Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Marsh, Susan

  ‘What’s wrong with your name?’ Raffa asked, apparently deciding to play it straight for a change. ‘Though in A’Qaban you would be known by an A’Qabani name, of course. You would be free to choose something you like—something you think reflects who you are as a person …’ He narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment. ‘Atija, for instance.’

  ‘Does that mean stubborn too?’ Casey said wryly, remembering the shawl Raffa had referred to as his atija.

  ‘You might find out one day … if the conditions are propitious.’

  ‘Propitious?’ Casey scoffed, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe you’re interested in progressing this fantasy. Aren’t I supposed to be the fantasist and you the realist?’

  When Raffa shrugged and raised his brows in infuriating challenge, Casey knew she had to stop this before it got out of hand and she started believing it. ‘You’ve known me—what? A week?’ she reminded him.

  ‘How long does your rule book say it takes to fall in love?’

  ‘My rule book?’ She sighed. They both knew her experience prior to A’Qaban was nil. And as for love—how could Raffa make light of love? He was discussing it as casually as he might have discussed any other statistic with her.

  ‘I know you rather well from your personnel file,’ he continued, as if all this was for real. ‘And I know you even better from our close association over the past few days.’

  You could say that, Casey silently conceded.

  ‘You’ve been put to quite a few tests,’ he reminded her.

  ‘That’s as may be—but I don’t know you.’

  ‘What does your heart tell you, Casey?’

  Her heart? No way. Her heart had never been her best advisor.

  ‘How did you feel when you discovered you couldn’t fly home?’

  Relieved. ‘Anxious.’ She’d go with that. Anxiety was her safest option.

  She should have known Raffa would challenge her right away.

  ‘Anxious? That doesn’t sound like you, Casey. When something goes wrong you find a solution. You don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself, or … anxious.’ He mocked the offending word.

  ‘I’m anxious now because you won’t let me go.’ She stared pointedly at his hard-muscled arms, currently lodged either side of her face, while his fists rested against the tree trunk.

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ he argued softly. ‘I think you rather like it …’

  ‘No, I don’t …’ She did. She adored having him look at her this way. All she wanted was for Raffa to want her as much as she wanted him.

  ‘How did you feel when I brought you here?’

  Elated. ‘I was really glad the children could have their art equipment right away.’

  ‘Now at last I believe you,’ he said, pulling back. ‘Was that a sigh of disappointment?’ he added.

  She couldn’t afford to be so careless about her feelings when Raffa was around. ‘It was a sigh of relief,’ she informed him briskly, brushing her arms to remove the imaginary handprints he had left. The truth was he hadn’t even touched her, but had held her in front of him by sheer force of will. And because she had wanted to be there, Casey admitted silently. She had been waiting … okay, hoping, for a deservedly punishing kiss—one she could really have a go at him about.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ he called after her as she started to walk away.

  ‘Have I?’ She kept on walking.

  ‘You’ve got a riding lesson booked. Or … you could sit in the helicopter and wait for me to get back?’

  Balling her hands into fists, she rounded on him. ‘You—’

  ‘Arrogant brute? Just a suggestion,’ he said dryly. ‘Why don’t you let me help you mount up?’

  ‘Because I’m quite capable of lengthening the stirrups myself.’

  ‘So you are coming with me …’

  A little quiver of anticipation ran through her. ‘Better I know what you’re doing.’ Maybe. But she couldn’t see what he was thinking now Raffa had started winding his howlis round his head. With the western jeans, boots and snug-fitting top, the black cloth over his face gave him the appearance of a brigand on the loose, and it was a struggle to ignore his particular brand of confidence as she heaved her way determinedly into the saddle.

  She wouldn’t have known which way they were going even with a compass and a map. The desert all looked the same to her. But Raffa didn’t hesitate once. He led the way on Raad, keeping to the shadows beneath the dunes, and less than an hour had passed before he steered her into a place of extreme shade and surprising cool, between two towering walls of rock. The horses’ hooves clattered eerily in the silence, and Casey was glad when a stream of brilliant sunlight finally illuminated an opening at the other end.

