The Sheikh Who Desired Her

And then her door was being opened and she had to get out. She ripped her hand free from Salman’s, saying caustically as she did so, ‘Dream on, Salman.’

A short while later Salman was looking at the ornately decorated door which had just been shut in his face. A key turned in the lock at that moment as a perfunctory accompaniment, and he smiled grimly before turning and walking into the main part of the huge suite. It consisted of two bedrooms, with their own sitting rooms and en suite bathrooms, a formal dining room and salon, and a state-of-the-art office complete with every kind of technology for the modern businessman.

Sexual frustration pounded through his body. He’d never felt it this badly before. He was used to having his needs met, and for the first time had to face the prospect that he might just be facing his match. Determination fired his blood. He’d seen through the icy veneer that Jamilah had projected all the way up to the suite. He’d seen the pulse beating hectically under the delicate skin of her neck. She’d admitted she wanted him. He was going to woo her as he’d never had to woo a woman in his life.

With that thought in mind, and quashing the prickling of his conscience because once again he was ignoring her vulnerability, he felt the burning desire finally abate to a more manageable level, and strode into the office to take care of some work.

The following morning Jamilah felt tired and gritty-eyed after a disturbed night. She’d tossed and turned for hours in the huge luxurious bed, and had finally had to resort to another cold shower in the early hours of the morning. The key she had turned to lock the door on Salman the previous night might as well have been made of air; he’d still managed to infiltrate her every sleepless thought.

Now she felt more weary and exhausted than anything else as she emerged into the opulent salon. She was dressed in a dark grey pencil skirt and matching jacket, white shirt, buttoned all the way up, and black high heels. Hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

But nothing could have prepared her for seeing Salman standing at the main window, decked from head to toe in traditional Merkazadi robes of cream and gold, complete with turbaned headdress. He was all at once devastating and intimidating. Her heart flip-flopped ominously.

He turned and quirked a brow, reading her look instantly. ‘What? I can play the part when I want to, Jamilah.’

Jamilah struggled to find her composure. She couldn’t believe that seeing Salman dressed like this for the first time in years was having such an effect on her, but it was. It was transporting her right back in time to when they’d been so much younger, and he and Nadim had looked like two men old before their time at their parents’ funerals. A deep melancholy assailed her and she valiantly fought down the emotion, terrified he’d see something of it.

She hitched up her chin and said, ‘It’s amazing how regal a robe can make one look.’

‘When one is not regal at all?’ He put a hand to his chest, and a mocking smile curled his lip on one side. ‘You wound me, Jamilah, with your condemnation. I’m not likely ever to redeem myself in your eyes, am I?’

‘I’m not here to redeem you, Salman.’

Her words struck him somewhere vulnerable and deep. Salman had to school his expression and walk over to her. ‘I’m not looking for redemption or absolution from anyone.’ He was unaware of the bleakness that flashed through his eyes. ‘I’m looking for something else much more … earthy and immediate.’

Jamilah took a step back, unable to stand so close to him, and said briskly, ‘I’m going to have breakfast downstairs. I’ll see you at the first of the meetings.’

She turned and all but fled, and heard from behind her, ‘Run all you want, Jamilah. It’ll make the final capitulation so much sweeter.’

The main door slammed behind her on the way out, and it was a hollow and empty sound.

After a morning of intense meetings, where Jamilah stayed largely in the background as she was really only there to discuss the stables, she was reeling slightly at seeing how Salman had been so authoritative and informed. And it would appear he’d taken others by surprise, too—people who had perhaps expected him to live up to his feckless playboy reputation.

She couldn’t in all honesty say that Nadim would have contributed anything more, and in fact Salman had put forward some audacious suggestions that she knew for a fact the more inherently cautious Nadim would never have sanctioned.

Now everyone was breaking for lunch, and she was trying to make a discreet escape, fully intending to find a coffee shop nearby despite the fact that lunch was being provided.

Jamilah stifled a gasp when she felt her hand being taken in a much larger one which had familiar tingles racing her up arm and into her belly. Salman.

He was already tugging her along in his wake, and Jamilah whispered at him, mindful of the people around them. ‘I’m going out for lunch. Alone.’

