Secrets of the Oasis

by Abby Green

  Jamilah could see the village now, down far below in the crevasse of a deep valley. Mountain springs kept it verdant and lush, and it was like a tiny green pocket of paradise within a lunar landscape. It was only as they got closer that Jamilah saw a Jeep waiting and felt the first prickle of suspicion, but she told herself she was being ridiculous.

  When she got out a driver was waiting, and he helped her into the Jeep. They were heading for the village, but she couldn’t see any villagers, or any children waiting for their treats which she always brought. She reassured herself that it was late, dusk was closing in. These valley people were traditional and had probably retired for the night.

  But before they got to the village itself Jamilah saw a tent set up by a palm tree and a picturesque pool, set back in its own enclosure. It was the kind of tent that was set up for Nadim whenever he travelled into the country. Her skin prickled ominously when the driver stopped the Jeep outside it. She got out, and at that moment heard the helicopter taking off into the distance.

  Before she had a chance to register the significance of that, someone stepped out of the tent. Someone tall and dark and imposing, dressed in ceremonial Merkazadi robes. As if she didn’t already know…Salman.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE jeep was already turning around and heading away. Jamilah stared at Salman, and an awful yearning rushed through her. Even though she’d seen him just the day before, she’d missed him. And a wild excitement was making the blood rush through her veins. She wanted to walk up to Salman and hit him and kiss him all at the same time. The sheer gall of his gesture made her breathless, but its sheer romanticism made her weak with longing.

  Damned if she was going to let him know. She had to resist him—had to. For, as surely as night followed day, he intended to walk away from her again and she would never get over him. Not now. How could she when she now knew the secret behind his dark essence? His vulnerability?

  She hitched her bag on her shoulder, eyes spitting blue sparks at him, and Salman felt curiously weak for a moment. Jamilah had never looked so beautiful. In worn jeans, a shirt and boots, no make-up, and her hair slipping out of its ponytail to curl in long dark silky tendrils around her face. Since he’d seen her last it had felt like a century.

  She hitched up her chin and said frostily, ‘I presume that there is no horse in labour?’

  He shook his head, jaw clenched, and folded his arms.

  ‘So you’re kidnapping people now? Pretty inventive for a hedge fund manager. But really you should save your ingenuity for someone who wants to be kidnapped by you.’

  Salman’s insides clenched at her blistering tone, her obvious reluctance to be here, but he couldn’t let her walk away. He needed her too badly.

  Jamilah turned and started to walk away, into the village. ‘I’m going to get a horse and ride back to Merkazad if I have to. It’ll only take a day or two.’

  She was grabbed from behind, her bag falling to the ground, and before she could emit a squeak of protest Salman had carried her bodily into the tent, which was lit with a hundred small lamps, imbuing the luxuriously furnished surroundings with a decadent feel. And right in the middle of the tent stood a low divan, covered in satins and silken throws. It was a seduction scene straight out of a movie.

  He put her down and she whirled around, feeling her hair come undone completely. ‘Will you stop doing that!’

  Her heart was careening wildly against her breastbone, but Salman just said calmly, ‘The chopper will come back in three days. As will the Jeep. And you won’t attempt to get a horse from any of the locals as they’ve been instructed not to let you have one.’

  Three days!

  Shock and something much more like panic made Jamilah say shakily, ‘Why on earth would you want to isolate us here for three days?’

  Salman’s jaw clenched. ‘Because you’ve denied us three days by your theatrics, refusing to come back to the castle.’

  Guilt lanced her at her own cowardly behaviour even as she said cuttingly, ‘I run the stables, Salman. It’s hardly theatrics to want to be near to where I work. That’s where I live.’ Sheer panic that he could wield such control over her and her emotions made her lash out unthinkingly, ‘And could you be any further from the stables here?’

