Strangers in the Desert

by Lynn Raye Harris

  He could not keep thinking of her that way. It was counterproductive to his plans.

  “He’s the only one who knows the truth about what happened,” she continued.

  A wave of frustration rolled through him then. He very much wanted to speak to Hassan Maro, as well. He wanted to know the truth. “Your father is out of the country.”

  She seemed to sink in on herself then, her shoulders slumping, the fire inside her flickering dangerously. One breath, he thought, and it would go out.

  “It figures.” She sighed.

  He suddenly found himself wanting to pull her into his arms and comfort her. But he would not. He couldn’t afford to soften toward her, couldn’t allow his judgment to be clouded or to make her think something more was possible between them.

  Then why are you taking her to the Butterfly Palace and letting her spend time with Rafiq?

  Because he had to get her to agree to a divorce. That was it, the only reason—aside from the issue of keeping her return a secret from the public, of course. They would be isolated, but he would have plenty to keep him busy. He had a nation to run. He would never be alone with her. Kalila would be there, and Mahmoud, as well as a small staff.

  He would spend time with her and Rafiq during the day. At night, they would go to separate rooms. It was a good plan. A sound plan.

  “I have left orders that he is to be brought to me the moment he returns,” he said. “It is the best I can do.”

  She tilted her chin up as her strength returned. “Fine. And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  “Of course,” he said, sweeping his arm wide to indicate that she precede him inside. She didn’t stop once indoors, marching straight to the hall door and holding it open for him. It wasn’t until he was halfway back to his own room that he realized he’d just been dismissed.

  Early the next morning, a team of tailors and their assistants arrived. Isabella had just finished breakfast when the knock on her door sounded. A moment later, a servant led the procession into the outer rooms of her suite.

  “His Excellency says you are to have a new wardrobe, my lady,” the head tailor offered by way of explanation.

  The morning was filled with measurements, choosing from bright bolts of silk georgette, and standing still for fittings of a few readymade items the women had brought along. Isabella felt self-conscious. She wanted to protest that she did not need so much, but the truth was she had no idea whether she did. Adan had said two weeks, but of course she hoped for more. The clothing she’d brought with her wouldn’t get her through much more than a week.

  She already missed her life in Hawaii, and yet she missed it the way you miss something that happened in the past—not as if it was something she desired now. Because now that she’d met her baby, she couldn’t imagine anywhere else she wanted to be.

  She did not know how they would work this out between them, but she hoped to be a part of Rafiq’s life for far longer than two weeks. She sensed this was a test and, as much as it infuriated her to have to take it, she was determined not to fail.

  By the time Adan came for her later that afternoon, she had a suitcase full of clothes to take along. She’d dressed in a soft green abaya for the trip by car into the desert. The garment skimmed her form, suggesting curves rather than delineating them.

  Adan stopped short when he entered the room and she stood up. His eyes slid over her appreciatively, but he banked the fire in them as he met her gaze.

  “You are ready, then?”

  “Yes,” she replied, as coolly as she could manage.

  The ride to the Butterfly Palace took just over two hours in the caravan of Land Rovers that rolled up and down giant red sand dunes. The desert was stark and beautiful, and yet it made her heart beat crazily in her chest.

  Was it because she had walked into the desert alone, as Adan said? Whatever had happened to her had happened out here. And that made her nervous.

  She sat stiffly in the seat beside Adan, her hands clasped together in her lap. She’d wanted to ride with Rafiq and Kalila, but there hadn’t been enough room in their car.

  “Why is it called the Butterfly Palace?” she blurted after they’d rolled down yet another steep dune. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow and between her breasts. The car was air-conditioned, but it wasn’t cool enough to conquer the evidence of her nerves.

  Adan glanced over at her. “It was built five hundred years ago for the favorite wife of a king. She loved butterflies and had a garden built for them. In the spring, it was said, hundreds of butterflies swarmed the palace. They perched on her shoulders and hair, ate with her and even slept with her. And when her husband eventually died and she was brokenhearted, the butterflies carried her to heaven to be with him—or so the legend goes.”

  “Are there any butterflies there now?” she asked, trying to imagine the sad queen and her colorful companions.

  “I have never seen any,” he said. “I think the climate has shifted as the desert has grown, and it’s now too hot for them here. There are butterflies closer to the sea, of course.” He frowned and leaned closer to her. “Are you unwell, habibti? Do you need your headache medicine?”

  Isabella swallowed against the tidal wave of nausea that threatened to take her down if she didn’t hold fast against it. “It’s not my head,” she forced out. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “It’s just so hot.”

  Adan’s frown deepened. He pressed a button and gave an order to the driver in the front seat, and the blast of air from the AC unit intensified. He picked up a stack of papers he’d been leafing through earlier and fanned her with them.

  Isabella closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “What is truly wrong, Isabella?”

  His voice was soothing, and she had a sudden feeling that she needed to share it with someone. That maybe if she voiced her concerns, heard how silly they were, the feeling would go away. “It’s the desert. I … feel … as if it’s going to crush me beneath it.”

