in a little more so they couldn’t be overheard. She stepped even closer, not wanting to miss a second of the conversation, but when she did, both men turned to look at her.
“Jane? Is there something we can help you with?”
She froze, stumbling for a plausible excuse for her to be listening to their private conversation. She couldn’t. Her mind was once again blank.
“Will you be accompanying my nephew to the counc
il?”
“I would love to see the desert.” Jane returned, staring at Safwan.
A new caution burned in Malik’s eyes. He shifted his stance. No, it wasn’t caution, it was anger. Anger directed at her.
She broke eye contact, suddenly very interested in her shoes.
He reached for her, and she stepped back, his anger intensifying. He was furious that she had tried to overhear their private conversation. Did Malik think for a moment she’d somehow betrayed him? Could he possibly have guessed she recognized his uncle even though she wasn’t sure where she’d seen him before?
Suddenly Malik leaned in closer, so close he could speak directly into her ear, “Your mind coughs up memories of the tango and yet your name eludes you. I’m finding it hard to believe you, my dear.”
He knew she was hiding something. He wanted to know why. Hell, so did she? If she could just remember where she’d met his uncle before. And why his presence stirred up so many dangerous memories. Tears brimming in her eyes, she said, “I’ve never been anything but truthful with you. I’m telling you the truth. I have brief flashbacks of my life, but nothing more. Don’t you think that you, as my doctor, would be the first to know?”
The harsh look on Malik’s face stunned her.
“I don’t know. Would I? Perhaps you have some ulterior motive for keeping secrets?”
Ulterior motive? What was he talking about? She jerked her gaze up as if he’d slapped her. Safwan, his uncle, appeared to be extremely uneasy with Malik’s line of questioning, almost as uncomfortable as she was.
“Nephew, why are you drilling her like this? Can’t you see this line of questioning is making her feel like a criminal? Stop this at once.”
“Really? And just how do you know that my favorite uncle?” Malik fired back, turning to directly face his uncle.
He was embarrassing her in front of everyone, and his uncle was the only one defending her. When a reporter snapped a flash, it became too much for her to bear. Giving a little yelp, she stormed off, hurrying to the ladies’ room before the whole universe witnessed her tears.
Splashing cold water on her face, she buried her face in a towel. She’d have to sneak out of the gala. She couldn’t face anyone for the rest of the night. Behind her, she heard women moving in and out of the room, but she continued to cover her face, not wanting to converse with anyone. Even when she heard the women behind her gasp, she kept her face buried.
She stiffened when she heard someone ask, “Your Highness, what are you doing in here?”
She at last raised her face from the towel.
Women scurried out from behind stall doors in their evening finery, their dresses a blur of color. They bowed hastily, making a quick exit.
“La . . . dies.” His harsh voice emphasized both syllables.
There in the mirror in front of her, she stared into his eyes—cold, unfeeling, hardened chips of blue ice.
Malik stood against the far wall like a marble statue of a Greek god.
“I just want to know what’s going on.”
The remaining ladies were now running for the exit, their cosmetics falling from their fingers as they jammed them into their bags. Many gawked at her, some displaying curiosity, some disdain. Scalding embarrassment flamed her cheeks.
She drew in a settling breath. “Don’t you think we should have this conversation in a more private setting?”
His eyes shot blue flames, skewering her with their ferocity. “I don’t give a damn where we have it as long as I get some answers. You have been here, in my home, for weeks and yet you’ve failed to confess you know my uncle?”
“But I don’t,” she hurriedly replied. “At least I don’t think I’ve ever been introduced to him before tonight. But . . . there’s something nagging me about him. I could swear I saw him before.”
“This whole scenario sounds like a crock of Bullshit. There was recollection in your eyes when I introduced him. Now, I want the truth.”
He took a step forward, and she turned into him. With his tuxedo jacket spanning the breath of his wide shoulders, he looked formidable.
“I want some answers about why you are here and what really happened that day in the desert,” he hissed out between clenched teeth.
“I don’t know . . .”
“I don’t know is getting old, Jane.” He rifled a hand through his hair, “Foolish, foolish girl! Don’t play games with me.”
She moved forward to touch his chest, but he angrily swiped away her hand.
“I want the truth, damn it!”
