Sheikh's Defiant Wife

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SUN WAS low in the sky when Sara and Suleiman brought their horses to a dusty halt outside the gates of the Sultan’s summer residence. Before them, the vast palace towered majestically—its golden hues reflecting the endless desert sands which surrounded it. It was the first time Sara had ever seen the fabled building, and on any other occasion she might have taken time to admire the magnificent architecture with all its soaring turrets and domes. But today her heart was full of dread as she thought of what lay ahead.

What on earth was she going to say to the man she had now spurned in the most dramatic way possible? She had never loved the Sultan, nor wanted him—but never in a million years had she wanted it to turn out this way. She didn’t want to hurt him, or—which was much more likely—hurt his pride.

Would he want to punish her? Punish her brother and his kingdom?

The reality began to soak into her skin, which was still glowing after her passionate encounter with the man who had ridden by her side. No matter what happened next—she wasn’t going to regret what had just taken place. It might have been wrong, but the words she had whispered to Suleiman just before he had thrust into her had been true. It had felt so right.

She shot a glance at him as he brought his horse to a halt but his stony profile gave nothing away and she suspected that his body language was deliberately forbidding. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since that uncomfortable showdown after they’d made love. He had kept busy with the practicalities of preparing to return. And then he had turned on her and hissed that she was nothing but a temptation, silencing her protests with an angry wave of his hand before phoning ahead to let the Sultan’s staff know that they were on their way.

Sara looked up at the wide blue bowl of the desert sky as another band of fear gripped her. If ever she had thought she’d felt trapped before—she was quickly discovering a whole new meaning to the word. Here was one hostile man taking her to confront another—and she had no idea of what the outcome would be.

Her instinct was to turn and head in the opposite direction—but during the ride she had thought about what Suleiman had said.

You’ve spent your whole life running away?

Had she? It was weird seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. She’d always thought that she was an intrepid sort of person. That she had shown true backbone by setting up on her own in London, far away from her pampered life. It was disturbing to think that maybe there was a kernel of truth in Suleiman’s accusation.

Their approach had obviously been observed from within the palace complex, for the tall gates silently opened and they walked their horses through onto the gravelled forecourt. Sara became aware of the massed blooms of white flowers and their powerful scent which pervaded the air. A white-robed servant came towards them, briefly bowing to her before turning to Suleiman and speaking to him in Qurhahian.

‘The Sultan wishes to extend his warmest greeting, Suleiman Abd al-Aziz. He has instructed me to tell you that your chambers are fully prepared—and that you will both rest and recuperate before joining him for dinner later.’

‘No.’

Suleiman’s denial rang out so emphatically that Sara was startled, for she knew that the language of the desert was couched in much more formal—sometimes flowery—tones. She saw the look of surprise on the servant’s face.

‘The princess may wish to avail herself of the Sultan’s hospitality,’ said Suleiman. ‘But it is imperative that I speak to His Imperial Majesty without further delay. Please take me to him now.’

Sara could see the servant’s confusion but such was the force of Suleiman’s personality that the man merely nodded in bewildered consent. He led them through the huge carved doors, speaking rapidly into an incongruously modern walkie-talkie handset which he pulled from his white robes.

Once inside, where several female servants had gathered together in a small group, Suleiman turned to her, his features shadowed and unreadable. ‘You will go with these women and they will bathe you,’ he instructed.

‘But—’

‘No buts, Sara. I mean it. This is my territory, not yours. Let me deal with it.’

Sara opened her mouth, then shut it again as she felt a wave of relief wash over her. Was it cowardly of her to want to lean on Suleiman and him to take over? ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘For what?’ he questioned in English, his sudden switch of language seeming to emphasise the bitterness of his tone. ‘For taking what was never mine to take? Just go. Go.’

He stood perfectly still as she turned away, watching her retreat across the wide, marble entrance hall—his feelings in turmoil; his heart sick with dread. He found himself taking in the unruliness of her hair and the crumpled disorder of her robes. He swallowed. If the Sultan had seen her flushed face, then mightn’t he guess the cause of her untidy appearance?

He turned to follow the servant, his heart heavy.

How was he going to be able to tell Murat? How could he possibly admit what had been done? The worst betrayal in the world, from the two people who should have been most loyal to the sovereign.

