by Lynne Graham
Excitement, raw, wild and overpowering, took her by storm. With every fevered kiss she hung on the edge of desperation for the next, crushing her thrumming body into the hard, lean heat of him for the closeness that every fibre of her femininity greedily craved. Her hands swept up and found his broad shoulders, dug in there briefly to trace the hard stretch of his taut muscles beneath the rich fabric of his jacket before convulsively linking round his strong brown throat, her seeking fingers flirting deliciously with the luxuriant black hair at the nape of his neck.
With a stifled groan he suddenly tightened his arms around her as he lifted her up against him, kissing her breathless with an intense urgency that stoked the flames of her arousal to unbearable heights. She clutched at him, knotting her fingers into his thick, silky hair, for he was the only stable influence in a whirling vortex of violent passion. He muttered something rough against her swollen mouth, momentarily stiffening as if to withdraw, but she held him there, kissed him again with the same raw, answering hunger that he had chosen to awaken in her.
He drew her down, down onto softness and support, crushing her quivering length just as swiftly beneath his superior weight. As he sealed his long, muscular body to hers the heat of desire washed over her with such strength that she burned, her hips arching up, her legs torturously confined in the clinging cloth of her caftan. His hand closed round her breast and she gasped, shocked by sensation, instinctively straining her swollen, seeking flesh upwards to meet that possessive hold.
Razul dragged his lips free of hers, staring down at her with blazing golden eyes, his cheek-bones harshly delineated beneath his smooth, sun-bronzed skin as he snatched in a ragged breath. He loosened his grip, ran a torturous fingertip over the shamelessly distended nipple poking against the fine silk barrier, sending fire shooting to the very centre of the throbbing ache between her thighs. She closed her eyes in an agony of excitement and shuddered as if she were in a force-ten gale.
‘I cannot do this,’ Razul breathed with subdued ferocity, abruptly pulling back from her and yet carrying her with him, his strong hands grasping her arms as he tugged her upright again. ‘To do this is to shame you, and I will not have regrets between us. You will come to me as my bride or you will not come at all!’
He settled her down like a doll onto a low divan. Bethany didn’t know what had happened to her. Her entire body felt as though it had acquired a life of its own, and right now it was screaming with a clamouring dissatisfaction which was cruelly unwelcome. In short, she ached—ached for a physical completion which she had never desired in her life before—and she sat there, struck dumb by sheer horror as her mind fumbled up out of the darkness of complete shut-down to reason again. And yet she did not want to think...
‘I always knew that your desire would match mine,’ Razul confessed with rough satisfaction. ‘Now you must acknowledge that too and be grateful that my control is greater...though in truth it was not that which restrained my ardour...the doors are ajar.’
Be grateful? Bethany sat there in the burnt ashes of self-discovery, her fire ignobly doused by a bucket of cold reality. She had never endured such a tumult of agonised emotion. She was seized by shame and loathing for both herself and for him. ‘Fatima...’ she whispered strickenly, and hung her head, wondering how any man could possibly reduce her to such a level of selfish, mindless insanity.
‘What has she to do with us?’ Razul demanded with savage impatience. ‘Do not speak her name to me again!’
How could he talk like that? Nausea stirred in her cramping stomach. She was so unbearably ashamed of her own behaviour. How could she have forgotten Fatima for one moment? How could she have? Feverish tears scorched her lowered eyelids as she scrambled upright. ‘You must let me go!’
‘You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met,’ Razul condemned harshly, frustratedly. ‘Why can you not talk to me? Why do I still meet the same silence? Are you so prejudiced against my race that you cannot listen to your own heart?’
The charge of racial prejudice hit her like a final intolerable blow. Bethany shot him a look of bitter reproach and took off as if all the bats in hell were on her trail.
Strangled sobs were clogging her throat when she found Zulema waiting for her on the gallery above. She rammed them back with every atom of fierce discipline that she possessed and lifted her head high, concealing the agonising strain threatening to tear her wide open.
