Kitabı oku: «Bedded By The Desert King», sayfa 2

‘Of the desert?’ she interrupted him lightly. Then, seeing his expression, she dropped her gaze.

But he was under no illusion that she was frightened of him. She wasn’t afraid of him, except in a primitive way like any woman who knew a man wanted her in his bed. She feared his masculinity, but she wanted her share of it. She feared him as a man, not as a leader of men. The realisation made him harden instantly. ‘The water is warm,’ he murmured persuasively.

‘And scented with sandalwood?’

He inclined his head.

CHAPTER TWO

YES, all right, this was crazy, Zara fired back at her inner voice. Sinking deeper beneath the scented water naked while her Bedouin was only a few yards away behind a curtain…She would never, never behave like this under normal circumstances. But she had been so grubby and uncomfortable, and his promise of fresh warm water on a day when nothing was normal had tipped the balance. Trouble was, she could talk it through inwardly all she liked but that didn’t stop her heart racing out of control.

‘Are you all right in there?’

Zara hurtled upright at the sound of the deep male voice. The chance she was taking seemed a whole lot bigger suddenly. ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine…’ Her voice sounded strained. And where were the clothes he’d promised? What was she supposed to do now? How long could she reasonably remain submerged in rapidly cooling bathwater? Was this Abbas’s idea of a joke? Or was he preparing her for—? She gasped as a hand appeared around the curtain.

‘Here are a couple of towels for you…’

‘Thank you…’ She could hear another voice now…Zara tensed, listening. It was an older man! What on earth had she got herself into?

Springing out of the bath, she seized the towels and flung them around her, securing them firmly. Once she was decent, she put her ear to the curtain, which was all that divided her from the two men. They were talking in the husky Zaddaran dialect and she could tell little from their tone of voice.

‘Here…’

She started back as Abbas’s bronzed hand appeared around the curtain holding some sort of flimsy robe.

‘Well, take it…’ he instructed impatiently.

‘What is it?’

‘Something for you to wear?’ he suggested bitingly.

Zara watched in fascination as the hand stretched out a little more, revealing a wrist shaded with dark hair. Having located the wooden stand, he let the robe fall over it.

‘And here’s a veil to go with it…’

Having disappeared again behind the curtain, the hand came back and this time she got a good look at the powerful forearm attached to it…A robe and a veil? What did Abbas think this was—his harem?

‘You’ll need some fresh clothes,’ he pointed out, anticipating her concern. ‘Unless you’re going to come out of there wrapped in towels, of course.’

‘Thank you…’ The robe was lovely…pure silk, Zara found on closer inspection. In the softest shade of sky-blue, it was heavily embroidered with the tiniest silver cross-stitch she had ever seen. The matching veil was as light as air, the merest wisp of silk chiffon in the same delicate shade…

‘Get dressed quickly,’ Abbas instructed. ‘I have allowed a man to shelter inside Aban’s tent until the storm has passed. I don’t want you scaring him half to death—’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you…The man’s a silk trader, hence your new robe, but the sight of you wearing it would alarm him. Women in the desert usually have more discretion and never appear in public dressed in such a manner.’

But it was all right for Abbas to see her dressed like this? Even as her hackles rose, Zara felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps it was the only robe the trader had that was suitable and Abbas needn’t have troubled to buy it for her. Glancing at her travel-worn clothes lying crumpled on the floor, she realised how grateful she was to have something clean to wear, especially something new and so undeniably feminine…But her doubts returned the moment she slipped her feet into the dainty jewelled mules Abbas had just pushed under the curtain. She had taken a bath in a man’s tent in the middle of a desert—a powerful hunk of a man she didn’t even know, and now she was wearing a seductive outfit of his choice.

‘Do the mules fit? I took a guess at the size of your feet.’

‘It was a very good guess.’ And if he knew her shoe size, what else had come under his close scrutiny? Zara wondered.

‘Are you ever coming out of there?’

Abbas’s impatience sent a little shiver of awareness rushing through her. Pressing the robe to her body, she was just checking to see if it was transparent when he spoke again.

‘May I?’

Making a last pass with her hands down the front of the robe to make sure she was decent, she straightened up. ‘Of course…’

He flung the curtain back.

‘Our fashions suit you…’

‘It’s very kind of you to say so…’

‘Not kind at all—a simple fact,’ Abbas assured her.

