How to Seduce a Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  She stared at him blankly. Her eyes were smoky blue, the colour of the midnight sky over the endless desert. Dark shadows spoke eloquently of long, sleepless nights. The full, sensual lips he had been so intent on kissing were dry. He remembered the angry sunburn on the delicate skin of her body and cursed himself for being a thoughtless fool. How long had she been captive? Such a tender specimen as this with such pale European skin must find the heat of his beloved desert almost unbearable. ‘Come,’ he said gently, holding out his hand to her. ‘There is shade and water aplenty where my caravan is being readied for the journey home to Kharidja. My kingdom is three days’ ride away, over the desert.’

  ‘Kharidja. I have never heard of that place. Why are you taking me there?’

  She was clasping her hands tightly together, holding the folds of his cloak closed. Despite the burnish of the sun, her face had an ashen pallor. Even as he noticed this, Zafar saw her legs buckle and leapt forward to catch her, but she struggled to right herself. As her legs buckled again, he swept her into his arms, ignoring her flailing arms and protests. ‘Stop struggling. You must save your strength.’

  ‘For your bed, you mean.’

  She was as stubborn as a mule! Zafar tightened his grip. ‘For the camel,’ he said curtly.

  * * *

  Colette clung to the high sides of the strange saddle, which swayed alarmingly. The ground was a lot farther away than it was from horseback. The animal smelled so different, too, and the constant bleating noises it made, as if in protest at being forced to carry an extra load, were most disconcerting. She fixed her eyes firmly on the horizon for fear of being sick. The dusty, stony track was giving way to sand. The sun was past its peak, and the headdress, one of Prince Zafar’s own, was really most effective in keeping her cool, though she had protested at first, thinking it would make her much hotter.

  A strong arm snaked around her waist and held her firmly. ‘Do not resist it,’ Prince Zafar said. ‘If you let yourself be taken by the movement, you will find it easier.’

  Nervously she eyed the reins, which were threaded with gold and decorated with little tinkling bells. ‘I am perfectly well.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you look far from well. Now, let go of the saddle. Feel the movement of the camel as you would the movement of the sea on the deck of a ship.’

  Tentatively, she did as she was bid, letting her body move with the motion of the saddle. ‘You are right,’ she said in surprise some moments later.

  ‘You will find that I almost always am.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Colette replied. ‘More likely it is that no one dares tell you that you are wrong.’

  She knew as soon as the words were out that she had been not only rude but disrespectful, but he surprised her. ‘That is very true, Madame Beaumarchais, none dare. I wonder why you do?’

  It was beyond foolish of her, but there was something about this man that made her want to challenge him. His unconscious assumption of power that was no doubt well deserved, that was part of it, but there was, too, his determination not to explain himself, an aloofness that she wanted to break down. And then there was her own challenge to him. She would not allow him to break her spirit. Attack was the best form of defence. Papa’s favourite maxim; it would serve her as well as any other. ‘When one has nothing to lose,’ she replied, ‘one dares anything.’

  ‘I wonder, would you have been more conciliatory were I one of the other bidders?’ Prince Zafar asked, his voice suddenly cold.

  Colette bit her lip, reminding herself of the many tales she had heard, of the fact that this man, no matter how civilised he may appear, was a desert sheikh who had bought her. Had she misjudged him? ‘You must understand, my experience of your countrymen has not exactly been pleasant,’ she said warily.

  ‘The men who captured you were Turks.’

  Another faux pas, obviously. ‘I would find it easier to trust you if you would tell me what you intend to do with me.’

  ‘That very much depends on whether you trust me or not.’

  ‘My papa would call that a non sequitur. It means—’

  ‘I know perfectly well what it means.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Your command of my native language is most impressive.’

  ‘For a barbarian, you mean.’

  ‘For anyone, I mean!’ Colette snapped. ‘You are determined to put the worst interpretation on everything I say.’

  ‘And you are determined to put the worst interpretation on everything I do,’ Prince Zafar snapped back.

  ‘It is surely understandable, given the circumstances.’

  ‘You think so, Madame Beaumarchais? Have you actually considered the circumstances? We make camp in an hour. I would advise you to spend the time contemplating your situation most carefully.’

  * * *

  The night sky was inky blue, littered with stars which seemed to hang much lower than they did at home. There was a vastness about the desert sky that made Colette feel insignificant and utterly alone. Roused from a light doze as the camel came to a halt, she looked around her in astonishment. Enormous sand dunes spread out into the distance in soft folds and sharp ridges. A half-full moon cast its eerie light over the oasis, where the caravan had drawn to a halt. A cluster of goatskin tents stood on one side of the glittering water, while a much larger tent was pitched under the shelter of a group of palms.

  She staggered as she dismounted from the camel. Her legs stiff, her eyes gritty with sand, she looked about her in wonder at the beauty of the desert night, at the hive of activity near the tents, the mules and camels hobbled for the night, the slaves, freed of their manacles, helping to light fires and prepare food. Beside her, Prince Zafar was silent, surveying the camp with a frown. ‘What will you do with them?’ she asked, pointing to the Africans.