  She heard him sigh, and then she felt his arm around her, pulling her close against him. He continued to fan her with the papers. “You are safe with me,” he said in a low voice. “I promise you that.”

  She sat stiffly at first, but the rhythm of the Land Rover, the soft breeze from the papers and the warm body at her side lulled her into a doze. She drifted in that half-twilight state between dreaming and waking. She thought of her father’s house near the sea, then the one on the edge of the wildest part of Jahfar. Her father and mother rose up in her mind, arguing, of course, and then quickly faded away.

  Then a man appeared before her.

  A dark, dangerous man. Adan. He held his hand out and she slipped hers inside it. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She was wearing a deep orange abaya, heavily jeweled, and a veil covered her head. She was nervous, but he comforted her with soft words as he gently slipped the clothing from her body. Then he laid her on a bed and stripped off his clothes before lying down beside her.

  She knew what came next as she gazed up into his face. That handsome face that had been so aloof all day, but was now intense and sensual. He caressed and kissed his way down her body, taking his time. He dipped his tongue into the wet seam between her legs and brought her to shattering bliss while she moaned and cried his name. Then he was on top of her, pushing at her entrance as the remnants of her pleasure ricocheted through her body.

  As he pushed inside her, whispering hot words, she gasped out in pain and surprise—

  Isabella blinked. The sun was bright and hot outside the car. Red sand spread as far as the eye could see in every direction. Beside her, Adan was frowning at her again.

  “What is the matter, Isabella?”

  Her body was hot, but not from fear this time. Oh, dear God. She’d been having an erotic dream about him—or was it a memory? She’d been wearing the dress from their wedding photo in the paper.

  “I �
��” She swallowed. “I think I remembered something … with you.”

  His gaze sharpened. “You did?”

  Isabella felt a fresh wave of heat wash over her. Why had she told him that? Because now he’d want to know what the memory was.

  On the other hand, what did it matter? Her desire to know if it was really a memory outweighed her embarrassment over the subject.

  “I think it was our wedding night. I was wearing the dress from the photo. You undressed me before … before … your mouth … And then—”

  Isabella closed her eyes. Dear God. Could it get any worse?

  When she found the courage to peek at him, he was staring at her. His expression seemed distant, as if he, too, were thinking of that night.

  Then he shook his head. “It’s never going to work,” he said more to himself than to her.

  “What isn’t?” Fear threaded through her voice, pitching it higher. Was he planning to turn the caravan around and take her back to Port Jahfar? Was he reconsidering allowing her to spend time with Rafiq? Dammit, why had she said anything?

  “Adan,” she said. Demanded.

  He looked at her again, his dark eyes hot and intense. And then he kissed her.

  It shocked her to realize that his mouth on hers felt right. That the sweep of his tongue, the hot thrill sliding down her spine and the explosive current of sensation pooling in her belly were familiar and welcome.

  Her feminine core, already flooded with heat and moisture from the memory, ached with need.

  Her arms drifted around his neck as he spread one broad hand against the small of her back and pulled her into his body so that she was half lying on his lap.

  Reaching down, he hooked an arm around her legs and lifted her the rest of the way into his lap.

  Her buttocks nestled against the solid hardness of his masculinity. When she moved, he groaned low in his throat, a sexy sound that made her want to press her hand against him just to see if the sound would get better.

  He cupped her breast, his thumb caressing her sensitive nipple, rubbing so lightly and so expertly she thought she would scream. Her nipples were hard, tight points, and her whole body was attuned to every agonizing caress.

  “I want you,” he growled against her lips—and then he was kissing her throat, her collarbone, before claiming her mouth again.

  Isabella couldn’t stop the moan that rose in her throat. She’d kissed one man in the two years that she’d thought she was a different person, and she’d pulled back immediately because it hadn’t felt right.

  This did.

  Incredibly, amazingly right. Which disconcerted her, because she had no illusions about Adan. He might want her physically, but he despised her. Perhaps he’d always despised her. Perhaps that’s why she’d felt compelled to leave.

  Feelings swirled in her head, her heart, until she couldn’t untangle them. She felt happy—and sad. She felt cherished—and despised. She felt, with a certainty, that she had once loved him—but that he had not loved her. Sorrow rose up in a solid wave inside her and she suddenly put her hands against his chest and pushed.

  It was too much.

  He broke the kiss, confusion in his dark eyes as he gazed down at her. His mouth—that beautiful mouth—was slick from kissing her, and she instantly wanted to press her lips to his again and forget her tangled thoughts.

  “I—I’m not ready for this,” she said, her voice thready. “It’s too soon.”

  His expression cleared by degrees until he was once more the cool, unflappable ruler. He set her away from him and she smoothed her skirts self-consciously.

  “You are correct, of course,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want …” Isabella swallowed. How could she say it? How could she admit that she did want him? It would be an acknowledgment of his power over her.

  And she couldn’t give him any more power than he already had.

  “I don’t know you well enough,” she said softly. “I know we’ve had a child together, but what kind of man are you really? What kind of marriage did we have? Did we at least like each other?”

