She didn’t want it to be a petty thing, though. In her mind, it had to be about the expedition—about controlling this man so she could get to Shera-Sa. Her father would approve of it, she was sure.
Yes, by morning he’d be a tamed man, with a whole lot more respect for her capabilities as a woman. It wasn’t about making him jealous, either. She hated him, and as far as things went personally, he could drop off the face of the earth. So what if he was out with hookers, letting other women touch him, pleasure him—what did she care? She didn’t want him or his body. His fingers, smooth as silk, knowing and skillful, backed by all his manly strength. His eyes, the way they burned and made her feel like the center of the world, like she was the only woman and he was the only man. His nipples, peaking as she kissed them, the way he sighed, approving, needing. The way his hand would move to the back of her head, drawing her in. The way his cock tasted in her mouth when she sucked him, salty-sweet, throbbing and alive, making her feel so totally female and naughty.
The way the muscles in his ass clenched as she touched him there. The way she could come up from behind and rest her cheek against his back, encircling his waist with her arms, her soft curves so completely fitting into his graceful hardness. The way she felt so right being with him…so at home.
Feelings, and sensations, so long buried—all of them unearthed on that airplane, resurrected, making her want and need him all over again…
Oh fuck, this kind of thinking went nowhere.
Opening her suitcase she looked for the most feminine thing she could find, aside from her hopelessly wrinkled outfit from the plane. She was certainly set for khaki…
Minarra sighed. She really did need to work on her wardrobe. Sonya was right about that. Maybe she should call Sonya for advice. Wait—here was something. Her black dress, at the bottom of the case, still in the cleaners’ bag. She hadn’t remembered packing it. Why had she brought it? Did she expect to be going to a party or dating someone?
It could not have had to do with Mac. That was just not something she’d believe. At any event, it was her key to success tonight. The plan laid itself out in her mind. A quick shower, some makeup and she’d be ready to strut her stuff.
An hour later she was in the lobby, turning heads. Her hair had turned out decently for once—silky and nicely waved down her back. The odds were a million to one, so she took that as a sign the gods were on her side.
The dress fit well, too, thanks to her diet of stress over the past week. She’d even managed to shave her legs without nicking them. A casual observer might have said her relative calm and centered feeling as a woman had to do with her just having had sex with Mac, but she knew better. With her it was all mental, all rational calculation.
Just like Daddy.
Osiron was still at the front desk. His brown eyes got a little wider and his smile broadened. “Miss Hunt,” he inclined his head respectfully. “It is a pleasure to see you again this soon. And looking so lovely, too. Had I not three wives already, I would surely propose.”
“Thank you, Osiron,” she absorbed his warm, safe vibes. “You are a true gentleman. Even if you do need your eyes checked.”
He laughed. “Even a blind man would recognize what is beautiful in you. Outside and in.”
“I may have to kiss you for that,” she teased. “If your wives wouldn’t mind.”
“What they don’t know,” he winked. “Won’t hurt them.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Fair enough. I wonder if you would do me a favor?”
“It would be my honor.”
“Mac mentioned you had a way to get hold of him? There’s a message I want to leave for him.”
Osiron raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Tell him I’ll be waiting for him…in the bar.”
The other eyebrow went up, though he refrained from any facial expression. “Yes, of course,” he offered another of his microscopic bows.
“Thank you, you’re a peach.”
He cleared his throat. “Miss…if I may take the liberty of saying…”
“Yes?”
“Alcazara is a rather conservative country. Women are not often seen alone, especially in bars.”
“Good,” she nodded. Better than good—Mac was sure to come running now.
The bar looked like something out of Casablanca. Tall potted plants, lazy ceiling fans and rail-thin, sneaky-eyed spy types sipping small, colored drinks. There was a man in a pith helmet and another in a military uniform debating at the bar. A woman in a slinky red dress was gesturing with a long cigarette holder as she spoke to a mutton-chopped man in a black tuxedo. There was a back door through which she saw the flashing lights and colors of the casino.