  He shrugged. ‘My kingdom is small but growing fast. There are many opportunities for those who wish to take them. Those who wish to return to their native land will be assisted to do so.’

  ‘They will be free?’

  ‘I have outlawed slavery in Kharidja.’

  Which begged the question of her own status, Colette thought but did not say. Through the long journey across the desert she had tried, as he had bid her, to consider the circumstances but had managed to do so only fitfully. Relaxing into the swaying motion of the camel meant relaxing into Prince Zafar’s body. His arm had circled her waist protectively, his hand resting lightly on her hip. Her rear was tucked into him, the outside of her thighs brushing the inside of his. It was shockingly intimate and even more shockingly pleasant. Her body tingled with wholly inappropriate awareness, little flickers of pleasure darting along her skin, heating and tightening her belly.

  Leon had never affected her like this. When he made love to her, there were moments, the glimmer of something in the distance she never quite reached. Was it the fact that this man was so fantastically exotic, so blatantly masculine and clearly powerful, that appealed to her? Casting a sidelong look at the powerful figure outlined against the desert night, she reminded herself to be on her guard, but the gnawing feeling that she had misjudged Prince Zafar refused to go away.

  She had always been an excellent judge of character. Papa said so, and Leon, too. Vraiment, she had been through a dreadful experience, but it was very wrong of her to allow it to shape her views of every man she met. Besides, though she had unintentionally angered him, what she had said to Prince Zafar was true—she really had nothing to lose.

  Colette took a deep breath. ‘Highness?’ He turned towards her, frowning. ‘Prince Zafar,’ she said tentatively, ‘I fear I owe you an apology. I believe I have misjudged you.’

  His eyes narrowed, though he said nothing. ‘I can see you are a good man,’ she continued doggedly, ‘from the esteem in which your servants hold you. And freeing the slaves, too, your kindness in offering to send them home if they wished it.’

  Still no reply, but his very stillness reassured her that he was listening. ‘I have no idea wh
y you paid such a very large amount to save me from those other bidders,’ Colette said, ‘but I do know that you have saved me as surely as you have saved those Africans, and for that I thank you from the heart. I am in your debt.’

  Impulsively, she dropped to her knees and took his hand, pressing a kiss to his fingers, but seeing his startled look she realised she had probably broken all sorts of unwritten rules and hastily let him go.

  He grabbed her hands, pulling her to her feet. ‘Never abase yourself before me like that.’

  ‘I am sorry, I only meant—’

  ‘You owe me no debt. I do not want your gratitude and I certainly have no need of a woman on such terms.’

  Colette stared at him in confusion. ‘I was not offering myself to you on any terms. I was merely saying thank you.’ Despite herself, her temper flickered. ‘I know perfectly well that I am not—not to your taste, Highness. You told me so yourself.’

  ‘I told you I didn’t want you as my concubine. I did not say that I didn’t find you attractive. Which does not mean I have any desire at all to take you in gratitude any more than I would take you by force.’

  Relief and exhilaration made Colette giddy. Despite the crowd of freed slaves, servants and animals just a short distance away, it felt as if they were alone at the oasis. The desert air was warm and sweet, enveloping them in its soft caress. Awareness of the scent of him, the heat of him, the sheer power and overwhelming maleness of him, shot through her blood, making her heart pound. His hands, which had been resting in hers, now slid up her arms. Though he did not urge her, she stepped towards him. Beneath the soft folds of his tunic, she could see his chest rise and fall. The thin line of a scar ran from his ear to his throat, she noticed, stopping frighteningly close to the fragile pulse, which would have meant certain death had the wound been a fraction longer. She could not resist reaching out to touch it. ‘You had a narrow escape,’ she said softly.

  His face hardened as he pushed her brusquely away. Something that looked like pain darkened his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Quite the contrary.’ He turned away from her and nodded down at the oasis. ‘You will wish to bathe.’

  Nonplussed, Colette stared at the glinting water longingly. ‘How can I?’ she asked, indicating the throng of the camp.

  He held out an imperious hand. ‘Come with me.’

  Chapter Three

  The oasis was shaped like a figure eight, with the caravan set out by the larger of the two pools. Prince Zafar led her to the smaller one, which was bordered by large tussocks of spiky grass and small shrubs. Though she could still hear the chatter of the servants, the snuffling and bleating of the camels and mules, Colette could see none of them from the pool’s edge.

  ‘Your privacy is guaranteed,’ Prince Zafar said. ‘I have given orders that no one is to disturb us.’

  Orders that would be obeyed unquestioningly, Colette thought with a small smile.

  ‘Here, there are drying cloths, soap, a fresh tunic for you to change into. I shall wait on you while you bathe. With my back turned, you may rest assured, madame.’

  He had obviously gone to some trouble to make the arrangements for her. Touched by his consideration Colette dropped a small curtsy. ‘Merci, Highness, you are most thoughtful.’

  A brief nod greeted this remark before Prince Zafar turned his back. Had she offended him again? She had no idea. The man was unfathomable; there was no point in trying to understand him. Shrugging to herself, Colette made her way to the edge of the water and undressed.

