Читать книгу: «The Sheikh Who Desired Her», страница 7

But it would be all over the place by the end of the day that she was sleeping with Salman, and he would have another very public notch to his bedpost.

She stood tall and smoothed her hair, before leaving the bathroom with her head held high. She had nothing to feel ashamed about except for her own very personal regret that she’d let herself be seduced by Salman all over again, despite all her lofty protestations.

‘I have to go to a charity function tonight. I’d like you to come with me.’

Jamilah looked at Salman. He was dressed in a tuxedo again, and he’d been waiting for her when she got back to the suite. She was trying not to succumb to his intensely masculine pull—especially when she remembered the previous night. She was about to say no—she wanted to say no—and yet she hesitated. There was a quality to Salman’s wide-legged stance which should have suggested power and authority, but which actually made Jamilah think of him as being vulnerable.

‘What charity?’

Salman’s face was unreadable. ‘It’s a charity I founded some years ago.’

Jamilah knew she couldn’t stop the shock from registering on her face, and she saw Salman note it and smile cynically. ‘You didn’t have me down for a philanthropist, I see.’

Jamilah blanched at the fact that Salman was constantly surprising her with his multi-faceted personality, and got out something garbled, her curiosity well and truly ignited now, despite her best intentions.

‘The charity is in someone else’s name. They head it up publicly, and lobby for funding, but essentially it’s my project.’

A thousand questions begged to be answered, but Jamilah held back. She couldn’t not go now. ‘Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready.’

Salman inclined his head and watched as Jamilah went to her bedroom. He’d actually been afraid she’d say no, and that realisation sent a feeling of nausea to his gut. He released a long breath, his heart hammering against his chest. He had no idea why he’d felt compelled to ask her. But some force had made him wait for her, and as soon as he’d seen her the words had spilled out. Frustration had been gnawing at his insides all day at being apart from Jamilah, and he didn’t like it. Yet here he was, ensuring she be at his side for the whole evening and, more than that, witnessing him in a milieu that he’d never shared with anyone else. But then, he thought angrily, he’d spilled his guts to her only the other night, so why stop there?

The earth was shifting beneath his feet and he couldn’t stop it. His desire for her burned even more fiercely now that it had been re-ignited, and in all honesty any woman he’d been with in the intervening six years was fading into an inconsequential haze.

He paced impatiently while he waited, and then he heard her. He turned around, already steeling himself against her effect, but it was no good. She was like a punch to his gut. A vision in a long swirling strapless dress of deep purple, which made her smokily made-up eyes pop out. Her hair was down around her shoulders.

Unable to stop himself, he walked over to her and cupped her jaw and cheek in one hand. He felt a delicate tremor run through her body, the hitch in her breath, and saw how her stunning eyes flared and darkened. Something exultant moved through him.

Words came up from somewhere deep inside him, and he had no more hope of holding them back than he would have of stopping an avalanche. ‘You’re mine, Jamilah.’

Her eyes narrowed, became mysterious. She was shutting herself off and he railed against it. ‘And everyone knows it, Salman.’ She smiled cynically. ‘After your little theatrics last night we’re the hot topic of the moment.’

Salman felt fire flare in his belly at the thought of that man touching Jamilah. He growled out now, ‘Good. Because we’re not finished yet, you and I.’

He bent his head and unerringly found her mouth. She resisted at first, but Salman used every sensual weapon in his arsenal until he could feel her curve softly towards him and her mouth opened on a delicious sigh. He plundered her sweet depths until she was clinging to him, and he was rock-hard and aching all over.

He pulled back and for a few seconds her eyes stayed closed, long lashes on flushed cheeks. He bit back a groan. But then her eyes flicked open and spat blue sparks at him. She trembled in his arms even as she said huskily, ‘One more night, Salman. That’s it. We go back to Merkazad tomorrow, and what we’ve had here is finished.’

Jamilah knew that after hearing the revelation of what Salman had endured as a child she wouldn’t be able to keep up a façade of being unmoved while they made love for long. She longed to take him in her arms and comfort him, soothe his wounds, but he couldn’t be making it any clearer that that was the last thing he needed or wanted.

