by Kim Lawrence
Where Tariq was concerned she had no sense full-stop!
‘I just can’t keep up with you!’ she raged, giving vent to her frustration. ‘First you don’t want me to marry Khalid. In fact you’ll do anything to stop me. Then suddenly you’re moving heaven and earth to try and get us married off. A few hours ago,’ she yelled, ‘you couldn’t get out of my bed fast enough. Now you jump on a plane and follow me halfway around the world to kiss me—sorry, more than kiss me. I don’t know if I’m meant to be flattered, but I know I’m confused!’
Tariq listened to her impassioned speech and watched the emotions flicker across her tear-stained face, his own expression unreadable. For several seconds after she stopped he didn’t move, just stood there, his dark eyes boring into her. Then without a word he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he opened, smoothed the crease and held out to her.
Beatrice took it warily and glanced down. She found herself looking down at the snapshot taken on the beach in France.
‘I have not been acting totally rationally since the moment I looked at that photo.’
Her eyes flew to his face. Don’t let yourself think that, she cautioned her hopeful heart. If he ever had any feelings for you he’ll never forgive you for tricking him.
‘It’s true. Do you know it never occurred to me for one moment to question which woman my brother had fallen in love with? I found no problem believing that my brother would fall in love with you, because I could easily imagine it happening to me.’
The raw emotional intensity in his throbbing voice froze her to the spot.
‘I was bewitched by you before we even met, and when we did…’
‘You hated me.’
He shook his head. ‘I wanted to. For a time I convinced myself that everything I did was to protect Khalid. But the fact was my motives were far less selfless and noble. I was forced to recognise my actions for what they were and I was ashamed. I tried to put things right as a penance—I suppose to assuage my guilt. Thanks to me, Khalid almost lost his life and you the man you loved…or so I thought,’ he added heavily.
He extended his hands to her, and after the slightest of hesitations Beatrice took them. She felt the warmth and strength of his fingers as they curled around her own.
‘I was jealous.’
Beatrice swallowed, emotion congealed in her throat. The admission from this proud man was something she had never imagined she would hear.
‘If I couldn’t have you I didn’t want anyone else, especially my brother, to have you,’ he admitted, with a frown of self-condemnation. ‘And to make the situation worse you didn’t oblige by being the mercenary, cold-hearted little opportunist I had convinced myself you were. You lost no time showing me how wrong I’d been by rushing around winning hearts, saving children… Yes,’ he said seeing her expression, ‘Sayed told me about that little adventure.’
‘He was your spy?’
‘He was my critic once he fell under your spell,’ he retorted grimly. ‘But even I had to stop pretending that you were not the marvelous, warm and loving woman you are when I saw your reaction to Khalid’s accident.’
Her heart lurched. ‘I’m marvellous?’
‘You, my little love, are totally in credible.’
‘What did you just call me?’ she whispered.
‘You can’t be surprised.’ His own father knew he was in love with her, so it seemed impossible that she hadn’t had an inkling—because according to his parent he had been incredibly obvious.
‘Nobody has ever called me little before.’
One dark brow lifted. ‘And has anyone ever called you my love before?’
‘They haven’t, and I’ve never wanted to be anybody’s love before,’ she admitted almost shyly.
He gave a fierce smile. ‘And now?’
Beatrice looked at him with a clear gaze. ‘I want to be your love, your lover…’
The hot triumph that flared in his eyes was mingled with relief. ‘And my wife?’
Beatrice stared, the blood draining from her face. ‘You’re proposing to me?’
He looked amazed that she could even ask. ‘Obviously.’
‘Not to me. You’ve only known me for a few weeks, and for most of that time you were either hating me or trying to marry me to your brother!’
‘We have fitted a lot into a few weeks,’ he said drily. ‘I once believed that a person could choose when they fell in love, and with whom they fell in love. I know now I was an arrogant idiot.’
‘You really want to marry me?’ Of course it was out of the question—his father would never countenance such an unsuitable match—but the fact he wanted to was what mattered to Beatrice.
She’d be his lover, his mistress—she’d be whatever he wanted so long as it kept her near him. Right now the details weren’t important. The only thing that mattered was the utterly amazing fact that Tariq loved her.
‘I’ve never had a real family. I’ve never been the most important person in someone’s life—’ She stopped as her voice became suspended by emotional tears.
Tariq’s heart twisted in his chest as he thought of the lonely little girl who had never had a family. The lonely little girl who had grown up and learnt to hide her vulnerability behind a smile and a strong persona. ‘You are now, and you have a family.’
Beatrice gave a sad little smile. ‘I have you and that’s all that matters to me. The marriage thing—well, it’s not terribly realistic, is it, Tariq?’ He’d probably be relieved that she had realised this. ‘If your father wouldn’t agree to a marriage between me and Khalid, he’s never going to agree to us.’
‘I already have my father’s permission.’
She blinked like a bemused owl. This was the last response in the world she had anticipated. ‘You have?’ she ex claimed. ‘That’s… Oh, no,’ she said, starting to shake her head.