He cast a quick glance back, and Jamilah saw the dark intent in his eyes. ‘We’re going for lunch.’

‘But you have to eat with the other delegates.’ Desperation mounted.

Salman faced forward again, pulling her along remorselessly. ‘You should know by now that I generally do not take well to orders.’

Knowing that he would not budge, nor release her, Jamilah followed with a mutinous look on her face which turned to burning embarrassment as they passed people she knew. One of them was the aide to the Sultan of Al-Omar she had abandoned at that party a year ago. She smiled weakly at him as she passed.

She could see that they were approaching the gardens at the back of the hotel. A staff member bowed deferentially to Salman as he opened a door, and then they were out in the unusually mild November air. It was a beautiful clear day that held a last lingering hint of the summer just gone.

Salman led her down a path through immaculately manicured lawns until she saw a beautifully ornate gazebo, with a table set for two, with full silver service place settings. Her stomach rumbled and she blushed.

Inside the gazebo a waiter bowed and seated them both. Totally bemused, Jamilah let him spread a snowy-white napkin across her lap, and listened while he explained about the specials on offer.

In shock, Jamilah made her choice for lunch, barely aware of what she was doing. She heard Salman say, ‘I’ll have the same.’

The waiter poured vintage champagne for her and sparkling water for Salman before taking his leave. A bird called nearby. The faint sound of the rumble of traffic came through the dense foliage of the bushes that climbed huge walls nearby. The gazebo was covered in trailing sweet-smelling flowers, and it was utterly secluded and idyllic.

Finally sanity returned, and Jamilah put down her napkin and stood up. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Salman, but as I told you on the way here yesterday, you really should be consulting your Rolodex of contacts for this kind of thing. It’s wasted on me, and I’d hate to think of you running up your tab needlessly.’

Salman affected a look of mild boredom though he felt anything but. Panic had clutched his gut when Jamilah had stood up. He knew he had to get this right or she would keep running. ‘This is just lunch. I thought it might be nice to take it outside …’ He waved a hand. ‘I had no idea that they would put on this spectacle.’

Jamilah hesitated. There was indeed an outdoor area for dining—perhaps Salman had expected it to be there? Insecurity pierced her. Perhaps she was crediting Salman with too much ingenuity. He’d never shown any inclination for grand showy gestures when she’d been with him before …

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘You really expected this to be in the other place?’

He nodded, an artful look of innocence on his face. Still thoroughly suspicious, Jamilah nevertheless found herself sitting back down, clutching her napkin. It was lunch. Just lunch. Albeit in the most seductive surroundings she’d ever encountered. Perhaps she was overreacting a little. And if she overreacted then Salman would have her in the palm of his hand.

Now she affected a look of mild uninterest. ‘Fine. We don’t have long for lunch anyway.’ She flicked a glance at her watch. ‘We have to be back in forty-five minutes.’ And she sat with legs crossed, facing away from the table, as if ready to bolt.

The waiter came back at that moment with their starters. She waited to eat, suddenly very self-conscious. It was only when Salman said, with a smile playing around his mouth, ‘Well? Aren’t you going to eat? You must be starving …’ that Jamilah gave in. She’d barely picked at breakfast that morning and nerves had curtailed her usually healthy appetite for days now.

So now, in spite of Salman’s presence, she found herself all but licking her plate clean of its white asparagus starter.

Salman was sitting back, watching her, and she felt heat climb into her cheeks which she tried to disguise by wiping her mouth with her napkin. The little champagne she’d drunk was fizzing gently along her nerve-endings, making her feel all too susceptible to this … idyll. And to Salman’s devastatingly dark and gorgeous presence.

‘So … you are now running the stables for Nadim? Not bad for the girl who used to muck out the stalls.’

Jamilah smiled minutely. ‘I still muck out the stalls, Salman. We don’t stand on ceremony at the stables.’

He inclined his head and said thoughtfully, ‘I can see that you would be a good boss—tough, but fair. And clearly Nadim values your opinion enough to negotiate on his behalf.’