He was ushered into one of the informal ante-rooms which he recognised from times past. He lifted his gaze to the high, arched ceiling with its intricate mosaic, before the Sultan swept in, alone—his black eyes inscrutable as he subjected his erstwhile emissary to a long, hard look.

‘So, Suleiman,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unconventional meeting. I was disturbed from playing backgammon at a crucial point in the game, to be told that you wished to see me immediately. Is this true?’

His eyes were questioning and Suleiman felt a terrible wave of sadness wash over him. Once their relationship had been so close that he might have made a joke about his supposed insubordination. And the Sultan would have laughed softly and made a retort in the same vein. But this was no laughing matter.

‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said heavily.

‘And may I ask what has provoked this extraordinary break with protocol?’

Suleiman swallowed. ‘I have come to tell you that the Princess Sara will not marry you,’ he said.

For a moment, the Sultan did not reply. His hawk-like features gave nothing away. ‘And should not the princess have told me this herself?’ he questioned softly.

Suleiman felt his heart clench as he realised that years of loyalty and friendship now lay threatened by his one stupid act of disloyalty and lust. He had accused Sara of being headstrong—but was not his own behaviour equally reprehensible?

‘Sire, I must tell you that I have—’

‘No!’ The word cracked from Murat’s mouth like the sound of a whip and he held up his palm for silence. ‘Hold your tongue, Suleiman. If you tell me something I should not hear, then I will have no option than to have you tried for treason.’

‘Then so be it!’ declared Suleiman, his heart pounding like a piston. ‘If that is to be my fate, then I will accept it like a man.’

The Sultan’s mouth hardened but he shook his head. ‘You think I would do that? You think that a woman—any woman—is worth destroying a rare friendship between two men? One which has endured the test of time and all the challenges of hierarchy?’

‘I will accept whatever punishment you see fit to bestow on me.’

‘You want to slug it out? Is that it?’

Suleiman stared at Murat and, for a moment, the years melted away. Suddenly they were no longer two powerful men with all the burdens and responsibilities which had come with age, but two eight-year-old boys squaring up to each other in the baked dust of the palace stables. It had been soon after Suleiman had been brought from Samahan and he had punched the young Sultan at the height of an argument which had long since been forgotten.

He remembered seeing the shock on Murat’s face. The realisation that here was someone who was prepared to take him on. Even to beat him. Murat had waved away the angry courtiers. But he had gone away and taken boxing lessons and, two weeks later, had fought again and soundly beaten Suleiman. After that, the fight victory rate had been spread out evenly.

Suleiman found himself wondering which of them would win, if they fought now. ‘No, I don’t want to fight you, Sire,’ he said. ‘But I am concerned about the fall-out, if this scheduled marriage doesn’t go ahead.’

‘As well you should be concerned!’ said Murat furiously. ‘For you know as well as I do that the union was intended as an alliance between the two countries.’

Suleiman nodded. ‘Couldn’t an alternative solution be offered instead? A new peace agreement drawn up between Qurhah and Dhi’ban—which could finally banish all the years of unrest. After all, a diplomatic solution is surely more modern and appropriate than an old-fashioned dynastic marriage.’

Murat gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, how I miss your skills of diplomacy, Suleiman. As well as your unerring ability to pick out the most beautiful women on our foreign tours.’ He gave a reminiscent sigh. ‘Some pretty unforgettable women, as I recall.’

But Suleiman’s head was too full of concern to be distracted by memories of the sexual shenanigans of the past. ‘Is this a feasible plan, do you think, Sire?’

Murat shrugged. ‘It’s feasible. It’s going to take a lot of backroom work and manoeuvring. But it’s doable, yes.’

The two men stared at one another and Suleiman clenched his teeth. ‘Now give me my punishment,’ he ground out.

There was a brief silence. ‘Oh, that’s easy. My punishment is for you to take her,’ said Murat silkily. ‘Take her away with you and do what you will with her. Because I know you—and I know how your mind operates. Countless times I have watched as you grow bored with the inevitable clinginess of the female of the species. She will drive you mad within the month, Suleiman—that much I can guarantee.’

Murat’s words were still ringing in Suleiman’s ears as he waited in the sunlit palace courtyard for Sara to emerge from her ablutions. And when she did, with her blonde hair still damp and tightly plaited, he could not prevent the instinctive kick of lust which was quickly followed by the equally potent feeling of regret.

Her face was pale and her eyes dark with anxiety as she looked up at him. ‘What did he say?’

