Sheikh's Desert Desire

CHAPTER THREE

RASHID HADN’T MEANT to kiss her. But the damned woman was going to scream and he could not allow it. So he’d silenced her in the only way he could.

Her mouth was soft and pliant and sweet. He took advantage of the fact her lips were open to slip his tongue inside and stroke across the velvety softness of her mouth. She didn’t move for a long moment and he began to wonder if she would bite him.

She was certainly capable of it. He’d not encountered a woman such as this one in...well, ever. Usually, women softened around him. Their eyes got big and wide and their mouths fell open invitingly. They sighed. They purred. They pouted.

They did not act as if he were poison. They did not glare daggers at him and spit fire and tell him to get out in prim little voices that belonged to the starchy librarians he’d encountered when he’d gone to university.

Sheridan’s breath hitched in and he knew he had her. Knew she was his, for the moment.

He deepened the kiss, demanding more of a response from her. He had to keep her mouth busy and her thoughts focused on him until he could get her out of the store and into the car. It was a mercenary act on his part and he had no trouble pushing it as far as he needed in order to keep the fool woman silenced.

Her mouth opened a little wider, her tongue stroking tentatively against his.

Rashid’s body turned to stone in a heartbeat. He had not expected that. But then he reminded himself there was a reason for his reaction. It had been a while since he’d had a woman. Being king had taken all his time these past couple of months. He was no longer a private citizen. No longer a man who could walk into a club, spot a gorgeous woman and take her home for a night of hot sex and no recriminations.

He was a king, and kings did not go anywhere without an entourage. They also did not pick up women and take them back to the palace for sex.

Certainly, he could have sent for a woman. But what kind of man would he be if he sent others to pick out women for him for the express purpose of having sex?

He was no prude, and he figured what people did with their bodies was their own business, but he’d never paid for sex in his life and he wasn’t going to start now. Because that was what it would be if he ordered a woman for the evening as if she were an item on a room service menu.

Oh, she would not be a common prostitute. She wouldn’t be a prostitute at all. But that didn’t make it any better in his mind.

Another reason why he was going to have to choose a wife soon from the handful of princesses and heiresses his council had recommended. And yet he couldn’t imagine having sex with any of the women whose dossiers he’d been sent thus far, much less facing one of them across a breakfast table for the rest of his life.

Damn Kadir for forcing him to take the throne. Yes, Rashid had always wanted to be king, but he hadn’t quite realized how very confined he would feel. He was a ruler, a man with the power of life and death over his subjects, a man with absolute authority—and he had no private life to speak of. No one with whom he could share the simple pleasures.

He had not thought that would bother him so much, but it did. He missed Daria. Missed having someone in his life who loved him because of his flaws, not in spite of them. But Daria was gone, and there was no one.

Sheridan shifted in his arms and he felt her confusion, her hesitation. She was fighting herself, fighting her nature, and if he’d learned anything about her in these last few minutes, he knew she would conquer her baser instincts and fight against him soon enough.

A people pleaser? Perhaps she was, but she was not a Rashid pleaser. He knew that well enough now.

Because he was angry, because he was frustrated, he took the kiss to another level, ravaged her mouth like a man starved. He wanted to confuse her, wanted to keep her quiet and, hell, yes, he wanted to disconcert her. How dare she disobey him?

She gripped his lapels, twisted her fists in them. And then she met him as savagely as he met her. His body responded with a surge of heat he’d not felt in a long time. Her breath grew shallower and she made a sound in her throat.

He broke the kiss then, uncertain if he was pushing her too far too fast. Alarmed at his body’s reaction to her, he tucked her head against his chest before she could speak.

“Quiet, habibti. Let me get you home.” He smiled at the women in the shop who threw them astonished looks and then strode outside and down the front steps before Sheridan could regain her ability to think clearly.

The car door swung smoothly open and Rashid bent to place Sheridan on the seat. She was so small and light that it was like handling a piece of china. He didn’t want to break her, but he also knew she was stronger than she looked.

He got in beside her, the door sealed shut, and the car slid smoothly away from the curb and down the sun-dappled streets. The partition was up between them and the driver, and silence hung heavy in the car.

