by Trish Morey
She spun around slowly, trying to take it all in. ‘Oh, yes. It’s beautiful.’
His hand reached for her shoulder, stopping her right in front of him. His other hand tilted her chin. ‘Though nowhere near as beautiful as you.’
Her breath caught as his face hovered above hers, his golden skin glowing and shadowed in the lamplight, a magic prince for a magic setting.
It could have been a fairy-tale.
Except she had no place in this story.She had already chosen her course. She would leave Jebbai, return to Milan, and before long all this would seem no more than a dream.
She raised one hand to his chest, uncertain of whether she was trying to stop him or merely giving in to the temptation of touching him again, of tasting his muscled torso with her fingers, of reading the strong beat of his heart.
The hand on her shoulder moved to cover hers, wrapping her fingers in his. His eyes still locked on hers, he lifted it from his chest and pressed the palm of her hand to his mouth. She sucked in air as his warm lips, his heated breath danced over her skin, as the merest trace of his tongue spread liquid warmth coursing through her.
‘And now,’ he said, his voice low and thick, ‘relax awhile. The women will help you. I have business to discuss with the men and then we will dine together.’
Women? She looked around to see two women near the bed unpacking her bag. Unfamiliar blue fabric shot with gold floated over one woman’s hands. Sapphy frowned.
‘That’s not my bag,’ she said, stepping towards the partition. ‘It can’t be.’
‘You will find it is,’ Khaled responded.
‘But none of this…’ The women moved aside while she checked the bag—it looked like hers, yet nothing inside was familiar. She dug her hands through the gossamer fabrics, the golden tassels and belts, the heavier cloaks. She didn’t own these things. Yet, underneath everything else, there was her toiletry bag. It didn’t make sense.
And yet all of a sudden it did.
Icy realisation filled her veins. This was just the sort of thing she should have expected from someone who had frustrated her at every move. She turned, barely able to restrain the mounting hostility within.
‘What have you done with my clothes?’
CHAPTER NINE
KHALEDdismissed the women with a flick of his hand.
‘You don’t like your new garments?’
‘These things aren’t mine. What have you done with the clothes I packed?’
‘I promised you a gift—the garments made by Hebra’s best seamstresses. Do you agree they are quite beautiful?’
‘I want my clothes.’
‘Your clothes were not appropriate for the desert. This isn’t Milan or Sydney or even Hebra. Aren’t you going to try these on? See how well they fit? See how well they become you?’
‘Why the hell should I?’
‘Because,’ he said, his dark eyes shiny with victory, ‘you have no choice. You have nothing else to wear.’
‘Then I’ll wear what I’ve already got on.’
His nostrils flared. ‘It is entirely up to you if you wish to offend our hosts. For while we value the camel for transport, it is not a beast we would choose to eat with.’
She spun away from him, determined that he wouldn’t see that she knew he was right. From the moment they’d arrived at the encampment she’d looked forward to the prospect of washing off the baggage of a long, dusty trip and changing into clean clothes. But her idea of clean clothes had more to do with a linen skirt and fresh blouse than the silky nothingness of the fabrics now contained in her suitcase.
‘You need not be concerned,’ he said, almost as if he could read her thoughts. ‘It makes no difference what you had planned to wear as no one would see it anyway. The women will provide you with anabaya andhijab , a cloak and scarf to cover your garments and head, and aburka to hide your face, as is the custom here in the tribes. All anyone will see of you is your eyes. So you see, you really have nothing to get upset about.’
‘In that case,’ she said at last, ‘it would appear that I don’t have much of a choice.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t.’
And then he was gone, leaving her and her resentment simmering in his wake.
All night long the blue eyes had captivated him. All night he’d wished for a halt to the seemingly endless cups of coffee, the conversation that lingered interminably, when all he wanted to do was be alone with her.
Even covered from head to toe she stood out. There was simply no way Sapphire would blend in by dressing her in the local garb. There was no way she would not be noticed.
All anyone could see was her blue eyes, clear and warm, shining from behind her cottonburka . Yet he could see the way they lit up when she laughed, the way they creased at the corners with delight, the way they reacted when others told their tales of desert wanderings or their children, the way they would fill with compassion when the story was sad.
Most of all he liked the way they stilled when his gaze locked on hers, smoke suddenly swirling in their depths before they dropped or turned away.
All he could see was her blue eyes and even they were enough to hold him transfixed. Yet the promise, too, of what was under the darkabaya intervened in his thoughts. He wanted to strip away the cloak, to find the woman under the dull garb, to explore her feminine shape and hidden curves.
And now, when their hosts had finally called an end to the evening, now he finally had his chance.
She clutched the sides of theabaya , avoiding looking at him directly as Khaled walked her to her tent, the soft maa-ing of the goats carrying gently across the crisp night air. It was cooler now although feeling warm didn’t seem to be a problem for her. Not given the way Khaled had made her feel through dinner.