  Salman paled in an instant, and immediately the words were out Jamilah felt contrite. He stepped back and she put out a hand. ‘Salman, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  He backed away, and conversely Jamilah wanted to pull him to her. He ran a hand through his hair and laughed curtly, harshly. ‘You’re right, though. It’s pathetic. I couldn’t even last a minute in that place.’

  Jamilah walked up to Salman and took his hand. She said softly, all rancour gone, ‘No one could blame you—not after what you were forced to do there.’

  He looked down at her, his eyes two pools of dark shadows. ‘I don’t know if I prefer you spitting and hissing and resisting me or like this, full of pity.’

  Jamilah shook her head, her hair slipping over one shoulder. ‘I don’t pity you, Salman. It’s not pity…it’s empathy.’

  He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. Feeling completely exposed, Jamilah couldn’t help but respond, and flames of passion were not far behind. When the kiss was fast developing into something much more urgent and carnal Jamilah somehow found the strength to pull away. Breathing harshly, she put her hands on Salman’s chest and leaned back. ‘I won’t do this, Salman. I told you in Paris that it was over. I won’t be your convenient plaything just because I’m here and it’s easy.’

  In two seconds he had taken Jamilah’s face in his hands. His mouth swooped down on hers again, all softness gone, hard and hot and demanding. She could feel his straining body move sinuously against hers and had to lock her hips to stop herself from responding. Damn him—and her immediate response. She finally wrenched her mouth away. Her hands were still fists on his chest between them.

  ‘Does that feel easy to you?’ he demanded throatily.

  ‘You can’t use sex to avoid questions, Salman al Saqr, and I will not stay here with you for three days.’

  ‘Believe me, if you showed no signs of wanting me then I would have no problem leaving you alone. Women who don’t find me desirable have never turned me on.’

  Jamilah could have laughed—as if such a woman existed!

  ‘So…what? You’ve put a time limit on this desire? Is that it? Three days and we will have exhausted ourselves and burnt it out?’ Even the thought of three days indulging in such a thing made her quiver inside.

  Salman smiled and it was wolfish, sending skitters of anticipation down Jamilah’s spine. ‘In three days I’m hoping that we will be exhausted, yes. And perhaps some semblance of sanity will be restored—because one thing is certain: I haven’t felt sane where you’re concerned for a long time.’

  It was suddenly important for her to know something. ‘That night…the night in Paris six years ago…did you go out with that woman as you said you were going to?’ Even now the poisonous image of the red-headed siren inserted itself with savage vividness into Jamilah’s brain.

  Salman slowly shook his head, and his hands relaxed a little on her face. She could feel him brush a lock of hair away from her cheek. His body was still welded to hers and his arousal was insistent. ‘No…I never saw her again—except through work. And, believe me, she didn’t take kindly to being let down.’ His mouth thinned, as if it pained him to be admitting this. ‘I actually went out that night and got blind drunk. The one and only time in my life.’

  Jamilah pushed herself free of his hold and stepped away, turning around so he couldn’t see her face. Emotions erupted in her chest. She knew he wouldn’t just say this, knew that he would not lie—why would he need to? He’d been crueller than anyone she’d ever known, so why wouldn’t he hesitate to give her the truth if he had slept with her? This revelation was inserting itself into a very vulnerable part of her, smashing aside another piece of the wal
l she’d erected around herself to keep out all hurt and feeling. He kept doing this—kept turning her memories of what had happened in Paris on their head, telling her that there had been so much more to it than the banal yet cruel rejection that had fed her anger for so long.

  And she hated him for it, because she was sure that it cost him nothing to admit this. That he was completely unaware how seismic this admission was to her. She whirled back around to face him, willing herself to be strong.

  ‘I won’t give you three days, Salman. I feel sane enough for the both of us, believe me. This is pure indulgence on your part. You’re bored and frustrated because for once in your life you’re not getting what you want and you simply can’t handle it.’

  He moved towards her, and with big hands closing around her waist he pulled her to him. She could see anger flare in his eyes at her defiance. ‘Your refusal to see me as anything but a feckless, petulant playboy is growing wearisome, Jamilah. This goes far deeper than such superficial emotions, believe me.’

