The Sheikh
who Desired Her
Secrets of The Oasis
Abby Green
The Desert Prince
Jennifer Lewis
Saved by The Sheikh!
Tessa Radley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Secrets of The Oasis

About the Author

ABBY GREEN deferred doing a social anthropology degree to work freelance as an assistant director in the film and TV industry—which is a social study in itself! Since then it’s been early starts, long hours, mucky fields, ugly car parks and wet-weather gear—especially working in Ireland.

She has no bona fide qualifications, but could probably help negotiate a peace agreement between two warring countries after years of dealing with recalcitrant actors. She discovered a guide to writing romance one day, and decided to capitalise on her longtime love for Mills & Boon® romances and attempt to follow in the footsteps of such authors as Kate Walker and Penny Jordan. She’s enjoying the excuse to be paid to sit inside, away from the elements. She lives in Dublin and hopes that you will enjoy her stories.

You can email her at abbygreen3@yahoo.co.uk.

PROLOGUE

A six-year-old girl stands at a graveside, on her own. Her face is deathly pale, her blue eyes huge and shimmering with unshed tears, her hair a sleek waterfall of black down to her waist. A dark, handsome boy, Salman, detaches himself from the larger group and comes over to take her hand.

He looks at her solemnly, too solemn for his twelve years. ‘Don’t cry, Jamilah, you have to be strong now.’

She just looks at him. His parents died in the same plane crash as hers. If he can be strong, so can she. She blinks back the tears and nods briefly, once, and doesn’t take her eyes off him even when he looks away to where his own parents have just been buried. Their hands stay tightly clasped together.

CHAPTER ONE

Six years ago, Paris.

JAMILAH MOREAU had to restrain herself from turning her walk into a light-hearted skip as she walked up the French boulevard with the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She grimaced at herself. It was such a cliché but it was Paris, it was springtime, and she was in love. She wanted to throw her bags of shopping in the air and laugh out loud, and turn her face up to the blossoms floating lazily to the ground from the trees.

She wanted to hug everyone. She forced back an irrepressible grin. She’d always thought people over-exaggerated Paris’s romantic allure, but now she knew why. You had to be in love to get it. No wonder her French father and Merkazadi mother had fallen in love here—how could they not have?

She was unaware of the admiring looks her jet-black hair, exotic olive-skinned colouring and startlingly blue eyes drew from people passing by—both men and women. Her heart was beating so fast with excitement that she knew she had to calm herself. But all she felt like doing was shouting out to the world with arms wide: I’m in love with Salman al Saqr and he loves me, too!

At that thought, though, her step faltered slightly and her conscience pricked. He hadn’t actually said he loved her. Not even when she’d told him she loved him that morning, as they’d lain in bed, when Jamilah had felt as if she’d expire with happiness and sensual satedness. She couldn’t have held it back any longer. The words had been trembling on her lips for days.

Three weeks. That was all it had been since she’d literally bumped into Salman in the street, when she’d emerged from the university where she’d just finished her final exams. She’d practically grown up with him, but hadn’t seen him in a few years, and a seismic reaction had washed through her at seeing the object of her lifelong crush. As darkly handsome as he’d ever been, and even more so. Because now he was a man. Tall, broad, and powerful.

His hands had wrapped around her arms to steady her, and he’d been about to let her go, with a thrillingly appreciative gleam in his dark gaze, when suddenly those black brows had drawn together, his eyes had narrowed and he’d snapped out disbelievingly, ‘Jamilah?’ She’d nodded, her heart thumping and a hot blush rising up through her body. She’d fantasised about him looking at her like that for so long …

They’d gone for a coffee. When they’d stood in the street afterwards she’d been about to walk away, feeling as though her heart was being torn from her chest, when Salman had stopped her and said quickly, ‘Wait … have dinner with me tonight?’

And that had been the start of the most magical three weeks of her life. She’d said yes quickly. Too quickly. Jamilah grimaced again as a dose of reality hit. She should have been more cool, more sophisticated … but it would have been impossible after years of idolising him from afar—a childhood crush which had developed into teenage obsession and now adult longing.

That first weekend Salman had taken her back to his apartment and made love to her for the first time … and even now a deep flowing heat invaded her lower body, making her blush as X-rated images flooded her mind.

She shook her head to dispel the images, kept walking. She was on her way to his apartment now, to cook him dinner. Her conscience struck again. Salman hadn’t actually invited her over this evening—in fact he’d been unusually quiet that morning. But Jamilah was confident that when he saw her, saw the delicious supplies she’d bought, he’d smile that sexy, crooked smile and open his door wide.

As she waited to cross the busy road across from his imposing eighteenth-century apartment building she thought of the instances when she’d seen an intense darkness pervade Salman—whenever she mentioned Merkazad, where they were both from, or his older brother Sheikh Nadim, ruler of Merkazad.

Salman had always had an innate darkness, but it had never intimidated Jamilah. From as far back as she could remember she’d felt an affinity with him, and had never questioned the fact that he was a loner and didn’t seem to share the social ease of his older brother. But in the past few weeks Jamilah had quickly learnt to avoid talking of Nadim or Merkazad.

She was due to return to Merkazad in a week’s time, but she was going to tell Salman tonight that if he wanted her to stay in Paris she would. It wasn’t what she’d planned at all, but the anatomy of her world had changed utterly since she’d met him again.

She arrived at the ornate door of Salman’s building, where he lived on the top floor in a stunning open-plan apartment. The concierge started to greet her warmly when she came in, but then a look flashed over his face and he said, ‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, but is the Sheikh expecting you this evening?’

Hearing Salman being described as ‘the Sheikh’ gave Jamilah a little jolt; she’d almost forgotten about his status as next in line to be ruler of Merkazad after Nadim. Merkazad was a small independent sheikhdom within the bigger country of Al-Omar on the Arabian peninsula. It had been her mother’s home and birthplace, where Jamilah had been brought up after her birth in Paris. Her French father had worked for Salman’s father as an advisor.

Jamilah smiled widely and held up the bulging bags of shopping. ‘I’m cooking dinner.’

The concierge smiled back, but he looked a little uncomfortable, and a shiver of unease went down Jamilah’s spine for no good reason as the lift ascended. When it came to a smooth halt and the doors opened the trickle of unease got stronger. Salman’s door was partially open, and she heard a deep-throated, very feminine chuckle just as she pushed it open fully.

It took a few seconds for the scene in front of her to register. Salman was standing with his head bent, about to kiss a very beautiful red-haired woman who was twined around him like a climbing vine. Jamilah suddenly felt stupidly self-conscious in her student uniform of jeans and T-shirt.

Their mouths met, and Salman’s hands were on the woman’s slender waist as he hauled her closer. Exactly the way he had done with Jamilah. She must have made a sound or something—it was only afterwards that she’d realised that was the moment she’d dropped the shopping.

Salman broke off the kiss and looked round. But, Jamilah noted, he didn’t take his hands off the woman, who was now looking at her, too, her beautiful green eyes flashing at the interruption.

Jamilah barely registered Salman’s thick dark unruly hair, which had always curled a touch too near his collar, or his intensely dark flashing eyes, which she’d always thought held a universe of shadows and secrets. The hard line of his jaw, and his exquisitely sculpted cheekbones which somehow didn’t diminish the harsh masculinity of his face, were all peripheral to her shock.

Numb with that shock, and a million and one other things all at once, Jamilah just stood stupidly and watched Salman say something low and succinct to the woman, who gave a little moue of displeasure before she stepped back and picked up her bag and coat.

She brushed past Jamilah on her way out, trailing a noxious cloud of perfume behind her, and said huskily, ‘Je te voir plus tard, cheri.’

See you later, darling.

The door closed behind Jamilah and reaction started to set in. Salman faced her now, hands on narrow hips, dressed in a dark suit, crisp shirt and tie. It was the first time she’d seen him dressed so formally, and it made him look austere. She knew that he was an investment banker, but he’d never really discussed it. She realised now he’d never really discussed anything personal with her—just seduced her to within an inch of her life.

Jamilah could feel a trembling starting up in her legs, but before she could speak Salman said curtly, ‘I didn’t expect to see you this evening. We made no arrangement.’

They’d made no arrangement to turn her life upside down in the space of three weeks, either! Jamilah’s numb brain was trying to equate this distant stranger with the man who had made love to her less than twelve hours before. The same man who had whispered words of endearment in her ears as he’d thrust so deeply inside her that she’d arched her back and gasped out loud, raking her nails down his back to his buttocks.

She fought to block the images and felt like crying. ‘I … wanted to surprise you. I was going to cook dinner …’

Jamilah looked down then, to see carnage. Broken eggs seeped all over the parquet floor. A bottle of wine, which thankfully hadn’t broken, lolled on its side. She looked up again jerkily when Salman said, ‘You can’t just wander in here when you feel like it, Jamilah.’

A muscle ticking in his jaw showed his displeasure. And, from a depth she’d not known she had, a self-preserving instinct kicked in. Jamilah hitched up her chin minutely, even as her world started to crumble around her.

‘Of course I wouldn’t have come if I’d known that you would be … busy.’ And then she couldn’t help asking. ‘Were you …?’ A poison-tipped arrow pierced her heart. ‘Were you seeing her while you were seeing me?’

Salman shook his head briefly, abruptly. Impatiently. ‘No.’

Jamilah said through numb lips, ‘Clearly, though, you’re seeing her now. Evidently you’ve already grown bored. Three weeks must be your limit.’

She was aware of the raw pain throbbing through her voice. She couldn’t hold it back. Not for the life of her. All she could think of was how she’d bared her heart and soul to this man in the early dawn hours. She’d said hesitantly, huskily, ‘I love you, Salman. I think I’ve always loved you.’

He’d smiled his lopsided smile and said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You barely know me.’

Jamilah had been fierce. ‘I’ve known you all my life, Salman … and I know that I love you.’ And that was when he’d pulled back and become monosyllabic. She could see it now, clear as day.

Salman asked now, with fatal softness, ‘Just what exactly were you expecting, Jamilah?’

Jamilah shut her emotions away. ‘Nothing. It would have been stupid of me to expect anything, wouldn’t it? You’re already moving on. Were you even going to tell me?’

Salman’s mouth thinned. ‘What’s to tell? We’ve had an enjoyable fling. In one week you’re going back to Merkazad, and, yes, of course I’ll be moving on.’

Jamilah felt herself recoil inwardly, as if from a blow. This man had been her first lover … to call what had happened between them a fling reduced every moment to a travesty. Reduced the gift of her innocence that she’d given him to nothing.

Salman frowned and took a step closer. ‘You are going back to Merkazad, aren’t you?’ He cursed under his breath—an Arabic curse that Jamilah had only heard in the souks of Merkazad amongst men—and said harshly, ‘You didn’t seriously expect anything more, did you?’

Her face must have been giving her away spectacularly, despite her best efforts, because then he said, with chilling devastation, ‘I never promised you anything. I never gave you any hint to expect anything more, did I?’

She shook her head on auto-pilot. No, he hadn’t. The utter devastation of his words sank in somewhere deep and vulnerable. It took all of Jamilah’s strength just to stay standing. He couldn’t know how much he was hurting her. She’d played with fire and she was getting burnt by a master. Every day had been heady, magical, but at no point had Salman made a plan anything more than twenty-four hours in advance. Now she just wanted to leave and curl up into a ball, far away, where she could curse her own naivety. But she couldn’t move.

Salman watched the woman before him. He’d cut himself off from any kind of emotion so long ago that he almost didn’t recognise it now, as it struggled to break through. An aching pain constricted his chest, but he ruthlessly pushed it down. For the past three weeks he’d indulged in a haze of unreality, in believing that perhaps he wasn’t as damned as he’d always believed. Bumping into Jamilah, seeing her again—seeing how utterly beautiful she’d become—had broken something open inside him. He’d had the gall to think for a second that some of her innately pure goodness could rub off on him.

When he’d seen Jamilah cross the street minutes before, a huge grin on her face, he’d realised that she’d meant what she’d said that morning—she was in love with him. He’d tried to block her words out all day, tried to reassure himself that she hadn’t meant it … tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of guilt and responsibility.

He’d felt in that moment as he’d watched her approach his apartment as if he was holding a tiny, delicate butterfly in his hands, which he could not fail to crush—even if he wanted to protect its fragile beauty.

Eloise, his colleague, who had followed him up to his apartment on the flimsy pretext of getting a document, had come on to him at that exact moment, her brash, over-confident sexuality in direct contrast to the subtle sensuality of the woman approaching his apartment. In that moment he’d known he had to let Jamilah go … so comprehensively that she would be left in no doubt that it was over. So when his concierge had confirmed that Jamilah was indeed coming up, he’d felt something shut down inside him. He would crush the butterfly to pieces. Because he had no choice—had nothing to offer other than a battered soul riven with dark secrets. He could not love.

