Stolen by the Desert King

by Clare Connelly

  He’d seen her as she’d been then, too. So in love with Fayez she’d forgive him anything. She forgave him the first time he’d hurt her – though he’d broken her arm by throwing her down a flight of marble stairs. She’d forgiven him the next time, when he’d wrapped his fist around her throat and held her under bath water. She’d forgiven him again and again, and as the injuries became more horrific and the atrocious acts more violent and bizarre, she’d lied for him, she’d hidden herself away so that her best friend hadn’t noticed. So that Khalifa had missed the obvious.

  Until one day he hadn’t. Until she’d fainted at his feet – days after Fayez had slammed her head into a wall – the concussion had lingered. With his physician overseeing her recovery, scars, wounds, badly-healed breaks were all obvious.

  With every bone in his body he had wanted to ignore the demands of the judicial system and throw Fayez in prison. Hell, he’d wanted to kill the man with his own bare hands. But even then, Selena had refused to testify, and without her testimony, he could not invoke the law.

  And he had so badly wanted to.

  But she’d been adamant. As the days had passed and the spell had lifted, she’d fallen steadily out of love with Fayez. Khalifa had done what he could – he’d kept her in his palace, making sure she didn’t see the arrogant bastard. And sure enough, time gave her the perspective to help her see things more clearly. To realise there was no love left between them. To understand how much better off she was away from his vile temper and horrible behaviour.

  More had come to light over the years.

  Of course, Selena wasn’t the first or only woman he’d treated to a regular outing with his fist. It was his standard operation but the family went to great lengths to pay off his victims; to buy their silence with such an attractive payment they’d never consider going to the police.

  When Fayez tired of them, tired of using them as a punching bag, they were richer than their wildest dreams could have made them.

  That was the other part of his pattern.

  He was careful to select women, generally, who had nothing.

  Selena had certainly fit that mould. The daughter of his father’s Principal (the male equivalent to a mistress like Aïna) she had grown up in the palace with Khalifa. And though they’d been firm friends, the difference in their social standing had always been apparent. He had; she had not. Except she’d had his heart.

  All of it.

  He’d adored her; worshipped her. He’d loved to make her laugh – there was no sound on earth he enjoyed more. And she’d laughed freely back then, running across the tiles, telling him tall tales about the alligators in the moat and the men who’d wrestled them.

  What cruel twist of fate had brought her into Fayez’s orbit? And worse, why had Khalifa been away at the time? His trip was only three weeks, but by the time he’d returned, she’d moved in with Fayez and was, as Selena was in all things, enthusiastically falling headlong in love with the other man.

  Jealousy had been his first reaction and because he’d been anxious to conceal it from Selena – he loved her too much to ruin her happiness with his own darkness – he had stayed away. He had given her the freedom to enjoy her love and lover even though the knowledge almost killed him.

  And very nearly killed her too.

  His hands tightened by his side.

  Fayez had stolen Selena from him, and though he’d rescued her once more, she was not the same. She never would be. Fayez had not killed her body but her spirit and joy were gone forever.

  So had Khalifa repaid him sufficiently? The removal of Kylie from beneath his nose, on his wedding day; was it enough?

  No, he found. It was a start, but his need to pain the man was deeply ingrained.

  He flipped onto his side and breathed in; her fragrance was soft but it was filling him up, making him long to possess her.

  His eyes drifted to the golden clock on the side of his bed. The hands were inlaid with rubies – a gift on his eighteenth birthday from his own Principal.

  It was past two in the morning. The sandstorm was fading.

  He stood restlessly and pushed to his feet.

  There was no point in dressing. He moved, naked, to the door that joined their rooms, and unlocked the key.

  He was sick of thinking of Selena, of Fayez.

  And he knew of only one way to drive those thoughts from his head.

  *

  She was asleep when he entered her room. A smile curved his lips – an involuntary smile – as he stood beside the bed and listened to her breathing. It was soft but thick – almost a snore.

  He ignored the softening of his heart.

  The marriage existed purely because he needed it to. But it was not born out of a political weakness or fear. No, Khalifa had more personal reasons than that. Motives of revenge. Of hatred and rage.

  Every time he made love to his wife he was taking something from Fayez and that felt good.

  Better than good.

  It was the sweetest revenge he’d ever known.

  He lifted the sheet from her body with confident fingers and she stirred, just enough to let her nightgown slip, and it revealed the top of a perfect breast. His erection jerked.

  He balled the skirt of her nightie into his fists and pushed it higher, then he straddled her.

  She moaned in her sleep and arched her back; he leaned down and kissed her lips.

  She whispered his name into his mouth, the word wrapping around his tongue as he kissed her. “Please,” she added to the incantation, her fingers digging into his back as she lifted herself to him, welcoming him, needing him as he did her.

  He pushed her underpants down just enough to reveal her naked core and then he took her, thrusting into her as though he was a starving man who had been given one chance to feast.

  He gripped her hips and her eyes opened, heavy and thick with the shadows of sleep. “Am I dreaming?”

  “No, azeezi. This is real.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SUN BURST THROUGH her bedroom with confusing brightness. She blinked and stretched, her body tender and heavy with satisfaction.