Closing her eyes, Zara inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood and tried not to imagine what could happen in these sumptuous surroundings with her authoritative, seductive host. She thought about the easy command he had over his words, his actions, his body…

What would it be like when they were making love?

Zara banished that thought immediately, conscious that Abbas was still waiting for her. ‘I’ll just sponge these clothes down and then I’ll be right with you,’ she assured him briskly. She might be dressed for seduction, but the practical side of her nature always won through. She was keen for him to be aware of that. Pushing the silk chiffon up her arms, she got to work.

She would have to keep a tight rein on her thoughts, Zara reflected, hanging her clothes carefully over the stand to dry out. All these fantasies about harems and seduction were dangerous. Combing through her hair with her fingers, she adjusted the robe so that it hung properly and tried the veil. With the veil on it felt like dressing up—different, fun, glamorous…‘What shall I do about the water in the bath?’

Did he think she was going to leave that for Aban to deal with too? Zara wondered as she came to join Abbas in the tent. Hunkered down by the brazier, he was putting fresh coffee grounds into the pot. As he stared up in frank admiration their gazes clashed, which brought fresh streams of sensation rushing through her veins. She had to let the veil slip in order to clutch the robe a little closer. Shouldn’t he look away now? Zara wondered, feeling her cheeks flame. To distract from her discomfort she attacked him on another front. ‘I’m surprised you’d allow Aban to carry up water from the wadi just so you could bathe.’

‘I brought every drop of water up from the wadi. Aban is my man, not my slave.’

She couldn’t help but feel a small glow of appreciation at his words. Or maybe the glow had started when she stared at his lips—they were such sensuous lips.

‘You have beautiful hair,’ Abbas observed softly.

Zara was suddenly conscious of the weight of her waist-length hair and its silky lustre. It felt soft to her touch and the brush of it against her cheek had never felt so sensuous. Even the way it fell into natural waves when it had been washed, which had always annoyed her in the past, seemed suddenly an advantage. She had never thought of herself as beautiful before.

Abbas made her feel beautiful, Zara realised, wrinkling her brow in confusion. She was relieved when he turned away at last. It gave her a chance to study him covertly. But now the glow she had felt moments before raged into an inferno. Heavily shaded with dark stubble, his face was the hardest face she had ever seen…and she just knew that his body, concealed beneath the flowing folds of his robe, would be the body of a fighting man, hard and beautiful.

‘I’m going to shave,’ he said, picking up a knife. ‘Why don’t you sit by the brazier and dry your hair while I’m gone?’

‘Gone?’ She didn’t want him gone…not with a storm threatening outside.

‘I won’t be long—’

‘Fine…’ She tilted her chin at a confident angle, but something in her voice made him turn to reassure her.

‘I’ll secure the tent before I leave. You’ll be quite safe.’

A fierce gust of wind made the decision for her. ‘I’m coming with you.’ She grabbed her camera.

‘No, stay here and dry your hair—’

‘I like to dry my hair outside.’

‘Where the air is full of sand? And you don’t want sand in your camera, do you?’

Clean out of reasonable excuses, Zara sank down on the cushions again. It was getting progressively darker inside the tent—another indicator that forces were at work over which she had no control. According to Abbas, she wasn’t safe outside and she didn’t feel safe inside. She was his prisoner as surely as if she were locked inside a cell. And somehow she had to subdue the frisson of excitement that provoked.

‘Stay here—where you’ll be safe,’ he repeated as a parting shot.

Did she want to be safe with Abbas?

Reduced to drumming her fingers on the hide couch, Zara was longing to pick up her camera. But she had given Abbas her word. She would ask his permission before taking any more photographs. It was only fair when he was sheltering her from the storm. She couldn’t betray his trust. Her heart lurched when he walked back inside the tent and she saw his gaze flick to the camera. It was still in its case just as she had left it. The approval in his eyes sent fire racing through her veins, but even a shave couldn’t soften the hard planes of his rugged face. His cheekbones seemed more pronounced than ever, his jaw stronger.

‘What are you worrying about?’ His brow creased.

‘Worried? I’m not worried.’ She met his gaze levelly, but the expression in Abbas’s eyes added a dangerous spark to the scent of hard, clean man.