Tonight he looked more like a sheikh than ever. For the first time he had put aside the western garb she was used to seeing him in and that was so much a part of business in modern Hebra and instead he wore the traditional robes of the region. In the fine white shirt, the traditional headdress with its double cord of woven goat-hair and sheep’s wool, and the long black robes edged with gold braid, Khaled looked larger than life, a real desert king.
She’d seen the way he’d watched her tonight, had felt his eyes on her, and on those times she’d been unable to resist looking his way she’d been held by the authority of his features, the sheer power of his eyes, the potent message they contained.
He wanted her.
Sure, she’d known it before, she’d felt his need on his lips and in his kiss, but never had it taken on the significance it had now, the way it rocked her as they made their way almost silently across the pebble-strewn sands to her tent. He knew she was leaving yet still he wanted her.
Under her long robe a multitude of sensations beset her. Silk slid across her skin at every move, the metal belt shimmying softly over her hips, and tiny bells jangled softly on her ankles. She felt ultra-feminine, exquisitely sensual and sexy in a way she never had before.
Was it the garments that lay hidden under theabaya or was it the way Khaled had looked at her through dinner, as though he was already slowly peeling off her clothes, that made her flesh tingle and gave her such a rush of moist heat?
It didn’t matter. What suddenly did was the realisation that she could no longer deny.
She wanted him too.
It made no sense. She was leaving soon. Returning to her fashion-industry life in Milan and leaving the desert far behind her. She was getting what she really wanted, wasn’t she? Escape and freedom. Whereas Khaled meant the exact opposite. Khaled would keep her here forever. Even though his crazy marriage plans had been aborted, she knew he would possess her if she let him. How then could she even imagine that she wanted any part of him?
But imagination didn’t come into it. What she wanted was real.
They reached her tent, and he followed her through the opening, the heaviness of her need threatening to swamp her, to drown all rational thou
ght. Suddenly she didn’t want to say goodnight. Suddenly she wanted to prolong this moment, this time out here, in the soft lamplight of a lush Bedouin tent.
He placed one hand on her shoulder, angling her towards him. ‘You have the most expressive eyes, did you know?’ He lifted the other hand to her mask, tracing her cheek through the fabric. ‘You didn’t mind wearing this? It must seem strange to you.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. Her voice sounded clouded and thick. ‘It’s the custom here. I don’t mind.’
‘Well, you have no need of it now,’ he said, his hand reaching behind to release the tie that held it in place. It dropped to the floor at the same time he removed her scarf. Automatically she reached up a hand to smooth back her hair, suddenly nervous, expectant.
‘Your cloak too,’ he said, his voice heavy with need. ‘If you wish.’
She hesitated fractionally. It was only an outer robe, but by taking it off, what was she saying to him? The silken garments that she wore beneath hardly constituted a barrier between them. But then, the way her body was humming, her need accelerating, maybe it was time the barriers came down.
Her fingers fumbled their way to the closures that ran from her neck to her waist, undoing them in turn. Only when she had finished, her hands unsure of where to go next, did he put his hands to her shoulders, parting the robe and peeling it down her arms, finally letting go and allowing its weight to drag it to the floor, exposing her to his gaze.
She held her breath.
Breath hissed through his teeth. After the severity and relative shapelessness of theabaya , he had expected that her feminine shape in the garments his seamstresses had prepared would please him. But his thoughts and preconceptions had in no way prepared him for this.
She was a goddess.
The blue skirt hugged her low down on her hips, the golden threads of the fabric winking in the lamplight with every tiny movement, the shadow of her long legs an enticing promise beneath. More gold bound her breasts, concealing even as it accentuated her womanly curves, leaving bare the exquisite skin-scape of her midriff.
She might not have been happy about having her clothes swapped but right now she didn’t look as if she held it against him. He’d wanted to strip away all the shackles of her previous life, to let her absorb and enjoy the full experience of the desert without the barrier of western clothes to hide behind.
And, if he was honest, there was more than a modicum of self-interest involved. He’d longed to see her out of her usual attire, her well-designed yet far too tailored attire.
Now he had, he was sure he would never have his fill. She was a feast for the eyes. His body reacted in the only way possible. Inside him the hunger cranked up a notch, the need to possess her all-consuming.
When he didn’t move she lifted her eyes fractionally, afraid of what she might see in his. She wasn’t disappointed. Hot appreciation, vivid and intent, blazed out of their dark depths, his chin set rigid as if he was holding himself tightly under control.
Sparks ignited inside her, sparks that fired messages to nerve endings that tingled and buzzed. Flesh responded, exposed skin goose-pimpled, breasts peaked and firmed.
