by Leslie North
Casey shook her head. “It’s not the story my editor wants—but…well, maybe I can do something with it. Maybe it’ll buy me time.”
Khalid gave her a tight smile. “Time is what neither of us have. My father persists in asking us to set a date for the wedding.”
Waving a hand, Casey said, “Tell him—next month. Pick a date. And we’ll either have a huge argument right before the wedding, or…” Her words drifted off.
“Or?” he asked.
“Or I’ll just fly off back to the states, and you can be the wounded guy left at the altar by the flighty American.”
Khalid frowned. For some reason, that did not sound all that appealing. Was it just because his pride would be wounded to be left by a woman? He glanced at Casey. He had spent most of the week with her, but that seemed far too little time. Yet, he had gone through other girlfriends even faster. So far, he had never felt bored with Casey. He was enjoying himself with her, he had to admit.
And he also had to admit, he wanted her in his bed.
That must be it—he did not want her to be the woman who escaped him before he had enjoyed a night with her.
Well, a trip to the reserve might be just the thing to help her gain a new story and help him seduce her.
It took an hour to reach the reserve, and Khalid told her how his father had set family land aside to create the reserve. “It’s an amazing place, and my father has been pleased that it both protects the land and animals and has been a boon to tourism. It is my father’s hope he can expand the reserve to do more to breed endangered species. And these are the gates into the reserve.”
8
Casey had to admit the Sharjah Desert Reserve was more than impressive. Once they entered the reserve, she rolled down the window and pulled out her cell phone to get photos. Arabian Oryx, with their long horns, grazed in the distance on scrub grass. Falcons soared overhead. It was late enough in the day that the scorching heat had passed, and the desert breeze had a touch of cooling nip.
From her background research, she’d read that the sultan ruled with an iron fist, leaving his sons to be irresponsible party animals. But this showed another side to the family—it seemed as if they took their responsibilities to their county seriously.
She also had to admit that the people of Sharjah loved Khalid.
She had seen respect in the eyes of those she had met in the street, and she was well aware that no one would have answered her questions if Khalid had not been with her, urging those she met to treat her with respect. He’d given her amazing access to his culture. But that still wasn’t a story that would please her editor and break a story that needed to be told about the dark side of this world’s repression of women.
The road widened and Khalid pulled up in front of an imposing square building made from the rose-colored desert stone. A sign noted it was the Sharjah Natural History Museum. Another sign pointed to a wildlife center.
Shutting off the engine, Khalid asked, “Where would you care to start?”
“How about you pick?”
Khalid laughed. “For once, you allow me to lead—and at a time when I would rather you pick.”
“Fine. Wildlife first—it’s getting dark, then museum.”
“Ah, but many of the wild animals wake at night.”
Rolling her eyes, Casey lifted her hands. “Okay, then museum first. Is this how you end up getting your way so often.”
His smile warmed. “Having my way with you is an easy thing to desire.”
Cheeks warming, Casey wondered if there was something else under his words. She ducked out of the vehicle and headed up to the museum, trying to ignore that flash of heat—and her body’s interest.
So far she’d done great at keeping Khalid at arm’s length. If he kissed her again, she wasn’t going to bet on her being able to say no to him—and she wasn’t so sure she was going to get out of this pretend engagement with her heart intact. Khalid was charming, handsome—and a sultan’s son. There was no way he was ever really settling down with a Midwestern girl like her. She didn’t fit into his world, and he…well, she was just going to keep telling herself that he wasn’t her type.
But she kept thinking about having a wild fling with him.
Khalid seemed to know the place quite well. He led her on a tour of the museum that lasted a couple of hours and covered every kind of animal to be found in Sharjah, including reptiles and insects she’d just as soon avoid to the birds, fish and elegant Oryx.
“It is my father’s pride that we have a large heard of Oryx—they were hunted almost to extinction, much like your American bison.”