For a long moment Salman said nothing, just looked at Jamilah until she felt dizzy. Perhaps she’d imagined the awful scene? His frosty manner? That woman … For a second she thought she saw something like regret in his eyes, but then Salman finally spoke, and he stuck the knife in so deep that Jamilah felt her heart slice in two.

‘I knew you were coming up. The concierge warned me.’ He shrugged, and she knew in that moment what real cruelty looked like. ‘I could have stopped myself from kissing Eloise, but I figured what was the point? Better that you find out now the kind of person I am.’

He twisted the knife.

‘This never should have happened. It was weak of me to seduce you.’

Immediately Jamilah read between those words: what he meant was it had been all too easy to seduce her.

‘You should leave. I imagine you have plenty to prepare for going back to Merkazad.’ His mouth was a thin line now. ‘Believe me, Jamilah, I’m not the kind of man who can give you what you want. I’m dark and twisted inside—not a knight in shining armour who will whisk you away into a romantic dream. This is over. I’ll be taking Eloise out tonight and getting on with my life. I suggest that you do the same.’

Numb all over, Jamilah said threadily, ‘I thought we were friends … I thought …’

‘What?’ he said harshly. ‘That just because we grew up in the same place and spent time together we would be friends for life?’

Something inside Jamilah wasn’t obeying her mental command to just shut up. ‘It was more than that … What we had was different. You spoke to me, spent time with me when you wouldn’t with anyone else … This last three weeks … I thought what we’d always shared had grown into something …’

A look of forbidding cold bleakness crossed Salman’s face, and finally Jamilah curbed her tongue, wondering why on earth she was laying herself bare like this.

‘You followed me around like a besotted puppy dog for years and I never had the heart to tell you to leave me alone. This last three weeks was about lust, pure and simple. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman and I desired you. Nothing more, nothing less.’

That was it. Whatever feelings Jamilah might have harboured for Salman over the years froze and withered to dust inside her. He’d also destroyed any halcyon memories she’d had of a bond between them. She forced words out through the excruciating pain. ‘You don’t need to say any more. I get the message. Whatever heart you may have once had is clearly gone. You’re nothing but a cold bastard.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Salman agreed, with an indefinable edge to his voice.

Jamilah finally managed to move, and turned round to go, stepping out of the destruction of the fallen shopping around her. She couldn’t even attempt to pick it up.

At the door she heard Salman say, with cynicism ringing in his voice, ‘Say hello to my beloved brother and Merkazad for me. I don’t intend seeing either any time soon.’

Or you. He didn’t have to say the words. They hung in the air. Jamilah opened the door and walked out, and didn’t look back once.

One year ago.

The Sultan of Al-Omar’s birthday celebrations were as lavish as ever. They were taking place in the stunning Hussein Palace, which was in the heart of the glittering metropolis of B’harani, right on the coast of the Arabian peninsula, about two hours drive from mountainous Merkazad.

One of the Sultan’s aides had been pursuing Jamilah on and off for years, and she’d finally relented and agreed to come to the party as his date. Her belly clenched now, because she had to acknowledge that the main motivation behind her decision to come was because Salman was going to be there.

Each year the tabloids across the globe exulted in reporting feverishly on which A-list beauty he’d decided to take as his new mistress. He never came to the party with anyone, but he always left with someone.

Her date had left her side for a moment in the thronged ballroom. It was the first night of celebrations which were meant to be for family and close friends only, but approximately two hundred people milled about the room.

Jamilah’s skin prickled, and she cursed herself for her rash decision. She’d taken it because in all the years since she’d last seen Salman in Paris she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head, and she’d started having dreams again. Dreams of when she was six years old and standing at her parents’ grave, when Salman had come to take her hand and infused her with a strength so palpable she’d never forgotten it.

She knew it was ridiculous, but she’d fallen in love with him at that moment. And even though she’d long since disabused herself of the notion that that childish love had grown and developed into something deeper, she couldn’t help her heart clenching at the evocative memory.

She cringed inwardly now when she thought of how her teenage years had been lifted out of the doldrums every time Salman had made a visit home from school in the UK, and she, tongue-tied and blushing, had been reduced to a puddle of hormones. But then his visits had become more and more infrequent, until he’d stopping coming home at all, turning her world lacklustre and dull.

She didn’t have to be reminded of how Salman had regarded her lovesick attentions. It was bad enough that her motivation for going to Paris to study had had as much to do with the fact that Salman lived there than because it had always been her father’s wish that she study in his home city. And she’d paid heavily for that decision.

Bitterness flooded her.

The dreams were the last straw. She couldn’t go on like this, so she’d hoped that if she came to the party, if she saw Salman living the debauched lifestyle of the notorious playboy Sheikh that he was, he’d disgust her and she’d be able to move on. At least enough to feel some measure of closure.

She’d imagined greeting Salman with a look of practised surprise, a tiny smile of recognition. Not a hint of the emotional turmoil she’d suffered these past years would show on her face or in her eyes. She’d ask him how he was, while affecting a look of mild boredom, and then, with a perfunctory platitude, she’d drift away and that would be it. She would be over him. And he would be left in no doubt that their brief affair meant nothing to her at all …

Except it hadn’t happened like that. As she’d been leaving her room she’d looked up from her bag, distracted, to see a tall, dark, broad figure in a tuxedo ahead of her. She’d nearly called out, because she’d thought it was his brother, Nadim. They shared the same height and build. But then she’d realised her mistake and it had been too late as a sound emerged from her mouth.

She’d had a first fleeting impression of him, cutting a lonely, solitary figure, and then he’d turned round with a frown on his face which had only grown more marked as he’d registered who she was. Jamilah had been too shocked and stunned at being faced with him like that in an empty corridor to say anything.

He’d rocked back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his trousers, and whatever fleeting hint of vulnerability she might have sensed about him had been smashed to pieces as his gaze had dropped down her body with lazy, sensual appraisal. ‘Jamilah … we finally meet again. I was wondering if you’d been avoiding me.’

His deep, drawling voice had impacted upon her somewhere deep and visceral, and for one awful moment Jamilah had been transported back in time to that devastating evening in Paris, in his apartment. She’d given up any hope of sticking to the script she’d perfected in her head. With an iron will, she’d struggled to regain composure and sent up silent thanks for the armour of a designer dress and make-up. She’d forced herself to move, stride forward, fully intending to walk past him, but he’d caught her arm and the feel of his hand on her bare skin had caused her to stumble.

She’d looked up at him, and her treacherous heart had beat fast—too fast. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Salman. Why on earth would I be avoiding you?’

An inner voice answered: Because he broke your heart into tiny pieces and you’ve never forgotten it.

Jamilah noticed then that faint grooves were worn into the brackets of his mouth. His eyes were hard—far harder than she remembered them being.

‘Because I’ve never seen you at the Sultan’s party before.’

Jamilah wrenched her arm free. ‘This isn’t exactly my scene. And, not that it’s any of your business, I decided to come tonight because I was invited by—’

‘Ah, Jamilah, there you are. I was just coming to collect you.’

With a rolling wave of relief, Jamilah saw her date approach. She let him come and put a proprietorial arm around her shoulder, for once not minding the way men seemed to find it impossible not to stake their claim. And with a few words of muttered incoherency to Salman she let herself be led away, leaving Salman behind.

Now she stood amongst the throng that had gathered after the sumptuous dinner—a dinner Jamilah had had to force down her throat—horribly aware of Salman’s intense and assessing gaze from across the table.

To her utter relief, at that moment she spotted Sheikh Nadim and his date, an Irish girl called Iseult, who had come to work in Nadim’s stables after he’d bought out her family’s stud farm in Ireland.

Jamilah went to join them, and she could see their concerned looks as they took in her pale features. She felt light-headed. And then Iseult confirmed it by asking, ‘Jamilah, what is it?’

Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘Nothing at all.’

But Jamilah could feel whatever blood was left in her face drain southward when she saw Salman approach with narrowed eyes. No escape. How had she ever thought this would be a good idea?

Muttering something about finding her date, Jamilah fled across the room and out to the patio through open doors, where thankfully few people milled about. She rested her hands on the stone balustrade and sucked in deep breaths, only to feel every cell in her body react when she sensed his presence behind her.

She turned slowly and saw that the patio was now empty, as if the sheer force of the tension between her and Salman had repelled everyone else.

Not caring how she might be giving herself away, Jamilah said unevenly, ‘Leave me alone, Salman.’

His voice was harsh against the silence. ‘If you’d wanted to be left alone you should have stayed in Merkazad.’

Jamilah’s mouth twisted to acknowledge that uncomfortable truth. To think she’d ever thought that she could cope with this … ‘Ah, yes, because you never come home.’

His eyes flashed but he didn’t deny it. ‘Exactly.’

For a long moment neither one said anything, and then Salman took a step forward. Jamilah’s heart lurched, and she noticed that the patio doors had been closed.

He said, with a rough quality to his voice that resonated deep inside her, ‘You’re even more beautiful than I remember.’

Jamilah forgot about escape and glared at Salman. His compliment fell on deaf ears. There was an unmistakably predatory gleam in his eyes and Jamilah railed against it. He had no right. His face was cast into shadow, so she couldn’t make out his expression. ‘The last time you saw me you told me I was beautiful, Salman—or don’t you remember telling me why you took me to bed?’

‘You were undeniably beautiful then, but now there’s a maturity to your beauty … an edge.’ There was something achingly wistful in his voice for a moment, which caught Jamilah off guard.

She forced a mocking smile to numb lips. ‘You should be able to recognise cynicism when you see it, Salman. After all you’re the King of the Cynics, aren’t you? Always coming to the Sultan’s party empty-handed and walking away with the most beautiful woman here. Do you still stick to your three-week rule, or was that privilege afforded just to me? Tell me, how long did the lovely Eloise last?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Why should I?’

Salman stepped closer then, out of the shadows, and when Jamilah saw the starkness of his beautiful features she nearly forgot everything. He blocked out the light behind him.

‘I thought you would have got over that by now.’

Jamilah emitted a strangled laugh. ‘Got over it?’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I got over you long ago. I don’t have anything to discuss with you—so, if you don’t mind, my date will be looking for me.’

‘He’s no man for you. He’s a runt—an obsequious yes-man to the Sultan. What are you doing with him?’ Salman asked.

Jamilah was belligerent. ‘What do you care? He’s perfect. The alpha male lost any fascination for me a long time ago.’

She went to walk around Salman, but once again he caught her arm. ‘Tell me, do you shout out his name in ecstasy?’ he asked silkily. ‘Do you rake his back with your nails, pleading with him never to stop?’

He didn’t have to say it, but the words hung between them: do you tell him you love him? As if held back by the flimsiest of walls, images and sensations flooded Jamilah’s body and mind. She was unaware of Salman putting his hands on her arms and drawing her back in front of him. Unaware of the intent in his dark gaze. Unaware of the way his eyes dropped down her body, and unaware of the guttural moan as he drew her into him and his head lowered to hers.

She only became aware when the hot brand of his mouth seared hers, plundering and demanding, forcing her soft lips apart so that his tongue could snake out between her small teeth and suck hers deep. Jamilah had no defence. Desire burned up through her like a living flame and hurled her into the fire.

It was shocking how well her body remembered his touch—and how hungry she was for it. His hands on her back felt so wonderful. Even more so when they went lower and cupped her buttocks through the fine silk of her dress. He pulled her up and into him, where she could feel the hardening ridge of his desire, and with a soft mewl of frustration she arched against him, wanting more. Burning up with it. It was as if no time had passed at all.

And all the while their mouths clung feverishly, as if taking a first long drink of water from an oasis in the desert. It was only when Salman pulled her in even closer that an insidious image inserted itself—that of a red-haired woman being held in his arms, being made love to in exactly the same way.

Suddenly as cold as ice, Jamilah wrenched her head away and pulled free. She stood apart, aghast at how out of control she felt and how hard she was breathing.

‘Stay away from me, Salman. There is nothing between us. Nothing. And there never was. You said it yourself. It was just a fling, and I’m not in the market for another one.’

She whirled around, her dark blue silk dress billowing about her as she stalked to the doors, praying he wouldn’t stop her again. And then she turned back. ‘You had your chance. You won’t get another one. And for your information I’ve called out plenty of names in ecstasy since you, so don’t think what happened just now was anything special.’

Salman watched Jamilah stalk back into the party and for a moment an almost unassailable wave of despair washed over him. Seeing her again had provoked a maelstrom of emotions within him—emotions he’d not felt since he’d last seen her. He sagged back against the wall, his legs suddenly weak as he registered how intoxicating it had been to kiss her, hold her in his arms.