Two younger Arab men in silk shirts, sleeves rolled up, eyed her as she moved. She was a trifle nervous, but really, how much trouble could she get into? Wouldn’t Osiron need to be watching her here, too? Surely he’d protect her. And she’d watch her drinks like a hawk, so no one drugged them.
The bartender wore a white button-down shirt and a red fez. His mustache was long and curled. “A glass of white wine, please,” she told him.
The man’s lips curled downward. Ignoring her, he proceeded to wipe the top of the bar with a heavy rag.
How rude, she thought. “Excuse me, sir?”
“He will not serve you,” came a suave, French accented voice.
She turned to the man. He wore a white linen suit with a crisp red silk tie, matching handkerchief and a perfectly starched pink shirt. His jawline was that of a movie star. He had the eyes, the cheeks, the classic Roman nose, and the wavy black hair. He’d be any woman’s wet dream, though oddly she was not attracted.
“Why on earth not?”
“A beautiful woman should never have to stoop to securing her own drinks,” he said. “It offends his sensibilities. Will you allow me?”
Minarra considered the man. She preferred Mac’s nose, the way it turned down just a little bit, and those eyebrows of his, the way they spoke volumes when he was upset about something. This man just seemed too smooth, too perfect, though he was just the ticket to get Mac’s goat.
“Thank you, that would be nice.”
The man spoke to the bartender in French. He bowed respectfully and went to fill the order. Eschewing the wine rack at the rear of the bar, he headed to the back room. A short while later he returned with a very old, and obviously very expensive, bottle.
“Maritaigne, sir, ‘56.”
The Frenchman examined the label. “I shall taste it at my usual table in the restaurant,” he instructed. “Mademoiselle, would you do me the honor of sharing your company?”
The next thing Minarra knew, she was taking the man’s arm, accompanying him to a quiet corner table. Naturally, every head turned to see her with this fabulous man.
“Mademoiselle?” He held out her chair for her.
“To beauty,” he toasted, once he’d approved the wine and ordered it poured by the bartender, who’d been standing dutifully by awaiting instructions.
“To beauty,” she murmured, producing what she hoped was a dazzling smile. He replied with one of his own, measured and perfectly symmetrical. She could imagine him in front of the mirror, practicing.
She could also imagine the look on Mac’s face—very unpracticed—when he saw her with him. If this didn’t convince him that she was a woman sought after by men and able to steer her own ship, she thought grimly, nothing would.
Chapter Four
The woman shaking her bare belly mere inches from Mac’s face was young and beautiful. Her skin was an unblemished, delicious mocha. As for the rest of her charms, only the tiniest wisps of silk separated his eyes from pure and naked appreciation. Her breasts were full and heavy, the nipples surprisingly pink as they rubbed against the pale blue of her bandeau. She wore pantaloons, also blue. He could make out the fine details of her vaginal mound, covered in trimmed, auburn hair, the same color as her waving tresses. She was barefoot, belled, and als
o collared.
She was also completely available.
“I think she is in love, my friend,” teased Hassan, a bull-necked man with a chest of iron that concealed a heart of gold. “Why not put her out of her misery?”
Two other dancers came in now, a short curvaceous dark-haired girl from the left and a tall, graceful redhead from the right. Each wanted the right to sleep with the American, to be his personal harem girl for the night. Three shapely posteriors bumped at one another as tiny toes dug into the Persian carpeting, a perfect match to the carved ivory fixtures and the decorations of crossed scimitars and round shields on the velvet-draped walls.
It ought to have been a dream come true for any red-blooded American bachelor, but Mac felt nothing for any of them. His sole concern was to conclude the business at hand and get back to Minarra. Leaving her alone had been a bad idea. A woman like that would find trouble to get into. Especially after having her will thwarted so blatantly.