Leading the way into an aviary—a lush garden area, Khalid asked, “Are you hungry?”
She hadn’t thought about it, but realized now that she hadn’t eaten all day. “I could eat,” she replied.
Taking her hand, he led her out to a patio area under the stars. Lanterns lit the area, and awnings flapped in the cool desert breeze. Thick, red pillows had been placed around a low table, which was set with candles and plates. “Tonight, we dine in the traditional way.”
Khalid led her to one of the pillows and gestured for her to sit. He sat on the pillow next to her, his legs tucked to one side. Waiters in robes came out with basins, towels and urns of water so they could wash their hands. From somewhere, she heard a band tuning up the traditional instruments—flue of some kind, drums and a stringed instrument. They began to play a slow, haunting melody.
As the food began to arrive, Khalid explained the dishes—ouzi, a baked lamb with rice and lqeimat, a sweat bread smothered in chopped dates and honey—and spoke of how his father was using this place to demonstrate how Sharjah could become more sustainable by planting an organic garden and using advanced irrigation and ways to pull water from the dew in the air.
“I wish him to build a desalination plant, but my father insists that is too expensive.”
“You and he—you don’t see eye to eye on much. Have you ever thought you’re too much alike?”
Khalid frowned. “No—he is all business.”
“And you’re all pleasure. Because you don’t want to be like him—is that it?”
His frown deepened. He shook his head and smiled. “The talk grows too serious. Let’s have entertainment.” Straightening, he clapped his hands.
Women came out to dance, but not in the costumes she would expect. Instead of flashy belly dancers, two women in veils and striped robes came out to sway to the music. Another two women came over to Casey and sat next to her, spreading out what looked like brushes and paste of some kind.
“Henna,” Khalid said. “A bride must be decorated. My father will be pleased to see you wearing henna on your arms. And don’t worry—it lasts only a few weeks and then washes off and slowly fades.”
Casey gave her arms over for the designs, and then the woman gestured for her to change position and give them her feet as well. They giggled as they worked, Khalid fed her dates and she leaned back, swept away by the beauty of the stars and the music.
This had to be a dream—not reality. Here she was dining with a Sheikh, the dusty gold walls turning dark as the sun set and the moon rose. She closed her eyes and let the women work on their designs, the brushes tickling at times and somehow seeming soothing, too. And then the music stopped. She sat up.
The women had left them, the meal was done. Khalid stood over her, a hand held out to her. “Come home with me.”
She hesitated only a moment, and then put her hand into his.
9
He watched his beautiful supposed bride-to-be walk into the palace carrying her boots, her feet bare and decorated. Quietly, they wandered up the stairs to her room. For once, she did not shut the door on him but left it open. He closed it behind him and leaned against it.
Casey glanced at him and smiled. Slowly, she began to unbutton her shirt, dropping it to the floor. Her painted hands and arms seemed elegant to him—the designs swirling as she moved.
She
laughed and said, “This stuff itches.”
He came over to her and took her hands. “You cannot wash it off until the morning. But I know a remedy—honey.”
She shook her head. “Seriously?”
Heading into the suite’s kitchen, he found the jar of warm honey on the table and came back to her. Coming up to her, he drizzled honey over her arms, put down the pot and then began to lightly smear the thick liquid over her skin. She smelled like honey now, and he did not resist the urge to lift her hand to his lips and suck on her fingertip.
She gave a small gasp. “That feels….wonderful.”
“I know what will feel better.” Leading her to the bed, he stripped back the covers. He swept her up and stretched her out on the white linen. She arched her back, unbuttoned her shorts and wiggled out of them.
“So practical,” he said, running a hand over her soft cotton bra, trailing his fingers down to her cotton briefs.”
She smiled and shook her head. Her hair fanned out around her face. “No, practical would be tossing you out. Now, shut up and show me just how you got that reputation for being a great lover.”