  She gasped when they emerged onto an elevated plateau. They were in the foothills of the mountains somewhere, looking out over the best view she’d seen so far. The sun was at its highest point, and the splash of gold, umber and bleached white rock against the cloudless cobalt sky was quite extraordinary.

  ‘You like it?” Raffa said, turning in the saddle.

  ‘The colours are amazing.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I brought you here,’ Raffa explained as Casey drew her pony to a halt alongside his stallion. ‘There are no shades of grey in the desert. The colours are absolute.’

  As would be any conversation they shared from this point on, Casey suspected.

  They sat for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity and the beauty in front of them, with only the sound of bits being champed and bridles creaking—until, turning Raad’s head, Raffa encouraged the stallion down the steep rocky incline. Casey’s mount followed behind, and both horses picked their way carefully, keen to make the descent. They could smell water, Casey conjectured as their ears pricked up. She could hear water running too. It was somewhere nearby, as yet unseen.

  ‘It’s an underground stream,’ Raffa shouted back when she asked him about it. ‘Water is more valuable than oil in the desert, and A’Qaban is rich in both those commodities.’

  Another bonus for her scheme, Casey concluded. There could be nothing worse in her eyes than developing tourism at the expense of a country’s natural resources.

  ‘There’s plenty of water in the desert if you know where to look,’ Raffa said, hearing her gasp of surprise.

  ‘So this is another palace?’ she exclaimed, seeing the tented pavilions arranged on a sheltered sandy base in the encircling rock-walled arena.

  ‘I thought this might give you some ideas for your tourist village,’ Raffa said, turning in the saddle.

  ‘One or two,’ she admitted, as some women dressed in flowing jewel-coloured robes came out to greet them. ‘What are they saying?’ she asked, turning to Raffa for translation when the smiling women spoke to her in A’Qabani.

  He looked at her. ‘They want to make you welcome,’ he said. ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

  ‘No …’ Casey said, shaking her head as she started to smile. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Raffa went out riding while Casey gave herself up to a warm, frothy bath, scented with something fabulous, and a massage with oils that smelled even better. When she saw the robe the women had brought for her to wear she had to hide a smile. Did it follow her around, or was this sky-blue robe with its delicate silver cross-stitch embroidery traditional Bedouin wear?

  The beautiful robe could only be worn in the boudoir, Casey concluded as the women left her. It was hardly serviceable wear. And she was hardly your typical boudoir wench. The fabric was the finest cloth imaginable: a cobweb, just the suggestion of a whisper against her warm, naked skin, and as such the utmost in self-indulgence.

  The women had left her with a platter of fresh fruit and a bowl in which to rinse her hands when she had finished eating it. And she could do all that without once moving from the soft bank of cushions on which they had insisted she must recline. She could get used to this.

  She had a perfect view of
the desert, and it wasn’t long before an image undulated in the sultry air. At first she thought she might be imagining it, but reluctantly the shimmering heat yielded up an indistinct form that became a man on a black stallion … and not just any man.

  She was shivering with desire even as waves of heat washed over her. Raffa appearing like a mirage out of the vastness of the desert was a warning to her that she could never harness the desert’s unforgiving harshness without his advice. She had to stay in A’Qaban. There was no chance she could do her job from the safety of an office chair in London. She watched him rein in and spring down. Throwing the reins of the stallion to one of the children who had come to watch his approach, he spoke to them in A’Qabani before striding towards her. A rush of energy accompanied him as he walked into the pavilion. Unwinding his howlis, he tossed it onto a cushion and ruffled his hair.

  ‘Good,’ he said, giving her a scorching once-over. ‘I’m going to take a swim and then I’ll be right back.’

  Good? She stood up, infusing limbs that had become languid with a much overdue dose of primness and purpose. ‘Would you like anything to eat?’ she said, stopping him mid-stride. ‘Or something to drink, perhaps?’

