The Sheikh Who Desired Her
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Now she gritted her teeth and answered the phone in the office, which was part of her private rooms. All she heard on the other end was hysterical sobbing, until finally she managed to calm Hana down enough to listen for a minute.
With an icy cold anger rising, she eventually bit out, through a break in the tirade, ‘I’m on my way.’
Clinging on to that cold rage, to distract her from the prospect of seeing Salman again, Jamilah went outside and got into her Jeep, making the ten-minute journey to the castle courtyard in five minutes, where Hana was wringing her hands.
As soon as Jamilah stepped out of her Jeep Hana was babbling. ‘All night, every night … such loud music—and the food! It’s too much … couldn’t keep up with the demands and then they started throwing things … in the ceremonial ballroom! If Nadim was here …’
Gently but firmly Jamilah cut through Hana’s hysterics. ‘Get the staff organised for a clean-up, and get Sakmal here with a coach. I’ll have all these guests out of here this morning.’
By the time Jamilah had reached the quarters Salman had commandeered for his private use about an hour later her rage was no longer icy but boiling over. She’d just seen the devastation caused by what appeared to be half of Europe’s Eurotrash party brigade, and she’d just supervised about fifty seriously disgruntled, still inebriated people onto a coach, from where they would be delivered into Al-Omar and back home.
She pushed open the door to Salman’s suite and slammed it back against a wall. The immediate dart of hurt at what she saw nearly made her double over, and that made her rage burn even brighter. At the evidence that he was still affecting her.
Two bodies were sprawled on an ornately brocaded couch. An empty champagne bottle and glasses were strewn around them. The nubile blonde woman was caked in make-up, wearing a tiny sparkly, spangly dress. She looked up drunkenly from where she lay beside a sleeping Salman, one arm flung across his bare and tautly muscled chest. Thankfully he was at least wearing jeans.
‘Excuse me,’ she slurred in cut-glass tones, ‘who do you think you are?’
Jamilah strode over, trying to block out the sensually indolent olive-skinned body of Salman, and took the woman’s skinny arm, hauling her up.
‘Ow!’
Jamilah was unrepentant as she marched the sluggish woman over to where two maids hovered anxiously at the door, clad head to toe in black, their huge brown eyes growing wider and wider. Jamilah said with icy disdain, ‘Girls, please escort this guest to the coach, after she’s picked up her things, and then tell Sakmal he can go. That should be everyone.’
Jamilah shut the door firmly on the woman’s drunken protestations and sighed deeply. She turned round and Salman hadn’t budged an inch. Her heart clenched painfully; he’d always slept like the dead, and now that was obviously exacerbated by his alcohol intake. Her eyes roved over his hard-hewn muscle-packed form. She hated to admit it, but for an indolent, louche playboy he possessed the body of an athlete in his prime.
Dark stubble shadowed his firm jaw, and a lock of black hair had fallen over his forehead, making him look deceptively innocent. Long black lashes caressed those ridiculously sculpted cheekbones. He looked like a dark fallen angel who might have literally just dropped out of the sky.
But an angel, fallen or otherwise, he most certainly was not.
Jamilah clenched her jaw, as if that could counteract the treacherous rising of heat within her, and went to the bathroom where she found what she was looking for. Coming back into the main drawing room, she said a mental prayer for forgiveness to Nadim and Hana for the damage she was about to do to the soft furnishings, and then she threw the entire bucket of icy cold water over Salman.
Salman thought he was being attacked. Reflexes that had been honed long, long ago snapped into action, and he was on his feet and tense before he really knew what was happening.
In seconds, though, he had assessed the situation and forced locked muscles to relax. Jamilah was standing in front of him with an empty bucket and a belligerent look on her beautiful face, and something inside him rose up with an almost giddy surge. For the first time since he’d returned he felt centred—not rudderless and scarily close to the edge of his control.
With her hair tied back, no make-up, dressed in a white shirt, jeans and riding boots, she might have passed for eighteen. Her stunning blue eyes were glittering like bright sapphires, and a line of pink slashed each cheek with colour. She was a veritable jewel of beauty compared to the artificially enhanced women who’d been vying for his attention these last few days, and self-disgust curled inside him when he remembered the one who’d eventually fallen into a drunken slumber beside him earlier that morning.