How familiar. And how necessary it had been—as necessary as taking another breath. It was as if no time had passed. He wanted her with something close to desperation. On that thought he resolutely stood to his full height again. He’d already seduced her and then rejected her. He had no right to want her again. He never wanted women after he’d had them. So why should she be different?

His mouth was a grim line as he followed her back into the party. He hoped that she’d been telling the truth when she’d claimed those numerous lovers, because then it would mean that his impact on her had been minimal, and he could ignore the fact that he thought he’d seen vulnerability and hurt in those stunning blue eyes.

Jamilah knew her parting words to Salman had been a cheap shot, but they’d felt good for a moment—even if they weren’t remotely true. Giving up any pretence of wanting to stay at the party, within an hour she had changed, her face scrubbed clean, and was in her Jeep and heading back to Merkazad.

Eventually she had to pull over on the hard shoulder of the motorway when tears blurred her vision too much. She rested her head on her hands on the steering wheel. She had to concede that she’d been hopelessly naïve in having thought she could remain unscathed after seeing Salman—and, worse, after kissing him, which she was sure had been nothing more than his cruel experiment to see how she still hungered for him.

On some level she’d never been able to believe how he’d turned into such a cruel and distant stranger that day.

She ruthlessly stopped her thoughts from deviating down a self-indulgent path where she’d try to find justification for Salman’s behaviour. He was cold and heartless—he always had been. She’d just been too naïve to see it before.

She’d often speculated if the cataclysmic events that had once taken place in Merkazad had anything to do with Salman’s insularity and darkness. Years before Merkazad had been invaded by an army from Al-Omar, which had been against its independence. Salman, his brother and their parents had been locked up in the bowels of the castle for three long months. It had been a difficult time for the whole country, and must have been traumatic for Nadim and Salman, but Jamilah had been just two at the time—far too young to remember the details.

Years after their liberation she’d always been the one allowed to spend time with Salman, when he hadn’t even let his own brother or parents near. He’d never said much, but he’d listened to her inconsequential chatter—which had developed into tongue-tied embarrassment as she’d grown older. Yet he’d never made her feel uncomfortable. He’d even sought her out the day he left Merkazad for good. She’d been sixteen and hopelessly in love. He’d touched her cheek with a finger, such a wealth of bleakness in his eyes that she’d ached to comfort him, but he’d just said, ‘See you around, kid.’

It was that bond that she believed had flared to life and blossomed over those three weeks in Paris. And yet if she believed what Salman had said to her there—and why wouldn’t she?—it had all been a cruel illusion. She had to get it through her thick skull that there could be no justification for Salman’s behaviour, and after tonight she had to draw a line under her obsession with him.

CHAPTER TWO

Present day.

SHEIKH SALMAN BIN KALID AL SAQR looked at the shadows of the rotorblades of the helicopter as it flew across the rocky expanse below him. They undulated and snaked like dark ribbons over the mountaintops, and when he looked further he could already see minarets and the vague outlines of the buildings of Merkazad—and the castle, where he was headed. His home and birthplace. He was coming back for the first time in ten years. Ten long years. And he felt numb inside.

He could remember the day he’d left, and the blistering argument he’d had with his older brother Nadim, as if it had happened yesterday, despite every attempt he’d made to block it out in the interim. They’d been standing in Nadim’s study, from where he’d been running the country since the tender age of twenty-one. His older brother’s responsibility had always struck fear into Salman’s heart because he’d known he would never have been able to bear it.

Not because of a lack of ability, but because at the age of eight he’d borne a horrific responsibility for his own people that he’d never spoken about, and since that time he’d cut Merkazad and everyone associated with it out of his heart.

As if to contradict him a memory rose up of Jamilah—the kinship he’d always felt with her, the way that for a long time she’d been the only person he could tolerate being near him and, in Paris, the ease with which he’d allowed her to seduce him to a softer place than he’d inhabited for as long as he could remember. If ever. And then the way he’d callously told her that it had been nothing, that she’d imagined them having some sort of bond. His skin prickled at being reminded of that now, and with ruthless efficiency he pushed it aside and focused on that moment with his brother again.

‘This is your home, Salman!’ his brother had shouted at him. ‘I need you here with me. We need to rule together to be strong.’

Salman could remember how dead he’d felt inside, how removed from his brother’s passion. He’d known that day would be his last in Merkazad. He was a free man. Since he’d been that eight-year-old boy, since the awful time of their incarceration, he’d felt aeons older than Nadim. ‘Brother, this is your country now. Not mine. I will forge my own life. And I will not have you dictate to me. You have no right.’

He’d been able to see the struggle that had run through Nadim, and silently he’d sent out a dire warning: don’t even go there. And as he’d watched he’d seen the fight leave Nadim. The weight of their history ran too deep between them. Salman felt bitter jealousy every time he looked at his brother and knew his integral goodness had never been compromised, or taken away, or violated. Salman’s had when his childhood had been ripped away from him over a three-month period that had felt like three centuries.

Salman knew Nadim blamed himself for not protecting him all those years before. And even though Salman knew that it was irrational, because Nadim had been as helpless as he had, he still blamed Nadim for not saving him from the horrors he’d faced. In a way, he wanted his brother to feel that pain, and he inflicted it with impunity, knowing exactly what he was doing even while hating himself for it.

Blame, counter-blame and recrimination had festered between them for years, and it had only been last year, when Salman had seen Nadim at the Sultan of Al-Omar’s birthday party, that he’d noticed a subtle change within himself. They’d spoken for mere tense moments, as was their custom when they met once or twice a year, but Salman had noticed a sense of weightlessness that he’d never felt before.

He grimaced, his eyes seeing but not seeing the vista of his own country unfold beneath him in all its rocky glory. The fact that he was flying over it right now, about to land in mere minutes, spoke volumes. A part of him still couldn’t really believe that he was coming to Merkazad for a month in Nadim’s stead, while he and his pregnant wife went to spend time in Ireland, where she came from, before they returned to have their first baby.

A ridiculous and archaic law said that if Merkazad was without its Sheikh for a month then a coup could be staged by the military to seat a new ruler. This law had been put in place at a time when they’d faced numerous and frequent attacks, to protect Merkazad from outside forces.

They’d been in this position only once before, when their parents had died and an interim governing body had been set up until Nadim had come of age. Luckily the army had been steadfastly loyal to their deceased father and to Nadim.

But Nadim had confided to Salman that since his marriage to Iseult some people were proving hard to win round, were disappointed that their Sheikh hadn’t picked a Merkazadi woman to be his wife. He’d been concerned that until his heir was born their rule might be vulnerable for the first time in years. But if Salman was there in his place there would be no question of dissent.

Salman had found himself saying yes, bizarrely overriding his conscious intent to say no. He’d known on some deep level that one day he’d have to come home to face his demons, and it appeared the time had come. He’d put his completely incomprehensible decision down to that, and not to a latent sense of duty, or to passing time … or to the fact that since he’d seen Jamilah at that party a year ago he’d felt restless.

Even now he could remember the visceral kick in his chest when he’d turned in that corridor in the Hussein Palace and seen her standing before him like a vision, like something from a dream he’d never admitted having.

He’d only realised in that moment, as a kind of sigh of relief had gone through him, that in all the intervening years since Paris he’d gone to the Sultan’s party every year hoping to see Jamilah … and he had not welcomed that revelation.

Salman’s face darkened. She should have always been firmly off-limits—a woman he should have turned his back on—but he hadn’t been able to resist. Even though he’d known that she’d been way, way too innocent for his cold heart he’d still seduced her in Paris, taken her innocence, proving to himself once again how debauched he really was.

And, not content with that, then he’d cruelly broken her heart. A bleakness filled his belly at remembering the pale set of her features that day. The incredible hurt in those beautiful eyes. He’d watched her innocence and joy turn into an adult’s bitter disillusion right in front of him, even as he’d been telling himself that he was doing her a favour.

He reassured himself that he’d saved her—from him and other men like him. Because he himself was beyond saving. He’d seen the face of evil and that would taint him for ever, and anyone around him, which was why he never allowed anyone too close.

Yet all that knowledge hadn’t stopped him from kissing Jamilah at the Sultan’s party. He’d only had to imagine her with that ineffectual date of hers and he’d been overcome with a dark desire to stamp her, brand her as his. His body throbbed to life now, making him shift uncomfortably; she’d tasted as sweetly sensuous as she had when he’d first kissed her in Paris, when he’d known he was doing the wrong thing but had been overcome with a lust so intense it had made him dizzy.

With an effort he forced his mind away from the disturbing fact that in the past year no woman had managed to arouse his once insatiable libido. But merely thinking of Jamilah now was doing just that, as if to taunt him, because she was the last woman he could ever touch again. If he had any chance of redeeming a tiny morsel of his soul it would be in this.

Salman knew Nadim suspected something had happened between them, and of course he didn’t approve. The protective warning had been implicit in Nadim’s voice in their last conversation. ‘You’re unlikely to see much of Jamilah. She lives and works down at the stables, and is extremely busy with her work there.’ And that, Salman told himself now, suited him just fine—because the mere thought of even seeing a horse or the stables sent clammy chills of dread across his skin. He wouldn’t be making a visit there any time soon.

With that thought lingering as the helicopter started to descend over the lush watered Merkazadi castle grounds, reality hit Salman, and claustrophobia surged along with panic. He fought the urge to tell the pilot to turn around. He was strong enough to withstand a month in his own country. He had to be. He’d heard far worse stories than his; he’d been humbled over and over again. He owed it to those who had trusted him with their stories to face this.

Not for the first time in his life did he wish that he could resort to the easy way out of drugs and alcohol.

He sighed deeply as the distinctive white castle came into clear view, the ornate latticed walls and flat-roofed terraces all at once achingly familiar and rousing a veritable flood of memories, some terrifying. He would get through this as he’d got through his life up to this point—by distracting himself from the pain.

‘Miss Jamilah—he stumbled out of the helicopter with his shirt half undone and torn jeans. He looked like a … a rock star, not the second in line to rule Merkazad.’ The main housekeeper screwed up her wizened face and spat out disgustedly, ‘He is nothing like his brother. He is a disgrace to—’

‘Hana, that’s enough.’ They were in a meeting to discuss the domestic schedule of the castle while Nadim and Iseult were away, and Jamilah was having a hard enough time just functioning since she’d heard Salman’s arrival in the helicopter the previous day.

The older woman flushed brick-red. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jamilah. I forgot myself for a moment …’

Jamilah smiled tightly. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Look, he’s only here till Nadim and Iseult get back … and then everything will be back to normal.’

Yeah, right.

The housekeeper’s face lit up. ‘And next year we will have a new baby in the castle!’

Jamilah let her prattle on excitedly, and hoped the dart of hurt she felt lance her wasn’t apparent on her face or in her eyes. She loved Nadim, and she loved Iseult, who had become a very close friend, but much to her ongoing shame she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of their exuberant happiness.

In truth, when Nadim had told her they would be going to Ireland to see Iseult’s family while they still had time before the birth, Jamilah had felt a tinge of relief. To bear witness to their intense love and absorption every day was becoming more and more difficult. And it had only intensified with news of Iseult’s pregnancy some six months previously. Nadim hardly let Iseult out of his sight, and cosseted her like a prize jewel. Jamilah knew it drove Iseult crazy, but then she was as bad he was—visibly pining for her husband if he was away from her side for more than an hour.

Jamilah’s relief that she would have some respite had been spectacularly eclipsed when Nadim had casually mentioned over dinner that Salman would be taking over as acting ruler while they were gone.

She’d not missed the way Nadim and Iseult had looked at her intently for her reaction; they hadn’t asked questions after her bizarre behaviour at the Sultan’s party last year, but it had been obvious it had something to do with Salman.

She was proud of the way she’d absorbed the shock into her body and kept on sipping her wine, willing her hands not to show a tremor. She’d said nonchalantly, ‘That’s nice. It’s been so long since he came home …’

Nadim had said gently, ‘You could go to France, if you like. Check up on the stables there?’

Jamilah had tensed all over and sat up straight. ‘No.’ She was aghast that they might think she would crumble, or that she would let Salman’s presence affect her work. She’d shaken her head and sealed her fate. ‘Not at all. I won’t be going anywhere. We’re far too busy here …’

But now, when Hana stood up and asked, ‘Will you come to the castle to talk to the staff?’ Jamilah almost shouted out another visceral no, and had to calm herself.

She smiled and said, as breezily as she could, shamelessly playing to Hana’s pride, ‘Why would I need to come to the castle when you have it all in hand so beautifully? We’re busy here at the stables with some new arrivals … you can call me if anything comes up.’