An infusing warmth spread through Jamilah. Ever since she’d completed her studies in veterinary science in Paris, her ambition had been to manage the world-famous Merkazad stables, and to be doing it at her relatively young age was no small feat.

She shrugged lightly and avoided Salman’s intense gaze. ‘You know I always loved animals, I dreamed of running the stables ever since I was tiny.’

Something hollow sounded in Salman’s voice. ‘I know. Which is why it was good that you went home and followed your path.’

She looked at him, but his face showed no discernible emotion. And then the waiter came with their main courses and their conversation was interrupted. She’d often told him of her dreams when they’d been younger, when he’d listen in silence as she prattled on. Now she had to recall that he’d never really shared anything personal of himself—just as he hadn’t in Paris. There had just been this intangible quality between them. And it still hurt to think that he’d seen her as an encumbrance.

But was he saying now that on some level he’d been concerned that she’d sacrifice her dreams for what had essentially been a fling in Paris? Coupled with what he’d revealed in the car the day before, she had to acknowledge that his rejection of her had perhaps not been as arbitrarily cruel as she’d believed it to be.

That thought made her quiet as she ate. But finally curiosity overcame her, and she asked Salman about his own work. He wiped at his mouth with a napkin before telling her that he’d graduated to the much more risky world of hedge fund management.

He grimaced slightly. ‘I’m now a part of that most reviled breed of bankers, the scourge of the recent banking crisis, and yet …’ something cynical crossed his face ‘… reviled as we may be, business has never been so good.’ He smiled, but it was without warmth.

‘You have your own company?’

He nodded and took a sip of water. ‘Yes, it’s called Al-Saqr Holdings.’

Jamilah’s fingers plucked at her napkin. ‘And you don’t mind being thought of … badly?’

He shrugged, eyes glinting. ‘I’ve developed a thick skin. If people still want me to invest their money for them, to take risks on their behalf, who am I to deny them?’

‘It sounds so soulless.’

‘Much like living out of a hotel and leading a disconnected existence? You should know by now, Jamilah, that my soul is lost. I told you a long time ago that I’m dark and twisted inside.’

Jamilah had the shocking realisation in that moment that he really meant what he said. Why would he think that? On some level he truly did believe he was lost, and her heart squeezed. She could still see the boy who had come to comfort her at her parents’ grave, who had instilled within her a sense of strength she sometimes still drew on. Which was ironic, when he was largely the reason she needed strength.

But for those three weeks he’d been gentle and infinitely generous. He’d been as she had remembered him—affectionately indulgent to her, and tolerant of her constant chatter and exuberance. But when she’d trespassed too far she’d been subjected to his icy-cold front and dismissed like all the others—cast out to the periphery.

She couldn’t and would never forget his cruelty to her, but it was already becoming a more ambiguous, multi-faceted thing. Why would he feel like that about himself? What had happened to him to make him believe that? She knew if she kept on this path it would be a very dangerous one. She shouldn’t be curious. She shouldn’t care.

Abruptly she put down her napkin and stood up, making a hasty excuse, hating herself for it. ‘I need to get some papers from the suite for my own meeting this afternoon.’

With smooth grace Jamilah saw Salman make a discreet gesture to someone behind them, and he stood up, too, indicating for her to precede him out of the gazebo. She was surprised he wasn’t pushing for them to stay for coffee and dessert. She walked out a little unsteadily. And then he took her arm to lead her back into the hotel through the gorgeous private gardens.

As they neared the doors, where staff waited, she cursed her gullibility. She stopped and turned to him, looked up. ‘You knew very well what you were asking for when you requested a table outside, didn’t you?’

Eyes as black as sin turned her insides molten. He smiled wickedly. ‘It was a mere manipulation of the truth to get you to stay.’

Jamilah fought the lazy tendrils of desire unfurling inside her. ‘I don’t want you to seduce me, Salman. I won’t be seduced.’

‘It’s too late, Jamilah. We’re here now … for a reason.’ His mouth firmed, ‘I don’t believe in fate, but I believe in this.’