She’d never seen him this angry. The barbarity of his words frightened her. She sighed. “I have absolutely no memory of what happened that day in the desert. I swear to you I’m telling you the truth.” She looked into his eyes, awaiting his censure.
He turned his back on her. “I no longer believe that,” he said over his wide shoulder, refusing to glance at her.
The door swung open and a lady walked into the room. “Out!” he shouted at her, pointing a finger toward the exit. She almost tripped in her haste to comply.
“I am not involved with any of those men you found me with in the desert. I don’t know them, and I don’t know how I got there.” Her voice shook and she swallowed, unable to continue. Why wouldn’t he look at her?
Still facing away from her, he motioned for her to continue with one hand. “And I’m supposed to just take your word for it. Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that my memory hasn’t returned.”
She heard the rush of his breath. “But it has. You’re just selective in what you remember. Have I got the gist of it?”
Damn it! He just wouldn’t listen. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
He spun around, arms crossed, in complete control once more. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I think you’re holding something back.”
Their eyes locked.
“What else aren’t you telling me?” He accused.
“I swear to God, I know nothing about the desert or any attempts on your life. Your uncle’s face seems familiar to me, but I can’t place him. And Malik, I swear that’s all I know.”
He turned and strolled to the far end of the room, and she found herself staring at the wide expanse of his shoulders once again.
“Nazem has some suspicions about a new assassination attempt he’s investigating.” Malik pinched the skin between his eyes, as he released a pent-up breath.
Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his mistrust. “And you think I’m involved! Why? How?” How was she supposed to respond to an accusation like that? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Except those damn memories kept flashing her shooting at his picture. But, she’d never do anything to hurt him. She loved him. Why . . . why did he suddenly no longer trust her? My God, what had she done to make him think she would betray him? They were lovers.
“No—” he spun and came to her, “—at least I don’t think you consciously are. Hell—” he threw his hands up in the air, “—I don’t know anymore. And I know in my heart you’re not telling me everything you know. Convince me you wouldn’t . . . couldn’t be involved in this. I’m hearing warnings from everybody.”
“About me?”
“You are certainly keeping things to yourself.” His fingers tangled in her hair and he wrapped his fist around her strands, pulling her face close to his.
“Your Highness, I love you, I would never do anything to hurt you. You have my solemn vow. What else can I say?”
His lips descended on hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth with merciless force. Even so, she wasn’t convinced that he believed her. His body seemed foreign and stiff, not at all like that of the man she had come to love.
“You possess me. I can’t think when I’m near you. You
are a witch,” he whispered into her ear.
She withdrew from him. “You humiliated me in front of your uncle. What must he think of me now?”
“You cannot condemn me for being cautious.”
He was still suspicious of her, very suspicious. She could see it in the newly developed hardness in his eyes. They left immediately afterward, and that night was the first night Malik didn’t visit her bed. She laid awake all night, crying her eyes out.
Chapter 9
Nausea woke her. Heaving like a ship tossed on a stormy sea, she opened her eyes and waited for her stomach to settle. It didn’t. It had been weeks since their horrendous fight at the gala, and at times she swore Malik still didn’t trust her. At least this morning he appeared to be back to his old self. She would just have to regain his trust. She was snuggled up next to him in the front of his car. He had refused a driver so that they could be alone, but his entourage was spread out around them. She could see the caravan of cars outside her window. They’d been driving in the coolness of the pre-dawn desert for hours, and until a few minutes ago she’d felt fine. Now . . .
She stayed motionless, praying she wouldn’t lose the contents of her stomach in Malik’s car. It didn’t work—if anything, the sensation mounted. Oh, God, she was going to be sick. She sat up, her head spinning, hot bile spilling into her throat. Scooting across the plush interior, she pushed the button and lowered the window, letting the suffocating heat rush in. Malik glanced over at her. “What are you doing?”
With no time to answer, her hand flew to her mouth as she leaned out the window. Her insides shook violently as she lost the contents of her stomach. Malik slammed on the brakes, the car shaking as it came to a sudden stop, the left side sinking into a dune. Again, she heaved out the window, fighting to get the damn car door open. Malik reached behind him, grabbed a towel, and soaked it with bottled water. When he tapped her on the shoulder, she reached back and took the cloth from him, afraid to turn her head for fear she’d soil his car.
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