Everything within Salman automatically rejected Jamilah’s ultimatum, and yet he felt the desire to protect himself, feeling vulnerable for the second time in the space of mere minutes. First when he’d asked her to the function, and now this … Her ultimatum shouldn’t be affecting him. He should be welcoming the prospect of his freedom. Hadn’t he told her what to expect? Why shouldn’t she want this to end? Any sane woman would …

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If that’s what you want …’

Her jaw tightened, and Salman longed to make it relax again, but Jamilah bit out, ‘Yes, that’s what I want. This ends here in Paris, for good.’

Anger and something much more ambiguous rose up around them as Salman reached for Jamilah’s hand and took it. ‘Fine. Well, let’s get going, then. We don’t want to miss a moment of our last night together.’

Our last night together. Even now, minutes later in the car, Jamilah had to struggle to beat back the prickle of tears. The realisation that she was still desperately in love with Salman was not so much a realisation as more a kind of resignation to her fate. How could she have thought for a second that she wasn’t still in love with him? And, worse, falling even deeper all over again …

Her brave words that this would be finished in Paris still rang hollow in her head, because she knew it was just her pathetic attempt to make Salman think she was immune to him. She knew damn well that when they got back to Merkazad if he so much as touched her she’d be in his bed in a heartbeat. The only protection she could hope for was that if she went back to the stables and stayed there she’d be safe. Pathetic. She’d hide from him amongst the horses and take advantage of his fear, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to trust herself to be near him. When she thought of that, she automatically wanted to help him get over his fear. Pathetic.

At that moment he took her hand and urged her towards him along the back seat of the car. His face was in shadow, all dark planes and sculpted lines, and she couldn’t resist. When he bent his head and took her mouth in a soul-stealing kiss she gave herself up to the madness.

She was dizzy after Salman’s thorough kisses by the time they reached a glittering hotel at the foot of the Champs-Elysées, and it was only when they were walking in that Jamilah realised Salman was nervous. He was gripping her hand. She looked up at him but his face was impassive.

An attractive middle-aged brunette was waiting to greet them in an immaculate dark suit. Salman introduced her to Jamilah as the co-ordinator of the charity. Their French was rapid, but Jamilah could keep up as she was fluent, too. The woman was explaining that everyone had just finished dinner and were ready to start listening to the speeches, and then an auction would take place. Salman nodded, and they followed the woman in through a side door and took a seat at a table near the front of the thronged ballroom.

Jamilah was aware of the way the energy in the room had zinged up a notch when people noted Salman’s arrival, and of the intensely appreciative regard from women.

It was only when the speeches started that Jamilah realised which charity it was, and a jolt of recognition went through her. She’d read about it only recently when it had won a prestigious award. It was in aid of children who had suffered as a result of being drawn into conflict, and most especially for the notorious child soldiers of war-torn African countries. The charity was renowned for blazing a trail in setting up schools and psychological centres for those children, where they could go and be safe and get counselling to deal with their horrific experiences, with the view of either rehabilitating them with their families, if it was appropriate, or taking care of them till they could be independent.

Very few other charities offered such comprehensive, all-encompassing long-term care. No wonder Salman had set it up; he’d never had a chance of that kind of care to get over his wounds.

She watched dumbly as a young African man of about eighteen took to the podium. With heartbreaking eloquence he spoke of his experiences as a child soldier and how the charity had offered him life-saving solace. He was now living in Paris and attending the Sorbonne, having begun a law degree. By the time he’d finished talking Jamilah and many more in the auditorium had tears in their eyes. He got a standing ovation.

As he came off the podium he came straight over to Salman, who gave him a huge hug. He introduced the boy to Jamilah, who was too humbled to say anything more than a simple greeting. And then the crowd surrounded him and Salman sent him off with a wink. Jamilah could see how moved Salman was, too, with a curious light that she’d never seen before in his eyes.

He looked at her and she opened her mouth, questions and emotions roiling in her belly and her head. Still with that serious light in his eyes, he put a finger to her mouth and said enigmatically, while shaking his head, ‘I don’t want to talk about it—not tonight. But perhaps you can understand why I set it up …’

She could see the way his jaw had firmed, the determined glint in his dark eyes. She recognised his intractability. Eventually she nodded. And the obvious relief in his expression made her heart flip over in her chest. She’d just fallen a fathom deeper in love with Salman.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY stayed for the auction. Salman raised the bidding stakes by offering up a kiss from a well-known Hollywood heart-throb who was in the audience, and he bounded onto the stage, clearly loving the attention.