  Had it been a dream?

  She pushed up on her elbows, looking for anything that would answer her questions. There was no sign that Khalifa had been in her bedroom. No sign that he’d pleasured her again and again, playing her body as a virtuoso might command an instrument.

  But when she stood, every single cell in her body groaned. With agony and ecstasy. With delight and desire.

  He’d made love to her.

  Could it be called that without love?

  Without words, without promises, without anything other than the primal fulfilment of desire and need? Of urgency and passion? No. It was sex. Hard and fast and toe-curlingly satisfying.

  Was this the relationship he wanted with her? Middle-of-the-night trysts that made her scream with heat and delirious pleasure but which were over almost immediately.

  She padded towards the bathroom on autopilot – it was bigger than her bedroom at home had been – and lifted the nightgown off her body. There were marks on her breasts – pink abrasions – from his stubble, his fingers, his kisses and touch. A mark low down on the flesh of her stomach showed where he’d sucked her over and over, tormenting her, and left a dark circle of possession. She ran her fingers over the evidence of their time together, trying to catch the memories. But they ran like liquid gold through her fingertips; hot and unattainable. Her neck had darkened as she’d expected, proof of passion borne of rage – proof of another man’s touch.

  “Sleep now, lanaria.” He’d stroked her arm gently as he’d pulled away from her and she’d been too tired to argue. Her body was heavy with pleasure and awareness, fully satiated by his expert touch.

  But now, in the light of day, other emotions bubbled through her. Anger. Impotence. Frustration.

  Need.

  She showered and ran the loofah over her skin, covering every inch of herself with foamy wat
er, scrubbing hard then rinsing herself all over. She washed her hair and scrubbed her nails and then, when she could put it off no longer, she stepped out of the warmth of the shower, reaching for a soft towel.

  What else had he said, as he’d left? Her mind struggled to recall – she’d been on the edge of sleep. “You have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Did she?

  How did he know?

  Had he arranged it? Or spoken to Aïna? Was he more involved in her life than she realised? Other than sneaking into her room in the small hours of the morning to take possession of her body?

  She stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in the luxurious towel, distracted by her thoughts, so at first she didn’t notice that Aïna was waiting for her, with several other servants.

  “Good morning, madam.”

  Kylie startled, her enormous blue eyes flying across the room, her cheeks flushed pink.

  “Oh!”

  Aïna’s smile was kind. “Did you sleep well?”

  The flush on her cheeks darkened. She nodded, thinking that she had slept well. From exhaustion at first, and then from satiation. Her gaze zipped to the bed, looking for proof of Khalifa’s company.

  There was none. It had been made and now looked like it would be at home in a five star hotel. The cream and gold bed linen, the turquoise sheet and scatter cushions. It was a study of elegance and beauty.

  “Fine, thank you,” she croaked, turning her attention back to Aïna and smiling politely, encompassing the other servants in the greeting. They didn’t return her smile and she remembered belatedly that doing so might get them thrown in jail.

  Of all the preposterous, absurd fears!

  “Your schedule today is busy,” Aïna murmured, moving closer, the kind smile not dropping from her face. “But, as with yesterday, you may tell me if it is too much and I will rearrange things.”

  Kylie had no time to respond; Aïna continued. “The chef has prepared an omelette for you, per your list of meal requests. It is tomato and olive and there is also avocado on toast and freshly squeezed orange juice.”

  Kylie followed Aïna’s gaze through the doors on the other side of her bedroom, and in doing so her attention hitched on the balcony. A hint of sand could be seen inside her suite, which reminded her of the incredible storm she’d fallen asleep listening to the night before.

  “Aïna? The storm last night. Does that happen often?”

  “Ah, the desert winds,” she nodded, her words spiced with a thicker accent. “Yes, they are a part of life here. Storms like last night’s, that come and go in a matter of hours, are not so severe. But from time to time there are events which last all day or all night and they dump sand everywhere – even in the city.”

  “Incredible,” Kylie murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “They are beautiful, in some ways,” Aïna agreed. “But they can also be destructive.”

  “Yes – and not pleasant to be caught out in!” She thought of the way the sand had rustled up to her, so fast she didn’t realise what was happening. “I wonder if anyone was stranded in the desert last night.”

  “Perhaps,” Aïna agreed. “Though most who venture out onto the sand plains know better than to do so without protection. Calico tents are designed to withstand the worst of the storms, and are quick to erect. Reading the winds is a skill our people are born with.” She winked. “These storms do not often catch us by surprise.”

  “Really?”

  Kylie lifted a finger to her wet hair, contemplating that. In Australia, she had known when a thunderstorm was brewing. She could smell the electricity in the air, detect a very faint hum in the atmosphere. It wasn’t a stretch that people adapted their skills to whichever environment they found themselves in.

  “Truly.” Aïna winked. “Your maids will help you dress now.”

  Kylie’s eyes lifted to the trio of servants still hovering just inside the door. They looked nice enough, but Kylie had no interest in being dressed each morning. Particularly not when her body bore the signs of Khalifa’s possession. The visible markings of how he’d made her feel the night before.