‘You don’t believe me?’ Tariq didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. ‘Where do you think I went when I left you?’
‘But you were angry…disgusted with me for tricking you.’
‘It is never easy on a man’s pride to see he has been made to look a fool, but there were other more important things on my mind at the time. I had made love to you with the intention of wiping out the memory of your other lovers, only to discover there had been no other lovers.
‘You were an innocent. I was still reeling from the knowledge that I was your first lover, that you had given me something precious. I wanted to make things right. When I went to see my father I was not in the mood for an argument, but I was expecting one,’ he admitted. ‘His response came as something of a surprise to me.’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘He agreed?’ she said wonderingly.
‘He insisted. He appears to have given the matter some thought already, and he plans to take some of the weight of responsibility from my shoulders so that I can spend some time producing the grand sons he expects us to provide.’
‘Babies…’ Beatrice, who had not thought that far ahead, lifted her dazed face to Tariq.
Smiling, he watched the rosy flush spread across her face. ‘Do you like the idea?’
A smile spread like the sun, illuminating her face. ‘I love the idea,’ she admitted. ‘But I still don’t under stand. I was actually quite rude to him.’
Tariq looked amused by her confession. ‘You must tell me about that one day. But just now I have an urgent and compelling need to hear you say you’ll marry me.’
Beatrice reached up and took his face between her hands. ‘I love you, Tariq Al Kamal, and I want more than anything to be your wife. But are you totally sure,’ she added with a worried frown, ‘that this is a good idea? I have a habit of saying the wrong thing, and—’
He placed a finger on her lips to still the flow. ‘I want a wife, not a diplomat,’ he chided. ‘And I have no problem with you speaking your mind. You can say whatever you like, so long as one of the things you say is that y
ou love me.’
‘I think I can manage that,’ she admitted, looking at him with a love shining in her eyes that spoke louder than any words.
‘So that is settled,’ he said, sliding his hands down to her bottom and pulling her to him. ‘Enough talking. If I don’t kiss you right now I will expire.’
‘People don’t die for lack of kisses,’ she teased, running a loving finger down the strong curve of his cheek.
‘I wouldn’t like to put it to the test,’ Tariq admitted as he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. The laughter died from his eyes as he scanned her face and added, ‘I could live without you, Beatrice. But it would be only half a life, and I would not be a whole person.’
She was touched too deeply for words by his declaration, and tears of emotion flooded Beatrice’s eyes as she raised herself up on tiptoe and pressed her lips tenderly to his.
‘You are the best person I know,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ve always taken pride in not needing anyone, but now I’m proud I need you. Take me home, Tariq?’
‘To Zarhat?’
‘My home,’ she said simply, smiling at the discovery, ‘is where you are.’
KEPT FOR THE SHEIKH’S PLEASURE
Lynn Raye Harris
CHAPTER ONE
DR. GENEVA GRAY was asleep in her tent when the ruckus outside awoke her. Last night she’d fallen into bed so exhausted that she’d not undressed. Consequently she had nothing to pull on except her shoes before she stumbled outside in the pre-dawn darkness to see what the commotion was.
A group of riders in traditional desert garb whirled their mounts through the encampment, poking into bags and boxes and upending all the work the team had done in the last several days. Genie cried out as a box broke open and precious artifacts spilled onto the sand.
One of the men on horseback looked up sharply at her cry. A moment later he spurred his horse forward. Genie was riveted to the spot as the horse pounded toward her. It was like a dream, where she was being chased by a huge monster and couldn’t seem to move. Her heart thudded, her brain screamed for her to run, but her feet wouldn’t work.
Until he was nearly upon her.
Her feet came unglued and she spun to dash behind one of the tents. Behind her, the horse’s hooves churned up the sand, coming closer and closer. She managed to duck under a tent flap, then stood and listened carefully for any movement outside. The horse circled the tent. Genie crossed to the other side and waited until she could hear the horse opposite before she made a run for it.
People were screaming and yelling in the night—male voices speaking English, Arabic and Egyptian. If she could just get to one of the Land Rovers she’d be safe. The keys were usually inside—who would steal a Land Rover in the middle of the desert?—and if she could start one up she could use it as a weapon against these intruders. At the very least she could help some of her team to escape.
She could see the cars glinting in the increasing light as she ran.
Almost there, almost there…
Genie had her fingers on the door handle when she was ripped backward and hauled up against a wiry body. Sharp, warm steel rested in the hollow of her throat, and a man spoke in an Arab dialect that it took her a moment to place.
When she did, the pain of bittersweet memories and regret flooded her. She barely had time to remember before everything went black.
She did not know how far they had traveled, or how long she had been unconscious, but when Genie awoke she was surrounded by sound. Soft, lilting sound that grew more excited as she opened her eyes and blinked. A face came into view, hovering over her. And then another.
Women, she realized, with a profound sense of relief.
The women urged her up, then took her to a basin filled with fragrant water. Despite her protests, they undressed and washed her, then refused to let her put her own clothes back on. Instead, they produced a sky blue robe and veil made of silk and tissue and embroidered with gold thread. Genie gave up and pulled the garments on, since hers seemed to have disappeared in the interim. She was thankful, at least in some respects, for the soft material against her skin instead of the coarse cotton of her work clothes.