When it was over Salman tugged her up out of her seat and back through the side door. She looked at him as she tried to keep up, and asked a little breathlessly, ‘Don’t you have to … mingle or something?’

He looked back, eyes glittering. ‘I employ people to do that for me. I extract the money, I run the charity anonymously, and I show my face every now and then.’ He stopped in his tracks and turned so that Jamilah all but tumbled into his arms. ‘Anyway,’ he said throatily, ‘I have a much more pressing engagement tonight.’ With a subtle movement of his hips against hers she could feel exactly how pressing that engagement was.

She blushed, but forced herself to say, ‘This is more important, though. I don’t want to be responsible for taking you away …’

He silenced her words with a kiss, drawing her into a secluded alcove. People passed them by, but they were oblivious to everything but the heat between them. They finally came up for air and Jamilah groaned softly, resting her forehead on Salman’s chest. Would she ever be free of this insanity?

When he took her hand again and led her out she was silent. Back in the car, she noticed that they weren’t heading towards their hotel, and finally they pulled up at a small, slightly battered-looking restaurant boat that was moored near the Île de la Cité on the Seine. Lightbulbs were strung around the perimeter, bathing it in a golden glow. Her heart lurched. This had always been one of her favourite parts of Paris.

Salman led her down rickety steps and said, ‘I thought you might be hungry …’

Jamilah’s stomach growled, and she smiled. ‘You seem to be more in tune with my eating habits than I am.’

He smiled, too, and for a second looked years younger—as if some of his dark intensity was lifting. She had to stem the rising tide of tenderness. Just then a rotund man came to the door and exclaimed over Salman effusively. Clearly he was a well-liked visitor. They were soon seated in a quiet corner, overlooking the slightly choppy river. The glowing lights of hundreds of apartments shone down on them, and on the water. Jamilah could see a couple on the path by the Seine stop and share a passionate kiss—it might have been her and Salman, six years ago. She sighed.

Salman took her hand and said lightly, ‘You don’t like this place?’

She shook her head and said quietly, avoiding his eye, ‘It’s perfect. I love it.’ And I love you. Still. She curbed her words.

The waiter came then, to take their order, and Jamilah forced herself to relax. Salman ordered champagne and oysters, and they spoke of inconsequential things in an easy conversation that didn’t stray anywhere near difficult topics. Jamilah could almost imagine for a second that she’d dreamt up Salman’s horrific revelations … but then she only had to think of the charity and the work he was doing and remember.

By the time they had gorged on the succulent morsels, and after Salman had kissed and licked away the droplets that clung to her mouth, she was trembling with desire. When he stood up and took her hand to leave she didn’t hesitate.

There was an ethereal quality to the silence between them as they travelled back to the hotel in the car, hand in hand. It lasted all the way up to their suite, and made Jamilah feel as if they were the only two people in the world.

Once they were in Salman’s room, he took off his clothes with efficient gracefulness. Only once he was naked did he peel her dress down to expose her breasts and say throatily, ‘I’ve been waiting to do this all night.’

With his hands on her waist he drew her into him, bent his head, and his hot mouth and tongue paid sensual homage to her breasts until she was gasping for air and her hips were squirming for more intimate contact.

When he had her naked on the bed, underneath him, he took her hands and lifted them over her head, capturing them there with one of his. He said, as he ran one hand down the side of her body, before his fingers sought the hot wet ache between her legs, ‘I’m going to take this slowly … until you’re begging for mercy …’

Jamilah whimpered as his fingers explored her moist heat and her hips bucked. She already felt like begging for mercy, but could only succumb to Salman’s masterful seduction as he did exactly as he’d promised …

Jamilah had fallen into a sated drowsy slumber, but woke in an instant when she felt Salman brush her hair over one shoulder. He whispered in her ear. ‘If you think this finishes here then you’re very much mistaken, Jamilah Moreau.’

She said nothing—just felt a lump come into her throat. Salman settled himself around her, and eventually his breaths evened out. She knew he was right. She could no more resist him now than she could stop breathing and survive.