  He leaned back on the seat and sighed. “We were good in bed,” he said matter-of-factly. “Though we did not have much time together.”

  “Because you were so busy? Or do you mean because I got pregnant?”

  “Both, I think. But mostly because you were ill during the pregnancy. We had one month, Isabella, before we began to live like roommates instead of lovers.”

  “Oh. Was it a difficult pregnancy, then?”

  “Other than your nausea, no. Everything was normal.”

  She smoothed the fabric on her thighs again. “I wish I could remember. I feel … cheated.”

  Cheated because she’d carried her child for nine months and she could remember nothing about the experience. Cheated because she’d obviously shared her life—and body—with this man, and he was still a stranger to her.

  Adan sighed. “You were very beautiful, in spite of your sickness. And you grew quite large. Rafiq weighed over nine pounds when he was born.”

  Isabella’s jaw dropped. “He did? My goodness.” And then she giggled, though it threatened to turn into a sob. She pressed her hand to her lips to stop it from doing so. “Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t remember.”

  Adan smiled. Her heart stopped. He was breathtaking when he did so. His face, already so handsome, became warm and open, almost innocent in a way. It was an odd thing to think about so hard a man, and yet it was the one word that popped into her mind. Innocent.

  “You looked as if you’d swallowed three soccer balls,” he said. “The doctor said it was only one baby in there, but I began to think he was wrong.”

  “Were you there when he was born?”

  He shook his head and her heart sank a little at the sad expression on his face. “I was out of the country on business. You weren’t due for another two weeks.”

  “I’m sorry you missed it, then.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed it. Shock raced in hot spirals along her nerve endings. “I am, too. I would have liked to have been there for you both. You had a difficult time with the labor and delivery, but Rafiq was healthy and you bounced back …”

  His voice trailed off and she looked at him quizzically. “What, Adan?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “I want to remember,” she said. “Even the hard parts. I want to remember every moment of our lives together. It’s hard not knowing.”

  “Perhaps you will remember someday. You remembered our wedding night, after all.”

  “Did I? Or was it only a dream?”

  One corner of his mouth quirked in a wicked grin. “No, you remembered it quite well. It was a long and pleasurable night.”

  Her heart pounded for an entirely different reason now. He was as tempting as sin. And she desperately wanted to take a bite out of the apple.

  “Careful, Isabella,” he growled suddenly. Except it wasn’t an angry growl at all.

  It was a passionate, sensual sound that stroked along her senses like a trail of hot candle wax.

  “I don’t understand,” she managed.

  He cupped a hand behind her head and pulled her in for a kiss. Just as quickly, he let her go again. “I’m a man, habibti, not a saint. If you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to know me very well before we ever leave this car.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE Butterfly Palace wasn’t as ornate as she’d expected it to be. Nor was it anywhere near as big as the palace in Port Jahfar. Other than a caretaker and a housekeeper, there was no permanent staff. That was why, Isabella thought, they’d traveled in a caravan.

  They still hadn’t brought that many people along. A cook. Adan’s assistant, as well as two extra office personnel. Two additional women to help the housekeeper and cook, and a couple of others whose functions she did not know.

  Adan took a sleeping Rafiq from Kalila and carried
him to his room, which was already prepared, while the housekeeper showed Isabella to her room. She wanted to go with Adan and Rafiq, but she told herself to be patient. They’d just arrived, and there was time to settle in. Besides, Rafiq was asleep and wouldn’t even know she was there.

  The room she was shown to was just a room, not a suite, but it was large and airy with tall ceilings, overstuffed couches, and an inlaid wooden armoire and dressing table. A large canopied bed occupied one wall, the mattress thick and covered with a cream duvet and a collection of pillows.

  White curtains hung on either side of distressed wooden doors that opened to the outside. The doors were old and shuttered to let the light in, but glass had been fitted to the outer portion of the casement, so that the doors could be opened at any time and yet the room would remain cool due to the modern air-conditioning that had been added to the palace.

  The doors were pushed partially to, but Isabella didn’t open them to see what was outside. First, she wanted to unpack, and then she would explore.

  While she was putting everything away, a maid brought refreshments—mint tea and a selection of cool fruit—and then hurried away again before Isabella could tell her she really didn’t need anything.

  “Is it to your liking?”

  Isabella whirled at the sound of his voice. They’d only arrived a little over a half an hour ago—how could she already be so pleased to see him, as if they’d been separated for days instead of minutes?

  “It’s lovely,” she replied.

  Adan strode over and pulled open the wooden doors. “Come, let me show you something.”

  He held out his hand. She didn’t even hesitate before joining him and slipping her hand into his, her skin sizzling where they touched. He stared down at her for a moment, as if he, too, were jolted by the contact, and then he was pushing open the glass and leading her onto a shadowed terrace.

  Bougainvillea vines grew in profusion over the arbor that stretched the length of the terrace. A short sandstone wall ran along the back of the terrace, and beyond that was a small hedge that seemed to wind in a path, though she couldn’t figure out the pattern.