She watched him seal the entrance with strong, capable hands. A few robust tugs and he appeared to be satisfied that everything was secure. He moved on around the tent, checking the supports and ignoring her. She should be pleased about that, Zara told herself. The wind had picked up and sand was hitting the sides with an ominous hissing sound. When the tent poles groaned beneath the pressure she began to get worried.

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ She had to yell to make herself heard above the noise.

‘I’m sure—’

‘And Aban? Do you think he will have reached safety by now?’

Abbas looked pleased that she had remembered. ‘Yes, I checked on him while I was out.’ Pulling a satellite phone out of his pocket, he tossed it on to the bed.

She could have rung for help. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? ‘Could I borrow your phone?’ Her mobile was still in the Jeep.

‘There’s too much static for a call to get through now.’

She hid her disappointment. ‘How about the trader?’

‘He’s safe too—’

And then, before Abbas could say any more to her, a juddering blast made her exclaim with fright.

‘Don’t worry.’ Abbas ran his hand down the ballooning sides of the pavilion. ‘This dense fabric is made from camel hair. There’s nothing better for keeping out the weather. And these supporting poles may look flimsy, but they flex to accommodate the force of the gale just like the trunk of a palm tree.’ Wrapping his fist around one, he caressed it.

‘How long do you think we’ll be here?’

‘It’s impossible to know, so you might as well relax and get used to your confinement…’

Relax? That was easy for Abbas to say—her bones were turning to liquid fire at the thought of being secured inside the tent with him and her heart was vibrating frantically, though not from fear.

‘Well, I’m going to relax even if you won’t…’

‘What are you doing?’ Zara stared, unbelieving, as Abbas calmly began shrugging off his robe.

‘Getting undressed…’ His voice was casual.

‘Put your clothes back on again. Now,’ Zara ordered hoarsely. Abbas stalked about naked when he was relaxed? Beneath his Zaddaran dignity Abbas possessed an elemental quality that both frightened and excited her. She hadn’t got the measure of him and that frightened her too. And now he was testing her she was sure of it. She could lose her mask, tell him the truth—that she was more innocent than she seemed, that life had made her act a lot older than her age, or she could play it cool.

She was relieved when she didn’t have to make that choice. Having loosened his robe, Abbas stretched out on a bed of hides and closed his eyes. All she could see now was a glimpse of hard, tanned flesh above the topmost folds of his robe, though where it fell away she could see the loose-fitting trousers he wore beneath…trousers slung low enough to do more than hint at the toned athletic body underneath.

Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, Zara was almost ready to believe she could feel the warmth of Abbas’s naked flesh reaching out to her—warm, fragrant, sandalwood-scented flesh that she longed to feel pressed up hard against her own. Shifting awkwardly on the couch, she knew she was slipping into an even deeper state of arousal. The thought of easing that frustration had crossed her mind…Everything was so unreal—like a day out of time…A day when she could allow herself to be seduced by a man for whom she felt an overwhelming attraction…To have Abbas make love to her…One night of passion with the lion of the desert…And who would know? She was sure Abbas would know everything there was to know about pleasing a woman.

Zara’s breathing grew more ragged as she developed her fantasy…A man she didn’t know—an older man, an experienced man, a man whose eyes promised exotic pleasures beyond her understanding, a man whose lips she longed to feel all over her body, even those secret places no other man had seen…

But Abbas was a man of principle. He had already proved that by his care for Aban and the trader. There was no way he would touch her while he was treating her as an honoured guest. The best thing to do was to act calmly and normally, as he was doing, and push the dangerous fantasies from her mind.

Reaching into her bag, she drew out a pencil. ‘Would you mind telling me what each item of clothing you’re wearing is called? I want to be sure I get everything right when I prepare my journal back home.’

Opening one eye, Abbas turned to look at her. An expression of faint amusement flickered across his face, but then he shrugged and, resting his head back on crossed arms, he started to talk.

While her heart hammered away, Zara took refuge in her professional eye. The decoration on his robe was a testament to the skill of the local needle-workers. The gold thread picked up the amber lights in his eyes, something that added to his attraction, and she hadn’t noticed before. The dramatic contrast of that and the black fabric of the main body of the robe was a perfect foil for his black hair and for his dark skin tone as well as for his strong white teeth…She could almost imagine them nipping into her flesh…

‘Do you have a problem?’