He’d vowed to order his private jet and get rid of the horde of unwanted guests, realising what a mistake he’d made, but it would appear by the look on Jamilah’s face that it had already been taken care of.
‘How dare you?’ Jamilah was saying now, in a suspiciously quivery voice which he guessed had more to do with anger than emotion. ‘How dare you come back here and proceed to turn this castle into your personal playground? Poor Hana is distraught. She has quite enough to be doing without pandering to you and all the Little Lord Fauntleroys you invited to join in the fun. And apart from the chaos and destruction here, your friends’ constant arrival by helicopter has been spooking the horses at the stables.’
Energy crackled between them.
Salman rocked back on his heels and surveyed Jamilah with a lazy sweep, up and down. He seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he was soaking wet, and with a gulp Jamilah could see that this was not proceeding the way she’d expected at all. Salman didn’t look remotely contrite, or even drunk. His eyes were as sharp as ever. And on her. She had to consciously not let her gaze drop to where his jeans must be plastered against his crotch and thighs.
He crossed his arms nonchalantly across his chest, making his biceps bulge, and Jamilah had the very belated realisation that she’d just wakened a sleeping panther. He drawled, ‘Not even a kiss hello to greet me? That’s not very nice, now, is it?’
Jamilah put the bucket down because she was afraid she’d drop it. She stood up to see Salman staring at her with a disturbing glint in his eye. Feeling the sudden urge to escape, and fast, she said glacially, ‘Clearly you feel that Merkazad is too boring to sustain your attention. I’d suggest that if you’re looking for entertainment you should follow your friends to B’harani, where they’re headed right now on a tour bus.’
For a second Jamilah could have sworn she saw the merest smile touch Salman’s lips, but then it was gone. And the urge to escape grew more acute. She whirled round to leave the room, but before she could reach the door she was whirled back again by a strong hand gripping her arm and a guttural, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘What the—?’ she spluttered ineffectually.
Salman knew he should be letting Jamilah go. He’d told himself that he would not pursue her. But faced with her now, her timeless beauty, that sleek curvaceous body, he knew it was too much for his battered soul to resist.
Salman arched one ebony brow. ‘Like I said, can’t you even greet me with a civil hello?’
Jamilah glared up at him, already cursing herself for having come here to deal with this. ‘Why would I want to bother saying hello to someone who can’t even treat his own home or staff with any respect?’
His eyes flashed blackly. ‘Exactly. This is my home, and you would do well to remember that.’
Jamilah spat out, ‘You mean remember my place? Is that it, Salman? It’s been a long time since anyone had to remind me that I’m not part of your family.’
She tried to break free, but his grip was too strong, and then two hands drew her round in front of him, and his gaze fairly blistered down into her defiant one. Of course she wasn’t a member of their family; for all of Nadim’s care, inclusion and protection after her parents had died Jamilah had always known her place—so why was she provoking Salman like this now?
‘That’s not what I meant at all, and you know it. The fact is that this is my home and I shall do as I like here. As acting ruler I don’t have to answer to anyone.’
Jamilah stuck her chin out pugnaciously, something deep and visceral goading her on. ‘You’ll answer to me. I may not be the ruler, but the staff here know who is in charge and it’s not you. You need to earn their respect first. And I won’t stand by and watch you come in here and desecrate Nadim and Iseult’s home.’
Before Jamilah could even question where that urge to provoke had come from suddenly they were a lot closer, and her breath faltered as Salman’s unique and intensely male scent washed over her. Dimly she recognised that she couldn’t smell drink on his breath. He hadn’t been drunk? That didn’t fit with the scene she’d just witnessed.
‘Like I said—’ his voice was as glacial as hers ‘—this is my home as much as it is Nadim’s, and I will invite whomever I want, whenever I want.’
Unable to articulate a response, and quickly becoming overwhelmed by Salman’s intoxicating proximity, Jamilah tried to break free of his hold again, twisting around in his hands.
