The Desert Lord's Bride / Wed by Deception

But her response to the whole situation had again thrown him for a loop.

She’d been scared instead of incensed, was now looking so rattled, so pained, he almost blurted out that she had nothing to worry about.

Which proved he was thinking with nothing above the neck.

Yet—why hadn’t she made any demands that he contain the situation? Did she assume he would anyway, for his reputation?

She at last let out a wavering exhalation. “They’ve been hounding me since my father—my adoptive father—died.” So, no demand yet. When would it come? She went on, her voice strangled with emotion. “They always find a reason for their sick interest in me. I’m just scared witless that this latest episode has something to do with their getting wind that I was adopted, or worse, who my newfound biological father is. If it does, they’ll never leave me alone.”

He knew he should steer away from this subject, shouldn’t risk her connecting him with the situation between her and King Atef. He couldn’t resist asking, “Because of the drama of the discoveries? Or is your bioligical father’s identity worthy of creating a sensation?”

“Both. Just the fact that Francois Beaumont isn’t my father would make them salivate. But oh, boy, is my biological father’s identity sensational. If I can hardly believe it, imagine what the tabloids would make of it.”

He had to be satisfied with that, would recall her answer later for analysis. For now he had to end this strain of thought, divert her to safer grounds.

He shrugged. “They could have been after me.”

“But no one knew who you are, except me…”

Her breath left her in a rush. He gritted his teeth at the response its freshness and femininity wrung from him. At the surge of what felt too much like shame.

Anger at the stupid feeling roughened his voice. “Yes.”

Her breath caught now. Savoring the depth of the privilege he’d imparted to no one but her? Let her. It was the best way to snare a woman, appealing to her vanity.

Just as he was sure he’d fathomed her reaction, she frowned. “Do you realize how stupid that was? To blow your anonymity like that to someone you just met?”

That was again the last thing he’d expected her to say.

Unsure how to react, he raised an eyebrow. “I trusted you?”

Her glower, her tone, only grew sharper. “And which part of your anatomy made that monumental decision?”

What he’d just been thinking. He shook his head as if it would make this turn in conversation make better sense. “I have made it so far by trusting my instincts…”

The irony of his words made him stop. For his instincts were lying. They’d been lying ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

She mistook his pause for belated realization. “See what I mean? So you were right to trust me, but what if you weren’t? Worse still, what if someone overheard you on the terrace?”

He stared at her. Anyone would have sworn that she cared. Knew how to care. But he knew better.

“No one heard me. And then no one who does know me could have recognized me. I was covered from the eyes down…”

She huffed a sardonic laugh. “And you consider that a disguise? Do you think anyone wouldn’t recognize your eyes? Not to mention your physique. Put them together, and anyone who’d seen you across a street would recognize you.”

He was used to women flattering him, knew much of their flattery used truths as ammunition. But he’d always recognized the self-serving intentions behind the adulation. He detected none now in hers, delivered in this no-nonsense, exasperated-at-his-obliviousness way. He barely stopped himself from hauling her on top of him again and showing her how he reciprocated in kind.

Which was probably the effect she’d planned. Or was that as far-fetched as it sounded to him?

Getting more confused, he exhaled. “I was in that ball for over an hour before you arrived. No one recognized me.”

“Then the paparazzi were after me.” She seemed to deflate beside him. “It’s weird, but I’m actually relieved they were.” Suddenly she shot up straight again, clutched his forearm. “But— the photos…” Here it came. The belated demand. “They might have taken some of your face. I’m used to being pursued, but I can’t bear it if being with me is going to expose you to their viciousness.”

And? Where was the demand for him to undo it? For his own privacy and comfort, of course, not hers?

None came. Instead, her eyes suddenly sparkled with moisture and she choked, “I’m so sorry, Shehab.”

And he gave in. He lowered his head with a groan, stilled her tremulous words and lips with his, his tongue gliding over her plumpness, unable to wait to plunge into her again. She opened for him with a whimper, overpowering him with her surrender, allowing him all the licenses he needed.