To her intense relief Hana didn’t argue, and left. Jamilah sank back into her office chair, feeling as edgy as a new colt, her heart racing.

A month.

One whole month of avoiding going anywhere near the castle and Salman. At least here at the stables where she lived she was relatively safe. For as long as she’d known him he’d had an abhorrence of horses, so she knew he wouldn’t come near them.

She was over him, so the fact that he was right now less than ten minutes away meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

Jamilah’s phone rang at five-thirty a.m.—just as she was about to go out and do her morning round of the stables to check everyone was where they should be. She was grouchy from lack of sleep and the constant feeling of being on edge. And for the past few days there had been the non-stop clatter of helicopter rotorblades, as numerous choppers took off and landed in the castle’s grounds. Even though it was a fair distance to the stables, some had flown close enough to the horses to spook them for hours. Jamilah had heard through the robust grapevine that Salman was hosting an unending series of parties at the castle.

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 …

He was waiting for the inevitable rise of emotion, for nausea to cripple him as it had done whenever he’d looked at this view before. But emotion wasn’t rising in its usual unassailable wave. Instead he felt suspiciously calm. As if something had shifted and this view was no longer as malevolently threatening as it had been for years.

All he could think about was Jamilah and how beautiful she’d looked just now, with that fall of silky midnight-black hair in a curtain around her shoulders and down her back. His gut clenched. She had looked tired. Faint purple shadows under her huge blue eyes. And that vulnerability had made him want to gather her up into his arms and carry her somewhere far away, into the dark starlit night, and lay her down underneath him. He amended his impulse. He just wanted her. He didn’t want to protect her.

But he had once … He’d been twelve and she’d been just six when she’d broken through the numbness encasing him to provoke a protective instinct. He could remember the moment by their parents’ graves as clearly as if it were yesterday. She’d been so still, so stoic. He’d felt an affinity with her that he hadn’t felt with anyone else.

The earth shifted ominously beneath his feet as he had to acknowledge that perhaps Jamilah could be the key to his unfamiliar feeling of equanimity. That thought disturbed him far more than any view could.

Two nights later, as Jamilah lay in bed unable to sleep, she had to admit to herself that she probably would be better off if she was seeing Salman every day. Perhaps it would inure her to his presence? A voice laughed mockingly in her head at that. But anything had to be better than this awful restless hot feeling. She was useless at work, jumping at the slightest sound. She was turning into a nervous wreck.

She’d heard people talking and speculating about him—especially the younger girls at the stables. ‘Is it true he’s more wealthy than even Sheikh Nadim?’ ‘He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but why doesn’t he come to the stables?’

This last comment had been made dreamily by one of the girls who’d run an errand to the castle. Before Jamilah could say anything, her chief aide, a man called Abdul, had said curtly, ‘He is the Sheikh. And he can do as he wishes. Now get back to work.’

Jamilah had looked at him aghast. Abdul was the most mild-mannered man she’d ever known, and had worked at the stables for longer than anyone could remember. He rarely opened his mouth to anyone. The girls had scuttled off, and he’d immediately apologised to Jamilah red-faced, clearly mortified. She’d waved off his apology, not knowing where the sudden passion had blazed from, and with the curious feeling that he’d been defending Salman. But from what?

With a groan of frustration, mixed with anger at her obsessive thoughts about Salman, Jamilah threw back the covers and got out of bed. She stripped off and went straight to her shower, where she endured the icy spray until her teeth were chattering—as if she could numb all feeling.

‘You will have dinner with me tonight.’

Salman’s voice was an autocratic decree from the ruler of Merkazad. If it had been Nadim, Jamilah would have said yes immediately. But it was Salman, and as her suddenly sweaty hand gripped the handset of the phone in her office she said waspishly, ‘Why should I?’

Salman sighed, and her skin prickled.

‘Because we need to discuss some things …’

Her heart thumped. ‘I have nothing to discuss with you.’

Salman said, with an edge to his voice, ‘What you said to me the other day appears to be true. As much as I might be acting ruler, I’m being constantly diverted to you.’

Jamilah couldn’t even feel a bit smug for a second. She just said faintly, ‘I told you you’d need to earn their respect.’

‘And until that day dawns I’m afraid that I need you—’

Jamilah’s mind blanked when he said those words, and she had to concentrate just to keep up.

‘To have dinner with me and discuss official business. Or do you want me to bother Nadim and his pregnant wife while they are spending time with her family?’

Immediately Jamilah answered, because she knew Salman would have no compunction about disturbing them, ‘No. Of course not.’ She continued in a rush, before she could lose her nerve, ‘I’m finished at work by seven. I’ll see you at eight.’

Salman’s voice was husky. ‘Good. I’ll be looking forward to it, Jamilah.’

Jamilah let the phone drop with a clatter and put hands to hot cheeks. Suddenly breathless, she had to consciously block out evocative images and memories of those weeks in Paris and tell herself that never again would she be so foolish as to let Salman anywhere near the vulnerable heart of her.

A few hours later, though, seated in Nadim’s private formal suite, which Salman had moved into, at an intimate dining table, Jamilah was struggling hard to cling on to her sense of equilibrium. Salman sat opposite her in a black shirt. It made him look even darker, more dangerous. She took another sip of delicious red wine and cursed the impulse which had made her change into a black dress and high-heeled shoes. And leave her hair down. And put on the slightest touch of mascara. She told herself it was just armour. And she needed all the armour she could get.

Salman put down his knife and fork and sat back, wiping his mouth with a napkin. She’d once teased him about the single-minded way he ate. To block the insidious memory, she commented, ‘You’re not drinking …’ And then she smiled sweetly. ‘Still recovering from last week? They say it gets harder with age to cope with the after-effects.’

Almost curtly Salman said, ‘I don’t drink.’

Jamilah frowned, and Salman’s whole body tightened. If she had any idea how aroused and hot he was for her right now she’d run a mile. Since Hisham had shown her in earlier he’d been in a state of heat and lust. He’d expected her to be in jeans and a shirt, and wouldn’t have been surprised to see mucky riding boots.

But she was dressed in something floaty and black. And, while it revealed nothing overt, it clung to her soft bountiful curves with a loving touch. All he wanted to do was smash aside the table between them and rip it off her.

He forced an urbane smile and tried to clamp down on his recently dormant but now raging libido. ‘And I don’t do drugs, either.’

Jamilah was reminded of how he’d certainly appeared sober enough the morning she’d found him passed out. His admission made her feel funny … curious. She shook her head, not understanding. ‘How could you bear to be around those people, then? How could you invite them here and let them run amok like that?’

Salman smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘What can I say? I’m drawn to their instinctive hedonism. I find their lack of engagement with reality fascinating.’

Jamilah had the sudden inexplicable sense that he envied those people, and battled her growing curiosity. Her voice was scathing. ‘I find that hard to believe. It would be impossible to stay in any kind of proximity to that kind of world without being out of your head.’

His eyes darkened to unreadable black. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve been drunk once, and only once.’

At that admission, which Jamilah could see he didn’t welcome, his face shut down, became impassive. Jamilah remembered then that Salman had never drunk to excess during the time she’d been with him.

And then he said, ‘What about you, Jamilah? Are you such a paragon of virtue that you’ve never overindulged?’

Jamilah’s insides contracted. She could remember heady nights of wine and food when she’d been with Salman, the delicious tipsiness that had imbued her and Paris with a magical hue of romance. It certainly hadn’t done the same for Salman. Almost unconsciously she pushed away her half-full glass and answered, ‘I’m no paragon of virtue, Salman, but, no, I don’t feel that I need to see life through a veil of inebriation and crippling hangovers.’

He smiled mockingly, and she couldn’t fail to notice something unbearably bleak this time. ‘Because you wake up each morning with a sense of optimism about your life and the future?’

Jamilah went still inside. Once she’d been like that. So long ago that she almost couldn’t remember it. But she couldn’t deny that now every day when she woke up there was a dull sense of loss … of emptiness. He didn’t know that losing the baby had made her fearful that she might never get pregnant again. No one knew what she’d been through. And she wasn’t about to bare her soul to Salman now.

Much as she hated to admit it, her sense of isolation had been heightened recently by Nadim and Iseult’s unabashed joy in finding each other.

She wiped at her mouth perfunctorily with a napkin and sat up straight, looking pointedly at her watch even if she didn’t register the time. ‘What did you want to discuss, Salman? I’ve got an early start in the morning. We’ve got three new colts that need to be broken in.’

She looked at him then, and was taken aback at the sudden ashen tinge to his skin. Instinctively she leant forward and said, ‘Salman?’

But, as if she’d imagined it, he recovered. He stood up abruptly and walked over to a cabinet, where he took out some papers. Jamilah felt decidedly shaky, and tried not to let her eyes dwell on his tight buttocks encased in superbly cut black trousers. He turned and came back and her face flamed guiltily. She willed down the heat, hating feeling so out of control.

He put down the sheaf of documents and she picked up the top one, feeling at a serious disadvantage as he stood looming over her with hands in his pockets. She could see that it was a press communiqué about an important series of meetings of Middle Eastern heads of state to be held in Paris later that week, regarding the global financial crisis.

She looked up at him blankly. ‘So? What am I supposed to be seeing here?’

‘I have to go to Paris in Nadim’s place.’

Feeling threatened, and not sure why, and also more than a little disturbed by the fact that she wasn’t feeling relief at being informed of Salman’s incipient departure, she stood up and said, ‘Well, have a good trip. I’ll try not to miss you too much.’

She realised then that Salman hadn’t moved back, and now they were almost touching. With a spurt of panic Jamilah moved, but her heel caught in the luxurious carpet and she felt herself pitching backwards. At her helpless cry, two big hands came around her waist and hauled her up again. Breathing heavily, from fright and unwanted sensation, Jamilah could only look up into the black pools of Salman’s eyes.

His fingers tightened on her waist and he said ominously, ‘You’re coming to Paris with me.’

CHAPTER FOUR

IT TOOK a few seconds for his words to sink in, and then Jamilah started to struggle. Her hands were on his arms, and the feel of his bunched muscles was scrambling nearly every thought. Even so, she managed to get out, ‘No way.’

The thought of going anywhere with this man, much less back to Paris, had cold, clammy horror sinking into her bones. He wasn’t releasing her, and Jamilah stopped struggling. It was futile.

She asserted stiffly, ‘I’m needed here.’

To her utter relief Salman released her then, and she took a hurried but careful step back. He lifted up another piece of paper and showed it to her. ‘I think you’ll find that a copy of this is probably in your office, too.’

Jamilah took it and read, the words swimming before her eyes. She saw that it was from Nadim.

Jamilah should go with you. There are going to be some important people there from the biggest stables in Dubai, and I’ve already set up some meetings. Unfortunately the meeting in Paris coincides with the annual yearling sales here in Ireland, otherwise I’d go myself …

She looked up, and dropped the piece of paper to the table before Salman could see her hand start to shake. How could Nadim do this to her? And then she answered herself bitterly—because she’d put on a great show of making them believe that she cared nothing for the fact that Salman was going to be in Merkazad. And this was no more of a request than Nadim had made of her in the past. It was quite usual for her to go to meetings like this if he was otherwise occupied. After all, she did run the Merkazad stables.

She looked at Salman in shock, something else occurring to her. ‘But it’ll be a disaster if you go. Are you planning on going to any of the meetings with the leaders?’ Before he could answer she said, ‘Do you know how much damage you could do to Merkazad and Nadim if you insult a leader at something like this?’

She saw something unfathomable cross Salman’s face. For a moment it looked like pride. As if she’d injured his pride. His jaw clenched. He smiled, and it was hard, harder than she’d ever seen. ‘Which is precisely why you should come with me. You don’t want to have a loose cannon wrecking Merkazad’s reputation, do you?’

He was mocking her. She knew that. And she knew she deserved it. Even though she didn’t believe he could be trusted with such a responsibility. This, after all, was the man who had left the running of his country squarely on the shoulders of his brother for as long as she could remember. Even when they’d been teenagers, and they had been home for the holidays, Salman had regularly eschewed the lengthy lessons in Merkazadi rule and law that Nadim had had to endure in preparation for his role. And yet, for reasons unknown to her, Nadim had never called him on it.

The tension between the two brothers had always been palpable, and Jamilah was aware that this was the first time Salman appeared to be softening in some respect—taking an interest even if it was somewhat forced and clearly unwelcome. Did she want to be the person who sabotaged that?

If she was to make a fuss and insist on staying in Merkazad she’d merely be proving to Salman that to her the thought of returning to Paris with him equated to a minor mental breakdown. Her one saving grace at the moment was that he believed her to be over their brief liaison.

She came to a reluctant decision and told herself she was doing it for Nadim and for no other reason. ‘Fine,’ she said, as blasé as she could, as if it was costing her nothing. ‘I’ll go to Paris.’

