Desert Princes Bundle

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘This, of course, is the trouble with modern women,’ he said witheringly. ‘They wish to devour the feast without tasting the food—like snacking straight from the fridge—and, pray tell me, where is the pleasure or the enjoyment in that?’

  It sounded like a reprimand—indeed, it was a reprimand. Sorrel stared at him, hoping that she was hiding her hurt feelings, but she found herself blurting out words of reproach. ‘You can’t expect me to be an expert on these matters, Malik.’

  ‘No.’ Bizarrely, he found himself wanting to kiss her—even though she had not prepared herself for him. And despite his reservations, and his certainty that he should send her away to bathe, Malik gave in to his desire. ‘Come,’ he commanded, and pulled her into the warm circle of his arms, her handbag falling to the floor as her face turned automatically up to his, like a flower to the sun. ‘Come let me kiss you,’ he murmured, his lips driving down on hers with a raw hunger which was outside his experience.

  She tasted of elderflowers and she smelled of lilacs and her trembling body sang of her purity—and Malik found himself trembling too, as her mouth opened beneath the seeking insistence of his.

  ‘Oh, Malik!’ she breathed, her arms flying up uninhibitedly to his neck, coiling around him as you sometimes saw a sleeping snake coiled around the charmers in the heat-dazed market square of Kumush Ay.

  She pressed her body eagerly against his, so that her soft pliancy was moulded against the hard contours of his, and Malik could scarcely breathe—for he was taken aback by the openness with which she offered herself. For one split second he imagined her honeyed warmth and tightness, and the hardness of his body felt too close to torture to be bearable.

  He could take her here and now. Kiss her into an easy submission and lay her down on the carpet. Why, he would not even need to undress her—because none of his aides would dare enter until he gave them permission. He could push up that filmy gipsy skirt and rip off her panties and…and…

  ‘Malik!’ she breathed once more.

  He gave a little moan and pushed her away from him, glaring as he released her. ‘What did I just tell you?’ he demanded.

  Dazedly, Sorrel stared at him. Now what? She’d thought he’d been enjoying the kiss as much as she was. ‘Did I…did I do something wrong?’

  ‘Yes! No!’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘These are supposed to be exercises in sensual restraint—a slow build-up to eventual delights—not that…that frenzied demonstration.’ A demonstration which made his own lovemaking boasts sound distinctly hollow. The best lover of all? Why, he had responded like an eager schoolboy!

  Abruptly, Malik turned away and stalked down the corridor towards the vast salon. Sorrel stared after his angry back for a moment, before deciding that there wasn’t a lot of choice other than to follow him.

  Lost in thought, he stood staring out of the window, at the dancing sea which was coloured inky and indigo by the night, except where moonlight topped the waves with little slicks of silver. He heard the sound of her footsteps, and he steeled himself to demonstrate the fine balance between control and need which would be necessary for him to conduct this somewhat unconventional liaison.

  Arrangements must be put into place—and quickly—because they would be leaving for Madrid almost immediately.

  ‘There are many preparations which need to be made,’ he said softly. ‘But not tonight. Tonight you need to go to bed.’ Reaching out, he traced the pad of his thumb over the shadows beneath her eyes, meeting the startled look which darkened her blue eyes and shaking his head in answer to her unspoken question. ‘Alone.’

  A hurt look which she managed to twist into a wry smile curved Sorrel’s lips as she left to retrieve her handbag. She very nearly said So what else is new? For hadn’t she spent the whole of her life alone?

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NEXT morning, Sorrel wondered if she had dreamt it all. Malik gate-crashing her party and then whisking her away from it and telling her that he would teach her everything she needed to know about love. But then she touched a finger to her kiss-bruised lips and knew it had all been real.

  She’d woken with the scent of the Sheikh on her skin—tasting him on her lips—and she shivered as she showered herself with a brand-new self-awareness. As she pulled on her underwear and fished out the one long silk Kharastani tunic she’d brought to England with her she wondered if she was doing the right thing.