‘He accepts the situation. The wedding is off.’

‘Just like that?’

Suleiman’s mouth hardened. What would she say if he told her the truth? That Murat had spoken of her as if she’d been a poisoned chalice he was passing to his former aide. That his punishment was to have her, not to lose her.

He suspected she would never speak to him again. And he wasn’t prepared for that to happen.

Not yet.

‘He has agreed to make way for a diplomatic solution instead.’

‘He has?’ Her eyes were filled with confusion as if she found something about his reaction difficult to understand. ‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’

‘It is an acceptable compromise, considering the circumstances,’ said Suleiman, holding up a jangling set of keys which sparked silver in the bright sunlight. ‘Now let’s go. We’re leaving the horses here and taking one of the Sultan’s cars.’

Sara tried to keep up with his long-legged stride as she followed him into the courtyard, but it wasn’t until they were sitting in the blessed cool of the air-conditioned car that she could pluck up enough courage to ask him.

‘Where are we going?’

He didn’t answer straight away. In fact, he didn’t answer for a good while. Not until they had left the palace far behind them and all that surrounded them was sand and emptiness. Pulling over onto the side of the wide and deserted road, he unfastened his seat belt before leaning over and undoing hers.

‘What...are you doing?’ she asked.

‘I want to kiss you.’

‘Suleiman—’

His mouth was hard and hungry and she could feel his anger coming off him in waves. He slid towards her on the front seat of the luxury car, one hand capturing her breast, while the other began to ruck up the slithery silk of her dress. He stopped kissing her long enough to slide his hand up her bare thigh and stare down at her face.

‘Suleiman,’ she said again—as if saying his name would make some kind of sense of the situation. As if it would remind her that this was dangerous—in so many ways.

‘All I can think of is you,’ he said. ‘All I want is to touch you again. You’re driving me crazy.’

She swallowed as he edged his fingertip inside her panties. ‘This isn’t the answer.’

‘Isn’t it?’

He had reached her core now, touching her exquisitely aroused flesh so that the scent of her sex overrode the subtle perfume of the rose petals in which she’d bathed.

‘No. It’s...oh, Suleiman. That’s not fair.’

‘Who said anything about fairness?’

His finger brushed against the sensitive nub. ‘Oh,’ she breathed. And again. ‘Oh.’

‘Still think this isn’t the answer?’

She shook her head and Suleiman felt an undeniable burst of triumph as she fell back against the leather seat and spread her legs for him. But his mouth was grim as he rubbed his finger against her sex and all kinds of dark emotions stirred within him.

He distracted himself by watching her writhe with pleasure. He watched the flush of colour which spread over her skin like wildfire and felt the change in her body as her back began to arch. Her little cries became louder. Her legs stiffened as they stretched out in front of her and he saw a flash of something—was it anger or regret?—before her eyelids fluttered to a close and she cried out his name, even though he got the idea she was trying very hard not to.

Afterwards she smoothed down her tunic with trembling fingers and turned to him and there was a look on her face he’d never seen before. She looked satiated yes, but determined too—her eyes flashing violet fire as she lifted up his robes.

‘Now what are you doing?’ he questioned.

‘You ask too many questions.’

She freed an erection which was so hard that it hurt—and sucked him until he came in her mouth almost immediately. And he had never felt so powerless in his life. Nor so turned on. Afterwards, he opened his eyes to look at her but she was staring straight ahead, her shoulders stiff with tension and her jaw set.

‘Sara?’ he questioned.

She turned her head and he was shocked by the pallor of her face, which made her eyes look like two glittering violet jewels. ‘What?’

He picked up one of her hands, which was lying limply in her lap, and raised it to his lips and kissed it. ‘You didn’t enjoy that?’

She shrugged. ‘On one level, yes, of course I did—as, I imagine, did you. But that wasn’t about sex, was it, Suleiman? That seemed to be more about anger than anything else. I think I can understand why you’re feeling it, but I don’t particularly like it.’

‘You were angry too,’ he said softly.

She turned her head to look at the endless stretch of sand outside the window. ‘I was feeling things other than anger,’ she said.

‘What things?’

‘Oh, you know. Stupid things. Regret. Sadness. The realisation that nothing ever stays the same.’ She turned back to him, telling herself to be strong. Telling herself that the friendship they’d shared so long ago had been broken by time and circumstance. And now by desire. And that made her want to bury her face in her hands and weep.