Desire crested, threatening to overcome all considerations. He severed their meld, looked down on her. “Don’t be sorry, ever, ya jameelati.” Then he gave in again, ending his own maneuver, giving her what she hadn’t asked for, gaining nothing for himself. “And don’t worry, either. Never fear anything when I’m with you. I’d defend you against anything.” And he would. Only because she was the key to protecting the throne of Judar, he insisted to himself. “My men will make sure those paparazzi have nothing to publish.”

“You mean they’ll…? Oh…oh.” Her eyes widened, the tears stagnating in them, making them gleam like jewels in the semidarkness. Then tears surged again, dejection replacing agitation in her expression. “Not that that makes me feel any better.” It didn’t? “The paparazzi probably saw far less than your men did.”

It took him a second to understand. She thought his men had witnessed all their intimacies in the gardens.

His outrage felt real even to himself when he growled, “You think I would have almost taken you if my men were all around?”

She blinked, tears receding, if not before two escaped, rolled down the velvet of her cheek. “They weren’t?”

“B’Ellahi…” He caught the drops of precious moisture in his mouth, kissed his way to her trembling lips again. “Of course not. I buzzed for them the moment the paparazzi appeared.” Which was as near the truth as could be.

This time she sagged in his arms, an exhalation wracking her voluptuous frame. “Thank God. I was mortified thinking they must have seen it all, how it must have looked to them even though it felt like magic to me…”

This was what had so upset her so much? The thought that others had witnessed their lovemaking, defiling the moments of magic with base thoughts and sordid projections?

Not knowing what to think anymore, he pressed her harder to his chest. She surrendered to his caresses for a long moment, then she stiffened by degrees, until she pushed out of his arms, sat up facing him in the prim pose of someone about to deliver an unpleasant message to a total stranger. It was her transparent features that betrayed her real emotions. Embarrassment, awkwardness, hesitation.

“We may have shaken them off, but now that you’ve deprived them of prime scandal material, they’ll be more rabid than ever. They’ll be waiting for us back at my place.” She suddenly groaned. “Listen, just drop me off at any hotel. I’ll spend the night there, then they can photograph me alone to their hearts’ content when I return tomorrow after work.”

So, the maneuver hadn’t led where he’d projected, was now backfiring. He had to improvise a course correction.

He took her hands to his lips slowly, made sure he had her trembling in his power again before he said, “I have a better idea. The night is still young and we can stall them until they believe you won’t go back. Have dinner with me.”

Her hand convulsed around the kiss he placed in her palm, her fingers digging in his jaw. He’d kept his eyes on hers all the time, watched as she capitulated under the surge of eagerness for more of him. He still waited until she gasped, nodded her consent. Then he opened the channel to his chauffeur again.

“Seeda. To the airport.”

“The airport?”

At her croak, Shehab smiled at her, slow and hot. “We’re going to have dinner on board my jet.”

Of course. Had she thought—if she could still count thinking among her brain functions anymore—that he’d take her to a restaurant, no matter how lavish, or even a yacht or a mansion, as any ordinary tycoon would have done?

He pulled her into a loose embrace and held her all the way to the airport, his hands cascading caresses all over her until she felt he’d scrambled her nervous transmissions forever.

The limo finally stopped and he got out, came around to open her door for her and almost had to carry her limp form out.

She looked dazedly around, realized they were beneath a giant silver-finished jetliner. The warm moisture of the night after the cool dryness of the limo sprouted goose bumps all over her, adding to her imbalance. She was thankful for his support all the way up the Air Force One–style air-stairs that led from the tarmac to the inside of the jet.

She’d been on private jets before. But none had come close to Shehab’s. Her father had been a mere multimillionaire who’d had two small jets, and his acquaintances had been on par with him. While Bill, who was as big a multi-billionaire as they came, had started out penniless and to this day couldn’t bring himself to spend a penny more than needed to fulfill his needs in terms of function and convenience. It was clear Shehab believed in fulfilling those same needs but spared no expense in pursuit of esthetics and luxury. She said so.