  She stood stiff in his embrace. But her conscience struck her. She knew well that she could no longer label him as such. He was far from the shallow playboy everyone believed him to be. She threw her head back, determined not to let herself succumb to the three days of bliss she knew only he could promise. It would be all too easy for her to hope for more, to believe that perhaps things were different this time round.

  She ignored the provocative sight of the luxurious bed nearby. ‘Well, what else am I supposed to think when you use your powerful position to get what you want?’

  Her words struck Salman somewhere deep inside, and he fought not to let the emotion she aroused to show on his face. But the fact was this: he’d never had to go to so much trouble to get a woman into his bed before. He’d never been so consumed by a woman. His heart beat hard; that wasn’t true. He had once before, and it had been this woman.

  There’d never been a moment when she hadn’t occupied some corner of his mind, when he hadn’t been aware of her. He could see that now. Growing up, he’d felt guilty as a young man, being so aware of how her young, firm body had been developing and maturing. The day he’d left Merkazad she’d been sixteen years old and he’d touched her cheek, when in actual fact he’d had to battle a desire to kiss her.

  ‘I want you, Jamilah. That’s all that matters here. We’re alone. Miles away from civilisation.’

  He couldn’t know how seductive those words were—how many times she’d woken from hot and tangled dreams in which he’d come back to Merkazad and whisked her away for exactly such illicit pleasure.

  Suddenly sounding eminently reasonable, and not at all passionate, Salman stepped away and said, ‘Night has fallen outside.’

  Jamilah blinked stupidly, and could see through the gap in the lavish drapes that night had indeed fallen. Stars twinkled in a clear sky and a half moon glistened. Night creatures filled the air with their chirrups and sounds. And she hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘You must be tired and hungry. Why don’t you wash and we’ll eat?’

  He said this as if he hadn’t all but kidnapped her—as if they were not in some remote and magical part of Merkazad—but as if this were entirely normal. She watched as he walked over to the far side of the tent and picked up a gold-embossed box. He put it on the bed and turned to her, saying with a rough quality to his voice, ‘I brought you some things to wear.’

  The audacity of his statement made her melt inside while it also stiffened her resolve not to give in to this arrogant and autocratic game of his. ‘I won’t be wearing any clothes other than my own, Salman. This is ridiculous. I’m not your mistress.’

  Her mouth thinned. ‘But I am hungry, and I am tired. And clearly I’m stuck here for the night now. I’ll wash and eat, and then I’m going to bed—alone. In my own clothes.’ Belligerently she said, as she got her bag and made for the curtained-off washing area, ‘I don’t know where you’re going to sleep tonight, but the least you can do is let me have the tent.’

  Salman’s eyes flashed, and she thought she saw his mouth quirk as if she amused him, but before she could respond to the fresh anger mixed with panic spiking within her he said smoothly, ‘I’ll arrange for one of the girls to come and help you, and for dinner to be served.’

  Jamilah shut her mouth and all but fled to the washing area, which was lit with the light of a hundred gently flickering candles. Her heart ached in her chest as she was momentarily transfixed by the scene. In any other circumstance she would long for just this scenario. It came fully formed out of her fantasies. But not now, and not like this, with this man. And yet…her heart ached even harder…with who else?

  He might want three more days with her, but what else might he demand? He wasn’t done with her. And she certainly wasn’t done with him. And yet all this fighting her response to him was exhausting. His notes and that incendiary phone call had taken a lot more out of her than she wanted to admit to.

  Just then she heard a sound, and a young, shy Bedouin girl came in, dressed from head to toe in black. She started filling the ornate bath and gave Jamilah a robe to change into. Jamilah was aware of the feminine ritual even though she’d never been indulged like this before. This kind of thing was usually reserved for members of the ruling family—the Sheikha and the Sheikh’s mistresses.