It wasn’t that he didn’t respect her wisdom or ability. Far from it. It was just that…
He had to pause for a moment. Exactly what was it that caused him not to bring her here? Female guests were allowed, when accompanied by a male. Certainly she knew the language and could hold her own in any negotiations. Could it be, he wondered, that he was simply afraid to let her see the sort of place this was—and to see him, in this element, acting like a typical male predator?
Why would he care what she thought? She already hated him, and he certainly had no personal interest in her.
“She is only being polite to a guest,” Mac retorted. “She’d choose you over me any day of the week.”
Hassan laughed. Twice he’d had his nose broken and another time he’d butted heads with a camel. It was the camel that had ended up with the concussion. There was no better man to have in your corner. And he wasn’t all brawn, either. His father had been the advisor to a desert chieftain. He knew more about the myths and legends of Shera-Sa than anyone, with the exception of Minarra herself. “Don’t waste your flattery on me—save it for your female conquests.”
The other three men at the table—bearded, robed camel drivers with bandoliers of bullets strung across their shoulders—slapped the table good-naturedly in agreement. The four of them would form the core of the expedition’s transportation and security force. Hassan would hire any additional men and would also arrange for camels to be delivered to them in the desert once they had run out of roads to drive on.
“I know better than to argue with you, Hassan,” Mac retorted, feeling in less than top condition to trade barbs with his friend. “All the more reason to seal the deal quickly.”
“My friend,” Hassan shook his head sadly. “Don’t tell me you have finally given in to the work ethic? We were put in this world to play—and what better thing to play with than a woman?” He snapped his fingers, signaling to the curvy little delight to come and sit on his lap. She did so eagerly.
For a split second, Mac thought of having Minarra sitting on his lap, scantily clad in red silk, her lips parted and eager, her eyes moist, and her body hot with anticipation. His hand, drifting to her thigh, a little moan escaping her throat as he told her what awaited her that night, in his tent under the stars…
~~~~~
“Yes,” she sighed, arching her neck, inviting his touch further up. His hand slid up her belly to her bandeau, to her barely covered breasts.
“You will dance for me, my slave…you will show me your charms, that body of yours which is mine to own, mine to possess…mine to control.”
“Yes…Master.”
He threw her to her back on the table and ripped away her clothes. “Open for me,” he commanded, compelling her to spread her legs for penetration.
His cock, hard as steel, a glinting sword, would pierce her wetness to the hilt. Her lips singing surrender, her bare, bangled ankles, would lock behind him. Arms tossed overhead, laid out in capitulation, back arched, soft, exquisite, delicate breasts heaving, she begged to be manipulated, kissed, suckled…bitten.
He caught her wrists in his hands, and she looked into his eyes, begging in wonder for him to take her all the way, to never stop, and yet so very terrified of where he would take her. Belly to belly, the spasms built, just as they had in the restroom of the airplane, all the old fires igniting, the old combustion hotter than ever. Their ability to please each other, to come in soul-shattering bliss…
~~~~~
“Sir,” the waiter was bowing, right beside Mac’s ear.
He snapped himself back into reality. Damn—he’d nearly come in his pants daydreaming about Minarra. While sitting in a roomful of eager belly dancers, no less. “Yes, what is it?”
“There is a message for you, from your hotel.”
His radar went up immediately. “Minarra…” he said aloud.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing. What is the message?”
“It is from the manager. He says simply, “Scorpion eying blue-eyed prize—Contained.”
Fuck.
“I am sorry, sir, if this makes no sense?”
“No, I understand fine,” he said grimly. “Gentlemen, I apologize.” He was on his feet. “I have something I must attend to.”
“But the negotiations,” one of the bearded men protested.
“I’ll agree to whatever number Hassan thinks is fair…divided by two. Bring me the contract to sign in the morning.”
He left them laughing, all four pounding the table in great enthusiasm. “Now that, my friends,” he heard Hassan say, “is a man after my own heart.”