Zara realised she had stopped writing and was gazing into space with a dreamy look on her face. ‘No, no, I’m fine.’ She drew herself up. ‘It’s really interesting…’ She smiled to encourage him to keep on talking, while she indulged in her fantasy—her nice, safe fantasy.

‘Perhaps when you return to the city you will buy some eastern clothes to remind you of your time in the desert?’ Abbas suggested.

‘I’m sure I shall…’

‘Though you’re more than welcome to keep the robe you’re wearing now—with my compliments.’

‘This one? I couldn’t possibly.’ Zara’s gaze flew over the intricate workmanship. She guessed the silk robe must have cost a fortune.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I love it, but—’

‘But?’ Abbas pressed. ‘You don’t accept gifts from strangers?’ he guessed shrewdly. ‘So what if I sell it to you? Would you take it home with you then?’

She didn’t want to go home yet…And, as for selling the robe to her…Zara’s heart lurched as Abbas’s lips curved in a way she hadn’t seen them do before and her heart stormed into overdrive as she considered the price he might have in mind. ‘Do you accept travellers’ cheques?’

‘I’m a little short of banking facilities, as you can see…’ He laughed softly. ‘But you could owe me…’

‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that…’ She stood up as she spoke.

‘Where are you going?’ He sat up.

She had to get away. She had to take a moment to cool down. ‘To look outside—’

Springing up, Abbas stood in her way. ‘No…’

‘No?’ She looked at him, and then down at his hand on her arm.

His dark eyes flared, but he spoke softly as he lifted his hand away. ‘If you move that curtain the sand will come flying in. The entrance cover must remain as it is until I say it can be opened.’

‘So I’m a prisoner here?’ Turning away from him, Zara could feel the tension mounting.

‘You’re here as my guest,’ Abbas reminded her.

She could feel him behind her and her pulse responded eagerly to the remorseless beat of his virility. Abbas had thrown an erotic noose around her, which he then pulled tight. ‘Let me go,’ she warned in a whisper, hardly realising that he wasn’t even touching her.

‘Or you’ll…what?’

She could feel the sweep of his breath across the back of her neck and had to fight not to tremble. She didn’t start breathing again until he stepped away and felt as weak as a puppet when the strings had been let go. And had left her more aroused than ever.

Abbas understood everything about tension—tightening and releasing the invisible cord until it was she who was being driven to make the first move. The blood in her veins had turned to molten honey. Caught in the ambit of Abbas’s darkening stare, Zara had to wonder how long she could hold out if it came to it. Abbas was so hard, so elemental, and his robes left so little and yet too much of his powerful frame to the imagination. Rampantly masculine, he was a natural-born hunter…Was she really ready to take him on? And then there was her own lack of experience where sex was concerned to consider…She would almost certainly disappoint him. The elements chose just that moment to intervene. While she was hesitating, the wind gave a terrible roar and, shocked into action, she launched herself into Abbas’s arms.

‘Sorry—’ Gasping with shock, Zara made as if to pull away, but Abbas held on to her. It was a hold so gentle that if she had wanted to she could have broken free at any time…

‘Please,’ he murmured, brushing her hair with his lips. ‘Don’t apologise, Adara…’

‘Adara?’ She raised her eyes to look at him.

Placing one finger over her mouth, Abbas dragged it slowly down over the full swell of her bottom lip as if to remind her how aroused she was…And to tell her that he knew. ‘I will call you Adara…’

It meant virgin in his language, but she couldn’t know that. It pleased his sense of irony to call her by this name. Though she was young she had the assurance of a much older woman. His Adara knew what she wanted, and she knew he could give it to her. There would be no complications; she was on the same wavelength he was, and it amused him to see how she squared up to him even now. Her face was flushed and he had to wonder how much of that passion would be channelled into their lovemaking. Nothing was a foregone conclusion and he liked that about her. She was cool and self-possessed, but she could be defiant too and he had never encountered disobedience before. Her unpredictability fuelled his appetite, and would certainly stave off boredom while they waited out the storm.

She collected herself quickly, as he had expected, and he was ready for her. As she went to move away to take her seat on the couch again he made sure their fingers brushed—as if by accident. Her swift intake of breath told him everything he needed to know. And as the moment froze he held her gaze.

CHAPTER THREE

‘THE storm is easing…’

As Abbas spoke, Zara watched him move towards the entrance as if the sexual temperature between them had never flickered. Maybe it hadn’t for him. Keenly aware of the progress of the storm outside the tent, maybe he was oblivious to the storm he had whipped up inside it. Or was he toying with her? Which one was it?