His dark eyes bored into hers so intensely that she started to get hot and tingly. She wanted to ask him to stop looking at her like that, but that would only give away the fact that he had an effect on her. As if he wouldn’t know that already from the wanton way she’d reacted to him in the shower. Her lower belly felt hot.

He smiled, and her world tilted crazily. ‘Good. You can stay with me.’

Jamilah faltered as she turned to leave. She looked back at him. ‘But … surely you’ll stay in your apartment? I can stay in a hotel.’

Salman shook his head. ‘I sold that apartment years ago. I’ve been living in a suite at the Ritz. I have a spare room. You can stay there.’

Panic setting in, Jamilah blustered, ‘I can look after my own accommodation.’

Salman waved her suggestion away. ‘Don’t be silly. The meetings are taking place at the Ritz conference centre so it’s the most practical solution.’

Jamilah stepped out of the plane and breathed the cool November Paris air in deep. She felt stifled, having been cooped up on a small private jet with Salman for a few hours, even though he’d kept himself to himself—surprising Jamilah by immersing himself in documents. She’d seen the headed paper and known they had to do with the meetings and that had surprised her even more. She’d fully expected him to toy with her mercilessly during the flight, but she might as well have been invisible.

Much to her chagrin that hadn’t made her feel relieved or … good.

She felt Salman nudge her back. ‘Are you going to stand there all day?’

Quickly she hurried down the steps and into the waiting chauffeur-driven car. She heard Salman greet the driver by name, and had to assume the man was his personal driver. Within minutes they were joining the hectic stream of traffic, headed for the centre of Paris.

Emotion surged within Jamilah, despite her best attempts to keep it down. She hadn’t been back to Paris once since that fateful time. She’d been to Nadim’s stables, which were just outside Paris, but not to the city. And yet here she was, with Salman.

Salman was acutely aware of Jamilah, resolutely facing away from him, looking out of the other window. He could see the line of her exquisite profile. Those long dark lashes. She’d tied her hair back in a chignon, and in her long dark coat she could have been any of a number of stunningly beautiful women in this city. His chest tightened. She was so much more beautiful than any of those women.

He’d had to immerse himself in work on the plane just to stop himself from giving in to a primal impulse to drag her into the sleeping cabin at the back and ravish her. And then, to his surprise, as he’d read up on the topics for the meetings he’d found his interest being stirred and ignited. For the first time in his life he’d felt something proprietorial for Merkazad rear its head. That feeling of vulnerability made his skin prickle uncomfortably.

Jamilah turned and asked huskily, ‘Why did you sell your apartment?’

The unbidden answer rose up inside him. Because I couldn’t stand to live there after that day …

Jamilah watched as something enigmatic lit Salman’s eyes, and felt something in her own chest contract. But then it passed, and he looked away, shrugging. ‘I grew out of it. I wasn’t sure what I wanted instead, so I moved into the Ritz and I’ve been there ever since.’

‘It must be a bit … impersonal living in a hotel?’

Salman looked back and smiled devilishly, every inch of him the supremely successful businessman in his charcoal suit and black coat. ‘It suits me perfectly. And my needs.’

At the way he said needs Jamilah could feel colour flaring into her cheeks and looked away again. She could well imagine that it did serve his feckless needs. No woman being brought into the suite of a hotel would be under any illusion that their relationship wasn’t as transitory as his accommodation.

Suddenly angry, Jamilah looked back, to find Salman still watching her. She reacted to that as much as to his words. ‘I feel sorry for you, you know. You’ve cut off all ties with your own home, you live out of a suite in a hotel, you don’t even have a relationship with your brother—’

Her words were cut off brutally when the space between them was breached and Salman was suddenly there. Her head was in his hands, so close to his that she could breathe him in. She felt his powerful thighs right against hers. Her breath came short and jerkily. Her heart hammered.

Blisteringly he said, ‘I don’t need anyone’s pity, Jamilah, and I certainly don’t need yours. I’ve made my choices along the way, and if I had to choose again I wouldn’t do anything differently.’

At that pain lanced her so acutely that Jamilah gasped—but it all got eclipsed when Salman’s mouth covered hers and she was thrown into the fire. Full of emotion—anger mixed up with an awful treacherous yearning and, unbelievably, a helpless and inexplicable tenderness—Jamilah gripped the lapels of Salman’s coat and held him to her, matching his kiss passion for passion. The fire was stoked higher and higher.

With a guttural groan that resonated within her, he put his arms around her back and arched her up and into him, so that her breasts were crushed against his hard chest. They ached for his touch. Mouths fused again. Jamilah’s hands delved into Salman’s silky hair, moulding his skull, holding him to her. In that moment she would have gladly given everything up just for this. This hot insanity and distraction from the pain. The ever-present pain. Caused by this man.

That thought sliced through the frantic desire and the pulse beating through her blood. She pulled back in the same moment that Salman did. She was practically supine on the back seat of the car, Salman crushing her to the seat. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection against her thigh and her lower body throbbed painfully. She felt dishevelled, undone, and utterly exposed.

Salman lifted his head. The dark colour slashing his cheekbones and his heavy breathing sent only a sliver of comfort through Jamilah. She couldn’t speak. It was only then that she noticed the privacy partition had gone up, and mortification drenched her to think of the driver witnessing this.

Salman’s voice grated across her exposed nerves. ‘Like I said … I don’t want your pity. But I do want you. And you want me, too, Jamilah. Nothing’s changed. We want each other as much as if it were that first time all over again.’

She opened her mouth to deny it, ridiculously, and Salman ruthlessly cut her off.

‘Don’t even think of saying it. You’re not a liar, Jamilah. One of the things I’ve always admired about you is your honesty.’

She shut her mouth, and with an effort slithered out from under him, pressing her legs together and pulling her coat around her. She could feel her hair falling out of its chignon, and with shaky hands attempted to repair the damage. Her mouth felt swollen; her cheeks burned. It was futile to deny it any longer. ‘I may want you, Salman, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go there. You washed your hands of me once already, remember?’

Salman was back on the other side of the car, his long legs spread out. His voice was tight. ‘I never intended to hurt you, Jamilah. I should never have seduced you.’

Utter shock had Jamilah turning to face Salman’s rigid profile. Only a deep self-preserving instinct had her saying faintly, ‘I’ve already told you that you didn’t hurt me, Salman.’ Liar. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

He flashed her a look, and she saw something indefinable in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t ready to let you go. I still wanted you. I’ve always wanted you. But I had to let you go …’ his mouth twisted ‘… when you said you were in love with me.’

As she watched he seemed to compose himself, and that smooth mask of urbanity came back. It was as if she’d just imagined his slightly tortured look. He turned to face her more fully and said, ‘But now that time has passed, and seeing as you’ve assured me that you’re unscathed are you sure you want to persist in denying that this attraction is still there? After all, what do either of us have to lose now? We’re both adults, experienced …’

Shock was rushing through Jamilah. She was trying to make sense of his words and at the same time make sure he couldn’t see the turmoil she felt. He was saying that he’d let her go just because she’d been in love with him? That he hadn’t wanted to let her go? It put such a new spin on what had happened that she wanted to go to a quiet place and assimilate the information … But even as she wanted that, she was aware that really it didn’t change much. He’d still cast her out because he hadn’t welcomed her ardent affections …

He was waiting for her response—so impassive, so implacable. Panic beat at her breast, and Jamilah cast him as cool a look as she could muster. ‘I’m not interested in pursuing this line of conversation, no matter how adult we might be. Out of the myriad women you’ve no doubt entertained in your suite, I’m sure one will be available to meet your needs. Because I am not.’

Jamilah avoided Salman’s eye as they drew closer to the iconic Paris hotel, feeling acutely vulnerable. As much as she might think she’d had the last word, she felt uncomfortably as if Salman had taken no heed at all and was merely biding his time to pounce.

As the car pulled in to a halt at the kerb outside the entrance of the hotel she could see doormen rush to the doors. Salman took her hand in a merciless grip and said softly, ‘There’s a lot to be said for slaking this desire between us, Jamilah. Here in Paris. Be done with it for good. I won’t be calling up any other women because that’s not what I need.’ His jaw clenched as if in anger for a second. ‘What I need is you … and it’s the same for you. I’ll be here when you’re ready to admit it to yourself—because your body has already spoken.’

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.’

‘Perhaps someone should build one again …’

Salman looked at her with an enigmatic expression. ‘Maybe one day someone will.’

The intensity of his gaze on hers made her look away and say a little breathlessly, ‘You don’t mind these horses …?’

He followed her gaze to the brightly coloured horses that went up and down and round and round. ‘No,’ he said tightly, ‘I don’t mind these horses.’ He looked back at her. ‘I don’t mind any horses in general, Jamilah. I just choose not to go near them. I leave that up to people like you and Nadim.’

His tone brooked no further conversation, and she caught a glimpse of something suspiciously like fear in his eyes. That slightly ashen tinge again coloured his skin. She’d been around horses and people long enough to spot someone who had a pathological fear a mile away, and for the first time she guessed that Salman’s antipathy to horses went far deeper than fear. It reminded her of a phobic reaction. Her curiosity was welling up again, and with it a sense of danger.

She took her hand out of his and stepped up to the beautiful antique-looking carousel, holding her dress in one hand. She handed some money over to the man operating the controls, and when it had stopped she jumped up to sit side-saddle on one of the horses. With a burgeoning feeling of lightness in her chest she stuck her tongue out cheekily at Salman, and just as it was about to start off again he threw some money at the man and stepped up beside her, standing close enough that she could feel his hard chest against her thigh.

‘Hey!’ she said, breathless all over again. ‘That’s cheating. You’re meant to sit on your own horse.’

He locked his hands around her waist and Jamilah had to hang onto his shoulders for dear life as the horse started to go up and down. They were moving. It was causing a delicious friction between his chest and her leg. He reached up and pulled her head down to his. She was powerless to resist. Their mouths met, the up and down motion of the horse forcing them close together and then apart in an intoxicating dance.

The music faded, and everything dissolved into the heat of the kiss and Salman’s arms around her, holding her like an anchor. Neither one of them heard the crude wolf-whistle from a passing crowd of teens. They didn’t come up for air until the man asked brusquely if they were prepared to pay for another go.

Cheeks scarlet with embarrassment, Jamilah slithered off the horse, legs wobbly, and was grateful for Salman’s steadying hand on hers as he led her away. Her heart was pounding and her skin prickled with anticipation. She had no doubt that right at this moment Salman intended taking her back to the hotel and making love to her.

Maybe he was right? Maybe they should indulge in this madness in Paris and be purged of this crazy desire and obsession? Perhaps that was what it would take to get him out of her system for good?

Just then Salman got distracted by something. She heard the rat-tat-tat of rapid tinny gunfire coming from a shooting range, and saw where a small boy of about eight was in floods of tears because he’d obviously missed his target. His mother was trying to console him, telling him she had no more money, pleading with the owner of the stall of give him something, but the owner was sour-faced.

Before Jamilah knew what was happening Salman was striding over to the stall, dragging her along in his wake. When they reached it, he let Jamilah’s hand go and bent down to talk to the little boy in perfect French. Jamilah smiled awkwardly at the beleaguered-looking mother, and wondered what Salman was up to.

After a few minutes of consulting with the now sniffling boy, who had pointed out the prize he wanted, Salman handed some money to the owner. Then he lifted up the boy and rested his feet on a rung of the fence around the stall. He helped him to aim—showing him how to balance the rifle on his shoulder, explaining how to keep a steady hand. With his arms around him, Salman encouraged the boy to take the shot. To his ecstatic surprise and the owner’s evident disgruntlement he hit it first time. A perfect hit, right in the bullseye—and it was the hardest target to hit, as it was clearly the most coveted prize.

Amidst much effusive thanks, Salman finally took a bemused Jamilah’s hand again, and with a wave they walked off, leaving the now chirpy boy with his grateful mum. But as they approached the car, she could sense his mood change as clearly as if a bell had gone off.

When they were in the car, Jamilah turned on a tensely silent Salman.

‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’

Salman didn’t turn to face her, and just said quietly, almost as if to himself, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to take the shot. It was good that he missed. Better that he be disappointed and not want to do it again than …’ He trailed off.

Jamilah asked, ‘Than what? Salman?’

Suddenly a chasm existed between them when minutes ago it had been all heat and urgent desire. Salman had withdrawn to somewhere impenetrable. He looked at her, but his eyes were opaque, unreadable. ‘Than nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

It did matter, though. She knew it with a grim certainty when she thought back to that little scene, and when she recalled the automatic way Salman had handled even a toy gun with such unerring dexterity. Like a true marksman.