Mac hired the fastest-looking taxi outside the club and handed the man triple the usual fare to step on it back to the hotel. Osiron was still at the desk—a post he occupied an average of sixteen hours a day. Angling his eyebrows up and slightly right he indicated that Minarra was still in the bar.
With him.
He did a double take, seeing her in the sexy black dress. It was a far cry from the usual khaki. Under different circumstances he’d have stood in quiet awe. As it was, he was going to have to extricate her from a black hole.
“Monsieur Macallister,” greeted the white-suited man, known to police on three continents as Scorpion. “What a pleasant surprise. Won’t you join us for a glass of wine? You’ve no objection, do you, Minarra? This man is an old friend.”
“I’m not a friend of yours,” Mac challenged. “And I won’t be staying. Nor will she.”
“Don’t speak for me, Mac Macallister. I’m perfectly capable of deciding with whom I spend my time.”
“Evidently not,” he snarled. “Now are you coming quietly or must I drag you out?”
“Go to hell!” She defied.
“Am I to assume,” said Scorpion, “that you two are acquainted?”
“Yes, we are,” said Minarra. “Though at times like this I wish we weren’t.”
“Is that right, Minarra? How about if I give you a proper introduction to your new friend? Or, did you already tell her about yourself, Henri?”
Henri pursed his lips, curling them into a sadistic smile. “I may have left out a salient detail or two.”
“In that case, allow me to introduce Henri Louis Foucault, better known as Scorpion. Wanted in four countries for kidnapping, extortion, trafficking in human beings.”
“It’s five countries, actually,” he corrected. “And I prefer to think of myself as a global entertainment director.”
“Henri is a slave trader, Minarra. He steals women and sells them, for use as sex slaves and brothel prostitutes.”
Minarra’s mouth hung open a bit. She looked back and forth between the two men.
“Let’s go, Min,” he took her hand. “Now.”
He was furious by the time they reached the suite. She must have sensed something, too, because she wasn’t offering any of her usual rationalizations and defenses.
“I’m tired,” she announced as he closed the door behind them. “I’m going to
bed. I’ll ask you to have the courtesy to sleep out here on the couch.”
That was it. The proverbial straw to put the camel in traction. “You want me to have courtesy? You’re tired?”
“That’s what I said, Mac, yes. And if you’re going to start repeating everything I say, I can tell you up front it’s going to wear a little thin.”
“I’m so sorry,” he dripped sarcasm. “If I’m cramping your style. Has it occurred to you, young lady, the potential hazards you put yourself in by disobeying my orders tonight?”
She put her hands on her hips. Damn it, why did she have to be so totally, completely irresistible?
“First of all,” she informed him. “You’re not giving me any orders. Second of all, you only told me not to leave the hotel, you never said anything about the bar.”
Mac frowned. She was right. “All right, so I didn’t spell it out—but you had no business being with that man, Min. As good as he looks on the outside, he’s total scum. I can understand the sexual attraction as a woman, but you’d have wound up chained somewhere to a bed turning tricks twenty hours a day. Women are nothing but commodities to him, Min.”
“Actually, for your information, I wasn’t attracted to him at all, but thanks for selling me so short. As for him just wanting to use me, seems like that’s the pot calling the kettle black. Especially after what happened on the airplane.”
“How was I using you? You said yourself what happened between us on the airplane was you, using me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m talking about your intentions. You came in that bathroom to fuck me, Mac. You figured that I was vulnerable and you were horny…same old story, right? You snap your fingers, I roll over for you…” She laughed, no trace of humor evident in her voice. “What a sucker I am. I can’t even believe how I fooled myself, acting like it could be different. It’s never different. You take what you want, and I give. Poor, simple Minarra—doesn’t know the world, doesn’t know what’s good for her. Too bad you ran off, babe. Daddy would have married me off to you in a heartbeat so you could take his place.”
Prisoner of Shera-Sa Page 6
