‘Yes, I know.’ Her voice cracked. She couldn’t give him stumbling words that wouldn’t comfort, or platitudes that wouldn’t help. Only he could come to terms with Fadi’s death and find peace…but there was one thing she could give him, and she found it wasn’t as hard as she’d thought it would be. Her forehead rested on his shoulder. ‘Alim…’
The darkness in his voice lifted like the sun rising behind them. ‘Thank you.’
Neither moved to leave each other’s arms.
After a long time, Hana twisted in his arms to touch the scarred flesh on his shoulder and chest. ‘Some time you’re going to need more surgery,’ she murmured, not massaging but caressing him. Strangers’ souls entwining with the touch. Trust.
‘Yes,’ was all he said in reply, his hand lifting to cover hers, and he smiled. Healing.
Hana woke with a start in a shallowed-out rut in the creek bed. Once more she felt the heat and weight of Alim’s arm around her waist; but the warmth of his body against hers, and the sweat running down her skin from the late afternoon heat and his closeness, wasn’t what disturbed her the most. Something was wrong.
Then she heard the voices, two men speaking in Swahili coming closer—
By the tension in Alim’s body, she knew he was awake. Slowly, he parallel-lifted his legs, keeping them tense and straight. He pushed her legs up with the movement of his, until their legs rested at a ninety-degree angle to his hips. It was intimate, shocking in its sensuality, and necessary to keep them alive. Their bodies were out of the revealing sunlight, backpacks pushed against the curve of her belly.
He rolled them both until she sat on his bunched-up knees. ‘Get up and flatten your body against the wall,’ he whispered in her ear as he rubbed his back against the damp sides of the creek bed. ‘Get in as far as possible, take the backpacks with you and don’t breathe out loud.’
She nodded, and, looking down at the ground first for any rocks that could move under her feet and give them away, she moved with agonising slowness until she stood beneath the small overhang of the creek wall, holding the backpacks in shaking hands. She pushed into it until she moulded the mud, turning her face so she could breathe.
The top of her head was against the overhang. Alim was too tall to hide.
Anxiety for him overwhelmed her. She rolled her head to the other side, until she could see him—and wanted to laugh. He lay flat against the thick mud, in the worst patch of mud, stinking with rotting plants and animal droppings, his face turned into the wall. His rolling had turned his hair, and the few remaining clean patches of his clothes, the hue between sand and mud.
He was nothing but a few lumps of mud—as was she.
The warlord’s men moved like snails along the creek. Her heart pounded so hard she wondered that the men seeking them couldn’t hear her uneven breaths. The men talked almost right above them; one flicked a still-smoking cigarette into the creek bed behind them. Hana, who could never stand the smell, had to fight against choking or coughing. But finally the men moved off, searching further down.
Alim nudged her with his foot, pushing her closer in, and she knew what he wanted. Stay still a bit longer. Back aching with the unaccustomed inward curvature of her spine, breathing in more mud and nicotine smoke than air, she held to the wall a few more minutes.
They waited until the sound of an engine gunning up and roaring off told them they were alone. ‘I thought I’d choke if I had to breathe in any more of that.’ Alim rolled over and flicked the cigarette away, then drew in a deep breath. ‘Ah, the delight of fresh—well, muddy-fresh air.’ He grinned, his teeth a bright dazzle between the ruthless sunshine and the mud coating him.
She wanted to giggle at his comical appearance, but the fear still walked too close; she was close to shivering in forty-degree heat. ‘We can’t afford to wash until we reach that waterhole, but would you like to smear some lavender and peppermint oil on, to ease the stink?’
He smiled. ‘I think I was lying in warthog droppings, so, yes, I’d love that, thanks.’
Hana stared at him. His smile—it was different. Something inside it—the look in his eyes—made her catch her breath, almost forgetting their recent danger.