  Her stomach lurched as she remembered her first orgasm. It had arrived like the sandstorm, abruptly and suddenly, but perhaps he’d seen the signs? Perhaps he knew what to look for. He certainly knew how to bring her to an incandescent level of need with almost insulting ease.

  “No.” She shook her head, surprised by the word – and the commanding tone her voice achieved. For Aïna, she softened it with a small smile. “I don’t want to be dressed each day. I don’t need that s.”

  Aïna arched a brow. “Some of the outfits are …elaborate. Not easy for one person to put on.”

  “Then you can help me,” Kylie pointed out, almost missing the sharp intake of breath from one of the maids by the door. “Is that wrong?”

  “No, madam.” Aïna’s look was warning towards the servants and then she nodded, apparently dismissing them, because when Kylie looked around they were walking through the door, bowing low as they went. When they were alone, Aïna continued.

  “It is. What did I say? They looked like I’d suggested you … I don’t know. They looked like I said something wrong. What is it?”

  Aïna shook her head kindly. “It is not wrong. It’s just different from our usual protocols. There is a strict hierarchy for servants of the palace. Usually, someone in my position wouldn’t…”

  “Wouldn’t dress someone.” She groaned. “I’m sorry, Aïna. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Does it look as though I am offended?”

  “It’s just so different to what I’d expected.” She padded towards the wardrobe, aware that Aïna was following and not bothered. “I had prepared myself for servants. I have grown up with nannies and maids and the concept wasn’t new to me. But I didn’t realise how different it would be when I arrived. Will I ever feel comfortable about having so many people in my personal space?”

  “Yes,” Aïna said simply. “Of course you will. It will take time.”

  “So you are my Mistress, but you’re in charge of all the other servants. So for you to do something like dress me is way below your professional grade.”

  “Usually,” Aïna agreed. “But I understand you are still learning.”

  “God, I’m never going to be able to do this.” The admission of defeat was surprising to both of them, but as Kylie said the words, she knew how strongly she felt them. She’d come to Argenon expecting to marry a man – a powerful man, yes, from a wealthy family, but not the King. Not the blood ruler, to whom all and sundry bowed down.

  “Of course you are.” Aïna dismissed Kylie’s doubts with kind swiftness. “Life in Australia is very different. You are naturally egalitarian. This isn’t normal for you. But over time, you will learn our ways.”

  She nodded slowly. She would, because she had to.

  “This outfit was selected for your day,” Aïna gestured to a gown that was hanging to the side of the others. It was beautiful – red and black and gold with swirls in the fabric. She reached for it, her fingers running over the textured linen with appreciation. It looked hand embroidered. The dress itself was reasonably simple. Floor length and billowing, with a conservative neckline and sleeves that fell loosely to her elbows.

  “So far as your outfits go, this is of the more casual variety.”

  Kylie’s lips tweaked with amusement. “Really?”

  “No bodice, no structure. It is designed for days where you will be conducting your own business within the palace, rather than being seen by anyone, or having photographs taken. You may pair it with flat shoes for ease and minimal jewellery.”

  “Just like when I’m hanging around at home watching Netflix,” she quipped, her eyes showing bewilderment.

  “Exactly,” Aïna agreed, winking at the joke. “Would you prefer to dress yourself today?”

  “Yes,” Kylie laughed. “I think I can manage a dress.”

  “I’ll wait outsid
e then. Call if you do need me.”

  Kylie stared at the dress for a few moments before dropping her towel. Belatedly, she realised she had no clue where her underwear was stored. She pulled doors open until she found folded silk lingerie and fingered through it. There was nothing simple or casual about this. Each piece was exquisite. She settled on a black lace thong and a matching camisole – both fitted her perfectly – then slipped the dress over her head.

  It was even more striking on. Though she had damp hair and her face was clean of any cosmetic enhancement, the dress played to her strengths, the colour a perfect foil to her complexion. And it felt divine.

  She chose a pair of simple shoes, as Aïna had suggested, then padded out into the lounge. Aïna was waiting and Kylie did a twirl for her inspection before she realised that Aïna was not alone.

  As she spun, her eyes thudded onto a large, overbearing figure and she froze, all the amusement and light-hearted fun of the moment evaporating at the sight of her husband.

  Did someone dress him?

  She couldn’t help but wonder. Did someone else get to see him naked? Touch him? She bit back the groan.

  “Aïna.” His word, gruff and low, was a simple command and Aïna was back to being pure business. She bowed low, first towards Khalifa and then towards Kylie, only the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth showed any of their joking camaraderie that had developed.

  “Back again?” She drawled, pleased at how the words came out slightly sarcastic and dismissive.

  Disapproving, even.

  But he wasn’t listening.

  His eyes were burning through her, first skimming her face, her still-wet hair that was falling in blonde ringlets down her back, then the dress, which she was suddenly incredibly glad to be wearing. If she’d still had just a towel on she might have dropped it and begged him to make love to her again.

  The very idea sent iron into her spine.

  “Well,” she prompted, the words like ice. “Did you want something?”