All it did, though, was force her back into his hard chest—and then she heard a muttered curse. Suddenly strong arms were below her breasts, and she was being lifted clear off her feet and carried bodily towards the bathroom. She kicked out with her legs, but her struggles were futile and puny in the face of Salman’s overpowering strength. She was plastered against a hard, wet body. And that was entirely her fault.
She couldn’t even get a word out before they were in the bathroom, and Salman easily held her with one arm while he turned on the shower. Both her hands were trying to free herself, to no avail. His arm was like a steel bar. She could feel her hair loosening from its untidy ponytail.
The water was running, and steam had started to rise around them when she finally spluttered out, ‘What the hell do you think you are doing? Let me down this instant!’
In that moment Salman walked them both under the warm spray of the huge shower, and she heard him say grimly over her head, ‘Giving you a little taste of your own medicine, Miss High-and-mighty.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE inarticulate rage that had risen up within Salman seconds ago was already diminishing, and he knew it had had more to do with this woman’s effect on him than her belligerence and anger. And now he couldn’t see anything but Jamilah, her clothes already soaked through and sticking to that glorious body.
Jamilah was gasping in shock, her back against the wall of the shower. Water was streaming over her head, face, into her eyes, and Salman’s hand was splayed across her abdomen, holding her in place. Through the steam she could see his glittering obsidian gaze, his hair plastered to his skull, and water sluicing down that powerful chest, through the dark smattering of hair, over his blunt nipples.
She tried to smack his hand away, but he merely put it back and said grimly, ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Humiliation scorched up through Jamilah as she became very aware of how drenched she was, and how her clothes were plastered to her body. As if reading her thoughts, Salman dropped his eyes, and she could feel her breasts respond, growing heavy, her nipples peaking almost painfully against her wet bra and shirt. She could only imagine how see-through the flimsy material must be under the powerful spray. A flash of fire lit his eyes, and they went darker in an instant—and, awfully, she felt an answering rush of heat.
Once again she tried to get free, but Salman merely moved closer and took her hands, raising them above her head. She struggled in earnest now, feeling intensely vulnerable, but it was a struggle against the fire that was gathering pace inside her body, in her blood. She had to stop abruptly when her hips came into explosive contact with his.
‘Let me go.’
She longed to go for his vulnerable area with a knee, but he quickly manoeuvred them so that he could thrust a thigh between her legs and shook his head, saying, ‘Ah-ah …’
The shock of feeling that powerful thigh between hers rendered her mute. All too easily he held her two hands in one of his, like an iron manacle. His other hand drifted down to cup her jaw and turn her face up to his. The spray bounced off him, cocooning them in steam. She gritted her jaw and tried to turn away, but he ruthlessly turned her head back.
He smiled down at her, and it was the smile of a dangerous predator. ‘Aren’t you even a little bit glad to see me?’
A treacherous kick of her heart made Jamilah all but spit at him. ‘You’re the last person I’d be happy to see, Salman al Saqr.’
He shook his head mock-mournfully and tutted. ‘All those strong feelings still under the surface, Jamilah?’
Cold horror snaked through her, despite the heat around them. She had to protect herself. She forced her body to relax and mirrored his own easy demeanour. She even smiled sweetly. ‘On the contrary. I don’t have feelings for you, Salman. I never did. Whatever you saw in Paris was a very transitory and misplaced affection for a first lover. That’s all. You mean nothing to me. I am merely angry because you disrespect your brother and sister-in-law, who I care about greatly, and your home. You’ve caused chaos in the castle, and I refuse to stand by and watch it for a moment longer.’
Salman’s gaze glittered down. His jaw clenched. It was getting harder to keep her body relaxed as he came even closer and she felt his hips grind into hers. And then it was all but impossible when she felt the thrillingly hard evidence of his arousal. Heat climbed upwards and she lashed out. ‘You’re an animal.’
Salman growled, ‘I agree. I feel very animalistic at the moment.’ His eyes had grown heavy and dangerously slumberous, but still with that provocative fire igniting in their depths.
He tightened his hold on her jaw and swooped down, his mouth a searing brand over hers before she could take another breath. Their bodies touched, chest to chest, hip to hip, and Jamilah felt an immediate wild excitement coursing through her blood.