She’d never forgotten the danger she’d been in since arriving in Africa. But though the threat was more real now than at any other time, her pounding heart was not in fear, but in the strangest, pulsing excitement…
She could barely look at him as she handed him the bottle; but when, in handing the bottle back for her turn, his fingers brushed hers, she wanted to see his face, to know if he meant that look, that slow-burning desire. If he—
‘We should move on,’ she said when she was done. She cursed the breathlessness in her tone—it must give away the aching in her eyes. What was it about this man that turned her into this aching mass of need, living for the next time he looked at her, touched her? Was it because he was out of reach? Or that he was right here within her reach?
After a moment, he shook his head. ‘No, this isn’t the time.’ The laughter had vanished from his eyes; they’d turned dark, sombre. ‘We should wait here until dark.’ As he’d done from the hour they met, he was reading more into her simplest words than she wanted him to.
Seeing inside her soul…
‘Whatever you say, boss,’ she quipped, handing him a canteen of semi-clean water. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a camera now.’
He frowned, asking without words.
She pointed at him, grinning with the teasing that was her best cover against self-betrayal. ‘This is how the sheikh of Abbas al-Din hides from the world: he seeks oil in new and foreign territories in his own special way.’
He broke out into soft laughter.
Hana stared at him, riveted by the mud-encrusted, strong, beautiful face. Despite it being her joke, she couldn’t share his laughter; she could only watch in strange, burning hunger. He laughed as if he meant it. He laughed as if he hadn’t truly laughed in a very long time.
She couldn’t drag her gaze away even when he looked up and the laughing words he’d been about to utter dried on his tongue. He looked at her and she wasn’t fast enough, couldn’t hide what she was feeling. His eyes widened for a moment, then turned soft with languorous intent. ‘Hana, don’t look at me like that unless you mean it.’
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t turn away, just kept looking at him, aching, wishing, hoping. She forgot all the reasons why she could never give herself to any man, let alone this one. All she saw was that look in his eyes…
Ah, he was on his feet…one step, two—and his hand lifted, reaching out to her. Asking, not demanding—but, oh, the look in his night-pool eyes compelled her. Of its own volition her arm lifted, her hand rested in his.
A smile curved his fine, sensitive mouth, those fathomless eyes. ‘Lovely Hana, always giving to others,’ he murmured, his fingers moving over hers, and she was lost. ‘You brought me from death and darkness, gave me a second chance at life. Isn’t it time you learned to live?’
His thumb slipped between their linked palms, and caressed.
Her eyes fluttered closed as her body wandered the maze of the rush, the overwhelming rush of her blood, the soft singing of feminine desire swelling to a chorus in her. ‘Alim…’ She couldn’t breathe. The lightest touch and he’d wrapped her inside the sweetest, most heady chains she’d ever know.
‘I love the way you say my name, as if you mean it,’ he whispered.
‘Ah,’ she whispered back, unable to say more. Her hand moved in his, asking, pleading. Just keep touching me.
His thumb brushed her palm, a hardly-there touch that sent her hurtling into a magnificent aliveness she’d thought she’d never feel, or understand: the exquisite beauty between man and woman. There was nothing but here and now, and Alim…
A butterfly caress over her lower lip, the single touch of his finger, and her knees trembled. She gasped in a shaking breath. She buried her face in his chest. ‘Alim, please…’
&nb
sp; ‘What do you want?’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Ask me, just ask me, and it’s yours.’ His body brushed hers and she made an incoherent little cry of need.
‘I—I don’t—more,’ she whispered, her body moving in time to his. ‘Oh, please, more.’
Ah, those strong arms were around her, those fine-fingered hands on her back, bringing him close to her, so close his body warmth filled her soul, his light chased away the years she’d spent hiding in darkness. ‘I was wrong. Your name does suit you,’ he murmured.
The scent of mud and his man’s heat and the oils he wore intoxicated her. Her breathing turned erratic again as she raised heavy-lidded eyes to his. ‘Why?’ she whispered, not because he waited for her answer, but because he waited for her. From somewhere deep inside the pounding, the delicious throbbing controlled her.
Could he see it? Did he know how much he affected her?