Jamilah said now, ‘He didn’t take that shot. You did. You just made him think that he took it. It’s no big deal. It’s just a game.’

Salman smiled, but it was grim. ‘It’s never just a game.’

‘How do you know this? And you didn’t answer me—where did you learn to shoot?’

For such a long time he said nothing, and she almost thought he was going to ignore her, but then he said, in a scarily emotionless voice, ‘It was just luck … pure fluke.’

He turned back to look out of his window, and Jamilah felt as if she’d been dismissed. The rest of the drive to the hotel was made in a silence which had thickened so much that by the time they got up to the suite Jamilah felt too intimidated to speak.

Salman just looked at her, and for a second she saw such a wealth of pain that she instinctively stepped forward with a hand outstretched. ‘Salman, what is it?’

And then the enigmatic look was gone, and a stony-faced Salman said a curt, ‘Nothing. Go to bed, Jamilah.’

He turned on his heel and walked into his own rooms. Thoroughly confused, Jamilah stared after him for a long moment. And then, galvanised by something she couldn’t even understand, she strode forward and opened Salman’s bedroom door without knocking. He was standing in the dark, looking out of the window, hands in his pockets.

He didn’t turn around, just said, ‘I thought I told you to go to bed.’

‘You’re not my father, Salman. I’ll go to bed when I feel like it.’

She walked over to where he stood and looked up. When he didn’t turn around exasperation made her take his arm to turn him. He looked down at her, face expressionless in the moonlight.

‘What’s going on, Salman? One minute you’re kissing me, and the next you’re treating me as if I’ve got leprosy.’

Salman smiled mockingly and Jamilah wanted to slap that look off his face. ‘Are you saying you’re ready to fall into bed with me?’

He cast a look at his watch and gave a low whistle. ‘Not bad. It only took twenty-four hours. I was convinced it would take at least two days. Was it my concern for the boy’s distress that melted your soft-hearted resistance, or was it the impressive way I wielded the gun?’

Jamilah’s hand came up then, and she did slap him. Hard enough to make his head turn. Her hand tingled and burned. Shakily she said, ‘You deserved that—and not for what you just said, but for what you did to me six years ago.’

She turned and walked to the door, and Salman said softly from behind her, ‘Make no mistake, Jamilah, I do want you. But if we sleep together I won’t and can’t offer you anything more than I offered last time.’ Bitterness rang in his voice. ‘At least you can’t say that I’m not warning you up-front.’

Jamilah turned back. ‘Go to hell, Salman.’

As she turned again and walked away she heard him say quietly, ‘I’ve already been there for a long time.’

Something stopped her in her tracks at that. She turned again, despite all the screaming voices and warning bells going off in her head. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

CHAPTER SIX

SALMAN heard Jamilah’s words, and his whole body contracted as if from a physical blow. Damn the woman, why wouldn’t she just leave? A voice mocked him. Like the way you forced her to leave six years ago?

A wave of weariness nearly knocked Salman sideways then. He’d been so rigid, so controlled, so angry for so long. And this woman was taking a sledgehammer to all of that and smashing it aside without even knowing what she was doing.

Grimly he turned to face her, his face still stinging from her slap. He welcomed it.

When Jamilah saw the lurid print of her hand on Salman’s cheek in the shadows she felt huge remorse. She came forward on stiff legs, and in a rush made a stilted apology for hitting him. She’d never hit another human being in her life, and was genuinely mortified at her behaviour.

But he just said grimly, ‘I’m not sorry you hit me. I deserved it. And I probably deserve more.’

Jamilah shook her head. ‘I don’t get it, Salman. It’s almost as if you want to be punished.’

He cracked a tight smile. ‘Don’t I?’

Jamilah was silent. She suspected he wasn’t referring to his behaviour six years ago with her—or he was, but it was only a small part of a much bigger thing. ‘What really happened with that boy tonight? Why did it affect you like that?’

Salman looked at her for a long moment, his dark gaze blistering her for her question, but as he did so she felt more and more defiant. She wasn’t going to back down.

And then he said tightly, ‘I don’t think you really want to know why.’

Sudden anger flared that he should shut her out like this. She sensed that this was at the very core of who he was. ‘Don’t patronise me, Salman. I’m sure there’s nothing you could tell me that would unduly shock me.’

That bleakness flashed across his face again before it was masked. He smiled grimly. ‘Nevertheless, it’s not something I want to discuss right now.’

Without even really thinking about what she was saying Jamilah asked, ‘When will it be the right time, Salman?’

His mouth tightened. ‘For you? Never. I would never do that to you.’

‘You already did, Salman.’

She knew they were talking about two different things now, and yet it was all inextricably bound up together—Salman’s dark secrets and the way he’d treated her, the way he still didn’t trust her enough to reveal himself. And never would.

A sense of futility made her turn as if to go, but to her shock and surprise Salman grabbed her wrist and said tightly, ‘Are you sure you really want to know, Jamilah?’

She faced him slowly and could see the intense glitter of his eyes, the way a muscle pulsed in his jaw. The moment was huge, and she knew that much of their history and this present madness was bound up in it.

Slowly, as if she might scare him off, she nodded her head. ‘Yes, I want to know, Salman.’

Salman looked into Jamilah’s huge blue eyes. He had the most bizarre sensation of drowning while at the same time clinging onto a life-raft. He couldn’t believe he’d stopped her from leaving—couldn’t believe he’d just said what he had. Did he really think he was about to divulge to her what no one else knew? His deepest, darkest shame? And yet in that instant he knew an overwhelming need to unburden himself here, with her. It could never have been with anyone else. He saw that now, as clear as day.

That little boy had had a more profound effect on him than he’d expected. He’d acted completely on instinct to go and comfort him, and when he’d seen what he could do to make him feel better he’d done it. It had only been afterwards, walking away, when the full impact of taking that shot had hit him.

His past had rushed upwards to slap him in the face far harder than Jamilah ever could. For a few moments in that fairground with Jamilah he’d been seduced by her all over again. Seduced into a lighter way of being. Seduced into thinking that he didn’t carry around an awful legacy and a dark secret which pervaded his being like a poison.

The bravery he’d witnessed from others mocked him now—was he afraid to do this? For the first time he knew he wasn’t. What he was afraid of, right here and now, was how Jamilah would react to what he was about to tell her … for if anything could drive her away for good this could. Perhaps this was the sum total of his actions—to be brought to his knees by her only to watch her walk away for good.

Jamilah watched as Salman clearly struggled with something, but then his face became expressionless. The light spilling in from the sitting room illuminated its stark lines and he’d never looked so bleak. He dropped her wrist, and it tingled where he had held it. He walked over to a chair in the corner and sat down heavily, and Jamilah, not taking her eyes off him, perched on the end of the bed. Her throat had gone dry.

His head was downbent, and then he lifted it, that black gaze spearing her. ‘What I said to you that day in Paris … about how there had never been anything between us, about you following me around like a puppy dog … it was a lie.’

For a second a buzzing sounded in Jamilah’s ears. She thought she might faint. As much as she wanted to deny that she remembered his cruel words, she said instead, ‘Why? Why did you say it?’ Relief was a giddy surge through her body.

‘I said it because you’d told me you loved me, and I knew that if I didn’t make you hate me you might not stay away. You might hope you could change me.’

He smiled then, and it was grim. ‘But then, as you’ve said yourself, what you felt was merely a crush, so perhaps I needn’t have been so cruel.’

Jamilah would have laughed if she’d had the wherewithal at this understatement of the year. She hoped the pain she felt wasn’t evident in her voice. ‘You wanted me gone that badly?’

‘Yes. Because I couldn’t take the responsibility of your love. Because I couldn’t return it. Because I can’t.’ He was warning her even now not to expect too much.

Suddenly Jamilah wanted them off this topic. ‘Tell me what you’re going to tell me, Salman.’

As bleak as she’d ever seen him, he said now, his eyes intent on her, ‘I know that I have to tell you. I owe you that much now.’

Jamilah nodded, and wondered why on earth she felt an awful foreboding.

Salman looked down at his hands for a long moment, and then began to speak in an emotionless voice—as if to try and distance himself from what he said. ‘The week after my eighth birthday Merkazad was invaded. We’d had no warning. We had no reason to believe that we were in any danger. But unbeknownst to us the Sultan of Al-Omar had long wanted to reclaim Merkazad as part of his country. He resented our independence.’

Jamilah knew all this—and about how the current Sultan’s father had been the one to launch an invasion with his most ruthless men. She nodded, even though Salman wasn’t looking at her.

‘We were sent to the dungeons while they ransacked and looted all around the castle. It took time for the rest of their men to arrive, thanks to our belated Bedouin defence kicking in, which held them off, but we were effectively trapped in the castle with the soldiers and any kind of rules of war went out of the window. These were men hardened by their experiences—the elite soldiers of the army.’

He looked up and smiled at Jamilah, but it was so cold that she shivered.

‘They got bored. And so they wanted to amuse themselves. They decided to take me on as a pet project of sorts. To see how long it would take to turn a pampered son of the Sheikh into something else … something more malleable.’

A slow trickling of horror started to snake through Jamilah. She went very still.

‘Every day they would come … and take me out of the gaol they’d made out of our old dungeon. At first I bragged to Nadim. I told him that it was because they favoured me. He’d always been the strong one, the one everyone looked up to, and now I was the one being singled out. I couldn’t understand my mother and father’s terror, and if they spoke up too much they were beaten. For the first few days they let me be the cocky little spoilt boy I was—precocious and undoubtedly annoying. We played games … football. They fed me well, made sure I had enough to drink.’

Salman’s mouth thinned, his jaw clenched.

‘And then it started. The breaking down. The food and drinks were denied me. They started beating me with fists and feet, belts and whips, for the smallest thing. I was bewildered at first. I’d thought they’d been my friends and suddenly they weren’t. When I was brought back to the gaol in the evenings I wasn’t so cocky. I was confused. How could I explain to Nadim what was going on? I couldn’t understand it myself. And yet I couldn’t ask for his help. I was too proud, even then. But he suspected what they were doing, and he begged them to take him instead. They ignored him and took me. And they told me that if I didn’t go with them every day they would kill Nadim and my parents.’

Jamilah already had a lump in her throat. She wanted to ask Salman to stop, but knew she couldn’t. If there was ever to be any hope of closure between them then she had to endure this.

Salman shook his head as if to dislodge a memory. ‘The days morphed into one long day … There’s a lot I don’t remember, but eventually the beatings stopped. By then I was no longer confident, cocky or spoilt. They’d broken me. I had become their tea boy—their servant. They made me polish their boots, make them their lunch.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But then they got bored again, and decided to train me to be just like them—ruthless soldiers. So they gave me a gun and took me down to the stables for some target practice.’

‘Salman …’ Jamilah let out a low, horrified breath, shaking her head in denial of what was to come.

He smiled grimly. ‘After it was over—when we were free—the thing that upset my father the most was the fact that they’d shot all the horses. Except they hadn’t … it was me. I was forced to use the horses as target practice, and I got very good very quickly once they told me I had only one shot per horse. If I didn’t succeed first time they would let the horse die in agony.’

Jamilah closed her eyes. That was why he knew how to use a gun. And that was why he never went near horses or the stables. She opened her eyes. She felt as if a cold wind was blowing over her soul. She was numb, and knew it was the protection of shock. ‘Abdul defended you one day at the stables … I couldn’t understand why …’

A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘That first day Abdul tried to stop them, and they offered me a choice. Either start killing the horses or kill him. It wasn’t a choice. Worse than anything, though, was that they made me into one of them. I had to start thinking like them just to survive. I had to become wily. The day the Bedouin came and rescued us they found me up on the roof of the castle with a gun. I’d somehow got away from the rebels and was going to try and shoot them …’ His mouth twisted. ‘I was wild, feral … I was about to kill another human being because they had desensitised me so much that I believed it not only possible but acceptable.’

She felt sick. ‘How can you even bear to go to Al-Omar after that?’

Salman shook his head. ‘Sultan Sadiq is not his father. He and Nadim made a peace agreement years ago. And he personally oversaw the arrest and imprisonment of all the rebel elements of his father’s army.’

Without even thinking about what she was doing Jamilah kicked off her shoes and padded barefoot over to where Salman sat. She knelt at his feet, took one of his hands in hers, and looked up at him, an unbelievable ache in her chest. ‘I had no idea that such terror was visited upon you. Why does no one know this?’ She felt the tension in his frame.

‘Because I blamed myself for a long time. I believed that I’d been responsible on some level—that I’d invited their attention. How could I tell my father what I’d done? He’d never forgive me … or at least that was what I thought. I had nightmares for years of being pursued by a herd of wild avenging horses until I was so exhausted that I would fall and they would trample me to death.’