The only way she could make him reject her for sure would be to tell him how she felt. But the awful excoriating memory of that day six years before and the cruel rejection she’d suffered made her loath to reveal herself ever again. Even though she knew now that he hadn’t wanted to hurt her.

Jamilah bit her lip. She had to batten down the fragile and fledgling flame of hope that rose up like a persistent desert flower in the face of certain demise once the rains had gone. She had to learn from the past. She would be the biggest fool on earth if she walked willingly back into Salman’s arms once they returned to Merkazad. He’d only be there for another couple of weeks, and if she could just survive that long …

Next day, Salman cast a suspicious glance across the aisle of the private plane to Jamilah. Her chair was reclined and she was asleep—or she was pretending to be. Her face was turned away, and even that hint of obliviousness to his presence angered him. The minute they’d taken off she’d turned down the offer of lunch and yawned loudly. In all fairness he couldn’t blame her. They hadn’t got much sleep last night.

He tried to make sense of the tangled knot in his head. He couldn’t feel regret for having seduced Jamilah again—because it had felt too right. And now, as they flew back to the home he’d rejected a long time ago Merkazad was the last thing on his mind. To his surprise, he’d found himself enjoying the past few days, standing in for Nadim. They’d even managed to have a near-friendly conversation the previous evening, when Salman had filled him in on developments. And that was something that hadn’t happened in a long time.

The woman sleeping so peacefully just a few feet away, or not, was the catalyst for these changes. Salman knew it, and it sent warning bells to every part of his body and brain. And yet he didn’t regret telling her. If anything he felt guilty for burdening her with the images that had tortured his days and nights for years … He frowned; the images were already beginning to dissipate like wisps of cloud.

His mouth firmed and he turned away from the provocative sight of her tempting body. Resting his head back on the headrest, he closed his eyes. Things were different now from six years ago. Jamilah had matured and lived, had experienced things. He grimaced. She knew everything about him. But, despite that, he would be walking away and leaving her behind in Merkazad some day soon—and this time it really would be over. There simply was no other option.

‘Stop the Jeep, Salman.’

When he didn’t automatically obey, Jamilah was about to speak again, but then he did pull in. They were in the main courtyard of the Al-Saqr Castle. To the left the road led up to the castle, and to the right to the stables complex and training grounds.

Salman looked at Jamilah as she got out. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

As nonchalantly as she could, while her heart was beating a rapid tattoo and every beat screamed to her, coward, coward, Jamilah said, ‘Back to the stables, Salman. I’m going to be busy for the next few days, catching up.’

Salman jumped out of the Jeep so fast Jamilah’s head swam. She instinctively moved away, but Salman cornered her at the back of the Jeep and caged her in with his hands by her head.

Dark eyes blistered down into hers, and she was instantly breathless. He ground his hips against hers and she could feel his arousal through his jeans, pressing her. ‘So this is how it’s to be? You run and hide at the stables?’

Jamilah tried to push him back, but he was immovable. She gritted out, trying to resist his magnetic pull, ‘There’s nothing stopping you coming with me—I have work to do, remember?’

Immediately he tensed, and Jamilah automatically wanted to say sorry when she saw the abject terror in the depths of his dark eyes. He pulled back and said coolly, ‘Have it your way, then … we’ll see how long you can last.’

He didn’t have to say it. He wasn’t prepared to deal with those demons. And, in all honesty, could she blame him? Even she felt sick when she thought of what he’d had to do. No wonder he’d escaped from here as soon as he’d had the chance.

Silently Jamilah told herself that she’d last until Salman was safely back in France and there were thousands of miles between them again. But as she watched him get back into the Jeep and drive away she had to fight back the treacherous feeling of disappointment that he hadn’t tried harder to persuade her to go with him.

She turned and made the five-minute walk to the stables. When she arrived in the yard, which was normally her favourite place in the world, it suddenly felt cold and desolate and laden with malevolent images.

For the first day back in Merkazad at the stables Jamilah heard nothing from or about Salman—except the overexcited chatter of the girls who’d caught a glimpse of him that morning while they’d been exercising the horses. Jamilah wondered grumpily to herself where Abdul was when she needed him to nip that ardent gossiping in the bud.