He smiled down at her. “I spend a good deal of my life in the air, and I travel with staff on many occasions. Also, I often don’t have the luxury of commuting into the cities I land in and have to conclude all my conferencing and entertaining onboard.”

“So you have to have a palace in the sky to do it in, huh?”

He raised one eyebrow. “That’s a strange chastisement coming from someone who inhabits the world of high finance.”

“Oh, I certainly don’t inhabit it. According to whichever of my skills is needed on a given day, I range between being the tarot card reader, the resident nag, the cleaning lady and the…uh…guide dog of the world of high finance.”

He tipped his head back and his laughter boomed, sending her heartbeats scattering all over the jet’s lush carpeting.

“Ya Ullah, will I ever even come close to guessing what you’ll say next?” He still chuckled as he led her through many compartments, where his staff hovered in the background, to the spiral staircase leading to the upper deck, all the time casting his enjoyment down on her. “So you consider this jet too pretentious? A waste of money better spent on worthy causes?”

Her lips twisted. “I think any personal item with a telephone number price is ludicrous.”

“Not when it’s a utility that enables me to steadily make hundreds of millions of dollars more, money I assure you I use in many venues that do serve worthy causes.”

Her eyes widened. “I remember now. Many of the global interests you have controlling shares in have varied, not to mention widely effective, aid programs. When I investigated your investment portfolio, I thought to myself, that Aal Ajman guy is trying to build himself a reputation as a philanthropist on par with Bruce Wayne…” She stopped when his laughter boomed again, then mumbled, “It’s a relief you’re invulnerable to the shrapnel that keeps flying out of my mouth.”

“Like Clark Kent, you mean? Very flattering, being likened to two superheroes inside two sentences.”

“I did think earlier you’d fill out one of their costumes very nicely…” She groaned, looked up at him helplessly.

His eyes told her how much he enjoyed her uncensored opinions, then his lips brushed her burning cheek. “I am beyond flattered. I want to be a superhero in your eyes, ya jameelati.”

Only reaching the upper deck stopped her from saying he was. He walked her across an ultrachic foyer and through an automatic door that he opened using a fingerprint recognition module. It whirred shut behind them as he guided her to one of the cream leather couches. She hit the plush surface, looked around the grand lounge drenched in golden lights, earth tones and the serenity of sumptuousness and seclusion. At the far end of the huge space that occupied the full breadth of the jet, a folding screen decorated in Middle Eastern designs of complimenting colors obscured another area behind it.

Shehab bent, brushed her temple with his lips. “This—” he gestured to a door at the other end of the lounge “—is the lavatory. Those buttons access all functions and services. Order refreshments or whatever you wish for until I come back.” He straightened up and turned away. Before she could run after him, demanding to be taken wherever he was going, he paused at the lounge’s door, added with a deep vocal caress, “I’ll rush back to you in minutes.”

She slumped back in her seat, closed her eyes for a moment before she took his advice, got up and headed to the lavatory.

She came out to find him waiting for her where he’d left her. She did a double-take, faltered, gulping air around a lump that materialized in her throat. He’d taken off his costume.

And no. He wasn’t naked. But he probably wouldn’t affect her more if he was. OK, he would, but it was bad enough now that she wasn’t ready to think how much worse it could get. And he was wearing only a simple white shirt and black pants. If anything about him or what he provoked in her could be called simple.

He smiled that slow smile of his, no doubt noting the drool accumulating at her feet. Then he extended a powerful hand in invitation. It felt as if it was by his will alone that she covered the space between them, unable to stop devouring everything about his relatively exposed grandeur, what she’d thought she’d imagined beneath his robes, in unmanageable gulps.

Reality again far outstripped her imagination. The regal shape of his head, the vigorous waves and the deep, dark gloss of his hair accentuated the chiseled sculpture of his face, deepened the hypnosis of his eyes.