  ‘All of the above,’ Raffa agreed, shooting her a look. ‘But I want extras on the side.’ He held up his hands when she started to protest. ‘I’ll be back in ten.’

  See that you’re ready? Was that what he meant? She stood transfixed as he strode away. She thought she’d been aroused before, but this was better—stronger; this was fantasy and reality clashing head on.

  And it was wrong, her inner voice counselled.

  How long would he be? How would she survive until he came back again? She started to pace. How much harm could one more night do? Casey reasoned as a crescent moon competed for her attention with the sun.

  Raffa returned with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His body was bronzed and superbly muscled. His powerful torso, with the fearsome tattoo glistening on his still-damp skin, was something Casey knew she would never forget.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Raffa.’

  ‘It’s a shameless ploy to make you change your mind about leaving A’Qaban,’ he said, swiping his wilful hair behind his ears with both hands.

  ‘You’re dripping on me.’ Casey laughed as Raffa stood over her.

  ‘I intend to do a lot more than that,’ he said. Dropping down on the cushions beside her, he drew her into his arms. ‘You look beautiful in A’Qabani traditional dress,’ he murmured, reverently stroking the soft blue fabric.

  As his knuckles grazed her peaking nipples the tiny silver cross-stitches seemed to glitter as the shadows turned from sienna to purple, as if the robe had been created for the night. There was no need for conversation, for concerns or second thoughts. Raffa simply removed his towel, tossed it away and drew her beneath him, lifting her robe above her hips in the same, fluid movement. He sank inside her, pausing only to savour the same extremes of pleasure she was experiencing.

  It was enough … this was enough. It was impossible to put into words how close she felt to him. To say they were one was a cliché, but when Raffa lifted himself on his elbow so he could stare into her eyes as he began to move, she knew there would never be another night like this. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as the desert moon rose higher in the indigo sky.

  ‘If I make you cry, I’d better stop,’ Raffa warned huskily, nuzzling his sharp black stubble against her aroused neck.

  ‘If you stop I’ll howl,’ she warned.

  His answer was to kiss her tears away, and keep on kissing her until her rhythmic sighs filled their ears. And when holding on was impossible, he held her safe in his arms, staring deep into her eyes as she cried out his name in the throes of ecstasy.

  She must have slept for a while, because she woke to find Raffa propped on one arm, looking at her. Her robe had come off some time during their lovemaking, and she was sprawled contentedly on the bank of cushions, with the light from a lantern throwing golden ribbons of light across her naked skin.

  ‘What’s this?’ she murmured groggily as Raffa lifted her into his arms, kissing her brow as he wrapped a wisp of fabric around her head. ‘It’s my shawl!’ she exclaimed, recognising it.

  ‘An A’Qabani wedding shawl.’ Raffa’s darkly handsome face creased in a grin. ‘Some might say it was fate that made me choose to donate it to the auction, and you to bid for it and win.’

  ‘And some might say it isn’t fair to tease me,’ Casey said sensibly, drawing herself into a sitting position, keeping the lovely shawl in place around her shoulders.

  ‘I love you, Casey Michaels,’ Raffa murmured, helping her to adjust the folds of filament-fine fabric.

  ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  Raffa’s brow creased. ‘And why not?’

  ‘You’ve already admitted this is just a ploy to keep me here in A’Qaban.’

  ‘I don’t deny it.’

  ‘And saying I love you comes so easily to you. And please,’ she said, throwing up her hands, ‘don’t tell me that years of experience have made it easy.’

  ‘I’m not teasing you now. I’m serious.’

  ‘Serious about my being funny and something of a novelty in your high-tone world?’

  ‘That’s not fair, Casey.’ He cut across her. ‘I think you’re caring and clever, and a whole host of things that don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘I make you angry and impatient?’ she suggested dryly.