“You kidnapped me.” Her voice was small and frightened and Rashid swung to look at her. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight that filtered into the car and her eyes were wide with fear. He did not enjoy that, but he told himself it was necessary. Whatever it took to force her to obey.

Rashid sat back and tugged a sleeve into place. He was not precisely pleased with himself, and yet he’d done what had to be done. A man like him claimed his child. And the woman carrying it.

“I did warn you.”

“You said you weren’t a barbarian.” Her hands clenched into fists in her lap. She wore a pink dress and smelled like cotton candy and Rashid wanted to lean into her and press his nose to her hair.

“Indeed.”

“Then I must be confused, because I thought barbarians did precisely what you just did. Or did you perhaps say you weren’t a barber and I simply misunderstood?”

And there was the attitude. Clearly, she was not damaged in any way. It gave his temper permission to emerge.

“I am a desert king. Of course I’m a barbarian. Isn’t that what you believe? Because I speak Arabic and come from a nation where the men wear robes and the women are veiled, that I must surely be less civilized than you?”

Her lips pressed into a tight, white line. “Even if I didn’t believe it, don’t you think you just proved it? What kind of man kidnaps a woman he’s never met just because there’s been a mix-up in the clinic?”

Her eyes were flashing purple fire again. For some reason, that intrigued him almost as much as it angered him.

“A man who has no time for arguments. A man who holds the lives of an entire nation in his hands and who needs to get back to his duties. A man who has no reason whatsoever to trust that the woman carrying his heir will turn over the child when it is time.”

Her eyes darkened with anger. “I won’t give up my baby just because you wish it.”

“You were willing to do so for your sister.”

“That’s different and you know it. I would still be part of the child’s life. A beloved aunt.” She shook her head suddenly. “Why are we arguing about this? There’s no guarantee I’m pregnant. It doesn’t always work the first time.”

“Perhaps not, but I will take no chances. My child will be a king one day, Sheridan Sloane. He will not be raised in an apartment in America by a woman who works sixteen-hour days and ignores him in favor of her own interests.”

Her skin flushed bright red. “How dare you?” she growled. “How dare you act as if you know me when you don’t have the faintest clue? I would never ignore my child. Never!”

He infuriated her. No, she’d not planned for a child in her life—the baby was supposed to be Annie’s—but the fact he would sit there and smugly inform her that he believed she would neglect her baby in favor of her business made her defensive and angry. Of course she would still have to work, but she would figure it out.

Except there would be no figuring it out. This man was a king, and if she was pregnant, he wasn’t going to abandon her to raise the child alone. He would be a part of her life from now on.

Sheridan shivered at the thought. How did one work out custody with a king?

“This baby is supposed to be Annie’s,” she said, working hard to keep the panic from her voice. “I hadn’t planned on a baby of my own, but that doesn’t mean I would be a bad or neglectful mother. And I won’t let you steamroll right over me just because you’re a king. I have rights, too.”

His eyes were hooded as he studied her. Did he have to be so damned beautiful? She’d never seen hair so black or eyes so fathomless. If he was an actor, she’d wonder if his cheekbones were the work of a plastic surgeon. His face was a study in perfection, angles and planes and smooth, bronzed skin. He was golden, as if he spent long hours under the sun, and there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes where they crinkled as he studied her.

Her gaze focused on his mouth, those firm, beautiful lips that had pressed against hers. She felt a fresh wave of heat creeping up her throat. He’d only kissed her to shut her up, but she’d forgotten for long minutes why that was a bad thing. His mouth had ravaged hers and she’d only wanted more. Even now, her lips tingled with the memory of his assault on them. She was bruised and swollen, but in a good way. In the kind of way that said a woman had been well kissed and had enjoyed every moment of it.

Sheridan dropped her gaze from his, suddenly self-conscious. It had been a long time since she’d kissed anyone. A long time since she’d lain in bed with a man and felt the heat and wonder of joining her body with another. She hadn’t thought she was deprived. Rather, she’d thought she was busy and that she just didn’t have time to invest in a relationship.