By the time she fell into bed that evening, exhausted, she felt treacherously dissatisfied, wondering if Salman had lost interest after all. Perhaps he was going to import some of his hedonistic friends again to keep him amused?

Her dreams that night were hot and tangled, and she woke aching, and with an even bigger feeling of dissatisfaction.

Jamilah groaned as she got up for work. This was after only one day? She was a lost cause.

Around mid-morning, one of the castle maids appeared, and handed Jamilah a note in a blank envelope. With her heart skittering ominously, she turned away to read it. The slashing confident scrawl was instantly familiar.

Was yesterday as hard for you as it was for me? I want you, Jamilah …

Jamilah dismissed the girl, who’d obviously been waiting to see if she wanted to send a reply, and it took her a couple of hours to get over the note and its sheer audacity. It also took her that long to quiet down the tumult of emotions the note had provoked: relief that Salman hadn’t forgotten about her, anger at herself for feeling like a lovestruck teenager, anger that he was intent on pursuing the affair despite her declaration in Paris, and anger at her body’s clamour to give in.

Just as she was thinking that, her mobile phone beeped. Jamilah opened the text. Did you get my note? it read. After a moment of deliberation Jamilah replied. Yes. Not interested in pursuing this topic of conversation. I am very busy.

She got another one back almost instantly. I’m busy, too. In case it’s escaped your attention I’m the acting ruler of Merkazad. Yet I can’t seem to concentrate.

Jamilah found she was smiling, and had to stop and rearrange her facial muscles. She resolutely turned her phone off and got back to work. But as the day progressed a flurry of envelopes kept arriving via staff from the castle. And they all contained increasingly explicit notes about Salman’s varying states of arousal, what he imagined she might be wearing, how he wanted to remove it, and what he wanted to do to her once he had removed it.

By the end of the day Jamilah was over-hot and overwrought, but refused to give in to the pull to go and confront Salman directly and tell him to lay off. That was no doubt exactly what he wanted, and in the semi-aroused state she was in there was no way she’d be able to resist him if he tried to seduce her.

The stables were her only hope of sanctuary, and she hated that she was using them as protection.

The following day the same pattern emerged. Note after note. Her phone beeping constantly even though she deleted his messages now, without reading them. He was driving her insane. She amended that. She was driving herself insane. But only because she couldn’t stop thinking about what he was saying and reacting to it.

Are you hot right now? Are you thinking of that shower we had together in Paris? Where do you ache most?

It was a sensual attack for which Jamilah was woefully unprepared. And that night, when her phone rang by her bed, she snatched it up and said irritably, ‘Yes?’

She heard a dark chuckle. ‘Why so grumpy? Can’t you sleep? Too hot?’

Jamilah gripped the phone hard in a suddenly sweaty palm, acutely aware of how hot she did feel in her small T-shirt and panties. She forced herself to sound as cool as she could. ‘Not at all. Unlike you, I’ve been extremely busy.’

Another chuckle floated down the line, and Salman said with a mock self-effacing tone, ‘Luckily I possess above average intelligence, so I find multi-tasking very easy. Although writing those notes was having an adverse affect on me while I conducted a public meeting in Merkazad.’

Jamilah had to stifle a giggle at the thought of Salman becoming aroused and trying to hide it, and then the giggle died when she realised that the thought was making her aroused. She couldn’t believe it; they were no better than teenagers. She squirmed and pressed her legs together, aghast that he could have this effect on her down a phone line.

‘Are you in bed now?’

‘No.’ Jamilah immediately lied.

‘Liar,’ Salman chided huskily. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘Seeing as how I’m not in bed, I’m wearing jeans and a shirt.’

‘Like I said: liar. Let me guess. You’re a small T-shirt and panties girl? That is when you’re not naked with me.’

Jamilah squirmed again. ‘No, actually. I wear pyjamas buttoned from top to toe.’

He made a tsk-tsk sound. ‘At this rate you’ll be going straight to hell, Jamilah Moreau.’

Quickly she quipped, ‘Sounds like it’ll be a bit overcrowded, with you there, too.’

‘Touché.’ That hint of bleakness in his voice sounded down the line, and Jamilah instantly felt chastened. But she didn’t have time to think about it because he was saying, ‘Do you know what I’m thinking of right now?’