‘If the weather is improving I want to leave as soon as I can…’

‘Three days and three nights,’ he said, turning to face her.

So he had remembered. ‘Your custom?’ She raised a brow, wanting him to know she wasn’t convinced.

‘Custom demands that, having sought refuge here, you must remain as my guest for three days and three nights…’ His face told her nothing as he sat down again and arranged his robe around his legs.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ She had to drag her gaze away and ignore the heavy throb of anticipation in her lower body.

Raising his head, Abbas levelled a stare on her face. ‘I am bound by the customs of my land…’

‘But I am not.’ It was too shadowy to interpret his expression with any confidence, but Abbas’s silence suggested she was mistaken. She didn’t press him, knowing he would probably reply that at this moment she was a guest in his land.

Zara found it hard to relax. Abbas’s commanding manner had aroused her to the degree where his slightest move made her heart race. He made her long for things that had never mattered to her before, forbidden things. She hardly dared to imagine what it might be like to be held by him, to be cradled in his arms, to be touched delicately, persuasively…As he leaned forward to check the coffee she saw the flare of recognition in his eyes and pulled herself round. ‘As soon as the trader leaves, I’m going with him. Even if my Jeep has been lost, it doesn’t matter. I’ll hitch a lift with him.’

‘On his camel? And I think you’ll find that he has already gone.’

‘But the storm has only just died down…’

‘Come with me, Adara…’

When Abbas released the entrance cover Zara uttered a sharp breath of amazement. The desert was peaceful again, but they might have been carried up and brought down in a totally different place. What had happened to the dune where she had been captured, the dune behind which she had sheltered her off-road vehicle? Now all she could see was a flat plain that stretched away into the distance as far as the foothills of the mountains. The sand around the tent had formed into wavelike ripples. The structure was now isolated in a vast expanse of flat featureless nothingness, like a ship floating on a sea of sand…

Looking further, Zara was relieved to see that at least the palm trees clustering round the wadi had survived. But they were bent at such an acute angle their fronds were brushing the water…She found it much easier to walk in the flat sandals Abbas had provided and was suddenly eager to escape the confines of the tent. Hurrying over to the nearest palm, she touched its trunk gently with her hand. ‘Will it recover?’ She glanced at Abbas, who had come to stand by her shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he reassured her. ‘The trunks of the palm are as flexible as the poles used to support the tent and so they will recover, given time.’

Leaving her, he strode towards the second tent, which had also survived the onslaught of the storm. Picking up her skirts, Zara hurried after him.

There was no sign of the trader or his camel. There was nothing to show that he had been there at all other than a bundle hanging from the fronds of a palm. ‘What is it?’ Shading her eyes, she looked up into the branches.

‘I have already told you that hospitality is instilled at birth in the Bedouin, and so is repayment of the debt.’

Was Abbas sending her a hidden message? Zara wondered, pressing him to continue.

‘That cache will contain whatever the trader can safely spare. It is his way of thanking me. But I am honour bound not to touch anything I don’t need, the point being I must consider the needs of others over myself.’

His words sent a shiver tracking her spine. ‘Perhaps I could copy some prints to send to you when I get home…I have taken some good landscapes…’ As she gestured around, Zara felt her offer wasn’t enough. ‘And I’ll send you a cheque too, of course.’ She couldn’t bear freeloaders and didn’t want Abbas mistaking her for one.

‘A cheque?’

‘Money for the time I’ve spent here as your guest…’

‘I do know what a cheque is. I just wondered why you should feel it necessary to send one to me.’

‘To cover the cost of sheltering me, of course,’ she said, frowning.

‘Are you always so scrupulous?’

‘Yes.’ She held his gaze steadily. ‘I never use people and then just walk away.’

‘But you haven’t left yet,’ he pointed out, ‘and I may need to add something to your account.’

Zara’s eyes widened. She didn’t know whether to believe Abbas or not.

He couldn’t resist provoking her just a little more. Three days and nights…It was an outrageous idea, even if he had based his assertion on ancient lore. Traditions such as that had never been meant to apply to a situation like this. But he could hardly blame his ancestors for not factoring into their thinking one reckless young female who had ventured into the desert without a chaperon.