  ‘Never,’ he said fiercely. ‘And please don’t make fun of this. I’m being serious.’ Cupping her face in his hands, he asked in a fierce whisper, ‘Why can’t I love you for yourself?’

  ‘Because there’s not that much to love? Because your definition of love and my definition are worlds apart?’

  ‘Why can’t you believe you’re worth loving, Casey?’

  ‘Average loving between two people I can buy into; family loving I can buy into. Loving a friend—I understand that too. But you’re a—’

  ‘A king?’ Raffa threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’m a man,’ he said. ‘A man who loves a woman. I’m a man who wants one particular woman and can think of no other woman at his side. I want you to have my babies—lots of them. And I want you to help me with the development and growth of my country. And as for love—I want you to have it all.’

  ‘And you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?’

  ‘If you don’t want to stay—’

  ‘You’ll let me go?’ she said, confident he was asking her to give him the easy way out.

  ‘No,’ he argued. ‘I’ll make you my captive virgin of the desert.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’

  ‘But not too late to smile, to hope—and, yes, even to dream.’

  ‘You can’t see what I’m thinking behind my veil,’ Casey said confidently, drawing the fabric over her face.

  ‘Ah, but you’d be surprised at just how much your eyes can tell me.’

  ‘The secret language of the veil,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The secret language of the veil,’ Casey repeated. ‘I speak it and you understand.’

  ‘Like a true A’Qabani,’ Raffa agreed, lips tugging in wry amusement as he took the veil and moved it away. ‘But I prefer to look at your face, Casey Michaels. Because this is the face of the woman who’s going to stand at my side as my equal, and never, ever doubt herself again.’

  EPILOGUE

  THEY chose a Bedouin ceremony. Or had the Bedouin chosen it for them? Casey wondered, stealing a glance through the heavy curtain over her bridal tent. It hardly mattered; she felt happy here—as if she belonged.

  The women whose task it was to dress her were already gathering in small excited groups, adding to her own almost unbearable sense of anticipation. Her parents had been over in the country for a week and loved everything about the desert kingdom. They were already planning to seek
instruction at the hands of the women who understood the seductive techniques of the silken veil.

  The famed Bedouin hospitality and cultural heritage, together with the A’Qabani traditions of music, dance and art, had quickly won over all Casey’s friends and family, and if her parents found the thought of their daughter becoming a queen bewildering, they hid it well.

  But who could resist Raffa? Casey wondered, watching him lead some of his men off to the desert on horseback at a gallop. He had been doing this for the past week—no doubt to work off some of his surplus energy. As tradition demanded he had been forced to keep away from her during this time. And if he was finding it hard, she was going mad for him, Casey thought dry-mouthed, pulling back from her vantage point.

  Fortunately the women arrived at that moment to distract her. They were going to decorate her hands and feet with intricate swirls of henna, and she had made hot sweet mint tea and gahwa, the intensely aromatic A’Qabani coffee, to welcome them. This Laylat al Henna ceremony was their gift to her of beauty, luck and health, and while they gathered in the privacy of her pavilion, like so many vivid butterflies, Casey found herself hoping some of their natural grace would rub off. She needed all the henna she could get, Casey concluded as the women got to work.

  Musicians outside the tent provided a rhythmic background for these activities, playing an upbeat riff on the dalouka, a big drum, and on the one-stringed rababa violin. Some of the men must be dancing too, Casey realised, hearing their guttural shouts and the crack of whips as they stamped their feet on the hard, hot earth. There had been a riot of music and colourful dancing pretty much non-stop in the Bedouin encampment since Raffa had finally persuaded her that he was actually proposing she do more than stay in the country to work. There were banners and pennants everywhere, and even the horses boasted jostling tassels and silver bells on their saddle cloths, along with yet more silver in the form of coins on their gleaming leather bridles and brow bands.

  And the bride? She had been bathed in scented water and massaged with sweet-smelling unguents during the traditional Al Aadaa, while the women teased Raffa until he agreed to pay, as tradition demanded, for their decorating his bride. And now this …