But now that he’d kissed her, she felt as if she’d been starving for affection. As if the drought in her sex life was suddenly much larger than she’d thought it was. How could he make her feel this way when he was not a nice man?

After her last relationship, a short-lived romance with a womanizing accountant who’d made her feel like the only woman in his life until the moment she’d caught him with his tongue down someone else’s throat, she’d vowed to only date nice, trustworthy men.

Rashid al-Hassan was definitely not a nice man. Or trustworthy. But he made things hum and spark inside her, damn him. She’d only kissed him once, but already she wanted to lean forward, tunnel her fingers through that thick mane of hair and claim his lips for another round.

Insanity, Sheridan.

“Surely there is something you want more than this child,” he said smoothly, cutting into her thoughts, and her heart began to beat a crazy rhythm.

“No.”

He lifted an eyebrow in that superior arch she despised. “Money? I can give you quite a lot of it, you know. Once our divorce is final, you could be a wealthy woman.”

Divorce? Her stomach fell to the floor at the thought of being married to this man for even an hour.

“I don’t want your money. And I’m definitely not going to marry you.” There was only one thing she wanted. It also wasn’t something he could give. Unless he had the power of miracles.

She was certain he did not. If a dozen doctors couldn’t fix Annie’s fertility issues, then neither could a king, no matter how arrogant and entitled.

“Everyone has a price, Sheridan. And if you are pregnant, you most certainly will be my wife. In name only, of course. My child will not be born illegitimate.”

Her name on his lips was too exotic, too sensual. It stroked over her senses, set up a drumbeat in her veins. And embarrassed her because he clearly wasn’t suffering from an unwanted attraction, too. In name only.

“All I want is a baby for my sister. And I intend to give her one.”

“After you give me my heir, of course.”

Her lips tightened. “You make it sound so cold and clinical. As if you’re selecting a prized broodmare to give you a champion foal.”

The car glided through the streets. Outside the windows, people behaved as usual. Tourists chattered excitedly and pointed from their seats in the horse-drawn carriages that traveled through Savannah’s historic district. Part of Sheridan wanted to open the door and run when the car came to a standstill in traffic.

But there was no escape. Not like this anyway. The only way to fight a man like him was with lawyers, and even that was no guarantee because he could afford far better representation than she could.

“It is a clinical thing, is it not?” His voice was rich and smooth and crusted in ice. “We have never been intimate, and yet you may be pregnant with my child. Put there with a syringe in a doctor’s office. How is this not clinical?”

Sheridan swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was supposed to be having a baby for my sister. With my brother-in-law’s sperm. What would you propose we do differently?”

Of course, it would have been cheaper and easier for her and Chris to just sleep together until she was pregnant, but what a horrifying thought that was. He was her sister’s husband and her friend, and there was no way in hell. Lying on a table with her feet in stirrups might be clinical, but it was the only solution.

He ignored the question. “Nevertheless, it is my sperm you received. How do you think this makes me feel?”

She swung around to look at him. Up to this point, she hadn’t thought of how it must have affected him. She was almost ashamed of herself for the lapse. Almost.

That ended when she met his gaze. He was looking at her as coldly as ever. King Rashid al-Hassan was a block of ice. A block of ice that had burned strangely hot when he’d pressed his mouth to hers.

Sheridan nervously smoothed the fabric of her dress. “I admit I hadn’t thought of it. I imagine you’re angry.”

“That is one way of putting it.” His dark eyes flashed. “I am a king and my country has laws I must obey. You may think us barbarians, but there is a certain logic to the king depositing sperm in a bank outside his nation. It was never meant to be used. Or not under normal circumstances.”

She didn’t want to think about what kind of circumstances would precipitate using the sperm, but she imagined it would involve his untimely death and no heir to follow him to the throne. She might not like him, but she wouldn’t wish him dead.

Yet.

“No, I can see how it might be useful. It’s forward thinking to do such a thing.”

“Apparently not, when mistakes such as this are allowed to occur.”

Sheridan put her hand over her middle instinctively. Fresh anger swirled in her belly. “Calling this baby a mistake is unlikely to inspire my confidence, don’t you think? You want me to give him or her up, but you speak as if you don’t care about him other than as your heir.”