How dared he bring her here...how dared he subject her to such an intolerable situation? He was stirring up feelings from the past—angry, disturbing emotions which she had thought had been laid to rest. It was her pride which was hurting, she told herself. Her stupid, childishly irrational crush on him two years ago was a memory which now made her cringe. That she should be forced back into contact with him again was naturally a. nightmare of mortification. It was like returning to the scene of the crime.
Back in her palatial suite of rooms, she paced the floor, too frantically strung up to sit down. She knew what was really wrong with her. She was still reeling with shock from the physical response that he had extracted from her, was barely able to credit that that wanton woman in his arms had been her. After all, that kind of physical stuff had always left Bethany cold. Even in the grip of infatuation she had assumed that the reality of any closer contact with Razul would pretty much match her distasteful grappling experiences with other men. But now she had learned the shattering extent of her own vulnerability and she was disgusted with herself.
How could she have allowed him to touch her like that...how could she have? Maybe it was her own fault, she thought grimly. She was a twenty-seven-year-old virgin...but that had never bothered her, never caused her the least discomfiture or regret until he’d landed in her radius! She had never felt the slightest bit repressed until he’d awakened those grossly uncomfortable feelings of curiosity and awareness two years ago. Only now did she face the fact that she must have denied the physical side of her nature for far too long when a married man could put his hands on her and make her behave like a sex-starved wanton!
In two long years Razul had not forgotten her...why? Good old-fashioned lust and the challenge that she had foolishly made of herself. In England Razul had laid siege to her as though he had been conducting a military manoeuvre. She had been deluged with flowers and gifts of expensive jewellery. A couple of months on campus had taught Razul exactly what most Western women expected from an Arab prince. She had returned the jewellery. But when she had failed to be impressed, had he given up and returned to more appreciative admirers? No way.
Whatever Razul had to fight for was one thousand times more desirable to him than what came easily. His shrewd intelligence and resourcefulness had come into play as he’d focused more on the kind of woman she was. An exquisite Persian kitten had landed mysteriously on her doorstep. When she had worked late at the library an anonymously prepaid taxi would be waiting outside to take her home again. He had invited her to the opera and to external lectures instead of discos and nightclubs.
And she had kept on saying ‘no’, ‘sorry’, ‘no’ and ‘no’ over and over again, pleading pressure of work and other social engagements, never once saying, until the very last, ‘I’m not interested...I’m not attracted to you...I don’t like you,’ because those had been lies—the most outright lies she had ever told. And the terrible thing had been that Razul had known that she was lying and had been bitterly angered by her refusal to recognise the fierce attraction between them. That was why he had not forgotten her.
She covered her face with unsteady hands, feeling as though her whole being was in wild turmoil, and it terrified her. How the heck could he do this to her? What was it about him that he could still get to her to such an extent? She was appalled by her own inability to think straight. And when she looked back on the conversation that she had had with him in that courtyard she was even more unnerved by the peculiarities of her own conduct. She had sat there trailing her fingers in that fountain and actuall
y talking to him! Was that rational behaviour? Why hadn’t she demanded her freedom in terms which could not be ignored? Why hadn’t she threatened him...got him by the throat...and told him that he was a kidnapper?
Her head was spinning over these inconsistencies. Somehow she had to make Razul let her go. She focused on that dark, driven frustration of his last words to her. Surely his own instincts would do the persuading for him? Whatever response Razul had expected to his proposal, he had not received it. Indeed, she had the extraordinary suspicion that Razul had actually believed that she might be flattered that he should have gone to such incredible lengths to bring her to Datar, especially when his manoeuvres were accompanied by the assurance of wholly honourable intentions.
Honoumble? The human male didn’t come much more basic than Prince Razul al Rashidai Harun. She had severely dented his ego when she’d rejected him outright in England. So in that immeasurably arrogant, obstinate way of his he had put together what he saw as a winning package which no woman in her right mind could conceivably refuse...marriage! He was insane. Apart from the obvious fact that she absolutely loathed him, could he not see the vast gulf of understanding and cultural indoctrination which separated them...why did he refuse to see it? She wanted to scream and tear her hair out at the same time.