He started with her feet, drizzling honey over her toes and rubbing it up her legs. The henna left few places for him to lick, so he settled for teasing touches to the souls of her feet and to the inside of her ankle, left temptingly bare.
Getting up, he stripped off his shirt and came back to her to straddled her thighs. “Enjoy,” he told her. He drizzled honey onto her stomach and licked it off. She gave another gasp as his tongue touched her skin. She seemed as warm as the desert now—as open as any flower to the rains. Reaching around, he unhooked her bra. She wiggled out of her too practical garment and threw it aside.
“You should be in silks,” he told her.
“How about nothing?”
“That would be even better.” Getting off her, he stripped quickly. She wiggled out of her panties and lay sprawled on the bed, legs parted. Golden hair curled at the junction of her thighs and lower belly, more dazzling than the henna patters on her legs and feet and hands and arms. He came back to her, put two fingers into the honey and began to draw patters on her breasts, swirls of golden liquid.
She didn’t say anything but arched up as if begging for more. Done with his designs—and out of honey—he leaned over to trace the patterns he had drawn with his tongue. Desire for her swept through him, hotter than the Sharjah sun. He licked her skin, swirling his tongue around her hardening nipple. He was hard, too—and his erection brushed over her thigh.
Moving lower, he kissed her belly, and then dipped his fingers into the honey and pushed them into her. She parted her legs wide and moaned.
Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight that fell into her room from the French windows. He kissed her neck while he slid two fingers deeper, mixing the honey with her own wet need. Pulling his fingers out of her, he kissed her. Hard. She moaned into his mouth and wrapped her arms around him.
But he was not done with her.
Lifting up, he shifted his mouth to her lower lips and sought out the honey he had painted on her. She arched and grabbed at his shoulders. Her fluids mixed with the honey in a heady sweetness. He lapped at her, tugging on her clit, licking her, pushing his tongue into her until she cried out and clutched at him.
Sitting up, he pushed her legs wide and positioned the head of his shaft at her opening, rubbing along her slit.
“Condom,” she muttered, her voice thick and slow from her own release.
He shook his head, but stood and went back to his pants to search for one. Thankfully, he had just one tucked into his pocket. He tore it open, his fingers shaking slightly—and that was new. No woman had ever had him so aroused, so in need. With a low growl of frustration he at last got the condom rolled on and came back to her, falling on her like a dying man on water. He slid into her as if she had been made for him—for him and no other man.
With a low, long hum, she wrapped her legs around him.
Holding onto her hips, he pulled out and thrust into her again.
“Yes,” she gasped, clutching at his shoulders, digging in her nails. She tightened her legs around him as if she must pull him into her.
And that was what he wanted—to be lost in her. To lose the world and have nothing but her. He could only hear her ragged breaths, could only feel her heart pounding. Closing his eyes, he let the world fall away until it was just his body joined to hers. Their breaths—rough and uneven—becoming one.
Her body jerked beneath him and she cried out.
With a growl, he pushed deeper into her and his own release swept through him in wave after wave.
He was shaking still as he rolled off her and pulled her close to him. She wrapped one leg over him, muttering, “I think I smeared my henna.”
Bending down, he kissed the corner of her mouth. She gave a sigh and her breathing deepened into sleep.
But he could not find his rest. He was starting to wonder if his words to his father of falling in love at first sight had been the truth.
10
As was his habit, Khalid woke early. He left Casey sleeping. Honey stained the bed linens, but Casey’s henna seemed intact, protected by the honey. That would please his father—and Khalid frowned at the thought.
Why was he so focused on only what his father wanted? Was Casey right? Was he too much like his father? Was that why they always clashed? Khalid had thought it was because his father would not give over any responsibility to anyone—but was it really that Khalid was just as stubborn, just as set in his ways?
He had much to think over.
Heading to his room, he showered and changed. He wanted coffee—he wanted to eat breakfast off Casey’s naked body, instead he was ambushed by his brothers Zaid and Ahmed in the hallway.