“He will be my heir. Until there is another child, at least.”

Her heart thumped. “Because you can choose your successor in Kyr. Of course.” Her fingers tightened over her flat belly. She didn’t even know if there was a baby in there yet, but already she felt protective and angry.

“It is the way of our people.”

Maybe so, but it seemed a horrible way for children to grow up. Talk about an unhealthy sense of competition. “You weren’t chosen until right before your father died. How did that make you feel?”

His eyes glittered hot and she had the feeling she’d tweaked the lion’s tail. He looked at her as if he would snap her in two with one fierce bite. Yet his voice was still as icy as ever.

“You push me too far, Sheridan Sloane. You should be more cautious.”

Maybe she should, but she couldn’t seem to do so. “Why? Because you might kidnap me or something?”

His dark eyes raked over her. “Or something.”

CHAPTER FOUR

KYR WAS HOT. Savannah was hot, too, but it was also muggy because they were so near the ocean. Kyr was not muggy, though the Persian Gulf was nearby. It was just hot, with the kind of heat that sucked all the moisture right out of you and left you gasping for breath. It was also beautiful, which Sheridan had not expected.

The desert sands were almost red and the dunes rose high in the distance, undulating like waves on the ocean. As they’d approached the city from the airport, she’d viewed tall date palms that grew in ordered rows. Sheridan had been in the same car with Rashid, but once they’d arrived at the palace she’d been taken to what appeared to be a lonely wing with no one else in it. If he had a harem, this was not it.

She still couldn’t believe she was here. She paced around the cavernous room of the suite she’d been shown to and marveled at the architecture. There were soaring arches, mosaics of delicate and colorful tile and painted walls and ceilings. There was a sunken area in the middle of the room, lined with colorful cushions, and above her the ceiling soared into a dome shape that was punctuated with small windows, which let light filter down to the floor and spread in warm puddles across its gleaming tiles.

It was a beautiful and lonely space. Sheridan sank onto the cushions and sat by herself in that big room, listening to nothing. There was no television, no radio, no telephone that she could find. She had her cell phone, but no signal.

She leaned back against the cushions and swore she wouldn’t cry. For someone like her, a person who craved light and sound and activity, this silent cavern was torture. Just yesterday—had it really been only yesterday?—she’d been surrounded by people at Mrs. Lands’s party. And then she’d been in her office, with her beautiful store outside her door, listening to the sounds of people on the street and the low hum of her radio as it played the latest top-forty hits.

She hadn’t exactly been happy, not after the news from the clinic and Annie’s reaction, but she’d been far more content than she’d given herself credit for. Tears pushed against her eyes at the thought of all she’d left behind, but she didn’t let them fall.

Rashid al-Hassan was a tyrant. He’d swept into her life, swept her up against her will and deposited her here alone. And all because the stupid sperm bank had used the wrong sperm. She’d wanted to give her sister a precious gift, but she was here, a veritable prisoner to a rude, arrogant, sinfully attractive man who had all the warmth and friendliness of an iceberg.

He hadn’t let her call anyone until they were on his plane. She was still astounded at the opulence of the royal jet. It was one of the most amazing things she’d ever seen, with leather and gold and fine carpets. The bath had even been made of marble. Marble on a jet!

It had also been bigger than her bathroom in her apartment. There were uniformed flight attendants who performed their duties with bright smiles and soft words—and deep bows to their king. She could hardly forget that sight. Any time anyone on that plane had come close to Rashid al-Hassan, they’d dipped almost to the floor. He hadn’t even deigned to notice half the time.

It stunned her and unnerved her. She kept telling herself he was just a man, but there hadn’t been a single person on that plane who’d acted like he was. When she’d finally been allowed to phone Kelly and Chris—not Annie, goodness, no—she’d held the phone tightly in her hand and explained as best she could that she would be gone for the next week.

They’d taken the news of Rashid much better than she had. Kelly, always a hopeless romantic, had wanted to know if he was handsome and if she would have to marry him. Sheridan had clutched the phone tight and hadn’t told her friend that even though Rashid expected her to marry him, she’d rather marry a shark. She’d just said they were taking this one day at a time and would deal with a pregnancy when and if it happened. As if Rashid was reasonable and kind instead of an unfeeling block of stone.