  But who could she possibly ask?

  There was no one. She was—and always had been—a lone agent. Even when her parents had been alive she had felt very much in the background. They had loved her as best they could—but had been consumed by their passion for foreign culture and the adventure of exploring inaccessible terrain.

  She looked around the rented flat. In a neat pile on the desk was her passport and a few papers. Her clothes filled two suitcases, and a bag of rubbish containing a few yoghurts and some mouldy fruit was waiting to be dumped in the bin outside. Not much to show for her newfound and independent life, was it? And any minute now…

  The doorbell trilled and Sorrel went to open it. Another aide, most probably.

  But it was not an aide. It was Malik himself. And it was Malik looking like the man she knew—dark, elemental man of the desert, more at home on horseback or holding out one iron-hard arm to greet the returning falcon.

  Gone was the immaculate Western suit he had been wearing yesterday—today he was in traditional Kharastani attire. A flowing tunic, made from the very finest silk, which shimmered as he moved and hinted at the hard body beneath. He looked as out of place on the doorstep of this very English building as a bird of paradise would appear if it landed in the centre of a city square.

  ‘Malik,’ she breathed.

  ‘I see that you are dressed more appropriately today,’ he murmured—and yet wasn’t it typical of human nature that you always wanted what you hadn’t got? Yesterday, he had been outraged to see those long, slender thighs on display, and yet today, when they were demurely covered, he found himself missing them.

  Sorrel smoothed a rueful hand down over the flat of her hip. ‘It’s the only one I’ve brought with me. It’s very old.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that.’ He frowned. ‘But you had the services of the palace dressmaker—why did you not use her more?’

  Sorrel met the narrowed black eyes. ‘I did not feel it was appropriate.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Would it sound pathetic if she told him that she hadn’t felt comfortable about dressing up for palace events? ‘I was there as a functionary, Malik. To blend into the background, rather than stand out from it.’

  Such an unassuming point of view had simply never occurred to him—even before he had acceded to the throne. Other than his lovers—all of whom would have had the dressmaker working for them non-stop—Malik had known few women. His mother had died in childbirth and he had been fussed over by the palace servants, but there had not been any one continuous role-model figure. If he had been asked to select the woman he had been closest to he would have plumped for Sorrel—but now it seemed that he did not know her at all. Did that go some way towards explaining her sudden transformation in England? A woman who had paid very little attention to fashion suddenly being thrown in at the deep end of modern culture?

  Malik scowled. Why was he wasting his time worrying about it?

  ‘Whilst your modesty is admirable, you will need a new wardrobe for the trip. You will be in effect, a kind of female ambassador for Kharastan.’

  ‘I will?’

  He nodded. ‘For too long our international standing has been open to criticism. The view has been that our women are oppressed—and one of your tasks will be to demonstrate otherwise.’

  ‘You’re rather supposing that I don’t go along with that view myself?’

  Black eyes bored into her. ‘And do you?’

  Sorrel shook her head and sighed. How much easier it would be if she did. But, in a way, she could see that women had room to
flourish in a culture such as Kharastan. It was true that you couldn’t go around wearing a mini-skirt—but Sorrel had witnessed for herself just how much trouble that could get you into. It didn’t matter if you went around declaring that women had the right to show their legs—men were programmed to react in a certain way if you did!

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said. ‘Although I’m not saying that Kharastani society is perfect—’

  ‘No society is,’ he put in, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth—until he remembered that there were three cars sitting outside waiting and that Fariq would be glowering in the way he’d been doing ever since Malik had expressed the desire to have Sorrel on the trip. ‘But we are wasting time.’

  He had taken a step towards her, and in the cold, bright light of the morning Sorrel was suddenly fearful of his dark look of sexual stealth. She took a step back. What the hell had she allowed herself to be talked into?

  ‘You…you mean…I’ve got to go shopping?’