“Where am I?” she asked, once she’d finished.
But the women could only shake their heads and speak in the dialect she’d earlier recognized as Bah’sharan.
Could she be in Bah’shar? That thought terrified her—and not because she was a prisoner here and had no idea when or how she would escape.
No, it terrified her because of a man. A man whose memory she’d been running from for the past ten years.
The women gave her food and water and left her. By the time they returned at least an hour had passed. They formed a phalanx around her and herded her toward a big goat-hair tent in the center of the cluster. She had no choice but to pass inside. The tent was large, with ornate carpets blanketing the floors and walls. Men in traditional desert garb reclined on the floor, lounging against tufted cushions. A servant moved between them, filling cups from a hammered copper pot.
One of the men began to speak as they walked in. Genie’s attention was riveted on him, because he seemed to be talking about her. He was old, with stained teeth and graying hair, and he addressed another man who sat a little higher, and whose place seemed more ornate than the others surrounding him.
Genie followed the old man’s hand gestures from her to the other man—
Her heart stopped. Time stood still. The man on the dais gazed at her indifferently, his black eyes and handsome face so cold and hard that she might not have recognized him if she hadn’t known him so well.
Used to know him, Genie.
She hadn’t seen him since college. She blinked, wondering if her eyes were fooling her—but no, it was Zafir.
He was still as exotic and compelling as that last day she’d seen him. The day he’d shattered her heart with the truth. She took a halting step forward. Could she possibly face him again? She had to. Her freedom—maybe even her life—depended on it.
She took another step, but one of the women grabbed her robe from behind and held it fast.
Desperation drove Genie forward. Zafir was her salvation, her hope. He would not harm her—not again. He no longer had the power to hurt her the way he had years ago. For that she would need to love him. And she most definitely did not.
Genie ripped the veil from her head.
King Zafir bin Rashid al-Khalifa did not care for surprises. He especially didn’t care for surprises like this. Many of the desert chieftains still clung to the old ways—he expected that, and he expected to be given gifts they deemed worthy of his station as their king. He’d even expected to be given women, though he did not desire to start a harem. And he’d always known how he would deal with it since to refuse would cause insult.
Later, he might not care whether he caused insult or not. But right now, with his reign so new, he needed these sheikhs to stop feuding and unite behind him. The future of Bah’shar depended upon it.
Yes, he’d expected women. And he’d expected he would take them back to the royal palace and give them jobs in his household. What he had not expected was a woman who clearly did not belong here. A woman who made the past crash down on him like an imploding building.
He blinked, but she did not fade away. She stood with her chin thrust up defiantly, her veil clutched in one hand while the other women melted away.
Genie Gray—here in the flesh. The one woman he’d thought understood him.
She hadn’t, of course. He’d been taken by her beauty and intelligence, and by the life he’d led for a brief time in an American university. He’d let himself forget that he was a prince of the desert. She had never forgotten.
His gaze slid over her. Her hair, which had always been the color of new copper, was now cropped shockingly short. A memory of him winding it around his fist while he made love to her in his apartment came to him. He shoved it away.
Surprisingly, the short hair suit
ed her—made her seem more feminine rather than less. Heat uncoiled inside him, but he ruthlessly stamped it down. They’d said all they’d needed to say ten years ago.
Sheikh Daud Abu Bakr didn’t seem to realize at first that his prize had removed her veil. When he did, however, he began to lumber to his feet.
Zafir stopped him with a word. He wanted them all gone before he confronted this particular djinn. “I accept your gift, Sheikh Abu Bakr.”
The old man sat back down with a huff. No one said anything else. There was nothing more to say. Zafir waved them all away. They rose and made their bows before filing from the tent.
Genie stood in the same spot she’d occupied since she removed her veil, her gray eyes huge as she watched him.
Zafir leaned back against the cushion. “Well, Genie, what brings you to Bah’shar? I seem to remember you refused my invitation once.”
“We were on a dig,” she said, ignoring the jibe. “Across the border. Our camp was overrun and I was taken hostage. I have no idea what happened to the others.”
“Ah, so it was work. Of course. I should have known.”
Work. With her it was always her work. He’d offered her so much more—a life with him as a cherished companion—but she’d refused. He should have known she would do so. He could still remember the look in her eyes when he’d explained why he couldn’t ever marry her.
He’d lived in America long enough to know better, but he’d been convinced she loved him. Convinced that she understood—that she would give up everything and come with him.
Her expression hardened. “Yes. Important work. I—”
“Do not worry,” Zafir said, cutting her off. “I will find out what happened to your people and make sure everyone is well.”
A breath huffed out of her. “Thank you.” She twisted the fabric of the veil between her fingers, her eyes dropping away from his for a moment. “And how is your wife?”
“I’m sure you mean wives,” he said coolly. Yes, he’d had to tell her that his father had arranged a marriage when he was a child and that he was expected to honor the agreement. It had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with duty. She hadn’t understood.