Chris had told her to be strong, and not to worry about Annie. It would all be fine, he’d said. She’d had to bite her lip to keep from crying at the thought of Chris telling her sister the news, but she’d thanked him and told him she’d be in touch.

She spread her fingers over her abdomen. What would become of her if there were a baby inside here?

She stared up at the beam of sunlight filtering into her prison and pressed her fist to her mouth to contain her sob. Nine months as his wife in name only, his prisoner, shut away from the world—and then he would coldly divorce her and send her on her way with empty arms.

Despair filled her until she thought she would choke with it. Soon there was a noise at the entrance to her prison. A woman in a dress and wearing a scarf over her head came in and sat a tray down on a table nearby. Sheridan shot to her feet and went over to where the woman was removing covers from dishes.

“That smells lovely.” She was surprised when her stomach growled, especially considering how queasy she’d been feeling since Rashid had come to the store yesterday.

The woman gave her a polite smile. “His Majesty says you must eat, miss.”

Must. Of course he did. And as much as she would love to defy him, she wasn’t so stupid as to starve herself just to prove a point.

“Can you please tell me where His Majesty is? I would like to speak with him.”

Because she was going to go quietly insane if she had to remain in this room alone with no stimulation. The books—and there were plenty of them—were written in Arabic.

The woman shook her head and kept smiling. “Eat, miss.”

She gave Sheridan a half bow and glided gracefully toward the door. Sheridan thought about it for two seconds and then followed her. But the woman was through the door and the door shut before Sheridan could reach it.

She jerked it open only to be confronted with the same thing she’d been confronted with earlier: a man in desert robes standing in the corridor, arms crossed, sword strapped to his side. He looked at her no less coolly than his boss had.

“I want to speak to King Rashid,” she said.

The man didn’t move or speak.

Anger welled up inside her, pressing hard against the confines of her skin until she thought she might burst with it. She started toward the guard. He was big and broad, but she was determined that she would walk past him and keep going until she found people.

The man stepped into her path and she had to stop abruptly or collide nose first with his chest.

“Get out of my way.” She glared up at him, but he didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. She gathered her courage and ducked the other way. But he was there, in front of her, his big body blocking her progress.

Fury howled deep in her gut. She was in a strange place, being guarded by a huge man who wouldn’t speak to her, and she was lonely and furious and scared all at once.

So she did something she had never done in her life. She stomped on his foot.

And gasped. Whatever he was wearing, it was a lot harder than her delicate little sandal. She resisted the urge to clutch her foot and hop around in circles. Barely. The mountain of a man didn’t even make a noise. He just took her firmly by the arm and steered her back into the suite. And then he shut the door on her so that she stood there staring at the carved wood with her jaw hanging open. Her foot and her pride stung. She thought about yanking open the door and trying again, like an annoying fly, but she knew she’d only get more of the same from him.

She stood with her hands on her hips, her gaze moving around the room, her brain churning. And then she halted on the tray of food. The tray was big, solid, possibly made of silver. It would be heavy.

Sheridan closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. She wasn’t really thinking of sneaking into the hall and braining the poor guard, was she? That wasn’t nice. He was only doing what he’d been ordered to do. It wasn’t polite to smack him with the tray when she really wanted to smack Rashid al-Hassan instead.

She opened her eyes again, continued her circuit of the room. There were windows. All that glass would make a hell of a noise if she busted it. Part of her protested that it was an extreme idea, that a lady didn’t go around breaking other people’s property. Worse, an architect who specialized in historical preservation didn’t go around breaking windows in old palaces, even if the glass was a modern addition to the structure. Which she could tell by the tint and finish.

But this could hardly be termed a normal circumstance. King Rashid al-Hassan had already made the first move, and it hadn’t been polite or considerate. So why should she be polite in return?

Game on....

* * *

Rashid had just settled in for lunch after a long morning spent in meetings with his council when Mostafa hurried into his office, a wide-eyed look on his face. The man dropped into a deep bow before rising again.