She wanted to rip the wet clothes from her body and arch closer to Salman, to feel wet skin on wet skin. A vivid memory of another shower, another time, flared up. He had lifted her naked body against the wall and urged her to wrap her legs around his waist. He’d found the hot wet core of her and had surged up and into her, making everything blur into a heat haze of passion.
Anger at her reaction and at the vividness of the memory made her kiss him back, defiantly at first, and then she realised the folly of that when Salman pulled her in even closer. She had to battle harder than she’d ever done in her life not to respond, not to let him suck her under to a dark vortex where past and present might merge and make her forget where she was and what he had done to her.
She seized her opportunity when he lifted his head momentarily. With an abrupt move she snaked out from under him and out of the shower, dripping water everywhere and only then realising how much the wall had been supporting her when her legs felt like jelly.
Salman turned slowly under the spray of water and looked at her. She fought the wild clamour of her pulse. As she watched his hand snaked down to his jeans. He flipped open the top button and drawled, ‘I’m going to make myself more comfortable, if you’d care to do the same and join me?’
Jamilah dragged her gaze back up and shook her head, feeling as if she were on fire inside. ‘I wouldn’t join you if we were the two last humans on earth and the future of civilisation depended on us procreating.’
Salman smiled and lazily pulled down his zip. Jamilah could see the whorls of dark hair which led to his sex in her peripheral vision. Heat threatened to engulf her completely. She wondered why she couldn’t move.
And then Salman said, ‘But wouldn’t we make beautiful babies?’
Jamilah made a garbled sound. She was so mad she wanted to cry, or slap Salman’s mocking face. And through that emotion, completely unbidden, came the sudden awful yearning to be heavy with this man’s child. That brought with it the return of bitter reality and the sharpest pain of all—because she knew what it had felt like to carry this man’s child for the briefest time, before nature had taken its tragic course. She could still feel that dragging pain, the wrenching sense of loss, and he would never know.
Even now he was still mocking, taunting, pulling his wet jeans down over lean hips and off, blissfully unaware of the nuclear implosion happening within Jamilah. Before he could see any of it she tore her gaze away and grabbed a towel hanging on a nearby rail. While she still could, she walked on wobbly legs out of the bathroom to the sound of a dark, mocking chuckle and a softly intoned, ‘Coward.’
Salman stood in the shower after Jamilah had walked out, his hands against the wall and his head downbent between them. Only minutes before he’d held her captive. Dripping wet and the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He finally turned the water to cold as he faced the prospect that for the first time since his teens he might be forced to pleasure himself just to reclaim some sanity. But he had to acknowledge now that his sanity had fled along with Jamilah.
Her white shirt had turned see-through the minute the water had hit, clearly showing her white lace bra and the puckered tips of her berry-brown nipples. Her breasts were still beautifully round, firm and high. And he knew that they would fill his palms like succulent fruits.
He groaned softly when his wayward body persisted in responding, despite the stinging cold spray, and he valiantly resisted the urge to wrap his hand around himself and seek all too transitory relief. There was only one way to relief now. Past or no past, history be damned, one thing was clear: he would have Jamilah back in his bed until he’d sated himself—until he’d sated them both. Because their desire was mutual, explosive and unfinished. And there was no way he could survive a month here without taking her. He’d go crazy.
All concerns for Jamilah’s emotional welfare and the state of his soul were dissolving in a wave of heat. He took some reassurance from the way she’d stood up to him. He could be in no doubt that she was no longer some shy, timid and idealistic virgin. And you did that to her. He blocked out the voice.
His mind stalled for a moment. Dammit, she had been a virgin. He’d assumed that she’d been at least a little bit experienced. He could still remember his shock when he’d thrust into that slick tightness and felt her momentary hesitation, seen the fleeting pain on her face. And then heard her husky moans and pleas for him to keep going. She’d just been too seductive. He was only human, and he hadn’t been able to stop.
His mouth tightened. But hadn’t she all but told him that she’d had plenty of other lovers, and that the turmoil he’d witnessed that day in Paris had merely been a passing crush on her first lover. He should feel comforted by that thought … yet he didn’t.
With an abrupt move he switched off the shower and stepped out. Towelling himself dry roughly, he made a mental vow that if he was consigning himself to hell for ever by resolving to have Jamilah in his bed, then she was coming with him—all the way.