And the storm hadn’t finished with them yet. This was only a lull. What he should do was dispatch her to the spare tent to wait out the weather and then send her on her way with Aban. But he had been a long time alone in the desert and he was only human. The girl was strong and self-assured, mature beyond her years; she knew the score.

He followed her back into the pavilion, noticing how she resented the yards of material flapping round her ankles. Having forgotten to pick up her skirts, she looked like an ungainly fawn as she struggled to cope with the flowing robe. Big brown eyes and that shock of golden hair peeping out beneath the veil only added to the illusion. He liked her in the veil; it suited her—softened her.

‘Is another storm coming?’ she asked anxiously, turning to face him as a gust of wind snatched the veil from her head.

‘I think we should go back inside,’ he advised.

‘If there is another storm, how long do you think it will last?’

For a mischievous moment, as he secured the entrance behind them, he was tempted to leave what he was doing and stride outside to sniff the air. But play-acting wasn’t his thing. The truth was, he didn’t have a clue. They hadn’t taught weather forecasting on his course at Harvard Business School.

‘What shall we do to pass the time?’

The innocent question was negated by the look in her eyes and his senses, already sharpened by his days of denial in the desert, raged out of control. He found it ironic that the desert had given her to him. The coincidence of them meeting in thousands of square miles of hostile land was incredible, but she had come to him with the dawn—his virgin, Adara. Fortunately, her manner, her eyes, her body language all assured him she was no such thing. When they were both sated and his mind clear again, he would return to Zaddara and take up his duties. This would be his last self-indulgence before duty claimed him.

And now there was only one thing still plucking at his mind. According to Zaddaran tradition there was no such thing as coincidence; there was only destiny.

She went to check her camera and as he looked at her something inside him softened briefly. ‘You may take a handful of photographs if you wish—but only of objects and your surroundings. As an aide-memoire for your trip,’ he added. He wasn’t prepared for the look on her face of sheer surprised delight and found it gave him pleasure to please her.

‘That’s very good of you. I promise I’ll be quick…’ She reached for the camera. ‘I know I haven’t exactly been the easiest guest. Do you forgive me?’

As she turned her face up to him, he wanted to tell her just how much. The appeal in her eyes made his heart turn over which, as far as he could recall, had never happened before. The offer of the photographs had changed something. It was almost as if an understanding, a bond, had developed between them.

She was scrupulously fair and obviously knew what she was doing. She took a few shots of the tent and some objects and then put the camera away. ‘There, I’ve finished. Thank you…’

His gaze was drawn to her lips, reddened where she had chewed on them while she was concentrating on her work. And now there were questions in her eyes: Did he find her attractive? Did he want her? Did he want her enough to make love to her? The answer to all three was, of course, yes. Her lips were slightly parted and damp where she had moistened them. She wasn’t afraid to hold his gaze. She was beautiful and she was ready, and she was waiting for him to make the first move.

‘Three days and three nights?’ She made it sound like a request. And, as she stared at him, his hunger surged to a new level. He had expected many things of his retreat in the desert, but not this forwardness of a young woman who had appeared out of nowhere like a gift…

‘And then we will part asking nothing of each other,’ he confirmed.

As silence descended between them they both knew it could only have one outcome. And it was a delicious moment that neither one of them wanted to break. It took a ferocious gust of wind to bring her into his arms and, as she rested her head against his chest, he silently praised the storm for wrestling with the tent.

There was barely enough time to inhale Abbas’s delicious scent and feel his warmth seeping through the flimsy fabric of her robe before he swung her into his arms. ‘We’d ask nothing of each other?’ Zara repeated Abbas’s words back to him in a whisper.

‘Only this,’ he murmured, carrying her towards his bed.

She felt so safe that even the sand rattling against the sides of the tent seemed to be in another world. Her body was tuned to his, waiting for his touch, eager to feed on the passion she knew he possessed. He was so restrained, so controlled; to see him lose that was the only thing she wanted now. When he lowered her to the bed she reached up to draw him down to her. Cupping her face in his warm hands, he kissed her deeply. The taste of him was delicious and addictive, the boldness of his tongue the most thrilling thing she had ever known. She wanted more, more of everything, more of Abbas. She wanted every part of him to be touching her and so she clung to him, pressing herself against him until he was forced to hold her away. She made a complaint at once, asking him, ‘Why…?’