She forced a smile. ‘So now we’re done—are you going to take me to the airfield so I can go back to England?’

He reached his hand out to touch her face, sliding his thumb against her parted lips so that they trembled. Leaning over, he hovered his lips over hers. ‘Are we done?’

Briefly, Sara closed her eyes. Say yes, she told herself. It’s the only sane solution. You’ve escaped the marriage and you know there’s no future in this. Her lashes fluttered open to stare straight into the obsidian gleam of his eyes. His mouth was still close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath and she struggled against the temptation to kiss him.

Were they done?

In her heart, she thought they were.

She ought to go back to England and start again. She should go back to her job at Gabe’s—if he would have her—and carry on as before. As if nothing had happened.

She bit her lip, because it wasn’t that easy. Because something had happened and how could she go back to the way she’d been before? She felt different now because she was different. Inevitably. She had been freed from a marriage in which she’d had no say, but she was confused. Her future looked just as bewildering as before and it was all because of Suleiman.

She had tried burying memories of him, but that hadn’t worked. And now that she’d made love with him, it had stirred up all the feelings she had repressed for so long. It had stirred up a sexual hunger which was eating away at her even now—minutes after he’d just brought her to orgasm in the front seat of the Sultan’s car. It didn’t matter what she thought she should do—because, when push came to shove, she was putty in his hands. When Suleiman touched her, he set her on fire.

And maybe that was the answer. Maybe she just needed time to convince herself that his arrogance would be intolerable in the long term. If she tore herself away from him now—before she’d had her fill of him—wouldn’t she be caught in the same old cycle of forever wanting him?

‘Do you have a better suggestion?’ she questioned.

‘I do. A much better one.’ He stroked his hand down over her plaited hair. ‘We could take my plane and fly off somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere you like. As long as there’s a degree of comfort. I’m done with desert sand and making out in the front seat, like a couple of teenagers. I want to take you to bed and stay there for a week.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘SO WHY PARIS?’ Sara questioned, her mouth full of croissant.

Suleiman leaned across the rumpled sheets and used the tip of his finger to rescue a stray fragment of pastry which had fallen onto her bare breast. He lifted the finger to his mouth and sucked on it, his dark eyes not leaving her face.

And Sara wanted to kiss him all over again. She wanted to fling her arms around him and press her body against him and close her eyes and have him colour her world wonderful. Because that was what it was like whenever he touched her.

‘It’s my favourite hotel,’ he said. ‘And there is a reason why it’s known as the city of lovers. We can lie in bed all day and nobody bats an eyelid. We need never set foot outside the door if we don’t want to.’

‘Well, that’s convenient,’ said Sara drily. ‘Because that’s exactly what we’ve being doing. We’ve hardly seen any of the sights. In fact, we’ve been here for three days and I haven’t even been up the Eiffel Tower.’

He kissed her nipple. ‘And do you want to go up the Eiffel Tower?’

‘Maybe.’ Sara put her plate down and leant back against the snowy bank of pillows. That thing he was doing to her nipple with his tongue was distracting her from her indolent breakfast in bed, but there were other things on her mind. Questions which kept flitting into her mind and which, no matter how hard she tried, wouldn’t seem to flit away again. She had told herself that there was a good reason why you were supposed to live in the present—but sometimes you just couldn’t prevent thoughts of the future from starting to darken the edges of your mind. Or the past, come to that...

She kept her voice light and airy. As if she were asking him nothing more uncomplicated than would he please order her a coffee from room service. ‘Have you brought other women here?’

There was a pause. The fingers which had been playing with her nipple stilled against the puckered flesh. He slanted her a look which she found more rueful than reassuring. ‘What do you want me to say? That you’re the first?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘I didn’t imagine for a moment that I was.’

But the thought of other women lying where she was lying unsettled her more than it should have done. Actually, it didn’t unsettle her—it hurt. The thought of Suleiman licking someone else’s breasts made dark and hateful thoughts crowd into her head. The image of him sliding his tongue between another woman’s legs made her feel almost dizzy with rage. And jealousy. And a million other things she had no right to feel.

She should have known this would happen. She should have listened to all the doubts she’d refused to listen to that day in the desert. When she’d been so hungry for him and so impressed—yes, impressed—when he’d offered to fly her anywhere in the world that she’d smiled the smile of a besotted woman and said yes.