“Speak,” Rashid said, knowing Mostafa would not do so until told.

“Majesty, it’s the woman.”

Rashid went still, his hand hovering over a dish of rice and chicken. He set the spoon down. The woman was such an inadequate description for Sheridan Sloane, but if he tried to point that out to Mostafa, the man would think him cracked in the head.

“What about her, Mostafa?”

“She has, er, broken a window. And she is asking to see you.”

A prickle of alarm slid through him. “Is she hurt?”

“A few small cuts.”

Rashid was on his feet in a second. Steely anger hardened in his veins as he strode out the door and down the corridors of the palace toward the women’s quarters. He’d placed her there because it was supposed to be safe—and also because he didn’t quite know what to do with her now that he had her here. He’d sent his father’s remaining two wives to homes of their own, ostensibly in preparation for taking his own wife—or wives—but in truth he’d wanted to rid the palace of their presence.

They were women his father had married later in life, and so they were much younger than King Zaid had been. Rashid had no idea what kind of relationship his father had had with either of them, but they made him think too often of his father’s tempestuous relationship with his own mother. Rashid would not live with women who reminded him of those dark days.

Palace workers dropped to their knees as he passed, a giant wave of obeisance that he hardly noticed. He kept going until he reached the women’s suite and the mountainous form of Daoud, the guard he’d placed here.

Daoud fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

“What happened?”

Daoud looked up from the floor and Rashid made an impatient motion. The man had been with him for years now, long before Rashid became king. Daoud stood. “The woman tried to leave. I prevented her.”

“Did you harm her?” His voice was a whip and Daoud paled.

“No, Your Majesty. I took her by the arm, placed her inside the room and closed the door. A few minutes later, I heard the crash.”

Rashid brushed past him and went into the room. One tall window was open to the outside. Hot air and fine grains of sand rushed inside along with the sounds of activity on the palace grounds below. Two men worked to clean up the glass that had blown across the floor.

Sheridan sat on cushions in the middle of the room, looking small and dejected. There were a couple of small red lines on her arms and his heart clenched tight. But the ice he lived with on a daily basis didn’t fail him. It rushed in, filled all the dark corners of his soul and hardened any sympathetic feelings he may have had for her.

Sheridan looked up then. “And the mighty king has come to call.”

“Out,” Rashid said to the room in general. The servants who were busy picking up the glass rose and hurried out the door. A woman appeared from the direction of the bath. She dropped a small bowl and cloth on the side table and then she left, as well.

The door behind him sealed shut. Rashid stalked toward the small woman on the cushions. Her golden-blond hair was down today. It hit him with a jolt that it was long and silky and perfectly straight. She was wearing flat white sandals with little jewels set on the bands and a light blue dress with tiny flowers on it. She did not look like a woman who might be carrying a royal baby. She looked like a misbehaving girl, fresh and pretty and filled with mischief.

And sporting small cuts to her flesh. Cuts she’d caused, he reminded himself. She picked up the cloth and dabbed at her hand. The white fabric came away pink.

“What did you do, Miss Sloane?”

As if he couldn’t tell. The window was open to the heat and a silver tray lay discarded to one side. Such violence in such a small package. It astonished him.

She wouldn’t look at him. “I admit it was childish of me, but I was angry.” Then her violet eyes lifted to his. “I don’t ordinarily act this way, I assure you. But you put me here with nothing to do and no one to talk to.”

“And this is how you behave when you don’t get your way?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. In fact, he thought it flickered with anger. Or maybe it was fear. That gave him pause. She had no reason to fear him. Daria would be ashamed of him for scaring this woman.

He tried to look unperturbed. He didn’t think it was working based on the way her throat moved as he stared back at her.

“In fact, I realize that we can’t always have our way,” she said primly. “But this is my first time as a prisoner, and I thought perhaps the rules were different. So I decided to do something about it.”

Rashid blinked. “Prisoner?” He spread his hands to encompass the room. It was plush and comfortable and feminine. He remembered it from when he was a child, but he’d not entered these quarters in many years. They hadn’t changed much, he decided. “I’ve been in exclusive hotels that lacked accommodations this fine. You think this is a prison?”