Jamilah shook her head, gripping his hand. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Salman quirked a weary smile. ‘It’s one thing to know that on an intellectual level, and another entirely to believe it with all your being.’

Abruptly he stood up, forcing her to stand, too. He took his hand from hers and tipped his head back, his features suddenly stern. ‘So now you know. I hope the lurid tale was worth the wait …’

Jamilah shook her head. ‘Salman, don’t …’

Salman was reacting to how exposed and naked he felt in that moment—alternately drawn to and wanting to escape from Jamilah’s huge eyes, which swirled with emotions he couldn’t bear to acknowledge. ‘Salman, don’t what? I told you I was twisted and dark inside, and now you know why. Nothing else has changed, Jamilah. I still want you.’ His mouth thinned. ‘But I won’t be surprised if you find your desire suddenly diminished. Not many people relish a battle-scarred lover. Perhaps I should take your advice and go and slake my lust elsewhere.’

The stoic pride on his face, mixed with a vulnerability she’d never seen before, made her want to weep. Jamilah fought not to contradict him vociferously. How could he think that? She remained silent, stunned by his awful revelations. She was reeling, in shock and numb all over, but she finally managed to get out, ‘What you’ve told me hasn’t disgusted me at all … you were a victim, and shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.’

Jamilah sensed Salman’s volatility, sensed his anger that he’d revealed what he had. She knew it must have cost him, and he wouldn’t welcome the fact that she’d all but bludgeoned him into it. She had to walk away now or he might see how badly she wanted to step up to him, pull his head down and comfort him. She tore her gaze from his and turned and walked away.

At the door she stopped, but didn’t turn back. All she said was, ‘I’m glad you told me, Salman.’ And she left.

For long moments after Jamilah had left the room Salman just stood there, in shock at how easily he’d let his darkness spill out, and at Jamilah’s sweetly accepting response. He’d seen pity, yes, but it hadn’t made him feel as constricted as he might have imagined. He’d always dreaded the reaction he might get. That was why he found it so easy to listen to others tell their tales.

There was an intense battle raging within him: to take Jamilah and slake his lust, drown himself in the sanctuary that he suspected with grim certainty only she could give him, or to push her away so far and so fast that she would be protected from him. Again.

And yet just now she hadn’t run from him in horrified terror at the images that had haunted him all his life. He’d seen the compassion in her eyes and had recoiled from it, even as he’d wanted to bury his head in her breast and beg her to never let him go. He who’d never sought comfort from anyone! Even in the darkest moments, when he’d felt he was going mad with all the nightmares and memories.

The parameters of their relationship had just shifted, and Salman wasn’t sure where they stopped and started any more. All he knew was that he wanted her—now more than ever. Even while he felt that need he acknowledged that after tonight she would have to come to him, but the question was, would she?

Jamilah lay in bed, wide awake, her stomach roiling at the thought of what Salman had gone through. Her head was whirling with all the information. So much made sense now: that terrible darkness that was like a cloak around him, his frosty relationship with Nadim and Merkazad, his fear of horses … And yet he also seemed to be even more of an enigma. She now knew his inner demons, but she’d never felt further from knowing him.

Jamilah turned over onto her side and looked out onto the empty square that housed the iconic hotel. Moonlight lit up the monument in the middle, throwing it into stark relief. Despite everything Salman had told her, what was at the forefront of her mind was the fact that he’d lied about their bond being non-existent. That he’d said it purely to drive her away. And it had worked—admirably.

She had to concede now that if he had been nicer about rejecting her perhaps a doubt always would have lingered, torturing her even more? Perhaps she wouldn’t have left and got on with her life and career?

Eventually she fell into an uneasy sleep, full of dark dreams and scary faces with no features, and when she woke in the morning, nearly late for her first meeting, she was relieved to see that Salman had already left the suite.

In the cold light of day what he’d endured seemed to be so much starker and worse. She sensed that he was waiting for her to make the next move, and in all honesty she didn’t know if she had the strength to resist him any more … not with this new knowledge in her head and, worse, this desire to comfort him, heal him in some way. She was very much afraid that his cataclysmic confession had torn what remained of her defences to pieces, and now she’d have nothing to hide behind. Not even anger.

That night, after another elaborate dinner, which had been held in their own hotel this time, Jamilah accepted an invitation from the Sultan of Al-Omar’s aide to go for a drink to the bar. She’d always felt guilty about how she’d run out on him at the Sultan’s party the previous year, after that tense meeting with Salman.

At least that was the justification for her agreeing to the drink. In truth she’d been avoiding Salman all day, still too raw to be able to deal with him and that penetrating dark gaze now that she knew the reason for the shadows behind it. But she’d known where he was at every moment, and she’d seen how his eyes had flashed when he’d noticed her leaving with Ahmed just minutes before.

Earlier that evening she’d been ready before Salman, and had gone down to dinner without him. She’d congratulated herself, having managed to successfully avoid him yet again. But when he’d arrived at dinner he’d raked her whole body across the room with a look so hot she’d been surprised little fires hadn’t broken out over her skin. She’d thought her dress was modest enough—vee-necked silk, with a tight waist and full skirt to the knee—but one look from Salman and she’d feared he’d melted it right off her.

‘Jamilah.’

Jamilah flinched and looked at Ahmed, and smiled apologetically.

‘I’m sorry, my mind is miles away …’ She put a hand on his arm. It wasn’t fair of her to be here with him when she couldn’t concentrate on their conversation. ‘Look, I think we should take a raincheck. I’m not great company this evening.’

Ahmed smiled ruefully, and Jamilah wished that she found the perfectly nice-looking man half as attractive as she found Salman.

‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with Salman al Saqr, would it?’

Jamilah coloured as Ahmed stood up and waited for her to stand, too.

He said as they walked out, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not that obvious, but I’ve been in close proximity to you two before, if you remember.’

Jamilah went hotter when she recalled Ahmed finding them in the corridor, with tension crackling between them. She couldn’t lie as she followed him out of the bar and to the lifts. ‘He’s got a little to do with it, I guess.’

In the lift Ahmed turned to her and said, somewhat stuffily, ‘I know you won’t want to hear this, but he has got a reprehensible reputation with women.’

Jamilah just managed to stifle a hysterical laugh. Poor Ahmed didn’t know the half of it. But she appreciated his concern. He walked her to the door of the suite and she smiled at him, feeling sad. And then something rose up within her—a sense of desperate futility as she thought of Salman and the impossibility of their relationship. Perhaps if she just gave someone else a chance …

She moved closer to Ahmed and asked, ‘Can I kiss you?’

The other man looked comically shocked, and his glasses practically steamed up as he blustered, ‘Yes … of course.’

He moved forward awkwardly, and in that moment Jamilah knew it was all wrong—she shouldn’t have said anything. But it was too late. His hands were around her waist, gripping too tightly, and then he was bumping her nose, aiming for her mouth before planting a fleshy wet kiss on her lips.

In a move so fast that she didn’t know which way was up Jamilah heard a door open and found herself being pulled back and out of Ahmed’s hands. Her relief quickly disappeared when she realised that it was Salman who now gripped her waist. She could feel his tall, taut strength behind her and her body reacted accordingly. Poor Ahmed was clearly terrified.

He backed away and said a garbled goodnight, then fled. Salman whirled Jamilah around in his arms, and all she could do was open and close her mouth ineffectually. The difference between this man and Ahmed was comical. Her body was rejoicing as if it had just found its long-lost mate. Her hands were fists on his chest. He was still in his ceremonial robes, no tuxedo tonight, and she was very aware of his body through the insubstantial flimsiness of her silk cocktail dress.

He tugged her into the room with him, and her back thudded against the door when Salman slammed it shut. He crowded her, his hands by her head, eyes blistering down into hers. ‘What the hell was that about?’ He mocked her voice. “Can I kiss you?”’

Jamilah welcomed the surge of anger at his arrogant behaviour. It helped to distract her from dealing with the fact that facing this man made her feel so exposed and raw and emotional. ‘It’s rude to listen at doors and spy through peepholes. And who gave you the God-given right to order Ahmed off like that?’

Salman grimaced. ‘I didn’t say a word. He knew he wasn’t wanted—just as he wasn’t wanted last year. He looked like he was about to drown you in drool.’

Jamilah shuddered at the memory, even though she tried to hide it.

Salman went very still. ‘I disgust you now. That’s it, isn’t it? Your head is full of awful images and I put them there.’

To Jamilah’s surprise, Salman released her from the cage of his arms and swung away, energy blistering from him. Instinctively Jamilah reached out and took Salman’s arm. ‘No—no, Salman. Of course you don’t disgust me.’

He wouldn’t turn round, and said tautly, ‘I felt your reaction just now. You’d prefer to be kissed by that toad than me.’

Jamilah’s brain was blank for a moment, and then she remembered her reaction to the thought of being kissed by Ahmed, the violent shudder that had run through her. She came and stood in front of Salman. He looked so proud and handsome. How could he possibly think …?

Salman still battled the jealousy that had ripped through him like corrosive acid when he’d watched Jamilah walk out of the ballroom with that man. He shook with it. And when he’d seen them kiss just now he’d gone blind with rage. He couldn’t even look at Jamilah as she stood in front of him now. He’d never felt so exposed and weak in front of anyone. Not even those soldiers had reduced him to this.

Jamilah burned as she looked up and saw the intensity on Salman’s face, the way he avoided her eye. Anger had turned into something much more ambiguous and explosive within her. A treacherous tenderness was rushing through her—exactly what she’d been afraid of all day. She would have to make the first move, to show him, prove to him, that she wanted him, and she could no more deny him that than stop breathing.

This was their moment of reckoning. She knew that much. A reckless exhilaration was thrumming through her blood now—and it had been from the moment he’d replaced Ahmed’s hands with his own. In her head she finally capitulated to her most base desires and threw caution to the wind, saying, ‘If you can’t see that my reaction was for Ahmed, and not you, then you’re losing your touch, Salman. You don’t disgust me. Quite the opposite, in fact. So why don’t you just shut up and kiss me?’

She’d shocked him as much as herself. She could feel it in the sudden tension in his body. He looked down at her and she wound her arms around his neck, for the first time feeling a little in control of the situation. She went up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to Salman’s. And then, when he didn’t move, she pulled back and said, ‘What’s the matter, Salman? Can’t you handle a woman taking the initiative?’

His hands went to her waist and burned through her clothes. ‘Oh, I can handle it, all right, but I just want to know this: are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

Jamilah shut out the cacophony of warning voices in her head and pressed even closer to Salman, exulting in the feel of his hard erection between them. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing. I can take care of myself. I have been for a long time now.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

SALMAN smiled, and it was feral, and it made something deep inside Jamilah shiver with anticipation. ‘I think I like you even more when you’re dominant and bossy.’

Before she could make a retort Salman was walking her back until she felt herself thud against the door again. His head descended, and nothing but delicious heat and sensation concerned Jamilah any more. She held him close, fingers tangling in his hair. Their tongues duelled fiercely, as if they couldn’t get enough of one another.

She’d hungered for him for too long. Desire was overflowing and all-encompassing, and she didn’t have a hope of resisting—not that she could have after her provocative little speech. Jamilah had no idea where that confidence had come from, but knew she’d gone that route in a bid to feel as if she was the one in control.

But that and every other coherent thought fled when she felt Salman’s hands on her back, pulling down the zip of her dress. His mouth left hers and followed the line of her jaw down to her shoulder, where she could feel him pulling down the strap of her dress. Her breath came jerkily, her hands dropped, and she sagged back against the door, her legs trembling. They’d gone from zero to a thousand in thirty seconds on the arousal scale.

Salman pulled the strap down her arm and she could feel her dress gaping open at the back. Nothing could stop it from falling down now, and exposing one bare breast. In the dim light he pulled back for a moment and looked his fill. All Jamilah could do was concentrate on not passing out with the intensity of the desire pulsing through her. She felt her breast grow heavy, and its peak tightened unbearably. She bit her lip to stop herself from begging Salman to touch her there.

She felt so wanton, and almost cried out when Salman cupped the fleshy weight and said throatily, ‘So beautiful … I’ve dreamed of this, Jamilah. I’ve dreamed of you.’

His thumb passed back and forth over the throbbing peak, and when he bent his head and licked around it before sucking it into his mouth she did cry out, holding his head with her hands.

Desperation mounted through her as the memory of the bliss only he could evoke was awoken within her core. ‘You …’ she said breathily. ‘I want to see you.’

Salman stopped his luxurious lavishing of attention on her breast and stood up. With sheer sensual grace and ease of confidence he tugged off his outer robe, and then the thinner under-robe. He kicked off his shoes, his eyes never leaving Jamilah’s even though she couldn’t help but look down and take her fill of his magnificent broad chest. He’d changed since she’d last seen him naked. He’d filled out even more and was truly a man. Broad-shouldered and leanly muscular.