  His hand reached out to capture her tiny waist and he snaked her towards him. ‘Shopping?’ he laughed softly. ‘I think not—or do you imagine that the streets of Brighton could supply the best that Kharastan has to offer? No, Sorrel—you must not worry about clothes.’

  Rubbing his finger reflectively at her waist, he thought that a body like hers worked best with no clothes at all. But would that not be part of the thrill for him—to have a woman he was forced to wait for? To anticipate, rather than have something offered to him as easily as breathing. He felt her shiver beneath his touch, and he smiled. ‘I have already ordered what I want you to wear.’

  Pleased to have something to distract herself from the tantalising promise of his touch, Sorrel stared up at him. ‘How can you have?’

  ‘The royal dressmaker has drawn you up a traditional wardrobe, but with a modern twist.’

  ‘I still don’t understand, Malik.’

  ‘Well, the dressmaker knows your size—she has your measurements on file.’ Black eyes roved with slow and almost insolent approval over her slender body. ‘And you do not look to me as if you have gained any weight.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe lost just a little. I can see that I shall have to feed you, Sorrel—for we Kharastani men like our women to have some shape to them.’

  Sorrel shook her head impatiently. He was being deliberately obtuse. ‘The clothes are ready now?’ And, when he nodded his affirmation, ‘How can they be ready, when I only agreed to accompany you late last evening?’

  ‘Because I made up my mind that I wanted you several weeks ago.’

  Her heart flared with a hope which rapidly became pain as she reminded herself that he was talking practically, not sentimentally. ‘But what if I hadn’t…agreed?’ she said slowly.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders and didn’t attempt to hide the arrogant complacency of his smile. ‘I knew you would agree,’ he said. ‘You see, I always get what I want.’

  Sorrel felt the alarming missed beat of her heart—anger that he had so cleverly manipulated her, but also that he appeared to show no regret for having done so.

  ‘And what would you do if I told you that I have a will of my own?’ she demanded heatedly. ‘That despite the agreement made last night I have changed my mind? What if I told you that I intend to walk out right now? What would you do then?’

  ‘Why, this,’ he murmured hungrily. ‘I would do this.’ And he lowered his mouth to hers.

  She wanted to fight it—she tried to fight it—her fists hammering redundantly at the muscular wall of his chest as she turned her head away from the hot and tempting brush of his mouth. Spurred on by his teasing little laugh, she tried to wriggle away. But the movement became something else entirely—bringing her into contact with the unmistakable hardness in the very cradle of his groin.

  Her eyes widened into saucers, like an old-fashioned doll her mother had given her as a child, and she turned once more and met the mockery in his.

  ‘Yes, Sorrel,’ he said softly, watching the slow realisation dawning on her face. ‘You can feel me. Feel how hard I am for you. How I could now—were I to wish it—take you in the most fundamental way possible.’ He saw the flare of colour which darkened her cheekbones. ‘But that is not my intention. This will be a slow and wonderful awakening—and while we may have disagreements along the way none of those will impact on your sensual education. Come, kiss me.’

  Their lips were now so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath. Such a short distance—but psychologically it was a huge leap into the unknown. Sorrel knew that he spoke the truth—that he always got what he wanted. Yet she also knew that Malik might be an autocratic ruler, who governed a distinctly male-dominated society, but even he would not have dragged her back and kept her prisoner if she really had wanted to walk out.

  If she’d wanted to walk out…

  How could she possibly do that? She had crossed some invisible line and there was no going back.

  ‘Kiss me, Sorrel,’ he urged, and for the first time a note of unashamed yearning darkened his voice.

  ‘Oh, Malik.’ Instinctively she held the moment, and then gave in to it, sinking against him as if in slow motion—the soft sweet temptation of his lips contrasting with the hardness of his body and the overpowering sense of having sealed her fate.