He pulled her into him and his mouth was on hers before she could even squeak in protest. One hand went to his chest, to push him away, but his steely strength called to her, making her legs weak. She emitted a groan of pure self-disgust mixed with the inevitable rise of wanton desire. Their mouths clung, tongues touching and tasting. It grew more heated, and Jamilah found that her arms and hands had climbed up to Salman’s neck and she was straining on tiptoe to get even closer.

She pulled back, her heart racing, disgusted to find herself in this position—again.

He held her fast against his body, where she could feel the heat and strength of his burgeoning arousal. ‘Tell me again you won’t be seduced …’ It wasn’t even a question.

Jamilah wanted to deny him, but the way she kept falling into his arms and responding so forcibly mocked her. Her heart fell at the unmistakable light of triumph in his eyes.

‘The problem is that we are dealing with a force greater than ourselves, and the fact that our desire never got a chance to burn itself out,’ he said.

Jamilah finally managed to pull away. ‘Unlike you, I have a healthy respect for things that aren’t good for me. I can resist this, and I will. Find someone else, Salman, please.’ And she hoped to God that he would listen to her plea.

CHAPTER FIVE

JAMILAH had only gone back downstairs when she was due to have her own meeting with the envoy from Dubai. To her abject relief she hadn’t seen Salman again, but she steeled herself now for the evening ahead, when they were due to go to a black tie function.

When she heard Salman moving around in the main salon she took a deep and shaky breath in. She regarded herself in her bedroom mirror. Make-up covered most of the ravages of the last sleepless night, and the aftermath of that lunch and the kiss. There was an awful feeling of inevitability burning low in her belly, and she couldn’t ignore it much as she wanted to.

Her dress was strapless silk and floor-length, midnight-blue in colour—almost black. It managed to be effortlessly chic even while the low back presented a much more daring view.

Her mother had been a famous fashion model—one of the first Arabic women to break into the international scene—which was how she’d met Jamilah’s father in Paris. Before Jamilah’s parents had died so tragically her mother had already instilled within her a love and appreciation for classic elegant clothes and jewellery. Jamilah didn’t buy much, but when she did it was always quality pieces.

She’d twisted her hair up, and now added a pair of her mother’s sapphire earrings to match the simple necklace that adorned her neck. With another shaky breath she picked up her short faux fur coat and evening bag and left her room.

Her hands clenched tight around her bag when she saw Salman, standing and flicking idly through a magazine on the table. He looked up, and for a moment Jamilah felt as if she was drowning. She’d seen Salman in a tuxedo before, but something about seeing him now, tonight, seemed to hit her right between the eyes. He was simply the most stupendously handsome man she’d ever seen.

Salman looked at Jamilah. She was a vision in dark silk which showed off every elegant curve of her body. Her breasts were soft pale swells above the bodice, and a gem hung with tantalising provocation just above the vee in her cleavage. Her eyes glittered a dazzling blue, and Salman knew that if they didn’t get out of there right now he’d take her to his bed and she would hate him for ever. And then he had to concede bitterly that he’d already taken care of that when he’d rejected her so cruelly six years before.

Curtly, Salman said, dropping the magazine, ‘We should get going, or we’ll be late for the opening speech.’

Jamilah nearly reeled back on her heels. She felt as if she’d just hurtled through a time continuum, been burnt by the sun and then thrown out the other side. Had she just imagined that incendiary moment?

Standing in the lift moments later as they descended, she felt very shaky and vulnerable. Salman was stony-faced and taciturn, and it gave her a sickening sense of déjà-vu to when he’d changed so utterly on that fateful day six years before. She welcomed it, and hardened the tender inner part of herself that had felt an awful weakening as the day had progressed, as if on some level his relentless pursuit was starting to dissolve her own resolve to resist. She could resist. She had to resist.

Outside the hotel, in the cool night air, he helped her to put on her coat. Visibly flinching when his hand brushed the bare skin of her shoulder.

Jamilah tugged her coat from his hands and said curtly, ‘It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’m sorry you had to touch me.’

His car was just drawing up, and he turned her to face him with his hands on her shoulders. Jamilah hated that she was feeling so raw. But the stark hunger etched onto his face sent tremors of awareness through her. Along with confusion.

‘You think that I don’t want to touch you?’