She tore hers away from their influence and almost moaned. The breadth of his shoulders and chest had owed nothing to the obscuring clothes and was magnified now that they were covered only in a layer of finest silk. They, and his arms, bulged with power and symmetry under the cloth that hid and detailed at once, both actions wickedly tantalizing. His abdomen was sparse and hard, his waist narrow, as were his hips, before his thighs flowed with strength and virility on the way down to endless legs.

Magnificent was certainly no fitting description. He did far surpass her adolescent visions.

“Come sit down, Farah.”

She sat down where the tranquil sweep of his hand indicated. Before she collapsed. The way he said her name, the way he looked at her, the way he moved, breathed, just was—it was all…too much.

He followed her down on the couch, secured her in a seat belt, buckled his own, then turned away as he pressed a button on a remote control–like device. The engines, which she’d just realized had been on for a while now, revved higher and the jet started moving.

But she couldn’t even feel surprise.

She felt nothing but her blood freezing inside her veins.

As he’d turned away, she’d caught something in his eyes, something coming over his face.

A maliciousness. A ruthlessness.

Suddenly the ice fractured, and a geyser of alarm scalded through her.

She’d gotten on his plane with him, the plane that was now taking off for only he knew where, someone she’d met just hours ago, trusting him without question, that he was who he’d said he was, that he hid his identity for privacy reasons and not for sinister ones.

But what if she’d been wrong? All along? What if their meeting had more to it that she thought? That he’d targeted her for some reason? Being who she was, at first Francois Beaumont’s daughter, then Bill Hanson’s right hand, had been reason enough for people, especially men, to target her, each with their own agenda. And Shehab, if he was who he’d said he was, must consider Bill a rival, could have arranged the whole ball to find an opening to the unfathomable Bill. He might, like many others before him, think she was it.

Why hadn’t she considered this before?

Wait—wait…Had he expressed interest in her before or after she’d told him who she was?

God—why was she wondering? It wasn’t as if her identity was a secret. He could have come to the ball knowing all about her. Then she’d gone and given him the best opening to get her alone, to work his magic on her. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a man tried to seduce her to get to Bill.

But the glimpse of harshness she’d seen in his eyes…

Oh, God—it could be even worse. He could just be an all-powerful and jaded predator who liked to seduce and abuse women. But she’d thrown herself in his trap too easily, depriving him of the thrill of the hunt and he hadn’t wanted to act out his plans for her until he had her totally at his mercy…

He turned unfathomable eyes to her and she felt all her doubts congeal into ugly reality.

Whatever he was, whatever he intended, none of the past hours had been real. None of it had been for her.

How could she have thought he wanted her? No one ever had. How could she have thought he, of all people, could be at the mercy of such a brutal attraction as hers was to him?

Misery engulfed her whole. But she couldn’t succumb to it now. Whatever she did, she had to be very careful. She couldn’t let her suspicions show. At best she could corner him into an admission, make him turn nasty. At worst she could enrage him, make him show her his true face, make him—make him…

One cabled arm went around her shoulder, pulling her into his hardness and heat, his other hand gentleness itself as he cupped her face and turned it up to him, his eyes blazing with desire once again.

And she couldn’t bear it.

All her resolutions crumpled and she blurted out, “Please, stop. Whatever you want with me, please, just tell me what it is and get it over with.”

Four

Shehab stiffened at Farah’s words.

They could only have one meaning.

She’d realized he was playing her.

How had she suspected? He was certain he’d done nothing to give himself away. So what was it? Intuition? Or was she playing a counter-game of her own? If so, to what end? To have him on the defensive, ready to do anything to negate her accusation, tipping the balance of power in her favor?

But she was trembling in his arms, her eyes brimming with tears again, her breathing so erratic it made her breasts shudder against his chest. Not that she seemed aware of this, or the effect it was having on him even now.

Was she that good an actress? He’d known the best virtuoso improvisers and situation analysts who played out impromptu roles wholeheartedly. But he’d always had an infallible detector for insincerity. He sensed none from her now.

Whatever this was, it had struck him from a blind spot. He had to tread with extreme caution until he figured out what was going on. He must maintain the ground he’d won.