His voice was tender and rough. ‘You bring happiness wherever you go. You have pockets filled with sunshine you hand to others even when your life’s at risk. You’ve brought me to life, filled my soul with laughter…and passion.’ A current of hunger as hot as the wind blowing above them moved from him to her, and back.
‘I have?’ Uncertain of all these new feelings in her body, she wet her mouth with her tongue, and saw his eyes turn dark and light at once. A tender, knowing smile curved his lips.
She wanted to touch the smile with her fingers…to touch him, just touch him.
‘You do. You’re good for me, Sahar Thurayya.’ Slow, gentle, his hand reached to her face, curving around her cheek. A tiny moan escaped her lips. His thumb caressed her mouth. Her eyes closed and she drank it in, thirsting and starving for this man, a stranger just days before, a man as far above her reach as the most distant star. But none of that mattered when he could make her feel like a priceless treasure, like a woman wanting a man…
Her head rolled back, taking in the caress as it moved along her jaw to her ear. ‘Why am I good for you?’ Her voice was breathless, barely above a whisper. More, please keep touching me. She moved against him again, delicious, sweet pain and exquisite hunger.
His hands cupped her throat, and she felt another tiny purr leave her lips, felt her body sway with desire. ‘You know why, my dawn star.’
‘Say it,’ she whispered, her fingers trailing over his hand, his arm. Flaking mud fell unnoticed as she found patches of skin, warm, rough, male.
‘You make me laugh at myself,’ he murmured. ‘You give me a new perspective. You’ve opened my eyes to the world, to problems far greater than my own. I thought I was alone in this desire, but you want me, too. You want me so much you can’t even hide it. But you know that.’ Butterfly-soft fingers trailed down her throat.
Yes, yes, I know. And he now knew how much she desired him. She’d given herself away, had let him inside her, to see a small piece of her heart and secrets. How long would it be before he knew everything…?
As far as she was concerned, Mukhtar’s rights to her were nil. Her father had severed the engagement to Latif as if it didn’t matter—and Latif had walked away so fast she’d wondered if she had a disease. Nobody believed her. Nobody.
And with that thought, the moment was gone. Just thinking of Mukhtar, and the flame inside her began burning bright with pain and betrayal.
‘Hana?’ The look in his eyes hurt her.
Gulping down a huge wave of disappointment, she dropped her chin and moved out of his touch. ‘That was rather irresponsible of us.’ She tried to inject lightness into her tone.
His hand remained in the air, reaching out to her for a moment, before it fell. ‘Yes, it was, given where we are and the danger we’re in.’ His eyes searched her face…seeking out her secrets as if she’d given him the right.
‘We need to go back to sleep.’ She heard the choked note in her voice, and cursed it. But desire was too new to her to fight; she didn’t have the weapons.
‘You sleep, Hana. One of us needs to keep watch in case they come back. Don’t argue with me,’ he added, his voice hard, when her mouth opened. ‘The concussion’s barely there now. You don’t need to watch over me any more.’
She frowned, her eyes searching his face for fatigue or stress.
He turned away. ‘Just do it, Hana.’ He added with a sigh when she shook her head, ‘After a man becomes this aroused, it’s difficult to roll over and sleep. If you stay awake, I’ll take it as a signal that you want me to keep touching you…and you want to keep touching me.’
The blunt words shocked her, fascinated her. She’d aroused him with such a simple touch of her fingers over his hand and arm, a few brushes of her body against his?
I was aroused only by the way he looked at me. I was totally lost in him.
She still was aroused…and an hour later, lying rigidly still, she wondered if it was the same for women as men, because she couldn’t stop the heated pounding deep inside, the lilt and throb of her blood, when the cause of her sweet burden sat but three feet away in exactly the same predicament as her own, guarding her rest.
CHAPTER FIVE
FUNNY, but of all the attacks Alim had imagined during their crawling and jumping life on the run, the one he hadn’t thought of was the most likely to kill them. He’d thought of lions, rhinos or hippos, even a warthog, but not—
He awoke with a start. He’d finally fallen asleep after hours of watching her. He’d known the whole time that she wasn’t asleep; she was restless with the same ache of desire low in her belly that he felt, and knowing that only made it worse.