As he found and dragged on clean clothes he thrust thoughts of Jamilah aside with effort. He had some things to attend to—and one of them was making sure that his ill-advised party guests had indeed been shown the door. For the first time in years living vicariously through those around him, watching them lose all sense of self and envying them their opiate nirvana, hadn’t worked to block out his own reality.
‘I apologised to Hana, and to Hisham.’
Jamilah steeled herself before she turned from where she’d been unpacking her suitcase in one of the guest suites. She hadn’t wanted Salman to know so soon that she’d given in to both Hana’s, and Nadim’s chief aide’s pleas for her to move up to the castle. Taking a deep breath, she finally did turn round—to see Salman in dark trousers and a white shirt, leaning insouciantly against the open door.
‘I know,’ she said stiffly, trying to ignore the response in her body and treacherously wishing she wasn’t wearing her habitual uniform of jeans and a shirt—albeit fresh ones. It had been a long day since that eventful morning, and she was exhausted.
She didn’t need to be reminded of how he’d wound the intractable Hana around his little finger. She’d been all but blushing when she’d told Jamilah of his apparent heartfelt apology.
‘So …’ Salman quirked a brow. ‘You’ve been sent to babysit me? Are you going to ground me for bad behaviour?’
Jamilah heard the edge to his voice and guessed that he didn’t often find himself in the position of having to apologise for his actions. She didn’t feel that he was in any way repentant, despite his apology.
She focused on his eyes, and then wished she could look anywhere else when she was sucked into the dark depths and butterflies erupted in her stomach. Salman had a unique ability to plug into her deepest emotions and stir them around. He’d always had that ability.
That realisation made her voice frigid. ‘They asked me to come and stay here. That’s all. With Nadim and Iseult away there’s a lot to take care of, and clearly you’re not interested in taking responsibility.’
She saw his eyes flash at that, but it was gone in an instant and Jamilah wondered why she should be feeling bad.
Salman’s mouth twisted into a mocking smile. ‘What? And not live up to my reputation as the prodigal bad-boy brother?’
Jamilah’s own lush mouth firmed. ‘Something like that.’ And then, before she could stop herself, she asked curiously, ‘Why did you come home?’
A dangerous glint came into Salman’s eye. ‘I’ll tell you if you have dinner with me tonight.’
He was flirting with her.
Jamilah’s belly tightened in rejection of that even as a rush of heat washed through her body. She firmed her jaw. ‘Just because your odious friends have gone, I am not available to entertain you in their absence.’
She stalked over to the door and started to close it purposefully, uncaring of the fact that Salman was in the way. To her abject relief he stepped back. But just before she could close it he stopped it with a hand and said, ‘I’m going to be here for a few weeks, Jamilah … you won’t be able to avoid me for ever. Especially not now that we’re going to be under the same roof.’
Jamilah snorted indelicately. ‘This castle is big enough for an army. We won’t have to make much of an effort to stay out of each other’s way, Salman. And, believe me, I have no intention of seeking you out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day, I’m tired, and I want to go to bed.’
Much to her chagrin, she still couldn’t close the door. She glared up at Salman and tried not to notice that he’d shaved. His jaw was dark and smooth. His clean and intensely masculine scent teased her nostrils. He was one of the few men she knew who hadn’t ever worn overpowering cologne.
‘This isn’t it, Jamilah, not by a long shot. We have unfinished business.’
Fear caught Jamilah’s insides into a knot. She knew she simply would not be able to survive if Salman decided he wanted to seduce her again just because he was bored, or curious. ‘We finished any business we had a long time ago, Salman, and the sooner you realise that the better. And, quite frankly, I don’t care if this is your home and you’re the acting ruler—just stay out of my way.’
When Salman stood on the balcony of his suite a short while later, he felt a hardness enter his belly. The view of Merkazad at night was spread below him. It was a small city but beautiful, full of soaring floodlit minarets and ancient buildings nestling alongside more modern architecture. When he’d been much younger, before the rebel invasion, he’d loved to watch it at night and dream of all sorts of fantastical tales, and the great wide world beyond … but then, during and after the incarceration, it had become a prison to be escaped at all costs …