The loose pants barely clung to his narrow hips, and his hands went there to undo the tie. Within seconds they’d fallen to the floor and he stood before her naked and proud, his erection making her eyes go wide. She’d forgotten how big he was.

He came close again, and tipped up her chin with a finger. Then he slid the other strap of her dress down the other arm until her dress fell to her waist. With a gentle tug from his hands it joined his clothes on the floor. Now all she wore were black lace panties and her high heels. Salman looked down her body. Jamilah could feel little fire trails wherever his eyes rested, and between her legs she was aching for his touch.

He reached and took the pin out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and then he said huskily, ‘Are you wet for me, Jamilah?’

Jamilah groaned softly in eloquent answer as Salman trailed his index finger down and through the valley of her cleavage. She’d been wet for him since the moment she’d heard the helicopter bring him back to Merkazad.

And then she groaned even louder as Salman dropped to his knees before her and slipped one shoe off and then the other, looking up at her, black eyes glittering wickedly. ‘I want to taste you.’

He pulled her panties down over her hips, down her legs and off. Then he gently pushed her legs apart before taking her right leg and hooking it over his shoulder, opening her up to him.

Jamilah was gone beyond any point of return, and had to put a fist to her mouth when she felt his breath feather through her dark curls. His tongue lashed out and laved her secret inner folds, finding where her clitoris throbbed for attention. She was a helpless captive to this sensual onslaught. She bit her hand, her body spiralling towards the most intense orgasm she’d ever had as Salman licked without mercy until everything exploded around her and went black for a second, her whole body throbbing in the aftermath.

He held her legs when she would have collapsed in a heap, their support completely gone. When she’d recovered enough to focus again, he rose up in a smooth move and lifted her into his arms. Jamilah was boneless. But being held in Salman’s arms with her naked breasts against his chest was making little tremors of arousal start up all over again.

This was how it had been between them—intense and furious. Every time. Salman laid her down gently on his bed and stood up to look at her for a long moment. His intent gaze made her feel sensual and womanly. His obvious arousal made a heady pleasure wash through her in waves. But then she couldn’t stand it any longer. She held out a hand. ‘Salman … I want you.’

To her relief he came down on two hands over her and said gruffly, ‘I want you, too. So much it hurts.’

She twined her hands around his neck and pulled him down on top of her, relishing his heavy weight and that potent hardness between her legs. She spread her legs wide and said huskily, ‘Show me where it hurts and I’ll kiss it better.’ She wasn’t unaware of the symbolism of her kissing away his hurts, of wanting to heal him, and emotion made her chest full.

He touched a finger to his mouth. ‘Here …’

Jamilah reached up and pressed her mouth to his, her tongue darting out to lick and taste, teeth nipping gently at his lower lip.

She pulled back and Salman’s eyes glittered. He pointed to his chest, ‘Here, too …’

Jamilah ran her hands down the sides of his powerful torso, feeling a shudder run through him, and pressed her open mouth to his chest, moving down to find a blunt nipple and licking him there before tugging gently on the hard nub.

He shifted back and his erection slid tantalisingly along the moist folds of her sex. Jamilah’s hips lifted towards him instinctively. She ached for him so badly that she moaned in despair when he moved away for a moment to don protection.

But then he was back, pressing down on top of her, kissing her hungrily. With a powerful move he thrust into her, making her gasp at the sensation. It had been so long for her that she was tight, and she shifted to accommodate Salman’s length.

As Salman started to move, though, the tightness eased, and she could feel that delicious tension building and building. A light sweat broke out on her skin. She wrapped her legs around Salman’s back, causing him to slide even deeper, and she felt his chest move against her breasts with his indrawn breath. With ruthless and relentless precision he brought them higher and higher, until there was nowhere else to go. For a second Jamilah felt a moment of fear at the intensity of the climax about to hit, and when it did all she could do was cling on to Salman until she felt him tense, and then the powerful contractions of her orgasm sent him over the edge, too.

For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing and the pounding of their hearts. Salman eased his weight off her and she felt suddenly bereft, and hated herself for feeling like that. She remembered from before that Salman had never really indulged in post-coital tenderness, so she was shocked when he reached for her and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her bottom with his thighs. She could feel him, still semi-hard, and blushed.

She lay there for a long time, listening to Salman’s breaths deepen and even out. She couldn’t sleep. She was too wound up in the aftermath. She recalled her blatant provocation of Salman and winced. He might have shown her a more vulnerable side of himself than she’d ever seen, and he might have revealed that he hadn’t intended to be so cruel in his rejection of her, but she knew that he would not welcome recognising that. He was too proud, had been invulnerable for too long. And he would lash out.

Wanting to be gone when he woke, dreading seeing his mocking visage at her easy capitulation, she carefully extricated herself from his arms and reached for a robe that was at the end of the bed. She pulled it on and tied it with shaking hands. She looked at Salman, lying sprawled on the bed like a marauding king or a pirate, and before he could wake walked out of the room and straight to her own, where she went into the bathroom, dropped the robe, and stepped into a hot shower.

She willed the tears not to come, hating herself for her weakness. Suddenly all her recent bravado was gone and she was the same soft-hearted naïve Jamilah, who hadn’t learnt a thing about self-protection. Suddenly she heard a sound, and whirled around to see a naked Salman standing at the door of her shower. Ridiculously she covered her breasts and spluttered, ‘What the—?’

He was grim. ‘I’d bet money right now that you haven’t slept with anyone in a long time. You were almost as tight as the first time we slept together.’

Water was getting into Jamilah’s eyes, and humiliation nearly made her feel nauseous. She spluttered again. ‘That is none of your business.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I haven’t been able to sleep with anyone since I kissed you at the Sultan’s party last year.’

Salman stepped into the steam of water and it sluiced down his olive-skinned body. His admission took the sting out of Jamilah’s humiliation. ‘You haven’t?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not until I saw you again have I wanted to touch anyone.’

‘But … the blonde woman in the castle that morning?’

He grimaced and said curtly, ‘She followed me and wouldn’t get out of my room. I hadn’t slept in nights, and I was too exhausted to carry her out.’

He hadn’t touched her yet, and Jamilah’s hands were still over her breasts. Salman reached out and took them down. His eyes turned sultry and dark, and all Jamilah’s recent feelings of recrimination dissolved like ice on a hot coal. She was mesmerised by his statement and by him.

He took some soap and started to lather it up, and then his hands smoothed over every part of her body, soaping and washing. She leant back against the wall, her eyelids heavy, and could only watch as Salman became more and more visibly aroused. He turned her round and came up behind her, snaking arms around her to cup her soapy breasts in his hands, his fingers trapping her nipples until she squirmed against him, his erection sliding tantalisingly between the globes of her bottom.

She felt him reach down over her belly and lower, between her legs, to where she was hot and slippery with renewed arousal. He muttered roughly, ‘I can’t wait … put your hands on the wall …’

She obeyed him wordlessly, and felt him pull her back more, then spread her legs. With a keening cry of frustration she felt him guide himself between her legs, until he could surge up and into her heat.

One hand touched her, flicking her clitoris, his other hand was on her breast, kneading and moulding the weighty flesh. Jamilah gasped for breath, struggling to retain some sanity as the water sluiced over them, heightening everything.

The climax came swiftly, rolling over them like a huge wave and throwing them high. Jamilah gasped, head flung back, as Salman pounded into her, every powerful thrust of his body sending her hurtling into another climax. With one final thrust he stilled, and she felt his release spill deep inside her. Only the faintest of alarm bells went off. She was too stunned, trembling all over in the aftermath.

Salman gently turned her around and gathered her close, settling his mouth over hers in a brief kiss. ‘Are you okay?’

Jamilah could only nod. She was speechless, and just let Salman lift her out of the shower and wrap her in a huge towel. She’d been wrong. It had never been like this before. It had been amazing, yes. But this … this transcended everything that she had experienced with this man before. It was as if she’d had an extra layer of skin before, but now it was gone. And in a way it was; she was no longer an idealistic virginal innocent …

He dried her, before drying himself, and wrapped her hair in a towel. He hitched another towel around his waist and led her out to the bedroom, to sit beside her on the end of the bed.

Jamilah’s brain was still numb from an excess of sensation and pleasure. Slowly reality trickled back, and Jamilah saw that Salman had his arms resting on his legs, head downbent. As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, he looked up. She saw that there was a grim set to his face.

‘I didn’t use protection.’

An old pain made Jamilah feel weak inside. She hadn’t even noticed that they hadn’t used protection. She forced out through numb lips, ‘It should be fine. I’m at a safe stage of my cycle …’

She looked away, to a spot on the floor, and knew in that moment that she had to tell him what had happened. She didn’t know if it was out of a desire to inflict pain because he’d made her feel so vulnerable, or out of a genuine necessity to let him know that for a brief moment he’d been a father.

She said quietly, ‘Anyway, I’d know if I was pregnant after a couple of weeks.’

She could feel his look, his frown. ‘What do you mean? How would you know?’

She took a shaky breath. ‘Because I was pregnant before and the symptoms hit me almost immediately. But about a month after I fell pregnant I lost the baby.’

He turned her to face him, but instead of seeing the dawning of understanding all she saw was compassion. ‘Is that why it’s been so long since you were with anyone?’

It took a long second for her to realise that he wasn’t putting two and two together. Could he really be so obtuse? Jamilah wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. And suddenly her desire to tell him the truth faded. What purpose would it serve when he clearly couldn’t believe for a second that she spoke about him? And after everything he’d told her last night? Treacherously, she didn’t want to give him something else to feel guilty about, and she hated herself for that weakness because it meant she was just as lost to him all over again.

She brushed his hand aside and said, ‘Something like that … Look, I’m really quite tired. I’d like to go to sleep now. Alone.’

To her intense relief, after a long moment when he clearly didn’t know what to do with the information she’d just given him, he said, ‘Are you sure you want to be alone?’

Jamilah nodded, and with a last look Salman got up and left the room. Jamilah got into the bed with the towels still wrapped around her hair and her body. She curled up in a ball as silent tears trickled down her cheeks and she grieved for the baby who’d never had a chance.

Salman lay awake for a long time, thinking about what Jamilah had revealed. Hearing that she’d been pregnant with another man’s child sent all sorts of ambiguous emotions to his gut. One in particular felt very similar to the jealousy he’d felt earlier.

He’d always vowed to himself that he wouldn’t bring a child into this overpopulated world. The main reason being that he was quite simply terrified that he wouldn’t be able to protect it from the terrors that were out there. From the terrors that he himself had witnessed, which he felt were indelibly marked in his blood and might possibly be passed down to a son or daughter. That was why he’d taken the drastic decision to have a vasectomy nearly ten years previously.

He’d mentioned his lapse about protection more out of a concern to keep them both safe from disease or infection. But Jamilah, understandably enough, had assumed he’d been concerned about pregnancy. He hadn’t corrected her as he’d never told anyone about the vasectomy. But just thinking of it brought his mind back to how it had felt to take Jamilah like that, skin on skin, and arousal flared all over again.

He grimaced and rolled over, punching a pillow before settling his head on it. He could see now what had added shadow and depth to Jamilah in the intervening years, and curiously Salman had to battle down an urge to find out more … to protect.

The following day Jamilah felt paranoid—as if everyone was looking at her. Could they see where it felt as if a layer of skin had been stripped off her body? Thankfully she was caught up in meetings for most of the day, so she didn’t have to cope with facing Salman. Eventually she went to the bathroom to see if there was something on her face, and grimaced at her reflection. Despite the fact that she’d not had a good night’s sleep her skin glowed, and her eyes were so bright they looked almost feverish.

Her lips seemed to be swollen, and they tingled at the memory of Salman’s kisses. As if on cue she felt her breasts tighten and her nipples harden against the lace of her bra. She wanted him even now. She stifled a groan of despair.

Just then an acquaintance came out of a cubicle.

Jamilah composed herself and smiled at the woman, and washed her hands. The other woman smiled back, and was about to go, but then she turned and said hesitantly, ‘I know it’s not my place, but I feel you should know that Ahmed, Sultan Sadiq’s aide, has been spreading rumours about you and Salman al Saqr …’

Jamilah flushed, mortification rising upwards. Stiffly she said, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

The woman walked out and Jamilah faced the mirror again. She sighed. No wonder people had been looking. She couldn’t really blame the other man; that was effectively twice that Salman had upstaged him. But as of now her reputation was muck. Not that she was really worried about that; she wasn’t bound by the same strictures as a lot of women from her part of the world. She had no family, and one of her parents had been European, so she’d always been something of an anomaly.

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.

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