To do that, he couldn’t pressure her. Even if every instinct was telling him to crush her in his arms and kiss her until she was incoherent with need again.

He took his hands away from her, unbuckled his seat belt, rose to his feet. He struggled to empty his eyes of urgency, to infuse them with all the gentleness he could muster. “Farah, ya azeezati—my dear, I don’t understand anything. What’s wrong?”

“Please, stop acting.” She slumped forward, her spun-silk hair and hands hiding her face, her voice thickening with emotion. “I can take anything but that…”

He was at a loss. She knew he was acting. But he wasn’t, not when it came to wanting her. So what did she sense? Could she be so sensitive she could feel beyond his raging desire for her to his basic agenda?

It didn’t matter what she felt or how she’d come to feel it. Whatever it was, he had to divert her, lull her again.

“And I can take anything but your anguish,” he groaned, no longer knowing if his agitation was feigned or real. “Farah, B’Ellahi, mere minutes ago you were as elated as I was at being together and now… Arjooki—please tell me what went wrong.”

She raised streaming eyes, slamming into him with the force of a gut punch. “Everything. I saw it.”

His hand went to his midriff as if to ward off the pain. But he couldn’t afford to let go of her gaze. It would be like admitting his guilt.

He held out against the power of her hurt and accusation, groaned again, “Saw what?”

“Your face, your eyes, filling with…intent, harshness…I don’t know.” She shook her head, her hair undulating her confusion around her shaking shoulders. “But you’re not ‘elated’to be with me. You don’t want me…you’re just like everyone else. No one ever wanted me for me. Or—or it’s even worse…”

What had she seen? A stray self-congratulatory thought when he’d been prematurely celebrating his triumph?

Fool. He shouldn’t even think anything of the sort before he had her signature on all binding documents.

But her distress felt real. So was that the origin of her cold-as-ice, hot-as-hell persona? Not that he’d seen any evidence of her cold side himself, but he could see how she could have been pursued for all the wrong reasons. Sport, ambition, competition, all forms of exploitation. Had the incident he’d manufactured unsettled her so much that it brought back every unsavory situation she’d ever been exposed to, painting their situation, and him, with the brush of suspicion? Or had it only sharpened her hazy senses so that she felt he was pursuing her for reasons unconnected with her own desirability?

Suddenly he was sick of the whole thing. If her reputation had been unearned, as everything he’d felt from her so far kept insisting, if she’d been hurt by men’s perfidy before, he shouldn’t add to her injuries.

But what could he possibly do now? Confess his plan? He’d stood a chance of a favorable response if he’d told her who he was at the beginning. He would have at least gotten points for truthfulness. But he’d been so ready for deception as a necessity for success, he’d lost that chance. After all that had happened between them, all the lies he’d told her, she’d be incensed, might reject him with no hope of reconciliation.

What would he do if she did, when he couldn’t let her go? Kidnap her as she’d implied was one of the possibilities he’d seduced her for? Then what? Hold her hostage? Force her to marry him?

Just the thought that things could go so far had bile rising in his throat. He had to stop the situation from spiraling out of control. And he had only one way out.

She’d accused him of not wanting her for herself. That he could contest vehemently and sound sincere. For he was.

“You’re so wrong I would laugh if this wasn’t so distressing. I want you, Farah. I’ve never wanted anything or anyone like I want you.” He took a step toward her and she flinched. He flinched, too, stopped. “Ya Ullah, are you afraid of me?” Her eyes closed on a look of total confusion. And he rasped, “Am I paying the price for all of the people who tried to take advantage of you? But as you said, it’s even worse. I doubt you actually feared any of them.”

Her face contorted on emotions so clear it felt as if she’d shouted them in his mind. Mortification ruled them all.

But her tears were stopping. Then she hiccupped. “It was just-just—finding the plane taking off, that look on your face— and I scared myself with my own speculations…” She paused, gave him a hesitant, vulnerable look. “Do you really want me?”

He drove his hands in his hair in frustration he had no need to feign. “Can’t you feel it, in your every cell, setting your senses on fire, how much I desire you?”