Jamilah couldn’t speak. In her peripheral vision she could see the driver standing and holding the door open, but they weren’t moving. Salman spoke again in low husky tones.

‘If I hadn’t got you out of that suite as quickly as I had, I think it’s safe to say that your dress would already be in ribbons and we’d be indulging in the most frantic and urgent coupling of our lives. All I can think about is how I want to pull you onto the back seat of that car, spread your legs around me and take you right now—because quite frankly the suite is too far away. I’ve never before contemplated stopping a lift to make love to a woman, but I just did. Don’t you have any idea how much I want you?’

Jamilah’s mouth opened and closed with shock. Any resolve that had recently fired through her was washed away by a rush of desire so intense that she literally ached for Salman to do exactly as he’d said. All she could see was their naked limbs entwined, dewed with sweat, hearts beating frantically as they came closer and closer to the explosive pinnacle.

Just then someone emerged from the hotel behind them, and Jamilah blinked as she saw Salman’s urbane mask come back. It was the Sultan of Al-Omar, and she issued a garbled greeting to the tall, handsome ruler. She vaguely heard him ask if he could share their ride to the dinner, as he’d lent his car out for the evening to someone else.

Bodyguards belonging to the Sultan and to Salman hovered in the shadows, ready to jump into their accompanying vehicles. It served to bring Jamilah back to some kind of sanity, and a few seconds later she found herself pressed tight against Salman, who had negotiated it so that Jamilah was on his right, with Sultan Sadiq on his left. All Jamilah could feel was her thigh burning where Salman’s pressed against her. Strong and powerfully muscular.

The men spoke of inanities and their meetings. Jamilah couldn’t contribute a word, her head still whirling at Salman’s intensity just now. How on earth was she going to cope if he directed that at her again? With an awful feeling of fatality she knew she wouldn’t be able to.

A couple of hours later Jamilah’s nerves were overwrought after an evening spent at Salman’s side, trying to ignore the feelings running riot through her system. He’d barely touched her all evening, but she’d felt the burning intensity in his restraint.

Now they were back in their car—without the Sultan this time. He’d come up to Salman earlier, with a gorgeous statuesque brunette on his arm, and it had been obvious he had plans other than returning to the hotel. Sultan Sadiq had almost as notorious a reputation as Salman.

They glided through the moonlit streets of Paris now, with the Eiffel Tower appearing and disappearing intermittently, all lit up like a giant bauble. The tension was thick between them, and just when Jamilah was contemplating the uphill battle she faced if Salman tried to seduce her again she heard him ask the driver to slow down. She only noticed then that they were beside the Hôtel de Ville, where a fairground had been set up in the main square.

Salman looked at her. ‘Do you mind if we get out for a minute?’

Jamilah shook her head with relief. She needed space and air in order to gather her defences again.

They got out, and when the cool air hit her she shivered. She felt Salman dropping his warm jacket around her shoulders. She looked up at him, heart tripping. ‘I can get my coat. You’ll freeze.’

He smiled his lopsided smile. ‘I’ll survive. It’ll take more than the cold to do me in.’

He took her by the hand and reluctantly she gave in, knowing he wouldn’t let her go anyway. They walked towards the tinkling music. Some couples were strolling around, like them, hand in hand, amongst groups of teenagers and even some harried-looking parents with small children, seemingly oblivious to the late hour.

Salman said then, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him, ‘I’ve always loved fairgrounds. There’s something so escapist and other-worldly about them.’

Jamilah’s mouth dropped open, and she closed it abruptly when Salman sent her an amused glance. ‘Don’t look so shocked.’

‘When were you ever at a fairground growing up?’ They had nothing like them in Merkazad.

He was leading her towards where a merry-go-round glistened under a blaze of lights. There was a melancholic quality to his voice. ‘There used to be a fairground in Merkazad, but when the rebels invaded they smashed it to pieces.’

‘Oh …’ No wonder she hadn’t ever seen one. It would have been long gone by the time she’d been old enough to visit it. ‘Why wasn’t another one built?’

Salman shrugged. ‘I think people were having a hard enough time just rebuilding their lives and homes.’