  His lips teased hers open, with the tip of his tongue lightly flicking to and fro and setting alight the flicker of desire. She could feel it building as he continued to tease her, while his hands tangled luxuriantly in her hair, using it to draw her towards him, closer into the apex of his body.

  It was as if he was orchestrating her movements by using some powerful and unseen force. How else did she seem to know what was required of her? Was that stifled little cry of hunger hers? And why were her hips circling against his like that, so that he groaned in response? She wondered if he could read her mind—because how else did he pick up her silent plea of protest that he deepen the kiss? Yet she felt torn when his tongue entered her mouth—because one answered prayer quickly became another, and she wanted more. Oh, much more.

  ‘By the desert storm!’ he ground out.

  He let her go. Abruptly. A fast-shuttering movement of his eyes the only outward sign that he was disturbed. For a moment he did not move nor speak; he did not dare. One word or one touch and he would forget everything he had told her about restraint and waiting and lessons and demonstrations of his finesse. He wanted her as no other!

  Because she is pure, he reasoned—not the glossy breed of woman you usually gravitate towards because they always give you what you want, with no questions asked and no demands made.

  Sorrel opened her eyes, aware that her breathing was laboured and so was his. His eyes glittered as if he had a fever, and his skin was flushed beneath the olive glow. For a split-second she read the desire which fired out from beneath the heavily hooded black eyes—but in a moment it was gone, and in its place the habitual watchfulness which made people around him so wary.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, wanting the passion back again. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  ‘You are an eager pupil,’ he declared unsteadily.

  For the first time she began to realise that maybe she’d made the most stupid bargain of all time. By agreeing to be tutored by Malik wasn’t she in danger of consigning herself to a life where every other man would just fall into the imposing shadow of the Sheikh? For how could anyone else ever come close to making her feel the way he had just done in his arms?

  ‘And you are an expert teacher,’ she said.

  He ran his eyes over her critically, knowing that the dreamy expression which still softened her flushed features was not fitting—not in these particular circumstances. She must learn that his position meant that different rules had to be in place—that she must be prepared to snap back to normality at a second’s notice. To walk out to the waiting limousine as if they had been doing nothing more blameless than talking about their schedule.

  ‘Go and wash your face and
brush your hair,’ he instructed, more roughly than he had intended, and to his consternation he saw her wince in response and lower her eyelashes to hide her pain. But didn’t she realise that the smoky, come-hither look in her eyes was making him ache so badly that he wanted to just send the car away? To take her to bed as if they were just a normal man and woman who were allowing themselves the pleasures of the flesh?

  Of course she doesn’t realise, he told himself sternly. For she was innocent not only of men, but of the power of her own allure—and he must teach her how to channel it.

  He touched a finger to her chin. ‘Sorrel?’ he said, in a voice which for him was almost gentle. ‘Look at me.’

  She blinked away the hint of rogue tears as she lifted her head to meet his gaze, wondering what she had done wrong—what had made him speak to her in that rough, impatient way. ‘I do not please you,’ she said dully.

  In that one moment he wanted to forget the whole deal. He did not want to make her doubt herself. He wanted back the Sorrel that he knew—the intelligent and spirited woman he had watched grow into a beauty. But he had made the deal now, and she had bewitched him into wanting her—he would never be satisfied until he had known her intimately. Maybe making love to her would obliterate the relationship they had known—but that was a risk he had to take.

  ‘You please me more than you could imagine,’ he said softly. ‘But I cannot just submit to desire when it takes me. I have a duty to fulfill and an image to maintain. And I must keep up my guard and my composure around the team who work for me. Sex weakens a man, Sorrel, and I cannot allow myself to be perceived as weak—not in any way. And that is why you must learn to switch your passion on and off.’

  ‘As suits you?’

  He shook his dark head. ‘As suits us both. For—just as I need always to appear invulnerable—you too need protection. If we make it apparent that you are mistress to the Sheikh then we give my enemies ammunition with which to wound me.’