Without warning the bedroom door burst open. Startled, Bethany focused on the ravishingly beautiful brunette standing on the threshold. She was wearing a fabulous lemon brocade suit which shrieked designer sophistication. Huge, lustrous brown eyes set above exotically tilted cheek-bones zeroed in on Bethany, and the pouting red mouth twisted into a vicious line of rage.
‘I am Fatima...’
Bethany was paralysed by a clutch of emotions, but horror rose uppermost. Razul’s wife. She couldn’t have opened her shocked mouth had her life depended on it. She wanted a large dark hole to sink into.
Fatima surveyed her with raw loathing. ‘Hair the colour of carrots!’ she spat. ‘You ugly English bitch!’
This was no poor, weeping, tormented woman, Bethany noted dumbly. In fact, there wasn’t a sign that there had ever been tears on that remarkably beautiful face. There was a look of such simmering violence and uncontrollable fury that Bethany actually feared a physical assault.
‘You think you can take my place...but let me tell you what Razul will give you!’ Fatima ranted, stalking forward. ‘He’ll give you a fake marriage, not the real thing! Mut’a...you’re so clever, you should know what mut‘a means. It is a marriage contract for a day, a week, at most a month or two. It doesn’t even require a divorce! Men use it to take the woman they want and then toss her aside again!’
Bethany had only a very vague idea of what mut’a entailed, and even though it was totally irrelevant she found herself thinking that she had not known that Dataris recognised temporary marriage contracts. Such agreements could satisfy the strict conventions of a society which condemned sexual relations outside the bonds of matrimony. Sin and shame were thus avoided. Even a one-night stand could be deemed respectable if it observed the rules.
‘Fatima—’ Bethany began painfully
‘You are shocked!’ Fatima rejoiced in shrill interruption. ‘You are also stupid! King Azmir would never permit his son to marry a Western woman under any other circumstances!’
‘Fatima...please forgive me for the pain I have caused you just by being here,’ Bethany pleaded tautly, no longer able to meet the brunette’s eyes, so deeply ashamed did she feel, even though she had not asked for the ghastly situation she now found herself in. ‘And please believe that I have no desire to marry your husband—’
‘My—?’ Fatima screeched.
‘Razul refuses to allow me to leave the palace!’ Bethany didn’t want any more distasteful screeching and rushed in to interrupt.
‘Refuses to allow...?’ Fatima sounded dazed, which Bethany could well understand since the woman obviously believed that she was here by free choice. ‘You do not want to be here? You do not want to marry Razul? I cannot believe this—’
‘Nevertheless it is the truth!’ Bethany broke in fiercely. ‘I want absolutely nothing to do with him. I had no idea that Razul intended to bring me here or even that he was a married man—’
‘Ah...’ Fatima’s pouting little mouth slowly set into a coldly malicious smile of comprehension. ‘This is why you wish to leave him.’
Bethany flushed hotly. ‘Only one of the many reasons,’ she stressed curtly.
‘If you truly wish to leave, I can easily get you out of the palace,’ Fatima informed her, with a glinting little smile. ‘The old women in our family still hide themselves behind the veil when they go out. Who could tell what lies beneath the chador?’
‘I would be very grateful for your help—’
‘I will make the arrangements.’
The brunette yanked open the door and loosed a terse volley of Arabic on Zulema, who was waiting outside. The girl cowered and then fell down on her knees, trembling as if she was terrified. With a most unlikeable air of malicious satisfaction Fatima walked out, leaving Bethany alone. What a bitch, Bethany couldn’t help thinking, and then she bent her head, asking herself what right she had to stand in judgement. This was not her world—oh, no, indeed, this was not her world, and the sooner she was out of it again, the happier she would be, she told herself fiercely.
Bethany was lying on a divan, glancing abstractedly through a glossy magazine, when she caught a disturbing glimmer of movement in the reflection of a tall mirror to one side of her and turned her head. Shock shrilled through her, her breath escaping her in a sudden hiss as she shot to her feet.