Then his mouth slanted over hers and the feelings were magnified, intensified, as his need fed into hers. She tasted coffee, the desert and passion, the power that was Khaled alive in his kiss as his lips moved over hers, as his tongue explored her depths.
His arms curled around her, pulling her in close to him, his hands warm on the dip of her spine, the flare of her hips, the curve of her breast.
Pressure mounted inside her, pressure that turned the dull ache between her thighs into more like a pulsing imperative. Her hands tangled through the metres of cloth that made up his robes, wanting to feel not his clothes, but his body, firm and hard, next to hers.
And close up she could feel his strength, feel the power of his need as she pressed herself against the firm ridge of his erection.
His head drew back on a shudder as his arms loosened and she looked up, confused, missing his heat already.
‘Sapphire,’ he said, his voice a bare rasp, his breath fast and choppy.
And instantly she was reminded of the times before, when he’d kissed her and pulled away, leaving her reeling and hungry for more and resentful of his control, and she knew that no way was he doing that to her again. She couldn’t bear it.
This was most likely her last night in Jebbai. Her last night with Khaled. Her last chance to satisfy this reckless desire that flared whenever he was near.
Soon she’d be back in Milan, alone in her apartment, no Paolo to console her, nothing to ease her regret for missing out on what she could have had.
So this time would be different. This time he wasn’t leaving her cold. This time he could damn well finish what he’d started.
She anchored her arms around his neck and pulled herself tight up against him. ‘Khaled,’ she whispered, her lips close to his ear, pressing tiny kisses along his throat, nipping his skin with her teeth and pressing her breasts into his chest. ‘Make love to me.’
CHAPTER TEN
HE SEEMEDto hesitate a moment, almost as if he didn’t believe what he’d heard. But only for a moment.
Then his eyes sparked white heat and he uttered something low and guttural, the words indiscernible to her but his intentions clear. He collected her in his arms and lifted her out of the circle of her discarded robe, breaching the distance to the bed in three long strides.
He laid her down, amongst the soft covers and tasselled cushions, and knelt beside her, his chest rising powerfully, drinking her in with his eyes.
‘Magnificent,’ he said, his words curling into her senses, feeding the fires inside, as he shrugged off his cloak and tore his headdress away. Then he dipped his head and reefed his long shirt over his back and shoulders, balling it in his hands before flinging it across the tent.
She didn’t see where it landed. Her eyes were on him, on the golden skin of his chest, glowing warmly in the soft lamplight.
His shoulders were broad, his muscles well defined, his skin satin-smooth. She reached out a hand to touch him, spreading her fingers, relishing the feel of his firm abdomen, anticipating what lay below the loose white trousers that were his only remaining garment. Her fingers dropped to the waistband, slipping inside.
Breath hissed through his teeth as one hand whipped out, snaring hers. And what she saw in his eyes—desire, raw and urgent, naked and demanding—edged up her own hunger. He pushed her arm down onto the bed, stretching himself out lengthwise alongside, his leg situating itself between hers, dipping his mouth to hers once more.
Then she was lost in his kisses, lost in his touch and in the heat he generated inside her. There were too many sensations, too much to assimilate, such that all she could think of while he explored her body, setting fires wherever he touched, was that he felt so good.
He felt so right.
His hand cupped her breast, his kisses trailing down her neck until his mouth too was there. Even through the fabric his hot breath hit home, her nipple budding tight between his teeth.
He moved suddenly and reached around her. Then her top was slipping down her arms and cool air met her exposed breasts. Cool air and his hot gaze. He made a sound like a growl, low and deep, before his head dipped first to one nipple, gently lapping, suckling, rolling the nipple, before turning his attentions to the other.
It was torture. Her head rocked from one side to the other.Exquisite torture —but still it wasn’t enough.
His hand ran down the length of her leg, floating down the silken layers of her skirt, and then up again, this time shucking the filmy fabric out of his path. Nerve endings screamed along the length of her body, sending off needle-like charges that speared direct to just one place.
She felt liquid inside, molten, as his hand caressed her thigh—close, so close—and then he touched her there and her back arched as light like a flash bulb went off in the recesses of her closed ey
es. His touch was gentle, sensual, erotic and she felt herself responding to him, opening, yielding.
Yet still it wasn’t enough.
‘Khaled,’ she pleaded, her hands tangled in his hair, wanting an end to the waiting, an end to the anticipation. ‘Please.’
He lifted his head from her breast and looked up at her, his dark eyes smouldering, so heavy with intent that it rocked her.
‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure,’ he said, raising himself up to his knees and tugging down his cotton trousers. Her eyes followed the motion, held captive by the sheer beauty of his form, unable to tear her eyes away from his sculpted torso, his flat stomach and down further, where the cotton fabric provided no restraint…
And then he was free and anticipation gave way to apprehension.