  * * *

  He could hear the rustle of her clothes as she slipped out of them, the gentle ripple of the water as she entered the pool. He could picture her, tall and slim, pale in the light of the moon, the warm waters lapping at her toes, her calves, her thighs, her derrière, her waist, her breasts, as she made her way into the centre of the pool. He could picture her all too clearly. The urge to turn around, to see for himself how closely his imagination matched reality, was almost irresistible.

  Zafar tried to focus his mind on more important matters—the business of running his kingdom, of achieving lasting peace, of promoting prosperity, matters that never failed to occupy him—but the little splashes that told him she was washing, lathering her body with his own lemon-scented soap, distracted him. Desire had not deserted him in the past two years. Since there was no shortage of willing and beautiful women eager to share his bed, it was easily sated, but this was different. He didn’t want a woman but this particular disrespectful, brave, opinionated woman.

  The stillness of the desert night carried every sound. Colette Beaumarchais’s sighs of pleasure floated across the water to taunt him. He imagined her lying on her back, floating under the stars, the small mounds of those perfect breasts exposed to the sky. So different from—so different. And perhaps that was why she was so desirable?

  An exclamation, quickly muffled, made him whirl around, his hand going instinctively to his scimitar, drawing it swiftly from his belt, slicing the vicious blade through the air above his shoulder in readiness as he covered the short distance to the water’s edge. ‘What is it? What did you see?’ Zafar scanned the surroundings for sign of an intruder.

  ‘What are you talking about? I dropped the soap.’

  ‘You dropped the soap!’ The fingers of his left hand were tight around the dagger that was strapped across his shoulder. He waded out towards her. She shrank away from him. Realising that he was still holding his scimitar at the ready, he dropped his arm. ‘I thought you were in danger.’

  She shook her head. Zafar realised that she was shaking at the same time as he remembered she was naked. ‘I frightened you,’ he said remorsefully, determinedly keeping his eyes on her face.

  ‘I—It was just—seeing you with that sword—I just remembered...’

  Her eyes were bright with tears, though she was valiantly trying to suppress them. She was hugging herself tight, obviously much more shaken than she cared to admit. Zafar threw his scimitar onto the shore and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tight around her. ‘I am deeply sorry.’

  ‘I am perfectly fine now,’ Madame Beaumarchais said, and burst into tears.

  Her head was on his chest, her hair soaking into his tunic, her naked body pressed against the length of his own, but he desired only to comfort her. He held her, telling her again and again that she was safe.

  The storm was over as quickly as it began. Her sobs quieted. She stopped shaking. ‘I don’t usually cry. Papa always said that tears are for those who can do nothing else,’ she mumbled into his chest.

  ‘Women cry, men act,’ Zafar said.

  ‘But a general’s daughter must lead from the front.’ She pushed herself free of him. ‘I am sorry I alarmed you. And I’m sorry you have endured an unnecessary soaking.’

  The water was waist height. She had wrapped her arms around her breasts again, but she did not cower or shrink. She was blushing, but her eyes met his bravely. His own tunic clung to him like a second skin. ‘I intended bathing after you,’ Zafar said.

  ‘I’m sorry I lost the soap.’

  His laughter surprised him as much as it did her, echoing over the water. The strangeness of the day, the strangeness of the situation, all suddenly seemed absurd. ‘Please, madame, allow me,’ Zafar said, casting off his headdress, his belt and his dagger, throwing them all onto the shore and diving into the water.

  * * *

  Colette watched in amazement. He looked so much younger when he laughed, though she got the impression he didn’t laugh very often. He surfaced, water streaming down his face, took a breath and dived again, giving her a glimpse of firmly muscled buttocks, long legs, narrow feet. She knew she should not be looking, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away. His hair was short-cropped. Without his headdress he looked less intimidating and much younger.

  ‘Voila!’

  Prince Zafar surfaced triumphant, holding the block of soap in one hand, smiling widely. His tunic clung to him, completely transparent, revea
ling the broad expanse of his chest, a smattering of dark hairs, the dip of his belly. Somewhere low in her own belly, the muscles tightened as she stared at him, his skin the colour of caramelised sugar at the open throat of his tunic, the strength and power of his warrior’s body, the smooth cap of his hair. His smile faded under her gaze, his eyes seeming to gleam in the moonlight as they focused on hers. Heat sizzled under her skin as he looked at her and she saw her own burgeoning need reflected on his face, though he made no move towards her.

  She knew now why he hesitated, why he would not move. Honour rather than a lack of desire. He would not make the first move. Colette had never been bold, but nor had she ever felt the headiness, the power of being wanted so blatantly. If she did not move, nor would he. But if she did... Though she had only the haziest idea of what she would be missing, she did not want to miss it. She had come so close to death she wanted, needed, to feel alive.

  She reached out her hand and touched his cheek, running her fingers down the long column of his throat to the opening of his tunic. His eyes widened. His breathing quickened with hers. She stepped closer, dropping the arm that covered her breasts, and pressed herself against him, pressed her naked flesh to the damp fabric of his tunic.