More huskily than she wanted, she said, ‘I don’t think I really want to know, Salman. In fact I’m quite tired—’

He cut her off. ‘I’m thinking about you lying there with your hair spread out, in a T-shirt which reveals your midriff and exquisitely shaped waist and hips. I’m thinking of how it’s stretched tight across your breasts, and how your pants cling to your hips. I’m thinking of how I’d like to pull your T-shirt up so that I can bare your breasts to my gaze, see how your nipples harden and pout for my touch, for my tongue …’

‘Salman …’ Jamilah said weakly, as a liquid heat invaded her veins. Her hand was on her belly, and of its own volition was sliding down towards her pants.

‘Salman, what?’ he asked huskily. ‘Stop? You don’t want me to stop. You want me there, to suckle on your breasts until your back is arched, while my hand descends to spread your thighs apart, before coming back up to slide aside your pants and explore, to find where you’re so wet and aching …’

It was Jamilah’s own hand almost touching the spot he spoke of that brought her back to cold reality. She jackknifed off the bed and slammed the phone down into its cradle. When it rang again almost immediately she yanked the cord out of the wall.

And only when the waves of heat began to subside did she manage to fall into a fitful sleep.

The following day Jamilah was clinging onto her resolve, which felt like a flimsy life raft in a choppy sea. More notes had arrived that morning, but Jamilah couldn’t even look at them now. She sent them back unopened to Salman, with the bemused maids.

So later that day, when she heard the arrival of a Jeep in the main stable courtyard, she whirled around, heart thudding ominously. He’d come—he wanted her so badly that he’d come to get her. And treacherously her resolve was already dissolving fast.

Salman stepped out of the Jeep and she felt weak with longing. He was tall and dark and she felt as if she hadn’t seen him in months. And the look on his face was so determined it made her tremble all over.

But she couldn’t give in. She couldn’t.

He just stood there for a long moment. An unspoken dialogue hummed between them. Finally he articulated it. ‘Come up to the castle with me, Jamilah.’

She shook her head and backed away, even as every cell in her body was urging her to go with him. At that moment one of the stablehands led a horse out of a stall just a few feet away. She saw how Salman’s eyes veered wildly to the horse and then back to her.

He’d gone deathly pale in the space of a heartbeat, and he gritted out, ‘Damn you, Jamilah. I’m not ready for this.’

And then he was back in his Jeep and screeching out of the stableyard, and she felt as if she’d just done something unutterably cruel. For the first time since she’d seen him again she got a sense that she had the power to hurt him, and it made her reel.

She was still standing there, slightly stunned, when she noticed Abdul by one of the stables. He just looked at her, and then shook his head slowly, and Jamilah felt even worse.

She barely slept a wink that night; not surprisingly there had been no more notes or phone calls from Salman after he’d left. Her head was whirling with guilt and her resolve not to give in to the almost overpowering pull to go to Salman.

She started work in a daze the next day, and was exhausted by four p.m., when the phone rang in her office.

It was a call that made her want to weep with weariness, for it meant that she had to take the chopper to a remote Bedouin oasis village, deep in a mountainous valley. Considering the time of day it was, and the way Bedouin hospitality worked, she’d more than likely have to stay overnight.

Apparently a horse was having trouble foaling, and its owner feared for its life and that of the foal. The stables’ resident vet was away for a few days, and Jamilah had studied veterinary science, so she had the necessary expertise when things like this cropped up from time to time. She gathered her things and called the chopper pilot, then made her way to the launching pad behind the castle. As she drove by the castle she resolutely veered her mind away from the man inside … somewhere.

They flew over mountainous and rocky terrain, and Jamilah’s heart clenched with emotion for this sometimes inhospitable country. It was these local Bedouin people who had risen up and fought back against the invaders all those years before, who had saved the Sheikh and his family from their incarceration. Who had saved Salman.

Jamilah could see the village now, down far below in the crevasse of a deep valley. Mountain springs kept it verdant and lush, and it was like a tiny green pocket of paradise within a lunar landscape. It was only as they got closer that Jamilah saw a Jeep waiting and felt the first prickle of suspicion, but she told herself she was being ridiculous.