  Her blood ran cold. Was she Salman’s mistress now? For this was exactly how a mistress was treated, wasn’t it? Flown in to meet him, bought clothes, wined and dined, washed and readied for his pleasure. Disgust curled low in her belly even as something much more treacherous made her blood grow hot. There was something so inherently decadent and sexy about this ritual, and it called to a deeply secret feminine part of herself that she’d never acknowledged before. She hated to admit that.

  The girl had prepared the bath, and the scent of exotic oils rose to make Jamilah’s skin tingle all over. She stripped and put on the robe, barely noticing when the girl took her bundle of clothes away and said she’d be back presently. Too seduced not to be able to respond, Jamilah groaned softly as she slid into the perfumed satiny water. She never indulged herself like this. For such a long time she’d subjugated any kind of feminine luxury. For a second she forgot her tangled emotions and her anger at Salman: this was pure bliss…

  Salman had come back into the tent momentarily, to see that the dinner preparations were being made to his specifications. He’d been pacing while staff scurried in and out. Now they were gone while they prepared the hot food. He heard the gentle movement of the bath water in the curtained-off corner of the dimly lit tent, and to imagine Jamilah there now, naked, was almost more than he could bear.

  Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to help himself, he walked over to the screen. He could hear her soft moan of pleasure, the splash of water, and his body tightened unbearably. Through a chink in the screen he became transfixed when he saw slivers of Jamilah’s body—the swell of her pale olive-skinned breasts with those dusky nipples. Her elegant shoulders. A tendril of wet hair sloping down to one bountiful curve.

  Jamilah stilled in the water for a moment, soap between her hands. Someone was watching her. She could feel it. But she couldn’t call out. She felt a kind of paralysis grip her, and suddenly didn’t want to break the spell that seemed to be weaving itself around her. She knew it was Salman. She could sense his presence a mile away. And to know that he was watching her through the screen, illicitly, was the most erotic thing she’d ever felt.

  Suddenly she had power in her hands. She had him at a disadvantage. She knew there was no way he’d come to her like this, while they might be caught, but still she could sense his eyes on her in this secret and brief moment. With a hitherto non-existent feminine pride and confidence she soaped her body, trailing her hands up each arm luxuriously, before soaping her shoulders.

  With her eyes half closed she washed her breasts, and imagining Salman watching sent her arousal into orbit. Her nipples were already tight and hard, and when she ran her hands over them s
he couldn’t stop the faintest mewling sound coming from her throat. She was meant to be teasing him, not herself, and yet…she couldn’t stop.

  His provocative notes from the past few days came back to her: Do you touch yourself when you think about me? Are you hot now? Are you wet and aching for me? I dreamt of you last night and woke up hard, wanting you…

  Unaware of the spell she was binding around herself, Jamilah let her fingers trap one nipple, squeezing the hard peak so that a flame burst to life in her belly. Her other hand drifted down over her belly, under the water, to between her legs. To where the water lapped against her hot and slippery flesh.

  It was only when she heard something that sounded like a strangled moan and then more noises that she came out of her sensual reverie, shooting up to sit in the bath, suddenly mortified and burning up all over. What had just happened to her? She’d been as good as starring in her own X-rated video! And all because she’d thought Salman had been watching. He probably hadn’t been—it could have been anyone! Oh, God, Jamilah thought, what had she turned into?

  Just then she heard the girl return, and Jamilah practically jumped out of the bath, grabbing the towel out of the girl’s hands. Too mortified to look the young girl in the eye, she hunted around for her clothes, but they and her bag were gone. She asked the girl where they were and she blushed prettily, saying that the Sheikh had told her to wash Jamilah’s clothes and to give him her bag. She said, ‘The Sheikh has left some clothes for you…’ Immediately Jamilah thought of that glossy box and its connotations.

  When the maid indicated to Jamilah where there was an array of scents and body lotions, Jamilah said, more curtly than she’d intended, ‘I don’t need any of that. I just want my own clothes.’