“Father wants to see us all,” Zaid said. He looked unusually serious, even for Zaid.
With a shrug, he followed his brothers into his father’s study.
The sultan sat behind a huge glass and steal desk—business for the sultan was always about Western ways and thought. Khalid resisted looking at the portrait of his mother that hung opposite the desk, the only decoration in the room. Her lost still hurt, still left a twist in his chest.
Facing his father, Khalid asked, “What is this about?”
French windows opened onto the garden and let in a still cool morning breeze and the scent of flowers. Standing, the sultan smiled and waved to the slim, tiny woman that Khalid only now noticed, sitting in a corner of the room. “This is about a wedding. About a husband for Fadiyah.”
As if on cue, Mehmood stepped into the room from the garden and moved to the sultan’s side. “Which of you will marry my daughter?”
Khalid fisted his hands and shook his head. “I am engaged already.”
Mehmood waved off his words. “Not you. I would not have you for a son if you came with your weight in gold.” He faced Zaid and Ahmed. “Now—which of you is to marry my daughter?”
Casey woke and stretched. It’d been a long time since she’d had that great a time with any guy. Okay, maybe she’d never had that great a time. She might have been more willing to keep dating if she’d known sex could be that explosive—that amazing. Sitting up, she saw Khalid was gone already. No surprise there.
Even so, her heart gave a small lurch.
“Get used to it, girl,” she muttered.
She headed for the shower. The henna was itching again and she intended to wash it off. She also needed to get her head on straight again.
She’d always been career-focused. She was not going to throw it all away for what? A fling? No way was Khalid a forever kind of guy. No, she was going to be practical—just like he had said she was.
Last night had been great.
Last night had been one night.
She was not going to make this a habit. She was not going to fall in love. This was all pretend—fantasy. She glanced at the diamond glittering on her finger, and scrubbed harder at the
henna.
The rough coating came off, leaving behind red swirls that wouldn’t come off her skin. She was stuck with that. Getting out, she toweled off. Her phone was buzzing, so she checked the messages. A couple of texts from her sister—and five from Luke, all of them pushing for her to send him more.
Need that article as of yesterday if you want to keep your job. Frowning, she texted back that she’d meet her deadline—and get him more background material. But his texts bothered her. Luke seemed more pushy that usual. Was something up on his end? Was the business down? Was he looking to use her article to boost next month’s edition?
Well, it didn’t matter. Her focus needed to be that article anyway.
Throwing on some clothes, she avoided looking at the rumpled bed since it left her thinking too much of Khalid. The room also smelled of honey, leaving her even more determined to get out of here and stop thinking about him—and how great last night had been. She’d head downstairs to get some coffee, breakfast and some work done. Grabbing her laptop, she slipped out of the room.
She had plenty of places to choose from for working and coffee—the kitchen, the dining room, and maybe a hundred other rooms. But it was still cool enough that the gardens beckoned. She ignored that small voice that was whispering that maybe Khalid would be there, waiting with breakfast for her.
Stepping into the lush gardens, she followed the path to the same spot she’d been before, where she knew she’d find a wrought-iron table and chairs. But instead of Khalid being there, a slim, dark-haired woman sat on one of the chairs, her back stiff and her hands folded in her lap. The sultan didn’t have any daughters, so who was this?
Well, no matter—she wasn’t going to intrude.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.” Casey started to turn away. But the woman looked up, and Casey froze. She knew that face. This was the woman Khalid had been about to marry.
Fadiyah had dressed in casual Western clothing—a long, dark brown linen skirt and a white, button up blouse. She sat with a scarf in her fingers and seemed to be wadding it up and then smoothing the patterned silk. She also looked unhappy, her dark eyes huge and sheened by unshed tears and her mouth pulled tight. Standing, she faced Casey. “My father plans to marry me still to one of the sultan’s sons. My wishes do not seem to matter.. But you…you stopped my wedding before. Can you help me?”