‘Try not to scream...’ Razul sent her a smile of raw amusement that acknowledged her astonishment. ‘These are the women’s quarters, and in honour of your reputation I should not be here—’
‘Damn right...you shouldn’t be!’ Bethany spluttered breathlessly. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’
‘SAS training. I crossed the roof and dropped down onto the balcony.’
She hadn’t heard a sound but then he had always moved with the silent prowl of a natural predator. ‘You could have broken your stupid neck!’ she snapped. ‘What do you want?’
‘Obviously I should have come at night and brought the chocolates,’ Razul sighed with lazy mockery. ‘You do not have a romantic bone in your body, Dr Morgan.’
Bethany flinched, her facial muscles tightening.
‘But we can work on that problem together. You ask why I am here... and I am tempted to ask, Are you joking?’ Razul drawled. ‘You retreated at speed from a serious discussion.’
‘I made my feelings quite clear,’ Bethany said shakily.
Razul shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-cut trousers and elbowed back his jacket, displaying the solid breadth of his chest and the taut flatness of his stomach, not to mention the now sleekly defined lines of his lean, muscular thighs. Colour ran up into her cheeks, her tongue sliding out to moisten her dry lips in a darting motion.
Eyes of vibrant gold flicked to her, catching her in the act of appraisal, and his innately sensual mouth curved with instantaneous recognition. Dense ebony lashes screened his eyes down to a smouldering sliver, returning her gaze with earthy masculine amusement. ‘When you have not got the restraint to prevent yourself from visually ravishing me, how am I to accept these extraordinarily confused feelings you insist that you have made clear?’
Another tide of hot pink surged up beneath her fair skin. ‘I was not—’
‘You were,’ Razul slotted in silkily. ‘You watch me as I watch you. Green light...but then red stop-light. It infuriates me...and right at this moment it makes me want to throw you down on that bed and release that promise of passion again, until you sob against the exquisite torture of my lovemaking and beg me for that ultimate fulfilment. After that experience I seriously doubt that you will again offend my hearing with the lie of your lack of interest.’
Standing there, wordlessly entrapped by the dark, in
tensely passionate lure of him, Bethany was pretty doubtful too. Her colour fluctuating wildly, she backed away from him, her skin hot and tight as it stretched over her quivering nerve-endings in involuntary response to the electrifying sizzle of raw sexual awareness now churning up the atmosphere.
‘I don’t deny that...that there’s a certain attraction between us,’ she heard herself confess between gritted teeth, feeling herself under threat and ready to make that one concession if it held him at bay.
‘This is very sudden,’ Razul derided.
‘I b-beg your pardon?’
‘You finally admit the truth, but it is no longer enough.’
Rampant frustration filled her. ‘What point is there, then, in admitting such a truth?’
‘A crumb from the table when I want the whole loaf?’ His sensual mouth hardened as he sent her a swingeing look of scorn. ‘I want everything you have to give...and then more. I do not stand at your door like a humble suitor. I will take what you seek to deny me. I will possess you as you have never been possessed, and when it is over you will never forget me...this I promise you!’ he swore in a biting undertone that sent tiny chills of fear rippling down her rigid spine.
She had thought that finally acknowledging that attraction would satisfy him. Instead, for some reason, that admission had inflamed him. ‘What could we possibly have in common?’ she demanded starkly.
‘You are innocent indeed if you do not know that there are more exciting things between a man and a woman than similarity.’
‘No! I know all about that kind of excitement!’ Bethany slung the assurance at him in disgust as she spun away, her entire body thrumming with the strength of her emotional turmoil. ‘And it’s not for me.’
She was painfully well acquainted with the sort of violent sexual attraction which could spring up between radically different people. It had happened between her parents. Her irresponsible, utterly self-centered and vain father had waltzed in and out of her childhood as and when it had suited him: when another relationship had broken down, when he’d been short of money, out of work or simply wanting home comforts for a while. He had been far too clever to get a divorce. And her loving mother had kept on opening the door, forgiving, trusting, always ready to hope again that this time he would be different and he would stay.