How could she have seen the mess of congealed flesh and the patches of grafted skin covering his torso, and still want him, be so vividly aroused by his touch? In all his life he’d never known a woman to have such an extreme reaction to anything he did, even his smile. He’d laughed, and she couldn’t drag her eyes from him…
And when he’d talked of Fadi, instead of the usual numbness and agony combined, the feeling of being stuck in an unending dark tunnel, he’d felt—relief. Not forgiveness—he doubted that would ever come—but…he’d thought of Fadi that night, and smiled, remembering other parts of that day. The way big brother had done his best to keep up with him around the track; the laughing challenges; the relaxed grin on Fadi’s face. Alim hadn’t seen him let go of his responsibilities since—since he’d had to take over running the small nation at the age of twenty.
He’d forgotten the joy of that day, until Hana reminded him without even asking.
Could the woman who was his saviour also become his miracle? Was it possible?
At last she’d slept as dusk began filling the sky with its violent magenta. Though he’d known it was time to leave, sleep had rushed on him without his knowledge.
How long had he slept? Day had long since given way to the deep velvet of night—
Rustling in Hana’s backpack alerted him to why he’d awoken so suddenly. Some small creature had found their stores.
He grabbed the bag and tipped it upside down—and swore when he saw the damage wrought by the two small mouse-like creatures trying to bolt with their booty. The plastic double bags that were supposed to stop any scent escaping were torn to shreds, and the mice had already eaten two bars, by his count, and were into another two. With an incoherent sound of frustration, he dived for one of the bars the creatures were running off with in their mouths.
The noise alerted Hana. ‘What is it?’
‘Mice,’ he muttered, jumping after the scurrying mouse, and yelling in triumph as he managed to snatch the bar back—or what remained of it.
With a cry of distress, Hana dived after the other creature with one of the bars, but it disappeared down a hole in the creek bed with its find.
Hana closed her eyes in despair. ‘We couldn’t afford to lose a single bite of food. We’re only travelling eight to ten kilometres a night as it is. Without enough food, we’ll never make it to the refugee camp.’
‘We’ll make it,’ he said, touching her face in rea
ssurance.
She jerked away so hard he thought she’d fall. ‘Do you think royal commands will magically protect us from starvation, my lord?’ She rubbed her eyes in tired frustration. ‘Have you ever had to worry that you’ll starve to death?’
He couldn’t answer. Even on the run, he was a multibillionaire who helped others by choice, but could and did return after a food and medicine run to his luxury villa on the beach at Mombasa. If he was far from home he could stay at a hotel, wash off the grime, order a five-star meal and sleep on a cloud-soft mattress.
‘Have you?’ he asked, low.
‘Why do you think I didn’t have enough energy bars? I had hundreds of them, boxes full when I came, and vitamins too—I spent all the money I’d earned on them. I fed the villagers to stop them feeding grass to their children. I fed them until the first harvest came through, and then the supply trucks made it past Sh’ellah’s lines.’ Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘You think you know about suffering? You have no idea.’
Her words shook him to his core. He’d known the suffering of loss—his parents had died when he was only nine, and Fadi’s death three years ago had devastated him—but he’d never gone to bed with his belly aching for sustenance; he’d never known desperation to stay alive another day, or to save his children.
This was the most uncomfortable he’d ever been in a physical way.
He’d thought himself strong for not complaining about living on energy bars and travelling by foot all night—but he’d never been more wrong. Or more shamed with a few graphic words.
To hide the unaccustomed emotion, he broke the remains of the mouse-eaten energy bar in half, handing one piece to her. ‘For what we are about to eat, I am truly grateful.’
She lifted hers in silent toasting, and ate.
‘Oh, one thing,’ he said in a conversational tone as he helped her pick up the plastic and ruined food. When she looked up, he smiled. ‘Don’t call me my lord. You know my name.’
The Sheikh's Destiny (Harlequin Romance) Page 7
